Silver Scream : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

by Mary Daheim

  “I’m sure the poor reception The Gasman got at the

  premiere upset Dirk, too.”

  “I never read movie reviews,” Charles said, then

  turned as the valet with the corn-colored hair came into

  the restaurant, looking worried. “What is it, Josh?” the

  maître d’ inquired.

  “There’s a couple out in the parking lot who insist

  they want to eat here,” Josh said. “They won’t take no

  for an answer. I think you’d better talk to them.”

  “Excuse me,” Charles said to Judith. “This happens

  almost every Sunday when we’re closed to regular diners. In fact, this is the second time an insistent couple

  has shown up this evening. I won’t be long.”

  Judith got up and strolled over to the big windows.

  It was dark and the fog was thick. She couldn’t see any

  lights, not even directly below the restaurant, which

  was located about halfway up Heraldsgate Hill. When

  she turned around again, she saw Charles leading a

  middle-aged couple inside and up the winding staircase. The man was big, bald, and bearlike; the woman

  was small, dark, and of Asian descent. Apparently,

  they had an entrée to one of the private parties upstairs,

  and Judith didn’t think they were keeping up with the

  Joneses.

  She could almost smell the aroma of Wienie Wizards wafting behind the couple as they disappeared

  onto the second floor.

  SIXTEEN

  JUDITH WANTED VERY much to see Heathcliffe and

  Amy Lee MacDermott up close. She wasn’t sure

  why, but it seemed important to talk to them. Unfortunately, she couldn’t think of an excuse to get

  past the Smith party’s mahogany door.

  For several moments Judith stared down at the

  smooth black marble bar, where she could see her

  reflection. It was distorted by the slight grain, making her look old, tired, and ugly. A crone, she

  thought, and was disheartened.

  What was she doing at Capri’s, seeking clues to a

  murder that might not be a murder? Was she bloodthirsty, as Renie had remarked? Surely possession

  of material goods wasn’t so important that it made

  her wish that one person had killed another. No, that

  wasn’t the real reason she preferred murder over

  more mundane deaths. So why was she beating herself up so badly? Slowly, she turned to the windows

  again. There was nothing to see. The night was as

  dark and blank as her brain.

  Yet Judith knew that if the fog suddenly lifted,

  the city’s lights would glitter like stars on a clear

  winter’s eve. The lakes and the mountains were

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  there, if only she could see them. So were the answers

  to the riddle that was Bruno’s death. Judith always had

  to know. If only the fog would lift from her brain, she

  could find the truth.

  Charles hadn’t come down from the second floor.

  There was still no sign of the waiters. Judith was curious. The guests must be getting served. How was the

  food coming from the kitchen, if not via the iron staircase?

  Hurriedly, she crossed the restaurant to the far side,

  where she saw a plain brown door. Turning the knob,

  she discovered a narrow hallway on her left that presumably led to the kitchen. On her right was a staircase. Judith ascended to another plain door and opened

  it. She came out into another narrow hall, where she

  saw two identical doors.

  The first one led into the main corridor, but judging

  from her position in the restaurant, the second door

  had to go into the Smith party’s private dining room. In

  the shadows just beyond the door was a busing area.

  On tiptoes, she approached the second door and cautiously opened it just a crack.

  “. . . lose my investment” were the first words she

  managed to hear, and they were spoken by a nasal male

  voice she didn’t recognize. Heathcliffe MacDermott,

  alias the Wienie Wizard? Judith peered through the

  sliver of open doorway. All she could see was Morris

  Mayne with his head down on the table and Dade

  Costello’s blunt profile.

  “Not necessarily,” said a smooth voice that Judith

  identified as belonging to Vito Patricelli. “Paradox

  may not shelve the picture. They have an investment,

  too, even larger than yours, Mr. MacDermott.”

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  “Idiots,” snapped a waspish female voice that didn’t

  sound like Winifred, Ellie, or Eugenia. “Idiots,” the

  woman repeated. Judith figured the speaker had to be

  Mrs. MacDermott.

  “I don’t get it,” declared Heathcliffe MacDermott.

  “The movie’s a dud. If I made wienies like Zepf made

  movies, I’d be wearing a paper hat and peddling hot

  dogs at minor league baseball games instead of running a billion-dollar empire.”

  “The studio can make changes,” Vito said, his voice

  unperturbed. “They’ll have free rein—under the circumstances.”

  “You beast,” murmured Winifred. “How can you

  say such things when Bruno has been dead less than

  twenty-four hours?” Though Judith couldn’t see her, it

  sounded as if Winifred was close to the service door.

  “What kind of changes?” Ellie asked, not quite as

  pert as usual.

  “Cutting, for one thing,” Vito replied. “No one can

  argue that the picture should be shortened by at least

  an hour.”

  “Are you saying,” Heathcliffe asked in a slightly

  confused voice, “that Paradox can do whatever it wants

  now that Bruno Zepf is dead?”

  “Exactly,” Vito responded. “The studio has the

  major chunk of money invested in the picture. They

  can do as they please.”

  Except for the creak of chairs and shuffling of

  limbs, a silence fell over the room. Judith glanced at

  the door to the stairs to make sure the coast was

  clear. As far as she could tell, no one seemed to be

  eating. Perhaps the group had finished its most recent course.

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  “What about Utah?” the unfamiliar female voice demanded. “What about my script?”

  Judith heard Dade Costello snort.

  Vito waited a moment to reply. “Your script?”

  “All the Way to Utah,” Amy Lee MacDermott retorted with anger. “Bruno bought it, and it’s supposed

  to star darling Ellie.”

  “I can’t answer that right now,” Vito said, smooth as

  ever. “There hasn’t been time for anyone to make that

  decision.”

  “Who makes it?” Amy Lee’s voice had grown strident.

  “Bruno’s production company,” Vito replied.

  “Isn’t that a weird setup?” Ben Carmody put in.

  The actor sounded uncharacteristically harsh. “Bruno

  had no second in command. He thought he was immortal.”

  “That’s not true,” Winifred said in a strong, stiff

  voice. “If anything happened to Bruno, I was to take

  over. I already had, when he was in . . . the hospital.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” Ben’s voice brightened. “Then I

  guess any big decisions would be up to you
, Win.”

  “Not necessarily,” Vito interjected. “I suspect that

  Winifred’s powers are limited to such situations as

  Bruno being temporarily out of the picture. So to

  speak.” No one laughed except Dirk Farrar, and the

  sound wasn’t pleasant. “There are two other factors involved, one of which is the studio’s agreement to put

  money into All the Way to Utah. But now that Bruno is

  dead—let’s not mince words—Paradox would be free

  to pull out.”

  “They wouldn’t dare!” Amy Lee cried. “They made

  a commitment!”

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  “It’s not legally binding when the producer dies,”

  Vito asserted. “But the other factor involves the heirs

  to Bruno’s estate. Winifred, do you know if he made a

  will?”

  “Why . . .” Winifred’s voice sounded faint. “No,”

  she went on slowly, “I don’t believe he did.”

  “It figures,” Dirk snarled. “From A to Zepf. Bruno

  thought he was the Alpha and the Omega, with no end

  in sight.”

  “Stop that!” Winifred shouted. “You’re angry because you and Bruno got into a big fight and Ben

  ended up with the leading role in the Utah picture.”

  “Let’s stop wrangling and back up here,” Heathcliffe broke in, his voice sounding like that of a man

  obviously used to exercising authority. “What’s this

  other factor, Mr. L.A. Lawyer?”

  Vito cleared his throat. “That was what I was getting

  at when I inquired about a will. Since Bruno had no

  wife, his entire estate goes to his two children.”

  “His children?” Amy Lee and Ellie Linn shrieked in

  unison.

  “That’s ridiculous,” the mother scoffed.

  “That’s stupid,” the daughter declared. “Those kids

  aren’t as old as I am!”

  “How old?” Amy Lee demanded.

  “Greta was twenty in June,” Winifred said quietly.

  “Greg just turned eighteen a month ago.”

  “The son’s name is Greg?” Ellie’s voice had taken

  on a lighter note.

  “Yes,” Winifred replied. “After Gregory Peck. Greta

  was named for Garbo.”

  “Hmm.” There was a faint simper from Ellie.

  Judith saw Dirk Farrar’s back at the door. She

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  tensed, wondering if he might be about to leave the

  room.

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass about that Utah crap,” he

  said. “All I want to know is when the hell we can get

  out of this fog bank and go back to L.A.”

  “The matter should be resolved by tomorrow,” Vito

  responded.

  “It better be,” Dirk shot back. “This place sucks

  scissors.” His back moved away from the door. Apparently, he’d gotten up only to stretch his legs.

  “Mr. Farquhar,” Amy Lee said sternly, “don’t speak

  so nastily of my Utah script. It’s going to be a blockbuster. After all,” she added with a sneer in her voice,

  “you were slated to star in it until you behaved so

  badly toward Mr. Zepf.”

  “The name’s Farrar,” Dirk shouted, “as you

  damned well know! And I’ll tell you something else,”

  he continued, not as loud, but just as intense, “I didn’t

  really give a damn when Bruno canned me. I’d put up

  with enough crap from him with The Gasman and

  that lousy script he’d taken from Crappy Pappy

  Carp’s book.”

  “Don’t be so disrespectful!” Winifred exclaimed in

  dismay. “You’re callous, Dirk. Everybody knows how

  self-centered you are, even more so than most actors. I

  suppose you intend to leave Angela lying in the hospital while you head back to Los Angeles.”

  “It’s her own damned fault she’s there in the first

  place,” Dirk retorted. “I begged her to go into rehab.

  Besides, I’m not a doctor. What good can I do her

  hanging around the hospital?”

  Judith was so caught up in the heated drama just a

  few inches away that she never heard the approaching

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  footsteps. It was the tap on her shoulder that made her

  jump and let out a stifled cry.

  I’m done for, she thought. They’ll throw me out in

  the street. They might arrest me. They might ban me

  from Capri’s forever. They might put my picture up by

  the desk with a slash through it. “No Judith McMonigle

  Flynn.” With considerable trepidation, she turned

  around to confront the enemy.

  “Learn anything?” whispered Renie.

  “Coz!” A sudden silence had descended over the

  dining room. Judith was certain that the contentious

  crew had heard a suspicious noise. She gently shut the

  door. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for the busing station,” Renie replied, spying her goal behind Judith. “We need more napkins.

  You know how our kids eat. The tablecloth looks like

  an army field hospital.”

  “You’re no slouch yourself,” Judith retorted.

  “How’s the dinner going?”

  Renie made a doleful face. “Could these people be

  less fun? The parents are like mannequins. Thank God

  our kids have some animation. They’re never afraid to

  speak out.”

  “Coz,” Judith said, keeping an eye on the service

  door, “your family isn’t merely outspoken, you’re all

  very loud. Even Bill can bellow when aroused. The future in-laws are probably cowed.”

  Renie shot her a disdainful glance. “Okay, so we’ve

  got pep. But these people hardly eat a thing. The fiancé

  and fiancées are a little livelier. Heather is very

  smart—she’s Tom’s girl—and Cathleen—Tony’s

  beloved—seems genuinely kind. As for Odo, he laughs

  at everything Bill says, which is good.”

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  “Odo?” Judith responded. “His name is really

  Odo?”

  “Yes,” Renie replied, looking very serious. “You

  know the original Odo. Bishop Odo became pope just

  in time to launch the First Crusade.”

  Judith shook her head. “Funny, the kid didn’t look

  militant. Or religious.”

  “He’s not,” Renie said. “At least as far as I can tell.

  I just wish the parents had more zip. They never

  flinched when our kids got into a shouting match. They

  didn’t bat an eye when Tom threw one of Tony’s socks

  in the consommé. And you know how Bill belches

  sometimes when he eats—well, the rest of them sat

  like statues when he practically blew up after taking a

  bite of jalapeño pepper by mistake.” Renie shook herself. “I babble. What are you doing here? Or should I

  guess?” She nodded in the direction of the door behind

  Judith.

  “It’s been interesting,” Judith said, edging around

  the corner to the hallway, “but I’m pushing my luck.

  I’ve been eavesdropping for over five minutes, and the

  waiters are bound to reappear.”

  “Care to join us?” Renie asked.

  Judith grimaced. “I think I should go home. Mother

&
nbsp; must be famished. I’ll call a cab.”

  “You don’t have to,” Renie said, piling linen napkins over her arm. “Bill drove your Subaru to Capri’s.

  Just get the keys from the valet.”

  “Do I need the parking ticket?” Judith asked.

  Renie shook her head as they approached the top

  of the winding staircase. “Tell them you’re Mrs.

  Jones. And by the way,” she said with a quizzical expression, “is there anything I should know about what

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  you discovered while you were lurking outside that

  door?”

  “Not now,” Judith said, “but I’ve got quite a bit of

  information to sort out. Maybe I’ll have made some

  sense of it by the time I talk to you later this evening.”

  “Sounds good,” Renie said, heading for the private

  dining room. “Time to rejoin the stuffed animals.”

  Judith smiled at her cousin. But she was thinking

  less about the stuffed animals at the Joneses’ table than

  about the wild ones at the Smiths’.

  She got as far as a block away from Capri’s when

  she had another, possibly impractical idea. Instead of

  going up Heraldsgate Hill, she took a left and swung

  back onto the main thoroughfare through the city. Just

  before reaching downtown, Judith took another left

  and pointed the Subaru toward the hospital district. In

  less than ten minutes, she was in the parking garage of

  Norway General.

  Angela La Belle would no doubt be listed under an

  assumed name. Judith knew she’d have to think of a

  really good fib to tell the person behind the reception

  desk. Her role as Angela’s innkeeper probably

  wouldn’t cut any ice with the staff.

  Inside the main doors, she checked the directory.

  Not ICU, Judith figured. Angela had been taken to the

  hospital several hours ago and was reportedly on the

  mend. She’d be in a private ward, of course. But under

  what medical heading? Not yet ready to show her

  hand, Judith approached the main desk and asked

  where emergency patients were taken after they were

  out of danger.

  Specialty medicine sounded promising. Judith took

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  an elevator to the seventh floor, then followed the arrows to the nurses’ station in the middle of the corridor.

  A woman wearing a blue hospital smock over a print

  dress looked up from a patient chart. She wore half

  glasses on a silver chain and her white hair was in a severe pageboy that accented a hooked nose and prominent chin.