“It was longer than that,” Bill replied. “The Packers got stalled on the Bears’ thirty-eight-yard line, punted, and the Bears made two nice pass plays before they kicked a field goal.”

  “Oh.” Judith smiled faintly. “I’m still amazed at how quickly you pinpointed their personalities.”

  “I’m guessing,” Bill said, finishing the massage. “Ordinarily, it’d take several sessions to peel the layers off a patient. But you’re under pressure to figure these people out.”

  “Yes,” Judith agreed as Renie returned to the dining room.

  “Angela’s alive,” she announced, “but still unconscious. Fortunately, there was no water in the sink.”

  “And no cupboard door to hit her in the head,” Judith murmured. “So what happened?”

  Renie shook her head. “Nobody knows. Maybe she fainted.”

  “She wouldn’t still be out cold,” Judith noted, getting to her feet with Bill’s help. “She’s either sick or…”

  “Or what?” Renie put in as her cousin’s voice trailed off.

  “I’m not sure.” Judith’s expression was grim as she moved unsteadily into the entry hall, where Dirk Farrar was kneeling over Angela’s motionless figure. Dade Costello, apparently weary from his CPR ministrations, leaned against the balustrade and used a blue-and-white bandanna to wipe sweat from his forehead.

  Dirk looked up. “She’s alive. Her breathing’s better. Where the hell are the medics?”

  Judith’s ears picked up the sound of the medics’ siren. “They’re outside,” she said, and staggered to the front door.

  Chips Madigan was already on the alert. “In through here,” he told the emergency team, pointing to the entry-hall bathroom. As the trio made their way to Angela, Chips got down on one knee and framed an imaginary shot with his fingers. “Whoa! This is good! Medium shot, backs of uniforms looking great, equipment visible, love the red steel cases.” The director stood up. “Two men and a woman. That’s good, too. But the height differentials could be better. The woman’s too tall.”

  Dirk Farrar had stepped aside as the medics began their task. The woman—who was indeed over six feet—waved the other onlookers away. “Clear the area,” she commanded. “We need some room here.”

  Judith, Joe, Renie, and Bill returned to the dining room. The women sat down at the dining-room table; the men remained standing, Bill by the window, Joe next to the big breakfront that held three generations of the Grover family’s favorite china.

  “What could have happened to Angela?” Judith mused in a fretful voice. “Stress?”

  “In a way,” Joe said, rocking slightly on his heels. “That is, if you figure that stress can lead to drug addiction.”

  “Drugs!” Judith exclaimed. “You think Angela overdosed?”

  Joe nodded. “I’m certain that the white powder you found in the downstairs bathroom was cocaine. I’m having Woody analyze the residue to make sure. I found traces of it upstairs in the bathroom that Dirk and Angela shared when they usurped Bruno’s room.”

  “Not surprising,” Bill remarked. “How many show-business people have a drug habit?”

  “How many ordinary people do, too?” Renie said with a touch of anger. “It’s everywhere.”

  “Bruno!” Judith breathed. “What if he overdosed, too?”

  Joe, however, shook his head. “No traces of drugs were found by the ME.”

  Slipping out of her chair, Judith tiptoed to the door that led to the entry hall and peeked around the corner. An oxygen mask had been placed over Angela’s face and an IV had been inserted into her arm. The two male medics were preparing to remove her on a gurney. The woman was speaking in low tones to Dirk Farrar. Judith couldn’t hear a word they said.

  She barely had time to duck out of sight before Dirk Farrar came into the dining room. Without his usual bravado, he addressed Joe.

  “I assume it wouldn’t break any rules if I went with Angela to the hospital?” he said.

  “Go ahead,” Joe responded. “What’s her condition?”

  Dirk frowned. “Not so good. But they think she’ll be okay.” He hurried out of the room.

  “Halftime,” Bill murmured. “Let’s see how the other guests are taking all this.” He, too, left the dining room.

  Judith and Joe trailed behind him. Bill was correct: The Packers and the Bears had retired to their respective dressing rooms to regroup for the second half. Ben Carmody was on his cell phone; Chips Madigan was leafing through a coffee-table book on Pacific Northwest photography; a disconsolate Winifred Best was sitting in what had once been Grandpa Grover’s favorite armchair; Dade Costello had gone out through the French doors and was standing on the back porch.

  Winifred’s head snapped up as Bill, Judith, and Joe entered the living room. “What’s going on? What happened to Angela? Is she dead?”

  Joe explained the situation, somehow managing to leave out the part about a cocaine overdose.

  “Was it a cocaine overdose?” Winifred demanded, looking as if she were about to collapse.

  Joe didn’t flinch. “That’s possible.”

  Winifred wrung her thin hands. “I knew it. I knew it. She can’t get off the damnable stuff. How many times have they—” She stopped abruptly. “Where’s Dirk?”

  “He rode to the hospital with Angela,” Joe replied. “I believe they’re taking her to Norway General.”

  The siren sounded as the medic van pulled away. Judith went back into the entry hall and looked outside. A second van, apparently a backup, was also turning out of the cul-de-sac. The neighbors, who were accustomed to the occasional burst of mayhem at Hillside Manor, were well represented by the Porters, the Steins, and the Ericsons, who stood on the sidewalk with Arlene Rankers. Across the street on the corner, the elderly widow Miko Swanson sat at her usual post by her front window. However, there was no sign of Vivian Flynn, whose bungalow next door to Mrs. Swanson’s typically had its drapes closed during the daylight hours. Feeling obligated to keep her fellow homeowners informed, Judith started onto the porch just as a black limousine pulled into the cul-de-sac.

  Vito Patricelli emerged with Morris Mayne and Eugenia Fleming. With a weak wave in the neighbors’ direction, Judith ducked back inside, where she collided with Winifred, who was hovering right behind her.

  “Sorry,” Judith murmured.

  Winifred ignored the remark as she hastened to greet the newcomers, who barely acknowledged Judith’s presence as they entered the house.

  “Dirk called me on his cell,” Vito said, his mouth set in a grim line and his sunglasses hiding the expression in his eyes. “We have to take a meeting. Now.” He marched straight for the living room. “Ben, shut off that damned TV. Where’s Dade? Where’s Ellie?”

  “Dade’s out back,” Chips replied, his tone indifferent. “I think.”

  Vito’s head turned in every direction. “What about Ellie?”

  “She went upstairs,” Winifred said in an unusually meek voice. “I think.”

  “I’ll get her,” Judith volunteered.

  Vito gave a curt nod. “You do that. And clear the room of any outsiders.” He particularly glared at Bill, who maintained his stoic expression.

  Joe had clicked off the television set. “Let’s give these people some space,” he said amiably.

  Hands in his pants pockets, Bill meandered out of the living room. Renie, however, balked.

  “Why don’t you hold this session in a regular meeting room at the Cascadia Hotel?” she demanded. “There’s the Regency Room, the Rhododendron Room, the—”

  Bill turned around, grabbed his wife by the scruff of her neck, and hauled her away, muttering, “Don’t make trouble.”

  “Hey,” Renie protested, “they’re such big shots, I just thought they’d rather…”

  Halfway up the stairs, Judith didn’t hear the rest of her cousin’s contrary reasoning. Going all the way down to the end of the hall, she rapped on the door to Room Six. When there was no response, Judith’s heart skipped a beat. Originally, Angela and Ellie had shared quarters. Then Angela had moved into Bruno’s room with Dirk. Could Angela and Ellie also have shared a habit, one that would overcome their apparent dislike for one another?

  Judith knocked again, much louder. When there was still no answer, she turned the knob and held her breath.

  Ellie was lying on the double bed, wearing headphones and tapping out the beat of a song only she could hear. The young actress looked up in surprise as Judith moved into the room.

  “What’s up?” she asked, removing the headphones. “Are the Wienie Wizards here?”

  “No,” Judith replied in relief. “But Mr. Patricelli, Mr. Mayne, and Ms. Fleming are. Mr. Patricelli has called a meeting in the living room.”

  “Oh, drat!” Ellie switched off the CD player and slid off the bed. “What a busybody! When are the wienies coming?”

  “Not until after five,” Judith said.

  “But it’s only three o’clock,” Ellie responded. “How am I going to sit through a stupid meeting without my wienies?”

  “I’m sorry,” Judith said, then frowned. “Don’t you want to know what happened to Angela?”

  “Not really,” Ellie said, slipping into a pair of white mules decorated with multicolored beads. “Angela’s on a collision course, if you ask me.” She paused to glance in the big oval mirror attached to the dressing table. “Is she dead?” The question was asked without much interest.

  “No,” Judith said. “But I gather it was a close call.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Ellie responded, yanking at shafts of her long jet-black hair. “Look at this—why can’t I do what my stylist does to make this cut look right? Oh, I’ll be so stoked to get back to Cosmo in L.A. They should have let me bring him with me.” She gave her hair a final tug. “Next time, I bet they will.” Her small, perfect lips curved into a smug little smile.

  “Next time?” Judith echoed.

  “I mean,” Ellie said, turning away from the mirror, “next time I have to make a special appearance. You know—like this premiere.” Suddenly her usual perky expression disappeared. “Except I don’t know if All the Way to Utah will get made. At least not soon. You know—with Bruno dead.”

  The title struck a familiar chord with Judith. “I’ve heard of that,” she said. “What’s it about?”

  “Pioneers,” Ellie replied, picking up a pink cashmere cardigan that matched her pink cashmere short-sleeved sweater and tossing it over her slim shoulders. “The Old West. You know—action, adventure, sex, big rocks, bonnets, seagulls, Mormons.”

  “Fascinating,” Judith commented, though it sounded like a bit of a mishmash. “Do you have a big part?”

  “Very,” Ellie said, joining Judith at the door. “I not only play the female lead, but my name should go above the title.”

  “Really?” Judith knew that was good.

  “Really,” Ellie said over her shoulder. “Got to scoot. Vito can be an awful pest. Besides, I really need to talk to him.”

  Judith took the back stairs. Renie was in the kitchen, studying the contents of the refrigerator.

  “What’d you do with all those leftovers?” she asked.

  “We put most of them in the freezer,” Judith replied. “There are still some cheeses and slices of Italian ham.”

  “Good,” Renie said, checking the crisper drawers. “I’m starved. I didn’t eat a serious lunch.” With a gesture of triumph, she held up some smoked Gouda and a package of prosciutto. “Pass the crackers, coz.”

  Judith fetched a box of table wafers from the cupboard. “Where are the husbands?” she asked.

  “Eavesdropping in the front parlor,” Renie answered, putting two round slices of Gouda on top of the ham.

  “Ah,” Judith remarked. “That’s good.”

  “Bill’s taking notes,” Renie said, making a sandwich out of the crackers.

  “Did you get anything interesting from Ellie Linn?” Judith inquired, sitting down at the kitchen table.

  Renie opened a can of Pepsi and sat down across from her. “You mean besides how much she hates Angela La Belle and Dirk Farrar?”

  “And why is that?” Judith asked.

  “Professional jealousy of Angela,” said Renie, after swallowing a big bite of her concoction. “Maybe genuine dislike. Conflict of personalities. It can happen in any business.”

  “What about Ellie’s feelings for Dirk?”

  Renie shrugged. “Couldn’t say.” She ate another mouthful.

  Judith took a pumpkin-shaped cookie from the jar on the table. “Did Ellie mention a film called All the Way to Utah?”

  “Yeph,” Renie replied, still chewing. “Geb wha? Ewwie’s muvver wode the scwip.”

  “Her mother wrote that script?” Judith, who had learned long ago to decipher her cousin’s words when she spoke with a mouthful of food, was surprised at the information. “I actually saw that script someplace. I think it was in the room that Dirk and Ben shared.”

  “Her mother,” Renie began, having swallowed, “is a writer. Her name is Amy Lee Wong, wife of the Wienie Wizard. She’s Chinese by birth, from Hong Kong. I gather she’s written a few romance novels under the pen name of Lotus MacDermott.”

  “Interesting,” Judith commented, looking thoughtful. “So Mrs. Wienie sold the script to—whom? Bruno?”

  “Could be.” Renie polished off the crackers, cheese, and ham, then took a long drink of Pepsi. “Ellie is supposed to star as the seventh wife of a Mormon bishop back in the 1850s. The narrative involves the Utah War, which occurred when there was a public outcry about the Mormon practice of polygamy. According to the script, one of the reasons that the persecution or whatever you’d call it ended was because the Mormon bishop took a Chinese wife. If I recall my Western history, it had more to do with the Mormons pledging allegiance to the Union when the Civil War broke out. Ben Carmody is supposed to play the bishop.”

  “My.” Judith got up and took a can of diet 7UP from the fridge. “It sounds a bit implausible. I mean, the Mormons weren’t famous in those days for being tolerant of other races.”

  Renie grinned at her cousin. “That’s why it’s a movie.”

  “I suppose,” Judith said. “Except for the distortion, the film might have possibilities. Maybe that’s what Ben and Ellie were discussing when we saw them at T. S. McSnort’s.”

  “That’s very likely,” Renie said. “Since Ellie looked as if she had the upper hand, I wonder if she was talking Ben into it. Therefore, I wonder if Dirk Farrar wasn’t her first choice.”

  “So where does Ellie get so much clout?” Judith remarked, sitting down again. “She hasn’t made very many movies.”

  “Ah!” Renie grinned at her cousin. “Don’t you remember who bankrolled Bruno for The Gasman?”

  “Mr. MacDermott, the Wienie Wizard,” Judith responded.

  “Right,” said Renie. “So naturally he would put money into the Utah film. If he has any left after the debacle with The Gasman.”

  “Hmm.” Judith drummed her nails on the table and grimaced. “If Bruno was murdered, then we can eliminate Ellie and probably Ben Carmody as suspects.”

  Renie shook her head. “Not necessarily. The fact that the movie flopped at the premiere might make Bruno dispensable.”

  “What do you mean?” Judith queried.

  “I can’t explain it,” Renie said. “Ask Bill. It may have something to do with the studio’s insurance. Or Bruno having a flop, which would have made raising money for his next picture much harder. It was complicated. I got sort of mixed up.”

  Judith was about to speculate further when the phone rang. She picked it up from the counter behind her and heard a vaguely familiar female voice.

  “We’re sure glad we didn’t stay at your place,” the woman declared. “And don’t think we ever will!”

  “Mrs. Izard?” Judith ventured.

  “You’re darned tootin’ it’s Mrs. Izard. And I’m speaking for Mr. Izard, too. Walt here says you must run a pretty half-baked bed-and-breakfast to let your guests get murdered in their beds.”

  “No one,” Judith said firmly as she cursed Ingrid for breaking her word, “got murdered in their beds. In fact, no one got murdered that we know of, period.”

  Meg Izard chortled gleefully. “Whatever happened wasn’t good. And doesn’t that just go to show you? No matter how big a wheel, the Grim Reaper can still bust up your spokes when you least expect it.”

  The phone slammed down in Judith’s ear. “Damn that Ingrid—she promised to be discreet about our…misfortune. And she usually is. I’ve always trusted her, even if we’ve had our differences. And,” Judith went on, growing more annoyed by the second, “talk about a poor sport. Since Meg Izard and her husband didn’t get to stay at Hillside Manor, the old bat wants to lord it over us because we’re in a pickle.”

  Renie was trying not to smile. “Yes, it’s a pickle, coz. At least the other displaced couple hasn’t bugged you about what’s happened.”

  “The Kidds?” Judith said, going to the refrigerator and taking out a package of bologna. “No. They were very nice about it. In the Izards and the Kidds, you see the two ends of the spectrum when it comes to guests. Some—most, really—are wonderful, and then others can be a huge pain.” She deftly buttered two slices of bread. “I’m going to take Mother a snack. She’s been shortchanged today.”

  Upon entering the toolshed, Judith expected a testy greeting. Instead, Gertrude was writing on a ruled tablet as fast as her arthritic fingers would permit. She barely looked up when her daughter arrived.

  “I have a bologna sandwich with apple slices and some hot chocolate,” Judith said as the old lady scribbled away.

  Gertrude still didn’t look up from the tablet. “Put ’em there,” she said, nodding at the cluttered card table.

  Judith moved a bag of Tootsie Rolls and a copy of TV Guide to make room for the small plastic tray. “What are you doing? Writing a letter?”

  “Nope,” Gertrude replied. She added a few more words to the tablet, then finished with an awkward flourish and finally looked up. “I’m writing my life story. For the moving pictures.”