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Silver Scream : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

Page 4

by Mary Daheim


  heard Arlene. He had already moved on to shake

  Renie’s hand without ever looking right at her, and was

  now in the entry hall, surveying his new surroundings.

  Such was his air of possession that Judith felt as if

  she’d not only rented Bruno a room but sold him the

  entire house.

  Judith had to force herself to take her eyes off the

  great man and greet the other guests. She immediately

  recognized Dirk Farrar and Angela La Belle, whose famous faces had appeared in a series of hit movies. Judith had actually seen two of their films, on video. Just

  as the pair reached the porch, Judith noticed that

  Naomi Stein had come out of her house on the corner

  and Ted Ericson was pulling into his driveway across

  the street.

  As Ted got out of his car, Dirk Farrar also saw the

  newcomers. “Beat it, scumbags!” he yelled. “No paparazzi!” Pushing past Angela La Belle and the threewoman welcoming team, he disappeared into the

  living room.

  With a faint sneer on her face, Angela La Belle ignored the gawking neighbors along with her fellow

  actor and proceeded up the front steps.

  “Ms. La Belle,” Judith said, gathering her aplomb,

  “I so enjoyed your performance in”—her mind went

  blank—“your last movie.”

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  Angela’s face, which seemed so angelic on the screen,

  wore a chilly smile. “Thanks. Where’s the john?”

  “Straight ahead,” Renie said, pointing to the new

  door that Skjoval Tolvang had recently installed.

  Judith was left to confront a somewhat less familiar

  face. She racked her brain to recall who else was on

  Bruno’s guest list.

  “Hi, Mr. Carmody,” Renie said, coming to the rescue. “My husband and I were sorry you didn’t win

  Best Supporting Actor this year. You were a really

  great villain in To Die in Davenport.”

  “Thanks,” Ben Carmody replied with what appeared

  to be a genuine smile. “Face it, I was up against some

  pretty tough competition.”

  Judith was startled by Carmody’s benign appearance. She was so used to seeing him as the embodiment of evil that she scarcely recognized him. He was

  tall and lean, much better looking in person than on the

  screen. Judith shook Ben Carmody’s hand and also received a warm smile.

  Like Dirk Farrar, the next arrival ignored Judith and

  the others. Unlike Dirk, the pencil-thin black woman

  in the gray Armani suit glided over the threshold as if

  she had wheels on her Manolo Blahnik pumps. Once

  inside, she joined Bruno Zepf, who had migrated into

  the front parlor. The woman closed the parlor door behind her, leaving the cousins and Arlene staring at each

  other.

  Last but not least was a small, exotic creature who

  apparently was communing with the squirrels in the

  maple tree near the front of the house.

  “Who is that?” Arlene inquired, her pretty face perplexed. “She reminds me of someone.”

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  “Ellie Linn-MacDermott,” Renie said. “Except I

  think she’s dropped the MacDermott.”

  “Y-e-s,” Arlene said slowly, “that’s who she reminds

  me of. Ellie Linn-MacDermott. I’ve seen Ellie in two

  or three movies. Funny, this girl’s a dead ringer for

  her.”

  “She is Ellie Linn,” Renie responded, making way

  for the chauffeurs, who were carrying in the luggage.

  “She has a role in The Gasman.”

  “Oh!” Arlene’s hand flew to her mouth and her blue

  eyes widened in surprise. “Of course! The actress! Or

  is it hot dogs?”

  “Both,” said Renie, then jumped out of the way as

  the wheels of a large suitcase almost ran over her foot.

  “Her father, Heathcliffe MacDermott, is the Wienie

  Wizard of the Western World.”

  Arlene again looked puzzled. “But this girl . . .” She

  waved an arm toward the young woman who was trying to coax one of the squirrels down from the maple

  tree. “She looks Chinese.”

  “Her mother’s from Hong Kong,” Renie said. “Or

  Shanghai. Or someplace like that.”

  Judith excused herself to show the drivers where to

  stow the luggage upstairs. When she started down

  again, Angela La Belle met her on the second landing.

  “Where’s my room?” she asked, blinking big brown

  eyes that were offset by long lashes that might or might

  not have been her own. The lashes, like the eyes, were

  dark, and made a striking contrast with the actress’s

  waist-length blond hair.

  “Um . . .” Judith hesitated. “Let me get the room

  chart. I’ll be right back. There’s a settee in the hallway

  and a phone, if you need it.”

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  Without any response, Angela passed on to the second floor. Judith hurried to fetch the room chart, which

  she’d left on the entry-hall table. The only thing she remembered was that Bruno Zepf had the largest room,

  Number Three, to himself, though he shared the bathroom with Room Four. Judith couldn’t believe that she

  was so rattled by a bunch of Hollywood hotshots. After

  ten years in the hostelry business, she thought she’d

  met just about every type of person from every level of

  society. Maybe she was more impressionable than she

  realized.

  Swiftly, Judith tabulated the guests who had arrived

  so far. Unless she was mistaken, at least one of the

  members of Bruno’s party hadn’t shown up yet.

  “Psst!” Renie hissed from the hallway. “We’re on

  the job.”

  Judith turned sharply. “You are? Doing what?”

  “Plying your guests with adult beverages,” Renie

  replied. “Or, in some cases, the freshest of springwaters and a vegetable drink that looks like a science

  experiment.”

  “Thanks, coz,” Judith said with a grateful smile.

  “Thank Arlene for me, too. I’ll be right with you.”

  Checking the chart, Judith noted that Winifred Best,

  Bruno’s special assistant, was slotted for Room One.

  Since there were only three women in the party and Judith had recognized the two actresses, Winifred must

  be the Armani-clad black woman who had sailed into

  the house and closeted herself with Bruno.

  Dirk Farrar and Ben Carmody were sharing Room

  Four. Judith wondered how—and why—they’d put up

  with such an arrangement. The same could be said for

  Angela La Belle and Ellie Linn, who would be staying

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  in Room Six. Of course it was only for two nights. Perhaps the proximity to Bruno was worth the sacrifice.

  Still, Judith wasn’t accustomed to such self-effacement

  among the Well-Heeled.

  Room Five had been assigned to The Gasman’s director, Chips Madigan; the film’s screenwriter, Dade

  Costello, was set for Room Two, the smallest of the

  lodgings. Chart in hand, Judith went back upstairs to

  find Angela La Belle.

  “Room Six,” Judith said with a cheerful smile.

  Angela was sprawled on the settee in the hallway,

  leafing
through one of the magazines Judith kept

  handy for guests. “Okay.” The actress didn’t look up.

  “Your key,” Judith said, reaching into the pocket of

  her best black flannel slacks. “I’ll give the other one to

  Ms. Linn.”

  “Fine.” Angela still didn’t look up.

  “Your baggage is right there,” Judith said, pointing

  to the piled-up suitcases and fold-overs the drivers had

  placed in front of Grandma and Grandpa Grover’s old

  oak book shelving. “Only Mr. Zepf’s has been put

  away because I wasn’t exactly sure who was staying

  where. Some of his belongings arrived earlier today

  via UPS.”

  Angela yawned. “Right.”

  Judith gave up and headed past Rooms Four, Five,

  and Six to the back stairs. She wanted to pop the appetizers into the oven before she joined her other guests.

  Halfway down, she realized she hadn’t given Angela

  the front door key along with the one to her room.

  Though her hips were growing weary, Judith hurried

  back to the second floor.

  The settee was empty, the magazine that Angela had

  SILVER SCREAM

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  been perusing lay on the floor. Judith frowned. Could

  Angela have already collected her luggage and gone

  into Room Six so quickly?

  The stacks of baggage sat untouched. But the door

  to Room Three, Bruno’s room, was ajar.

  “Hunh,” Judith said to herself. When she picked up

  the copy of In the Mode magazine, she noticed that it

  was open to a spread on a recent Hollywood gala. The

  large color photo on the left-hand page showed Dirk

  Farrar and Angela La Belle with their arms around

  each other. The caption read, Super Hunk and the Ul-

  timate Babe get cozy at the annual Stars for Scoliosis

  Ball. Are Dirk and Angela hearing La Wedding Belles?

  Judith wondered if Angela and Dirk had no intention of staying in different rooms.

  THREE

  RENIE AND ARLENE seemed to have everything under

  control. Arlene already claimed to have formed a

  fast friendship with Ellie Linn, and insisted that Ben

  Carmody would be the perfect husband for her unmarried daughter, Cathy.

  “They’re not snooty,” Arlene declared, putting

  another batch of puff pastries into the oven. “You

  just have to go about it the right way when it comes

  to asking questions. For example, when I spoke to

  Dirk Farrar about the paternity suit that was in the

  news a year ago, I mentioned how wonderful it was

  to be a parent. Then I asked how he liked being

  called Daddy. So simple.”

  “What did he say?” Judith inquired.

  “Oh, it was very cute,” Arlene replied breezily.

  “He sort of hung his head and mumbled something

  about ‘mother’ and ‘Tucker.’ I think he said

  ‘Tucker.’ That must be the little fellow’s name.”

  The cousins exchanged bemused glances before

  Judith carried a tray of French pâté and English

  crackers into the living room. Dirk Farrar, with a cell

  phone affixed to his ear, lazed on one of the matching sofas by the fireplace while Ellie Linn and

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  35

  Winifred Best sat opposite him. Winifred was also

  using a cell phone. Ben Carmody was examining the

  built-in bookcases next to the bay window. A big shambling man in khaki cargo pants, plaid shirt, and suede

  vest had his back turned and was staring out through

  the French doors. There was no sign of Bruno Zepf.

  Judith cleared her throat. “I’ll be serving the hors

  d’oeuvres in just a few minutes,” she announced.

  Only Ben Carmody looked at her. “Sounds good.

  I’m kind of hungry.”

  Winifred Best’s head twisted around. “You should

  have eaten more of Bruno’s buffet on the plane. You

  know he always serves excellent food.”

  With an off-center grin, Ben shrugged. “I wasn’t

  hungry then.”

  Renie, who had been out in the kitchen with Arlene,

  joined Judith. “Hey, coz,” she said brightly, “have you

  met Dade Costello, the screenwriter for The Gasman?

  He’s been telling me all about the script.”

  Judith nodded toward the big man by the French

  doors. Renie’s nod confirmed his identity.

  “I’ll introduce myself,” Judith murmured. Passing

  through the living room, she caught a few cutting remarks:

  “. . . worse than that no-star hotel in Oman . . .”

  “. . . If I’d wanted to stay in a phone booth, I’d prefer it was in Paris. . . .”

  “. . . bath towels like sandpaper. Whatever happened

  to plush nubbiness? Atlanta was nubby, but Miami was

  the nubbiest . . .”

  Wincing, Judith arrived at Dade Costello’s elbow

  before he turned around. “I’m Judith Flynn,” she said,

  putting out a hand. “Your innkeeper.”

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  “That right?” Dade shook Judith’s hand without enthusiasm. Or maybe because he was so big, he’d

  learned to be gentle with somewhat smaller creatures.

  “Yes.” Judith’s smile felt false. “I’m interested in

  the story behind The Gasman. Your story, that is.”

  Dade’s ordinary features looked pained. He had

  bushy dark hair dusted with gray, and overly long sideburns. “It’s not my story,” he said, with a trace of the

  Old South in his voice.

  “Oh.” Judith’s phony expression turned to genuine

  confusion. “I thought you wrote the script.”

  “I did.” Dade stuck his hands in his pockets. “But

  the story isn’t the script.”

  Judith waited for an explanation, but none was

  forthcoming. “You mean . . . you adapted the story?”

  Dade nodded. “My script was based on a novel.”

  “I see.” Judith understood that this was often the

  case. “Did the book have the same title?”

  Again, Dade nodded, but offered no details. For a

  man of words, Dade Costello didn’t seem to have

  many at his command in a social situation. Maybe, Judith thought, that was why writers wrote instead of

  talked.

  “I never heard of the book,” she admitted. “Was it

  published recently?”

  This time, Dade shook his head. “No. It’s been

  around awhile.”

  “Oh.” Now Judith seemed at a loss to make conversation. She was about to excuse herself when Dade

  rapped softly on one of the panes in the French doors.

  “There’s a head in your backyard,” he said.

  Judith gave a start. “What?”

  Dade’s thumb gestured out past the porch that

  SILVER SCREAM

  37

  flanked the rear of the house. “A head. It’s been sitting

  there for at least five minutes.”

  Judith tried not to shriek. “Where?”

  “There.” Dade pointed to a spot almost out of their

  line of vision. “See it? On top of those bushes.”

  Judith stared. “Oh!” she exclaimed in relief. “That’s

  not a head, it’s my mother. I mean . . .” With a rattle of

  the handle, she opened the French doors. “Excuse me,<
br />
  I’d better see what she’s doing out there.”

  Despite the rain, Gertrude wore neither coat nor

  head covering. She stood next to the lily-of-the-valley

  bush, leaning on her walker and panting. At the foot of

  the porch steps, Bruno Zepf hovered in the shelter of

  the eaves with his head cocked to one side.

  “So,” Bruno was saying to Gertrude, “you actually

  survived the Titanic’ s sinking?”

  “You bet,” Gertrude replied, catching her breath.

  “It’s a good thing I could swim.”

  “Mother!” Judith spoke sharply as she moved to

  take Gertrude’s arm. “It’s raining. What are you

  doing out here?” She darted a glance at Bruno. “Excuse me, Mr. Zepf, but my mother shouldn’t be outdoors without a coat or a rain hat. I’ll take her back

  inside.”

  But Gertrude batted Judith’s hand away. “Stop that!

  I’m not finished yet with this fine young Hollywood

  fella.”

  Bruno, however, held up a hand. “That’s all right,

  Mrs. . . . ?”

  “Grover,” Gertrude put in and shook a crooked finger. “You remember that when you make the movie

  about me.”

  Bruno forced a chuckle as Judith tried to move her

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  mother along the walk toward the toolshed. “The problem is,” Bruno called after them, “someone else already made a movie about the Titanic not very long

  ago.”

  Gertrude refused to move another inch. “What?”

  “Yes,” Bruno responded, backing up the porch

  steps. “It was a big success, an Oscar winner.”

  “I’ll be,” Gertrude muttered, allowing Judith to

  make some progress past the small patio. Then the old

  lady suddenly balked and turned around to look at

  Bruno Zepf. “Hey! Did I tell you about being on the

  Hindenburg?”

  “Keep moving,” Judith muttered. “We’re both getting wet.”

  “You always were all wet,” Gertrude grumbled, but

  shuffled along the walk under her daughter’s guiding

  hand. “Who was that guy? Cecil B. DeMille?”

  “No, Mother,” Judith replied as an agonized scream

  erupted from behind her. She turned to see Bruno Zepf

  clutching at the screen door and writhing like a madman.

  “I can’t get in! I can’t get in!” he howled.

  Abandoning Gertrude, Judith rushed to the back

  porch. “What’s wrong? What is it?”

  Bruno swung his head to one side. “There! By your

  foot! It’s a spider! Help!”

 

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