by Mary Daheim
all was in virtual readiness.
“I’m already exhausted,” Renie announced, leaning
against the sink. “Is Bill still napping on the sofa?”
“Yes,” Judith replied. “So’s Carl. On the other sofa.
Joe’s watching TV upstairs. He should be down in a
few minutes. Unless he’s napping, too.”
“Hey,” Renie said, suddenly rejuvenated and jumping away from the sink. “Let’s turn the TV on to
see—”
The cupboard door behind her sprang open, narrowly missing her head.
“Oops!” Renie exclaimed, then firmly closed the
door. “I wish you’d fix that thing.”
“Me too,” Judith agreed. “If Joe doesn’t give it a go,
I’ll have to call Mr. Tolvang next week. Say, do you
think the premiere is on the news?”
“Probably,” Renie replied, testing the cupboard door
to make sure it was shut.
Judith clicked on the small color set she kept on the
counter near her computer. Mavis Lean-Brodie, a familiar face from murders past, was making dire predictions about a storm blowing down from the north.
“. . . with winds gusting up to forty-five miles an
hour and heavy rains. Small-craft warnings are out on
the . . .”
“She changed her hair again,” Renie remarked.
“Now it’s pink.”
“I hope the rain lets up,” Arlene said in a doleful
voice. “It always seems to be nasty when the trick-ortreaters are making their rounds.”
“That’s because it’s late October,” Renie replied.
“We get some of our worst wind storms about now.”
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91
“. . . For more on the weather,” Mavis was saying,
“our own Duff Stevens will be along later in the broadcast. But,” she added, now all smiles, “despite the rain,
the stars were out tonight downtown. Here’s KINETV’s entertainment editor, Byron Myron, with more
on that big event.”
Byron Myron was a jolly-looking black man whose
appearance belied a rapierlike tongue. He was shown
outside the movie theater holding an umbrella.
“The Gasman arrived here this evening,” Byron
said, “and blew out the main line.” The camera traveled
to the glittering marquee, followed by clips of the
celebrity arrivals. “Bruno Zepf’s four-hour, hundredmillion-dollar extravaganza proved that money can’t
buy you love—or a good movie.”
“There’s Angela in her Gone With the Wind costume,” Renie whispered as the female lead was shown
entering the theater.
“How can you tell?” Arlene whispered back. “She’s
wearing a mask.”
“I saw the costume here,” Renie said. “In fact,
somebody ripped—”
Judith waved a hand to shush the other women.
“. . . story which was based on an obscure novel of
the same name,” Byron Myron was saying, “doesn’t
merit four minutes, let alone four hours. As for the acting, the performers are in the unenviable position of
creating several different characters during the various
historical periods Zepf has chosen to make his statement about humanity’s progress over four millennia.
Or was it five? I’m not sure. The movie seemed to take
almost that long. This is Byron Myron, reporting
from—”
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Mary Daheim
Judith switched off the set. “Goodness. That doesn’t
sound so good for Bruno.”
“Maybe,” Renie suggested, “Byron Myron feels he
ought to trash the movie because it was filmed on location around here and the city hosted the premiere.
He may feel that if he praised it, he’d sound like a
homer.”
“Maybe,” Judith allowed, then started turning on
ovens and putting dishes on to heat. “The Zepf gang
will be back here in a little over half an hour. We
should get into our costumes. So should the husbands.”
As the three women changed in the third-floor bedroom, they could hear the wind begin to pick up in the
trees outside. The rain was coming down harder, too,
spattering the windows and running out of the downspouts.
Judith stared at herself in the mirror. She looked
more like a noble Roman lady than a humble slave.
The off-white gown was held on one shoulder by a
brooch that had belonged to Grandma Grover. An old
drapery cord served for the belt, and the scarf that hung
from her head was anchored by an ivory comb that was
a castoff from Auntie Vance.
“Gee, coz,” Renie said, “you look pretty hot.”
Judith had to admit that the long, graceful gown
suited her statuesque figure. “Thanks,” she said. “I
wish I could say the same for you.”
Renie tucked the head of her Daisy Duck costume
under her arm. “I thought my tail feathers were kind of
sexy.”
“Not as sexy as your big webbed feet,” Judith said,
then turned to Arlene, who looked somewhat more enchanting as Gretel, complete with long golden braids and
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93
a gingerbread cookie embroidered on her apron. “How
does Carl feel about wearing Hansel’s lederhosen?”
“He loves it,” Arlene declared as a knock could be
heard on the door.
“We’re decent,” Judith called out.
Carl stuck his head in. “I hate lederhosen. Why
couldn’t I wear pants?”
“There’s nothing wrong with your legs, Carl,” Arlene retorted. “Just don’t walk like you’re knockkneed. And don’t forget your hat with the feather.”
The women joined the men, who had been changing
in Joe’s den. Judith thought Carl looked cute in his
Hansel outfit. With his round face and ruddy cheeks,
Joe made a presentable, if aging, choirboy. And Bill
certainly looked like Donald Duck. He couldn’t appear
otherwise, since he had his head in place along with
the rest of his costume.
“Quack, quack,” said Bill.
“Yes, you look terrific,” Renie replied, giving Bill’s
bill a tweak.
“You understood that?” Judith asked in surprise.
“Of course,” Renie answered. “Bill and I have been
married so long we can communicate in any language.”
Downstairs, Cathy was pounding at the back door.
Arlene let her daughter in. It was a tight squeeze, the
panda suit being very round and very wide.
“The head ruined my hair,” Cathy complained, batting at her blond locks with the hand that didn’t hold
the head itself. “This thing is hot. And now it’s wet
from the rain. I smell like a sheep, not a panda.”
“What does a panda smell like?” Renie inquired in
a musing tone.
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Mary Daheim
“Not as bad as I do,” Cathy complained.
“Now, dear,” Arlene soothed, “we all have to suffer
for love.” She gave Carl a sharp glance. “Think of what
I’ve had to put up with over the years.”
“Stick it in the oven, Gretel,” Carl shot back.
Bill waddled over to the cupboards by the work
area. “Quack, quacky, quack?” He addressed Renie.
“In he
re,” Renie replied, opening a cupboard underneath the counter. “Judith has four kinds of cocoa. You
choose.”
“Quack,” Bill said, pointing to the German chocolate brand, then to a row of cereal boxes on the bottom
shelf. “Quack,” he said, indicating the Cheerios.
“Quack,” he continued, tapping the Grape-Nuts.
“Quack,” he concluded, nudging a box of bran.
Renie placed her Daisy Duck head on the counter.
“You should have had your evening snack at home,”
she said in mild reproach. “I’ll have to heat the cocoa
in the microwave. All the burners are in use.”
“Quack,” said Bill.
Judith shook her head. She’d never understood how
her cousin, who was usually so fractious, could wait on
Bill hand and foot. At least some of the time. But
Renie was equally willing to spoil their children. It
seemed out of character, and therefore illogical. And
logic was the cornerstone of Judith’s thought
processes.
Bill had finished his snack and the final preparations
were being made when the first of the limos arrived
back at Hillside Manor. Judith went to the door.
The wind and rain seemed to blow the trio inside.
As Cleopatra, Ellie Linn was shivering with the cold,
despite the black cloak that hung from her shoulders.
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95
“T-t-this awful weather!” she cried. “I’m g-g-going
t-t-to catch pneumonia!” She burst into hysterical
laughter and fled into the downstairs bathroom.
“That’s how she handles adversity.” Winifred
sneered. “The silly twit.” In her nun’s habit, Winifred
moved closer to Bruno. She seemed to be holding him
up as he stumbled through the entry hall. “Scotch,
quickly!” she cried. “Mr. Zepf isn’t feeling well.”
The liquor bottles that the guests had brought with
them were on the makeshift bar in the front parlor, but
Bruno’s favorite Scotch remained on the old-fashioned
washstand that served as a smaller bar in the dining
room. Judith grabbed the bottle and a glass, rushed to
the kitchen to get ice, and hurried back to the living
room, where Bruno was now slumped on one of the
sofas. His flowing robes and burnoose from Khartoum
sagged along with the rest of him.
“My God,” he whispered as Winifred took the drink
from Judith and raised it to his lips. “I’m ruined.” He
took a deep sip from the proffered glass, then raised his
white-robed arms as if invoking the gods of filmdom.
“The Gasman had everything to please audiences—
sex, violence, art—even a small cuddly dog.”
Chips Madigan paused in his path across the room.
“I told you to leave the chimpanzee in. Chimps are always good.”
“Chimps are a desperation measure,” Bruno muttered as Chips moved on. “He’s a director, he knows
that. My God, think of the money we wasted on the TV
advertising budget alone!”
The cell phone in Winifred’s lap rang. She picked it
up, but had difficulty getting the earpiece under her
wimple. “Best here,” she finally said. Then she low- 96
Mary Daheim
ered her eyes and her voice. “Yes . . . yes . . . we
know . . . morons . . . imbeciles . . . philistines . . .
yes . . . I’ll contact them first thing tomorrow, before
we leave for the airport . . . yes, have an ambulance
waiting . . . good.” She clicked off and suddenly
looked up at Judith. “What are you waiting for? Mr.
Zepf has his drink.”
“I wondered if there was anything else I could get
for him,” Judith said as a small man in a matador’s suit
of lights and a large woman dressed like Carmen in Act
IV of the opera entered the living room. “Is he ill?”
“Yes,” Winifred replied tersely, then caught sight of
the new arrivals. “Oh, damn! I must speak to Morris
and Eugenia.” Her gaze softened. “Mrs. Flynn, would
you sit with Mr. Zepf for just a moment?”
“Of course,” Judith replied, and perched on the edge
of the sofa.
A deep groan was coming from somewhere in the
folds of the burnoose. “It’s plague! It’s devastation!
It’s . . . the end.”
“Goodness,” Judith said. “Do you need a doctor?”
Bruno pushed the folds of his robes aside and
looked at Judith with bleary eyes. “It’s the critics. We
flew them in from all over the world. Those damnable
thickheaded critics. They hate The Gasman. Every one
of them so far has trashed the picture. And how they
ate at the masked ball! They savage me, then they gobble up everything but the silverware!”
Judith tried to think of something positive to say.
“What about the audience? Sometimes, I’ve heard,
critics may hate a movie, but audiences adore it.”
Bruno’s head fell back against the sofa. “They
walked out. The theater was less than half full after the
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97
intermission. We should have barred the doors. Oh, my
God, what’s to become of me?”
Ellie entered the living room with great caution, as
if she expected someone to hand her a poisonous asp.
She was still shivering inside the heavy black cloak as
she sidled up to Bruno and leaned down. “Hey, maybe
it’s not so bad. You know—every great producer has a
flop sometimes. Look at all the successes you’ve had.”
“That was then,” Bruno muttered. “This is now.”
Dade Costello, in his long brown velvet mantle and
Frisbee-shaped hat, passed in back of the sofa behind
Bruno. “I told you so,” he said, and moved on.
Bruno groaned some more. A cell phone rang from
somewhere. Bruno automatically reached for his, but
no one was on the other end. His expression was bleak
as Ellie pulled out her own cell to take the call.
“Yes,” she said. “I know.” Her sweet face turned
sour. “But . . . isn’t it possible that . . . Yes, I suppose
you’re right. Still . . .” She listened, then sighed.
“Okay . . . If you say so. Sure, you know I always do.
Bye.” She rang off, shot Bruno a blistering look, and
walked off toward the bar, where another newcomer,
attired in a pioneer woman’s gingham dress and floppy
bonnet, was accepting a drink from Cathy Rankers.
Angela La Belle came over to the sofa. Judith drew
back, assuming the actress wanted to speak with
Bruno. But Angela ignored the producer and spoke to
Judith instead.
“I see the truffles finally turned up. At least one
good thing happened tonight.” With a swish of Scarlett’s skirts, she turned away.
“You see?” Bruno whispered hoarsely. “You see
how they turn on me? That’s the way the business
98
Mary Daheim
works. A hundred successes and one failure—that’s all
it takes to bring you down, to make you a nobody.”
Judith glanced around the big living room. Still
wearing their masks, Ben Carmody and Dirk Farrar
were talking by the piano. Judith recognized them by
their costumes. Dirk cut a dashing figure in his satinslashed doublet and hose; Ben looked more like his
sinister screen self in the nineteenth-century frock coat
and top hat. Judging from their body language, neither
seemed happy.
“Surely,” Judith said, her naturally kind heart filling
with sympathy for Bruno, “you don’t really believe
that you’re . . . um . . . washed up in Hollywood?”
Bruno’s eyes darted under the hood of his
burnoose. “See? They’re staying as far away as possible, like I’m poison, contagious. Do you watch pro
football?” He saw Judith give a faint nod. “Then you
know how the other players usually avoid a fallen
teammate. They’re superstitious, too; they think that if
they touch the downed man, they’ll be the next to get
hurt. That’s the way it is in the picture business. An injury, or a failure—or even a rumor of failure—can be
career-ending.”
Judith saw Chips Madigan as the computer geek,
speaking with Angela by the buffet bar. Ellie was
alone, studying the various pieces of china that sat
along the plate rail. Dade was also by himself, at his favorite place by the French doors, staring out into the
stormy October night. Dirk and Ben remained together, speaking and nodding in turn. Winifred apparently had gone into the front parlor with Morris the
matador and Eugenia in her Carmen costume. The pioneer woman stood at the buffet, sampling food from
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99
the chafing dishes. It didn’t seem like much of a party
to Judith, but she reminded herself it wasn’t her fault.
The doorbell distracted her. She waited a moment,
thinking one of the company might be expecting more
hangers-on. But the bell rang a second time, and Judith
hurried to the front door.
“Trick-or-treat!” chimed two youthful voices.
Judith frowned at the spaceman and the alligator.
“Aren’t you out late?” she inquired, reaching for the
silver bowl on the entry-hall table.
The spaceman, who had what looked like a fish
bowl on his head, grinned through the filmy glass.
“We’re not little kids,” he responded. “I’m getting my
driver’s license next week.”
Considering that the spaceman was almost as tall as
Judith—at least in the silver platform boots—she
shrugged, then dumped four small chocolate bars into