Silver Scream: A Bed-And-Breakfast Mystery (5 page)

An hour passed before Judith heard anyone stirring upstairs. Finally, Winifred Best appeared, her thin face drawn.

“Very black coffee, please. With heated rusk.”

Judith didn’t recall that rusk had been on the list of required grocery items. Still, Winifred wasn’t the first guest to ask for rusk instead of toast. With considerable effort, she got down on her knees and foraged in the cupboard next to the sink.

“Ah!” she exclaimed. “Here it is.” She got up slowly, which was fortunate because the temperamen
tal cupboard door had swung out on its own. Judith hit her head, but not very hard. Muffling a curse, she looked around for Joe, then remembered that he’d gone to the garage to tinker with his beloved MG.

“This coffee isn’t strong enough,” Winifred announced from the dining-room table. “Please make another pot, and double the amount.”

Winifred Best wasn’t the first demanding guest that Hillside Manor had ever hosted, so Judith calmly put a percolator on the stove. She kept reminding herself that the current visitors were no worse than many she’d had stay at the B&B. It just seemed that this bunch was a wide-screen version in Dolby sound.

Moments later the rusk had been warmed in the oven. Judith brought it out to the dining-room table.

“Has Mr. Zepf recovered from his latest fright?” she inquired.

“Yes,” Winifred responded, giving the rusk a suspicious look, “though the rubber spider was a bit much.”

“Do you know who put it in Mr. Zepf’s bed?”

Winifred shot Judith a withering glance. “I do not. Was it you?”

Judith recoiled. “Of course not! Why would I do such a thing?”

“Because,” Winifred said with ice in her voice, “no one else would dare.”

“Well, I certainly didn’t do it,” Judith huffed. “Nor would anyone else around here. In fact, my husband and I are the only residents in the house.”

“As you say.” Winifred took a small bite of rusk.

“The coffee will be ready shortly,” Judith said in stilted tones.

“I should hope so,” Winifred said. “Rusk is hard to
wash down with weak coffee. By the way,” she added as Judith started back to the kitchen, “we’ll bring the costumes down later so that you can press them.”

Judith turned on her heel. “I don’t do ironing. I have a cleaning woman who takes care of the laundry.”

“Where is she?” Winifred asked with a lift of her sharp chin.

“She doesn’t work weekends,” Judith replied, fighting down her annoyance. “If you want something pressed, you’ll have to take it up to the cleaners at the top of the hill.”

Winifred’s dark eyes snapped. “We’re not running errands. Since you don’t have a laundry service today and it seems you’re the innkeeper and concierge, taking care of the costumes falls on you. The costumes must be back by four. Don’t worry, you can send the bill to Bruno.”

For a long moment Judith stared at Winifred, who was again attired in Armani. Her only accessory was a slim gold bracelet on her left wrist. If she wore makeup, it was too discreet to be noticeable. Late thirties or maybe forty, Judith guessed, and a life that may have been difficult. The Hollywood part, anyway. Judith wondered what it was like for a woman—a black woman especially—to wield such power as assistant to the biggest producer in filmdom.

Nor were Winifred’s demands entirely outrageous. If it hadn’t been for Bruno’s superstition about staying in a B&B before a premiere, Winifred and the others would be ensconced in luxury at the Cascadia Hotel with every convenience at their fingertips.

“Okay,” Judith said. “I’ll take the stuff up to Arlecchino’s. It’s a costume shop, so they’ll know exactly
how to handle the garments and whatever other items need to be fluffed up.”

The faintest look of relief passed over Winifred’s face. “Thank you,” she said.

Judith thought the woman sounded almost sincere, though that was a word she knew she probably shouldn’t apply to anyone from Hollywood. The coffee, which looked strong enough to melt tires, was ready just as Chips Madigan loped into the dining room.

“Hey, Win, hey, Mrs. Flynn,” he said with a cheerful expression. “Hey—that rhymes! I should have been a writer, not a director.” Abruptly, the grin he’d been wearing turned down. “I guess,” he muttered, pulling out one of the chairs from Grandpa and Grandma Grover’s oak set, “I shouldn’t say stuff like that.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” Winifred said with a warning glance.

The guests trickled down for the next hour and a half, creating a frustrating breakfast service for Judith. Normally, she prepared three basic items and offered appropriate side dishes. But the menu requirements for the Hollywood people were vast and varied. Angela La Belle desired coconut milk, kiwi fruit, and yogurt. Dirk Farrar requested a sirloin steak, very rare, with raw eggplant and tomato slices. Ellie Linn ordered kippers on toast and Crenshaw melon. Ben Carmody preferred an omelette with red, green, and yellow peppers topped with Muenster cheese. An apparently restored Bruno Zepf downed a great many pills, which may or may not have been vitamins, shared the strong coffee with Winifred, and ate half a grapefruit and a slice of dry whole-wheat toast. Chips Madigan asked for cornflakes.

Dade Costello never showed. The moody screen-writer had gone for a walk, said Ellie Linn. He wasn’t hungry. Nobody seemed curious about his defection.

The omnipresent cell phones were in use again, especially by Bruno, Winifred, and Ben. Somehow they all seemed capable of talking to whoever was on the other end of the line and to members of the party at the table. Between rustling up the various breakfast items and making what seemed like a hundred trips in and out of the dining room, Judith caught snatches of conversation. Most of it dealt with the logistics of the premiere and how to deal with the media. It struck Judith that the only topic of conversation the group shared was the movie business. Maybe it was the only thing that really mattered to them. She tuned her guests out and got on with the task of running Hillside Manor.

As soon as she finished clearing up the kitchen, Judith called Renie. “Give me the details,” she requested. “Who’s marrying whom?”

An elaborate sigh went out over the phone line. “I’m not sure I’ve got all this straight myself. Tom’s fiancée is the daughter of a local Native American tribal chief. Her name’s Heather Twobucks, which is symbolic, since that’s about all the money Tom has managed to save over the years. But at least she’s got a job—she’s the attorney for the tribe.”

“That sounds very good,” Judith put in.

“She’s also one of seven kids and does most of her work pro bono,” Renie said. “As for Anne, the man of her dreams is in medical school. You know what that means. Anne will have to get a real job instead of making jewelry out of volcanic lava and selling it at street fairs.”

“Mmm—yes, she probably will,” Judith agreed. “What’s the future doctor’s name?”

“Odo Mann,” Renie replied. “She’ll become Anne Mann. Personally, I wouldn’t like that.”

“Mmm,” Judith repeated. “And Tony?”

Renie let out another big sigh. “Tony’s beloved just returned from Tangiers, where she was Doing Good. She works for a Catholic charity and makes just about enough to pay Tony’s monthly milk bill. She—her name is Cathleen Forte—wants Tony to join her in the leper colony over there.”

“Oh, dear.”

“That’s what I said,” Renie responded. “Except not quite those words and much louder. Bill’s in a daze.”

“Yes, I can see that he might be,” Judith allowed. “Have any of them set the date?”

“Not yet,” Renie said, “though Anne and Odo are talking about next spring.”

“That gives you some time,” Judith remarked.

“Time for what?” Renie demanded. “Time to kidnap our own children and seal them in the basement?”

“I mean,” Judith said, “to…um…get used to the idea.”

“You’re no help,” Renie snapped. “I’m hanging up now. Then maybe I’ll hang myself.” The phone went dead in Judith’s ear.

It was noon before Winifred began bringing the costumes downstairs. Judith was astonished by the detail. They had come, Winifred informed her, from one of the big L.A. rental warehouses that stocked thousands of garments, many of them worn in movies from fifty and sixty years ago and lovingly restored.

“Bruno and I considered using the costumes from
The Gasman,
” she explained, “but only Angela, Ben, Dirk, and Ellie appear in the film. We could have drawn from Wardrobe’s collection for bit players and extras, but we decided it would make a statement if we used older costumes. More in keeping with the picture’s theme, you see.”

Judith thought she recognized Ellie’s outfit. It looked very much like one of Elizabeth Taylor’s gorgeous gowns in
Cleopatra
. Angela’s was familiar, too, though seen only briefly on the screen—Scarlett O’Hara’s honeymoon ensemble from
Gone With the Wind
.

Pointing to the flowing robes and burnoose for Bruno, Judith made a guess:
“Lawrence of Arabia?”

“Khartoum,”
Winifred replied.

“Is this yours?” Judith gestured at a nun’s white habit.

“Yes.” Winifred’s expression was rueful. “It’s a generic nun’s costume, depicting the growth of the monastic movement. We’re representing the eras the movie focuses on. I preferred wearing something closer to my own heritage, maybe Muslim dress, from the period of Muhammad. But Bruno insisted that
he
be Muhammad.” She waved a slim hand at the
Khartoum
robes. “So I end up being a nun, and I’m not even Catholic.”

“I am,” Judith said, “and I think it’s a lovely habit. Very graceful. You’ll look terrific.”

Winifred gave an indifferent shrug. “Whatever. Dirk Farrar symbolizes the early Renaissance while showing off his manly physique in that silver-and-gold-slashed doublet and tights. Tyrone Power wore it, I
think. The less lavish doublet and the fur-trimmed sur-coat came from an MGM historical epic. Or maybe it was Fox. Dade Costello’s wearing that for the era of the printing press. The nineteenth-century frock coat and top hat belong to Ben Carmody. The industrial revolution, of course. And Chips Madigan gets to dress as the computer whiz kid.”

Judith smiled at the suntan pants, the flannel shirt, the horn-rimmed spectacles, and the box of Twinkies. Living in the land of Microsweet, she was familiar with the outfit.

“What about the rest of the movie company? What will they wear?” she asked.

“Whatever suits
The Gasman,
” Winifred replied. “We left everybody else pretty much on their own. They’ll conform, of course.”

The statement seemed to reflect the general attitude of Bruno Zepf’s circle. Winifred had no need to add, “Or else.”

Pointing at a stack of garment bags that lay on the living-room floor, Winifred commented, “We’ll put them in those. Remember, they have to be back by four o’clock. The premiere is at six.”

Carefully, Judith picked up the Scarlett O’Hara costume. “I understand that the ball is at ten. What time do you think you’ll be back here for the midnight supper?” She dreaded the idea of putting on such a late event, but Bruno had consented to pay an extra two grand, and Judith couldn’t refuse the money.

“A midnight supper is just that,” Winifred replied, tucking her nun’s habit into one of the garment bags. “We should return shortly before twelve.”

Judith gave an absent nod as she fumbled with the
silks and taffeta that made up Angela’s post–Civil War era gown.

“Careful!” Winifred cried. “Watch out for the decorative trim!”

“Right, okay,” Judith agreed. “Maybe I should turn it over to protect the front of the outfit.”

Since Winifred didn’t argue, Judith did just that. And stared.

The long black-and-white silk skirt and taffeta petticoat had been slashed in a half-dozen places from the waist to the hem.

Winifred screamed.

Judith couldn’t stop staring, but a cold shiver crawling up her spine set off a familiar, terrifying alarm.

“W
IN
?”

Ellie Linn was standing at the bottom of the stairs, gazing into the living room. She saw Judith and Winifred’s horror-stricken faces, and moved quickly, if softly, to join them.

“What’s wrong?” Ellie glanced down at the torn costume. “Oh, wow, that looks bad! What happened?”

Winifred was kneeling on the floor, pounding her fists on the carpet. “Sabotage, that’s what happened! Angela’s gown is ruined! Who would do such a thing?”

Ellie rocked back and forth in her expensive cross-trainers. She was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved tee that didn’t quite cover her midriff. Judith figured her for a size three at most.

“Golly, I don’t know,” Ellie said, gazing at the ceiling. “Couldn’t Angela wear a bedsheet, cut two eyeholes in it, and go as a ghost?”

“Ellie!” Winifred’s voice was sharp, then she turned to Judith. “Do you think your local costume shop could fix this?”

Judith studied the garment. “They’d have to replace the overskirt. I’ll ask them.”

“The skirt—or what’s left of it—will have to be saved,” Winifred declared, finally regaining control of her emotions. “It’s the original.” She paused, tapping a finger against her smooth cheek. “Yes, maybe an over-skirt will do. But make sure it matches.”

Judith promised that she would. “By the way,” she asked, “were these costumes still in Bruno’s room where I had the UPS man deliver them?”

“Yes,” Winifred replied. “He was the only one who had enough space.”

Ellie was kneeling down to study her
Cleopatra
outfit. “You know, this really looks okay,” she observed. “Don’t you love the gilded headdress? It’ll look way cool with my long black hair.” For emphasis, she ran a hand through her raven tresses. “Hey, Win, where are the masks?”

“They’re still in Bruno’s room,” Winifred said, exhibiting the delicacy of a neurosurgeon in placing the damaged Scarlett O’Hara costume into a garment bag. “The masks are ready. Yours is marked with your name on the inside.”

“Great.” Ellie stood up. “Wow”—she giggled—“Angela’s going to be wild! I’ll tell her what happened to her costume. You know—it’ll save you the trouble, Win.” This time, her giggle sounded slightly sinister as she headed for the entry hall.

“Ellie,” Winifred called after her, “don’t be mean! Angela has enough problems as it is.”

Halfway up the stairs, Ellie leaned over the banister. “Hey, Win, that’s not entirely my fault, is it?” The young actress skipped up the steps, long hair swinging behind her.

“I suppose,” Judith said in a musing tone as she put
Dirk Farrar’s doublet and hose into another garment bag, “there’s bound to be jealousy between actresses like Ellie and Angela.”

Winifred shot Judith a sidelong look. “Oh, yes. You’ve no idea.”

Judith dared to risk a thorny question: “Enough that Ellie would slash Angela’s gown?”

“No,” Winifred said flatly. “Ellie Linn doesn’t have to resort to cheap stunts like that.”

Emboldened, Judith was about to ask why not when Renie gave a shout from the kitchen.

“I’m here. I’m early. I’m out of my mind.”

Judith looked at her cousin, who had come into the hallway and definitely appeared a little deranged. Her hair, which was rarely combed unless she was attending a business meeting or a social event, was going off in every direction of the compass. A smudge of dirt stood out on one cheek and a pair of red socks peeked through the holes in her shoes. Even the ratty-sweatshirt-and-baggy-pants combination that made up Renie’s working ensemble was more disreputable than usual. And old. The sweatshirt featured the Minnesota Twins World Series victory in 1991.

“Good grief,” Judith breathed, “you do look sort of awful.”

“I know.” Renie, who was carrying a large suitcase, offered Winifred a desultory wave. “I had to get out of the house. The children are arguing about who should get married first. Bill left early for a very long walk, maybe all the way to Wisconsin.”

Judith pointed to the suitcase. “Is that your costume?”

“Mine and Bill’s,” Renie replied. “We dumped the
pumpkin idea. Bill’s glasses kept getting steamed up. Oh!” she exclaimed, showing a spark of animation. “Look at those costumes. They’re beautiful, and they look familiar.”

Judith and Winifred explained how and why the costumes had been chosen, then told Renie about the damage that had been done to Angela’s.

Renie was genuinely upset. “That’s horrible. Bill and I watched a special on TV a while ago about movie costume restoration. It was criminal the way so many of those gorgeous outfits had been left to deteriorate and rot. If I hadn’t become a graphic artist, I might have been a costume or a dress designer.”

“Then maybe you can help your sister here with getting these costumes to wherever she’s taking them,” Winifred said briskly. “It’s almost twelve-thirty. We don’t have much time, especially if Angela’s is to be ready.”

Renie had bristled over the commanding tone in Winifred’s voice, but Judith intervened, putting a hand on her cousin’s arm.

“We’re not sisters,” she explained with a smile. “We’re cousins. But we’ve always been as close as sisters. Closer, perhaps, without the sibling rivalry.”

“Lovely,” Winifred remarked, putting the last costume into a bag. “I’ll see you later.” She marched toward the stairs and out of sight.

Driving to the top of Heraldsgate Hill, Judith allowed Renie two minutes to vent her ire about Winifred’s high-handed manner. As they unloaded the car in Arlecchino’s small parking lot, Judith gave her cousin another three minutes to complain about the Jones children. Then Judith insisted that Renie stay in
the car while she dealt with the costume store’s owner. The cautions about the valuable ensembles and the discussion of how to repair Angela’s Scarlett O’Hara gown took a full ten minutes. By the time she got back to her Subaru, Renie was fuming again.

“You should have let me help you in there,” Renie declared. “I’m not exactly a dunce when it comes to color and fabric.”

“No, you’re not,” Judith acknowledged, “but it would have taken twice as long with two of us. Time is of the essence. Besides, I want to tell you about some weird things that have been happening. Let’s drive to Moonbeam’s, where we won’t be overheard by my very peculiar guests.”

Moonbeam’s, however, was jammed and there were no empty parking spots. On the Saturday before Halloween, the Heraldsgate Hill merchants had opened their doors to all the trick-or-treaters in the area.

“I could have told you that,” Renie grumbled. “While I was wasting away in the car, I counted eight Harry Potters, four bunny rabbits, six fairy princesses, three crocodiles, and two skunks. Not to mention assorted ghosts, witches, and skeletons. This part of the avenue is a zoo—almost literally.”

Judith, who was stalled at the four-way stop between Moonbeam’s and Holliday’s Pharmacy, watched the passing parade in awe. Not only were the children—from infants to teenagers—in costume, but so were many of the parents. Adults dressed as prima ballerinas, football players, sheikhs, African warriors, Argentine gauchos, and a very realistic-looking gorilla were strolling the sidewalks and filling the crosswalks along with their offspring.

“I forgot about all this,” Judith said. “They only started doing it a couple of years ago. I guess I’ve been too caught up with my guests to think much about Halloween.”

“You’d better have treats in store for tonight,” Renie said. “I understand some of the kids will be going out a day early because Sunday is a school night.”

“I bought all my candy a week or so ago,” Judith replied. “Hey, where are we headed?”

“Let’s go down to the bottom of the hill,” Renie suggested. “I haven’t had lunch. How about you?”

“I forgot about lunch,” Judith admitted. “Okay, I’ll turn off by M&M Meats and we’ll take the back way out of here.”

Ten minutes later, the cousins were sitting in a wooden booth at T. S. McSnort’s. Even there a handful of customers were dressed for the holiday.

“Would it be terrible to have a drink?” Judith asked. “I could use one.”

“So could I,” Renie responded. “It’s been a rough outing at our house the past few hours.”

The cousins ordered screwdrivers, telling themselves that the orange juice would provide them with a healthy dose of vitamin C. To Judith’s surprise, Renie didn’t even bother to study the menu.

“Aren’t you hungry?” Judith asked. Renie was always hungry. Her metabolism could have permitted her to gobble up at least two aisles of Falstaff’s Grocery in a single day.

Renie shook her head. “I’ve lost my appetite. Besides, Bill and I can’t afford food anymore. We have to pay for all of Anne’s wedding and pony up for our share of Tom and Tony’s. Are you forgetting how
Kristin’s parents tried to fleece you and Joe when Mike got married?”

Judith hadn’t forgotten, but as usual, she tried to be charitable. “I think it was mostly a misunderstanding.”

“Ha.” Renie looked up as their waitress brought the drinks and asked if they wished to order their meal. “I’m having just a cup of clam chowder,” Renie said.

Judith quickly perused the menu. “That sounds good. Your chowder is so delicious. I’ll have the small Caesar with it.”

Renie looked at the waitress again. “Yes, I should eat some greens. I’ll have the Caesar, too. You can put smoked prawns on it along with the anchovies. Oh, and maybe I’ll make that a
bowl
of chowder.”

The curly-haired waitress smiled. “Got it. Anything else?”

Judith shook her head, but Renie held up a hand. “How about the lox platter with the thin slices of rye and onion and cream cheese and capers? That should give me some strength.”

“Gee,” Judith said as the waitress trotted off, “I’m glad you’re not hungry.”

“I’m not.” Renie sighed. “But I can’t allow myself to become frail. Now tell me what’s going on at the B&B.”

Judith complied, relating the rubber-spider incident as well as the quarrel between Dade Costello and Chips Madigan.

“Chips?” Renie said. “He doesn’t seem like a fighter.”

“He’s tougher than he looks,” Judith said. “He has to be, to deal with all those inflated egos when he’s directing a movie.”

Renie tipped her head to one side in a gesture of assent. “Could you catch any of the exchange between Chips and Dade?”

“Not much,” Judith admitted. “It sounded as if they might be arguing about the script. They disagreed about something or other. Maybe interpretation? Would that make sense?”

“Yes,” Renie said slowly, “it could. Dade told me
The Gasman
is based on a novel.”

“He told me the same thing.” Judith paused as the salads arrived and the waitress sprinkled black pepper over them. “Have you ever heard of it?”

“No,” Renie replied, attacking a plump pink prawn. “I got the impression it was published years ago.”

“The concept for the movie sounds kind of weird,” Judith said, “though I’m no film expert.”

Renie nodded. “I thought so, too. But I guess we’d have to see it first. Bruno Zepf is a remarkable film-maker. Remember his last movie,
They All Had Influenza
?”

“I remember when it came out,” Judith said, savoring the tangy dressing on her salad. “But I didn’t see it.”

“Neither did I,” Renie responded, buttering a slice of Irish soda bread. “I heard it was a big hit, though, and I think the critics liked it. It was about the terrible flu epidemic of 1918, with imagery of the Black Death. Or so Bill told me. He watched it on video one night while I was at a baby shower for one of Anne’s girlfriends.” Renie’s face fell. “Oh, gosh—do you suppose I’ll end up being a grandmother after all?”

“Why so glum?” Judith queried as the rest of their order arrived. “I thought you envied my status.”

“I did. I do.” Renie sprinkled salt and pepper on her bowl of chowder, then broke up a handful of water crackers. “It’s just that…it’s kind of a shock somehow. All of this is a shock,” she said, dumping the crackers into the chowder. “What if our kids all get married at once?”

“That would save money,” Judith said dryly.

Renie brightened. “That’s a great idea. It would cut down on arrangements, too. Anne’s already talking about where she wants to have the reception.”

“Are you going to suggest a triple wedding?” Judith asked.

Renie grimaced. “It sounds a little like the Reverend Moon extravaganzas. I don’t know that the kids would go for it.”

“It’s an idea,” Judith said as a familiar figure at the bar caught her eye. “Hey—coz,” she said in a whisper, “turn around as discreetly as you can to see who just showed up for a drink.”

“Let’s try this,” Renie said, dumping her knife on the floor. “I prefer using my hands when I eat anyway.” She bent down to pick up the knife, then glanced up to see Ben Carmody a mere ten feet away.

“Why isn’t he swilling down Bruno’s expensive stash of alcohol at the B&B?” Judith murmured, noticing that some of the other customers were trying not to stare at Ben. “Why is he here, alone?”

“Because,” Renie replied, loading a slice of rye with lox, “he wants to be just that—alone. You know, like Garbo.”

“I suppose.” Judith kept her eye on the actor. “He’s ordering what looks like straight vodka. Two, in fact. Uh-oh. Here comes Ellie Linn. Now what?”

“Maybe the second vodka is for her,” Renie suggested.

Between bites of salad and spoonfuls of chowder, Judith watched the couple at the bar, who were now being eyeballed by at least a dozen other customers. Typical of a city known for its good manners, none of the oglers approached the famous pair.

A glass of white wine was placed before Ellie; Ben downed both shots of vodka.

“They’re having a very serious conversation,” Judith said. “I’m trying to read their body language. Oddly enough, Ellie seems to be in control. She’s all business. That strikes me as peculiar. I figure her for no more than twenty or twenty-two at most.”

Renie had lapped up her chowder and almost finished the lox plate. “The control factor is money,” she said. “Her dad, Heathcliffe MacDermott, is the hot-dog king, remember? I heard he put money into
The Gasman
.”

“Why? To ensure that Ellie got a good part?”