Silver Scream : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

by Mary Daheim

  “Yes,” Renie replied, “but it’s small and not very

  good. The girls all have their mouths open—presumably singing—and are waving their arms.”

  Judith moved next to Renie and looked over her

  cousin’s shoulder. “You’re right. Three dark-skinned

  girls with bouffant black hair. Let’s see the liner notes.”

  “If you can believe them,” Renie cautioned.

  But the information was brief and not very enlightening. “It says,” Judith read after taking the small

  folder from Renie, “that Ramona, Jolene, and Winnie

  Lou grew up together in Compton, California, and

  started singing in their high-school glee club before

  forming their own group. They got their first big break

  when they were discovered at a high-school dance in

  Glendale. The trio, and I’m quoting now, toured for

  two years as the opening act for several of the biggest

  names in the business before becoming headliners in

  1978. This is their debut album, featuring the red-hot

  single . . . et cetera.” Judith examined the notes closely.

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  “This is copyright 1979. Mike would have been

  twelve. How old do you figure Winifred is now?”

  Renie screwed up her face. “It’s hard to tell. Fortyish? She would have been in her late teens back then.

  But maybe it’s not her.”

  “And if it is,” Judith noted as she slipped the liner

  notes back inside the plastic tape container, “so what?”

  “So how do you go from being Ramona Pomona’s

  backup with one hit single to Bruno Zepf’s assistant?”

  Renie mused.

  “Over twenty years,” Judith said. “A lot of things

  can happen in that time, especially in a place like Hollywood.”

  “There’s one way to find out,” Renie said.

  “How?”

  “We could ask Winifred.”

  “Oh.” Judith felt almost disappointed. “We could at

  that. I’ll do it now, before they leave for dinner.”

  After depositing the dirty glasses and garbage in the

  kitchen, she headed up the main staircase for the second floor. Winifred was in Room One just off the landing.

  A double rap on the door brought an immediate response. Judith was relieved; it seemed as if every time

  she knocked on a door, an anxiety attack ensued.

  “What is it?” Winifred asked in an irritable tone.

  “I wanted to show you something,” Judith said,

  clasping the tape in her hand. “It’ll take just a moment.”

  Warily, Winifred opened the door a scant four

  inches. She was wearing her dark blue bathrobe and

  her face was covered with cream. “What is it?” she repeated.

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  Judith wore her most ingratiating expression. “I

  think my son may be a fan of yours. Or at least he was

  several years ago.” She opened her hand to reveal the

  tape. “Is this you?”

  Winifred recoiled. “Oh, my God! Where did you get

  that?”

  “It was in our collection,” Judith replied equably.

  “Mike—my son—left some of his belongings here

  with us.”

  “You’re lying.” The astonishment on Winifred’s

  face had been superseded by a steely-eyed look.

  “Where did you really get that?”

  “I told you,” Judith persisted, “in with our other

  recordings in the living room.”

  “That’s impossible. This tape’s a demo. It was never

  released.” Without opening the door further, Winifred’s

  slim arm reached out to grab the tape.

  But Judith pulled her hand back. “I’m sorry. I don’t

  understand. Is this you on the tape? Is that why you’re

  upset?”

  But Winifred’s lips clamped shut as she slammed

  the door in Judith’s face.

  THIRTEEN

  JUDITH STOOD ROOTED To the spot, staring at the tape

  in her hand. She jumped when Chips Madigan came

  into the hall, apparently heading for the bathroom

  between Rooms Three and Four.

  “Whoa!” he called, a bath towel slung over the

  terrycloth robe that reached to his knees. “Sorry.

  Did I scare you?”

  “Startled is more like it,” Judith said with a weak

  smile. “I was lost in thought.”

  Ever the director looking for the perfect shot,

  Chips half knelt to frame Judith’s stance by

  Winifred’s room. “ ‘Shaken innkeeper, anxious about

  guest, medium shot.’ ” He stood up and moved

  nearer. “ ‘Close-up of innkeeper, looking weary and

  somewhat distraught.’ How am I doing?”

  “Better than I am,” Judith answered, keeping her

  voice down. “How much do you know about

  Winifred’s background?”

  Chips fingered the towel. “Not much. I mean,

  she’s been with Bruno a long time. As far as I

  know, she started working for him nine, ten years

  ago, after he made his first hit, No Prunes for Pru-

  dence. That was the small-budget independent pic- SILVER SCREAM

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  ture that won a film-festival prize at PAW in Iowa

  City.”

  Judith was puzzled. “PAW?”

  Chips nodded. “It’s called THAW nowadays. I’m

  not sure what it stands for.”

  Judith hesitated before posing another question.

  Judging from his youthful appearance, she assumed he

  was in the same thirty-to thirty-five age group as

  Mike. “Do you remember the Demures?” she asked,

  holding out the tape.

  Chips looked bemused. “Yes . . . yes, I do. They had

  a big hit . . . What was it called?”

  “ ‘Come Play with Me,’ ” Judith responded. “It’s on

  this tape.”

  “Right.” The director beamed at Judith. “It was a

  single, really popular the year I graduated from high

  school. We wanted to play it at our senior prom, but the

  principal wouldn’t let us. It was kind of raunchy for

  those days. I grew up in a typical Midwestern town,

  sort of straitlaced. You know what they say—change

  starts on the coasts, and it takes a long time to get to

  the middle.”

  Judith smiled back. “One of the singers was named

  Winnie Lou Best. Do you think that’s a coincidence?”

  “Winnie Lou . . .” Chips repeated, then slapped a

  hand to his head. “You mean as in Winifred Best?”

  Judith nodded. “I showed her this tape and she

  pitched a small fit. Why would she do that?”

  “Golly,” Chips said, “I’ve no idea. Maybe she’s embarrassed.”

  The explanation was so simple that it made sense.

  “That’s possible,” Judith allowed, though a snippet of

  doubt remained. Before Chips could resume his walk

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  to the bathroom, she held up a hand. “Quick question.

  Why is there so much controversy over the way The

  Gasman was filmed?”

  “You mean the picture’s length?” Chips responded.

  “No, not exactly,” Judith said. “I understand there

  were differing opinions about the story itself.” Maybe

  that was more to the p
oint. “That the result wasn’t true

  to the original book.”

  Chips laughed. “You’d better ask Dade about that.

  Of course, he’ll tell you I didn’t direct the picture right.

  The fact is, I directed it the way Bruno wanted. Of

  course I wouldn’t admit that publicly, but you’re not in

  the business.”

  “In other words,” Judith said, “Bruno dictated how

  you should direct?”

  Chips shrugged. “It was his picture.”

  “You felt he knew what he was doing?”

  A flush crept over Chips’s freckled face as he began

  inching his way toward the bathroom. “I admit, I

  hadn’t worked with him before, but until I signed on

  for The Gasman, he hadn’t missed a beat. Of course,

  he directed his first six films himself. It was only for

  the last two—including The Gasman—that he’d hired

  another director. I had reason to trust him. All his films

  had been successful.”

  Through the window over the landing, Judith could

  see the fog swirling around the house. It was going to

  be a gloomy, damp night for the trick-or-treaters.

  “What went wrong with this movie?” she asked,

  aware that Chips was trying to escape.

  “Well . . .” He looked pained. He also looked around

  the hallway. In the process, he noticed the fog through

  the window. “Wow,” he said softly. “Real fog. We

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  didn’t have that in the Midwest, where I was raised. In

  L.A., we have only smog, which doesn’t create this

  kind of atmosphere. Would you mind moving to your

  left about six inches?”

  “What? Oh, sure.” Judith sidestepped a half foot.

  “ ‘Troubled innkeeper,’ ” Chips murmured, framing

  yet another shot with his fingers. “Fog in background

  symbolizes her ambiguous thoughts, as well as impending danger. I like this very much.”

  “About what went wrong,” Judith said as Chips

  scooted around in a crouching position, seeking different angles. “Have you any idea what happened?”

  “The length, for one thing,” he replied, one eye

  closed as he peered through his imaginary lens. “Ah!

  That’s perfect!” He stood up. “The ambitiousness of

  the project. The concept itself. The original material.

  The budget overrun.”

  “In other words,” Judith put in, “everything?”

  Chips gulped. “Sort of.”

  “I see,” she said. “But you couldn’t tell that from the

  start?”

  “You wouldn’t believe how Bruno could talk up an

  idea.” Chips grimaced. “That’s a talent in itself. After

  five minutes with him, you’d think he was going to

  make the next Gone With the Wind.” He bobbed his

  head as a door shut somewhere on the second floor.

  “Excuse me, I’ve got to take a quick shower before we

  go to dinner.”

  Dade Costello shambled down the narrow corridor

  that separated Room One from Rooms Two and Three.

  When he saw Judith, he merely nodded and kept

  going. He was halfway down the stairs before she

  called to him.

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  “Mr. Costello,” she said, hurrying down the top

  flight and realizing that her hips were aching from all

  her recent exertions, “may I ask you a question about

  my mother?”

  Dade turned to look over his shoulder. “Your

  mother? Oh, Mrs. Grover. Sure.” He continued on

  down the stairs. “I was just going out for some fresh air

  before we took off to dinner.”

  “It’s pretty foggy out there,” Judith said when she

  reached the main floor. She pointed to Dade’s leather

  vest, which he wore over a plaid shirt. “You should

  wear a heavier jacket.”

  “Think so?” He sounded dubious. “I’m not used to

  all this damp. Now what’s this about your mother?”

  “Are you really encouraging her to write her life

  story?”

  “Sure,” Dade replied, leaning one arm on the

  balustrade and propping a booted foot up on the umbrella stand. “Why not? She seemed to like the idea.”

  “She would,” Judith murmured. “You aren’t seriously thinking of buying it from her, are you?”

  “I’m a writer,” Dade said. “I don’t buy scripts, I sell

  them.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Judith.

  Dade shrugged his wide shoulders. “I’m interested

  in ideas. Your mother sounds as if she’s had a colorful

  life.” His casual demeanor evaporated, replaced by

  weariness. “Besides, I could use some good ideas

  about now. I feel tapped out.”

  Judith was mystified. “You mean—you’d buy ideas

  from her?”

  “Not exactly,” he replied, eyeing the door as if he

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  were anxious to make his getaway. “It gets real complicated.”

  Judith let the matter drop. She was more interested

  in The Gasman script than in her mother’s life story.

  “Was it so complicated with the book that The Gasman

  was based on? I mean, that was a very old book, wasn’t

  it? Copyright may have expired.”

  “It had,” Dade said without much interest. “I think.

  Anyway, whoever wrote it had been dead for years.”

  “How did Bruno come by the book? That is,” she

  went on, not wanting to admit she’d been snooping in

  the guest rooms, “I used to be a librarian, and I’ve

  never heard of it. I’m assuming it was fairly obscure.”

  “It was at that,” Dade drawled with a gleam in his

  eye. “I heard that one of Bruno’s ancestors had written

  it. In a nutshell, sophomoric and dull. Carp was the author’s name, as I recollect.”

  “C. Douglas Carp,” Judith said as the name on the

  title page sprang into her mind’s eye. “Was it his

  grandfather or an uncle?”

  Dade shrugged again. “I don’t really know. There

  was a family tie, though. It was more textbook than

  novel, almost impossible to use as the basis for a script.

  Too much fact and not enough fiction. And too damned

  much territory to cover. I struggled for almost a year to

  get just the outline done.”

  “I gather you had your differences with Chips Madigan over the script,” Judith said, trying to sound

  matter-of-fact.

  “Chips!” Dade growled, making a slashing motion

  with one hand. “That punk. He and Bruno screwed up

  my script every which way. They—Bruno speaking for

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  both of them—insisted I hadn’t kept to the spirit of the

  book. Bull. There was no spirit. It was just a bunch of

  events strung together by a weak narrative. For all I

  know, old Carp may have paid to get it published. It

  was garbage, all nine hundred pages of it.” He paused

  to pull out a pocket watch from inside his vest. “Hey,

  it’s after five. I’d better get going. I think the limo’s

  coming a little after six.” He ambled to the front door.

  “Psst!” It was Renie,
lurking behind the archway

  that divided the entry hall and the living room.

  “Where’ve you been? I pieced the statement together.”

  “You did?” Judith hurried to join her cousin. “How

  is it?”

  “Stilted,” Renie said, flapping a half-dozen sheets of

  yellow paper at Judith. “It’s the kind of corporate copy

  that makes me want to shoot all writers and fill up

  space with graphic designs instead.”

  Judith held out her hand. “Let me see.”

  “No,” Renie retorted, “don’t read this hodgepodge.

  I’ve written it out in what’s probably close to the final

  draft.” She held up the last sheet and began to read

  what she’d patched together: “In the wake of producer

  Bruno Zepf ’s tragic passing last night, Paradox Stu-

  dios launched an investigation to determine the cause

  of death. It is generally felt by studio executives and

  Zepf ’s close associates that The Gasman premiere’s

  apparent inadequacies—some choice of words,” she

  interposed before continuing, “may have caused the

  producer to die of a broken heart. According to Zepf ’s

  agent, Eugenia Fleming, ‘Bruno set the bar extremely

  high, not only for himself, but for others in the indus-

  try. The Gasman was a project he had nurtured for

  years, with roots going back to his youth. Having the

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  picture receive such harsh criticism at its premiere

  may have been too much for him. He wasn’t used to

  negative reactions, and he had worked himself into ex-

  haustion. During the making of the film, he had to be

  hospitalized for a lengthy period. Obviously, his health

  was seriously affected. Bruno couldn’t tolerate a lack

  of excellence, especially in himself.’ End of quote,”

  said Renie.

  “That’s it?” Judith inquired, sitting on the arm of the

  sofa.

  “No,” Renie responded. “That’s the end of what Eugenia said. There’s more, but not much. In fact, there

  were about three concluding statements they might

  have used. The gist was that Bruno should be remembered for his many successes, rather than for The Gas-

  man’ s flop.”

  Judith didn’t respond immediately. When she did,

  her words didn’t pertain to failure or success. “Do you

  suppose Bruno really had health problems?”

  Renie hesitated before answering. She flipped

  through the discarded pages, then tapped her finger on