Silver Scream: A Bed-And-Breakfast Mystery (21 page)

But the fog was definitely dissipating. She could see
the toolshed clearly, though the lights had now gone out. Judith stopped, debating whether or not to bother her mother. She decided against it. Gertrude would only berate her for being neglectful. Judith didn’t need any more problems on this particular All Hallows’ Eve.

She’d started up the back-porch steps when she heard another clatter nearby. It sounded like another garbage-can lid. More annoyed than nervous, she trudged around to the side of the house.

Within a foot of the cans, Judith stopped dead in her tracks. There, down the driveway in a maelstrom of fog, an unearthly creature seemed to levitate before her eyes. She suppressed a scream as her legs wobbled and her eyes grew huge. The pointy hat, the stiff shaggy hair, the windblown garments, and the shoes with the turned-up toes almost convinced her that witches did indeed fly the skies on Halloween.

The image was enhanced when a cat with its fur standing on end suddenly appeared out of the mists. The animal hurtled straight for Judith. In fright, she flung herself against the wall of the house, and only recognized Sweetums when he hid himself between her feet.

“P-p-poor k-k-kitty,” she stammered, glancing down at the cat. “P-p-poor m-m-me.”

Then she looked up, and the eerie apparition was gone.

A frowning Renie was standing on the steps. “Where’ve you been? The back door blew shut, and I thought maybe you got locked out.” Seeing Judith’s pale face under the porch light, she gasped. “Hey, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

“A witch, actually,” Judith said, clinging to the porch rail as Sweetums crept along beside her. She felt dizzy, her teeth were chattering, and her feet seemed glued to the steps. “I may be having a nervous breakdown. I need a drink.”

“I’ll fix it,” Renie volunteered, but first put a hand under Judith’s elbow. “You are a mess. Easy does it.” Carefully, she guided her cousin through the back door.

“How does Bill describe his patients who’ve gone mad?” Judith asked, slumping into the nearest kitchen chair.

“Clinically?” Renie responded, going to the cupboard where the liquor was kept.

With vacant eyes and mouth agape, Judith nodded.

“Crazy as a loon,” Renie replied, pouring her cousin’s drink. “Tell me about the witch.”

It took Judith two big sips just to get started. She scowled at the glass before she spoke. “I’m not only insane, I’m turning into a drunk.”

“Hardly,” Renie said. “You’ve been through a lot the last few days.”

“So I have.” Judith sighed, beginning to pull herself together. “But I’m not seeing things. I don’t think.” She proceeded to tell Renie about the apparition in the driveway.

“A witch?” Renie said when Judith had finished the horror story. “Maybe it was. It’s Halloween.”

“At this hour?” Judith glanced up at the schoolhouse clock, which showed eleven on the dot. As if to underscore the time, applause and cheers could be heard coming from the living room. “Then why didn’t whoever it was come to the door?” Judith asked, clutching her drink as if it were a talisman against evil.

“Maybe the witch went to the toolshed,” Renie replied. “Your mother was probably still up, and with the TV on and the lights out in the front of the house, whoever it was may have thought everybody had gone to bed.”

“That’s possible,” Judith allowed, then gave her cousin a piercing look. “You don’t believe that. You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

Renie winced. “Well—I’d like to make you feel better. Frankly, you look like bird poop.”

“Thanks. I feel like bird poop.”

“I’d better go home,” Renie said as the movie watchers broke up and headed for bed. “Is there anything I can do before I leave?”

Judith slumped farther into the chair. “We still don’t know who Crappy Pappy is.”

“Does it matter?” Renie asked gently as she stood up.

“No.” Judith’s voice was lifeless. “Nothing does.”

“Coz!” Renie gave Judith a sharp slap on the back, then let out a little yip. “I keep forgetting, I’m supposed to favor that arm and shoulder for a while longer.”

Judith looked up. “Are you okay?”

Cringing a bit, Renie moved her right arm this way and that. “I think so.” She sat down across from Judith. “Maybe I should wait a couple of minutes. I only started driving again in July. Even though the surgeon assured me I couldn’t dislocate it again, I don’t want to take a chance and wreck the car.”

“Don’t mention dislocating our body parts,” Judith said, though there was evident relief in her voice. She hadn’t wanted Renie to leave just yet. “I worry about
my hip all the time. Unlike your shoulder, there are certain things I can’t do because it’ll dislocate. I suppose that’s next—more major surgery.”

“Oh, coz!” Renie shook her head. “Don’t fuss so. You’ll only—”

A banging at the front door startled both cousins. “The witch?” Judith gasped.

“Dubious. Stay here, I’ll get it.”

“No,” Judith said, already on her feet. “Rest your shoulder.”

With considerable trepidation, she went through the dining room and the entry hall. Except for the small Tiffany-style lamp on the table by the stairs, the rest of the house was dark.

“Who is it?” Judith called through the door.

“Me,” came the voice on the other side. “Dade. Dade Costello.”

“Oh!” Relieved, Judith hurriedly unlocked the door. “Come in. I thought you had your key.”

“I did,” Dade said, rubbing at the back of his head. “I guess I lost it.”

“Oh, dear,” Judith sighed. “Do you think it’s in your room? When did you use it last?”

Dade shrugged. “I don’t know that I’ve used it at all. Or did I?”

Judith couldn’t remember, either. But she didn’t want a key to Hillside Manor in the wrong hands. Disconcerted by the latest calamity, she said the first thing that came into her head: “Wasn’t it kind of miserable for a walk this evening?”

“I didn’t walk that much,” Dade said in his soft Southern drawl as he started for the stairs.

The response further muddled Judith. “Wait,” she
called after the screenwriter. “Do you have your room key or was it with the one to the house?” Guests were always given the two keys on a simple ring with their room number taped on the room key.

“Let me see.” Dade rummaged in the pockets of his cargo pants. “Here,” he said, holding up a single key. “It says Room Two. That’s me.”

“Yes,” Judith answered. “But you’re sure you don’t have the house key lying loose in your pockets?”

“I already checked.” He shrugged again. “Sorry.” Once more, Dade started up the stairs.

“One other thing,” Judith said, standing by the banister. “Who was C. Douglas Carp related to?”

He paused, frowning. “Hunh. I think Carp was some relation of Bruno’s.”

“Are you sure?” she pressed.

“Well…” Dade looked up into the stairwell. “Carp was his father-in-law at one time. Yes.” He nodded to himself. “Bruno was married to somebody whose maiden name was Carp. C. Douglas must have been her daddy. Bruno always referred to him as Pappy.”

“The father of which wife?” Judith hoped she didn’t sound eager.

Again, Dade looked puzzled. “It wasn’t the second wife,” he said slowly. “I met her at the Cannes Film Festival a couple of years ago.”

“That was the actress?” Judith prompted.

“Right. Taryn, Taryn McGuire. But she doesn’t act anymore. She’s married to an oil sheikh. They brought their yacht to Cannes to attend all the parties.”

“What about the first and third wives?” Judith persisted. “Did you meet either of them? Wasn’t the third wife in the movie business?”

“Right,” Dade said. “She was a film editor or something. I never met her. I think her name was Mary Ellen.”

“But you don’t know if her maiden name was Carp?”

“I’ve no idea.” Dade looked apologetic.

“I assume you never met wife number one,” Judith said. “I understand that was a youthful marriage.”

“Way before my time,” Dade said, still leaning on the banister. “She was the one Bruno rarely talked about. When he did, he was critical. I’ll say this for him—he never bad-mouthed the other two wives.”

“Why was he so hard on the first one?”

Dade grimaced. “I guess she was kind of a terror. I recall Bruno saying he ran into her someplace where he least expected. He always called her Spider Woman.”

Judith stared up at him. “Did that have something to do with his superstition about spiders?”

“I don’t think so.” Dade yawned. “Sorry, Ms. Flynn, I’m beat. I’m afraid I haven’t been much help.” Once more, he started up the stairs, but this time he was the one to stop his own momentum. “Why do you need to know about Bruno’s wives?”

Judith offered him an uncertain smile. “I’m just curious. You know—when someone dies under your roof and all…” She let the sentence trail away.

“Oh. That makes sense. I guess.” At last he continued on up the stairs and out of sight.

Wearily, Judith trudged back to the kitchen. Renie was wearing her suede jacket and holding her huge handbag.

“What was that all about?” she asked.

“Dade Costello. He lost his house key.” Judith made a face. “But guess what? Bruno referred to his first wife as Spider Woman.”

Renie looked surprised. “Really? Who was she?”

“Dade doesn’t know,” Judith said, espying
The Gasman
novel on the counter. “Did you find any of the keepsakes interesting?”

Renie started ticking off items on her fingers. “The usual pressed flowers and leaves, a faded red ribbon, a pair of ticket stubs from the 1968 World Series between St. Louis and Detroit, another pair of stubs from the 1975 Iowa State Fair, a lock of what looked like baby’s hair, a young woman’s photo, a newspaper clipping of C. Douglas Carp’s obituary, and a recipe for prune pie.”

Judith looked thoughtful. “Let’s see the obit.”

Renie flipped through the book, then handed her the yellowed clipping.

“Hmm,” Judith said. “Nothing here that wasn’t in the other account of his life and times. By the way, did you come across a picture of a young woman?”

Renie flipped through the pages. “Yes, here it is. Anybody we know?”

Judith studied the youthful face with the innocent expression. “I don’t think so. And yet…” She held the photo out for Renie’s perusal. “There is something familiar about her. Or maybe I’m imagining things. Do you recognize this face?”

But Renie didn’t. “Why,” she inquired in a wistful voice, “are you fixated on Mr. Carp?”

“Because,” Judith replied in a peevish tone, “I don’t know where to go with this damned mess. I still think the motive for this crime—if it was a crime—is personal. I don’t believe that anybody under this roof
killed Bruno for professional reasons. Somebody has a secret that was worth committing murder for, or somebody just plain hated Bruno.”

Renie set her handbag down on the floor and leaned against the counter. “As in hated him for personal reasons?”

Judith nodded. “Exactly.”

“A woman scorned?” Renie suggested.

“Possibly.”

“Which woman? Wives one through three, or someone who wanted to be number four?”

Judith sighed along with the wind, which was now a dull moan. “It’s possible. We know nothing about the personal lives of Eugenia Fleming or Winifred Best.”

“Eugenia?” Renie wrinkled her pug nose. “Hardly the type you’d expect a bigwig producer to marry.”

“We might say Eugenia isn’t the right type,” Judith pointed out, “but that doesn’t mean Eugenia would agree.”

“Winifred?”

“She’s been a wife, in a way,” Judith said. “Women who work closely with men are like wives.”

“True,” Renie said. “I’ve seen it in the corporate world. The business partner, the executive secretary, the special assistant. It’s not usually a sexual relationship, but sometimes it is. And of course one of the parties may suffer from unrequited love.”

“I think we can scratch Ellie and Angela,” Judith mused. “They owe their careers to him in some way—despite the Big Flop—but I can’t picture either of them panting with desire for Bruno.”

“Power’s a great aphrodisiac, though,” Renie noted. “Still…” She gave a shake of her head.

“We’re on the wrong track there,” Judith said. “We’re back to professional motives. I wish we knew why Winifred is so reluctant to talk about her brief career as a singer.”

“Because it was so brief?” Renie offered.

“I think it’s more than that,” Judith said. “I think that the brevity of her musical career could be a secret worth keeping.”

Renie didn’t bother to stifle a big yawn. “I’ve got to head home. The fog’s just about gone and the wind’s dying down. If I had to, I could drive with my feet.”

“That might be an improvement,” Judith murmured. “Sometimes you’re not so hot at using your hands.”

“Funny, coz,” Renie said sarcastically. “Talk to you in the morning.”

As Renie left via the back door, Judith glanced at the schoolhouse clock. It was almost midnight, the witching hour on Halloween.

Maybe she wasn’t losing her mind. Maybe she wasn’t even losing her nerve.

But she still believed she could be losing Hillside Manor.

“T
HE AIRPORT’S STILL
closed,” Joe announced as he brought in the morning paper. “That’s bad news.”

“I didn’t know it was closed,” Judith responded with a frosty look.

“It’s the fog,” Joe said. “Haven’t you noticed it settled in again during the night?”

“I haven’t had time to notice anything,” Judith retorted. “I’ve been too busy figuring out what to serve our unwanted guests for breakfast.”

Joe rested his chin on her shoulder. “Need some help?”

Judith jerked away from her husband. “Help? Like what, plugging in the coffeemaker? I already did that.”

“Hey!” Joe sounded offended. “What’s wrong?”

She whirled on him. “What’s wrong? Are you kidding?”

Joe held up his hands in a defensive gesture. “Take it easy, Jude-girl. I know you’re upset, but this morning I’m going to call Dilys at headquarters and find out what she’s—”

“Dilys!” Judith exploded. “Where’s she been since Saturday night? Sunbathing? And what have you been doing except studying Bill’s stupid chart?”

“That chart’s not a bad idea,” Joe said, still relatively calm. “Woody and I used to put together something like—”

“Woody!” Judith cried in exasperation. “I thought he was helping you. Has he been kidnapped by Gypsies or did the floating bridge between here and the Eastside sink again?”

Joe threw up his hands. “Okay, okay! Don’t knock Woody. He’s been running background checks on these goofballs all weekend. I expect to hear from him soon.”

“And he won’t have one single thing that will help us,” Judith declared, dumping two pounds of bacon into a skillet. “Toast.” She bit off the word. “That’s it, toast, bacon, and scrambled eggs. They can take their weird food cravings someplace else if they don’t like it.”

“Hey, has Woody ever failed when it comes to being helpful?” Joe asked, getting two dozen eggs out of the fridge. Judith started to grab them from him, but he pulled the cartons out of her reach. “I’ll fix these. I do a better job of it.”

Judith refused to acknowledge that Joe definitely had a way with eggs. “I’m not criticizing Woody per se,” she asserted. “I meant that any information he comes up with—and I’ll bet there won’t be much—isn’t going to help us in this particular instance.”

“You don’t know that,” Joe countered. “I don’t see why you won’t sit back and let the police and the studio’s investigators figure out what happened. They’re pros.”

“You used to be a pro,” Judith shot back. “I thought you still were with your private detective jobs. But you
don’t seem very involved in this whole, horrible situation.”

“That’s because I’m retired from the force,” Joe said with obvious resentment. “I don’t have the resources anymore. Once you’ve been a cop, you realize that most of the time law enforcement personnel know what they’re doing.”

Judith didn’t respond, but gave him a skeptical look. Maybe he was right. Maybe he didn’t have faith in his ability to work without the backup provided by a full-fledged police staff. Maybe, she thought with a pang, he didn’t care about Hillside Manor as much as she did. It was even possible that in retirement, he disliked the constant parade of strangers going in and out of his home.

The phone rang as Joe was whisking eggs, green onions, and slivers of red pepper in a big blue bowl. Judith answered, and somewhat sheepishly wished Woody Price good morning. Without looking at Joe, she handed over the receiver.

“Good morning!” Eugenia Fleming’s booming voice and majestic presence filled the kitchen.

Judith pointed to Joe, who had put one finger in his ear. He immediately began moving down the hall and out of hearing range.

“Sorry,” the agent apologized, speaking with less volume. She was already dressed, wearing a tailored pants suit with a no-nonsense silk shirt.

“You’re up early,” Judith remarked, trying to be polite. “I usually don’t serve breakfast until eight.”

Eugenia checked her watch against the schoolhouse clock. “Seven-forty on the dot. I’m a morning person, which can be a disadvantage in Hollywood. Except for
people who are actually involved in shooting a film, everyone else tends to work late into the night.”

“The coffee’s ready,” Judith said. “Would you like a cup?”

“Certainly,” Eugenia replied, surveying the kitchen with a critical eye. “Black, please.”

Judith poured the coffee into a Moonbeam’s mug and handed it to her guest. “I’m curious,” she said in a casual tone. “Why was Morris Mayne’s wife allowed to go back to L.A. when the rest of you weren’t?”

Eugenia choked on her first swallow of coffee. “Well…” she began, gathering her aplomb, “that situation was different.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” Eugenia cleared her throat. “Different.” She winked.

Judith gave the other woman a quizzical look. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to.” Eugenia winked again.

Enlightenment dawned. “You mean,” Judith said, “Morris came here with someone who wasn’t his wife?”

“Now,” Eugenia said, wagging a finger, “don’t be too hard on Morris. His wife is a genuine recluse. She hasn’t left their house in fifteen years. You can hardly blame the man if he sometimes gets lonely when he travels. It’s sad, really. I admire him for staying with her.”

“Yes,” Judith said slowly, “you have a point. So the woman who came here with him after the premiere was his…ah…companion?”

It was Eugenia’s turn to look puzzled. “What woman?”

“The one dressed as a pioneer,” Judith replied, turning the bacon in the cast-iron skillet.

Eugenia shrugged her broad shoulders. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Morris’s…companion remained at the hotel.”

Joe’s conversation with Woody ended just as Eugenia took her coffee into the front parlor.

“Eat your words, Jude-girl,” Joe said, wielding a whisk in a bowl of eggs. “Woody came up with some interesting stuff.”

“Criminal stuff?” Judith asked in surprise.

“If it was, would you stop treating me like I had bubonic plague?”

So frazzled were Judith’s nerves that she actually had to think twice before answering. “Yes, sure, go ahead.” Her attempt to smile wasn’t very successful.

Joe didn’t respond until he’d put a quarter pound of butter into a huge frying pan. “Nothing on Eugenia, Morris, or Chips,” he said, keeping his voice down in case Eugenia was still in hearing range. “Ellie has a stack of speeding and parking tickets as high as the Hollywood Hills. Ben got busted a couple of times for possession.”

“Of what?” Judith asked, getting plates out of the cupboard.

“Weed.” He shrugged. “Dirk has been arrested four times for assault, but the charges were always dropped.”

“Does that include the incident with Bruno at Marina Del Rey?” Judith asked.

Joe nodded. “It seems Mr. Farrar has to prove his macho image on both sides of the camera.”

“Unsure of his manhood? Low self-esteem?” Judith murmured.

“Rotten disposition, no self-discipline.” Almost forty years as a cop had caused Joe’s patience with people’s foibles to erode long ago.

Judith placed the silverware settings next to the plates on the counter. “What about the others?”

“I’m not finished with Dirk,” Joe said, taking a break from his cook’s duties to refill his coffee mug. “He was also involved in a messy paternity suit a year or two ago. He lost, and is paying for the kid’s up-bringing.”

“Is Mom anyone we know?”

Joe shook his head. “Dirk was on location in Spain when he met Mom. She was an extra in a Basque uprising.”

“No help there,” Judith said.

“Only in terms of support payments.” He offered more coffee to Judith. “Dade’s had a couple of DWIs. He wiped out a Rolls-Royce on Sunset Boulevard and ran his Range Rover into a palm tree in Benedict Canyon. Not recently, though.”

“He doesn’t seem like much of a drinker,” Judith remarked as she set out a dozen juice glasses.

“You never can tell,” Joe said, reaching for a chafing dish high up in the cupboard. “Here’s one you expected—Angela La Belle’s been busted three times for coke possession. Bruno was arrested twice. On one occasion, they were together.”

“That’s not surprising,” Judith said, “since Bruno supposedly got Angela hooked in the first place. Did they do time?”

“No,” Joe replied, reaching for a second chafing
dish. “Their clever lawyers—Vito, maybe?—got them off with fines, community service, and promises to go into rehab.”

“Anything on Vito himself?”

“Nothing criminal,” Joe replied, “though I suspect that like any successful L.A. attorney, he may have a few slightly unethical tricks up his sleeve.”

Judith narrowed her eyes at her husband. “You still look a bit scrofulous to me. Why am I supposed to heap you with praise and affection?”

Joe held up his index finger. “For one reason, and one reason only. Ahem.” He paused so long for dramatic effect that Judith was poised to pounce on him. “In 1979, Winifred Lou Best was arrested twice, once for possession of cocaine and once for resisting arrest along with a man named Bartholomew Anthony Riggs, aka Big Daddy Dumas.”

“Wow!” Judith’s eyes sparkled as she threw her arms around his neck. “Now that is news!”

“What did I tell you?” He chuckled as she planted kisses all over his face. “I’m plague-free.”

“More than you know,” Judith said, finally releasing her husband. “Morris mentioned Big Daddy Dumas last night at Capri’s. He was a pimp and a drug dealer. But Morris said Big Daddy was dead. He also said…” She frowned in recollection. “What was it? Oh! To blame Big Daddy for…. Damn, I forget.”

“Sounds like Big Daddy was a bad daddy,” Joe remarked.

“That’s the odd thing,” Judith said. “Bill had heard about him via a case study. According to Bill, Big Daddy wasn’t all bad. He was good to his girls, he treated them like family. But that’s not the point. Now
we know why Winifred doesn’t want to discuss her past. It’s possible that Big Daddy helped the Demures get their start in the music business. Maybe the three singers were in his stable of hookers. That might explain why the group didn’t have more than one hit. Their lives couldn’t have been conducive to the discipline required by a serious music career. For all we know, the other two may have overdosed, gone to prison, or were murdered in a drug deal gone sour.”

“Anything’s possible,” Joe allowed. “What happened to Big Daddy?”

“A dissatisfied hooker/would-be singer killed him,” Judith replied. “Not one of the Demures, but a Latino girl.”

“So maybe,” Joe conjectured, “Big Daddy was the muscle who got Win and the other two started in the music business. When he got whacked, the Demures lost their leverage.”

He picked up the plates and silverware from the counter. “Here, let me set up the dining-room table.”

“What?” Judith was lost in thought. “Oh, thanks. I’ll cook Mother’s breakfast now. I feel bad, I’ve hardly seen her lately.”

“Don’t worry,” Joe called from the dining room. “She hasn’t improved.”

As Judith prepared Gertrude’s meal and set it on a tray, the house seemed very quiet. Typical for early November, she thought, with the fog not only isolating but insulating Hillside Manor from the rest of the world. The calm, however, was not reassuring.

As usual Gertrude was up and dressed before eight o’clock, She sat behind the card table, not bothering to look up when her daughter arrived with breakfast.
More surprisingly, the old lady was humming in an off-key manner.

“Hmm-dee-dee-hmm.”

“Good morning,” Judith said, forcing a bright smile. “You seem cheerful this morning.”

“Hmm-mm-hmm-mm.” Gertrude picked up her
TV Guide
and riffled through the pages. “Hmm-dee-dee-hm-hm.”

Judith wasn’t in the mood to play games with her mother. She placed the tray on the card table. Gertrude ignored it. “What is it?” Judith asked. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Dee-dee-mm-hmm.”

“Mother!” Judith’s patience fled. “Stop that humming! What’s going on?”

Slyly, Gertrude looked up from the
TV Guide
. “Oh, it’s you. I suppose you expect a tip now that I’m going to be rich. Forget it, I’m spending every dime on satin bloomers, lace hankies, and a walker with a motor on it.”

Puzzled, Judith sat down on the arm of Gertrude’s Davano. “What’s going on? Did you win the lottery?”

“That’s for suckers,” Gertrude declared, even though she frequently conned Judith into buying lottery and scratch-card tickets for her. “You’ll find out when the armored car pulls up with my loot.”

Judith fought an urge to shake her mother until the old girl’s dentures rattled. “What then?”

Gertrude shot her a contemptuous look. “How do you think, dummy? By selling my life story to the movies. That nice young Southun gentleman is writin’ the script,” she went on, her speech suddenly tinged with a drawl straight out of the cotton fields. “He’s
promised me a piece. Up front, too, but no points. Ah couldn’t expect that for my first story, could Ah?”

Judith didn’t know whether she was more amazed by Dade’s offer or her mother’s use of movie jargon, which, judging from the drawl, was straight from the writer’s mouth. “Are you sure he’s not kidding you?”

“He’s not the kind to spoof,” Gertrude replied smugly, the drawl gone. “He’s on the up-and-up. He says I’m great. In fact, I’m part of the Greatest Generation. I’ve lived through a bunch of wars, a big Depression, a whole slew of newfangled gadgets, going to the moon, riots, earthquakes, volcanoes, and bathtub gin. Not to mention your two lunkhead husbands and listening to Aunt Deb talk my ear off on the telephone.”

It almost made sense. It was, in fact, not unlike the concept of the simple gasman viewing the history of the world. Judith was speechless.

“So what have you got to say for yourself now, Toots?” Gertrude demanded, finally picking up a fork and studying her meal.

“I think it’s…terrific,” Judith said at last. “If it all works out.”

“That nice Southern boy says it will,” Gertrude replied glibly. “What did he call it? ‘An intimate portrait of the twentieth century.’ See here?” She tapped a small piece of paper. “I wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget.”

Judith still had some reservations. “Have you signed a contract?”