Silver Scream: A Bed-And-Breakfast Mystery (12 page)

Judith’s innkeeper’s smile began to droop. She hadn’t planned on serving a smorgasbord.

“Wine,” Ellie added. “You know—some really fine wines. I like a Merlot with my Wienie Wizards.” She shot Angela an insolent look.

“Dade?” Judith called across the long room. “What about you?”

The writer, who had, as usual, been staring out through the French doors, slowly turned around. “What about what?” he inquired in his soft Southern voice.

“What you’d like to eat,” Judith said, hearing the front door close.

“Chitlins,” Dade said, and turned his back again.

“Winifred?” Judith said as Joe ambled back into the living room.

Winifred shook her head. “I’m not hungry.” She
paused, tapping her sharp chin. “A small salad, perhaps. Mostly field greens.”

“I’ll call a caterer. They’ll be able to stop by the Wienie Wizard on their way here.” Still trying to keep her hospitable smile in place, Judith hurried off to use the phone in the kitchen.

“Woody’s heading for the crime lab,” Joe whispered as Judith went past him. “He’s doing some background checks, too.”

It took ten minutes to place the order with the caterer, with Judith filling in various other items to tide her guests over until the next morning. She had just hung up when the phone rang in her hand.

“Now what?” demanded an angry Ingrid Heffelman. “Zillah Young just called me from the state B&B—on my day off—to say you’d requested changes for tonight. What’s going on, Judith?”

“Hey,” Judith retorted, “this Hollywood booking was your idea. I didn’t ask to change the Kidds and the Izards. You forced my hand.”

“That’s beside the point,” Ingrid replied, simmering down just a bit. “The Kidds were considering staying over for a day or two and moving to your B&B. They felt they’d missed out. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Izards would still like to spend a night there for future reference.”

“The Izards already checked out the place,” Judith said, still vexed. “Anyway, there’s nothing I can do. It’s out of my hands.”

“How come?” Ingrid was heating up again.

“I can’t tell you exactly,” Judith replied, trying to sound reasonable. “It has to do with an incident involving one of the guests.”

“An incident?” Ingrid sounded suspicious.

“What would you expect?” Judith said, no longer reasonable but downright cross. “From the beginning, I figured this crew would be nothing but trouble. I was right.”

“What kind of trouble?” Ingrid asked, then uttered a high-pitched squawk. “Not…? Oh, Judith, not again!”

“I can’t say. Really,” Judith added in a frustrated voice, “I’m not allowed to tell anyone just yet.”

“You don’t have to,” Ingrid said sharply. “I can read the newspaper. It’s that Bruno person, isn’t it? He died last night. I didn’t put two and two together this morning because the story was so small and I was barely awake. Being
my day off and all
.”

“I’m sorry, really I am.” Judith was about to say it wasn’t her fault. But this time she couldn’t. Maybe she was to blame. “Please, Ingrid, don’t tell anyone. We’re under siege from the studio, which is why the Hollywood guests can’t leave.”

“Oh, God.” Ingrid expelled a huge sigh. “All right, I’ll be discreet, if only for the state association’s sake. You’re right—it’s my fault for putting them up at Hillside Manor. Given your track record, I should have known better.” With an apathetic good-bye, she hung up.

Judith was still muttering to herself when Renie and Bill arrived at the back door.

“You told us we could come through the kitchen,” Renie said, breezing through the narrow hallway.

“Where are the nuts I’m supposed to observe?” Bill asked in his rich, carrying voice.

Judith winced. “In the living room. We’re expecting
at least one more, I understand. Remember Morris Mayne from last night?”

“The publicist?” Renie said, hanging her jacket on the antique coatrack.

“The very same,” Judith replied. “And Vito Patricelli, the studio lawyer.”

“What happened to the agent, Eugenia Whatever-her-name-is?” Renie asked.

Judith sighed. “I forgot about her. Who knows? Maybe the entire crew from the Cascadia will show up eventually.”

“Let’s watch TV,” Bill said upon entering the living room. “There’s a pretty good NFL game on.” As the guests stared at him, he marched over to the entertainment center next to the bay window, opened the oak doors, and switched on the big-screen television set. “Who’s a Packer fan?” he asked, being a Wisconsin native.

“I am,” Chips Madigan declared.

“I hate the Packers,” Dirk Farrar asserted.

Dade actually expressed some interest. “Who are they playing? The Falcons, by any chance?”

Angela rose from the sofa. “I hate football. I’m not watching.” She sailed past Judith and Renie, heading for the bathroom off the entry hall.

“Me neither,” Ellie said, slipping off the window seat. “I’ve never understood how all those great big men like grabbing each other. It’s not natural, you know.” She wandered off into the dining room.

“The observation period?” Judith murmured to Renie.

“That’s right,” Renie said. “Bill insists you can tell quite a bit about people by the way they watch—or
don’t watch—sports. Have you chatted up Ellie or Angela yet?”

Judith shook her head. “Only Winifred. Dade’s the one I’d really like to talk to. Maybe if Green Bay isn’t playing Atlanta, he’ll get bored.”

“I’ll tackle Ellie,” Renie said, making motions like a football player. “You can grab Angela when she comes out of the can.”

While her cousin went into the dining room, Judith slowly paced the entry-hall floor. A couple of minutes passed. Angela didn’t reappear. Judith fiddled with the guest registry and the visitor brochures she kept on the first landing. Still, Angela didn’t come out of the bathroom. Judith began to wonder if the actress might beill.

After another three minutes had passed, she rapped softly on the varnished walnut door. “Ms. La Belle?” she called, also softly.

There was no response. Judith pressed her ear against the old wood, but heard nothing. She rapped again, this time louder.

Still nothing.

Alarmed, Judith tried the knob. The door was locked from the inside.

“Ms. La Belle!” she called. “Angela! Are you all right?”

Renie and Ellie Linn appeared from around the corner.

“What’s going on?” Renie asked with a frown.

Quickly, Judith explained. “I’m afraid Angela may be sick.”

Renie’s frown deepened. “The lock’s one of those old-fashioned bolt things, isn’t it?”

“Right,” Judith said, “but it means damaging the door, which Skjoval Tolvang just rehung.”

“Then leave Angela in there,” Ellie said with a shrug, and walked away.

“We can’t,” Judith declared, scowling at Ellie’s departing figure. “I’ll get Joe.”

Everyone in the living room seemed to be caught up in a third-and-three situation for the Packers except Joe, who was watching Bill watch the guests. Urgently, Judith grabbed her husband by the arm.

“Come with me,” she commanded, keeping her voice down. “We have a lock problem.”

“What lock?” he said, turning to Judith. “I thought you knew how to pick them.”

“Not this one,” Judith said, pointing to the bathroom door. “It’s a bolt, remember? Angela La Belle is in there and won’t answer.”

Joe looked skeptical, but saw that his wife was upset and threw up his hands. “Okay, but if there’s nothing wrong and she just wants to…well, sit around, then I’m going to be even less popular around here than I am already.”

“Please, Joe,” Judith begged. “Do it.”

First, however, Joe knocked. Then he called Angela’s name. There was still no response. Grasping the door-knob, he counted to three, then gave a mighty tug. The old wood shuddered, but stayed in place. He tried a second time. The bolt gave, but not enough to come free.

“Get Bill,” Joe said to Renie. He was panting and beginning to perspire.

Renie hurried out into the living room, returning almost immediately with her husband. “Commercial break,” she murmured to Judith. “Lucky us.”

Joe held on to the knob and Bill held on to Joe. With a mighty effort, they pulled the bolt lock out of the door, which swung outward.

Angela La Belle was facedown in the bathroom sink.

H
AVING BEEN PRIVY
to two, possibly three, murders at her B&B, and encountering corpses at various other sites, Judith couldn’t believe that history was repeating itself in less than twenty-four hours.

In some tiny hidden corner of her mind, she honestly thought that nothing could sever her hold on reality. She’d seen everything, overcome so many obstacles, endured unaccountable hardships. Surely this was a dream, inspired by the discovery of Bruno Zepf’s body the previous night. Flashing stars and crazy comets sailed before her eyes as Judith swayed backward. She would have fallen if Bill hadn’t caught her.

Dazedly, she heard Bill shout at Renie to get a chair out of the dining room. More dimly, she caught snatches of Joe speaking—or was he shouting?—he sounded so far away—to summon 911.

“Call…Medics…CPR?”

Judith thought she heard Joe mention CPR. Maybe Angela wasn’t dead in the bathroom sink. Or maybe Joe wanted CPR for Judith. As a former cop, he knew CPR. Maybe everybody needed CPR….

Someone—Bill, she guessed, catching her
blurred reflection off his glasses—was easing her into Grandpa Grover’s chair at the head of the dining-room table. A moment later a slender hand held out a balloon glass with what looked like brandy in it.

“Take a sip,” Renie urged. “I got this out of the washstand bar.”

Judith didn’t care if Renie had held up the state liquor store at the bottom of Heraldsgate Hill. Gratefully, she accepted the glass and inhaled deeply before taking a small sip. The darkness with its streaks of spinning lights began to recede; the dining room was coming into focus. Judith fixated on the middle of the table, where a Chinese bowl of gold and amber chrysanthemums sat in autumnal splendor.

But reality returned along with her vision. “Angela!” she gasped. “Is she…?”

Renie gave a sharp shake of her head. “I’m not sure. I think Joe was asking if anyone knew CPR. I suspect he didn’t want to do it himself in case something else—” She caught herself. “In case Angela doesn’t make it. Dade Costello volunteered. Don’t move, I’ll take a peek into the entry hall.”

Judith took another sip of brandy. Bill stepped behind the chair and began rubbing her shoulders.

“Dirk Farrar is passive-aggressive,” he said quietly. “Winifred Best has low self-esteem. Chips Madigan has an unresolved Oedipal complex. His father may have abused him.”

Bill’s analyses, along with the brandy and the massage, brought Judith into complete focus. “You figured out all that in five minutes of watching the guests watch TV?”

“It was longer than that,” Bill replied. “The Packers
got stalled on the Bears’ thirty-eight-yard line, punted, and the Bears made two nice pass plays before they kicked a field goal.”

“Oh.” Judith smiled faintly. “I’m still amazed at how quickly you pinpointed their personalities.”

“I’m guessing,” Bill said, finishing the massage. “Ordinarily, it’d take several sessions to peel the layers off a patient. But you’re under pressure to figure these people out.”

“Yes,” Judith agreed as Renie returned to the dining room.

“Angela’s alive,” she announced, “but still unconscious. Fortunately, there was no water in the sink.”

“And no cupboard door to hit her in the head,” Judith murmured. “So what happened?”

Renie shook her head. “Nobody knows. Maybe she fainted.”

“She wouldn’t still be out cold,” Judith noted, getting to her feet with Bill’s help. “She’s either sick or…”

“Or what?” Renie put in as her cousin’s voice trailed off.

“I’m not sure.” Judith’s expression was grim as she moved unsteadily into the entry hall, where Dirk Farrar was kneeling over Angela’s motionless figure. Dade Costello, apparently weary from his CPR ministrations, leaned against the balustrade and used a blue-and-white bandanna to wipe sweat from his forehead.

Dirk looked up. “She’s alive. Her breathing’s better. Where the hell are the medics?”

Judith’s ears picked up the sound of the medics’ siren. “They’re outside,” she said, and staggered to the front door.

Chips Madigan was already on the alert. “In through here,” he told the emergency team, pointing to the entry-hall bathroom. As the trio made their way to Angela, Chips got down on one knee and framed an imaginary shot with his fingers. “Whoa! This is good! Medium shot, backs of uniforms looking great, equipment visible, love the red steel cases.” The director stood up. “Two men and a woman. That’s good, too. But the height differentials could be better. The woman’s too tall.”

Dirk Farrar had stepped aside as the medics began their task. The woman—who was indeed over six feet—waved the other onlookers away. “Clear the area,” she commanded. “We need some room here.”

Judith, Joe, Renie, and Bill returned to the dining room. The women sat down at the dining-room table; the men remained standing, Bill by the window, Joe next to the big breakfront that held three generations of the Grover family’s favorite china.

“What could have happened to Angela?” Judith mused in a fretful voice. “Stress?”

“In a way,” Joe said, rocking slightly on his heels. “That is, if you figure that stress can lead to drug addiction.”

“Drugs!” Judith exclaimed. “You think Angela overdosed?”

Joe nodded. “I’m certain that the white powder you found in the downstairs bathroom was cocaine. I’m having Woody analyze the residue to make sure. I found traces of it upstairs in the bathroom that Dirk and Angela shared when they usurped Bruno’s room.”

“Not surprising,” Bill remarked. “How many show-business people have a drug habit?”

“How many ordinary people do, too?” Renie said with a touch of anger. “It’s everywhere.”

“Bruno!” Judith breathed. “What if he overdosed, too?”

Joe, however, shook his head. “No traces of drugs were found by the ME.”

Slipping out of her chair, Judith tiptoed to the door that led to the entry hall and peeked around the corner. An oxygen mask had been placed over Angela’s face and an IV had been inserted into her arm. The two male medics were preparing to remove her on a gurney. The woman was speaking in low tones to Dirk Farrar. Judith couldn’t hear a word they said.

She barely had time to duck out of sight before Dirk Farrar came into the dining room. Without his usual bravado, he addressed Joe.

“I assume it wouldn’t break any rules if I went with Angela to the hospital?” he said.

“Go ahead,” Joe responded. “What’s her condition?”

Dirk frowned. “Not so good. But they think she’ll be okay.” He hurried out of the room.

“Halftime,” Bill murmured. “Let’s see how the other guests are taking all this.” He, too, left the dining room.

Judith and Joe trailed behind him. Bill was correct: The Packers and the Bears had retired to their respective dressing rooms to regroup for the second half. Ben Carmody was on his cell phone; Chips Madigan was leafing through a coffee-table book on Pacific Northwest photography; a disconsolate Winifred Best was sitting in what had once been Grandpa Grover’s favorite armchair; Dade Costello had gone out through the French doors and was standing on the back porch.

Winifred’s head snapped up as Bill, Judith, and Joe entered the living room. “What’s going on? What happened to Angela? Is she dead?”

Joe explained the situation, somehow managing to leave out the part about a cocaine overdose.

“Was it a cocaine overdose?” Winifred demanded, looking as if she were about to collapse.

Joe didn’t flinch. “That’s possible.”

Winifred wrung her thin hands. “I knew it. I knew it. She can’t get off the damnable stuff. How many times have they—” She stopped abruptly. “Where’s Dirk?”

“He rode to the hospital with Angela,” Joe replied. “I believe they’re taking her to Norway General.”

The siren sounded as the medic van pulled away. Judith went back into the entry hall and looked outside. A second van, apparently a backup, was also turning out of the cul-de-sac. The neighbors, who were accustomed to the occasional burst of mayhem at Hillside Manor, were well represented by the Porters, the Steins, and the Ericsons, who stood on the sidewalk with Arlene Rankers. Across the street on the corner, the elderly widow Miko Swanson sat at her usual post by her front window. However, there was no sign of Vivian Flynn, whose bungalow next door to Mrs. Swanson’s typically had its drapes closed during the daylight hours. Feeling obligated to keep her fellow homeowners informed, Judith started onto the porch just as a black limousine pulled into the cul-de-sac.

Vito Patricelli emerged with Morris Mayne and Eugenia Fleming. With a weak wave in the neighbors’ direction, Judith ducked back inside, where she collided with Winifred, who was hovering right behind her.

“Sorry,” Judith murmured.

Winifred ignored the remark as she hastened to greet the newcomers, who barely acknowledged Judith’s presence as they entered the house.

“Dirk called me on his cell,” Vito said, his mouth set in a grim line and his sunglasses hiding the expression in his eyes. “We have to take a meeting. Now.” He marched straight for the living room. “Ben, shut off that damned TV. Where’s Dade? Where’s Ellie?”

“Dade’s out back,” Chips replied, his tone indifferent. “I think.”

Vito’s head turned in every direction. “What about Ellie?”

“She went upstairs,” Winifred said in an unusually meek voice. “I think.”

“I’ll get her,” Judith volunteered.

Vito gave a curt nod. “You do that. And clear the room of any outsiders.” He particularly glared at Bill, who maintained his stoic expression.

Joe had clicked off the television set. “Let’s give these people some space,” he said amiably.

Hands in his pants pockets, Bill meandered out of the living room. Renie, however, balked.

“Why don’t you hold this session in a regular meeting room at the Cascadia Hotel?” she demanded. “There’s the Regency Room, the Rhododendron Room, the—”

Bill turned around, grabbed his wife by the scruff of her neck, and hauled her away, muttering, “Don’t make trouble.”

“Hey,” Renie protested, “they’re such big shots, I just thought they’d rather…”

Halfway up the stairs, Judith didn’t hear the rest of
her cousin’s contrary reasoning. Going all the way down to the end of the hall, she rapped on the door to Room Six. When there was no response, Judith’s heart skipped a beat. Originally, Angela and Ellie had shared quarters. Then Angela had moved into Bruno’s room with Dirk. Could Angela and Ellie also have shared a habit, one that would overcome their apparent dislike for one another?

Judith knocked again, much louder. When there was still no answer, she turned the knob and held her breath.

Ellie was lying on the double bed, wearing headphones and tapping out the beat of a song only she could hear. The young actress looked up in surprise as Judith moved into the room.

“What’s up?” she asked, removing the headphones. “Are the Wienie Wizards here?”

“No,” Judith replied in relief. “But Mr. Patricelli, Mr. Mayne, and Ms. Fleming are. Mr. Patricelli has called a meeting in the living room.”

“Oh, drat!” Ellie switched off the CD player and slid off the bed. “What a busybody! When are the wienies coming?”

“Not until after five,” Judith said.

“But it’s only three o’clock,” Ellie responded. “How am I going to sit through a stupid meeting without my wienies?”

“I’m sorry,” Judith said, then frowned. “Don’t you want to know what happened to Angela?”

“Not really,” Ellie said, slipping into a pair of white mules decorated with multicolored beads. “Angela’s on a collision course, if you ask me.” She paused to glance in the big oval mirror attached to the dressing
table. “Is she dead?” The question was asked without much interest.

“No,” Judith said. “But I gather it was a close call.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Ellie responded, yanking at shafts of her long jet-black hair. “Look at this—why can’t I do what my stylist does to make this cut look right? Oh, I’ll be so stoked to get back to Cosmo in L.A. They should have let me bring him with me.” She gave her hair a final tug. “Next time, I bet they will.” Her small, perfect lips curved into a smug little smile.

“Next time?” Judith echoed.

“I mean,” Ellie said, turning away from the mirror, “next time I have to make a special appearance. You know—like this premiere.” Suddenly her usual perky expression disappeared. “Except I don’t know if
All the Way to Utah
will get made. At least not soon. You know—with Bruno dead.”

The title struck a familiar chord with Judith. “I’ve heard of that,” she said. “What’s it about?”

“Pioneers,” Ellie replied, picking up a pink cashmere cardigan that matched her pink cashmere short-sleeved sweater and tossing it over her slim shoulders. “The Old West. You know—action, adventure, sex, big rocks, bonnets, seagulls, Mormons.”

“Fascinating,” Judith commented, though it sounded like a bit of a mishmash. “Do you have a big part?”

“Very,” Ellie said, joining Judith at the door. “I not only play the female lead, but my name should go above the title.”

“Really?” Judith knew that was good.

“Really,” Ellie said over her shoulder. “Got to scoot. Vito can be an awful pest. Besides, I really need to talk to him.”

Judith took the back stairs. Renie was in the kitchen, studying the contents of the refrigerator.

“What’d you do with all those leftovers?” she asked.

“We put most of them in the freezer,” Judith replied. “There are still some cheeses and slices of Italian ham.”

“Good,” Renie said, checking the crisper drawers. “I’m starved. I didn’t eat a serious lunch.” With a gesture of triumph, she held up some smoked Gouda and a package of prosciutto. “Pass the crackers, coz.”

Judith fetched a box of table wafers from the cupboard. “Where are the husbands?” she asked.

“Eavesdropping in the front parlor,” Renie answered, putting two round slices of Gouda on top of the ham.

“Ah,” Judith remarked. “That’s good.”

“Bill’s taking notes,” Renie said, making a sandwich out of the crackers.

“Did you get anything interesting from Ellie Linn?” Judith inquired, sitting down at the kitchen table.

Renie opened a can of Pepsi and sat down across from her. “You mean besides how much she hates Angela La Belle and Dirk Farrar?”