else—” She caught herself. “In case Angela doesn’t
make it. Dade Costello volunteered. Don’t move, I’ll
take a peek into the entry hall.”
Judith took another sip of brandy. Bill stepped behind the chair and began rubbing her shoulders.
“Dirk Farrar is passive-aggressive,” he said quietly.
“Winifred Best has low self-esteem. Chips Madigan
has an unresolved Oedipal complex. His father may
have abused him.”
Bill’s analyses, along with the brandy and the massage, brought Judith into complete focus. “You figured
out all that in five minutes of watching the guests
watch TV?”
“It was longer than that,” Bill replied. “The Packers
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171
got stalled on the Bears’ thirty-eight-yard line, punted,
and the Bears made two nice pass plays before they
kicked a field goal.”
“Oh.” Judith smiled faintly. “I’m still amazed at
how quickly you pinpointed their personalities.”
“I’m guessing,” Bill said, finishing the massage.
“Ordinarily, it’d take several sessions to peel the layers
off a patient. But you’re under pressure to figure these
people out.”
“Yes,” Judith agreed as Renie returned to the dining
room.
“Angela’s alive,” she announced, “but still unconscious. Fortunately, there was no water in the sink.”
“And no cupboard door to hit her in the head,” Judith murmured. “So what happened?”
Renie shook her head. “Nobody knows. Maybe she
fainted.”
“She wouldn’t still be out cold,” Judith noted, getting to her feet with Bill’s help. “She’s either sick
or . . .”
“Or what?” Renie put in as her cousin’s voice trailed
off.
“I’m not sure.” Judith’s expression was grim as she
moved unsteadily into the entry hall, where Dirk Farrar was kneeling over Angela’s motionless figure.
Dade Costello, apparently weary from his CPR ministrations, leaned against the balustrade and used a blueand-white bandanna to wipe sweat from his forehead.
Dirk looked up. “She’s alive. Her breathing’s better.
Where the hell are the medics?”
Judith’s ears picked up the sound of the medics’
siren. “They’re outside,” she said, and staggered to the
front door.
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Mary Daheim
Chips Madigan was already on the alert. “In through
here,” he told the emergency team, pointing to the
entry-hall bathroom. As the trio made their way to Angela, Chips got down on one knee and framed an imaginary shot with his fingers. “Whoa! This is good!
Medium shot, backs of uniforms looking great, equipment visible, love the red steel cases.” The director
stood up. “Two men and a woman. That’s good, too.
But the height differentials could be better. The
woman’s too tall.”
Dirk Farrar had stepped aside as the medics began
their task. The woman—who was indeed over six
feet—waved the other onlookers away. “Clear the
area,” she commanded. “We need some room here.”
Judith, Joe, Renie, and Bill returned to the dining
room. The women sat down at the dining-room table;
the men remained standing, Bill by the window, Joe
next to the big breakfront that held three generations of
the Grover family’s favorite china.
“What could have happened to Angela?” Judith
mused in a fretful voice. “Stress?”
“In a way,” Joe said, rocking slightly on his heels.
“That is, if you figure that stress can lead to drug addiction.”
“Drugs!” Judith exclaimed. “You think Angela
overdosed?”
Joe nodded. “I’m certain that the white powder you
found in the downstairs bathroom was cocaine. I’m
having Woody analyze the residue to make sure. I
found traces of it upstairs in the bathroom that Dirk
and Angela shared when they usurped Bruno’s room.”
“Not surprising,” Bill remarked. “How many showbusiness people have a drug habit?”
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173
“How many ordinary people do, too?” Renie said
with a touch of anger. “It’s everywhere.”
“Bruno!” Judith breathed. “What if he overdosed,
too?”
Joe, however, shook his head. “No traces of drugs
were found by the ME.”
Slipping out of her chair, Judith tiptoed to the door
that led to the entry hall and peeked around the corner.
An oxygen mask had been placed over Angela’s face
and an IV had been inserted into her arm. The two
male medics were preparing to remove her on a gurney. The woman was speaking in low tones to Dirk
Farrar. Judith couldn’t hear a word they said.
She barely had time to duck out of sight before Dirk
Farrar came into the dining room. Without his usual
bravado, he addressed Joe.
“I assume it wouldn’t break any rules if I went with
Angela to the hospital?” he said.
“Go ahead,” Joe responded. “What’s her condition?”
Dirk frowned. “Not so good. But they think she’ll
be okay.” He hurried out of the room.
“Halftime,” Bill murmured. “Let’s see how the other
guests are taking all this.” He, too, left the dining room.
Judith and Joe trailed behind him. Bill was correct:
The Packers and the Bears had retired to their respective dressing rooms to regroup for the second half. Ben
Carmody was on his cell phone; Chips Madigan was
leafing through a coffee-table book on Pacific Northwest photography; a disconsolate Winifred Best was
sitting in what had once been Grandpa Grover’s favorite armchair; Dade Costello had gone out through
the French doors and was standing on the back porch.
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Mary Daheim
Winifred’s head snapped up as Bill, Judith, and Joe
entered the living room. “What’s going on? What happened to Angela? Is she dead?”
Joe explained the situation, somehow managing to
leave out the part about a cocaine overdose.
“Was it a cocaine overdose?” Winifred demanded,
looking as if she were about to collapse.
Joe didn’t flinch. “That’s possible.”
Winifred wrung her thin hands. “I knew it. I knew it.
She can’t get off the damnable stuff. How many times
have they—” She stopped abruptly. “Where’s Dirk?”
“He rode to the hospital with Angela,” Joe replied.
“I believe they’re taking her to Norway General.”
The siren sounded as the medic van pulled away.
Judith went back into the entry hall and looked outside. A second van, apparently a backup, was also
turning out of the cul-de-sac. The neighbors, who
were accustomed to the occasional burst of mayhem
at Hillside Manor, were well represented by the
Porters, the Steins, and the Ericsons, who stood on
the sidewalk with Arlene Rankers. Across the street
on the corner, the elderly widow Miko Swanson sat at
her usual post by her front window. However, there
was no sign of Vivian Flynn, whose bungalow next
door to Mrs. Swanson’s typically had its drapes
closed during the daylight hours. Feeling obligated to
keep her fellow homeowners informed, Judith started
onto the porch just as a black limousine pulled into
the cul-de-sac.
Vito Patricelli emerged with Morris Mayne and Eugenia Fleming. With a weak wave in the neighbors’ direction, Judith ducked back inside, where she collided