“I’m sure the poor reception The Gasman got at the
premiere upset Dirk, too.”
“I never read movie reviews,” Charles said, then
turned as the valet with the corn-colored hair came into
the restaurant, looking worried. “What is it, Josh?” the
maître d’ inquired.
“There’s a couple out in the parking lot who insist
they want to eat here,” Josh said. “They won’t take no
for an answer. I think you’d better talk to them.”
“Excuse me,” Charles said to Judith. “This happens
almost every Sunday when we’re closed to regular diners. In fact, this is the second time an insistent couple
has shown up this evening. I won’t be long.”
Judith got up and strolled over to the big windows.
It was dark and the fog was thick. She couldn’t see any
lights, not even directly below the restaurant, which
was located about halfway up Heraldsgate Hill. When
she turned around again, she saw Charles leading a
middle-aged couple inside and up the winding staircase. The man was big, bald, and bearlike; the woman
was small, dark, and of Asian descent. Apparently,
they had an entrée to one of the private parties upstairs,
and Judith didn’t think they were keeping up with the
Joneses.
She could almost smell the aroma of Wienie Wizards wafting behind the couple as they disappeared
onto the second floor.
SIXTEEN
JUDITH WANTED VERY much to see Heathcliffe and
Amy Lee MacDermott up close. She wasn’t sure
why, but it seemed important to talk to them. Unfortunately, she couldn’t think of an excuse to get
past the Smith party’s mahogany door.
For several moments Judith stared down at the
smooth black marble bar, where she could see her
reflection. It was distorted by the slight grain, making her look old, tired, and ugly. A crone, she
thought, and was disheartened.
What was she doing at Capri’s, seeking clues to a
murder that might not be a murder? Was she bloodthirsty, as Renie had remarked? Surely possession
of material goods wasn’t so important that it made
her wish that one person had killed another. No, that
wasn’t the real reason she preferred murder over
more mundane deaths. So why was she beating herself up so badly? Slowly, she turned to the windows
again. There was nothing to see. The night was as
dark and blank as her brain.
Yet Judith knew that if the fog suddenly lifted,
the city’s lights would glitter like stars on a clear
winter’s eve. The lakes and the mountains were
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there, if only she could see them. So were the answers
to the riddle that was Bruno’s death. Judith always had
to know. If only the fog would lift from her brain, she
could find the truth.
Charles hadn’t come down from the second floor.
There was still no sign of the waiters. Judith was curious. The guests must be getting served. How was the
food coming from the kitchen, if not via the iron staircase?
Hurriedly, she crossed the restaurant to the far side,
where she saw a plain brown door. Turning the knob,
she discovered a narrow hallway on her left that presumably led to the kitchen. On her right was a staircase. Judith ascended to another plain door and opened
it. She came out into another narrow hall, where she
saw two identical doors.
The first one led into the main corridor, but judging
from her position in the restaurant, the second door
had to go into the Smith party’s private dining room. In
the shadows just beyond the door was a busing area.
On tiptoes, she approached the second door and cautiously opened it just a crack.
“. . . lose my investment” were the first words she
managed to hear, and they were spoken by a nasal male
voice she didn’t recognize. Heathcliffe MacDermott,
alias the Wienie Wizard? Judith peered through the
sliver of open doorway. All she could see was Morris
Mayne with his head down on the table and Dade
Costello’s blunt profile.
“Not necessarily,” said a smooth voice that Judith
identified as belonging to Vito Patricelli. “Paradox
may not shelve the picture. They have an investment,
too, even larger than yours, Mr. MacDermott.”
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“Idiots,” snapped a waspish female voice that didn’t
woman repeated. Judith figured the speaker had to be
Mrs. MacDermott.
“I don’t get it,” declared Heathcliffe MacDermott.
“The movie’s a dud. If I made wienies like Zepf made
movies, I’d be wearing a paper hat and peddling hot
dogs at minor league baseball games instead of running a billion-dollar empire.”
“The studio can make changes,” Vito said, his voice
unperturbed. “They’ll have free rein—under the circumstances.”
“You beast,” murmured Winifred. “How can you
say such things when Bruno has been dead less than
twenty-four hours?” Though Judith couldn’t see her, it
sounded as if Winifred was close to the service door.
“What kind of changes?” Ellie asked, not quite as
pert as usual.
“Cutting, for one thing,” Vito replied. “No one can
argue that the picture should be shortened by at least
an hour.”
“Are you saying,” Heathcliffe asked in a slightly
confused voice, “that Paradox can do whatever it wants
now that Bruno Zepf is dead?”
“Exactly,” Vito responded. “The studio has the
major chunk of money invested in the picture. They
can do as they please.”
Except for the creak of chairs and shuffling of
limbs, a silence fell over the room. Judith glanced at
the door to the stairs to make sure the coast was
clear. As far as she could tell, no one seemed to be
eating. Perhaps the group had finished its most recent course.
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“What about Utah?” the unfamiliar female voice demanded. “What about my script?”
Judith heard Dade Costello snort.
Vito waited a moment to reply. “Your script?”
“All the Way to Utah,” Amy Lee MacDermott retorted with anger. “Bruno bought it, and it’s supposed
to star darling Ellie.”
“I can’t answer that right now,” Vito said, smooth as
ever. “There hasn’t been time for anyone to make that
decision.”
“Who makes it?” Amy Lee’s voice had grown strident.
“Bruno’s production company,” Vito replied.
“Isn’t that a weird setup?” Ben Carmody put in.
The actor sounded uncharacteristically harsh. “Bruno
had no second in command. He thought he was immortal.”
“That’s not true,” Winifred said in a strong, stiff
voice. “If anything happened to Bruno, I was to take
over. I already had, when he was in . . . the hospital.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Ben’s voice brightened. “Then I
guess any big decisions would be up to you
, Win.”
“Not necessarily,” Vito interjected. “I suspect that
Winifred’s powers are limited to such situations as
Bruno being temporarily out of the picture. So to
speak.” No one laughed except Dirk Farrar, and the
sound wasn’t pleasant. “There are two other factors involved, one of which is the studio’s agreement to put
money into All the Way to Utah. But now that Bruno is
dead—let’s not mince words—Paradox would be free
to pull out.”
“They wouldn’t dare!” Amy Lee cried. “They made
a commitment!”
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257
“It’s not legally binding when the producer dies,”
Vito asserted. “But the other factor involves the heirs
to Bruno’s estate. Winifred, do you know if he made a
will?”
“Why . . .” Winifred’s voice sounded faint. “No,”
she went on slowly, “I don’t believe he did.”
“It figures,” Dirk snarled. “From A to Zepf. Bruno
thought he was the Alpha and the Omega, with no end
in sight.”
“Stop that!” Winifred shouted. “You’re angry because you and Bruno got into a big fight and Ben
ended up with the leading role in the Utah picture.”
“Let’s stop wrangling and back up here,” Heathcliffe broke in, his voice sounding like that of a man
obviously used to exercising authority. “What’s this
other factor, Mr. L.A. Lawyer?”
Vito cleared his throat. “That was what I was getting
at when I inquired about a will. Since Bruno had no
wife, his entire estate goes to his two children.”
“His children?” Amy Lee and Ellie Linn shrieked in
unison.
“That’s ridiculous,” the mother scoffed.
“That’s stupid,” the daughter declared. “Those kids
aren’t as old as I am!”
“How old?” Amy Lee demanded.
“Greta was twenty in June,” Winifred said quietly.
“Greg just turned eighteen a month ago.”
“The son’s name is Greg?” Ellie’s voice had taken
on a lighter note.
“Yes,” Winifred replied. “After Gregory Peck. Greta
was named for Garbo.”
“Hmm.” There was a faint simper from Ellie.
Judith saw Dirk Farrar’s back at the door. She
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tensed, wondering if he might be about to leave the
room.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about that Utah crap,” he
said. “All I want to know is when the hell we can get
out of this fog bank and go back to L.A.”
“The matter should be resolved by tomorrow,” Vito
responded.
“It better be,” Dirk shot back. “This place sucks
scissors.” His back moved away from the door. Apparently, he’d gotten up only to stretch his legs.
“Mr. Farquhar,” Amy Lee said sternly, “don’t speak
so nastily of my Utah script. It’s going to be a blockbuster. After all,” she added with a sneer in her voice,
“you were slated to star in it until you behaved so
badly toward Mr. Zepf.”
“The name’s Farrar,” Dirk shouted, “as you
damned well know! And I’ll tell you something else,”
he continued, not as loud, but just as intense, “I didn’t
really give a damn when Bruno canned me. I’d put up
with enough crap from him with The Gasman and
that lousy script he’d taken from Crappy Pappy
Carp’s book.”
“Don’t be so disrespectful!” Winifred exclaimed in
dismay. “You’re callous, Dirk. Everybody knows how
self-centered you are, even more so than most actors. I
suppose you intend to leave Angela lying in the hospital while you head back to Los Angeles.”
“It’s her own damned fault she’s there in the first
place,” Dirk retorted. “I begged her to go into rehab.
Besides, I’m not a doctor. What good can I do her
hanging around the hospital?”
Judith was so caught up in the heated drama just a
few inches away that she never heard the approaching
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259
footsteps. It was the tap on her shoulder that made her
jump and let out a stifled cry.
I’m done for, she thought. They’ll throw me out in
the street. They might arrest me. They might ban me
from Capri’s forever. They might put my picture up by
the desk with a slash through it. “No Judith McMonigle
Flynn.” With considerable trepidation, she turned
around to confront the enemy.
“Learn anything?” whispered Renie.
“Coz!” A sudden silence had descended over the
dining room. Judith was certain that the contentious
crew had heard a suspicious noise. She gently shut the
door. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for the busing station,” Renie replied, spying her goal behind Judith. “We need more napkins.
You know how our kids eat. The tablecloth looks like
an army field hospital.”
“You’re no slouch yourself,” Judith retorted.
“How’s the dinner going?”
Renie made a doleful face. “Could these people be
less fun? The parents are like mannequins. Thank God
our kids have some animation. They’re never afraid to
speak out.”
“Coz,” Judith said, keeping an eye on the service
door, “your family isn’t merely outspoken, you’re all
very loud. Even Bill can bellow when aroused. The future in-laws are probably cowed.”
Renie shot her a disdainful glance. “Okay, so we’ve
got pep. But these people hardly eat a thing. The fiancé
and fiancées are a little livelier. Heather is very
smart—she’s Tom’s girl—and Cathleen—Tony’s
beloved—seems genuinely kind. As for Odo, he laughs
at everything Bill says, which is good.”
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“Odo?” Judith responded. “His name is really
Odo?”
“Yes,” Renie replied, looking very serious. “You
know the original Odo. Bishop Odo became pope just
in time to launch the First Crusade.”
Judith shook her head. “Funny, the kid didn’t look
militant. Or religious.”
“He’s not,” Renie said. “At least as far as I can tell.
I just wish the parents had more zip. They never
flinched when our kids got into a shouting match. They
didn’t bat an eye when Tom threw one of Tony’s socks
in the consommé. And you know how Bill belches
sometimes when he eats—well, the rest of them sat
like statues when he practically blew up after taking a
bite of jalapeño pepper by mistake.” Renie shook herself. “I babble. What are you doing here? Or should I
guess?” She nodded in the direction of the door behind
Judith.
“It’s been interesting,” Judith said, edging around
the corner to the hallway, “but I’m pushing my luck.
I’ve been eavesdropping for over five minutes, and the
waiters are bound to reappear.”
“Care to join us?” Renie asked.
Judith grimaced. “I think I should go home. Mother
&
nbsp; must be famished. I’ll call a cab.”
“You don’t have to,” Renie said, piling linen napkins over her arm. “Bill drove your Subaru to Capri’s.
Just get the keys from the valet.”
“Do I need the parking ticket?” Judith asked.
Renie shook her head as they approached the top
of the winding staircase. “Tell them you’re Mrs.
Jones. And by the way,” she said with a quizzical expression, “is there anything I should know about what
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261
you discovered while you were lurking outside that
door?”
“Not now,” Judith said, “but I’ve got quite a bit of
information to sort out. Maybe I’ll have made some
sense of it by the time I talk to you later this evening.”
“Sounds good,” Renie said, heading for the private
dining room. “Time to rejoin the stuffed animals.”
Judith smiled at her cousin. But she was thinking
less about the stuffed animals at the Joneses’ table than
about the wild ones at the Smiths’.
She got as far as a block away from Capri’s when
she had another, possibly impractical idea. Instead of
going up Heraldsgate Hill, she took a left and swung
back onto the main thoroughfare through the city. Just
before reaching downtown, Judith took another left
and pointed the Subaru toward the hospital district. In
less than ten minutes, she was in the parking garage of
Norway General.
Angela La Belle would no doubt be listed under an
assumed name. Judith knew she’d have to think of a
really good fib to tell the person behind the reception
desk. Her role as Angela’s innkeeper probably
wouldn’t cut any ice with the staff.
Inside the main doors, she checked the directory.
Not ICU, Judith figured. Angela had been taken to the
hospital several hours ago and was reportedly on the
mend. She’d be in a private ward, of course. But under
what medical heading? Not yet ready to show her
hand, Judith approached the main desk and asked
where emergency patients were taken after they were
out of danger.
Specialty medicine sounded promising. Judith took
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an elevator to the seventh floor, then followed the arrows to the nurses’ station in the middle of the corridor.
A woman wearing a blue hospital smock over a print
dress looked up from a patient chart. She wore half
glasses on a silver chain and her white hair was in a severe pageboy that accented a hooked nose and prominent chin.