Mayne has the burden of trying to make everything
sound as if Bruno died for Art.”
“Hunh?” Judith dropped her hands.
Joe shrugged, then opened the fridge and took out a
beer. “You know—that Bruno was so disturbed over
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the possibility of failure that it broke his heart. He’d
striven to be the best in his chosen profession, and anything less than a total triumph was too terrible to face.
Blah-blah.”
“So they think it was an accident?” Judith asked as
she heard footsteps climbing the main staircase.
“They want it to be more than an accident,” Joe said
as Bill also came into the kitchen, carrying a small
notepad. “They want it to be a Greek tragedy. It plays
better that way, as Dade Costello pointed out during
the powwow. Morris Mayne was all for it.”
“What’s the official news release?” Renie inquired.
“Go scavenge for it after they’ve cleared the area,”
Joe suggested. “Bill and I could hear the ripping and
tearing of many sheets of paper. Maybe you’ll find
what’s close to a finished product.”
Bill was now at the fridge, perusing its contents.
“They issued an earlier statement, but it sounded very
terse.” He paused, scowling at the shelves. “Don’t you
have any weird pop?”
Judith knew that Bill preferred oddly flavored sodas
that came in strangely decorated bottles. “Not really,”
she said.
“Oh.” Bill firmly closed the refrigerator door.
“Maybe I’ll just have a glass of water.”
He was turning on the faucet when Eugenia Fleming barged into the kitchen.
“Do you people know how to keep your mouths
shut?” she demanded.
“No,” Renie shot back.
“Yes,” Judith said, giving Renie a dirty look. “I assume you’re referring to the media?”
“Of course,” Eugenia replied with a scornful glance
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at Renie. “Morris is very concerned that we can’t keep
the lid on this location much longer.”
Joe stepped forward to face Eugenia, who met him
at eye level. “Are you saying,” he inquired, “that
there’s been no leak as to where the non–Cascadia
Hotel guests are staying or where Bruno died?”
“That’s so,” interjected Morris Mayne, who had
come up behind Eugenia like a small caboose following a large locomotive. “But eventually they’ll put two
and two together. I’m sure they’ve checked out most of
the hotels by now. Eventually, they’ll get to the bedand-breakfasts. Once they tie in the emergency calls
that have been made from here, they’re bound to show
up en masse.”
Joe tipped his head to one side. “So?”
“So,” Eugenia said, rising up on her tiptoes to look
down at Joe, “we must insist on the utmost discretion—indeed, total silence—from all of you.”
“Fine,” Joe said.
Morris peeked out from behind Eugenia. “Really?”
Joe was nonchalant. “Sure.”
Bill moved closer to Joe. “I have a question.”
Both Eugenia and Morris looked surprised. “What
is that?” Eugenia asked.
“Why should we keep quiet? It hardly matters to my
wife and me what the media might learn from us.”
Bill’s voice was, as ever, very deliberate. “Mrs. Jones
and I could sell information about all these Hollywood
shenanigans for quite a big sum.”
Renie’s eyes practically bugged out. “We could?”
“Of course,” Bill replied. “Especially to the tabloids.”
Judith and Joe exchanged uneasy glances. Morris
seemed stunned. Eugenia was growing red in the face.
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“You wouldn’t dare!” she exclaimed. “Aren’t these
people your friends?” She waved a big arm in the
Flynns’ direction. “Do you know what legal straits they
might be in?”
Bill looked unfazed. “They’re not friends, they’re
water. “What about a compromise? Why don’t you let
us in on what you know about anyone who might have
had a motive to kill Bruno? Why not be up-front about
Angela’s drug habit? Why not”—the next word
seemed to gag Bill, who despised buzz-words—
“share?”
Eugenia whirled on Bill, who didn’t budge. “That’s
blackmail! What right do you have to ask such a thing?
Can you imagine the legal steps we could take to silence you?”
“My brother, Bub, is a lawyer,” Bill said quietly.
“Or maybe that wasn’t a threat?”
Joe, who along with Judith was looking relieved
now that Bill had tipped his hand, was nodding sagely.
“I think this is a good idea.” He gestured expansively.
“Take a seat. We’ll talk.”
“No, we won’t,” Eugenia retorted. “At least not until
we’ve consulted our legal counsel. Who, I might add,
is waiting for us in the limousine. We’re going back to
the hotel.” She turned abruptly, almost knocking Morris over.
“Have your suit call our suit,” Bill said as the pair
departed. “Bub’s number is—”
“That’s great, Bill.” Renie could barely contain herself. She was leaning against the fridge, holding her
sides. “You’ve got them worried.”
“They should be,” Bill said in a mild tone. “But I’d
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195
have preferred that they give us some information on
the spot.”
Judith heard the door slam. “Tell us what you overheard from the parlor,” she urged.
Joe sat down at the kitchen table. Bill got out his
notepad.
“As we mentioned,” Joe began, “it was mostly spindoctor stuff. They talked more about how to make it
seem as if Bruno was such a dedicated artist that he
couldn’t survive failure. Eugenia—being Bruno’s
agent—was for that, but there was some disagreement,
especially when they discussed whether or not The
Gasman should be salvaged.”
“Could it be?” Renie asked.
“Maybe,” Bill put in. “They’d have to cut the running time by almost half. As it is, the film’s not only a
flop, but it’s a distribution nightmare. At four hours,
that means only one showing a night per house. That’s
economically unfeasible.”
“So they wouldn’t make a profit?” queried Judith.
“Not in domestic theaters,” Bill responded, also sitting down. “But these days there are all the ancillary
rights. There are so many other markets—offshore,
cable TV, syndication, merchandising tie-ins. A movie
can lose money in this country and still turn a profit.
Not to mention that the studio could cut back on its advertising and promotion. I suspect they intended to
spend huge sums before the general release.”
Joe sipped his beer before he spoke. “You sure know
a hell of a lot about Hollywood for a psychologist.”
Bill shrugged. “Cinema is bot
h a reflection of and
an influence on contemporary life. Besides, I just like
movies.”
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Mary Daheim
Judith, however, was looking for a more personal
angle. “What about reactions? Did you catch any remarks or attitudes that might indicate animosity
toward Bruno?”
“Plenty,” Joe replied, “but nothing I’d call suspicious. Dade complained about what Bruno had done to
the script. He also griped that Chips Madigan hadn’t
directed the movie the way the script indicated. Chips
accused Dade of screwing up the original work.” Joe
glanced at Judith. “That must have been the book you
saw upstairs, The Gasman novel.”
“Did you find it?” Judith asked, having forgotten
that she’d told Joe to look for it in Room Three.
“Yes,” Joe answered. “I put it in a drawer by your
computer. Anyway,” he continued, “Dade reminded
Chips that a movie is not a book. They started to get
into it, but Vito cut them off.”
“That,” Bill put in, “was when Ben Carmody declared that the whole thing was a mistake from the
start. He insisted that the movie would never have been
made if Bruno hadn’t been able to con a huge investment out of Heathcliffe MacDermott in order to boost
his daughter Ellie’s career.”
“I’m sorry,” Judith broke in, “but I don’t understand
how the financing works. If Bruno is an independent
producer, how does the studio get involved?”
As was his fashion, Bill waited to organize his
thoughts. Renie, who was long accustomed to her husband’s methodical and precise mental processes,
climbed up on the kitchen counter, popped the top on
another Pepsi, and settled in for the long haul.
“Usually,” Bill finally said, “it works this way: A
producer like Bruno never invests his own money.
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197
Let’s say he’s already nailed down at least one big
bankable star. Dirk Farrar, in this case. Maybe the estimated budget is seventy million dollars. He—
Bruno—then goes to Paradox Studios and says he’s
got a project and he’s got a star. Dirk’s name is worth,
say, twenty million at the box office. Paradox says
okay, we’ll get our investors to come up with another
thirty million, then you—Bruno—raise the rest of it.
Bruno goes to private investors, in this case because of
the connection with Ellie Linn, he asks Heathcliffe
MacDermott for ten million. The other ten million he
gets from other sources—German businessmen,
Japanese investors, Italian bankers. I mention those
three countries because they’re big moviegoers. The
studio then says they want him to use one of their directors—maybe Chips Madigan—and one of their
stars—Ben Carmody, perhaps—plus a cinematographer, a writer, an editor, some other actors already
under contract to the studio. They’ll share the profits
with Bruno and they’ll handle distribution. Thus,
they’re ready to roll.”
“The Gasman had a hundred-million-dollar budget,”
Joe remarked. “Isn’t that kind of high? And didn’t
Chips Madigan mention going over budget?”
“Did he?” Bill frowned. “Yes, you’re right. I think I
read something about that while the picture was being
made. Did Chips give a reason?”
Joe scratched his head. “I didn’t catch all of what
Chips said. He was toward the other end of the room,
by the bookcases. Dade, who always assumes his
stance by the French doors, was even harder to hear.
But I think—in essence—Chips put the blame on
Bruno for shooting some of the scenes over again.”
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Mary Daheim
“That’s possible,” Bill allowed. “If that’s the case,
Bruno would have had to scrounge up more money to
make the revised budget. The next thing I have in my
notes is that Winifred broke in saying that Bruno had
so much clout in the industry that he would have been
green-lighted for any project. A number of people
would back him because of his track record. Naturally,
Eugenia Fleming agreed.”
“How did Ellie react to all this?” Judith queried.
“She kept her mouth shut,” Joe said. “In fact, she
sort of simpered.”
Judith gave her husband a skeptical look. “You
could hear simpering through the parlor door?”
“It was open a crack,” Joe replied. “Besides, she
was standing next to it, fiddling with the CDs by the
stereo.”
Judith sighed. “This isn’t very helpful.”
“We did our best,” Joe said with a touch of sarcasm.
Renie also seemed disappointed. “That’s it?”
Bill carefully went through his notes. “There were
undertones, of course.”
Joe gave a little shake of his head. “Maybe so.
That’s your department, Bill. We cops tend to stick to
the facts. But since it’s you, go ahead. At least it’ll
please my wife.”
Judith shot her husband a dirty look. “You’ve certainly never been one to credit my intuition.”
“Intuition doesn’t hold up in court,” Joe pointed out.
Judith sniffed, then turned to Bill. “I’ll take all the
undertones I can get.”
“Let me see.” He studied the notepad pages for
some time. “What’s missing is interaction between the
absentees—Dirk and Angela—and the others. Ellie
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199
made a couple of cracks about both of them. Only
Chips was inclined to defend them, though he wasn’t
very enthusiastic.”
“Are Dirk and Angela lovers?” Renie asked.
“Probably,” Bill replied, “though what that means in
Hollywood these days, I couldn’t say. They may have
been sleeping together just for the fun of it while they
were here. You have to allow for a certain amount of
old-fashioned promiscuity.”
“What about the cocaine?” Judith inquired. “Was
that mentioned?”
“Only in passing,” Bill responded, “though there
was a cryptic remark made by Morris. When someone . . .” He addressed his notes. “It was Ben Carmody
who said maybe Angela had learned her lesson. Morris agreed, observing that as they all knew, three times
could be a charm.”
“Curious,” Judith murmured.
“Come on, Bill,” Renie urged, “you know darned
well you’ve got some other information tucked away.”
“I’m sifting it,” Bill said, putting the notepad back
in his pocket.
“As usual,” Renie remarked, accustomed to her husband’s cautious but thorough approach to the deductive
process.
Judith started for the kitchen’s swinging doors. “I’m
going to look for the news-release drafts before the
guests come down to leave for dinner.” She glanced
back at the old school clock. “It’s almost four. They
should be a while.”
Renie followed her cousin out to the living room,
which was uncharacte
ristically untidy. As Joe had reported, there had been much tearing of legal pads, ac- 200
Mary Daheim
companied, no doubt, by a certain amount of tearing of
hair. There were also empty springwater bottles and a
few glasses, the latter apparently used for beverages
foraged from the liquor supply in the washstand. The
buffet had been raided, too, with the last of Joe’s bakery goods reduced to crumbs. Someone had removed
several paperback books and left them scattered
around the window seat. Magazines from the coffee
table had been dumped on the carpet, and a stack of
tapes and CDs were lying by the stereo.
“Spoiled brats,” Judith muttered, picking up some
of the litter before perusing the discarded sheets of yellow paper.
“I’ll help,” Renie offered, already gathering up the
books by the bay window.
“These people must never wait on themselves,” Judith groused. “Frankly, I think it’d be awful to live like
that. No wonder they get bored and take drugs. They’d
be better off using a dust mop.”
Renie had replaced the books and was now collecting the tapes and CDs. “Gosh, coz, some of these
recordings are kind of old. Since when do you listen to
heavy metal?”
“I don’t,” Judith responded, brushing crumbs from
the matching sofas. “Half of those tapes and CDs are
Mike’s. He says he’s outgrown most of them, but when
I asked why he doesn’t throw them out or give them
away, he says someday he might want to hear them
again. Of course he doesn’t have room to store them up
at the cabin.” She sounded put-upon.
“He might be able to sell them,” Renie said, glancing at some of the labels. “A few of them are real classics.” She held up a tape. “Remember the Demures?
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They had one huge hit, ‘Come Play with Me’—it’s on
this—and then the group fell out of sight.”
“I vaguely remember it,” Judith replied. “Didn’t the
lead singer have an unusual name?”
Renie peered at the tape. “Ramona Pomona. I hope
it wasn’t her real name. The two backup singers
were . . . Hunh.” Her eyes widened.
“What?” Judith inquired, pausing on her way to the
kitchen with an armful of glasses and water bottles.
Renie gave Judith a curious look. “The backups are
Jolene DuBois and Winnie Lou Best. What do you
make of that, coz?”
“I’m not sure,” Judith said slowly. “It may be a coincidence. Is there a picture of the group?”