She was still shivering inside the heavy black cloak as
she sidled up to Bruno and leaned down. “Hey, maybe
it’s not so bad. You know—every great producer has a
flop sometimes. Look at all the successes you’ve had.”
“That was then,” Bruno muttered. “This is now.”
Dade Costello, in his long brown velvet mantle and
Frisbee-shaped hat, passed in back of the sofa behind
Bruno. “I told you so,” he said, and moved on.
Bruno groaned some more. A cell phone rang from
somewhere. Bruno automatically reached for his, but
no one was on the other end. His expression was bleak
as Ellie pulled out her own cell to take the call.
“Yes,” she said. “I know.” Her sweet face turned
sour. “But . . . isn’t it possible that . . . Yes, I suppose
you’re right. Still . . .” She listened, then sighed.
“Okay . . . If you say so. Sure, you know I always do.
Bye.” She rang off, shot Bruno a blistering look, and
walked off toward the bar, where another newcomer,
attired in a pioneer woman’s gingham dress and floppy
bonnet, was accepting a drink from Cathy Rankers.
Angela La Belle came over to the sofa. Judith drew
back, assuming the actress wanted to speak with
Bruno. But Angela ignored the producer and spoke to
Judith instead.
“I see the truffles finally turned up. At least one
good thing happened tonight.” With a swish of Scarlett’s skirts, she turned away.
“You see?” Bruno whispered hoarsely. “You see
how they turn on me? That’s the way the business
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Mary Daheim
works. A hundred successes and one failure—that’s all
it takes to bring you down, to make you a nobody.”
Judith glanced around the big living room. Still
wearing their masks, Ben Carmody and Dirk Farrar
were talking by the piano. Judith recognized them by
their costumes. Dirk cut a dashing figure in his satinslashed doublet and hose; Ben looked more like his
sinister screen self in the nineteenth-century frock coat
and top hat. Judging from their body language, neither
seemed happy.
“Surely,” Judith said, her naturally kind heart filling
with sympathy for Bruno, “you don’t really believe
that you’re . . . um . . . washed up in Hollywood?”
Bruno’s eyes darted under the hood of his
burnoose. “See? They’re staying as far away as possible, like I’m poison, contagious. Do you watch pro
football?” He saw Judith give a faint nod. “Then you
know how the other players usually avoid a fallen
teammate. They’re superstitious, too; they think that if
they touch the downed man, they’ll be the next to get
hurt. That’s the way it is in the picture business. An injury, or a failure—or even a rumor of failure—can be
career-ending.”
Judith saw Chips Madigan as the computer geek,
speaking with Angela by the buffet bar. Ellie was
alone, studying the various pieces of china that sat
along the plate rail. Dade was also by himself, at his favorite place by the French doors, staring out into the
stormy October night. Dirk and Ben remained together, speaking and nodding in turn. Winifred apparently had gone into the front parlor with Morris the
matador and Eugenia in her Carmen costume. The pioneer woman stood at the buffet, sampling food from
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99
the chafing dishes. It didn’t seem like much of a party
to Judith, but she reminded herself it wasn’t her fault.
The doorbell distracted her. She waited a moment,
thinking one of the company might be expecting more
hangers-on. But the bell rang a second time, and Judith
hurried to the front door.
“Trick-or-treat!” chimed two youthful voices.
Judith frowned at the spaceman and the alligator.
“Aren’t you out late?” she inquired, reaching for the
silver bowl on the entry-hall table.
The spaceman, who had what looked like a fish
bowl on his head, grinned through the filmy glass.
“We’re not little kids,” he responded. “I’m getting my
driver’s license next week.”
Considering that the spaceman was almost as tall as
Judith—at least in the silver platform boots—she
shrugged, then dumped four small chocolate bars into
each of the pillowcases the youngsters held in front of
them. “Okay, but doesn’t that make you a bit old for
trick-or-treating?”
The alligator shook its scaly green head. “We had to
take our little brothers and sisters out first. Most of the
people ignored us, so now it’s our turn.”
“I see,” Judith said. “But it’s still very late. You two
should head home now.”
The spaceman laughed and the alligator wagged his
tail as they headed down the porch steps. As Judith was
closing the door, they tossed a couple of thank-yous
over their shoulders.
In the living room, nothing much had changed. The
cloud of gloom still hung over the guests, so palpable
that Judith felt as if she were looking through the
blurred lens of a movie camera.
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Mary Daheim
Bill and Joe entered at that moment, each carrying
more platters of food. Spotting Bruno sitting in his favorite place on the sofa, Bill began to quack in an
angry tone.
“Quack, quack-quack-quack!” He pointed to the
melancholy producer. “Quack!”
Joe put a hand on Bill’s arm feathers. “Quack off.
That guy looks pretty grim. Let him be.”
Bill was slow to respond. “Qu-a-ck,” he finally said
in a reluctant voice.
Joe gave Bill a pat, observed the rest of the morose
gathering, and spoke up: “Anybody care to dance? I’ll
put on some music.”
Ellie laughed with a hint of hysteria and wandered
out into the entry hall just as Winifred appeared with
her Spanish-costumed duo. She glanced at Bruno,
winced, and requested a stiff bourbon from Cathy. No
one else responded to Joe’s invitation.
Bill turned around, calling to an unseen Renie.
“Daisy!” he shouted in his normal, if muffled, voice.
“It’s after midnight. Can we go home?”
Renie stumbled out of the entry hall. She seemed to
be having trouble with her webbed feet. “I’ll ask Judith,” she said.
Judith excused herself and got up from the sofa. “I
don’t see why you shouldn’t go,” she said in a low
voice. “This is one dead party. Arlene and Carl can
help clean up.” She glanced back at the buffet and
sighed. “All that expensive food gone to waste.”
“I put some pots and pans to soak in the sink,” Renie
said. “They should be scrubbed before you put them in
the dishwasher.”
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101
“Okay,” Judith said. “Thanks for everything. As it
turned out, I didn’t need so much help after all.”
Renie nodded, her yellow bill bobbing up and down.
“A real bomb, I guess.”
“Right.” Judith hugged Bill and Renie. Joe, who
kept tripping over the hem of his choirboy’s cassock,
showed them out the back way.
When Judith returned to the living room, Winifred
offered to introduce her to Morris and Eugenia.
“Morris Mayne is Bruno’s studio publicist,”