Wagner influenced him, which may be why his pictures always ran a bit long.”
“As long as The Gasman?” Judith asked as Eugenia
signaled for yet another drink.
“Not that long,” Eugenia said. “But even the picture
that won the film-festival prize— No Prunes for Pru-
dence—was over two and a half hours.”
“That’s a lot of prunes,” Judith murmured.
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The agent, however, was in full spate, and apparently didn’t hear the remark. “He visited England as
well, since his mother, Helena, had been stationed
there before being sent to Germany,” Eugenia continued. Her voice had taken on a lilting quality, as if she
were narrating a documentary on Bruno’s life. Or
quoting from an A&E Biography. Judith was reminded
of Winifred’s dissertation on Bruno. Maybe all his associates had been forced to memorize the producer’s
life story.
“After more than a year,” Eugenia went on, “he returned to the States. The farm in Iowa where his
mother had been raised was gone, the fields plowed
under for a development, but the house was still there.
Grandfather Walls had died, but Bruno’s grandmother
still lived in the old house with its rickety steps and
shutters which hung by a single hinge and clattered in
the wind. Grandmother Walls was very old and ill.
Bruno stayed with her until the end came, almost a
year later.”
“That’s admirable,” Judith said, thinking there
should be a violin accompaniment to Eugenia’s recital.
“Bruno sounds very compassionate.”
“Oh, he is. He was,” Eugenia corrected herself with
a start. “My God, I can’t believe he’s gone!” She requested a fifth drink. “To Bruno,” she said, holding up
her glass.
“To Bruno,” Judith echoed, finishing her Scotch.
She tried not to stare at the other woman, who seemed
completely sober. Maybe her size accounted for her
ability to drink like a fish. Bracing herself, Judith
posed a question: “Who was C. Douglas Carp?”
Eugenia didn’t bat an eye. “You mean the man who
SILVER SCREAM
251
wrote The Gasman novel? Some relative, I believe. I
never read novels, unless the book is adapted for a picture, and even then I skim. Books are inevitably dull.”
With surprising agility for her size and the amount of
gin she’d consumed, she slid off the bar stool, planting
her sensible shoes firmly on the floor. “I must go upstairs. I do wish you hadn’t disturbed Morris with that
silly message. He’s very drunk. Tsk, tsk.”
Charles smiled at Judith. “Would you care for another?” he asked, pointing to her empty glass.
Judith shook her head. “I should go, I suppose.”
“But I thought you were with the Joneses.” Charles
looked a trifle tense. “Or am I mistaken? You also seem
to know the people attending the Smith dinner.”
Judith wondered if the maître d’ suspected she
might be a groupie or a party crasher. “Charles”—she
sighed—“it’s a long story. Some members of the Smith
group are . . . ah . . . staying at my house.” She refrained from mentioning that her house was a B&B.
“Mrs. Jones is my cousin. It’s a coincidence that both
parties are here at once.”
“Ah.” The maître d’ offered her a conspiratorial
smile and seemed to relax. “Then you know these
Smiths are movie people. I recognized Dirk Farrar
right away. He came late, though.” The last sentence
almost sounded like a question.
“He came from someplace else,” Judith said,
“though he’s staying with us. How did he seem?”
Charles looked around to make sure no one could
overhear. But the lower part of the restaurant was still
vacant. Even the waiters seemed to have gone to
ground.
“I thought he looked kind of grim,” Charles said,
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Mary Daheim
keeping his voice down. “Is that because of the producer who passed away last night?”
“That’s part of it,” Judith said, then curbed her
tongue. She mustn’t gossip about Angela La Belle.
“I’m sure the poor reception The Gasman got at the
premiere upset Dirk, too.”
“I never read movie reviews,” Charles said, then
turned as the valet with the corn-colored hair came into
the restaurant, looking worried. “What is it, Josh?” the
maître d’ inquired.
“There’s a couple out in the parking lot who insist
they want to eat here,” Josh said. “They won’t take no
for an answer. I think you’d better talk to them.”
“Excuse me,” Charles said to Judith. “This happens
almost every Sunday when we’re closed to regular diners. In fact, this is the second time an insistent couple
has shown up this evening. I won’t be long.”
Judith got up and strolled over to the big windows.
It was dark and the fog was thick. She couldn’t see any
lights, not even directly below the restaurant, which
was located about halfway up Heraldsgate Hill. When
she turned around again, she saw Charles leading a
middle-aged couple inside and up the winding staircase. The man was big, bald, and bearlike; the woman
was small, dark, and of Asian descent. Apparently,
they had an entrée to one of the private parties upstairs,
and Judith didn’t think they were keeping up with the
Joneses.
She could almost smell the aroma of Wienie Wizards wafting behind the couple as they disappeared
onto the second floor.
SIXTEEN
JUDITH WANTED VERY much to see Heathcliffe and
Amy Lee MacDermott up close. She wasn’t sure
why, but it seemed important to talk to them. Unfortunately, she couldn’t think of an excuse to get
past the Smith party’s mahogany door.
For several moments Judith stared down at the
smooth black marble bar, where she could see her
reflection. It was distorted by the slight grain, making her look old, tired, and ugly. A crone, she
thought, and was disheartened.
What was she doing at Capri’s, seeking clues to a
murder that might not be a murder? Was she bloodthirsty, as Renie had remarked? Surely possession
of material goods wasn’t so important that it made
her wish that one person had killed another. No, that
wasn’t the real reason she preferred murder over
more mundane deaths. So why was she beating herself up so badly? Slowly, she turned to the windows
again. There was nothing to see. The night was as
dark and blank as her brain.
Yet Judith knew that if the fog suddenly lifted,
the city’s lights would glitter like stars on a clear
winter’s eve. The lakes and the mountains were
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Mary Daheim
there, if only she could see them. So were the answers
to the riddle that was Bruno’s death. Judith always had
to know. If only the fog would lift from her brain, she
could find the truth.
Charles hadn’t come down from the second floor.
There was still no sign of the waiters. Judith was curious. The guests must be getting served. How was the
food coming from the kitchen, if not via the iron staircase?
Hurriedly, she crossed the restaurant to the far side,