think it was in the room that Dirk and Ben shared.”
“Her mother,” Renie began, having swallowed, “is a
writer. Her name is Amy Lee Wong, wife of the Wienie Wizard. She’s Chinese by birth, from Hong Kong.
I gather she’s written a few romance novels under the
pen name of Lotus MacDermott.”
“Interesting,” Judith commented, looking thoughtful. “So Mrs. Wienie sold the script to—whom?
Bruno?”
“Could be.” Renie polished off the crackers, cheese,
and ham, then took a long drink of Pepsi. “Ellie is supposed to star as the seventh wife of a Mormon bishop
back in the 1850s. The narrative involves the Utah War,
which occurred when there was a public outcry about
the Mormon practice of polygamy. According to the
script, one of the reasons that the persecution or whatever you’d call it ended was because the Mormon
bishop took a Chinese wife. If I recall my Western history, it had more to do with the Mormons pledging allegiance to the Union when the Civil War broke out.
Ben Carmody is supposed to play the bishop.”
“My.” Judith got up and took a can of diet 7UP from
the fridge. “It sounds a bit implausible. I mean, the
Mormons weren’t famous in those days for being tolerant of other races.”
Renie grinned at her cousin. “That’s why it’s a
movie.”
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Mary Daheim
“I suppose,” Judith said. “Except for the distortion,
the film might have possibilities. Maybe that’s what
Ben and Ellie were discussing when we saw them at
T. S. McSnort’s.”
“That’s very likely,” Renie said. “Since Ellie looked
as if she had the upper hand, I wonder if she was talking Ben into it. Therefore, I wonder if Dirk Farrar
wasn’t her first choice.”
“So where does Ellie get so much clout?” Judith remarked, sitting down again. “She hasn’t made very
many movies.”
“Ah!” Renie grinned at her cousin. “Don’t you remember who bankrolled Bruno for The Gasman?”
“Mr. MacDermott, the Wienie Wizard,” Judith responded.
“Right,” said Renie. “So naturally he would put
money into the Utah film. If he has any left after the
debacle with The Gasman.”
“Hmm.” Judith drummed her nails on the table and
grimaced. “If Bruno was murdered, then we can eliminate Ellie and probably Ben Carmody as suspects.”
Renie shook her head. “Not necessarily. The fact
that the movie flopped at the premiere might make
Bruno dispensable.”
“What do you mean?” Judith queried.
“I can’t explain it,” Renie said. “Ask Bill. It may
have something to do with the studio’s insurance. Or
Bruno having a flop, which would have made raising
money for his next picture much harder. It was complicated. I got sort of mixed up.”
Judith was about to speculate further when the
phone rang. She picked it up from the counter behind
her and heard a vaguely familiar female voice.
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181
“We’re sure glad we didn’t stay at your place,” the
woman declared. “And don’t think we ever will!”
“Mrs. Izard?” Judith ventured.
“You’re darned tootin’ it’s Mrs. Izard. And I’m
speaking for Mr. Izard, too. Walt here says you must
run a pretty half-baked bed-and-breakfast to let your
guests get murdered in their beds.”
“No one,” Judith said firmly as she cursed Ingrid for
breaking her word, “got murdered in their beds. In fact,
no one got murdered that we know of, period.”
Meg Izard chortled gleefully. “Whatever happened
wasn’t good. And doesn’t that just go to show you? No
matter how big a wheel, the Grim Reaper can still bust
up your spokes when you least expect it.”
The phone slammed down in Judith’s ear. “Damn
that Ingrid—she promised to be discreet about our . . .
misfortune. And she usually is. I’ve always trusted her,
even if we’ve had our differences. And,” Judith went
on, growing more annoyed by the second, “talk about
a poor sport. Since Meg Izard and her husband didn’t
get to stay at Hillside Manor, the old bat wants to lord
it over us because we’re in a pickle.”
Renie was trying not to smile. “Yes, it’s a pickle,
coz. At least the other displaced couple hasn’t bugged
you about what’s happened.”
“The Kidds?” Judith said, going to the refrigerator
and taking out a package of bologna. “No. They were
very nice about it. In the Izards and the Kidds, you see
the two ends of the spectrum when it comes to guests.
Some—most, really—are wonderful, and then others
can be a huge pain.” She deftly buttered two slices of
bread. “I’m going to take Mother a snack. She’s been
shortchanged today.”
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Mary Daheim
Upon entering the toolshed, Judith expected a testy
greeting. Instead, Gertrude was writing on a ruled
tablet as fast as her arthritic fingers would permit. She
barely looked up when her daughter arrived.
“I have a bologna sandwich with apple slices and
some hot chocolate,” Judith said as the old lady scribbled away.
Gertrude still didn’t look up from the tablet. “Put
’em there,” she said, nodding at the cluttered card
table.
Judith moved a bag of Tootsie Rolls and a copy of
TV Guide to make room for the small plastic tray.
“What are you doing? Writing a letter?”
“Nope,” Gertrude replied. She added a few more
words to the tablet, then finished with an awkward
flourish and finally looked up. “I’m writing my life
story. For the moving pictures.”
“You’re . . . what?” Judith gasped.
“You heard me,” Gertrude snapped. “That writer
fella, Wade or Dade or Cade, told me that everybody’s
life is a story. So I told him some things that had happened to me over the years and he said I should write
it all down. So I am.” She gave Judith a smug look.
Judith was puzzled. Her mother had led a seemingly
ordinary life. “What exactly are you writing?”
Gertrude shrugged her hunched shoulders. “My life.
Fleeing Germany in my youth. Starting a revolution in
primary school. Drinking bathtub gin and dancing the
black bottom. Eloping with your father.”
“You were a baby when you came to this country,”
Judith pointed out. “I don’t recall you ever mentioned
fleeing much of anything.”
“We fled,” Gertrude insisted. “We were fleeing
SILVER SCREAM
183
Grossmutter Hoffman. Your great-granny on that side
of the family was a real terror. She drove your grandfather crazy, and how she treated your grandmother—
her daughter-in-law—is hardly fit to print.”
Vaguely, Judith remembered scattered anecdotes
about the autocratic old girl and her savage tongue.
“Well . . . okay. But I never heard the part about the
primary-school revolution.”
“I’ve been ashamed,” Gertrude admitted. “But this
Wade or Dade or whoever told me to let it all come out.
I was in third grade, and those girls at St. Walburga’s
grade school never flushed the toilets. It disgusted me.