“Yes,” Renie replied, “but it’s small and not very
good. The girls all have their mouths open—presumably singing—and are waving their arms.”
Judith moved next to Renie and looked over her
cousin’s shoulder. “You’re right. Three dark-skinned
girls with bouffant black hair. Let’s see the liner notes.”
“If you can believe them,” Renie cautioned.
But the information was brief and not very enlightening. “It says,” Judith read after taking the small
folder from Renie, “that Ramona, Jolene, and Winnie
Lou grew up together in Compton, California, and
started singing in their high-school glee club before
forming their own group. They got their first big break
when they were discovered at a high-school dance in
Glendale. The trio, and I’m quoting now, toured for
two years as the opening act for several of the biggest
names in the business before becoming headliners in
1978. This is their debut album, featuring the red-hot
single . . . et cetera.” Judith examined the notes closely.
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“This is copyright 1979. Mike would have been
twelve. How old do you figure Winifred is now?”
Renie screwed up her face. “It’s hard to tell. Fortyish? She would have been in her late teens back then.
But maybe it’s not her.”
“And if it is,” Judith noted as she slipped the liner
notes back inside the plastic tape container, “so what?”
“So how do you go from being Ramona Pomona’s
backup with one hit single to Bruno Zepf’s assistant?”
Renie mused.
“Over twenty years,” Judith said. “A lot of things
can happen in that time, especially in a place like Hollywood.”
“There’s one way to find out,” Renie said.
“How?”
“We could ask Winifred.”
“Oh.” Judith felt almost disappointed. “We could at
that. I’ll do it now, before they leave for dinner.”
After depositing the dirty glasses and garbage in the
kitchen, she headed up the main staircase for the second floor. Winifred was in Room One just off the landing.
A double rap on the door brought an immediate response. Judith was relieved; it seemed as if every time
she knocked on a door, an anxiety attack ensued.
“What is it?” Winifred asked in an irritable tone.
“I wanted to show you something,” Judith said,
clasping the tape in her hand. “It’ll take just a moment.”
Warily, Winifred opened the door a scant four
inches. She was wearing her dark blue bathrobe and
her face was covered with cream. “What is it?” she repeated.
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203
Judith wore her most ingratiating expression. “I
think my son may be a fan of yours. Or at least he was
several years ago.” She opened her hand to reveal the
tape. “Is this you?”
Winifred recoiled. “Oh, my God! Where did you get
that?”
“It was in our collection,” Judith replied equably.
“Mike—my son—left some of his belongings here
with us.”
“You’re lying.” The astonishment on Winifred’s
face had been superseded by a steely-eyed look.
“Where did you really get that?”
“I told you,” Judith persisted, “in with our other
recordings in the living room.”
“That’s impossible. This tape’s a demo. It was never
released.” Without opening the door further, Winifred’s
slim arm reached out to grab the tape.
But Judith pulled her hand back. “I’m sorry. I don’t
understand. Is this you on the tape? Is that why you’re
upset?”
But Winifred’s lips clamped shut as she slammed
the door in Judith’s face.
THIRTEEN
JUDITH STOOD ROOTED To the spot, staring at the tape
in her hand. She jumped when Chips Madigan came
into the hall, apparently heading for the bathroom
between Rooms Three and Four.
“Whoa!” he called, a bath towel slung over the
terrycloth robe that reached to his knees. “Sorry.
Did I scare you?”
“Startled is more like it,” Judith said with a weak
smile. “I was lost in thought.”
Chips half knelt to frame Judith’s stance by
Winifred’s room. “ ‘Shaken innkeeper, anxious about
guest, medium shot.’ ” He stood up and moved
nearer. “ ‘Close-up of innkeeper, looking weary and
somewhat distraught.’ How am I doing?”
“Better than I am,” Judith answered, keeping her
voice down. “How much do you know about
Winifred’s background?”
Chips fingered the towel. “Not much. I mean,
she’s been with Bruno a long time. As far as I
know, she started working for him nine, ten years
ago, after he made his first hit, No Prunes for Pru-
dence. That was the small-budget independent pic- SILVER SCREAM
205
ture that won a film-festival prize at PAW in Iowa
City.”
Judith was puzzled. “PAW?”
Chips nodded. “It’s called THAW nowadays. I’m
not sure what it stands for.”
Judith hesitated before posing another question.
Judging from his youthful appearance, she assumed he
was in the same thirty-to thirty-five age group as
Mike. “Do you remember the Demures?” she asked,
holding out the tape.
Chips looked bemused. “Yes . . . yes, I do. They had
a big hit . . . What was it called?”
“ ‘Come Play with Me,’ ” Judith responded. “It’s on
this tape.”
“Right.” The director beamed at Judith. “It was a
single, really popular the year I graduated from high
school. We wanted to play it at our senior prom, but the
principal wouldn’t let us. It was kind of raunchy for
those days. I grew up in a typical Midwestern town,
sort of straitlaced. You know what they say—change
starts on the coasts, and it takes a long time to get to
the middle.”
Judith smiled back. “One of the singers was named
Winnie Lou Best. Do you think that’s a coincidence?”
“Winnie Lou . . .” Chips repeated, then slapped a
hand to his head. “You mean as in Winifred Best?”
Judith nodded. “I showed her this tape and she
pitched a small fit. Why would she do that?”
“Golly,” Chips said, “I’ve no idea. Maybe she’s embarrassed.”
The explanation was so simple that it made sense.
“That’s possible,” Judith allowed, though a snippet of
doubt remained. Before Chips could resume his walk
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Mary Daheim
to the bathroom, she held up a hand. “Quick question.
Why is there so much controversy over the way The
Gasman was filmed?”
“You mean the picture’s length?” Chips responded.
“No, not exactly,” Judith said. “I understand there
were differing opinions about the story itself.” Maybe
that was more to the p
oint. “That the result wasn’t true
to the original book.”
Chips laughed. “You’d better ask Dade about that.
Of course, he’ll tell you I didn’t direct the picture right.
The fact is, I directed it the way Bruno wanted. Of
course I wouldn’t admit that publicly, but you’re not in
the business.”
“In other words,” Judith said, “Bruno dictated how
you should direct?”
Chips shrugged. “It was his picture.”
“You felt he knew what he was doing?”
A flush crept over Chips’s freckled face as he began
inching his way toward the bathroom. “I admit, I
hadn’t worked with him before, but until I signed on
for The Gasman, he hadn’t missed a beat. Of course,
he directed his first six films himself. It was only for
the last two—including The Gasman—that he’d hired
another director. I had reason to trust him. All his films
had been successful.”
Through the window over the landing, Judith could
see the fog swirling around the house. It was going to
be a gloomy, damp night for the trick-or-treaters.
“What went wrong with this movie?” she asked,
aware that Chips was trying to escape.
“Well . . .” He looked pained. He also looked around
the hallway. In the process, he noticed the fog through
the window. “Wow,” he said softly. “Real fog. We
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207
didn’t have that in the Midwest, where I was raised. In
L.A., we have only smog, which doesn’t create this
kind of atmosphere. Would you mind moving to your
left about six inches?”
“What? Oh, sure.” Judith sidestepped a half foot.
“ ‘Troubled innkeeper,’ ” Chips murmured, framing
yet another shot with his fingers. “Fog in background
symbolizes her ambiguous thoughts, as well as impending danger. I like this very much.”
“About what went wrong,” Judith said as Chips
scooted around in a crouching position, seeking different angles. “Have you any idea what happened?”
“The length, for one thing,” he replied, one eye
closed as he peered through his imaginary lens. “Ah!
That’s perfect!” He stood up. “The ambitiousness of
the project. The concept itself. The original material.
The budget overrun.”
“In other words,” Judith put in, “everything?”
Chips gulped. “Sort of.”
“I see,” she said. “But you couldn’t tell that from the
start?”
“You wouldn’t believe how Bruno could talk up an
idea.” Chips grimaced. “That’s a talent in itself. After
five minutes with him, you’d think he was going to
make the next Gone With the Wind.” He bobbed his
head as a door shut somewhere on the second floor.
“Excuse me, I’ve got to take a quick shower before we
go to dinner.”
Dade Costello shambled down the narrow corridor
that separated Room One from Rooms Two and Three.
When he saw Judith, he merely nodded and kept
going. He was halfway down the stairs before she
called to him.
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Mary Daheim
“Mr. Costello,” she said, hurrying down the top
flight and realizing that her hips were aching from all
her recent exertions, “may I ask you a question about
my mother?”
Dade turned to look over his shoulder. “Your
mother? Oh, Mrs. Grover. Sure.” He continued on
down the stairs. “I was just going out for some fresh air
before we took off to dinner.”
“It’s pretty foggy out there,” Judith said when she
reached the main floor. She pointed to Dade’s leather
vest, which he wore over a plaid shirt. “You should
wear a heavier jacket.”
“Think so?” He sounded dubious. “I’m not used to
all this damp. Now what’s this about your mother?”
“Are you really encouraging her to write her life
story?”
“Sure,” Dade replied, leaning one arm on the
balustrade and propping a booted foot up on the umbrella stand. “Why not? She seemed to like the idea.”
“She would,” Judith murmured. “You aren’t seriously thinking of buying it from her, are you?”
“I’m a writer,” Dade said. “I don’t buy scripts, I sell
them.”
“I don’t get it,” said Judith.
Dade shrugged his wide shoulders. “I’m interested
in ideas. Your mother sounds as if she’s had a colorful
life.” His casual demeanor evaporated, replaced by
weariness. “Besides, I could use some good ideas
about now. I feel tapped out.”
Judith was mystified. “You mean—you’d buy ideas
from her?”
“Not exactly,” he replied, eyeing the door as if he
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209
were anxious to make his getaway. “It gets real complicated.”
Judith let the matter drop. She was more interested
in The Gasman script than in her mother’s life story.
“Was it so complicated with the book that The Gasman
was based on? I mean, that was a very old book, wasn’t
it? Copyright may have expired.”
“It had,” Dade said without much interest. “I think.
Anyway, whoever wrote it had been dead for years.”
“How did Bruno come by the book? That is,” she
went on, not wanting to admit she’d been snooping in
the guest rooms, “I used to be a librarian, and I’ve
never heard of it. I’m assuming it was fairly obscure.”
“It was at that,” Dade drawled with a gleam in his
eye. “I heard that one of Bruno’s ancestors had written
it. In a nutshell, sophomoric and dull. Carp was the author’s name, as I recollect.”
“C. Douglas Carp,” Judith said as the name on the
title page sprang into her mind’s eye. “Was it his
grandfather or an uncle?”
Dade shrugged again. “I don’t really know. There
was a family tie, though. It was more textbook than
novel, almost impossible to use as the basis for a script.
Too much fact and not enough fiction. And too damned
much territory to cover. I struggled for almost a year to
get just the outline done.”
“I gather you had your differences with Chips Madigan over the script,” Judith said, trying to sound
matter-of-fact.
“Chips!” Dade growled, making a slashing motion
with one hand. “That punk. He and Bruno screwed up
my script every which way. They—Bruno speaking for
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Mary Daheim
both of them—insisted I hadn’t kept to the spirit of the
book. Bull. There was no spirit. It was just a bunch of
events strung together by a weak narrative. For all I
know, old Carp may have paid to get it published. It
was garbage, all nine hundred pages of it.” He paused
to pull out a pocket watch from inside his vest. “Hey,
it’s after five. I’d better get going. I think the limo’s
coming a little after six.” He ambled to the front door.
“Psst!” It was Renie,
lurking behind the archway
that divided the entry hall and the living room.
“Where’ve you been? I pieced the statement together.”
“You did?” Judith hurried to join her cousin. “How
is it?”
“Stilted,” Renie said, flapping a half-dozen sheets of
yellow paper at Judith. “It’s the kind of corporate copy
that makes me want to shoot all writers and fill up
space with graphic designs instead.”
Judith held out her hand. “Let me see.”
“No,” Renie retorted, “don’t read this hodgepodge.
I’ve written it out in what’s probably close to the final
draft.” She held up the last sheet and began to read
what she’d patched together: “In the wake of producer
Bruno Zepf ’s tragic passing last night, Paradox Stu-
dios launched an investigation to determine the cause
of death. It is generally felt by studio executives and
Zepf ’s close associates that The Gasman premiere’s
apparent inadequacies—some choice of words,” she
interposed before continuing, “may have caused the
producer to die of a broken heart. According to Zepf ’s
agent, Eugenia Fleming, ‘Bruno set the bar extremely
high, not only for himself, but for others in the indus-
try. The Gasman was a project he had nurtured for
years, with roots going back to his youth. Having the
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211
picture receive such harsh criticism at its premiere
may have been too much for him. He wasn’t used to
negative reactions, and he had worked himself into ex-
haustion. During the making of the film, he had to be
hospitalized for a lengthy period. Obviously, his health
was seriously affected. Bruno couldn’t tolerate a lack
of excellence, especially in himself.’ End of quote,”
said Renie.
“That’s it?” Judith inquired, sitting on the arm of the
sofa.
“No,” Renie responded. “That’s the end of what Eugenia said. There’s more, but not much. In fact, there
were about three concluding statements they might
have used. The gist was that Bruno should be remembered for his many successes, rather than for The Gas-
man’ s flop.”
Judith didn’t respond immediately. When she did,
her words didn’t pertain to failure or success. “Do you
suppose Bruno really had health problems?”
Renie hesitated before answering. She flipped
through the discarded pages, then tapped her finger on