break from his cook’s duties to refill his coffee mug.
“He was also involved in a messy paternity suit a year
or two ago. He lost, and is paying for the kid’s upbringing.”
“Is Mom anyone we know?”
Joe shook his head. “Dirk was on location in Spain
when he met Mom. She was an extra in a Basque uprising.”
“No help there,” Judith said.
“Only in terms of support payments.” He offered
more coffee to Judith. “Dade’s had a couple of DWIs.
He wiped out a Rolls-Royce on Sunset Boulevard and
ran his Range Rover into a palm tree in Benedict
Canyon. Not recently, though.”
“He doesn’t seem like much of a drinker,” Judith remarked as she set out a dozen juice glasses.
“You never can tell,” Joe said, reaching for a chafing dish high up in the cupboard. “Here’s one you expected—Angela La Belle’s been busted three times for
coke possession. Bruno was arrested twice. On one occasion, they were together.”
“That’s not surprising,” Judith said, “since Bruno
supposedly got Angela hooked in the first place. Did
they do time?”
“No,” Joe replied, reaching for a second chafing
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dish. “Their clever lawyers—Vito, maybe?—got them
off with fines, community service, and promises to go
into rehab.”
“Anything on Vito himself?”
“Nothing criminal,” Joe replied, “though I suspect
that like any successful L.A. attorney, he may have a
few slightly unethical tricks up his sleeve.”
Judith narrowed her eyes at her husband. “You still
look a bit scrofulous to me. Why am I supposed to
heap you with praise and affection?”
Joe held up his index finger. “For one reason, and
one reason only. Ahem.” He paused so long for dramatic effect that Judith was poised to pounce on him.
“In 1979, Winifred Lou Best was arrested twice, once
for possession of cocaine and once for resisting arrest
along with a man named Bartholomew Anthony Riggs,
aka Big Daddy Dumas.”
“Wow!” Judith’s eyes sparkled as she threw her
arms around his neck. “Now that is news!”
“What did I tell you?” He chuckled as she planted
kisses all over his face. “I’m plague-free.”
“More than you know,” Judith said, finally releasing
her husband. “Morris mentioned Big Daddy Dumas
last night at Capri’s. He was a pimp and a drug dealer.
But Morris said Big Daddy was dead. He also said . . .”
She frowned in recollection. “What was it? Oh! To
blame Big Daddy for. . . . Damn, I forget.”
“Sounds like Big Daddy was a bad daddy,” Joe remarked.
“That’s the odd thing,” Judith said. “Bill had heard
about him via a case study. According to Bill, Big
Daddy wasn’t all bad. He was good to his girls, he
treated them like family. But that’s not the point. Now
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we know why Winifred doesn’t want to discuss her
past. It’s possible that Big Daddy helped the Demures
get their start in the music business. Maybe the three
singers were in his stable of hookers. That might explain why the group didn’t have more than one hit.
Their lives couldn’t have been conducive to the discipline required by a serious music career. For all we
know, the other two may have overdosed, gone to
prison, or were murdered in a drug deal gone sour.”
“Anything’s possible,” Joe allowed. “What happened to Big Daddy?”
“A dissatisfied hooker/would-be singer killed him,”
Judith replied. “Not one of the Demures, but a Latino
girl.”
“So maybe,” Joe conjectured, “Big Daddy was the
muscle who got Win and the other two started in the
music business. When he got whacked, the Demures
lost their leverage.”
He picked up the plates and silverware from the
counter. “Here, let me set up the dining-room table.”
“What?” Judith was lost in thought. “Oh, thanks. I’ll
cook Mother’s breakfast now. I feel bad, I’ve hardly
seen her lately.”
“Don’t worry,” Joe called from the dining room.
“She hasn’t improved.”
As Judith prepared Gertrude’s meal and set it on a
tray, the house seemed very quiet. Typical for early
November, she thought, with the fog not only isolating
but insulating Hillside Manor from the rest of the
world. The calm, however, was not reassuring.
As usual Gertrude was up and dressed before eight
o’clock, She sat behind the card table, not bothering to
look up when her daughter arrived with breakfast.
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311
More surprisingly, the old lady was humming in an
off-key manner.
“Hmm-dee-dee-hmm.”
“Good morning,” Judith said, forcing a bright smile.
“You seem cheerful this morning.”
“Hmm-mm-hmm-mm.” Gertrude picked up her TV
Guide and riffled through the pages. “Hmm-dee-deehm-hm.”
Judith wasn’t in the mood to play games with her
mother. She placed the tray on the card table. Gertrude
ignored it. “What is it?” Judith asked. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“Dee-dee-mm-hmm.”
“Mother!” Judith’s patience fled. “Stop that humming! What’s going on?”
Slyly, Gertrude looked up from the TV Guide. “Oh,
it’s you. I suppose you expect a tip now that I’m going
to be rich. Forget it, I’m spending every dime on satin
bloomers, lace hankies, and a walker with a motor on
it.”
Puzzled, Judith sat down on the arm of Gertrude’s
Davano. “What’s going on? Did you win the lottery?”
“That’s for suckers,” Gertrude declared, even
though she frequently conned Judith into buying lottery and scratch-card tickets for her. “You’ll find out
when the armored car pulls up with my loot.”
Judith fought an urge to shake her mother until the
old girl’s dentures rattled. “What then?”
Gertrude shot her a contemptuous look. “How do
you think, dummy? By selling my life story to the
movies. That nice young Southun gentleman is writin’
the script,” she went on, her speech suddenly tinged
with a drawl straight out of the cotton fields. “He’s
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Mary Daheim
promised me a piece. Up front, too, but no points. Ah
couldn’t expect that for my first story, could Ah?”
Judith didn’t know whether she was more amazed
by Dade’s offer or her mother’s use of movie jargon,
which, judging from the drawl, was straight from the
writer’s mouth. “Are you sure he’s not kidding you?”
“He’s not the kind to spoof,” Gertrude replied
smugly, the drawl gone. “He’s on the up-and-up. He
says I’m great. In fact, I’m part of the Greatest Generation. I’ve lived through a bunch of wars, a big Depression, a whole slew of newfangled gadgets, going to the
moon, riots, earthquakes, volcanoes, and bathtub gin.
Not to mention your two lunkhead husbands and listening to Aunt Deb talk my ear off on the telephone.”
It almost made sense. It was, in fact, not unlike the
concept of the simple gasman viewing the history of
the world. Judith was speechless.
“So what have you got to say for yourself now,