Judith didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She did neither, remaining on the sofa until the sullen guests exited the parlor.

  Vito sat down opposite her, carefully arranging his trousers to make sure the crease stayed in the proper position. “I have some questions for you both,” he said in that same, smooth voice.

  Joe joined Judith on the sofa. “Fire away,” he said.

  Vito removed his sunglasses, revealing wide-set dark eyes that seemed to have a fire lit behind them. “What time did Mr. Zepf die?”

  “Around one A.M.,” Joe answered.

  “Are you absolutely certain?” Vito asked.

  “We can’t be precise,” Joe said reasonably. “My wife and I weren’t with Bruno when it happened. The time is an estimate, which is also what the ME gave us.”

  Only an almost imperceptible flicker of Vito’s eyelids indicated any emotion. “But,” he said, “you’re positive that Bruno died after midnight?”

  “Definitely,” Joe replied. “Why is the time so important?”

  The lawyer took a deep breath, then gave Joe what was probably meant to be a confidential smile, but looked a trifle piranhalike to Judith. “Let me explain two things. First, Paradox Studios insures all members of a shooting company when a picture is made. This is standard procedure, to make sure there’s due compensation for anyone involved in the production suffering a disabling injury or”—he paused to clear his throat—“dying. The policy the studio took out on The Gasman expired October thirty-first, which is today. The problem is, did it expire last night at midnight or is it still valid until tomorrow, November first?”

  Joe frowned. “Aren’t such policies specific?”

  “Not in this case,” Vito replied. “There was also a rider concerning postproduction. Bruno had stated—verbally—that once The Gasman premiered, he wouldn’t tinker with it. But last night he told Winifred Best and Chips Madigan that it was clear there would have to be some editing. He intended to pull the picture from release and postpone its general opening for a month.”

  Judith finally found her voice. “What does all this have to do with the guests not being able to leave?”

  Vito tried to look apologetic, but failed. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss that with you at present. But I’m sure you realize that the studio wants to conduct its own investigation into the cause of Bruno’s death. You must be aware that the medical examiner’s report is inconclusive.”

  “We’re aware,” Joe said with a dour expression.

  “Good.” Vito stood up, ever mindful of the crease in his trousers. “I hope this doesn’t sound crass, but I believe you have a vacant room?”

  “Ah…” Judith’s jaw dropped. “You mean Bruno’s? Yes, but—”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll spend the night there,” Vito interposed. “Right now I have to head back downtown to talk with the rest of the company at the Cascadia Hotel. Don’t bother to show me out. I know the way.” He slipped his sunglasses back on and gave both Flynns the slightly sinister smile. “I’m a quick study.”

  Despite the lawyer’s assertion, Judith and Joe followed him as far as the entry hall. When the door had closed behind Vito, Joe put an arm around his wife.

  “Let’s go into the parlor in case the guests decide to come downstairs and commandeer the living room.”

  In the gray autumn light with the dead ashes in the grate and the single tall window streaked with rain, the room had lost its usual cheerfulness. The parlor seemed bleak, matching Judith’s mood.

  “Whatever are we going to do?” she groaned, slipping into one of the two matching side chairs. “Will the studio’s investigation make us the culprits?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Joe admitted, “but one thing’s for sure—Stone Cold Sam Cairo isn’t going to rush around on our account. He’s laughing up his sleeve over our dilemma because he hates me. Resents me, too, which is maybe why he hates me. I always had a better ratio of cases solved than he did. It was a competition to Sam, one-on-one. The bottom line is we can’t rely on him.”

  Judith felt too dazed to respond.

  “So we’ll do our own investigating. I’ve got the experience, and you’ve got…a way with people.” Joe lowered his gaze. It was difficult for him to admit that his wife’s amateur tactics could ferret out murderers. “Between us, we may be able to get ourselves out of this jam.”

  “You mean,” Judith croaked, “we informally interrogate them?”

  “You do,” Joe said, patting her hand. “I’ll take a more professional stand. After all, I’m not only a retired cop, but a private detective.” He offered her his most engaging grin. “Want to hire me?”

  Judith grinned back, though she was still upset. “Of course. I’d better make arrangements with Ingrid for tonight’s other guests.”

  Joe patted her, then started for the door. “I’m on the case.”

  “Oh!” Judith called after him. “One thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  She swallowed hard. “Do you honestly believe that Bruno may have been murdered?”

  Joe regarded his wife with grim compassion. “I can’t rule it out.”

  Judith’s heart sank. “You sound like a cop.”

  He shrugged.

  Judith tried to regain her composure. “One more thing.”

  “What?”

  “Can I use the kitchen?”

  When Judith drained the sink, she felt as if she were releasing the floodgates of evil. Joe had already removed the rubber spider and fingerprinted the entire area, including the wayward door, the window and windowsill, and the faucets. He’d ask Woody Price to run the evidence through the lab.

  Judith called Ingrid at the state B&B association’s office, but was informed that Ms. Heffelman had the weekend off. In her place was a soft-spoken woman named Zillah Young. Apparently Zillah was new to the hostelry business and didn’t know of Judith’s reputation for murder and mayhem. Without giving the details, Judith meekly asked her to assign the five Sunday-night reservations to other B&Bs in the area.

  Finally, Judith had a chance to call Renie and let her know about the tragedy. It was shortly after eleven o’clock, and the Joneses should be back from Mass at Our Lady, Star of the Sea. Judith would either have to miss Mass or go in the evening. There was no way she could leave Hillside Manor at present.

  The only guests that Joe had found upstairs were Dirk Farrar and Angela La Belle. Joe reported that both were furious. He also noted that they seemed to be sharing Room Three, which had belonged to Bruno.

  “I told them to get out of there,” Joe said. “I want to search that room thoroughly before Vito settles in.”

  “Will they go?” Judith asked, her fingers poised to call Renie.

  “They stomped out of the house five minutes ago.”

  Judith sighed. “So there’s nobody here for me to chat up. Heaven only knows where Dade Costello went. He seems to wander the neighborhood, thinking great thoughts.”

  “Or homicidal ones,” Joe put in.

  “Are you going to search Bruno’s room now?” Judith asked.

  “Yes. You want to come along?”

  “No,” Judith replied. “I have to call Renie, and then, if none of the guests are back, I’ll go down to St. Fabiola’s at the bottom of the hill for noon Mass. Oh, by the way, there’s a book in Bruno’s room called The Gasman. I heard he based the movie on it. It’s old and looks as if it’s been cherished. Chips Madigan said something this morning about Bruno being on a mission. I know it sounds silly, but I’m curious. Why don’t you bring it down and I’ll call one of my library mavens to see if they know anything about it.”

  “You never came across it when you worked as a librarian?” Joe inquired, referring to the weary years of Judith’s first marriage when she worked days at the public library and tended bar at the Meat & Mingle in the evenings.

  Judith shook her head. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  Joe left the kitchen while Judith dialed Renie’s number. There was no answer except for Anne’s voice on the machine.

  “Anne Jones here. If you want to reach me immediately, call my cell phone or my pager. The numbers are…” After reeling off the digits, she added, “If you must speak to anybody else, leave your—” The message cut off abruptly, as if Anne didn’t give a damn whether the rest of the Joneses ever got a phone call. Which, Renie asserted, Anne didn’t.

  Judith took a plateful of pastries out to the toolshed, where Gertrude picked over them with a persnickety air. Finally she selected two custard sweet rolls and three sugar doughnuts.

  “Some breakfast,” the old lady sniffed. “Isn’t it time for lunch?”

  Judith told her mother that lunch would be a little late. Gertrude sniffed some more.

  By five to twelve, none of the guests had returned. Their absence made Judith nervous, but accepting it as a sign from heaven, she headed off to St. Fabiola’s. The church was near the civic center, and was a half century newer than Our Lady, Star of the Sea. The amber brick edifice was only a few minutes’ drive from Hillside Manor. At the bottom of Heraldsgate Hill on a quiet Sunday morning, traffic was light. Most of the businesses were closed, and the few that were open had just unlocked their doors to customers.

  Judith arrived just after Mass had started, so she sat in a pew near the back. The lector was reading the first epistle when there was a commotion behind her.

  Discreetly, she turned to look. At the side entrance, an elderly usher was struggling to keep a disheveled bundle of unsteadiness upright. It was a woman, Judith thought, and wondered if she was drunk or ill. At last the man steadied the unfortunate soul, propping her up against a confessional door.

  “…word of the Lord,” intoned the lector from the pulpit.

  “Oh, my Lord!” Judith gasped from the pew.

  The disheveled woman was Renie. She was panting and limping, her clothes in disarray and her hair going every which way, including over her eyes. Judith hurried into the aisle and approached her cousin.

  “What’s wrong?” she whispered in a frantic voice. “Are you sick?”

  Renie shook her head, brushing unruly chestnut strands of hair out of her eyes.

  “Have you been attacked?” Judith asked.

  Renie shook her head again. “Not exactly.”

  Judith gestured toward the pew where she’d been sitting. “Can you sit down?”

  Renie nodded. The usher, whose wrinkled face was etched with concern, made a move to help both women.

  “It’s okay,” Judith said softly. “She’s not heavy, she’s my cousin.”

  TEN

  RENIE ALL BUT fell into the pew. By now, several of the nearby worshipers were staring. But as she regained her breath and straightened her clothes, the curious returned their attention to the altar. Judith, however, still stared at her cousin with anxious eyes.

  “Later,” Renie mouthed.

  It seemed like the longest Mass that Judith had ever attended. She had great difficulty concentrating on the liturgy, though she found no problem in praying for Renie and for herself. It seemed that they both were in a great deal of trouble. At last the priest gave the final blessing. Judith offered to help Renie out of the pew, but was shaken off.

  “I’m okay now,” she declared. “I won.”

  “You won what?” Judith asked as they started down the aisle.

  “The fight,” Renie said as they reached the vestibule. “I got into a fight at the XYZ Market up the street.”

  “Oh, good grief!” Judith exclaimed, drawing more stares from the exiting churchgoers. “How did that happen?”

  “Some middle-aged Amazon thought she was Wonder Woman and tried to edge me out at the checkout counter,” Renie explained as they headed down the stairs to the door that led to the parking lot. “I’d already stood in line for ten minutes and I was afraid I’d be late for Mass. Bill had gone to ten o’clock at Our Lady, Star of the Sea. I was so pooped from everything that happened yesterday that I slept in. Anyway, this brazen broad ran her cart over my foot and said something like, ‘Move it, shorty.’ So I rammed her with my cart. Then we got into it, and the next thing I knew we were slugging it out over the counter and finally I put a plastic produce bag over her head. She surrendered.” Renie wore a grim expression of victory. “So what’s new with you this morning?”

  Judith started to speak, and discovered that she had no voice. “I…” The single word was a squawk. “Joe…” Her husband’s name was a guttural sound, as if she were gagging.

  Renie looked alarmed. “What’s wrong, coz? Is something caught in your throat?”

  Judith shook her head. The other churchgoers were now swarming the parking lot, revving engines, and readying for departure. The cousins were blocking traffic. With a desperate effort, Judith mouthed the words, “Buster’s Café.”

  “Buster’s?” Renie looked bewildered.

  Judith made chewing motions. Renie got it.

  “You want me to meet you at Buster’s? Okay, see you in a couple of minutes.”

  Buster’s Café was old, a lower Heraldsgate Hill landmark. Buster himself still ran the place after inheriting it from his parents forty years earlier. Nothing much had changed in that time, or even before, but the food was decent and the rubber-soled waitresses could have won a restaurant Olympics for speed and efficiency.

  It took each of the cousins less than three minutes to drive to the café, but almost ten to find parking spaces, even on a Sunday morning. Judith was out of breath when she arrived; Renie seemed to have regained her usual bounce.

  “I can’t have more than coffee,” Judith said, “be-cause I have to get home. If you think you’ve had a bad weekend, listen to this…”

  Renie did, her brown eyes growing wider and wider. When Judith had finished about the same time that Renie’s coffee had gone cold, an incredulous expression remained on her cousin’s face.

  “You can’t lose the B&B!” Renie cried. “It’d be like removing your liver!”

  “I know.” Judith sighed. “It’s not just a job or making money, it’s who I am. The horrible part is that we may be at fault. We were negligent in not getting that cupboard door fixed. Why, you almost slammed into it the other day.”

  “True,” Renie allowed, her expression full of concern. “But you don’t really know what happened to Bruno.”

  “Also true,” Judith agreed.

  A brief silence fell between the cousins. “I’m not going to say it,” Renie said at last.

  “Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it,” Judith responded, finally taking a sip from her water glass. “No matter what, I’ve already said it about twenty times since last night.”

  Renie said it anyway. “It can’t be another homicide. That’d be three at Hillside Manor. On the other hand, if it is, you wouldn’t be at fault.” She paused after stirring extra sugar into her coffee. “When is a murder not a murder? How on earth do you and Joe expect to find out?”

  “I’m not sure,” Judith replied, looking worried. “I talk, I listen, while Joe sleuths in a professional way.”

  “Can Bill and I help?” Renie offered, her deep sense of family loyalty leaping to the surface.

  While not nearly as compassionate, Renie ran a decent second to her cousin when it came to striking up a revealing conversation. As for Bill, whatever he disliked about idle socializing was more than made up for by his extraordinary perceptiveness. Being a trained psychologist didn’t hurt any, either.

  “Why not?” Judith said, brightening a bit.

  “Well…” Renie grimaced. “We were planning on inviting our future in-laws over so we could make sure who was marrying whom, but the kids aren’t positive that will work with their various and elaborate schedules. They insist we’ve met them already. I’ll find out what Bill thinks. If he gives me a green light, we’ll be over as soon as we can.”

  Driving to Hillside Manor, Judith breathed a little easier. To her relief, the cul-de-sac was empty, except for the patrol car that had crept close to the curb. She couldn’t see who was inside, but assumed it was someone from the day shift. Darnell Hicks and Mercedes Berger would have gone home hours ago.

  As she often did, Judith left her Subaru in the driveway. She usually entered the house from the rear, but on this anxious Sunday she retraced her route to the front. Pausing on the walk, she drank in the entirety of Hillside Manor, acknowledging its age, soaking up its memories. The house was almost a hundred years old, built in the Edwardian era. The dark green paint and the off-white trim on the Prairie-style Craftsman had just begun to chip and fade. Next summer, Judith would have to hire a painter. If there was a next summer at Hillside Manor.

  So many memories, she thought, ignoring the slight drizzle. Her Grover grandparents had bought the house in the twenties. Her father and Renie’s father had grown up there along with four siblings. Gertrude and Donald Grover had raised Judith within its sheltering walls. After Don died, Judith and Mike had returned, converting the house into a bed-and-breakfast. To Judith, it wasn’t just a building, it was a sanctuary. She couldn’t possibly give it up. Not ever.

  With a dragging step, Judith entered through the front door, where her melancholia was swept away by angry voices coming from the living room. One voice soared above the rest.

  “You don’t live in our world, Mr. Flynn,” proclaimed Angela La Belle. “You can’t possibly understand what it’s like to be in the picture business. If we aren’t free to talk to people, to make contacts, to keep up on every nuance of the business, our careers are in jeopardy. Indeed, after last night’s fiasco, all”—she paused, and Judith thought she glanced at Ellie Linn—“or almost all of us are already in deep doodoo.”

  It seemed to Judith the reference was not to Bruno’s death, but to The Gasman’s flop. She couldn’t help but flinch at the lack of humanity.

  Joe remained unruffled. “Don’t blame us. Talk to your studio suits. You all have cell phones, don’t you?” He cupped one ear with his hand. “I could swear they’ve been ringing like a satellite symphony.”