by Mary Daheim
Judith peered down at the tiny arachnid that was
scooting toward the edge of the porch. A moment later
the spider disappeared into the garden.
“It’s gone,” Judith said, over Bruno’s wails. “That
is, the very small spider has left the building.”
Bruno’s head jerked up. “It has? Are you sure?”
Judith was about to reassure Bruno when Winifred,
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39
with Dirk Farrar right behind her, opened the back
door. Bruno all but collapsed into Winifred’s arms.
“What’s going on?” she demanded.
Judith grimaced. “Mr. Zepf saw a spider on the
porch.”
“Oh, no!” Winifred looked aghast. Dirk snickered.
“Does Mr. Zepf have arachnophobia?” Judith asked
as Bruno’s shudders subsided.
“Not exactly,” Winifred replied, patting Bruno on
the back as if he were a frightened child. “They’re bad
luck.” She managed to disentangle herself and took
Bruno’s hand. “Come inside, it’s quite safe.”
Dirk lingered at the door. “Twerp,” he muttered.
“Chickenhearted twerp.”
“Why are spiders bad luck?” Judith asked.
Dirk shrugged his broad shoulders. “Something to
do with a spider during the shooting of Bruno’s first
picture. Somehow, one got on the camera lens and ruined a perfect take. The crazy bastard’s never been the
same since.” He stopped and turned quickly to look
over his shoulder. No one was there. “Crazy like a fox,
maybe I should say.” With another shrug, Dirk Farrar
moved down the hallway.
Judith went back to the toolshed, where her mother
was still standing in the doorway.
“What caused that commotion?” Gertrude asked in
her raspy voice.
“The guest you were talking to doesn’t like spiders,”
Judith explained, steering her mother inside. “He’s
okay now. Say, what were you doing out in the rain?
Were you trying to come into the house?”
“Of course not,” Gertrude huffed. “Why would I do
that?”
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Mary Daheim
Judith eased the old lady into the overstuffed chair
behind the card table. “You do sometimes.”
“When Lunkhead’s not there, maybe,” Gertrude allowed, then gave Judith a sly look. “I don’t see his car.
Maybe I wanted to meet those movie stars, like Francis X. Bushman and Clara Bow.”
Judith didn’t feel up to adding her mother to the already motley mix. “How about seeing them tomorrow
when they’re all dressed up and ready to leave for the
premiere?”
Gertrude flopped into the chair. “Tomorrow? I could
be dead by tomorrow.”
“You won’t be,” Judith assured her mother. “Besides, not all of them have arrived yet.”
Judging from the pinched expression on Gertrude’s
face, the effort to reach the house had tired her.
“Well—okay. Who’s still coming? Theda Bara?”
Judith gave her mother’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.
“Someone more recent. I’ll be back with your supper
in just a bit.”
The truth was, Judith hadn’t even begun to prepare
the family meal. Gertrude didn’t mind a TV dinner, but
Joe was another matter. As soon as the hors d’oeuvres
were served, she would start the evening meal.
Arlene, however, had already brought the appetizers
out to the guests: crab cakes, mushrooms stuffed with
shrimp, teriyaki beef on skewers, tea sandwiches with
smoked salmon, and—courtesy of Bruno—an exotic
caviar from a shop and a city Judith had never heard of.
“Thanks, Arlene,” Judith said when the two women
were back in the kitchen. “You saved my life. Now I
can get dinner.”
“No need,” Arlene said, opening the oven. “I made
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41
a chicken casserole this afternoon. It’s heating right
now. I put the green salad in the fridge. The homemade
rolls can be heated up in five minutes.”
Judith beamed at her friend and neighbor. “Arlene, I
could kiss you. In fact, I will.” She leaned forward and
gave Arlene a big smack on the cheek.
“It’s nothing,” Arlene said, her expression suddenly
gone sour as it always went when she was complimented for her charity. “I knew you’d have other things
on your mind. By the way, the last guest just arrived.
Serena took him upstairs to his room.”
“The director, Chips Madigan,” Judith murmured.
“I’d better say hello.”
But Renie and Chips were already coming back
down the stairs when Judith reached the entry hall.
“Hey, coz,” Renie called from over the balustrade,
“meet the Boy Wonder of the movies.”
Startled by Renie’s familiarity with the famous director, Judith was even more startled to see the Boy
Wonder. With his red hair, freckles, and gawky manner, Chips Madigan looked like a college freshman.
Half stumbling down the stairs, he grinned at his hostess, put out a hand, and almost knocked over a vase of
flowers with his elbow. He wore a viewfinder around
his neck, which he put to his eyes as soon as he
reached the landing.
“Wow!” Chips cried in excitement. “A great tracking shot into the living room. Bookcases, silver tea
service, lace curtains—this angle reeks of atmosphere.” He let the viewfinder dangle from his neck
and loped over to Judith.
“Hi,” he said with a big smile. “You’re Mrs. Flynn,
right? This is one swell place you’ve got here.” Chips
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Mary Daheim
got down on his haunches, the viewfinder again at his
eyes. “Great elephant’s-foot umbrella stand. It doesn’t
have a bad angle.”
Recalling the critical comments she’d overheard
from some of the other guests, Judith grinned back.
“Thank you, Mr. Madigan. I appreciate that.”
“Hey,” Chips responded, “my mom runs a bed-andbreakfast in Nebraska, right on the Missouri River. It’s
an old farmhouse. I’ll bet the two of you would get
along real well.”
“I’ll bet we would,” Judith agreed. Up close, she
could see that Chips wasn’t as young as he looked. The
red hair was thinning and there were fine lines around
his eyes and mouth. Maybe behind the camera he
coaxed rather than commanded his actors. Certainly he
emanated no aura of Hollywood’s legendary directors.
Judith found Chips Madigan’s friendly, boyish demeanor refreshing. Even endearing, she thought as he
turned toward the living room, tripped on the Persian
area rug, and sent his long, lanky frame sprawling
across the floor.
“Whoa!” Chips cried. “You’d never know I got my
start directing musicals!”
Though both Judith and Renie offered to help, he
politely brushed off their outstretched hands and
scrambled to an upright position on his own.
Judith noticed that none of the guests made the
slightest move to aid their fallen comrade. Indeed,
> Chips Madigan’s unorthodox arrival was virtually ignored. Perhaps that was because Bruno Zepf was
standing in front of the fireplace, obviously over his
fright and looking like Napoleon about to rally his
generals.
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43
Chips, however, seemed undaunted. With a cocky
air, he strolled into the living room and plopped down
on the window seat next to Angela La Belle, who had
also joined the company. At least three cell phones
were swiftly turned off. Judith was beginning to wonder if the devices were permanently attached to their
owners.
The director’s arrival was apparently a signal for
Bruno to shift gears. He took a cigar out of the pocket
of his denim shirt, rolled it around in his pudgy fingers,
and stuck it in his mouth, unlit.
“We’re assembled here on an historic occasion in the
annals of the motion-picture business.” The producer
paused to gaze around the long living room, from the
plate rails to the wainscoting. Several of his listeners’
expressions of distaste indicated that Hillside Manor
wasn’t worthy of so momentous a pronouncement.
“As you all know,” he continued after a sip of the
thirty-year-old Scotch he’d brought with him, “when I
first conceived The Gasman, most people in the business told me it would be an impossible film to make.
The scope was too big, the concept too ambitious, the
goal too lofty, and the movie itself far too expensive
given the audience we’re aiming for.” He paused again,
this time gazing at the cousins, who were standing
under the archway between the entry hall and the living room. “Excuse me, ladies. This is a private meeting. Do you mind?”
“Not very well,” Renie shot back before Judith
could interfere.
“I’m sorry,” Judith broke in, yanking on her cousin’s
arm. “We were just checking to make sure you had
everything you needed for the social hour.”
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Mary Daheim
Winifred Best glanced at Judith in amusement. “The
social hour. How quaint.”
Bruno made a little bow to Judith and Renie. “We
have everything for now. You may go.”
Judith shoved Renie back into the entry hall. Renie
dug in with her heels and came to a dead stop at the
head of the dining-room table.
“That egotistical dork is treating us like slaves!” she
railed. “Who the hell does he think he is? I’ve faced off
with bigger fish before he came along!”
Judith knew that her cousin could back up her bluster. In Renie’s graphic design business, she had gone
up against everybody from Microsweet to the mayor.
She didn’t always win, but even if she lost, she still
managed to save face. Renie’s small, middle-aged matron’s appearance was deceptive. It concealed an abrasive manner that, upon occasion, could get physical.
Which was all the more reason why Judith had to keep
her cousin out of Bruno’s sight.
“Don’t even think about it,” Judith said under her
breath. She loomed over her cousin by a good five
inches, outweighed her by some forty pounds, yet Judith knew she was outmatched. Renie had had shoulder surgery on the same day that Judith had undergone
her hip replacement. If nothing else, Renie could still
run.
“Hey!” Joe Flynn’s voice cut through the kitchen
and into the dining room. “What’s going on? Still
fighting over who has the best Sparkle Plenty doll?”
Judith backed away from her cousin. Renie’s ire
evaporated, as it often did after the initial outburst.
“Not exactly,” Judith said, meeting her husband at
the swinging doors and giving him a big kiss on the
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45
lips. “Boy, am I glad to see you. I’m not sure I’m ready
for the movies.”
“What’s wrong?” Joe inquired. “Aren’t your guests
behaving themselves?”
“It’s attitude,” Renie said, joining Joe and Judith
just inside the kitchen. “These creeps are loaded with
attitude, and some of it’s bad.”
“Relax,” Joe urged. “Years ago, I made big bucks
working security for location companies shooting
around town. I could keep the rabid fans and the
celebrity seekers and the nutcases away, but I couldn’t
offer the kind of security they really needed. The problem with these movie types is that they’re basically insecure.”
“That’s true,” Renie agreed. “Bill says that because
of the capricious nature of the business and the personalities involved in moviemaking, they’re constantly
seeking reassurance that they’re loved and wanted. Bill
sometimes uses feature films to study the behavior
of—”
Renie’s latest parroting of her husband’s expertise
was mercifully interrupted by Arlene, who poked her
head in the back door. “I took your mother’s supper out
to her. I’ve got to go home now and feed my darling,
patient Carl. To the dogs,” she added with a sinister expression.
“Thanks again, Arlene, I really appreciate . . .” But
Arlene was gone before Judith could finish the sentence.
“Have a drink on me, ladies,” Joe offered, taking
down a bottle of Scotch and a bottle of Canadian
whiskey from the cupboard. “What are the guests up
to?”
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Mary Daheim
Judith slumped into one of the kitchen chairs. “Listening to how wonderful Bruno is, from Bruno’s own
lips.”
“And,” Renie put in, opening the cupboard door by
the sink to get three glasses, “listening to Bruno tell
them how marvelous The Gasman is, which I assume
they already know, having been involved in the making
of it.” Handing the glasses to Joe, she closed the cupboard door behind her. Or tried to. “Damn! What’s
with this thing? It won’t stay shut.”
Judith heaved a sigh. “Mr. Tolvang supposedly fixed
it when he was here, but the door still swings open on
its own.” She gave Joe a plaintive look from under her
dark lashes. “I don’t mean to nag, but I have mentioned
that you might look at it. I hate to ask Mr. Tolvang.
He’s so stubborn, he’d probably tell me I was imagining the problem.”
“I’ll give it a go,” Joe answered airily, handing Judith her Scotch. “I’ve been kind of busy lately.”
Judith didn’t respond. While Joe was slightly more
adept at household repairs than Bill, the Flynn to-do
list was never a priority.
“So what’s this movie about anyway?” Joe asked.
“A public utility?”
“Not exactly,” Renie replied. “Dade Costello—the
screenwriter—explained the basic plot to me.”
“That’s more than he did for me,” Judith remarked.
“Maybe you used the wrong approach,” Renie said.
“He’s kind of touchy. Sullen, too. Of course I’m used
to moody writers. Freelancers are the worst. They can’t
bear to have their precious copy rearranged so it will fit
the graphics.
Anyway, the bare bones Dade sketched
out for me involve the entire history of the world as
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47
seen through the eyes of a simple gasman. That is, an
employee who works for a gas company somewhere in
the Midwest.” Renie paused for effect. “Get it? Everyman in the middle of the country, the center of the universe.”
“I got it,” Joe murmured into his Scotch.
“Anyway,” Renie continued, sitting on the counter
with her glass of Canadian whiskey cradled in her
lap, “Bruno shows the viewer how certain periods of
history contributed to our evolution as a civilization.
He puts a positive spin on it, concentrating on early
forms of writing, the invention of paper, the printing
press, and so forth. Thus, he jumps from ancient
Egypt and China all the way up to the present. The
only problem that I can see is that it takes him four
hours to do it.”
“Wow,” said Judith. “I knew it was a long movie, but
isn’t that too long?”
“There’s an intermission,” Renie responded. “I
gather Bruno wanted to do a real epic, sort of the upside of D. W. Griffith’s Intolerance.”
“I’ll wait for the video,” Joe said. “I prefer scheduling my own snack and bathroom breaks.”
“I don’t blame you,” Renie said, “except that you’ll
miss the spectacle unless you see it on a big screen.”
Joe shrugged. “I’ll use my imagination. Besides,
how spectacular can it be watching Gutenberg set type
in his basement?”
The question went unanswered as Winifred Best entered the kitchen. “Where are the truffles?” she demanded. “Bruno must have his truffles. Served raw, of
course, with rosy salt. I assume you know how to prepare rosy salt?”
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Mary Daheim
Joe’s expression was benign. “Three parts salt, two
parts paprika, one part cayenne pepper.”
Judith was always amazed by her husband’s knowledge of fine cuisine. But she looked blankly at
Winifred. “I don’t recall seeing any truffles. Were they
shipped with the caviar and the other delicacies?”
Winifred’s thin face was shocked. “No! They were
shipped separately. Périgord truffles, from France.
They should have arrived this afternoon.”
Judith thought back to Phyllis’s comment about the
delivery truck that may or may not have stopped at
Hillside Manor. “I’ll check,” she said.
“You certainly will,” Winifred snapped. “And you’ll