Silver Scream: A Bed-And-Breakfast Mystery (14 page)

“So they wouldn’t make a profit?” queried Judith.

“Not in domestic theaters,” Bill responded, also sitting down. “But these days there are all the ancillary rights. There are so many other markets—offshore, cable TV, syndication, merchandising tie-ins. A movie can lose money in this country and still turn a profit. Not to mention that the studio could cut back on its advertising and promotion. I suspect they intended to spend huge sums before the general release.”

Joe sipped his beer before he spoke. “You sure know a hell of a lot about Hollywood for a psychologist.”

Bill shrugged. “Cinema is both a reflection of and an influence on contemporary life. Besides, I just like movies.”

Judith, however, was looking for a more personal angle. “What about reactions? Did you catch any remarks or attitudes that might indicate animosity toward Bruno?”

“Plenty,” Joe replied, “but nothing I’d call suspicious. Dade complained about what Bruno had done to the script. He also griped that Chips Madigan hadn’t directed the movie the way the script indicated. Chips accused Dade of screwing up the original work.” Joe glanced at Judith. “That must have been the book you saw upstairs,
The Gasman
novel.”

“Did you find it?” Judith asked, having forgotten that she’d told Joe to look for it in Room Three.

“Yes,” Joe answered. “I put it in a drawer by your computer. Anyway,” he continued, “Dade reminded Chips that a movie is not a book. They started to get into it, but Vito cut them off.”

“That,” Bill put in, “was when Ben Carmody declared that the whole thing was a mistake from the start. He insisted that the movie would never have been made if Bruno hadn’t been able to con a huge investment out of Heathcliffe MacDermott in order to boost his daughter Ellie’s career.”

“I’m sorry,” Judith broke in, “but I don’t understand how the financing works. If Bruno is an independent producer, how does the studio get involved?”

As was his fashion, Bill waited to organize his thoughts. Renie, who was long accustomed to her husband’s methodical and precise mental processes, climbed up on the kitchen counter, popped the top on another Pepsi, and settled in for the long haul.

“Usually,” Bill finally said, “it works this way: A producer like Bruno never invests his own money.
Let’s say he’s already nailed down at least one big bankable star. Dirk Farrar, in this case. Maybe the estimated budget is seventy million dollars. He—Bruno—then goes to Paradox Studios and says he’s got a project and he’s got a star. Dirk’s name is worth, say, twenty million at the box office. Paradox says okay, we’ll get our investors to come up with another thirty million, then you—Bruno—raise the rest of it. Bruno goes to private investors, in this case because of the connection with Ellie Linn, he asks Heathcliffe MacDermott for ten million. The other ten million he gets from other sources—German businessmen, Japanese investors, Italian bankers. I mention those three countries because they’re big moviegoers. The studio then says they want him to use one of their directors—maybe Chips Madigan—and one of their stars—Ben Carmody, perhaps—plus a cinematographer, a writer, an editor, some other actors already under contract to the studio. They’ll share the profits with Bruno and they’ll handle distribution. Thus, they’re ready to roll.”

“
The Gasman
had a hundred-million-dollar budget,” Joe remarked. “Isn’t that kind of high? And didn’t Chips Madigan mention going over budget?”

“Did he?” Bill frowned. “Yes, you’re right. I think I read something about that while the picture was being made. Did Chips give a reason?”

Joe scratched his head. “I didn’t catch all of what Chips said. He was toward the other end of the room, by the bookcases. Dade, who always assumes his stance by the French doors, was even harder to hear. But I think—in essence—Chips put the blame on Bruno for shooting some of the scenes over again.”

“That’s possible,” Bill allowed. “If that’s the case, Bruno would have had to scrounge up more money to make the revised budget. The next thing I have in my notes is that Winifred broke in saying that Bruno had so much clout in the industry that he would have been green-lighted for any project. A number of people would back him because of his track record. Naturally, Eugenia Fleming agreed.”

“How did Ellie react to all this?” Judith queried.

“She kept her mouth shut,” Joe said. “In fact, she sort of simpered.”

Judith gave her husband a skeptical look. “You could hear simpering through the parlor door?”

“It was open a crack,” Joe replied. “Besides, she was standing next to it, fiddling with the CDs by the stereo.”

Judith sighed. “This isn’t very helpful.”

“We did our best,” Joe said with a touch of sarcasm.

Renie also seemed disappointed. “That’s it?”

Bill carefully went through his notes. “There were undertones, of course.”

Joe gave a little shake of his head. “Maybe so. That’s your department, Bill. We cops tend to stick to the facts. But since it’s you, go ahead. At least it’ll please my wife.”

Judith shot her husband a dirty look. “You’ve certainly never been one to credit my intuition.”

“Intuition doesn’t hold up in court,” Joe pointed out.

Judith sniffed, then turned to Bill. “I’ll take all the undertones I can get.”

“Let me see.” He studied the notepad pages for some time. “What’s missing is interaction between the absentees—Dirk and Angela—and the others. Ellie
made a couple of cracks about both of them. Only Chips was inclined to defend them, though he wasn’t very enthusiastic.”

“Are Dirk and Angela lovers?” Renie asked.

“Probably,” Bill replied, “though what that means in Hollywood these days, I couldn’t say. They may have been sleeping together just for the fun of it while they were here. You have to allow for a certain amount of old-fashioned promiscuity.”

“What about the cocaine?” Judith inquired. “Was that mentioned?”

“Only in passing,” Bill responded, “though there was a cryptic remark made by Morris. When some-one…” He addressed his notes. “It was Ben Carmody who said maybe Angela had learned her lesson. Morris agreed, observing that as they all knew, three times could be a charm.”

“Curious,” Judith murmured.

“Come on, Bill,” Renie urged, “you know darned well you’ve got some other information tucked away.”

“I’m sifting it,” Bill said, putting the notepad back in his pocket.

“As usual,” Renie remarked, accustomed to her husband’s cautious but thorough approach to the deductive process.

Judith started for the kitchen’s swinging doors. “I’m going to look for the news-release drafts before the guests come down to leave for dinner.” She glanced back at the old school clock. “It’s almost four. They should be a while.”

Renie followed her cousin out to the living room, which was uncharacteristically untidy. As Joe had reported, there had been much tearing of legal pads, ac
companied, no doubt, by a certain amount of tearing of hair. There were also empty springwater bottles and a few glasses, the latter apparently used for beverages foraged from the liquor supply in the washstand. The buffet had been raided, too, with the last of Joe’s bakery goods reduced to crumbs. Someone had removed several paperback books and left them scattered around the window seat. Magazines from the coffee table had been dumped on the carpet, and a stack of tapes and CDs were lying by the stereo.

“Spoiled brats,” Judith muttered, picking up some of the litter before perusing the discarded sheets of yellow paper.

“I’ll help,” Renie offered, already gathering up the books by the bay window.

“These people must never wait on themselves,” Judith groused. “Frankly, I think it’d be awful to live like that. No wonder they get bored and take drugs. They’d be better off using a dust mop.”

Renie had replaced the books and was now collecting the tapes and CDs. “Gosh, coz, some of these recordings are kind of old. Since when do you listen to 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?
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.
“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.

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.

J
UDITH STOOD ROOTED T
o 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 Prudence
. That was the small-budget independent pic
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, 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
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
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.

“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
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.”

“I gather you had your differences with Chips Madigan over the script,” Judith said, trying to sound matter-of-fact.

“Chips!” Dade growled, making a slashing motion with one hand. “That punk. He and Bruno screwed up my script every which way. They—Bruno speaking for
both of them—insisted I hadn’t kept to the spirit of the book. Bull. There was no spirit. It was just a bunch of events strung together by a weak narrative. For all I know, old Carp may have paid to get it published. It was garbage, all nine hundred pages of it.” He paused to pull out a pocket watch from inside his vest. “Hey, it’s after five. I’d better get going. I think the limo’s coming a little after six.” He ambled to the front door.

“Psst!” It was Renie, lurking behind the archway that divided the entry hall and the living room. “Where’ve you been? I pieced the statement together.”

“You did?” Judith hurried to join her cousin. “How is it?”

“Stilted,” Renie said, flapping a half-dozen sheets of yellow paper at Judith. “It’s the kind of corporate copy that makes me want to shoot all writers and fill up space with graphic designs instead.”

Judith held out her hand. “Let me see.”

“No,” Renie retorted, “don’t read this hodgepodge. I’ve written it out in what’s probably close to the final draft.” She held up the last sheet and began to read what she’d patched together: “
In the wake of producer Bruno Zepf’s tragic passing last night, Paradox Studios launched an investigation to determine the cause of death. It is generally felt by studio executives and Zepf’s close associates that
The Gasman
premiere’s apparent inadequacies
—some choice of words,” she interposed before continuing, “
may have caused the producer to die of a broken heart. According to Zepf’s agent, Eugenia Fleming, ‘Bruno set the bar extremely high, not only for himself, but for others in the industry
. The Gasman
was a project he had nurtured for years, with roots going back to his youth. Having the
picture receive such harsh criticism at its premiere may have been too much for him. He wasn’t used to negative reactions, and he had worked himself into exhaustion. During the making of the film, he had to be hospitalized for a lengthy period. Obviously, his health was seriously affected. Bruno couldn’t tolerate a lack of excellence, especially in himself
.’ End of quote,” said Renie.

“That’s it?” Judith inquired, sitting on the arm of the sofa.

“No,” Renie responded. “That’s the end of what Eugenia said. There’s more, but not much. In fact, there were about three concluding statements they might have used. The gist was that Bruno should be remembered for his many successes, rather than for
The Gasman’
s flop.”

Judith didn’t respond immediately. When she did, her words didn’t pertain to failure or success. “Do you suppose Bruno really had health problems?”

Renie hesitated before answering. She flipped through the discarded pages, then tapped her finger on several fragments of writing. “There are some notes about that, but they’re cryptic. Here.” She handed the page to Judith.

B’s health,
came first, written in an elegant if not very legible hand, presumably by Vito. “How do you read penmanship like this?”

Renie shrugged. “It’s all those years I’ve spent reading CEOs’ scribbles. Of course most of those people never got past the block-printing stage. They thought cursive meant cussing.”

“HPB,”
Judith read aloud. “High blood pressure?”

Renie nodded. “Probably.”

“
Ulcer…ulcer…ulcer
. That’s clear enough. So’s
colitis
. What’s this?
C?
It’s underlined twice. Then it says
treatment
. Cancer?”

“I couldn’t tell,” Renie said. “Maybe the
C
is for colitis.”

“Do you remember a drug called thalidomide?”

“Sure,” Renie replied. “Years ago, it was prescribed as a sleeping pill for pregnant women in Europe. Unfortunately, it caused horrendous birth defects.”

“True,” Judith agreed, “but when we were in Good Cheer Hospital, I overheard a doctor and a nurse talking about thalidomide. It sounded as if it was being used for cancer patients.”

Renie looked blank. “I don’t remember that. Maybe you heard it after I’d been released from the hospital. You had to stay a few days longer.”

“How could I forget?” Judith said with a grimace, then grew silent again. “High blood pressure could have killed Bruno. But wouldn’t the ME be able to tell?”

“You’d think so.”

Setting the sheet of paper down on the coffee table, Judith heaved a big sigh. “If only we could be sure that Bruno was murdered.”

Renie looked askance. “Aren’t you being kind of bloodthirsty, coz?”

“No, I’m being realistic,” Judith retorted. “I can’t bear to think that Joe and I may be at fault for Bruno’s death. It’s not just the possibility of a lawsuit, it’s the moral implications. If we’re to blame, I’ll feel the most awful guilt for the rest of my life.”

Renie’s face hardened. “What about that stupid spider over the sink? Who put it there? Why? Was it just
a prank to scare Bruno? Did it scare him into passing out in the sink?”

Judith stared at Renie. “How odd—I never thought about that. I mean, first there was the real spider on the back porch, then the spider in his bed—he didn’t pass out, by the way—and the one over the sink. Why would that one have more of an effect on Bruno than the others?”

“Maybe,” Renie reasoned, “because Bruno was already distraught. Wasn’t a spider a sign of bad luck for him? And hadn’t he just had the worst luck of his career?”

“True,” Judith allowed in a thoughtful voice. “Who put those spiders in the bed and in the kitchen? What,” she went on, her voice rising as she stood up from her perch on the sofa, “if there are more spiders somewhere?”