house. But we said we thought it’d be better to go out.
You and Pop didn’t say anything, so we assumed it was
all set.”
“Probably,” Renie muttered to Judith, “they were all
talking at once—and so loud—that we couldn’t hear
them.”
“What’s that, Mom?” Tony inquired.
“I said I guess we goofed.” Renie looked unusually
subdued. “I’ll call Pop and get him over here.”
“He won’t answer the phone,” Anne warned.
“He’s not home,” Renie said, delving into her brown
suede purse for her cell phone.
Judith whispered into Renie’s ear. “I’m out of here.”
“Coz!” Renie cried as she hit the wrong button,
causing the phone to emit a sharp squawk.
“Sorry,” Judith apologized. “I have a job to do.”
She scooted out of the room.
The only similar door was on her left. The other
doors along the corridor were for rest rooms, storage,
and other restaurant facilities. Grasping the mahogany
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Mary Daheim
door’s brass lever, Judith took a deep breath. Now that
her prey were at hand, she didn’t know what to do. Barging in, as Joe had cautioned, wasn’t a good idea. The
door was too thick to allow her to overhear what was
going on in the private dining room. Worse yet, the
servers were all young men wearing tuxedos. A wild idea
involving the impersonation of a waitress had struck her
earlier. Not only was it far-fetched, it was impossible.
At that moment, one of the waiters appeared at the
top of the stairs carrying a jeroboam of champagne.
Swiftly, Judith fished into her purse, searching for a
piece of paper.
“Young man,” she said, blocking the door, “could
you deliver a message to the Smith party? I’m with the
Joneses, in the other private dining room.”
The waiter, who was young, Asian, and very goodlooking, was too well trained to show surprise.
“To whom shall I give the message?” he asked.
Having found a small notebook, Judith scribbled out
a half-dozen words. “Morris Mayne,” she said. “Tell
him it’s urgent. Thank you.”
The waiter disappeared inside. Judith wondered if
she should have slipped him five dollars. Or ten. Or
twenty-five, considering that she was at Capri’s.
Moments later Morris Mayne dashed out into the
hall. “What is it? What’s happened at the studio?” Not
nearly as tall as Judith, he peered up at her through
rimless spectacles. “Wait! You’re the bed-andbreakfast lady, aren’t you?”
“That’s right,” Judith said, hoping to look appropriately solemn. “I think we’d best go downstairs to the
bar. Perhaps they’ll serve us a drink.”
“A drink?” Morris’s sparse tufts of hair stood out on
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243
his round head. “Yes, I could use a drink. Though of
course I’ve already had . . . Never mind, let’s talk.” He
hurried down the winding staircase.
Charles the maître d’ expressed great pleasure at
serving the duo. Judith ordered Scotch rocks; Morris
requested a Bottle Rocket. Judith had never heard of it,
but it appeared to consist of several alcoholic beverages and a slice of kiwi.
“Tell me, please,” Morris begged after Charles
handed him his drink. “Why am I being recalled?”
“Recalled?” Judith’s dark eyes widened. “Is that
what I wrote? Oh, dear. My handwriting is so bad. I
meant you’d been called by the studio to . . . well, I
didn’t quite catch the rest of it, so I thought I’d better
come in person to make sure you got the message.”
Morris slumped in relief. “Oh! Thank God! I
thought I’d been fired!”
“Why would you think such a thing?” Judith asked,
still wide-eyed.
Morris gulped down some of his Bottle Rocket.
“Because of this Gasman mess. I mean,” he amended
quickly, “it’s not exactly a mess, but it does present
some problems. With Bruno dying and all, you see.”
“Yes, that complicates matters,” Judith said in a
sympathetic tone. “What do you think will happen to
the movie now?”
“Who knows?” Morris spread his arms, knocking
over a candle on the bar. “Oops! Sorry, Charles.” The
gracious maître d’ picked up the candle and turned discreetly away.
“Hasn’t the studio given some instructions?” Judith
asked, taking a small sip of Scotch. It was excellent
Scotch, maybe Glenlivet. She sipped again.
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Mary Daheim
“Paradox is waiting to find out what happened to
Bruno,” Morris replied.
“What do the studio executives think happened?”
Judith asked.
Morris drank more Bottle Rocket. “Whew!” he exclaimed, passing a hand over his high forehead. “That’s
strong!” He leaned closer to Judith. “What did you say?”
She repeated the question. Morris reflected, though
his eyes weren’t quite in focus.
“Paradox is sure Bruno had a tart ahack. I mean”—
he corrected himself—“a heart attack. He’s had problems, you shee. See.” The publicist hiccuped once.
“You mean he’d had a history of heart trouble?”
Morris grimaced. “Not exactly.” He hiccuped again
and drew himself up on the bar stool, which luckily
had a large padded back. “Strain. That’s what Bruno
had. He worked under a lot of strain. That’s why he—”
He stopped abruptly. “I shouldn’t tell tales out of
school, should I?”
“You’re not,” Judith assured him. “I’m not in the
business. I don’t count. I’m nobody.”
“Thash shtrue,” Morris agreed. “You’re not.” He
took another gulp from his glass. “Anyway, Bruno
worked too hard. That caushes strain.”
“Yes,” Judith said amiably. “And strain can lead to
many things. To help him cope, of course.”
“Cope!” Morris’s arm shot out, striking a calla lily
in a tall black vase. “Oops!” He giggled and put a hand
over his mouth. “Mushn’t drink this too fast. Had a lot
of champagne upstairs.” He jabbed at the ceiling with
a pudgy finger.
“Yes, to cope,” Judith said patiently. “People cope in
many ways. Sometimes those ways aren’t healthy.”
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245
Sadly, Morris shook his head. “True, too true. Like
Bruno. Not healthy. Don’t blame him. Too much
presshure. Not all his fault. Blame Big Daddy Dumas.”
Judith was taken aback. “Big Daddy Dumas? Who’s
that?”
Morris giggled some more and shook a finger at Judith. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Yes,” Judith said seriously, “I would.”
At the desk by the bar, the phone rang. Charles
picked it up. He appeared to be taking a reservation.
“Phone,” Morris said. “Musht phone the studio.” He
patted himself down, apparently searching for his cell.
“Hunh. Musht have left it upstairs. Here I go.” He
picked up what remained of his Bottle Rocket and
staggered off to the iron staircase.
Judith was on his heels. “But, Morris,” she said urgently, “you can tell me about Big Daddy Dumas. I’m
nobody, remember?”