sort of straitlaced. You know what they say—change
starts on the coasts, and it takes a long time to get to
the middle.”
Judith smiled back. “One of the singers was named
Winnie Lou Best. Do you think that’s a coincidence?”
“Winnie Lou . . .” Chips repeated, then slapped a
hand to his head. “You mean as in Winifred Best?”
Judith nodded. “I showed her this tape and she
pitched a small fit. Why would she do that?”
“Golly,” Chips said, “I’ve no idea. Maybe she’s embarrassed.”
The explanation was so simple that it made sense.
“That’s possible,” Judith allowed, though a snippet of
doubt remained. Before Chips could resume his walk
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to the bathroom, she held up a hand. “Quick question.
Why is there so much controversy over the way The
Gasman was filmed?”
“You mean the picture’s length?” Chips responded.
“No, not exactly,” Judith said. “I understand there
were differing opinions about the story itself.” Maybe
that was more to the point. “That the result wasn’t true
to the original book.”
Chips laughed. “You’d better ask Dade about that.
Of course, he’ll tell you I didn’t direct the picture right.
The fact is, I directed it the way Bruno wanted. Of
course I wouldn’t admit that publicly, but you’re not in
the business.”
“In other words,” Judith said, “Bruno dictated how
you should direct?”
Chips shrugged. “It was his picture.”
“You felt he knew what he was doing?”
A flush crept over Chips’s freckled face as he began
inching his way toward the bathroom. “I admit, I
hadn’t worked with him before, but until I signed on
for The Gasman, he hadn’t missed a beat. Of course,
he directed his first six films himself. It was only for
the last two—including The Gasman—that he’d hired
another director. I had reason to trust him. All his films
had been successful.”
Through the window over the landing, Judith could
see the fog swirling around the house. It was going to
be a gloomy, damp night for the trick-or-treaters.
“What went wrong with this movie?” she asked,
aware that Chips was trying to escape.
“Well . . .” He looked pained. He also looked around
the hallway. In the process, he noticed the fog through
the window. “Wow,” he said softly. “Real fog. We
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didn’t have that in the Midwest, where I was raised. In
L.A., we have only smog, which doesn’t create this
kind of atmosphere. Would you mind moving to your
left about six inches?”
“What? Oh, sure.” Judith sidestepped a half foot.
“ ‘Troubled innkeeper,’ ” Chips murmured, framing
yet another shot with his fingers. “Fog in background
symbolizes her ambiguous thoughts, as well as impending danger. I like this very much.”
“About what went wrong,” Judith said as Chips
scooted around in a crouching position, seeking different angles. “Have you any idea what happened?”
“The length, for one thing,” he replied, one eye
closed as he peered through his imaginary lens. “Ah!
That’s perfect!” He stood up. “The ambitiousness of
the project. The concept itself. The original material.
The budget overrun.”
“In other words,” Judith put in, “everything?”
Chips gulped. “Sort of.”
“I see,” she said. “But you couldn’t tell that from the
start?”
“You wouldn’t believe how Bruno could talk up an
idea.” Chips grimaced. “That’s a talent in itself. After
five minutes with him, you’d think he was going to
make the next Gone With the Wind.” He bobbed his
head as a door shut somewhere on the second floor.
“Excuse me, I’ve got to take a quick shower before we
go to dinner.”
Dade Costello shambled down the narrow corridor
that separated Room One from Rooms Two and Three.
When he saw Judith, he merely nodded and kept
going. He was halfway down the stairs before she
called to him.
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Mary Daheim
“Mr. Costello,” she said, hurrying down the top
flight and realizing that her hips were aching from all
her recent exertions, “may I ask you a question about
my mother?”
Dade turned to look over his shoulder. “Your
mother? Oh, Mrs. Grover. Sure.” He continued on
down the stairs. “I was just going out for some fresh air
before we took off to dinner.”
“It’s pretty foggy out there,” Judith said when she
reached the main floor. She pointed to Dade’s leather
vest, which he wore over a plaid shirt. “You should
wear a heavier jacket.”
“Think so?” He sounded dubious. “I’m not used to
all this damp. Now what’s this about your mother?”
“Are you really encouraging her to write her life
story?”
“Sure,” Dade replied, leaning one arm on the
balustrade and propping a booted foot up on the umbrella stand. “Why not? She seemed to like the idea.”
“She would,” Judith murmured. “You aren’t seriously thinking of buying it from her, are you?”
“I’m a writer,” Dade said. “I don’t buy scripts, I sell
them.”
“I don’t get it,” said Judith.
Dade shrugged his wide shoulders. “I’m interested
in ideas. Your mother sounds as if she’s had a colorful
life.” His casual demeanor evaporated, replaced by
weariness. “Besides, I could use some good ideas
about now. I feel tapped out.”
Judith was mystified. “You mean—you’d buy ideas
from her?”
“Not exactly,” he replied, eyeing the door as if he
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209
were anxious to make his getaway. “It gets real complicated.”
Judith let the matter drop. She was more interested
in The Gasman script than in her mother’s life story.
“Was it so complicated with the book that The Gasman
was based on? I mean, that was a very old book, wasn’t
it? Copyright may have expired.”
“It had,” Dade said without much interest. “I think.
Anyway, whoever wrote it had been dead for years.”
“How did Bruno come by the book? That is,” she
went on, not wanting to admit she’d been snooping in
the guest rooms, “I used to be a librarian, and I’ve
never heard of it. I’m assuming it was fairly obscure.”
“It was at that,” Dade drawled with a gleam in his
eye. “I heard that one of Bruno’s ancestors had written
it. In a nutshell, sophomoric and dull. Carp was the author’s name, as I recollect.”
“C. Douglas Carp,” Judith said as the name on the
title page sprang into her mind’s eye. “Was it his
grandfather or an uncle?”
Dade shrugged again. “I don’t really know. There
was a family tie, though. It was more textbook than
novel, almost impossible to use as the basis for a script.
Too much fact and not enough fiction. And too damned
much territory to cover. I struggled for almost a year to
get just the outline done.”