Silver Scream: A Bed-And-Breakfast Mystery (17 page)

“Bill,” Renie inquired, “have you any idea what all those marks mean?”

“Of course.” With an expectant expression, he gazed
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.

“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 difficult 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.”

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.”

“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.

“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?”

“W
HAT 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 in-laws, 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?”

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 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
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 good-looking, 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 she should have slipped him five dollars. Or ten. Or twenty-five, considering that she was at Capri’s.

Moments later Morris Mayne dashed out into the hall. “What is it? What’s happened at the studio?” Not nearly as tall as Judith, he peered up at her through rimless spectacles. “Wait! You’re the bed-and-breakfast lady, aren’t you?”

“That’s right,” Judith said, hoping to look appropriately solemn. “I think we’d best go downstairs to the bar. Perhaps they’ll serve us a drink.”

“A drink?” Morris’s sparse tufts of hair stood out on
his round head. “Yes, I could use a drink. Though of course I’ve already had…Never mind, let’s talk.” He hurried down the winding staircase.

Charles the maître d’ expressed great pleasure at serving the duo. Judith ordered Scotch rocks; Morris requested a Bottle Rocket. Judith had never heard of it, but it appeared to consist of several alcoholic beverages and a slice of kiwi.

“Tell me, please,” Morris begged after Charles handed him his drink. “Why am I being recalled?”

“Recalled?” Judith’s dark eyes widened. “Is that what I wrote? Oh, dear. My handwriting is so bad. I meant you’d been called by the studio to…well, I didn’t quite catch the rest of it, so I thought I’d better come in person to make sure you got the message.”

Morris slumped in relief. “Oh! Thank God! I thought I’d been fired!”

“Why would you think such a thing?” Judith asked, still wide-eyed.

Morris gulped down some of his Bottle Rocket. “Because of this
Gasman
mess. I mean,” he amended quickly, “it’s not exactly a mess, but it does present some problems. With Bruno dying and all, you see.”

“Yes, that complicates matters,” Judith said in a sympathetic tone. “What do you think will happen to the movie now?”

“Who knows?” Morris spread his arms, knocking over a candle on the bar. “Oops! Sorry, Charles.” The gracious maître d’ picked up the candle and turned discreetly away.

“Hasn’t the studio given some instructions?” Judith asked, taking a small sip of Scotch. It was excellent Scotch, maybe Glenlivet. She sipped again.

“Paradox is waiting to find out what happened to Bruno,” Morris replied.

“What do the studio executives think happened?” Judith asked.

Morris drank more Bottle Rocket. “Whew!” he exclaimed, passing a hand over his high forehead. “That’s strong!” He leaned closer to Judith. “What did you say?”

She repeated the question. Morris reflected, though his eyes weren’t quite in focus.

“Paradox is sure Bruno had a tart ahack. I mean”—he corrected himself—“
a heart attack
. He’s had problems, you shee.
See
.” The publicist hiccuped once.

“You mean he’d had a history of heart trouble?”

Morris grimaced. “Not exactly.” He hiccuped again and drew himself up on the bar stool, which luckily had a large padded back. “Strain. That’s what Bruno had. He worked under a lot of strain. That’s why he—” He stopped abruptly. “I shouldn’t tell tales out of school, should I?”

“You’re not,” Judith assured him. “I’m not in the business. I don’t count. I’m nobody.”

“Thash shtrue,” Morris agreed. “You’re not.” He took another gulp from his glass. “Anyway, Bruno worked too hard. That caushes strain.”

“Yes,” Judith said amiably. “And strain can lead to many things. To help him cope, of course.”

“Cope!” Morris’s arm shot out, striking a calla lily in a tall black vase. “Oops!” He giggled and put a hand over his mouth. “Mushn’t drink this too fast. Had a lot of champagne upstairs.” He jabbed at the ceiling with a pudgy finger.

“Yes, to cope,” Judith said patiently. “People cope in many ways. Sometimes those ways aren’t healthy.”

Sadly, Morris shook his head. “True, too true. Like Bruno. Not healthy. Don’t blame him. Too much presshure. Not all his fault. Blame Big Daddy Dumas.”

Judith was taken aback. “Big Daddy Dumas? Who’s that?”

Morris giggled some more and shook a finger at Judith. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Yes,” Judith said seriously, “I would.”

At the desk by the bar, the phone rang. Charles picked it up. He appeared to be taking a reservation.

“Phone,” Morris said. “Musht phone the studio.” He patted himself down, apparently searching for his cell. “Hunh. Musht have left it upstairs. Here I go.” He picked up what remained of his Bottle Rocket and staggered off to the iron staircase.

Judith was on his heels. “But, Morris,” she said urgently, “you can tell me about Big Daddy Dumas. I’m nobody, remember?”

On the second step, Morris turned around. “Doeshn’t matter. Big Daddy’s dead. Ta-ta.” Clinging to the iron rail, he wobbled up the stairs.

Judith returned to the bar, took another sip of fine Scotch, and considered her next move. She was still in a quandary when Bill came through the main entrance.

“Hi, Bill,” she said, waving from the bar stool. “You aren’t really Big Daddy Dumas by any chance, are you?”

Bill stared at Judith. “Why do you ask?”

Judith stared back at him. “Do you know who I’m talking about?”

“Of course,” he replied. “Dumas is a famous psychological case study from about twenty years ago. Where did you hear the name?”

Quickly, Judith explained. “So what do you know about this Dumas?”

Bill looked pained. “Dumas was a black gang lord in L.A. He was involved in drugs and prostitution. He was atypical because he didn’t allow his hookers to take drugs, though he used them to sell the stuff. He was interesting from a psychological standpoint because the control he exerted over his girls was paternal, rather than intimidating or enabling. He was creating a familial bond between himself and the prostitutes. Almost all of them had had no father figure in their lives, or if they did, he was abusive. Big Daddy never had intercourse with the girls. He protected them and made sure they were checked out for disease. He acted like a real father, which was all the more intriguing because he was only in his twenties and had a large brood of children of his own. This was one of the first case studies that showed how young people got caught up in gangs and prostitution rings. It emphasized how the gang provides a surrogate family and a sense of belonging.”

“What happened to Dumas?” Judith asked. “Morris Mayne told me he was dead.”

Bill nodded. “I suppose Morris knows the story, being based in L.A. Dumas was quite a legend there for almost ten years. One of his girls killed him. He was also involved in the local music scene, though whether with promoting talent or just peddling drugs and sex, I can’t recall. This particular girl, who was from Mexico, felt Dumas could help her get started as a singer for the Hispanic audience. He couldn’t or wouldn’t, so she stabbed him in a fit of rage, claiming he’d betrayed their family bond.”

“A father-daughter quarrel,” Judith remarked.

“Speaking of children,” Bill said, starting up the steps, “I’d better join mine before Renie and our kids eat all the food.”

Judith watched Bill disappear at the top of the staircase, then resumed her place at the bar. The glimmer of an idea was forming at the back of her brain.

Charles cleared his throat. “Will you be rejoining your party upstairs?”

“Ah…” Judith paused to take a quick sip from her glass. “Yes, in a few minutes. I had to get away.”

“Oh?” Charles tried to hide his puzzlement.

“I mean, I know I just got here,” Judith explained, “but those people can be very…difficult.”

“The Joneses?” Charles inquired politely.

“Yes, the Joneses.” Judith smiled confidentially. “They’re relatives, you see.”

“Yes,” Charles agreed tactfully. “Sometimes family members can be taxing.”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll finish my drink down here,” Judith said, wondering if she should call a taxi and go home. Renie and Bill would be stuck with the future in-laws for at least an hour or two.

“Of course,” Charles responded.

Before Judith could say anything else, a pair of hefty legs and sensible black pumps came down the stairway.

“There you are,” Eugenia Fleming said in an accusing tone. “What’s this about the studio calling Morris? And how did you get him so drunk?”

“He got himself drunk,” Judith declared. “I’ve never seen anybody drink a Bottle Rocket before. It’s a wonder he didn’t launch himself across the lake.”

Eugenia turned her head in every direction. “What lake?”

Judith gestured at the slanting windows that faced the length of the restaurant. “There’s a lake out there. Two lakes, in fact. And mountains. You can’t see them because of the fog.”

“Miserable weather,” Eugenia muttered, planting one black pump on the single step up to the bar. “Now tell me what’s going on with Morris and the phone call.”

Judith feigned innocence. “I’m only the messenger.”

“Morris was too drunk to call Paradox,” Eugenia huffed, her majestic bust heaving. “I wouldn’t let him, so I called for him. No one there knew anything about trying to contact him. Vito is very annoyed.”

“That’s a shame,” Judith said placidly, then took another drink of Scotch. “Morris isn’t in trouble, is he?”

“Of course he is!” Eugenia shot back. “We’re all in trouble!” Abruptly, she put a hand to her large crimson lips. “That is,” she said in a much softer tone, “this Bruno incident presents several challenges to all of us who are involved.”

“I would imagine,” Judith said, sounding sympathetic. “You’ve lost a very important client.”

“Yes,” Eugenia said, then turned to Charles. “Give me a shot of Tanqueray, straight up.”

Charles complied. Eugenia downed the gin in one gulp. “Producers like Bruno don’t come around every day,” she grumbled. “In fact, I was with him from the beginning, right after he won that film-festival prize. You might say he owed a lot of his success to me.” She gave Charles a curt nod. “I’ll have another, please.”

“Really?” Judith remarked. “How does that work?”

Eugenia scowled at Judith. “How does it work? I do the work, that’s how. I start a buzz, build an image, play publicist as well as agent. It wasn’t easy with Bruno,” she said, downing the second gin. “He had hang-ups, phobias, problems. But I connected him to the right people. Nobody gives agents credit for the grunt work involved in building a reputation.”

Judith inadvertently neglected the agent’s efforts as she zeroed in on a word that had captured her attention. “You mentioned hang-ups?” Again, she wore her air of innocence.

“Family background,” Eugenia said, snapping her fingers at Charles for another hit. “His parents may have moved to California, where Mr. Zepf worked in the business, but they were very strict. What would you expect with a German father and a Midwestern mother? It’s a wonder Bruno’s creativity wasn’t stifled before he could leave home.”