“A change?” Meg Izard sounded perplexed. “In what? The dates? We can’t change. We’re celebrating our twenty-fifth anniversary.”

  “The change affects your lodgings,” Judith explained. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to accommodate you that weekend.”

  “Why not?” Meg’s voice had again turned harsh. “You got the Queen of England staying there?”

  “Not exactly,” Judith replied. “I’ve had to rearrange my schedule. Unfortunately, there’s a movie crew coming for a big premiere.”

  “Movies!” Meg exclaimed. “Who’d pay five dollars to see a movie when they can watch it on TV a year later? Who cares? We like our sitcoms better anyway. They make Walt laugh, which isn’t easy to do these days.”

  Riceville, Iowa, must indeed be rural if they only charged five bucks for a first-run film, Judith thought. “It’s a big event,” she said, with a need to defend herself. “Bruno Zepf is opening his new epic, The Gasman, here in town.”

  There was a long pause at the other end. Finally, Mrs. Izard spoke again: “Never heard of him.”

  “I don’t know much about Mr. Zepf, either,” Judith admitted in an effort to appease the disgruntled Mrs. Izard. “You’ll be hearing from Ingrid Heffelman soon to make sure you’re put up in a very nice inn.”

  “Hunh.” Meg paused. “Okay, we’ll stay tuned. But this Heffelbump woman better call soon. October’s not that far away.”

  It was two months away, Judith thought, but didn’t argue. She was beginning to feel grateful that the Izards wouldn’t be staying at Hillside Manor. Trying to remain gracious, she rang off. The Kidds and the Izards had been disposed of; she needn’t worry about Bruno Zepf and his movie people for two months. The waning summer and the early fall should be relatively uneventful.

  It was typical of Judith that, as Cousin Renie would say, she would bury her head in the sand. On that warm August evening, she dug deep and tried to blot out some of life’s less pleasant incidents.

  One of them was Skjoval Tolvang. The tall, sinewy old handyman with his stubborn nature and unshakable convictions had already made some improvements to Hillside Manor. He had repaired the sagging front steps, replaced the ones in back, rebuilt both chimneys, which had been damaged in an earthquake, inspected the electrical wiring, and put in what he called a “super-duper door spring” to keep the kitchen cupboard from swinging open by itself. What was left involved rehanging the door to the first-floor powder room and checking the toolshed’s plumbing.

  Judith came a cropper with the bathroom repair. On the first day of September, Mr. Tolvang showed up very early. It was not yet six o’clock when he banged on the back door. Joe was in the shower and Judith had just finished getting dressed. The noise was loud enough to be heard in the third-floor family quarters, and thus even louder for the sleeping guests on the second floor.

  “Damn!” Judith breathed, hurrying down the first flight of stairs. “Double damn!” she breathed, taking the back stairs to the main floor as fast as she could without risking a fall.

  “By early,” she said, yanking open the back door, “I thought you meant seven or eight.”

  “Early is early,” the handyman replied. “Isn’t this early, pygolly?”

  “It’s too early for me to have made coffee,” Judith asserted. “You’ll have to wait a few minutes.”

  But Skjoval Tolvang reached into his big toolbox and removed a tall blue thermos. “I got my medicine to get me going. I vas up at four.”

  Coffee fueled the handyman the way gasoline propels cars. He never ate on the job, putting in long, arduous days with only his seemingly bottomless thermos to keep him going.

  “I’m a little worried,” Judith said, pouring coffee into both the big urn she used for guests and the family coffeemaker. “Having a bathroom just off the entry hall may no longer be up to city code.”

  “Code!” Skjoval coughed up the word as if he’d swallowed a bug. “To hell vith the city! Vat do they know, that bunch of crackpot desk yockeys? They be lucky to find the bathroom, let alone know vhere to put it!”

  “It was only a thought,” Judith said meekly.

  “You vorry too much,” Skjoval declared, putting the thermos back into his toolbox. “I don’t need no hassles. I quit.”

  It wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last, that the handyman had quit over some quibble. Skjoval never lacked for work. He was good and he was cheap. But he was also temperamental.

  Judith knew the drill, though it wasn’t easy to repeat at six-ten in the morning. She pleaded, groveled, cajoled, and used all of her considerable charm to get Skjoval to change his mind. Ultimately, he did, but it took another ten minutes.

  Luckily, the rest of the week and the Labor Day weekend went smoothly. It was only the following Friday, when Skjoval was finishing in the toolshed, that another fracas took place.

  “That mother of yours,” Skjoval complained, wiping sweat from his brow as he stood on the back porch. “She is Lucifer’s daughter. I hang the bathroom door yust fine, but vhy vill she not let me fix the toilet?”

  “I don’t know,” Judith replied. Indeed, she had been afraid that Gertrude and Mr. Tolvang would get into it before the job was done. Given their natures, it seemed inevitable. “Did she give you a reason?”

  “Hell, no,” the handyman shot back, “except that she be sitting on the damned thing.”

  “Oh.” Judith frowned in the direction of the tool-shed. “I’ll talk to her.”

  “Don’t bother,” Skjoval snapped. “I quit.”

  “Please, Mr. Tolvang,” Judith begged, “let me ask—”

  But the handyman made a sharp dismissive gesture. “Never you mind. I don’t vant to see that old bat no more. She give me a bad time all veek. Let her sit on the damned toilet until her backside falls off.” Skjoval yanked the painter’s cap from his head and waved it in a threatening manner. “I go now, you call me if she ever acts like a human being and not a vitch.” He stomped off down the drive to his pickup truck, which was piled with ladders, scaffolding, and all manner of tools.

  Judith gritted her teeth and headed out under the golden September sun. Surely her mother would cooperate. The toilet needed plunging; Gertrude threw all sorts of things into it, including Sweetums. It was either Skjoval Tolvang for the job or a hundred bucks to Roto-Rooter.

  Gertrude wasn’t on the toilet when Judith reached the toolshed. Instead, she was sitting in her old mohair armchair, playing solitaire on the cluttered card table.

  “Hi, Toots,” Gertrude said in a cheerful voice. “What’s up, besides that old fart’s dander?”

  “Why wouldn’t you let Mr. Tolvang plunge the toilet?” Judith demanded.

  “Because I was using it, that’s why.” Gertrude scooped up the cards and put them in her automatic shuffler. “When’s lunch?”

  “You ate lunch two hours ago,” Judith responded, then had an inspiration. “Why don’t you come inside with me? I’m going to make chocolate-chip cookies.”

  Gertrude brightened. “You are?”

  “Yes. Let me give you a hand.”

  Judith was helping her mother to the door when Skjoval Tolvang burst into the toolshed.

  “You got spies,” he declared, banging the door behind him. “Building inspectors, ya sure, you betcha.”

  Judith’s dark eyes widened. “Really? Where?”

  “In the bushes,” Skjoval replied. “Spying.”

  “Here,” Judith said, gesturing at Gertrude, “help my mother into the house. I’ll go check on whoever’s out there.”

  But Gertrude balked. “I’m not letting this crazy old coot touch me! He’ll shove me facedown into the barbecue and light it off.”

  “Then stay here,” Judith said crossly, and guided her mother back to the armchair.

  “Hey!” Gertrude shouted. “What about those cookies?”

  But Judith was already out the door. “Where is this inspector or whoever?” she asked of Mr. Tolvang.

  “By them bushes,” the handyman answered, nodding at the azaleas, rhododendrons, and roses that flanked the west side of the house. “Making trouble, mark my vords.”

  “I wonder,” Judith murmured, heading down the driveway.

  There was, however, no one in sight. She moved on to the front of the house. An unfamiliar white car was parked in the cul-de-sac. There were no markings on it. Judith moved on to the other side of the house.

  A tall man in a dark suit and hat stood between the house and the hedge that divided Judith and Joe Flynn’s property from their neighbors, Carl and Arlene Rankers. The man had his back to Judith and appeared to be looking up under the eaves.

  “Sir!” Judith spoke sharply. “May I help you?”

  The man whirled around. “What?” He had a beard and wore rimless spectacles. There was such an old-fashioned air about him that Judith was reminded of a character out of a late-nineteenth-century novel.

  “Are you looking for someone?” Judith inquired, moving closer to the man.

  He hesitated, one hand brushing nervously against his trouser leg. “Well, yes,” he finally replied. “I am. A Mr. Terwilliger. I was told he lived in this cul-de-sac.”

  Judith shook her head. “There’s no one by that name around here. Unless,” she added, “he intends to stay at my B&B.” She made an expansive gesture toward the old three-story Edwardian house. “I run this place. It’s called Hillside Manor. There’s a sign out front.”

  The man, who had been slowly but deliberately backpedaling from Judith, ducked his head. “I must have missed it. Sorry.” He turned and all but ran around the rear of the house.

  Judith’s hip replacement didn’t permit her to move much faster than a brisk walk. Puzzled, she watched the man disappear, then returned to the front yard. He was coming down the driveway on the other side of the house, still at a gallop. A moment later he got into the car parked at the curb and pulled away with a burst of the engine.

  “Local plates,” she murmured. But from where Judith stood some ten yards away, she hadn’t been able to read the license numbers. With a shrug, she headed back to the toolshed. She’d mention the stranger’s appearance to Joe when he got home. If she remembered.

  Five hours later, when Joe arrived cursing the dead end he’d come up against in a missing antique clock case, Judith had forgotten all about the man who’d shown up at Hillside Manor.

  It would be two months before she’d remember, and by that time it was almost too late.

  TWO

  JUDITH RECOILED FROM the obscenity screamed into her ear by Cousin Renie. The four-letter word was rapidly repeated before Renie cried, “You’re not 911!” and hung up.

  Shaken, Judith stared at her cleaning woman, Phyliss Rackley. “Oh, dear. What now?” she breathed to Phyliss.

  “What ‘what now’?” Phyliss inquired, scarcely missing a beat as she scoured the kitchen sink.

  “My cousin—Serena,” Judith said, her high forehead wrinkled in worry. “I think she was trying to call 911. I don’t want to call her back in case she’s on the line with them. Maybe I should go over to her house to see what’s happened.”

  “You got those Hollywood sinners due in two hours,” Phyliss pointed out. “Besides, that cousin of yours is probably in Satan’s clutches. I always said she’d end up in the hot spot.”

  Judith’s gaze darted to the old schoolhouse clock. It was two on the dot. Friday, October 29. The day when Bruno Zepf and his Hollywood entourage would arrive for the premiere of The Gasman on the following night.

  But family came before filmdom. “I’ve still got some spare time. I’m going to Renie and Bill’s. I don’t dare call in case she’s tied up on the phone with 911.”

  “Keep away from Lucifer!” Phyliss warned as Judith rushed out the back door. “He’ll come after you when you least expect him!”

  Judith was used to her cleaning woman’s fundamentalism. But like Skjoval Tolvang’s obstinacy, Phyliss Rackley’s religious mania could be tolerated for the sake of a reliable, thorough work ethic.

  Traffic on Heraldsgate Avenue was relatively light for a Friday afternoon. It was just a little over a mile from Hillside Manor to the Joneses’ residence on the north side of Heraldsgate Hill. Six minutes after she had left Phyliss in the kitchen, Judith was at the door of her cousin’s Dutch Colonial. So far, there were no signs of emergency vehicles outside. Judith didn’t know if that was a good or a bad portent.

  When Renie and Bill had moved into their home thirty years earlier, the doorbell had been broken. Bill was a psychologist and a retired college professor, a brilliant man in his field, but not adept at household repairs. The bell was still broken. Judith pounded on the solid mahogany door.

  No one responded. Anxiety mounting, Judith started to go around to the back but was halted at the corner of the house by a shout from Renie.

  “Hey! Come in. I’ve got this junk all over my hands.”

  Judith returned to the porch. Renie stood in the doorway, her hands and lower arms spattered with what looked like the insides of a pumpkin. Bill came down the hall from the kitchen. His head was covered with the same orange clumps and he’d left a trail of yellow seeds in his wake.

  “What on earth…?” Judith began, her jaw dropping. “I thought you had a catastrophe!”

  “We did,” Renie replied, moving back to the kitchen, where she ran her hands and arms under the tap. “Bill got a pumpkin stuck on his head.”

  Judith looked at Bill. Bill shrugged, then took a towel from the kitchen counter and began to wipe himself off. Judith then looked at what was left of the pumpkin. It lay on the floor in several pieces. Only the top with its jaunty green stem remained intact.

  Putting a hand to her breast in relief, Judith leaned against the refrigerator. “Good grief. You scared the hell out of me.”

  “Sorry,” Renie said, rinsing her hands. “I hit your number on the speed dial instead of 911.”

  “Then,” Bill put in, his voice muffled by the towel, “she punched the button for her hairdresser. By that time I’d gotten the pumpkin off my head.”

  “I don’t suppose,” Judith said slowly, “I ought to ask why you were wearing a pumpkin on your head, Bill?”

  Removing the towel, he shrugged again. “It was for your Halloween party tomorrow. I planned to go as Ichabod Crane.”

  Judith shook her head in wonder, then frowned. “It’s not my party, it’s Bruno Zepf’s. I’m merely catering the damned thing.”

  “I’m helping,” Renie said, looking a trifle hurt. “That’s why we’re coming, isn’t it? We thought it would be more fun if we wore costumes like everybody else.”

  “What,” Judith asked Renie, “were you going as? Ichabod’s horse?”

  “A tree,” Renie said with a lift of her short chin. “You know—the scary kind with a twisted trunk and clawlike branches.”

  “Don’t,” Judith advised. “You’ll hurt yourself.” She glanced at Bill. “One of you already has. I’m going home now. In fact, I might as well stop at Falstaff’s Grocery on the way to stock up for the party. Bruno Zepf gave me a list. Some of the items had to come from specialty stores. I hope he can pay all these bills.”

  “He can,” Bill said, his clean-cut Midwestern features finally free of pumpkin debris. “The man’s movies make millions. The Gasman may hit a billion.”

  “Good for him,” Judith said on a bitter note. “I just wish he wasn’t staying at Hillside Manor.”

  “It’s only two nights,” Renie soothed. “Look at it as an adventure. A big-time Hollywood producer. Glamorous stars. A famous director. It’ll be like having Oscar night in your living room.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Judith said, making her way to the door. “Glad you’re not dead. See you tomorrow night.”

  “I’m coming to help at five,” Renie announced. “I’ll change into my tree suit later.”

  “Goody,” Judith said in a lifeless voice. “Maybe I’ll turn into a pumpkin.”

  “Hey!” Bill called after her. “I’m wearing the pumpkin!”

  Judith glanced back at the orange glop that littered the kitchen. “You mean, you were.”

  An hour later Judith arrived at Hillside Manor with fourteen grocery bags and an entry on the debit side of her checking account for almost four hundred dollars.

  “What are you feeding?” Phyliss asked as she put on her shapeless black raincoat. “An army?”

  Judith gazed at the paper-in-plastic bags and shook her head. “The problem is, I don’t know how many will come here after the premiere and the costume ball at the Cascadia Hotel. Most of the movie people are staying at the hotel. But Mr. Zepf had one of his staff members send me a list of what he’d like served at the midnight supper party. I don’t want to run short. He’s also been shipping some things that I wouldn’t be able to find here in town.”

  Phyliss gave a toss of her gray sausage curls. “More money than sense,” she declared. “What’s wrong with meat and potatoes? As for all this shipping, at least two more express trucks showed up today. There may have been another one, but I was upstairs and my lumbago was giving me fits, so I didn’t bother myself to come down.”

  Judith eyed Phyliss. “Are you sure?”

  “No, I’m not sure,” Phyliss answered crossly. “I’ve no time for all this fancy-pants stuff. It’s gluttony, if you ask me. That’s one of the Seven Deadly Sins. I wonder how many of the others they’ll commit while they’re here.”

  Judith winced, and based on past history, hoped murder wasn’t one of them.

  The doorbell rang at precisely five o’clock. By that time Judith had finished organizing and storing the groceries. Feeling nervous, she hurried to greet her first guests.

  The middle-aged couple who stood on the front porch didn’t look much like Hollywood to Judith. In fact, they seemed more like Grant Wood, or at least his famous painting of American Gothic. The thin sour-looking woman with her fair hair pulled back in a bun and the balding gaunt-faced man needed only a pitchfork to complete the image.