“Well . . .” Renie grimaced. “We were planning on
inviting our future in-laws over so we could make sure
who was marrying whom, but the kids aren’t positive
that will work with their various and elaborate schedules. They insist we’ve met them already. I’ll find out
what Bill thinks. If he gives me a green light, we’ll be
over as soon as we can.”
Driving to Hillside Manor, Judith breathed a little
easier. To her relief, the cul-de-sac was empty, except
for the patrol car that had crept close to the curb. She
couldn’t see who was inside, but assumed it was someone from the day shift. Darnell Hicks and Mercedes
Berger would have gone home hours ago.
As she often did, Judith left her Subaru in the driveway. She usually entered the house from the rear, but
on this anxious Sunday she retraced her route to the
front. Pausing on the walk, she drank in the entirety of
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157
Hillside Manor, acknowledging its age, soaking up its
memories. The house was almost a hundred years old,
built in the Edwardian era. The dark green paint and
the off-white trim on the Prairie-style Craftsman had
just begun to chip and fade. Next summer, Judith
would have to hire a painter. If there was a next summer at Hillside Manor.
So many memories, she thought, ignoring the slight
drizzle. Her Grover grandparents had bought the house
in the twenties. Her father and Renie’s father had
grown up there along with four siblings. Gertrude and
Donald Grover had raised Judith within its sheltering
walls. After Don died, Judith and Mike had returned,
converting the house into a bed-and-breakfast. To Judith, it wasn’t just a building, it was a sanctuary. She
couldn’t possibly give it up. Not ever.
With a dragging step, Judith entered through the
front door, where her melancholia was swept away by
angry voices coming from the living room. One voice
soared above the rest.
“You don’t live in our world, Mr. Flynn,” proclaimed Angela La Belle. “You can’t possibly understand what it’s like to be in the picture business. If we
aren’t free to talk to people, to make contacts, to keep
up on every nuance of the business, our careers are in
jeopardy. Indeed, after last night’s fiasco, all”—she
paused, and Judith thought she glanced at Ellie Linn—
“or almost all of us are already in deep doodoo.”
It seemed to Judith the reference was not to Bruno’s
death, but to The Gasman’ s flop. She couldn’t help but
flinch at the lack of humanity.
Joe remained unruffled. “Don’t blame us. Talk to
your studio suits. You all have cell phones, don’t you?”
158
Mary Daheim
He cupped one ear with his hand. “I could swear
they’ve been ringing like a satellite symphony.”
“It’s not the same,” Ben Carmody argued. “I
planned to take a dinner meeting tonight with the number two producer in Hollywood. Number one now,
with Bruno out of the picture. So to speak.” The actor
looked faintly sheepish, but continued, “After last
night, there may not be any producers who want to talk
to me.”
“You’re not kidding,” Angela chimed in. “Now
when my name comes up, they’ll say, ‘La Belle? She
was in that disaster, The Gasman. I wouldn’t touch her
with a ten-foot pole.’ It’ll be like I have a contagious
disease. There’s no rationality in this business. Only
success and its afterglow count.”
The others enumerated their complaints, all of
which swelled into a dirge of doom. Judith studied the
gathering. Winifred was seated on one of the sofas by
the fireplace with Chips Madigan at her side. Opposite
them were Angela and Dirk. Ben Carmody leaned
against the mantelpiece and, while not wearing his
usual sinister screen expression, definitely looked morose. Dade Costello retained his lone-wolf status in his
favorite place by the French doors. Ellie Linn also
stood outside the circle, perched on the bay window
seat with her feet tucked under her. It seemed to Judith
that the young actress hadn’t been nearly as vocal
about the unfortunate movie premiere as her colleagues.
It was time, Judith believed, to cut someone from
the herd. She singled out Winifred Best.
“Excuse me,” she said in a deferential voice, “but
could I speak with you privately, Ms. Best?”
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159
Briefly, Winifred looked hostile. Or maybe just
wary. But her response was sufficiently courteous.
“Yes, if you like.”
Judith led her guest into the front parlor. “It’s really
none of my business, but since I’ll have to fill out some
forms, I should know what the plans are for Mr. Zepf’s
body.”
“Oh.” Winifred’s face fell. “I’ve contacted his children—they’re both in the L.A. area—and they’re making the arrangements. My understanding is that the
body will be shipped from here tomorrow. Under the
circumstances, I should think any kind of service will
be private. Very private.” She uttered the last words
through taut lips.
Judith wondered if the very private services were
because the family was very private or because the deceased had suffered a huge professional catastrophe
and the survivors were afraid that nobody would attend.
“Are his children grown?” Judith inquired.
Winifred nodded. “Practically. That is, they’re both
in college. Greta’s at Pepperdine and Greg just started
USC.”
“Um . . .” Judith cleared her throat. “Is their mother
also in L.A.?”
Winifred arched her thin eyebrows. “Their mother is
in Dubai. She divorced Bruno several years ago and
married an emir. She was an actress named Taryn
McGuire. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d never heard
of her. She did mostly TV and only appeared briefly in
two or three feature films.”
The name meant nothing to Judith. “I suppose being
married to Bruno wasn’t easy,” she said in a sympa- 160
Mary Daheim
thetic tone. “That is, he really was considered a movie
genius, wasn’t he?”
“Brilliant.” Winifred’s eyes lit up and her voice became almost caressing. “He always had his dreams.
Bruno attended every Saturday matinee, his attention
fixated on the screen, his imagination catching fire.
Early on, he understood what made a successful picture. It was born in him.”
Judith felt as if Winifred were reading from a press
release. Maybe she was; maybe she’d written it.
“It was only in the last six or seven years that he began
to recieve the kind of acclaim he’d always sought,”
Winifred went on. “Two years ago he made the short list.”
“Which is?” Judith asked, puzzled.
Winifred offered Judith a pitying smile. “It refers to
those few at the very top of their professions in the film
industry. Like Spielberg or Cameron. And Bruno.”
Quickly, she turned away. “Excuse me. It’s so hard to
think of Bruno going out . . . with a failure.”
“You seem genuinely fond of him,” Judith said, surprised at herself for being so bold, even more surprised