Silver Scream : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

by Mary Daheim

  Mayne has the burden of trying to make everything

  sound as if Bruno died for Art.”

  “Hunh?” Judith dropped her hands.

  Joe shrugged, then opened the fridge and took out a

  beer. “You know—that Bruno was so disturbed over

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  the possibility of failure that it broke his heart. He’d

  striven to be the best in his chosen profession, and anything less than a total triumph was too terrible to face.

  Blah-blah.”

  “So they think it was an accident?” Judith asked as

  she heard footsteps climbing the main staircase.

  “They want it to be more than an accident,” Joe said

  as Bill also came into the kitchen, carrying a small

  notepad. “They want it to be a Greek tragedy. It plays

  better that way, as Dade Costello pointed out during

  the powwow. Morris Mayne was all for it.”

  “What’s the official news release?” Renie inquired.

  “Go scavenge for it after they’ve cleared the area,”

  Joe suggested. “Bill and I could hear the ripping and

  tearing of many sheets of paper. Maybe you’ll find

  what’s close to a finished product.”

  Bill was now at the fridge, perusing its contents.

  “They issued an earlier statement, but it sounded very

  terse.” He paused, scowling at the shelves. “Don’t you

  have any weird pop?”

  Judith knew that Bill preferred oddly flavored sodas

  that came in strangely decorated bottles. “Not really,”

  she said.

  “Oh.” Bill firmly closed the refrigerator door.

  “Maybe I’ll just have a glass of water.”

  He was turning on the faucet when Eugenia Fleming barged into the kitchen.

  “Do you people know how to keep your mouths

  shut?” she demanded.

  “No,” Renie shot back.

  “Yes,” Judith said, giving Renie a dirty look. “I assume you’re referring to the media?”

  “Of course,” Eugenia replied with a scornful glance

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  at Renie. “Morris is very concerned that we can’t keep

  the lid on this location much longer.”

  Joe stepped forward to face Eugenia, who met him

  at eye level. “Are you saying,” he inquired, “that

  there’s been no leak as to where the non–Cascadia

  Hotel guests are staying or where Bruno died?”

  “That’s so,” interjected Morris Mayne, who had

  come up behind Eugenia like a small caboose following a large locomotive. “But eventually they’ll put two

  and two together. I’m sure they’ve checked out most of

  the hotels by now. Eventually, they’ll get to the bedand-breakfasts. Once they tie in the emergency calls

  that have been made from here, they’re bound to show

  up en masse.”

  Joe tipped his head to one side. “So?”

  “So,” Eugenia said, rising up on her tiptoes to look

  down at Joe, “we must insist on the utmost discretion—indeed, total silence—from all of you.”

  “Fine,” Joe said.

  Morris peeked out from behind Eugenia. “Really?”

  Joe was nonchalant. “Sure.”

  Bill moved closer to Joe. “I have a question.”

  Both Eugenia and Morris looked surprised. “What

  is that?” Eugenia asked.

  “Why should we keep quiet? It hardly matters to my

  wife and me what the media might learn from us.”

  Bill’s voice was, as ever, very deliberate. “Mrs. Jones

  and I could sell information about all these Hollywood

  shenanigans for quite a big sum.”

  Renie’s eyes practically bugged out. “We could?”

  “Of course,” Bill replied. “Especially to the tabloids.”

  Judith and Joe exchanged uneasy glances. Morris

  seemed stunned. Eugenia was growing red in the face.

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  “You wouldn’t dare!” she exclaimed. “Aren’t these

  people your friends?” She waved a big arm in the

  Flynns’ direction. “Do you know what legal straits they

  might be in?”

  Bill looked unfazed. “They’re not friends, they’re

  my wife’s relatives.” He paused to pour himself more

  water. “What about a compromise? Why don’t you let

  us in on what you know about anyone who might have

  had a motive to kill Bruno? Why not be up-front about

  Angela’s drug habit? Why not”—the next word

  seemed to gag Bill, who despised buzz-words—

  “share?”

  Eugenia whirled on Bill, who didn’t budge. “That’s

  blackmail! What right do you have to ask such a thing?

  Can you imagine the legal steps we could take to silence you?”

  “My brother, Bub, is a lawyer,” Bill said quietly.

  “Or maybe that wasn’t a threat?”

  Joe, who along with Judith was looking relieved

  now that Bill had tipped his hand, was nodding sagely.

  “I think this is a good idea.” He gestured expansively.

  “Take a seat. We’ll talk.”

  “No, we won’t,” Eugenia retorted. “At least not until

  we’ve consulted our legal counsel. Who, I might add,

  is waiting for us in the limousine. We’re going back to

  the hotel.” She turned abruptly, almost knocking Morris over.

  “Have your suit call our suit,” Bill said as the pair

  departed. “Bub’s number is—”

  “That’s great, Bill.” Renie could barely contain herself. She was leaning against the fridge, holding her

  sides. “You’ve got them worried.”

  “They should be,” Bill said in a mild tone. “But I’d

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  have preferred that they give us some information on

  the spot.”

  Judith heard the door slam. “Tell us what you overheard from the parlor,” she urged.

  Joe sat down at the kitchen table. Bill got out his

  notepad.

  “As we mentioned,” Joe began, “it was mostly spindoctor stuff. They talked more about how to make it

  seem as if Bruno was such a dedicated artist that he

  couldn’t survive failure. Eugenia—being Bruno’s

  agent—was for that, but there was some disagreement,

  especially when they discussed whether or not The

  Gasman should be salvaged.”

  “Could it be?” Renie asked.

  “Maybe,” Bill put in. “They’d have to cut the running time by almost half. As it is, the film’s not only a

  flop, but it’s a distribution nightmare. At four hours,

  that means only one showing a night per house. That’s

  economically unfeasible.”

  “So they wouldn’t make a profit?” queried Judith.

  “Not in domestic theaters,” Bill responded, also sitting down. “But these days there are all the ancillary

  rights. There are so many other markets—offshore,

  cable TV, syndication, merchandising tie-ins. A movie

  can lose money in this country and still turn a profit.

  Not to mention that the studio could cut back on its advertising and promotion. I suspect they intended to

  spend huge sums before the general release.”

  Joe sipped his beer before he spoke. “You sure know

  a hell of a lot about Hollywood for a psychologist.”

  Bill shrugged. “Cinema is bot
h a reflection of and

  an influence on contemporary life. Besides, I just like

  movies.”

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  Judith, however, was looking for a more personal

  angle. “What about reactions? Did you catch any remarks or attitudes that might indicate animosity

  toward Bruno?”

  “Plenty,” Joe replied, “but nothing I’d call suspicious. Dade complained about what Bruno had done to

  the script. He also griped that Chips Madigan hadn’t

  directed the movie the way the script indicated. Chips

  accused Dade of screwing up the original work.” Joe

  glanced at Judith. “That must have been the book you

  saw upstairs, The Gasman novel.”

  “Did you find it?” Judith asked, having forgotten

  that she’d told Joe to look for it in Room Three.

  “Yes,” Joe answered. “I put it in a drawer by your

  computer. Anyway,” he continued, “Dade reminded

  Chips that a movie is not a book. They started to get

  into it, but Vito cut them off.”

  “That,” Bill put in, “was when Ben Carmody declared that the whole thing was a mistake from the

  start. He insisted that the movie would never have been

  made if Bruno hadn’t been able to con a huge investment out of Heathcliffe MacDermott in order to boost

  his daughter Ellie’s career.”

  “I’m sorry,” Judith broke in, “but I don’t understand

  how the financing works. If Bruno is an independent

  producer, how does the studio get involved?”

  As was his fashion, Bill waited to organize his

  thoughts. Renie, who was long accustomed to her husband’s methodical and precise mental processes,

  climbed up on the kitchen counter, popped the top on

  another Pepsi, and settled in for the long haul.

  “Usually,” Bill finally said, “it works this way: A

  producer like Bruno never invests his own money.

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  Let’s say he’s already nailed down at least one big

  bankable star. Dirk Farrar, in this case. Maybe the estimated budget is seventy million dollars. He—

  Bruno—then goes to Paradox Studios and says he’s

  got a project and he’s got a star. Dirk’s name is worth,

  say, twenty million at the box office. Paradox says

  okay, we’ll get our investors to come up with another

  thirty million, then you—Bruno—raise the rest of it.

  Bruno goes to private investors, in this case because of

  the connection with Ellie Linn, he asks Heathcliffe

  MacDermott for ten million. The other ten million he

  gets from other sources—German businessmen,

  Japanese investors, Italian bankers. I mention those

  three countries because they’re big moviegoers. The

  studio then says they want him to use one of their directors—maybe Chips Madigan—and one of their

  stars—Ben Carmody, perhaps—plus a cinematographer, a writer, an editor, some other actors already

  under contract to the studio. They’ll share the profits

  with Bruno and they’ll handle distribution. Thus,

  they’re ready to roll.”

  “The Gasman had a hundred-million-dollar budget,”

  Joe remarked. “Isn’t that kind of high? And didn’t

  Chips Madigan mention going over budget?”

  “Did he?” Bill frowned. “Yes, you’re right. I think I

  read something about that while the picture was being

  made. Did Chips give a reason?”

  Joe scratched his head. “I didn’t catch all of what

  Chips said. He was toward the other end of the room,

  by the bookcases. Dade, who always assumes his

  stance by the French doors, was even harder to hear.

  But I think—in essence—Chips put the blame on

  Bruno for shooting some of the scenes over again.”

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  “That’s possible,” Bill allowed. “If that’s the case,

  Bruno would have had to scrounge up more money to

  make the revised budget. The next thing I have in my

  notes is that Winifred broke in saying that Bruno had

  so much clout in the industry that he would have been

  green-lighted for any project. A number of people

  would back him because of his track record. Naturally,

  Eugenia Fleming agreed.”

  “How did Ellie react to all this?” Judith queried.

  “She kept her mouth shut,” Joe said. “In fact, she

  sort of simpered.”

  Judith gave her husband a skeptical look. “You

  could hear simpering through the parlor door?”

  “It was open a crack,” Joe replied. “Besides, she

  was standing next to it, fiddling with the CDs by the

  stereo.”

  Judith sighed. “This isn’t very helpful.”

  “We did our best,” Joe said with a touch of sarcasm.

  Renie also seemed disappointed. “That’s it?”

  Bill carefully went through his notes. “There were

  undertones, of course.”

  Joe gave a little shake of his head. “Maybe so.

  That’s your department, Bill. We cops tend to stick to

  the facts. But since it’s you, go ahead. At least it’ll

  please my wife.”

  Judith shot her husband a dirty look. “You’ve certainly never been one to credit my intuition.”

  “Intuition doesn’t hold up in court,” Joe pointed out.

  Judith sniffed, then turned to Bill. “I’ll take all the

  undertones I can get.”

  “Let me see.” He studied the notepad pages for

  some time. “What’s missing is interaction between the

  absentees—Dirk and Angela—and the others. Ellie

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  made a couple of cracks about both of them. Only

  Chips was inclined to defend them, though he wasn’t

  very enthusiastic.”

  “Are Dirk and Angela lovers?” Renie asked.

  “Probably,” Bill replied, “though what that means in

  Hollywood these days, I couldn’t say. They may have

  been sleeping together just for the fun of it while they

  were here. You have to allow for a certain amount of

  old-fashioned promiscuity.”

  “What about the cocaine?” Judith inquired. “Was

  that mentioned?”

  “Only in passing,” Bill responded, “though there

  was a cryptic remark made by Morris. When someone . . .” He addressed his notes. “It was Ben Carmody

  who said maybe Angela had learned her lesson. Morris agreed, observing that as they all knew, three times

  could be a charm.”

  “Curious,” Judith murmured.

  “Come on, Bill,” Renie urged, “you know darned

  well you’ve got some other information tucked away.”

  “I’m sifting it,” Bill said, putting the notepad back

  in his pocket.

  “As usual,” Renie remarked, accustomed to her husband’s cautious but thorough approach to the deductive

  process.

  Judith started for the kitchen’s swinging doors. “I’m

  going to look for the news-release drafts before the

  guests come down to leave for dinner.” She glanced

  back at the old school clock. “It’s almost four. They

  should be a while.”

  Renie followed her cousin out to the living room,

  which was uncharacte
ristically untidy. As Joe had reported, there had been much tearing of legal pads, ac- 200

  Mary Daheim

  companied, no doubt, by a certain amount of tearing of

  hair. There were also empty springwater bottles and a

  few glasses, the latter apparently used for beverages

  foraged from the liquor supply in the washstand. The

  buffet had been raided, too, with the last of Joe’s bakery goods reduced to crumbs. Someone had removed

  several paperback books and left them scattered

  around the window seat. Magazines from the coffee

  table had been dumped on the carpet, and a stack of

  tapes and CDs were lying by the stereo.

  “Spoiled brats,” Judith muttered, picking up some

  of the litter before perusing the discarded sheets of yellow paper.

  “I’ll help,” Renie offered, already gathering up the

  books by the bay window.

  “These people must never wait on themselves,” Judith groused. “Frankly, I think it’d be awful to live like

  that. No wonder they get bored and take drugs. They’d

  be better off using a dust mop.”

  Renie had replaced the books and was now collecting the tapes and CDs. “Gosh, coz, some of these

  recordings are kind of old. Since when do you listen to

  heavy metal?”

  “I don’t,” Judith responded, brushing crumbs from

  the matching sofas. “Half of those tapes and CDs are

  Mike’s. He says he’s outgrown most of them, but when

  I asked why he doesn’t throw them out or give them

  away, he says someday he might want to hear them

  again. Of course he doesn’t have room to store them up

  at the cabin.” She sounded put-upon.

  “He might be able to sell them,” Renie said, glancing at some of the labels. “A few of them are real classics.” She held up a tape. “Remember the Demures?

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  They had one huge hit, ‘Come Play with Me’—it’s on

  this—and then the group fell out of sight.”

  “I vaguely remember it,” Judith replied. “Didn’t the

  lead singer have an unusual name?”

  Renie peered at the tape. “Ramona Pomona. I hope

  it wasn’t her real name. The two backup singers

  were . . . Hunh.” Her eyes widened.

  “What?” Judith inquired, pausing on her way to the

  kitchen with an armful of glasses and water bottles.

  Renie gave Judith a curious look. “The backups are

  Jolene DuBois and Winnie Lou Best. What do you

  make of that, coz?”

  “I’m not sure,” Judith said slowly. “It may be a coincidence. Is there a picture of the group?”