Silver Scream: A Bed-And-Breakfast Mystery (13 page)

“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
?”

“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.”

“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.

“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 bread. “I’m going to take Mother a snack. She’s been shortchanged today.”

Upon entering the toolshed, Judith expected a testy greeting. Instead, Gertrude was writing on a ruled tablet as fast as her arthritic fingers would permit. She barely looked up when her daughter arrived.

“I have a bologna sandwich with apple slices and some hot chocolate,” Judith said as the old lady scribbled away.

Gertrude still didn’t look up from the tablet. “Put ’em there,” she said, nodding at the cluttered card table.

Judith moved a bag of Tootsie Rolls and a copy of
TV Guide
to make room for the small plastic tray. “What are you doing? Writing a letter?”

“Nope,” Gertrude replied. She added a few more words to the tablet, then finished with an awkward flourish and finally looked up. “I’m writing my life story. For the moving pictures.”

“You’re…what?” Judith gasped.

“You heard me,” Gertrude snapped. “That writer fella, Wade or Dade or Cade, told me that everybody’s life is a story. So I told him some things that had happened to me over the years and he said I should write it all down. So I am.” She gave Judith a smug look.

Judith was puzzled. Her mother had led a seemingly ordinary life. “What exactly are you writing?”

Gertrude shrugged her hunched shoulders. “My life. Fleeing Germany in my youth. Starting a revolution in primary school. Drinking bathtub gin and dancing the black bottom. Eloping with your father.”

“You were a baby when you came to this country,” Judith pointed out. “I don’t recall you ever mentioned fleeing much of anything.”

“We fled,” Gertrude insisted. “We were fleeing
Grossmutter Hoffman. Your great-granny on that side of the family was a real terror. She drove your grandfather crazy, and how she treated your grandmother—her daughter-in-law—is hardly fit to print.”

Vaguely, Judith remembered scattered anecdotes about the autocratic old girl and her savage tongue. “Well…okay. But I never heard the part about the primary-school revolution.”

“I’ve been ashamed,” Gertrude admitted. “But this Wade or Dade or whoever told me to let it all come out. I was in third grade, and those girls at St. Walburga’s grade school never flushed the toilets. It disgusted me. So I told my friends—Agnes and Rosemarie and Maria Regina—to stop using the bathroom and piddle on the playground. Protesting, you know, just like all those goofy people in the sixties and seventies who didn’t know half the time what they were protesting against. Or for. Silly, if you ask me, burning brassieres and smoking funny stuff. What kind of a revolution was that?”

As she often did, Gertrude seemed to be getting derailed. “What about the bathroom protest?”

The old lady looked blank. “What bathroom? What protest?”

“At St. Walburga’s,” Judith said patiently.

“Oh.” Gertrude gave a nod. “Well, we all got into trouble, and the principal, Sister Ursula, sent for our parents. We were suspended for two days, but by the time we got back, those toilets were flushed, believe me. In fact, the school’s water bill went up so much they had to raise tuition three dollars a month.”

“You were ashamed to talk about this?” Judith asked.

“That’s right,” Gertrude said. “Nice little girls didn’t piddle in public. In those days, nice little girls didn’t even admit they piddled at all. But I feel good about it now. We won a victory for hygiene.”

“You did indeed,” Judith declared, patting her mother’s arm. “That was very brave.”

“I hope that writer fella will like it,” Gertrude said, preening a bit. “He told me he could use a good script about now. I guess he’s in some kind of a pickle.”

“Like what?” Judith asked.

Gertrude frowned. “I don’t rightly know, except it had something to do with an ax.”

“An ax?” Judith looked puzzled. “Or…acts?”

Gertrude waved a hand. “No, it was an ax. A hatchet—that’s what he said. Some kind of a job he was supposed to do with a hatchet. Maybe he’s got a part-time job as a logger. What kind of money do scriptwriters get? I’d like to charge him at least fifty dollars for my story.”

“At least,” Judith said vaguely. “Did Dade say anything else about this hatchet job?”

Gertrude shook her head. “Not that I remember. He seemed kind of off his feed, though.”

There was no point in pressing her mother for details. If Gertrude remembered something later, fine. Besides, Dade Costello’s moodiness seemed to be an integral part of his personality.

Or so Judith was thinking when she smelled smoke.

“Mother,” she said, sniffing the air, “did you put something on your hot plate?”

“Like what?” Gertrude retorted. “You think I could roast a turkey on that thing? I can hardly boil an egg on it.”

Nor did Gertrude ever try, preferring to have her daughter wait on her. Still, Judith went out to the tiny kitchen, with its sink, small fridge, microwave oven, and hot plate. Nothing looked amiss, nor could Judith smell anything burning. She went back into the living room.

“It must be coming from outside,” she remarked, and headed for the door.

Gertrude didn’t respond or look up. She was writing again, her white head bent over the card table.

The smell got stronger as Judith stepped outside and closed the toolshed door behind her. The rain had stopped, but fog was settling in over the rooftops. She could barely make out either of Hillside Manor’s chimneys. Perhaps Joe had started a fire to ward off the increasingly gloomy October afternoon.

Then she noticed the barbecue. It sat as it had all summer on the small patio by the statue of St. Francis and the birds. Like the kitchen cupboard door, the barbecue had been another source of Judith’s prodding. Joe should have taken it into the garage at least two weeks earlier when the weather had made a definite transition into autumn.

Instead, it remained, and smoke was coming out from under the lid. Judith went to the patio and opened the barbecue. A sudden burst of smoke and flame made her step back and cough.

Reaching out with a long wood-and-steel meat fork that was lying nearby, she stirred whatever was burning. Peering with smoke-stung eyes, she saw that it was mostly paper. Quite a bit of paper, and attached to a plastic binding, most of which had melted.

Judith was no expert, but she thought that what was left might be a movie script.

J
OE HADN’T YET
detached the garden hoses or covered the faucets for the winter. Judith turned on the hose by the back porch and gently aimed it at the barbecue. The stack of paper hissed and sizzled, but didn’t go out. When she increased the pressure, the smoke finally died down and the heat faded away. Standing over the barbecue, Judith stirred the ashes with a meat fork.

“I don’t think I’ll ask what you’re doing,” Renie called from the back porch, “but I thought you’d ordered food from a caterer.”

Startled, Judith turned toward her cousin. “Some-body burned something in here. I’m trying to figure out what it was.”

“Wienie Wizards?” Renie inquired, coming down the walk to the patio.

“Nothing so edible,” Judith said. “It looks like a script.”

“It does for a fact,” Renie agreed, picking up a pair of steel tongs. “It’s pretty well fried.” She flipped through the ashes until she got to the last few pages, which were only charred. “If I touch them, they may burst into flame again, but it looks
like a script all right. See—it’s mostly dialogue on this top page with some directions in between.”

“Can you see what any of it says?” Judith asked, shivering slightly as the fog began to drift among the trees and shrubs.

“Not really,” Renie admitted, after putting on her much marred and thoroughly smudged reading glasses. Judith could never figure out how her cousin could see anything through the abused lenses. “Wait—here are a couple of lines I can make out:
Benjamin: You have never had cause to be
…I think the last word is
afraid
. The next line is dialogue by someone named Tz’u-hsi, who replies,
It is not strange to be a concubine, though I am called wife. Yet I am more than a stranger, I am a
…The rest of the page is too burned to read.”

“A Chinese name,” Judith murmured. “Ellie’s role in the script written by her mother,
All the Way to Utah
?”

“Maybe,” Renie allowed. “So who’d burn the script? And why?”

Judith started to stir the ashes again, thought better of it, and replaced the lid to the barbecue. Heading back into the house, she paused with her hand on the doorknob. “It was in Dirk and Ben’s room,” she said. “Room Four. The script was all marked up. There were even some obscenities, as if whoever was reading it didn’t like it much.”

“But which of the two actors?” Renie asked. “Ben or Dirk?”

“Ben, of course,” Judith said. “He’s supposed to costar, remember? Besides,” she added, “I read a clipping, also in Room Four, about how Dirk had lost the
lead in another Zepf movie because he and Bruno got into a fistfight at Marina Del Rey in L.A. I assume Dirk was permanently scratched from Bruno’s A-list.”

“Very interesting,” Renie remarked. “So Ben gets to be a leading man instead of a villain because Dirk played smash-mouth with Bruno.”

“I suppose so,” Judith responded as the cousins went inside. “I guess nice guys do finish first.”

“That’s not the saying,” Renie corrected. “It’s the other way around.”

“You’re right,” Judith said. “With everything that’s happened in the last couple of days, my mind’s a muddle.”

The cousins had barely reached the kitchen when an insistent tap sounded at the back door. It was Arlene Rankers, looking desperate.

“What’s wrong?” Judith asked, hastening to meet her friend and neighbor.

“What’s wrong?” Arlene threw up her hands. “That’s what I came to find out. Who got hauled off by the medics?”

Judith realized that the Rankerses wouldn’t know of the events that had occurred at Hillside Manor since they left for home the previous night. “Have a seat,” she said, pulling out a chair at the kitchen table. “I’ll fill you in.”

Which Judith did, though she was careful to omit specific details. Her good-hearted neighbor was famous for spreading the news over what was called Arlene’s Broadcasting System, or merely ABS. Judith felt there was no need to make the situation any worse than it already was.

“Goodness!” Arlene gasped when Judith had finally
finished. “You certainly get more trouble than you deserve. What can Carl and I do to help?”

Judith was about to reply that she was beyond help, but changed her mind. “Keep an eye on who comes and goes around here.” That was easy; the Rankerses’ kitchen windows overlooked Hillside Manor and the cul-de-sac. At the sink and the dinette table, Arlene had long ago established her personal observation deck.

“Fine,” Arlene responded, “but can’t you do that yourself?”

“Not really,” Judith said. “There’s too much going on. This is a big house. I can’t keep track of every-body’s movements.”

“Not to mention that it’s Halloween,” Renie put in.

Arlene was uncharacteristically silent. She was staring at the table, arms slack at her sides, forehead creased in concentration. When she finally spoke, it was as if she were in a trance.

“Seven-fifty
A.M
., Joe leaves through the back door in his red MG. Eight-fourteen, the writer goes out the French doors and disappears around the west side of the house. Nine-oh-six, the red-headed youngish man leans out the second-story window by the stairs and looks every which way through something like a small camera. Nine-twenty-two, Joe returns with two white bakery bags, two pink boxes, and a Moonbeam’s bag, probably filled with hot coffee. Nine-thirty-one, writer comes back and sits in lawn swing on front porch. Nine-forty, black Lincoln Town Car pulls into cul-de-sac. Writer jumps over porch rail and runs down driveway toward garage. Nine-forty-one, well-dressed man wearing sunglasses goes to front door and is let in.” Arlene, wearing a bright smile, looked up. “How am I doing?”

“Wow!” Judith gasped in admiration. “So that’s how you do it?”

Arlene looked blank. “Do what?”

“You know…” Judith faltered, never one to accuse Arlene of snooping. “Keep track of things. Help Carl run the Neighborhood Watch. Stay on top of events on the block. You must file everything like a computer.”

“No,” Arlene asserted. “Not at all. Now that I’ve said it out loud, I can barely remember anything.”

Judith didn’t quite believe her, but wouldn’t argue. Any dispute with her neighbor brought grief in the form of Arlene’s reversals and self-contradictions. “That’s very helpful,” she said. “After Vito—the man with the sunglasses—arrived, what happened next?”

Arlene’s smile faded. “There is no next. Carl and I left for ten o’clock Mass at SOTS, went to coffee and doughnuts in the school hall, and stopped at Falstaff’s on the way back. We didn’t get home until almost one. I didn’t notice anything or anybody until you showed up shortly before one-thirty.”

“What about,” Renie inquired, “since Judith got back?”

But Arlene shook her head in a regretful manner. “I got caught up in dinner preparations. Most of our darling children are coming over tonight. Except for seeing you and Bill arrive, I didn’t notice anyone else until the medics arrived.”

“Nothing in the backyard?” Judith asked.

Arlene’s eyes narrowed. “The backyard?” She automatically swerved around to look in that direction, though she couldn’t see anything from her position at the table. “No. What on earth did I miss?” She seemed genuinely aggrieved.

“It may have happened while you were on the sidewalk with the other neighbors,” Judith said in a comforting voice. Quickly, she explained about finding the burned script in the barbecue. She had just finished when Joe came into the kitchen.

“They’re adjourning to the living room,” he announced. “I gather they may all be going out to dinner in a private room at Capri’s.”

Capri’s, on the very edge of Heraldsgate Hill, was one of the city’s oldest and most distinguished eateries. “I didn’t think they were open on Sundays,” Judith said.

“Apparently they are for this bunch,” Joe responded with a wave for Arlene, who was heading to the back door.

“But what about all the food I ordered?” Judith wailed. “It’ll go to waste and I’ll get stuck paying for it.”

Arlene went into reverse in more ways than one. “Send it over to our house. I can use it to feed those wretched kids of ours. They eat like cannibals.”

“Cannibals?” Renie echoed.

“You know what I mean,” Arlene said peevishly. “They eat like your children.”

“Oh.” Renie nodded. “Now I get it.”

Arlene hurried out of the house.

Judith was on her feet, gripping Joe’s shoulders. “Well? What did they say in this latest meeting?”

“Spin-doctor stuff, mostly,” Joe replied. “Morris 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
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
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 bed-and-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.

“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
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 spin-doctor 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.”