by Mary Daheim
“It’s a friend.”
Winifred stiffened. “Not Vito?”
“No . . .”
“Who, then?” Winifred rasped out the question.
“Ah . . . An old friend of my husband’s, actually.”
Judith didn’t want to identify Woody as a cop. He had
probably come to collect the physical evidence Joe had
gathered. As much as she wanted to see Woody, she
thought it best to stay out of sight. Joe could handle his
ex-partner’s arrival with a minimum of fuss.
But Winifred persisted. “Why is he here? He’s not
media, is he?”
“Heavens, no!” Judith’s laughter was false. “He
won’t stay. I think he wants to borrow something from
my husband.”
Winifred looked relieved. “Morris has done an outstanding job of misleading the media about Bruno’s death.
So far, they have no idea where or how it happened.”
Judith could hear Joe greeting Woody in the entry
hall. To divert the other guests, she led Winifred
through the parlor door that opened directly into the
living room.
“Excuse me,” Judith said loudly. “Since I can use
the kitchen, I’ll take dinner orders now. Does anyone
have some particular craving?”
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Only Ellie Linn seemed excited by the announcement. “Can I get some of my dad’s famous hot
dogs? I’ve really missed them the past few days, you
know.”
Judith nodded. “There’s a Wienie Wizard just across
the ship canal. Anyone else want something special?”
“Not wieners,” Angela said with a sneer. “I’d rather
eat rubber.”
“Steak,” Dirk said, giving Angela’s shoulders a
quick squeeze. “New York cut, an inch thick, rare.”
“You know what sounds good to me?” Chips Madigan said in his ingenuous manner. “An old-fashioned
chicken pot pie, like my mother makes.”
Ben Carmody gazed at the ceiling. “Pasta. Any
kind, with prawns and a really good baguette.”
“If Vito is here,” Winifred put in, “he prefers sushi,
particularly the spider rolls.”
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
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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.”
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“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
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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 Whateverher-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
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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 be
ill.
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?”
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“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 doorknob, 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.”
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Mary Daheim
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.
ELEVEN
HAVING 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
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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.
“Dir
k 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
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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 blueand-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.
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Mary Daheim
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