heavy metal?”
“I don’t,” Judith responded, brushing crumbs from
the matching sofas. “Half of those tapes and CDs are
Mike’s. He says he’s outgrown most of them, but when
I asked why he doesn’t throw them out or give them
away, he says someday he might want to hear them
again. Of course he doesn’t have room to store them up
at the cabin.” She sounded put-upon.
“He might be able to sell them,” Renie said, glancing at some of the labels. “A few of them are real classics.” She held up a tape. “Remember the Demures?
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201
They had one huge hit, ‘Come Play with Me’—it’s on
this—and then the group fell out of sight.”
“I vaguely remember it,” Judith replied. “Didn’t the
lead singer have an unusual name?”
Renie peered at the tape. “Ramona Pomona. I hope
it wasn’t her real name. The two backup singers
were . . . Hunh.” Her eyes widened.
“What?” Judith inquired, pausing on her way to the
kitchen with an armful of glasses and water bottles.
Renie gave Judith a curious look. “The backups are
Jolene DuBois and Winnie Lou Best. What do you
make of that, coz?”
“I’m not sure,” Judith said slowly. “It may be a coincidence. Is there a picture of the group?”
“Yes,” Renie replied, “but it’s small and not very
good. The girls all have their mouths open—presumably singing—and are waving their arms.”
Judith moved next to Renie and looked over her
cousin’s shoulder. “You’re right. Three dark-skinned
girls with bouffant black hair. Let’s see the liner notes.”
“If you can believe them,” Renie cautioned.
But the information was brief and not very enlightening. “It says,” Judith read after taking the small
folder from Renie, “that Ramona, Jolene, and Winnie
Lou grew up together in Compton, California, and
started singing in their high-school glee club before
forming their own group. They got their first big break
when they were discovered at a high-school dance in
Glendale. The trio, and I’m quoting now, toured for
two years as the opening act for several of the biggest
names in the business before becoming headliners in
1978. This is their debut album, featuring the red-hot
single . . . et cetera.” Judith examined the notes closely.
202
Mary Daheim
“This is copyright 1979. Mike would have been
twelve. How old do you figure Winifred is now?”
Renie screwed up her face. “It’s hard to tell. Fortyish? She would have been in her late teens back then.
But maybe it’s not her.”
“And if it is,” Judith noted as she slipped the liner
notes back inside the plastic tape container, “so what?”
“So how do you go from being Ramona Pomona’s
backup with one hit single to Bruno Zepf’s assistant?”
Renie mused.
“Over twenty years,” Judith said. “A lot of things
can happen in that time, especially in a place like Hollywood.”
“There’s one way to find out,” Renie said.
“How?”
“We could ask Winifred.”
“Oh.” Judith felt almost disappointed. “We could at
that. I’ll do it now, before they leave for dinner.”
After depositing the dirty glasses and garbage in the
kitchen, she headed up the main staircase for the second floor. Winifred was in Room One just off the landing.
A double rap on the door brought an immediate response. Judith was relieved; it seemed as if every time
she knocked on a door, an anxiety attack ensued.
“What is it?” Winifred asked in an irritable tone.
“I wanted to show you something,” Judith said,
clasping the tape in her hand. “It’ll take just a moment.”
Warily, Winifred opened the door a scant four
inches. She was wearing her dark blue bathrobe and
her face was covered with cream. “What is it?” she repeated.
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203
Judith wore her most ingratiating expression. “I
think my son may be a fan of yours. Or at least he was
several years ago.” She opened her hand to reveal the
tape. “Is this you?”
Winifred recoiled. “Oh, my God! Where did you get
that?”
“It was in our collection,” Judith replied equably.
“Mike—my son—left some of his belongings here
with us.”
“You’re lying.” The astonishment on Winifred’s
face had been superseded by a steely-eyed look.
“Where did you really get that?”
“I told you,” Judith persisted, “in with our other
recordings in the living room.”
“That’s impossible. This tape’s a demo. It was never
released.” Without opening the door further, Winifred’s
slim arm reached out to grab the tape.
But Judith pulled her hand back. “I’m sorry. I don’t
understand. Is this you on the tape? Is that why you’re
upset?”
But Winifred’s lips clamped shut as she slammed
the door in Judith’s face.
THIRTEEN
JUDITH STOOD ROOTED To the spot, staring at the tape
in her hand. She jumped when Chips Madigan came
into the hall, apparently heading for the bathroom
between Rooms Three and Four.
“Whoa!” he called, a bath towel slung over the
terrycloth robe that reached to his knees. “Sorry.
Did I scare you?”
“Startled is more like it,” Judith said with a weak
smile. “I was lost in thought.”
Ever the director looking for the perfect shot,
Chips half knelt to frame Judith’s stance by
Winifred’s room. “ ‘Shaken innkeeper, anxious about
guest, medium shot.’ ” He stood up and moved
nearer. “ ‘Close-up of innkeeper, looking weary and
somewhat distraught.’ How am I doing?”
“Better than I am,” Judith answered, keeping her
voice down. “How much do you know about
Winifred’s background?”
Chips fingered the towel. “Not much. I mean,
she’s been with Bruno a long time. As far as I
know, she started working for him nine, ten years
ago, after he made his first hit, No Prunes for Pru-
dence. That was the small-budget independent pic- SILVER SCREAM
205
ture that won a film-festival prize at PAW in Iowa
City.”
Judith was puzzled. “PAW?”
Chips nodded. “It’s called THAW nowadays. I’m
not sure what it stands for.”
Judith hesitated before posing another question.
Judging from his youthful appearance, she assumed he
was in the same thirty-to thirty-five age group as
Mike. “Do you remember the Demures?” she asked,
holding out the tape.
Chips looked bemused. “Yes . . . yes, I do. They had
a big hit . . . What was it called?”
“ ‘Come Play with Me,’ ” Judith responded. “It’s on
this tape.”
“Right.” The director beamed at Judith. “It was a
single, really popular the year I graduated from high
school. We wanted to play it at our senior prom, but the
principal wouldn’t let us. It was kind of raunchy for
those days. I grew up in a typical Midwestern town,