Silver Scream: A Bed-And-Breakfast Mystery (18 page)

“I understand he went in search of his roots,” Judith said, trying not to stare as Eugenia knocked back a third gin.

“He did,” Eugenia replied. “He went to Germany to discover his father’s past. Josef Zepf had come from Wiesbaden, the son of a shoemaker. Bruno loved Germany, especially the music and the literature. No doubt Wagner influenced him, which may be why his pictures always ran a bit long.”

“As long as
The Gasman
?” Judith asked as Eugenia signaled for yet another drink.

“Not that long,” Eugenia said. “But even the picture that won the film-festival prize—
No Prunes for Prudence
—was over two and a half hours.”

“That’s a lot of prunes,” Judith murmured.

The agent, however, was in full spate, and apparently didn’t hear the remark. “He visited England as well, since his mother, Helena, had been stationed there before being sent to Germany,” Eugenia continued. Her voice had taken on a lilting quality, as if she were narrating a documentary on Bruno’s life. Or quoting from an A&E
Biography
. Judith was reminded of Winifred’s dissertation on Bruno. Maybe all his associates had been forced to memorize the producer’s life story.

“After more than a year,” Eugenia went on, “he returned to the States. The farm in Iowa where his mother had been raised was gone, the fields plowed under for a development, but the house was still there. Grandfather Walls had died, but Bruno’s grandmother still lived in the old house with its rickety steps and shutters which hung by a single hinge and clattered in the wind. Grandmother Walls was very old and ill. Bruno stayed with her until the end came, almost a year later.”

“That’s admirable,” Judith said, thinking there should be a violin accompaniment to Eugenia’s recital. “Bruno sounds very compassionate.”

“Oh, he is. He
was
,” Eugenia corrected herself with a start. “My God, I can’t believe he’s gone!” She requested a fifth drink. “To Bruno,” she said, holding up her glass.

“To Bruno,” Judith echoed, finishing her Scotch. She tried not to stare at the other woman, who seemed completely sober. Maybe her size accounted for her ability to drink like a fish. Bracing herself, Judith posed a question: “Who was C. Douglas Carp?”

Eugenia didn’t bat an eye. “You mean the man who
wrote
The Gasman
novel? Some relative, I believe. I never read novels, unless the book is adapted for a picture, and even then I skim. Books are inevitably dull.” With surprising agility for her size and the amount of gin she’d consumed, she slid off the bar stool, planting her sensible shoes firmly on the floor. “I must go upstairs. I do wish you hadn’t disturbed Morris with that silly message. He’s very drunk. Tsk, tsk.”

Charles smiled at Judith. “Would you care for another?” he asked, pointing to her empty glass.

Judith shook her head. “I should go, I suppose.”

“But I thought you were with the Joneses.” Charles looked a trifle tense. “Or am I mistaken? You also seem to know the people attending the Smith dinner.”

Judith wondered if the maître d’ suspected she might be a groupie or a party crasher. “Charles”—she sighed—“it’s a long story. Some members of the Smith group are…ah…staying at my house.” She refrained from mentioning that her house was a B&B. “Mrs. Jones is my cousin. It’s a coincidence that both parties are here at once.”

“Ah.” The maître d’ offered her a conspiratorial smile and seemed to relax. “Then you know these Smiths are movie people. I recognized Dirk Farrar right away. He came late, though.” The last sentence almost sounded like a question.

“He came from someplace else,” Judith said, “though he’s staying with us. How did he seem?”

Charles looked around to make sure no one could overhear. But the lower part of the restaurant was still vacant. Even the waiters seemed to have gone to ground.

“I thought he looked kind of grim,” Charles said,
keeping his voice down. “Is that because of the producer who passed away last night?”

“That’s part of it,” Judith said, then curbed her tongue. She mustn’t gossip about Angela La Belle. “I’m sure the poor reception
The Gasman
got at the premiere upset Dirk, too.”

“I never read movie reviews,” Charles said, then turned as the valet with the corn-colored hair came into the restaurant, looking worried. “What is it, Josh?” the maître d’ inquired.

“There’s a couple out in the parking lot who insist they want to eat here,” Josh said. “They won’t take no for an answer. I think you’d better talk to them.”

“Excuse me,” Charles said to Judith. “This happens almost every Sunday when we’re closed to regular diners. In fact, this is the second time an insistent couple has shown up this evening. I won’t be long.”

Judith got up and strolled over to the big windows. It was dark and the fog was thick. She couldn’t see any lights, not even directly below the restaurant, which was located about halfway up Heraldsgate Hill. When she turned around again, she saw Charles leading a middle-aged couple inside and up the winding staircase. The man was big, bald, and bearlike; the woman was small, dark, and of Asian descent. Apparently, they had an entrée to one of the private parties upstairs, and Judith didn’t think they were keeping up with the Joneses.

She could almost smell the aroma of Wienie Wizards wafting behind the couple as they disappeared onto the second floor.

J
UDITH WANTED VERY
much to see Heathcliffe and Amy Lee MacDermott up close. She wasn’t sure why, but it seemed important to talk to them. Unfortunately, she couldn’t think of an excuse to get past the Smith party’s mahogany door.

For several moments Judith stared down at the smooth black marble bar, where she could see her reflection. It was distorted by the slight grain, making her look old, tired, and ugly. A crone, she thought, and was disheartened.

What was she doing at Capri’s, seeking clues to a murder that might not be a murder? Was she blood-thirsty, as Renie had remarked? Surely possession of material goods wasn’t so important that it made her wish that one person had killed another. No, that wasn’t the real reason she preferred murder over more mundane deaths. So why was she beating herself up so badly? Slowly, she turned to the windows again. There was nothing to see. The night was as dark and blank as her brain.

Yet Judith knew that if the fog suddenly lifted, the city’s lights would glitter like stars on a clear winter’s eve. The lakes and the mountains were
there, if only she could see them. So were the answers to the riddle that was Bruno’s death. Judith always had to know. If only the fog would lift from her brain, she could find the truth.

Charles hadn’t come down from the second floor. There was still no sign of the waiters. Judith was curious. The guests must be getting served. How was the food coming from the kitchen, if not via the iron staircase?

Hurriedly, she crossed the restaurant to the far side, where she saw a plain brown door. Turning the knob, she discovered a narrow hallway on her left that presumably led to the kitchen. On her right was a staircase. Judith ascended to another plain door and opened it. She came out into another narrow hall, where she saw two identical doors.

The first one led into the main corridor, but judging from her position in the restaurant, the second door had to go into the Smith party’s private dining room. In the shadows just beyond the door was a busing area. On tiptoes, she approached the second door and cautiously opened it just a crack.

“…lose my investment” were the first words she managed to hear, and they were spoken by a nasal male voice she didn’t recognize. Heathcliffe MacDermott, alias the Wienie Wizard? Judith peered through the sliver of open doorway. All she could see was Morris Mayne with his head down on the table and Dade Costello’s blunt profile.

“Not necessarily,” said a smooth voice that Judith identified as belonging to Vito Patricelli. “Paradox may not shelve the picture. They have an investment, too, even larger than yours, Mr. MacDermott.”

“Idiots,” snapped a waspish female voice that didn’t sound like Winifred, Ellie, or Eugenia. “Idiots,” the woman repeated. Judith figured the speaker had to be Mrs. MacDermott.

“I don’t get it,” declared Heathcliffe MacDermott. “The movie’s a dud. If I made wienies like Zepf made movies, I’d be wearing a paper hat and peddling hot dogs at minor league baseball games instead of running a billion-dollar empire.”

“The studio can make changes,” Vito said, his voice unperturbed. “They’ll have free rein—under the circumstances.”

“You beast,” murmured Winifred. “How can you say such things when Bruno has been dead less than twenty-four hours?” Though Judith couldn’t see her, it sounded as if Winifred was close to the service door.

“What kind of changes?” Ellie asked, not quite as pert as usual.

“Cutting, for one thing,” Vito replied. “No one can argue that the picture should be shortened by at least an hour.”

“Are you saying,” Heathcliffe asked in a slightly confused voice, “that Paradox can do whatever it wants now that Bruno Zepf is dead?”

“Exactly,” Vito responded. “The studio has the major chunk of money invested in the picture. They can do as they please.”

Except for the creak of chairs and shuffling of limbs, a silence fell over the room. Judith glanced at the door to the stairs to make sure the coast was clear. As far as she could tell, no one seemed to be eating. Perhaps the group had finished its most recent course.

“What about
Utah
?” the unfamiliar female voice demanded. “What about my script?”

Judith heard Dade Costello snort.

Vito waited a moment to reply. “Your script?”

“All the Way to Utah,”
Amy Lee MacDermott retorted with anger. “Bruno bought it, and it’s supposed to star darling Ellie.”

“I can’t answer that right now,” Vito said, smooth as ever. “There hasn’t been time for anyone to make that decision.”

“Who makes it?” Amy Lee’s voice had grown strident.

“Bruno’s production company,” Vito replied.

“Isn’t that a weird setup?” Ben Carmody put in. The actor sounded uncharacteristically harsh. “Bruno had no second in command. He thought he was immortal.”

“That’s not true,” Winifred said in a strong, stiff voice. “If anything happened to Bruno, I was to take over. I already had, when he was in…the hospital.”

“Oh, that’s right.” Ben’s voice brightened. “Then I guess any big decisions would be up to you, Win.”

“Not necessarily,” Vito interjected. “I suspect that Winifred’s powers are limited to such situations as Bruno being temporarily out of the picture. So to speak.” No one laughed except Dirk Farrar, and the sound wasn’t pleasant. “There are two other factors involved, one of which is the studio’s agreement to put money into
All the Way to Utah
. But now that Bruno is dead—let’s not mince words—Paradox would be free to pull out.”

“They wouldn’t dare!” Amy Lee cried. “They made a commitment!”

“It’s not legally binding when the producer dies,” Vito asserted. “But the other factor involves the heirs to Bruno’s estate. Winifred, do you know if he made a will?”

“Why…” Winifred’s voice sounded faint. “No,” she went on slowly, “I don’t believe he did.”

“It figures,” Dirk snarled. “From A to Zepf. Bruno thought he was the Alpha and the Omega, with no end in sight.”

“Stop that!” Winifred shouted. “You’re angry because you and Bruno got into a big fight and Ben ended up with the leading role in the
Utah
picture.”

“Let’s stop wrangling and back up here,” Heathcliffe broke in, his voice sounding like that of a man obviously used to exercising authority. “What’s this other factor, Mr. L.A. Lawyer?”

Vito cleared his throat. “That was what I was getting at when I inquired about a will. Since Bruno had no wife, his entire estate goes to his two children.”

“His children?” Amy Lee and Ellie Linn shrieked in unison.

“That’s ridiculous,” the mother scoffed.

“That’s stupid,” the daughter declared. “Those kids aren’t as old as I am!”

“How old?” Amy Lee demanded.

“Greta was twenty in June,” Winifred said quietly. “Greg just turned eighteen a month ago.”

“The son’s name is Greg?” Ellie’s voice had taken on a lighter note.

“Yes,” Winifred replied. “After Gregory Peck. Greta was named for Garbo.”

“Hmm.” There was a faint simper from Ellie.

Judith saw Dirk Farrar’s back at the door. She
tensed, wondering if he might be about to leave the room.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about that
Utah
crap,” he said. “All I want to know is when the hell we can get out of this fog bank and go back to L.A.”

“The matter should be resolved by tomorrow,” Vito responded.

“It better be,” Dirk shot back. “This place sucks scissors.” His back moved away from the door. Apparently, he’d gotten up only to stretch his legs.

“Mr. Farquhar,” Amy Lee said sternly, “don’t speak so nastily of my
Utah
script. It’s going to be a block-buster. After all,” she added with a sneer in her voice, “you were slated to star in it until you behaved so badly toward Mr. Zepf.”

“The name’s Farrar,” Dirk shouted, “as you damned well know! And I’ll tell you something else,” he continued, not as loud, but just as intense, “I didn’t really give a damn when Bruno canned me. I’d put up with enough crap from him with
The Gasman
and that lousy script he’d taken from Crappy Pappy Carp’s book.”

“Don’t be so disrespectful!” Winifred exclaimed in dismay. “You’re callous, Dirk. Everybody knows how self-centered you are, even more so than most actors. I suppose you intend to leave Angela lying in the hospital while you head back to Los Angeles.”

“It’s her own damned fault she’s there in the first place,” Dirk retorted. “I begged her to go into rehab. Besides, I’m not a doctor. What good can I do her hanging around the hospital?”

Judith was so caught up in the heated drama just a few inches away that she never heard the approaching
footsteps. It was the tap on her shoulder that made her jump and let out a stifled cry.

I’m done for,
she thought.
They’ll throw me out in the street. They might arrest me. They might ban me from Capri’s forever. They might put my picture up by the desk with a slash through it. “No Judith McMonigle Flynn.”
With considerable trepidation, she turned around to confront the enemy.

“Learn anything?” whispered Renie.

“Coz!” A sudden silence had descended over the dining room. Judith was certain that the contentious crew had heard a suspicious noise. She gently shut the door. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for the busing station,” Renie replied, spying her goal behind Judith. “We need more napkins. You know how our kids eat. The tablecloth looks like an army field hospital.”

“You’re no slouch yourself,” Judith retorted. “How’s the dinner going?”

Renie made a doleful face. “Could these people be less fun? The parents are like mannequins. Thank God our kids have some animation. They’re never afraid to speak out.”

“Coz,” Judith said, keeping an eye on the service door, “your family isn’t merely outspoken, you’re all very loud. Even Bill can bellow when aroused. The future in-laws are probably cowed.”

Renie shot her a disdainful glance. “Okay, so we’ve got pep. But these people hardly eat a thing. The fiancé and fiancées are a little livelier. Heather is very smart—she’s Tom’s girl—and Cathleen—Tony’s beloved—seems genuinely kind. As for Odo, he laughs at everything Bill says, which is good.”

“Odo?” Judith responded. “His name is really Odo?”

“Yes,” Renie replied, looking very serious. “You know the original Odo. Bishop Odo became pope just in time to launch the First Crusade.”

Judith shook her head. “Funny, the kid didn’t look militant. Or religious.”

“He’s not,” Renie said. “At least as far as I can tell. I just wish the parents had more zip. They never flinched when our kids got into a shouting match. They didn’t bat an eye when Tom threw one of Tony’s socks in the consommé. And you know how Bill belches sometimes when he eats—well, the rest of them sat like statues when he practically blew up after taking a bite of jalapeño pepper by mistake.” Renie shook herself. “I babble. What are you doing here? Or should I guess?” She nodded in the direction of the door behind Judith.

“It’s been interesting,” Judith said, edging around the corner to the hallway, “but I’m pushing my luck. I’ve been eavesdropping for over five minutes, and the waiters are bound to reappear.”

“Care to join us?” Renie asked.

Judith grimaced. “I think I should go home. Mother must be famished. I’ll call a cab.”

“You don’t have to,” Renie said, piling linen napkins over her arm. “Bill drove your Subaru to Capri’s. Just get the keys from the valet.”

“Do I need the parking ticket?” Judith asked.

Renie shook her head as they approached the top of the winding staircase. “Tell them you’re Mrs. Jones. And by the way,” she said with a quizzical expression, “is there anything I should know about what
you discovered while you were lurking outside that door?”

“Not now,” Judith said, “but I’ve got quite a bit of information to sort out. Maybe I’ll have made some sense of it by the time I talk to you later this evening.”

“Sounds good,” Renie said, heading for the private dining room. “Time to rejoin the stuffed animals.”

Judith smiled at her cousin. But she was thinking less about the stuffed animals at the Joneses’ table than about the wild ones at the Smiths’.

She got as far as a block away from Capri’s when she had another, possibly impractical idea. Instead of going up Heraldsgate Hill, she took a left and swung back onto the main thoroughfare through the city. Just before reaching downtown, Judith took another left and pointed the Subaru toward the hospital district. In less than ten minutes, she was in the parking garage of Norway General.

Angela La Belle would no doubt be listed under an assumed name. Judith knew she’d have to think of a really good fib to tell the person behind the reception desk. Her role as Angela’s innkeeper probably wouldn’t cut any ice with the staff.

Inside the main doors, she checked the directory. Not ICU, Judith figured. Angela had been taken to the hospital several hours ago and was reportedly on the mend. She’d be in a private ward, of course. But under what medical heading? Not yet ready to show her hand, Judith approached the main desk and asked where emergency patients were taken after they were out of danger.

Specialty medicine
sounded promising. Judith took
an elevator to the seventh floor, then followed the arrows to the nurses’ station in the middle of the corridor. A woman wearing a blue hospital smock over a print dress looked up from a patient chart. She wore half glasses on a silver chain and her white hair was in a severe pageboy that accented a hooked nose and prominent chin.

“May I help you?” she asked in a tone that indicated she’d rather stuff her visitor into the recycling bin that sat next to the desk.

Judith froze. The fib she’d been trying to conjure up still hadn’t materialized. Briefly, she closed her eyes. Angela’s pale face and tall, voluptuous figure floated before her. The well-defined features, the wide shoulders, the above-average height, the dark eyes, the blond hair that was undoubtedly colored by an expensive Beverly Hills stylist…

Inspiration struck. There was a physical resemblance as long as no one looked too closely. “I’m here to see my daughter.” Judith leaned forward, striking a conspiratorial pose. “I don’t know what name she’s using, but to her adoring fans, she’s…Dare I say it?”