Silver Scream : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

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Silver Scream : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery Page 18

by Mary Daheim


  woman’s too tall.”

  Dirk Farrar had stepped aside as the medics began

  their task. The woman—who was indeed over six

  feet—waved the other onlookers away. “Clear the

  area,” she commanded. “We need some room here.”

  Judith, Joe, Renie, and Bill returned to the dining

  room. The women sat down at the dining-room table;

  the men remained standing, Bill by the window, Joe

  next to the big breakfront that held three generations of

  the Grover family’s favorite china.

  “What could have happened to Angela?” Judith

  mused in a fretful voice. “Stress?”

  “In a way,” Joe said, rocking slightly on his heels.

  “That is, if you figure that stress can lead to drug addiction.”

  “Drugs!” Judith exclaimed. “You think Angela

  overdosed?”

  Joe nodded. “I’m certain that the white powder you

  found in the downstairs bathroom was cocaine. I’m

  having Woody analyze the residue to make sure. I

  found traces of it upstairs in the bathroom that Dirk

  and Angela shared when they usurped Bruno’s room.”

  “Not surprising,” Bill remarked. “How many showbusiness people have a drug habit?”

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  “How many ordinary people do, too?” Renie said

  with a touch of anger. “It’s everywhere.”

  “Bruno!” Judith breathed. “What if he overdosed,

  too?”

  Joe, however, shook his head. “No traces of drugs

  were found by the ME.”

  Slipping out of her chair, Judith tiptoed to the door

  that led to the entry hall and peeked around the corner.

  An oxygen mask had been placed over Angela’s face

  and an IV had been inserted into her arm. The two

  male medics were preparing to remove her on a gurney. The woman was speaking in low tones to Dirk

  Farrar. Judith couldn’t hear a word they said.

  She barely had time to duck out of sight before Dirk

  Farrar came into the dining room. Without his usual

  bravado, he addressed Joe.

  “I assume it wouldn’t break any rules if I went with

  Angela to the hospital?” he said.

  “Go ahead,” Joe responded. “What’s her condition?”

  Dirk frowned. “Not so good. But they think she’ll

  be okay.” He hurried out of the room.

  “Halftime,” Bill murmured. “Let’s see how the other

  guests are taking all this.” He, too, left the dining room.

  Judith and Joe trailed behind him. Bill was correct:

  The Packers and the Bears had retired to their respective dressing rooms to regroup for the second half. Ben

  Carmody was on his cell phone; Chips Madigan was

  leafing through a coffee-table book on Pacific Northwest photography; a disconsolate Winifred Best was

  sitting in what had once been Grandpa Grover’s favorite armchair; Dade Costello had gone out through

  the French doors and was standing on the back porch.

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  Winifred’s head snapped up as Bill, Judith, and Joe

  entered the living room. “What’s going on? What happened to Angela? Is she dead?”

  Joe explained the situation, somehow managing to

  leave out the part about a cocaine overdose.

  “Was it a cocaine overdose?” Winifred demanded,

  looking as if she were about to collapse.

  Joe didn’t flinch. “That’s possible.”

  Winifred wrung her thin hands. “I knew it. I knew it.

  She can’t get off the damnable stuff. How many times

  have they—” She stopped abruptly. “Where’s Dirk?”

  “He rode to the hospital with Angela,” Joe replied.

  “I believe they’re taking her to Norway General.”

  The siren sounded as the medic van pulled away.

  Judith went back into the entry hall and looked outside. A second van, apparently a backup, was also

  turning out of the cul-de-sac. The neighbors, who

  were accustomed to the occasional burst of mayhem

  at Hillside Manor, were well represented by the

  Porters, the Steins, and the Ericsons, who stood on

  the sidewalk with Arlene Rankers. Across the street

  on the corner, the elderly widow Miko Swanson sat at

  her usual post by her front window. However, there

  was no sign of Vivian Flynn, whose bungalow next

  door to Mrs. Swanson’s typically had its drapes

  closed during the daylight hours. Feeling obligated to

  keep her fellow homeowners informed, Judith started

  onto the porch just as a black limousine pulled into

  the cul-de-sac.

  Vito Patricelli emerged with Morris Mayne and Eugenia Fleming. With a weak wave in the neighbors’ direction, Judith ducked back inside, where she collided

  with Winifred, who was hovering right behind her.

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  175

  “Sorry,” Judith murmured.

  Winifred ignored the remark as she hastened to

  greet the newcomers, who barely acknowledged Judith’s presence as they entered the house.

  “Dirk called me on his cell,” Vito said, his mouth set

  in a grim line and his sunglasses hiding the expression

  in his eyes. “We have to take a meeting. Now.” He

  marched straight for the living room. “Ben, shut off

  that damned TV. Where’s Dade? Where’s Ellie?”

  “Dade’s out back,” Chips replied, his tone indifferent. “I think.”

  Vito’s head turned in every direction. “What about

  Ellie?”

  “She went upstairs,” Winifred said in an unusually

  meek voice. “I think.”

  “I’ll get her,” Judith volunteered.

  Vito gave a curt nod. “You do that. And clear the

  room of any outsiders.” He particularly glared at Bill,

  who maintained his stoic expression.

  Joe had clicked off the television set. “Let’s give

  these people some space,” he said amiably.

  Hands in his pants pockets, Bill meandered out of

  the living room. Renie, however, balked.

  “Why don’t you hold this session in a regular meeting room at the Cascadia Hotel?” she demanded.

  “There’s the Regency Room, the Rhododendron

  Room, the—”

  Bill turned around, grabbed his wife by the scruff of

  her neck, and hauled her away, muttering, “Don’t

  make trouble.”

  “Hey,” Renie protested, “they’re such big shots, I

  just thought they’d rather . . .”

  Halfway up the stairs, Judith didn’t hear the rest of

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  her cousin’s contrary reasoning. Going all the way

  down to the end of the hall, she rapped on the door to

  Room Six. When there was no response, Judith’s heart

  skipped a beat. Originally, Angela and Ellie had shared

  quarters. Then Angela had moved into Bruno’s room

  with Dirk. Could Angela and Ellie also have shared a

  habit, one that would overcome their apparent dislike

  for one another?

  Judith knocked again, much louder. When there was

  still no answer, she turned the knob and held her

  breath.

  Ellie was lying on the double bed, wearing headphones and tapping out the beat of a song only she

  could hear. The young actress looked
up in surprise as

  Judith moved into the room.

  “What’s up?” she asked, removing the headphones.

  “Are the Wienie Wizards here?”

  “No,” Judith replied in relief. “But Mr. Patricelli,

  Mr. Mayne, and Ms. Fleming are. Mr. Patricelli has

  called a meeting in the living room.”

  “Oh, drat!” Ellie switched off the CD player and

  slid off the bed. “What a busybody! When are the wienies coming?”

  “Not until after five,” Judith said.

  “But it’s only three o’clock,” Ellie responded. “How

  am I going to sit through a stupid meeting without my

  wienies?”

  “I’m sorry,” Judith said, then frowned. “Don’t you

  want to know what happened to Angela?”

  “Not really,” Ellie said, slipping into a pair of white

  mules decorated with multicolored beads. “Angela’s

  on a collision course, if you ask me.” She paused to

  glance in the big oval mirror attached to the dressing

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  177

  table. “Is she dead?” The question was asked without

  much interest.

  “No,” Judith said. “But I gather it was a close call.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Ellie responded, yanking at shafts

  of her long jet-black hair. “Look at this—why can’t I

  do what my stylist does to make this cut look right?

  Oh, I’ll be so stoked to get back to Cosmo in L.A. They

  should have let me bring him with me.” She gave her

  hair a final tug. “Next time, I bet they will.” Her small,

  perfect lips curved into a smug little smile.

  “Next time?” Judith echoed.

  “I mean,” Ellie said, turning away from the mirror,

  “next time I have to make a special appearance. You

  know—like this premiere.” Suddenly her usual perky

  expression disappeared. “Except I don’t know if All

  the Way to Utah will get made. At least not soon. You

  know—with Bruno dead.”

  The title struck a familiar chord with Judith. “I’ve

  heard of that,” she said. “What’s it about?”

  “Pioneers,” Ellie replied, picking up a pink cashmere cardigan that matched her pink cashmere shortsleeved sweater and tossing it over her slim shoulders.

  “The Old West. You know—action, adventure, sex, big

  rocks, bonnets, seagulls, Mormons.”

  “Fascinating,” Judith commented, though it sounded

  like a bit of a mishmash. “Do you have a big part?”

  “Very,” Ellie said, joining Judith at the door. “I not

  only play the female lead, but my name should go

  above the title.”

  “Really?” Judith knew that was good.

  “Really,” Ellie said over her shoulder. “Got to scoot.

  Vito can be an awful pest. Besides, I really need to talk

  to him.”

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  Mary Daheim

  Judith took the back stairs. Renie was in the kitchen,

  studying the contents of the refrigerator.

  “What’d you do with all those leftovers?” she asked.

  “We put most of them in the freezer,” Judith replied.

  “There are still some cheeses and slices of Italian ham.”

  “Good,” Renie said, checking the crisper drawers.

  “I’m starved. I didn’t eat a serious lunch.” With a gesture of triumph, she held up some smoked Gouda and

  a package of prosciutto. “Pass the crackers, coz.”

  Judith fetched a box of table wafers from the cupboard. “Where are the husbands?” she asked.

  “Eavesdropping in the front parlor,” Renie answered, putting two round slices of Gouda on top of

  the ham.

  “Ah,” Judith remarked. “That’s good.”

  “Bill’s taking notes,” Renie said, making a sandwich out of the crackers.

  “Did you get anything interesting from Ellie Linn?”

  Judith inquired, sitting down at the kitchen table.

  Renie opened a can of Pepsi and sat down across

  from her. “You mean besides how much she hates Angela La Belle and Dirk Farrar?”

  “And why is that?” Judith asked.

  “Professional jealousy of Angela,” said Renie, after

  swallowing a big bite of her concoction. “Maybe genuine dislike. Conflict of personalities. It can happen in

  any business.”

  “What about Ellie’s feelings for Dirk?”

  Renie shrugged. “Couldn’t say.” She ate another

  mouthful.

  Judith took a pumpkin-shaped cookie from the jar

  on the table. “Did Ellie mention a film called All the

  Way to Utah?”

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  179

  “Yeph,” Renie replied, still chewing. “Geb wha?

  Ewwie’s muvver wode the scwip.”

  “Her mother wrote that script?” Judith, who had

  learned long ago to decipher her cousin’s words when

  she spoke with a mouthful of food, was surprised at the

  information. “I actually saw that script someplace. I

  think it was in the room that Dirk and Ben shared.”

  “Her mother,” Renie began, having swallowed, “is a

  writer. Her name is Amy Lee Wong, wife of the Wienie Wizard. She’s Chinese by birth, from Hong Kong.

  I gather she’s written a few romance novels under the

  pen name of Lotus MacDermott.”

  “Interesting,” Judith commented, looking thoughtful. “So Mrs. Wienie sold the script to—whom?

  Bruno?”

  “Could be.” Renie polished off the crackers, cheese,

  and ham, then took a long drink of Pepsi. “Ellie is supposed to star as the seventh wife of a Mormon bishop

  back in the 1850s. The narrative involves the Utah War,

  which occurred when there was a public outcry about

  the Mormon practice of polygamy. According to the

  script, one of the reasons that the persecution or whatever you’d call it ended was because the Mormon

  bishop took a Chinese wife. If I recall my Western history, it had more to do with the Mormons pledging allegiance to the Union when the Civil War broke out.

  Ben Carmody is supposed to play the bishop.”

  “My.” Judith got up and took a can of diet 7UP from

  the fridge. “It sounds a bit implausible. I mean, the

  Mormons weren’t famous in those days for being tolerant of other races.”

  Renie grinned at her cousin. “That’s why it’s a

  movie.”

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  Mary Daheim

  “I suppose,” Judith said. “Except for the distortion,

  the film might have possibilities. Maybe that’s what

  Ben and Ellie were discussing when we saw them at

  T. S. McSnort’s.”

  “That’s very likely,” Renie said. “Since Ellie looked

  as if she had the upper hand, I wonder if she was talking Ben into it. Therefore, I wonder if Dirk Farrar

  wasn’t her first choice.”

  “So where does Ellie get so much clout?” Judith remarked, sitting down again. “She hasn’t made very

  many movies.”

  “Ah!” Renie grinned at her cousin. “Don’t you remember who bankrolled Bruno for The Gasman?”

  “Mr. MacDermott, the Wienie Wizard,” Judith responded.

  “Right,” said Renie. “So naturally he would put

  money into the Utah film. If he has any left after the

  debacle with The Gasman.”

  “Hmm.” Judith drummed her nails on the table and
/>   grimaced. “If Bruno was murdered, then we can eliminate Ellie and probably Ben Carmody as suspects.”

  Renie shook her head. “Not necessarily. The fact

  that the movie flopped at the premiere might make

  Bruno dispensable.”

  “What do you mean?” Judith queried.

  “I can’t explain it,” Renie said. “Ask Bill. It may

  have something to do with the studio’s insurance. Or

  Bruno having a flop, which would have made raising

  money for his next picture much harder. It was complicated. I got sort of mixed up.”

  Judith was about to speculate further when the

  phone rang. She picked it up from the counter behind

  her and heard a vaguely familiar female voice.

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  181

  “We’re sure glad we didn’t stay at your place,” the

  woman declared. “And don’t think we ever will!”

  “Mrs. Izard?” Judith ventured.

  “You’re darned tootin’ it’s Mrs. Izard. And I’m

  speaking for Mr. Izard, too. Walt here says you must

  run a pretty half-baked bed-and-breakfast to let your

  guests get murdered in their beds.”

  “No one,” Judith said firmly as she cursed Ingrid for

  breaking her word, “got murdered in their beds. In fact,

  no one got murdered that we know of, period.”

  Meg Izard chortled gleefully. “Whatever happened

  wasn’t good. And doesn’t that just go to show you? No

  matter how big a wheel, the Grim Reaper can still bust

  up your spokes when you least expect it.”

  The phone slammed down in Judith’s ear. “Damn

  that Ingrid—she promised to be discreet about our . . .

  misfortune. And she usually is. I’ve always trusted her,

  even if we’ve had our differences. And,” Judith went

  on, growing more annoyed by the second, “talk about

  a poor sport. Since Meg Izard and her husband didn’t

  get to stay at Hillside Manor, the old bat wants to lord

  it over us because we’re in a pickle.”

  Renie was trying not to smile. “Yes, it’s a pickle,

  coz. At least the other displaced couple hasn’t bugged

  you about what’s happened.”

  “The Kidds?” Judith said, going to the refrigerator

  and taking out a package of bologna. “No. They were

  very nice about it. In the Izards and the Kidds, you see

  the two ends of the spectrum when it comes to guests.

  Some—most, really—are wonderful, and then others

  can be a huge pain.” She deftly buttered two slices of

 

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