From inside the house, she could hear more screams
emanating from the TV. The terrified cries set her teeth
on edge. She was beginning to wonder if the events of
the past two days and her fears for the future were triggering an emotional collapse.
As Judith set the can upright, a loud banging noise
behind her made her jump. Peering through the eddies
of mist, she saw nothing. Gingerly, she began putting
the garbage back into the can.
She was about to replace the lid when something
brushed against her leg. Judith let out a small squeal,
then looked down to see Sweetums depositing bare
chicken bones on her shoe.
“Nasty!” she exclaimed under her breath. “If my
nerves weren’t going to pieces, I’d pull your tail.”
Sweetums responded with a growl, then trotted off
down the driveway. Judith started back to the porch,
but decided to make a quick visit to her mother. She
felt guilty for hardly seeing Gertrude all day. As she
headed down the walk to the toolshed, the wind rattled
her nerves along with the Rankerses’ wind chimes. The
usual gentle tinkling sounded more like an out-of-tune
brass band.
But the fog was definitely dissipating. She could see
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the toolshed clearly, though the lights had now gone
out. Judith stopped, debating whether or not to bother
her mother. She decided against it. Gertrude would
only berate her for being neglectful. Judith didn’t need
any more problems on this particular All Hallows’ Eve.
She’d started up the back-porch steps when she
heard another clatter nearby. It sounded like another
garbage-can lid. More annoyed than nervous, she
trudged around to the side of the house.
Within a foot of the cans, Judith stopped dead in her
tracks. There, down the driveway in a maelstrom of
fog, an unearthly creature seemed to levitate before her
eyes. She suppressed a scream as her legs wobbled and
her eyes grew huge. The pointy hat, the stiff shaggy
hair, the windblown garments, and the shoes with the
turned-up toes almost convinced her that witches did
indeed fly the skies on Halloween.
The image was enhanced when a cat with its fur
standing on end suddenly appeared out of the mists.
The animal hurtled straight for Judith. In fright, she
flung herself against the wall of the house, and only
recognized Sweetums when he hid himself between
her feet.
“P-p-poor k-k-kitty,” she stammered, glancing
down at the cat. “P-p-poor m-m-me.”
Then she looked up, and the eerie apparition was
gone.
A frowning Renie was standing on the steps.
“Where’ve you been? The back door blew shut, and I
thought maybe you got locked out.” Seeing Judith’s
pale face under the porch light, she gasped. “Hey,
what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
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“A witch, actually,” Judith said, clinging to the
porch rail as Sweetums crept along beside her. She felt
dizzy, her teeth were chattering, and her feet seemed
glued to the steps. “I may be having a nervous breakdown. I need a drink.”
“I’ll fix it,” Renie volunteered, but first put a hand
under Judith’s elbow. “You are a mess. Easy does it.”
Carefully, she guided her cousin through the back door.
“How does Bill describe his patients who’ve gone
mad?” Judith asked, slumping into the nearest kitchen
chair.
“Clinically?” Renie responded, going to the cupboard where the liquor was kept.
With vacant eyes and mouth agape, Judith nodded.
“Crazy as a loon,” Renie replied, pouring her
cousin’s drink. “Tell me about the witch.”
It took Judith two big sips just to get started. She
scowled at the glass before she spoke. “I’m not only
insane, I’m turning into a drunk.”
“Hardly,” Renie said. “You’ve been through a lot the
last few days.”
“So I have.” Judith sighed, beginning to pull herself
She proceeded to tell Renie about the apparition in the
driveway.
“A witch?” Renie said when Judith had finished the
horror story. “Maybe it was. It’s Halloween.”
“At this hour?” Judith glanced up at the schoolhouse
clock, which showed eleven on the dot. As if to underscore the time, applause and cheers could be heard
coming from the living room. “Then why didn’t whoever it was come to the door?” Judith asked, clutching
her drink as if it were a talisman against evil.
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“Maybe the witch went to the toolshed,” Renie
replied. “Your mother was probably still up, and with
the TV on and the lights out in the front of the house,
whoever it was may have thought everybody had gone
to bed.”
“That’s possible,” Judith allowed, then gave her
cousin a piercing look. “You don’t believe that. You’re
just trying to make me feel better.”
Renie winced. “Well—I’d like to make you feel better. Frankly, you look like bird poop.”
“Thanks. I feel like bird poop.”
“I’d better go home,” Renie said as the movie
watchers broke up and headed for bed. “Is there anything I can do before I leave?”
Judith slumped farther into the chair. “We still don’t
know who Crappy Pappy is.”
“Does it matter?” Renie asked gently as she stood
up.
“No.” Judith’s voice was lifeless. “Nothing does.”
“Coz!” Renie gave Judith a sharp slap on the back,
then let out a little yip. “I keep forgetting, I’m supposed to favor that arm and shoulder for a while
longer.”
Judith looked up. “Are you okay?”
Cringing a bit, Renie moved her right arm this way
and that. “I think so.” She sat down across from Judith.
“Maybe I should wait a couple of minutes. I only
started driving again in July. Even though the surgeon
assured me I couldn’t dislocate it again, I don’t want to
take a chance and wreck the car.”
“Don’t mention dislocating our body parts,” Judith
said, though there was evident relief in her voice. She
hadn’t wanted Renie to leave just yet. “I worry about
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my hip all the time. Unlike your shoulder, there are
certain things I can’t do because it’ll dislocate. I suppose that’s next—more major surgery.”
“Oh, coz!” Renie shook her head. “Don’t fuss so.
You’ll only—”
A banging at the front door startled both cousins.
“The witch?” Judith gasped.
“Dubious. Stay here, I’ll get it.”
“No,” Judith said, already on her feet. “Rest your
shoulder.”
With considerable trepidation, she went through the
dining room and the entry hall.
Except for the small
Tiffany-style lamp on the table by the stairs, the rest of
the house was dark.
“Who is it?” Judith called through the door.
“Me,” came the voice on the other side. “Dade.
Dade Costello.”
“Oh!” Relieved, Judith hurriedly unlocked the door.
“Come in. I thought you had your key.”
“I did,” Dade said, rubbing at the back of his head.
“I guess I lost it.”
“Oh, dear,” Judith sighed. “Do you think it’s in your
room? When did you use it last?”
Dade shrugged. “I don’t know that I’ve used it at all.
Or did I?”
Judith couldn’t remember, either. But she didn’t
want a key to Hillside Manor in the wrong hands. Disconcerted by the latest calamity, she said the first thing
that came into her head: “Wasn’t it kind of miserable
for a walk this evening?”
“I didn’t walk that much,” Dade said in his soft
Southern drawl as he started for the stairs.
The response further muddled Judith. “Wait,” she
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called after the screenwriter. “Do you have your room
key or was it with the one to the house?” Guests were
always given the two keys on a simple ring with their
room number taped on the room key.
“Let me see.” Dade rummaged in the pockets of his
cargo pants. “Here,” he said, holding up a single key.
“It says Room Two. That’s me.”
“Yes,” Judith answered. “But you’re sure you don’t
have the house key lying loose in your pockets?”
“I already checked.” He shrugged again. “Sorry.”
Once more, Dade started up the stairs.
“One other thing,” Judith said, standing by the banister. “Who was C. Douglas Carp related to?”
He paused, frowning. “Hunh. I think Carp was some
relation of Bruno’s.”
“Are you sure?” she pressed.
“Well . . .” Dade looked up into the stairwell. “Carp
was his father-in-law at one time. Yes.” He nodded to
himself. “Bruno was married to somebody whose
maiden name was Carp. C. Douglas must have been
her daddy. Bruno always referred to him as Pappy.”
“The father of which wife?” Judith hoped she didn’t
sound eager.
Again, Dade looked puzzled. “It wasn’t the second
wife,” he said slowly. “I met her at the Cannes Film
Festival a couple of years ago.”
“That was the actress?” Judith prompted.
“Right. Taryn, Taryn McGuire. But she doesn’t act
anymore. She’s married to an oil sheikh. They brought
their yacht to Cannes to attend all the parties.”
“What about the first and third wives?” Judith persisted. “Did you meet either of them? Wasn’t the third
wife in the movie business?”
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299
“Right,” Dade said. “She was a film editor or something. I never met her. I think her name was Mary
Ellen.”
“But you don’t know if her maiden name was
Carp?”
“I’ve no idea.” Dade looked apologetic.
“I assume you never met wife number one,” Judith
said. “I understand that was a youthful marriage.”
“Way before my time,” Dade said, still leaning on
the banister. “She was the one Bruno rarely talked
about. When he did, he was critical. I’ll say this for
him—he never bad-mouthed the other two wives.”
“Why was he so hard on the first one?”
Dade grimaced. “I guess she was kind of a terror. I
recall Bruno saying he ran into her someplace where
he least expected. He always called her Spider
Woman.”
Judith stared up at him. “Did that have something to
do with his superstition about spiders?”
“I don’t think so.” Dade yawned. “Sorry, Ms. Flynn,
I’m beat. I’m afraid I haven’t been much help.” Once
more, he started up the stairs, but this time he was the
one to stop his own momentum. “Why do you need to
know about Bruno’s wives?”
Judith offered him an uncertain smile. “I’m just curious. You know—when someone dies under your roof
and all . . .” She let the sentence trail away.
“Oh. That makes sense. I guess.” At last he continued on up the stairs and out of sight.
Wearily, Judith trudged back to the kitchen. Renie
was wearing her suede jacket and holding her huge
handbag.
“What was that all about?” she asked.
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“Dade Costello. He lost his house key.” Judith made
a face. “But guess what? Bruno referred to his first
wife as Spider Woman.”
Renie looked surprised. “Really? Who was she?”
“Dade doesn’t know,” Judith said, espying The Gas-
man novel on the counter. “Did you find any of the
keepsakes interesting?”
Renie started ticking off items on her fingers. “The
usual pressed flowers and leaves, a faded red ribbon, a
pair of ticket stubs from the 1968 World Series between
St. Louis and Detroit, another pair of stubs from the
1975 Iowa State Fair, a lock of what looked like baby’s
hair, a young woman’s photo, a newspaper clipping of
C. Douglas Carp’s obituary, and a recipe for prune pie.”
Judith looked thoughtful. “Let’s see the obit.”
Renie flipped through the book, then handed her the
yellowed clipping.
“Hmm,” Judith said. “Nothing here that wasn’t in
the other account of his life and times. By the way, did
you come across a picture of a young woman?”
Renie flipped through the pages. “Yes, here it is.
Anybody we know?”
Judith studied the youthful face with the innocent
expression. “I don’t think so. And yet . . .” She held the
photo out for Renie’s perusal. “There is something familiar about her. Or maybe I’m imagining things. Do
you recognize this face?”
But Renie didn’t. “Why,” she inquired in a wistful
voice, “are you fixated on Mr. Carp?”
“Because,” Judith replied in a peevish tone, “I don’t
know where to go with this damned mess. I still think
the motive for this crime—if it was a crime—is personal. I don’t believe that anybody under this roof
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301
killed Bruno for professional reasons. Somebody has a
secret that was worth committing murder for, or somebody just plain hated Bruno.”
Renie set her handbag down on the floor and leaned
against the counter. “As in hated him for personal reasons?”
Judith nodded. “Exactly.”
“A woman scorned?” Renie suggested.
“Possibly.”
“Which woman? Wives one through three, or someone who wanted to be number four?”
Judith sighed along with the wind, which was now
a dull moan. “It’s possible. We know nothing about the
personal lives of Eugenia Fleming or Winifred Best.”
“Eugenia?” Renie wrinkled her pug nose. “Hardly
the type you’d e
xpect a bigwig producer to marry.”
“We might say Eugenia isn’t the right type,” Judith
pointed out, “but that doesn’t mean Eugenia would
agree.”
“Winifred?”
“She’s been a wife, in a way,” Judith said. “Women
who work closely with men are like wives.”
“True,” Renie said. “I’ve seen it in the corporate
world. The business partner, the executive secretary,
the special assistant. It’s not usually a sexual relationship, but sometimes it is. And of course one of the parties may suffer from unrequited love.”
“I think we can scratch Ellie and Angela,” Judith
mused. “They owe their careers to him in some way—
despite the Big Flop—but I can’t picture either of them
panting with desire for Bruno.”
“Power’s a great aphrodisiac, though,” Renie noted.
“Still . . .” She gave a shake of her head.
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“We’re on the wrong track there,” Judith said.
“We’re back to professional motives. I wish we knew
why Winifred is so reluctant to talk about her brief career as a singer.”
“Because it was so brief?” Renie offered.
“I think it’s more than that,” Judith said. “I think that
the brevity of her musical career could be a secret
worth keeping.”
Renie didn’t bother to stifle a big yawn. “I’ve got to
head home. The fog’s just about gone and the wind’s
dying down. If I had to, I could drive with my feet.”
“That might be an improvement,” Judith murmured.
“Sometimes you’re not so hot at using your hands.”
“Funny, coz,” Renie said sarcastically. “Talk to you
in the morning.”
As Renie left via the back door, Judith glanced at
the schoolhouse clock. It was almost midnight, the
witching hour on Halloween.
Maybe she wasn’t losing her mind. Maybe she
wasn’t even losing her nerve.
But she still believed she could be losing Hillside
Manor.
NINETEEN
“THE AIRPORT’S STILL closed,” Joe announced as he
brought in the morning paper. “That’s bad news.”
“I didn’t know it was closed,” Judith responded
with a frosty look.
“It’s the fog,” Joe said. “Haven’t you noticed it
settled in again during the night?”
“I haven’t had time to notice anything,” Judith retorted. “I’ve been too busy figuring out what to
serve our unwanted guests for breakfast.”