threw up his hands. “Screw it. I don’t need to make the
papers for mixing it up with some old fart. That’s why
I usually have a couple of bodyguards around.” He
stepped back, then started to stomp off—but not before
he scooped three sugar doughnuts from the buffet.
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Mary Daheim
“ ‘Some old fart?’ ” Joe echoed. “I don’t like that old
part much.”
“You’re not old,” Judith insisted, patting her husband’s cheek. “You’re middle-aged. When Dirk Farrar
hits sixty, all that cragginess will turn into bagginess.
You have such a wonderful round face, you hardly
have any wrinkles at—”
The phone rang. Judith let Joe pick up the receiver
on the cherrywood table by the bookcases. When he
turned his back on her, she was certain that he was
speaking with Stone Cold Sam Cairo.
“Right . . . Yes . . . No . . . So be it.” Joe hung up.
“Well?” Judith asked anxiously. “Is it . . . ?” She
couldn’t say the word murder.
Joe looked rueful. “A blow to the head apparently
knocked him unconscious and he fell in the sink and
drowned.”
Judith was mystified. “You mean someone hit him?”
“Not necessarily,” Joe replied. “It could have been
that cupboard door swinging out. He may have bent
over for some reason, reared up, and conked himself.”
Judith remembered the aspirin she’d picked up from
the floor. Perhaps Bruno had dropped it, ducked down
to retrieve it, and then—unaware that the door had
swung open—hit his head with such force that he
blacked out.
“It’s possible,” she allowed, though with reluctance.
“You don’t hear it coming,” Joe said ruefully, then
walked over to Judith and lowered his head. “Feel the
bump about two inches above my hairline.”
Judith touched the spot. There was a slight swelling.
“The door? When did that happen? You never mentioned it.”
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141
“Friday,” Joe said, avoiding her gaze. “You were
gone. I didn’t want to admit that I’d banged my head
on the door, because I was supposed to fix it. I actually
saw stars at the time.”
Hands on hips, Judith stared at her husband. “You
mean this is all our fault?”
“Yes,” Joe said in a weak voice. “We may have
killed Bruno Zepf.”
NINE
“THAT’S RIDICULOUS,” JUDITH declared. “How is it
our fault that Bruno bumped his head on an open
cupboard door? Maybe he opened it himself.”
Joe gave Judith a bleak look. “The door was broken. That’s negligence. That’s our fault.”
“My God,” Judith moaned, “we could be ruined!
If they find out about that door, they’ll sue, they’ll
take every cent we have!”
Joe’s expression turned grim. “What’s the insurance for guests?”
“Substantial,” Judith said, agitated. “I mean, adequate under normal circumstances. But not for
something like this, if we’re shown as being negligent and a big Hollywood celebrity gets . . . Think
of the publicity! It’s one thing to have a guest murdered by someone else, that can’t be helped,” Judith
went on, her usual sound logic working in strange
ways, “but an accident caused by the owners’ carelessness?” She put her hands over her face. “Oh,
Joe, I can’t bear it! I feel sick!”
“Well, you can’t throw up in the kitchen sink,”
Joe remarked, a touch of his characteristic humor
surfacing.
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143
Judith took a deep breath. “I’m in shock. And that
poor man—if it’s our fault that he’s dead . . .” Her nausea remained though she pressed her hands against her
face as if trying to subdue the sensation.
“Hang on.” Joe put an arm around his wife. “We’re
not licked yet.”
Judith peered between her fingers. “What do you
mean?”
“I mean,” he said quietly, “that we don’t know for
sure how Bruno ended up unconscious in the first
place.”
different object?”
“No, there were slivers of wood and maybe varnish
in what was left of Bruno’s hair,” Joe said. “Cairo was
so busy giving me a bad time that the facts were a little
hard to piece together.”
Judith was still puzzled. “But what’s the official verdict?”
“Death by misadventure. That means,” Joe explained,
pouring himself a cup of coffee, “that there’s no evidence of foul play, but an investigation will continue.”
“What about the guests?” she asked. “Are they free
to go?”
“I suppose so,” he said as the front doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it.”
When Joe reappeared moments later, a tall, balding
olive-skinned man wearing wraparound sunglasses
and what looked like a very expensive Italian suit was
right behind him.
“This is Vito Patricelli,” Joe announced. “He’s a
lawyer, representing Paradox Studios. He just flew in
from L.A.”
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Mary Daheim
The last person Judith wanted to meet was a lawyer.
She reached out with an unsteady hand and tried to
smile. “Hi, Mr. . . .” The name eluded her anguished
brain.
“Patricelli,” the attorney said smoothly, holding out
a manicured hand. “I believe my clients are staying at
your B&B.”
“Clients?” Judith’s brain was still numb. “Which
ones?”
Vito Patricelli offered her a look that might have
passed for compassion. “The Gasman’ s cast and crew.
I represent the studio, ergo, I represent Misses Best, La
Belle, and Linn as well as Messieurs Farrar, Carmody,
Madigan, and Costello. And, of course, the late Mr.
Zepf.”
“I see,” said Judith, who almost did. “Excuse me, I
have to sit down.” She flopped onto the sofa and
rubbed at her temples.
Joe took over. “I assume you want to meet with your
clients. That door on the other side of the buffet leads
to the parlor. There’s also a door off the entry hall.
Shall I get them?”
The attorney nodded. “I’d appreciate that. In fact,
may I come with you?”
“Sure.” Joe led the way out of the living room.
Judith put her head back on the sofa’s soft cushions
and closed her eyes. She saw strange visions, of her
mother dressed as Cleopatra playing solitaire with
chocolate cards, of Joe and Woody and Stone Cold
Sam Cairo chasing each other in Keystone Kops costumes, of Skjoval Tolvang fending off Angela La
Belle’s advances with a crowbar.
The gentle squeeze on her shoulders brought her
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145
back to reality. Startled, she looked up at Joe. “I must
have fallen asleep,” she said in a sheepish voice.
“I would
n’t doubt it,” Joe said, then gestured toward
the parlor. “They’re all in there. Every so often you
hear somebody yell. It’s usually Dirk or Angela.”
“How long have they been meeting with Patricelli?”
Judith inquired, moving around to remove the kinks
she’d acquired in her neck and back.
“Not that long,” Joe said. “Ten minutes at most.” He
stiffened as Vito Patricelli emerged from the parlor
door that led into the living room.
“The meeting’s concluded,” Vito said in his unruffled manner. “I’ve made it clear to my clients where
their responsibilities lie and what they must do to carry
them out on behalf of Paradox Studios.”
Joe was equally unflappable. “Which is?”
A faintly sinister smile played at Vito’s thin lips.
“That they are not to leave the vicinity until the studio
knows exactly what happened to Bruno Zepf.”
Judith didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She did
neither, remaining on the sofa until the sullen guests
exited the parlor.
Vito sat down opposite her, carefully arranging his
trousers to make sure the crease stayed in the proper
position. “I have some questions for you both,” he said
in that same, smooth voice.
Joe joined Judith on the sofa. “Fire away,” he said.
Vito removed his sunglasses, revealing wide-set
dark eyes that seemed to have a fire lit behind them.
“What time did Mr. Zepf die?”
“Around one A.M.,” Joe answered.
“Are you absolutely certain?” Vito asked.
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Mary Daheim
“We can’t be precise,” Joe said reasonably. “My
wife and I weren’t with Bruno when it happened. The
time is an estimate, which is also what the ME gave
us.”
Only an almost imperceptible flicker of Vito’s eyelids indicated any emotion. “But,” he said, “you’re positive that Bruno died after midnight?”
“Definitely,” Joe replied. “Why is the time so important?”
The lawyer took a deep breath, then gave Joe what
was probably meant to be a confidential smile, but
looked a trifle piranhalike to Judith. “Let me explain
two things. First, Paradox Studios insures all members
of a shooting company when a picture is made. This is
standard procedure, to make sure there’s due compensation for anyone involved in the production suffering
a disabling injury or”—he paused to clear his throat—
“dying. The policy the studio took out on The Gasman
expired October thirty-first, which is today. The problem is, did it expire last night at midnight or is it still
valid until tomorrow, November first?”
Joe frowned. “Aren’t such policies specific?”
“Not in this case,” Vito replied. “There was also a
rider concerning postproduction. Bruno had stated—
verbally—that once The Gasman premiered, he
wouldn’t tinker with it. But last night he told Winifred
Best and Chips Madigan that it was clear there would
have to be some editing. He intended to pull the picture
from release and postpone its general opening for a
month.”
Judith finally found her voice. “What does all this
have to do with the guests not being able to leave?”
Vito tried to look apologetic, but failed. “I’m afraid
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147
I can’t discuss that with you at present. But I’m sure
you realize that the studio wants to conduct its own investigation into the cause of Bruno’s death. You must
be aware that the medical examiner’s report is inconclusive.”
“We’re aware,” Joe said with a dour expression.
“Good.” Vito stood up, ever mindful of the crease in
his trousers. “I hope this doesn’t sound crass, but I believe you have a vacant room?”
“Ah . . .” Judith’s jaw dropped. “You mean Bruno’s?
Yes, but—”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll spend the night there,”
Vito interposed. “Right now I have to head back
downtown to talk with the rest of the company at the
Cascadia Hotel. Don’t bother to show me out. I know
the way.” He slipped his sunglasses back on and gave
both Flynns the slightly sinister smile. “I’m a quick
study.”
Despite the lawyer’s assertion, Judith and Joe followed him as far as the entry hall. When the door had
closed behind Vito, Joe put an arm around his wife.
“Let’s go into the parlor in case the guests decide to
come downstairs and commandeer the living room.”
In the gray autumn light with the dead ashes in the
grate and the single tall window streaked with rain, the
room had lost its usual cheerfulness. The parlor
seemed bleak, matching Judith’s mood.
“Whatever are we going to do?” she groaned, slipping into one of the two matching side chairs. “Will
the studio’s investigation make us the culprits?”
“I’ve no idea,” Joe admitted, “but one thing’s for
sure—Stone Cold Sam Cairo isn’t going to rush
around on our account. He’s laughing up his sleeve
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Mary Daheim
over our dilemma because he hates me. Resents me,
too, which is maybe why he hates me. I always had a
better ratio of cases solved than he did. It was a competition to Sam, one-on-one. The bottom line is we
can’t rely on him.”
Judith felt too dazed to respond.
“So we’ll do our own investigating. I’ve got the experience, and you’ve got . . . a way with people.” Joe
lowered his gaze. It was difficult for him to admit that
his wife’s amateur tactics could ferret out murderers.
“Between us, we may be able to get ourselves out of
this jam.”
“You mean,” Judith croaked, “we informally interrogate them?”
“You do,” Joe said, patting her hand. “I’ll take a
more professional stand. After all, I’m not only a retired cop, but a private detective.” He offered her his
most engaging grin. “Want to hire me?”
Judith grinned back, though she was still upset. “Of
course. I’d better make arrangements with Ingrid for
tonight’s other guests.”
Joe patted her, then started for the door. “I’m on the
case.”
“Oh!” Judith called after him. “One thing.”
“What’s that?”
She swallowed hard. “Do you honestly believe that
Bruno may have been murdered?”
Joe regarded his wife with grim compassion. “I
can’t rule it out.”
Judith’s heart sank. “You sound like a cop.”
He shrugged.
Judith tried to regain her composure. “One more
thing.”
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149
“What?”
“Can I use the kitchen?”
When Judith drained the sink, she felt as if she were
releasing the floodgates of evil. Joe had already removed the rubber spider and fingerprinted the entire
area, including the wayward door, the window and
windowsill, and the faucets. He’d ask Woody Price to
run the evidence through
the lab.
Judith called Ingrid at the state B&B association’s
office, but was informed that Ms. Heffelman had the
weekend off. In her place was a soft-spoken woman
named Zillah Young. Apparently Zillah was new to the
hostelry business and didn’t know of Judith’s reputation for murder and mayhem. Without giving the details, Judith meekly asked her to assign the five
Sunday-night reservations to other B&Bs in the area.
Finally, Judith had a chance to call Renie and let her
know about the tragedy. It was shortly after eleven
o’clock, and the Joneses should be back from Mass at
Our Lady, Star of the Sea. Judith would either have to
miss Mass or go in the evening. There was no way she
could leave Hillside Manor at present.
The only guests that Joe had found upstairs were
Dirk Farrar and Angela La Belle. Joe reported that both
were furious. He also noted that they seemed to be
sharing Room Three, which had belonged to Bruno.
“I told them to get out of there,” Joe said. “I want to
search that room thoroughly before Vito settles in.”
“Will they go?” Judith asked, her fingers poised to
call Renie.
“They stomped out of the house five minutes ago.”
Judith sighed. “So there’s nobody here for me to
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Mary Daheim
chat up. Heaven only knows where Dade Costello
went. He seems to wander the neighborhood, thinking
great thoughts.”
“Or homicidal ones,” Joe put in.
“Are you going to search Bruno’s room now?” Judith asked.
“Yes. You want to come along?”
“No,” Judith replied. “I have to call Renie, and then,
if none of the guests are back, I’ll go down to St. Fabiola’s at the bottom of the hill for noon Mass. Oh, by
the way, there’s a book in Bruno’s room called The
Gasman. I heard he based the movie on it. It’s old and
looks as if it’s been cherished. Chips Madigan said
something this morning about Bruno being on a mission. I know it sounds silly, but I’m curious. Why don’t
you bring it down and I’ll call one of my library
mavens to see if they know anything about it.”
“You never came across it when you worked as a librarian?” Joe inquired, referring to the weary years of
Judith’s first marriage when she worked days at the
public library and tended bar at the Meat & Mingle in
the evenings.
Judith shook her head. “I’ve never heard of it.”
Joe left the kitchen while Judith dialed Renie’s