by Mary Daheim
“Ellie’s too young to have much of a past,” Judith
noted.
“Chips,” Renie declared, “is too good to be true.”
“Do writers care what people think of them?” Joe
remarked. “Dade, at least, gives off I-don’t-give-adamn signals.”
“All writers are weird,” Renie said. “That’s why
they’re so difficult to deal with.”
Judith was staring at Renie. “Why do you think
Chips is too good to be true?”
Renie shrugged. “Isn’t he always telling you those
endearing stories about his wholesome youth in the
Midwest? Mother and apple pie—literally.”
“It was chicken pot pie,” Judith said, but Renie’s
comment caused her to wonder. “Could we check him
out on the Internet?”
“Probably,” Renie replied.
He pointed to the circle that represented Dirk Farrar.
“The worst thing about Dirk—from an image standpoint—would be to find out he was gay. He’s Mr.
Macho on the screen.”
“Can’t we rule that out?” Joe inquired. “He was
banging Angela.”
“He could be a switch-hitter,” Bill responded.
“What about Ben Carmody?” Judith asked.
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233
“Ben’s a different case,” Bill said. “He usually plays
villains. Isn’t the role in the Utah picture his first
leading-man opportunity?”
“I guess,” Judith said, “though I don’t think all the
different parts he played in The Gasman were bad
guys.”
“That’s not the same,” Bill pointed out. “Ben Carmody has built his reputation as an actor, not as a star.
You see the difference?” Like any good professor, he
waited for the others to nod their understanding. “As
for Ellie, you may be right, Judith. She’s not only
young, but grew up in a prominent family. I suspect
that her past is relatively blameless.”
But Renie didn’t agree. “She may have run over a
cripple. She could have done drugs. She might have
gone off on a lark with some friends and held up a convenience store at gunpoint.”
Bill gave his wife a withering look. “She may have
been the homecoming queen and won a scholarship to
Yale. Let’s assume she’s in the clear. You’re just being
contrary.”
“True,” Renie admitted, not looking the least contrite. “Still, I think there must be something unsavory
about Chips. And where did he get a name like that
anyway? It’s got to be a nickname.”
“You may be right,” Bill said. “Midwesterners are
very good at hiding things they don’t want others to
see, especially their dark side.”
Bill ought to know, Judith thought, since he was a
Wisconsin native. “Who’ve we left out?” she asked.
“Winifred?”
“Yes.” Bill tapped the circle nearest to Bruno’s.
“What do we know about her background?”
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Mary Daheim
“I think she was a Demure,” Judith said, walking
over to the stereo, where she had slipped the tape behind a rack of CDs. She related Renie’s discovery
along with Winifred’s reaction. “I’m sure it’s her,” Judith concluded, “but she doesn’t want it known.”
“Ah,” said Bill.
“I remember them,” Joe put in. “They were a onehit wonder. Vivian used to sing their song when she did
her piano-bar stints. ‘Come Play with Me,’ wasn’t it?”
Judith gave her husband a censorious look. “I’m
sure she did.”
Joe waved a hand. “It was her job. At least I had a
spouse who worked. Sometimes.”
“She only worked because she got free drinks,” Judith asserted.
“Truce!” Renie shouted, holding up both arms like
a football official signaling a touchdown. “No fighting,
no biting. Let’s go back to Winifred.”
Joe calmed down first. “So Winifred’s ashamed of
being a Demure? Why?”
“Because,” Judith suggested, still bristling a bit,
“they only had one big hit?”
“Another person deeply affected by failure,” Bill
murmured. He used the purple pen to make some
marks by Winifred’s circle. “Yet,” he continued, making a squiggle with the orange pen, “she rebounded to
become Bruno’s assistant, a position of great power.
So why,” he concluded, adding a chartreuse slash,
“wouldn’t Winifred be able to laugh off her early experience in the music world?”
“Bill,” Renie inquired, “have you any idea what all
those marks mean?”
“Of course.” With an expectant expression, he gazed
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235
at the others as if waiting for the brightest student to
give the correct answer. “Well?”
“Because,” Judith said slowly, “there was something
shameful about that experience.”
Bill nodded approval. “There has to be. What could
it have been?”
“Guesswork,” Joe said in a disgusted voice. “That’s
all we can do is guess. That’s not a professional approach in law enforcement.”
“We don’t have anything else,” Renie pointed out.
With a hopeful expression, Judith turned to Renie.
“You couldn’t find it on the Internet?”
“I doubt it, coz,” Renie said.
“Then there has to be another way,” Judith declared,
getting up from the sofa and heading out of the room.
“Hey,” Renie called after her cousin, “what are you
going to do?”
Judith turned just before she reached the entry hall.
“I’m about to crash the dinner party. Anybody care to
join me?”
“Hey,” Bill said sharply, “I’m not finished yet.”
“Later,” Judith shot back. “I feel useless. I’m frustrated. I’m getting out of here.”
“Don’t act like a moron, Jude-girl,” Joe said with a
scowl. “You can’t go barging in on those people like that.”
“Look,” Judith said, almost stamping her foot but
afraid to, lest she jar her artificial hip, “we’re running
out of time. The guests may be gone by tomorrow.
You’re not the one who worked your tail off to build
this B&B. Do—or don’t do—what you want, but I’m
not sitting around waiting for a bunch of L.A. lawyers
to fleece us.” She turned on her heel and headed for the
back hallway to get her jacket.
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Mary Daheim
“Wait for me!” Renie cried, hurrying after Judith.
“Our car’s blocking the driveway. I’m coming with you.”
Judith waited, though it took only seconds until her
cousin was in the Joneses’ Toyota Camry. A moment
later Renie was reversing out into the foggy cul-de-sac.
“It’s just as well to take your car,” Judith said, fastening her seat belt. “It’s newer than my Subaru.
Maybe the parking attendants at Capri’s won’t act so
snooty.”
“They aren’t as snooty as they used to be,” Renie
replied, heading onto Heraldsgate Avenue. The fog had
settled in over the hill, making it difficul
t to see more
than twenty feet ahead. Though Renie had a reputation—which she claimed was unearned—for driving
too fast and erratically, she crept along the thoroughfare. “With all the new money in this town,” she said,
“especially among the younger set, it’s hard to tell a
millionaire from a millworker.”
Capri’s was located on the east side of the hill,
closer to Renie’s house than to the B&B. The cousins
climbed Heraldsgate Avenue to the commercial district
on the flat, then kept going north into a sloping residential neighborhood. They turned right in the direction of the restaurant, but within four blocks, Renie
took a left.
“Hey!” Judith cried. “What are we doing?”
“You do nothing,” Renie said. “I change clothes. I
can’t go into Capri’s wearing this Loyola University
sweatshirt and these black pants. They have a hole in
them, in case you haven’t noticed, which maybe you
haven’t because I’m wearing black underwear.”
“Good grief.” Judith held her head. “Okay, but don’t
take long.”
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237
Sitting in the car, she studied her own attire. The
green wool slacks matched the green cable-knit turtleneck. Her shoes were fairly new, having been purchased at Nordquist’s annual women’s sale. She
supposed she could pass at Capri’s for a real customer.
As she continued to wait, Judith’s mind wandered
back to Bill’s chart. Someone was missing. Who, besides the Alien Suspect? The answer came to mind almost immediately. Vito Patricelli wasn’t represented
among Bruno’s satellites. But it appeared that he
hadn’t arrived in the city until this morning. Was that
true? Judith used her cell phone to dial one of the airlines that served passengers from L.A.
“We have no one named Patricelli on our manifests
in the last three days,” the pert voice said.
Judith tried the other connecting carriers and got the
same negative result. Maybe Vito had flown north by
private plane.
She was about to call Boring Field, where many of
the smaller aircraft landed, when Renie reappeared
wearing a great deal of brown suede, including her
pants, jacket, ankle boots, and handbag. She also wore
a brown cashmere sweater.
“How many animals had to die to clothe you in that
outfit?” Judith inquired as Renie slid into the driver’s seat.
“A lot of cows with really rotten dispositions,”
Renie replied, starting the car. “None of the children
were home. They must have gone a-wooing.”
“Very likely,” Judith agreed as they headed back up
the hill to the turnoff for Capri’s. “Really, I’m anxious
to meet the future in-laws.”
“So am I,” Renie said darkly, “even though I allegedly have already done so.”
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Mary Daheim
“Say,” Judith said, “did you get a chance to look at
the material you got off the Internet about The Gasman
and its origins?”
“Not yet,” Renie replied, slowing at a six-way stop
and peering into the fog to see if there were any vehicles coming from the other directions. “It looks as if it
came out to at least twenty pages. That includes artwork, of course.”
“Who puts those sites together?”
“This one may have been done by the studio,” Renie
said, curving around in front of the restaurant and
pulling into the driveway. “Some of the sites are created by fans.”
A blemish-free teenager with corn-tassel-colored
hair and a big smile greeted the cousins.
“Which private party will you be joining?” he asked
as Renie stepped out of the Camry. “That is,” he added
with an ingenuous expression, “on Sundays we’re not
open to regular customers.”
“How many parties are there?” Renie inquired as
Judith joined her under the porte cochere.
“Two,” the youth replied with a discreet wink. “The
Smith and the Jones parties.”
Renie darted a glance at Judith. “I’m Mrs. Jones,”
Renie said, winking back.
“Ah.” The young man made a flourish that was almost a bow. “This way, please. Derek will take care of
your car.” He nodded at a second fresh-faced adolescent who had been standing by the door.
“So which is which?” Judith murmured as they
passed across the flagstone flooring, where they were
met by a maître d’ so handsome that he could have
given Dirk Farrar a run for his money.
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239
“We’ve got a fifty-fifty chance of getting the right
party,” Renie said out of the side of her mouth. “Serena
Jones here,” she informed the maître d’ in her normal
voice.
“I’m Charles,” the maître d’ informed the cousins.
His smile seemed to assure them that he was their new
best friend. Charles led the way up a winding black
iron staircase, then turned right to face a paneled mahogany door. With a dazzling smile and a flourish that
was indeed a bow, he opened the door.
“Your party, Mrs. Jones,” he said.
Renie rocked on the heels of her brown suede boots.
This was definitely the Jones party. All three of Renie
and Bill’s offspring sat at a table for at least a dozen
other people, some of whom looked vaguely familiar.
“Hi, Mom,” Tom said in greeting. “We thought
you’d never get here. Where’s Pop?”
FIFTEEN
“WHAT IS THIS?” Renie demanded when the maître d’
had left and she regained her equilibrium. “What do
you mean, ‘Where’s Pop’?”
“Didn’t you get our note?” Anne said with an innocent look on her pretty face.
“What note?” Renie all but shouted. Then, realizing that she must be in the presence of her future inlaws, she tried to smile. “No. Where was it?”
Anne turned to Tony, who was seated four places
down the table. “Where did you put the note, Big T?”
Tony’s chiseled features were vague. “I thought
Tom put it up by the hall closet.”
“Not me,” Tom said with a shake of his curly dark
head. “You wrote it, Annie-Bannany. What’d you do
with it?”
“I didn’t write it,” Anne retorted. “I thought—”
“Hold it!” Renie cried, this time unable to keep
her voice down. But she managed a smile for her bewildered audience. “Your father and I never saw a
note. We haven’t been home since early this afternoon. How about introducing your poor old mother
and your just-as-poor-and-almost-as-old aunt to
these other folks?”
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241
Anne and Tony both gazed at Tom as they always
did when they expected the eldest of their lot to take
responsibility. The others included a fair-haired young
man who was growing something fuzzy that looked
like it might become a goatee, a raven-haired young
woman who looked as if she could be Native American, a red-headed girl who looked faintly ethereal, and
a half-dozen middle-aged adults who looked as if they
&
nbsp; wished they were somewhere else. The whole group
stared at Renie.
“We told you and Pop about the dinner tonight,”
Tom said, looking wounded. “Remember, it was Friday, and you mentioned having everybody over at our
house. But we said we thought it’d be better to go out.
You and Pop didn’t say anything, so we assumed it was
all set.”
“Probably,” Renie muttered to Judith, “they were all
talking at once—and so loud—that we couldn’t hear
them.”
“What’s that, Mom?” Tony inquired.
“I said I guess we goofed.” Renie looked unusually
subdued. “I’ll call Pop and get him over here.”
“He won’t answer the phone,” Anne warned.
“He’s not home,” Renie said, delving into her brown
suede purse for her cell phone.
Judith whispered into Renie’s ear. “I’m out of here.”
“Coz!” Renie cried as she hit the wrong button,
causing the phone to emit a sharp squawk.
“Sorry,” Judith apologized. “I have a job to do.”
She scooted out of the room.
The only similar door was on her left. The other
doors along the corridor were for rest rooms, storage,
and other restaurant facilities. Grasping the mahogany
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Mary Daheim
door’s brass lever, Judith took a deep breath. Now that
her prey were at hand, she didn’t know what to do. Barging in, as Joe had cautioned, wasn’t a good idea. The
door was too thick to allow her to overhear what was
going on in the private dining room. Worse yet, the
servers were all young men wearing tuxedos. A wild idea
involving the impersonation of a waitress had struck her
earlier. Not only was it far-fetched, it was impossible.
At that moment, one of the waiters appeared at the
top of the stairs carrying a jeroboam of champagne.
Swiftly, Judith fished into her purse, searching for a
piece of paper.
“Young man,” she said, blocking the door, “could
you deliver a message to the Smith party? I’m with the
Joneses, in the other private dining room.”
The waiter, who was young, Asian, and very goodlooking, was too well trained to show surprise.
“To whom shall I give the message?” he asked.
Having found a small notebook, Judith scribbled out
a half-dozen words. “Morris Mayne,” she said. “Tell
him it’s urgent. Thank you.”
The waiter disappeared inside. Judith wondered if