Silver Scream: A Bed-And-Breakfast Mystery (3 page)

“Mr. Zepf,” Judith said, putting out her hand.

“Mr. Zepf,” echoed Renie and Arlene, who had joined Judith on the porch. Renie looked as if she were trying very hard not to be impressed; Arlene appeared close to bursting with unbridled gush.

Zepf clicked off the cell phone and zeroed in on Judith, his shrewd blue eyes narrowing a bit. “You’re Mrs…. Flynn?”

“I am.” To her horror, Judith dropped a slight curtsy.

“Welcome to Hillside Manor,” Arlene burbled, grabbing the hand that Judith had just released. “This is a wonderful B&B. This is a wonderful neighborhood. This is a wonderful city.” She lowered her voice only a jot. “That’s why we’re thinking of moving.”

Judith and Renie were used to Arlene’s contradictions. Judith flinched, but Bruno apparently hadn’t heard Arlene. He had already moved on to shake Renie’s hand without ever looking right at her, and was now in the entry hall, surveying his new surroundings. Such was his air of possession that Judith felt as if she’d not only rented Bruno a room but sold him the entire house.

Judith had to force herself to take her eyes off the great man and greet the other guests. She immediately recognized Dirk Farrar and Angela La Belle, whose famous faces had appeared in a series of hit movies. Judith had actually seen two of their films, on video. Just as the pair reached the porch, Judith noticed that Naomi Stein had come out of her house on the corner and Ted Ericson was pulling into his driveway across the street.

As Ted got out of his car, Dirk Farrar also saw the newcomers. “Beat it, scumbags!” he yelled. “No paparazzi!” Pushing past Angela La Belle and the three-woman welcoming team, he disappeared into the living room.

With a faint sneer on her face, Angela La Belle ignored the gawking neighbors along with her fellow actor and proceeded up the front steps.

“Ms. La Belle,” Judith said, gathering her aplomb, “I so enjoyed your performance in”—her mind went blank—“your last movie.”

Angela’s face, which seemed so angelic on the screen, wore a chilly smile. “Thanks. Where’s the john?”

“Straight ahead,” Renie said, pointing to the new door that Skjoval Tolvang had recently installed.

Judith was left to confront a somewhat less familiar face. She racked her brain to recall who else was on Bruno’s guest list.

“Hi, Mr. Carmody,” Renie said, coming to the rescue. “My husband and I were sorry you didn’t win Best Supporting Actor this year. You were a really great villain in
To Die in Davenport
.”

“Thanks,” Ben Carmody replied with what appeared to be a genuine smile. “Face it, I was up against some pretty tough competition.”

Judith was startled by Carmody’s benign appearance. She was so used to seeing him as the embodiment of evil that she scarcely recognized him. He was tall and lean, much better looking in person than on the screen. Judith shook Ben Carmody’s hand and also received a warm smile.

Like Dirk Farrar, the next arrival ignored Judith and the others. Unlike Dirk, the pencil-thin black woman in the gray Armani suit glided over the threshold as if she had wheels on her Manolo Blahnik pumps. Once inside, she joined Bruno Zepf, who had migrated into the front parlor. The woman closed the parlor door behind her, leaving the cousins and Arlene staring at each other.

Last but not least was a small, exotic creature who apparently was communing with the squirrels in the maple tree near the front of the house.

“Who is that?” Arlene inquired, her pretty face perplexed. “She reminds me of someone.”

“Ellie Linn-MacDermott,” Renie said. “Except I think she’s dropped the MacDermott.”

“Y-e-s,” Arlene said slowly, “that’s who she reminds me of. Ellie Linn-MacDermott. I’ve seen Ellie in two or three movies. Funny, this girl’s a dead ringer for her.”

“She
is
Ellie Linn,” Renie responded, making way for the chauffeurs, who were carrying in the luggage. “She has a role in
The Gasman
.”

“Oh!” Arlene’s hand flew to her mouth and her blue eyes widened in surprise. “Of course! The actress! Or is it hot dogs?”

“Both,” said Renie, then jumped out of the way as the wheels of a large suitcase almost ran over her foot. “Her father, Heathcliffe MacDermott, is the Wienie Wizard of the Western World.”

Arlene again looked puzzled. “But this girl…” She waved an arm toward the young woman who was trying to coax one of the squirrels down from the maple tree. “She looks Chinese.”

“Her mother’s from Hong Kong,” Renie said. “Or Shanghai. Or someplace like that.”

Judith excused herself to show the drivers where to stow the luggage upstairs. When she started down again, Angela La Belle met her on the second landing.

“Where’s my room?” she asked, blinking big brown eyes that were offset by long lashes that might or might not have been her own. The lashes, like the eyes, were dark, and made a striking contrast with the actress’s waist-length blond hair.

“Um…” Judith hesitated. “Let me get the room chart. I’ll be right back. There’s a settee in the hallway and a phone, if you need it.”

Without any response, Angela passed on to the second floor. Judith hurried to fetch the room chart, which she’d left on the entry-hall table. The only thing she remembered was that Bruno Zepf had the largest room, Number Three, to himself, though he shared the bathroom with Room Four. Judith couldn’t believe that she was so rattled by a bunch of Hollywood hotshots. After ten years in the hostelry business, she thought she’d met just about every type of person from every level of society. Maybe she was more impressionable than she realized.

Swiftly, Judith tabulated the guests who had arrived so far. Unless she was mistaken, at least one of the members of Bruno’s party hadn’t shown up yet.

“Psst!” Renie hissed from the hallway. “We’re on the job.”

Judith turned sharply. “You are? Doing what?”

“Plying your guests with adult beverages,” Renie replied. “Or, in some cases, the freshest of spring-waters and a vegetable drink that looks like a science experiment.”

“Thanks, coz,” Judith said with a grateful smile. “Thank Arlene for me, too. I’ll be right with you.”

Checking the chart, Judith noted that Winifred Best, Bruno’s special assistant, was slotted for Room One. Since there were only three women in the party and Judith had recognized the two actresses, Winifred must be the Armani-clad black woman who had sailed into the house and closeted herself with Bruno.

Dirk Farrar and Ben Carmody were sharing Room Four. Judith wondered how—and why—they’d put up with such an arrangement. The same could be said for Angela La Belle and Ellie Linn, who would be staying
in Room Six. Of course it was only for two nights. Perhaps the proximity to Bruno was worth the sacrifice. Still, Judith wasn’t accustomed to such self-effacement among the Well-Heeled.

Room Five had been assigned to
The Gasman
’s director, Chips Madigan; the film’s screenwriter, Dade Costello, was set for Room Two, the smallest of the lodgings. Chart in hand, Judith went back upstairs to find Angela La Belle.

“Room Six,” Judith said with a cheerful smile.

Angela was sprawled on the settee in the hallway, leafing through one of the magazines Judith kept handy for guests. “Okay.” The actress didn’t look up.

“Your key,” Judith said, reaching into the pocket of her best black flannel slacks. “I’ll give the other one to Ms. Linn.”

“Fine.” Angela still didn’t look up.

“Your baggage is right there,” Judith said, pointing to the piled-up suitcases and fold-overs the drivers had placed in front of Grandma and Grandpa Grover’s old oak book shelving. “Only Mr. Zepf’s has been put away because I wasn’t exactly sure who was staying where. Some of his belongings arrived earlier today via UPS.”

Angela yawned. “Right.”

Judith gave up and headed past Rooms Four, Five, and Six to the back stairs. She wanted to pop the appetizers into the oven before she joined her other guests. Halfway down, she realized she hadn’t given Angela the front door key along with the one to her room. Though her hips were growing weary, Judith hurried back to the second floor.

The settee was empty, the magazine that Angela had
been perusing lay on the floor. Judith frowned. Could Angela have already collected her luggage and gone into Room Six so quickly?

The stacks of baggage sat untouched. But the door to Room Three, Bruno’s room, was ajar.

“Hunh,” Judith said to herself. When she picked up the copy of
In the Mode
magazine, she noticed that it was open to a spread on a recent Hollywood gala. The large color photo on the left-hand page showed Dirk Farrar and Angela La Belle with their arms around each other. The caption read,
Super Hunk and the Ultimate Babe get cozy at the annual Stars for Scoliosis Ball. Are Dirk and Angela hearing La Wedding Belles?

Judith wondered if Angela and Dirk had no intention of staying in different rooms.

R
ENIE AND
A
RLENE
seemed to have everything under control. Arlene already claimed to have formed a fast friendship with Ellie Linn, and insisted that Ben Carmody would be the perfect husband for her unmarried daughter, Cathy.

“They’re not snooty,” Arlene declared, putting another batch of puff pastries into the oven. “You just have to go about it the right way when it comes to asking questions. For example, when I spoke to Dirk Farrar about the paternity suit that was in the news a year ago, I mentioned how wonderful it was to be a parent. Then I asked how he liked being called Daddy. So simple.”

“What did he say?” Judith inquired.

“Oh, it was very cute,” Arlene replied breezily. “He sort of hung his head and mumbled something about ‘mother’ and ‘Tucker.’ I think he said ‘Tucker.’ That must be the little fellow’s name.”

The cousins exchanged bemused glances before Judith carried a tray of French pâté and English crackers into the living room. Dirk Farrar, with a cell phone affixed to his ear, lazed on one of the matching sofas by the fireplace while Ellie Linn and
Winifred Best sat opposite him. Winifred was also using a cell phone. Ben Carmody was examining the built-in bookcases next to the bay window. A big shambling man in khaki cargo pants, plaid shirt, and suede vest had his back turned and was staring out through the French doors. There was no sign of Bruno Zepf.

Judith cleared her throat. “I’ll be serving the hors d’oeuvres in just a few minutes,” she announced.

Only Ben Carmody looked at her. “Sounds good. I’m kind of hungry.”

Winifred Best’s head twisted around. “You should have eaten more of Bruno’s buffet on the plane. You know he always serves excellent food.”

With an off-center grin, Ben shrugged. “I wasn’t hungry then.”

Renie, who had been out in the kitchen with Arlene, joined Judith. “Hey, coz,” she said brightly, “have you met Dade Costello, the screenwriter for
The Gasman
? He’s been telling me all about the script.”

Judith nodded toward the big man by the French doors. Renie’s nod confirmed his identity.

“I’ll introduce myself,” Judith murmured. Passing through the living room, she caught a few cutting remarks:

“…worse than that no-star hotel in Oman…”

“…If I’d wanted to stay in a phone booth, I’d prefer it was in Paris….”

“…bath towels like sandpaper. Whatever happened to plush nubbiness? Atlanta was nubby, but Miami was the nubbiest…”

Wincing, Judith arrived at Dade Costello’s elbow before he turned around. “I’m Judith Flynn,” she said, putting out a hand. “Your innkeeper.”

“That right?” Dade shook Judith’s hand without enthusiasm. Or maybe because he was so big, he’d learned to be gentle with somewhat smaller creatures.

“Yes.” Judith’s smile felt false. “I’m interested in the story behind
The Gasman
. Your story, that is.”

Dade’s ordinary features looked pained. He had bushy dark hair dusted with gray, and overly long sideburns. “It’s not my story,” he said, with a trace of the Old South in his voice.

“Oh.” Judith’s phony expression turned to genuine confusion. “I thought you wrote the script.”

“I did.” Dade stuck his hands in his pockets. “But the story isn’t the script.”

Judith waited for an explanation, but none was forthcoming. “You mean…you adapted the story?”

Dade nodded. “My script was based on a novel.”

“I see.” Judith understood that this was often the case. “Did the book have the same title?”

Again, Dade nodded, but offered no details. For a man of words, Dade Costello didn’t seem to have many at his command in a social situation. Maybe, Judith thought, that was why writers wrote instead of talked.

“I never heard of the book,” she admitted. “Was it published recently?”

This time, Dade shook his head. “No. It’s been around awhile.”

“Oh.” Now Judith seemed at a loss to make conversation. She was about to excuse herself when Dade rapped softly on one of the panes in the French doors.

“There’s a head in your backyard,” he said.

Judith gave a start. “What?”

Dade’s thumb gestured out past the porch that
flanked the rear of the house. “A head. It’s been sitting there for at least five minutes.”

Judith tried not to shriek. “Where?”

“There.” Dade pointed to a spot almost out of their line of vision. “See it? On top of those bushes.”

Judith stared. “Oh!” she exclaimed in relief. “That’s not a head, it’s my mother. I mean…” With a rattle of the handle, she opened the French doors. “Excuse me, I’d better see what she’s doing out there.”

Despite the rain, Gertrude wore neither coat nor head covering. She stood next to the lily-of-the-valley bush, leaning on her walker and panting. At the foot of the porch steps, Bruno Zepf hovered in the shelter of the eaves with his head cocked to one side.

“So,” Bruno was saying to Gertrude, “you actually survived the
Titanic’
s sinking?”

“You bet,” Gertrude replied, catching her breath. “It’s a good thing I could swim.”

“Mother!” Judith spoke sharply as she moved to take Gertrude’s arm. “It’s raining. What are you doing out here?” She darted a glance at Bruno. “Excuse me, Mr. Zepf, but my mother shouldn’t be outdoors without a coat or a rain hat. I’ll take her back inside.”

But Gertrude batted Judith’s hand away. “Stop that! I’m not finished yet with this fine young Hollywood fella.”

Bruno, however, held up a hand. “That’s all right, Mrs….?”

“Grover,” Gertrude put in and shook a crooked finger. “You remember that when you make the movie about me.”

Bruno forced a chuckle as Judith tried to move her
mother along the walk toward the toolshed. “The problem is,” Bruno called after them, “someone else already made a movie about the
Titanic
not very long ago.”

Gertrude refused to move another inch. “What?”

“Yes,” Bruno responded, backing up the porch steps. “It was a big success, an Oscar winner.”

“I’ll be,” Gertrude muttered, allowing Judith to make some progress past the small patio. Then the old lady suddenly balked and turned around to look at Bruno Zepf. “Hey! Did I tell you about being on the
Hindenburg
?”

“Keep moving,” Judith muttered. “We’re both getting wet.”

“You always were all wet,” Gertrude grumbled, but shuffled along the walk under her daughter’s guiding hand. “Who was that guy? Cecil B. DeMille?”

“No, Mother,” Judith replied as an agonized scream erupted from behind her. She turned to see Bruno Zepf clutching at the screen door and writhing like a madman.

“I can’t get in! I can’t get in!” he howled.

Abandoning Gertrude, Judith rushed to the back porch. “What’s wrong? What is it?”

Bruno swung his head to one side. “There! By your foot! It’s a spider! Help!”

Judith peered down at the tiny arachnid that was scooting toward the edge of the porch. A moment later the spider disappeared into the garden.

“It’s gone,” Judith said, over Bruno’s wails. “That is, the very small spider has left the building.”

Bruno’s head jerked up. “It has? Are you sure?”

Judith was about to reassure Bruno when Winifred,
with Dirk Farrar right behind her, opened the back door. Bruno all but collapsed into Winifred’s arms.

“What’s going on?” she demanded.

Judith grimaced. “Mr. Zepf saw a spider on the porch.”

“Oh, no!” Winifred looked aghast. Dirk snickered.

“Does Mr. Zepf have arachnophobia?” Judith asked as Bruno’s shudders subsided.

“Not exactly,” Winifred replied, patting Bruno on the back as if he were a frightened child. “They’re bad luck.” She managed to disentangle herself and took Bruno’s hand. “Come inside, it’s quite safe.”

Dirk lingered at the door. “Twerp,” he muttered. “Chickenhearted twerp.”

“Why are spiders bad luck?” Judith asked.

Dirk shrugged his broad shoulders. “Something to do with a spider during the shooting of Bruno’s first picture. Somehow, one got on the camera lens and ruined a perfect take. The crazy bastard’s never been the same since.” He stopped and turned quickly to look over his shoulder. No one was there. “Crazy like a fox, maybe I should say.” With another shrug, Dirk Farrar moved down the hallway.

Judith went back to the toolshed, where her mother was still standing in the doorway.

“What caused that commotion?” Gertrude asked in her raspy voice.

“The guest you were talking to doesn’t like spiders,” Judith explained, steering her mother inside. “He’s okay now. Say, what were you doing out in the rain? Were you trying to come into the house?”

“Of course not,” Gertrude huffed. “Why would I do that?”

Judith eased the old lady into the overstuffed chair behind the card table. “You do sometimes.”

“When Lunkhead’s not there, maybe,” Gertrude allowed, then gave Judith a sly look. “I don’t see his car. Maybe I wanted to meet those movie stars, like Francis X. Bushman and Clara Bow.”

Judith didn’t feel up to adding her mother to the already motley mix. “How about seeing them tomorrow when they’re all dressed up and ready to leave for the premiere?”

Gertrude flopped into the chair. “Tomorrow? I could be dead by tomorrow.”

“You won’t be,” Judith assured her mother. “Be-sides, not all of them have arrived yet.”

Judging from the pinched expression on Gertrude’s face, the effort to reach the house had tired her. “Well—okay. Who’s still coming? Theda Bara?”

Judith gave her mother’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Someone more recent. I’ll be back with your supper in just a bit.”

The truth was, Judith hadn’t even begun to prepare the family meal. Gertrude didn’t mind a TV dinner, but Joe was another matter. As soon as the hors d’oeuvres were served, she would start the evening meal.

Arlene, however, had already brought the appetizers out to the guests: crab cakes, mushrooms stuffed with shrimp, teriyaki beef on skewers, tea sandwiches with smoked salmon, and—courtesy of Bruno—an exotic caviar from a shop and a city Judith had never heard of.

“Thanks, Arlene,” Judith said when the two women were back in the kitchen. “You saved my life. Now I can get dinner.”

“No need,” Arlene said, opening the oven. “I made
a chicken casserole this afternoon. It’s heating right now. I put the green salad in the fridge. The homemade rolls can be heated up in five minutes.”

Judith beamed at her friend and neighbor. “Arlene, I could kiss you. In fact, I will.” She leaned forward and gave Arlene a big smack on the cheek.

“It’s nothing,” Arlene said, her expression suddenly gone sour as it always went when she was complimented for her charity. “I knew you’d have other things on your mind. By the way, the last guest just arrived. Serena took him upstairs to his room.”

“The director, Chips Madigan,” Judith murmured. “I’d better say hello.”

But Renie and Chips were already coming back down the stairs when Judith reached the entry hall.

“Hey, coz,” Renie called from over the balustrade, “meet the Boy Wonder of the movies.”

Startled by Renie’s familiarity with the famous director, Judith was even more startled to see the Boy Wonder. With his red hair, freckles, and gawky manner, Chips Madigan looked like a college freshman. Half stumbling down the stairs, he grinned at his hostess, put out a hand, and almost knocked over a vase of flowers with his elbow. He wore a viewfinder around his neck, which he put to his eyes as soon as he reached the landing.

“Wow!” Chips cried in excitement. “A great tracking shot into the living room. Bookcases, silver tea service, lace curtains—this angle reeks of atmosphere.” He let the viewfinder dangle from his neck and loped over to Judith.

“Hi,” he said with a big smile. “You’re Mrs. Flynn, right? This is one swell place you’ve got here.” Chips
got down on his haunches, the viewfinder again at his eyes. “Great elephant’s-foot umbrella stand. It doesn’t have a bad angle.”

Recalling the critical comments she’d overheard from some of the other guests, Judith grinned back. “Thank you, Mr. Madigan. I appreciate that.”

“Hey,” Chips responded, “my mom runs a bed-and-breakfast in Nebraska, right on the Missouri River. It’s an old farmhouse. I’ll bet the two of you would get along real well.”

“I’ll bet we would,” Judith agreed. Up close, she could see that Chips wasn’t as young as he looked. The red hair was thinning and there were fine lines around his eyes and mouth. Maybe behind the camera he coaxed rather than commanded his actors. Certainly he emanated no aura of Hollywood’s legendary directors. Judith found Chips Madigan’s friendly, boyish demeanor refreshing. Even endearing, she thought as he turned toward the living room, tripped on the Persian area rug, and sent his long, lanky frame sprawling across the floor.

“Whoa!” Chips cried. “You’d never know I got my start directing musicals!”

Though both Judith and Renie offered to help, he politely brushed off their outstretched hands and scrambled to an upright position on his own.

Judith noticed that none of the guests made the slightest move to aid their fallen comrade. Indeed, Chips Madigan’s unorthodox arrival was virtually ignored. Perhaps that was because Bruno Zepf was standing in front of the fireplace, obviously over his fright and looking like Napoleon about to rally his generals.

Chips, however, seemed undaunted. With a cocky air, he strolled into the living room and plopped down on the window seat next to Angela La Belle, who had also joined the company. At least three cell phones were swiftly turned off. Judith was beginning to wonder if the devices were permanently attached to their owners.

The director’s arrival was apparently a signal for Bruno to shift gears. He took a cigar out of the pocket of his denim shirt, rolled it around in his pudgy fingers, and stuck it in his mouth, unlit.

“We’re assembled here on an historic occasion in the annals of the motion-picture business.” The producer paused to gaze around the long living room, from the plate rails to the wainscoting. Several of his listeners’ expressions of distaste indicated that Hillside Manor wasn’t worthy of so momentous a pronouncement.

“As you all know,” he continued after a sip of the thirty-year-old Scotch he’d brought with him, “when I first conceived
The Gasman,
most people in the business told me it would be an impossible film to make. The scope was too big, the concept too ambitious, the goal too lofty, and the movie itself far too expensive given the audience we’re aiming for.” He paused again, this time gazing at the cousins, who were standing under the archway between the entry hall and the living room. “Excuse me, ladies. This is a private meeting. Do you mind?”