Winifred said, a bit stiffly. “Eugenia Fleming is Bruno
and Dirk’s agent.”
Judith allowed her hand to be shaken by the pair.
Morris’s grip was feeble; Eugenia practically pulled
Judith’s arm out of the socket.
“We so wanted to stay here at your charming B&B,”
Eugenia boomed in a deep voice. She seemed more
than big; she towered over Judith’s five-foot-nine and
possessed a bust that could have triumphed in a headon collision with an armored car.
“There wasn’t room, I guess,” Morris said, then
cleared his throat. “Especially since my wife unexpectedly joined me on this trip.”
Judith assumed that his wife was the pioneer in the
sunbonnet and gingham dress. “I’m sure you’re enjoying the Cascadia,” she said. “It’s the most luxurious
hotel in the city.”
“It’s fine,” Morris said offhandedly. “The truth is,
my wife’s a real homebody. I was surprised that she
wanted to come along.”
Eugenia’s dark eyes were flashing around the room.
“Excuse me,” she said, “I must speak with Dirk. I
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hardly recognized him in that doublet and the hat with
those swooping feathers.” With a click of the castanets
she held in one hand, the agent stalked across the room
to reach her prey.
Judith was left with Morris, who kept darting
glances at Bruno, sitting alone and forlorn on the sofa.
Sweetums, who must have come in when the Joneses
went out, had planted his orange-and-white body at the
producer’s feet. To Judith’s surprise, Bruno patted his
lap. To her amazement, the cat leaped up and allowed
himself to be petted. Maybe even Sweetums wanted to
get into the movies.
“I should speak to Bruno,” Morris murmured, removing his matador’s cap. He was short, spare, and
balding. “I simply don’t know what to say to him. Perhaps I’ll get a drink first.”
Judith watched Morris accept a hefty martini from
Cathy. The publicist then stood off to one side by the
door to the front parlor and gulped down his drink.
Cathy removed her panda head, slipped out from behind the bar, and approached Judith.
“I’m dying of heat prostration in this stupid suit,”
she declared, and in fact, her face was dripping with
perspiration. “I knew I should never have let my
mother order my costume. I intended to come as Pandora, not a panda.”
Judith couldn’t help but smile. “That would have
been more fetching in order to attract Ben Carmody.”
Cathy shook out her long, damp blond locks. “Another idea of Mom’s! I’m not even a Ben Carmody fan.
He always plays meanies.”
“Go home,” Judith urged. “Joe and I can take care of
the bar. I don’t think this party is going to last much
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103
longer. In fact, your parents might as well leave, too.
I’ll go out to the kitchen and thank them.”
Arlene, however, refused to leave Judith with such a
mess. “Cathy can go, Carl can go,” she asserted, “but
I’m staying until the bitter end.”
“I think we’re already there,” Judith said over the
hum of the dishwasher.
“I’ll stay, too,” Carl volunteered.
“Really,” Judith protested, “there’s no need. Joe and
I can clean up by ourselves. It’s late. Please, we’ll be
fine.”
“Not entirely,” Carl said, pointing to the sink.
“You’ve got a backed-up drain.”
Judith grimaced. “Renie! She never uses sink strainers. She says they don’t work for her.”
“What’s to work?” Joe asked, gazing into the eightinch basin of dirty water. “You put them in, turn the
button on top, and there you go.”
Judith shook her head. “Not for Renie. She says it’s
too complicated. I gave her a pair of brand new strainers for Christmas last year and she stuck them on her
ears and said that’s as close as they’d ever get to her
double sinks.”
Carl was still peering at the water. “Maybe if I used
a plunger . . .”
“No, you don’t,” Joe said, taking Carl by the shoulder. “Go home, Hansel. Your gingerbread house awaits
you.”
Carl shot Joe a dark look. “With Gretel or the
witch?”
“Gretel, of course,” Judith said, patting Arlene’s
arm. “Go on, please. Poor Cathy has to get out of that
panda suit.”
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With reluctance, the Rankerses exited with their
daughter. Joe went into the living room to tend bar, and
Judith scanned what was left of the crowd. On the window seat, Dirk and Angela were speaking with Eugenia in a serious manner. Chips Madigan was standing
by the piano, framing imaginary camera angles with
his hands. Dade, Ellie, and Ben were nowhere in sight.
Winifred stood behind the sofa, where Bruno sat with
Morris Mayne at his side. Sweetums remained tucked
in the folds of Bruno’s robes.
As innkeeper and hostess, Judith couldn’t help but
take Bruno’s gloom personally. She knew it wasn’t her
fault, but it upset her to see a guest in distress.
As if sensing Judith’s consternation, Eugenia
slipped off the window seat and moved quickly across
the room.
“I’m wondering if Bruno shouldn’t leave for L.A.
tonight,” she murmured. “Of course it’s none of my
business, really. I’d mention it to Winifred, but she and
I don’t speak.”
“Oh.” Judith glanced from Eugenia to Winifred. “I
see.” She didn’t really, but couldn’t think of anything
else to say. She hesitated, feeling Eugenia’s hard-eyed
stare. Judith cleared her throat. “Is there something I
can do?”
“Why, yes,” Eugenia replied. “You could ask what
Winifred thinks of my suggestion. Only don’t mention
that it came from me.”
“I don’t think there’s another flight to L.A. tonight,”
Judith said. “The red-eye leaves shortly after midnight.”
Eugenia waved a hand that was encased in fingerless black lace gloves. “Bruno doesn’t fly commercial.
He has his own jet.”
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105
“Oh.” Judith started toward the sofa, aware that
Winifred was also giving her a steely-eyed stare. Taking
a deep breath, she decided to approach Bruno directly.
His eyes were dull as he gazed up at her from under
the hood of his burnoose. “Yes?”
“Mr. Zepf,” Judith began. She shivered slightly. The
fire had burned out on the hearth, and the wind created
a draft. Roman fashion wasn’t intended for a chilly autumn evening in the Pacific Northwest. “Mr. Zepf,” Judith repeated, “I want to say how sorry I am that your
movie wasn’t well received. Someone suggested that
perhaps you’d like to fly back to Los Angeles tonight.
What do you think?”
Bruno looked blank. “I don’t think. I can’t think. I
mustn’t think. Could you get me another Scotch?” He
pointed to his empty glass on the coffee table between
the matching sofas.
“Of course,” Judith responded, and went over to Joe
at the bar just as Dirk and Angela headed upstairs.
“Zepf needs zapping,” Judith said in a low voice. “I
feel sorry for him. Do you suppose it’s as bad as he
makes out?”