“Not necessarily,” said a smooth voice that Judith identified as belonging to Vito Patricelli. “Paradox may not shelve the picture. They have an investment, too, even larger than yours, Mr. MacDermott.”

  “Idiots,” snapped a waspish female voice that didn’t sound like Winifred, Ellie, or Eugenia. “Idiots,” the woman repeated. Judith figured the speaker had to be Mrs. MacDermott.

  “I don’t get it,” declared Heathcliffe MacDermott. “The movie’s a dud. If I made wienies like Zepf made movies, I’d be wearing a paper hat and peddling hot dogs at minor league baseball games instead of running a billion-dollar empire.”

  “The studio can make changes,” Vito said, his voice unperturbed. “They’ll have free rein—under the circumstances.”

  “You beast,” murmured Winifred. “How can you say such things when Bruno has been dead less than twenty-four hours?” Though Judith couldn’t see her, it sounded as if Winifred was close to the service door.

  “What kind of changes?” Ellie asked, not quite as pert as usual.

  “Cutting, for one thing,” Vito replied. “No one can argue that the picture should be shortened by at least an hour.”

  “Are you saying,” Heathcliffe asked in a slightly confused voice, “that Paradox can do whatever it wants now that Bruno Zepf is dead?”

  “Exactly,” Vito responded. “The studio has the major chunk of money invested in the picture. They can do as they please.”

  Except for the creak of chairs and shuffling of limbs, a silence fell over the room. Judith glanced at the door to the stairs to make sure the coast was clear. As far as she could tell, no one seemed to be eating. Perhaps the group had finished its most recent course.

  “What about Utah?” the unfamiliar female voice demanded. “What about my script?”

  Judith heard Dade Costello snort.

  Vito waited a moment to reply. “Your script?”

  “All the Way to Utah,” Amy Lee MacDermott retorted with anger. “Bruno bought it, and it’s supposed to star darling Ellie.”

  “I can’t answer that right now,” Vito said, smooth as ever. “There hasn’t been time for anyone to make that decision.”

  “Who makes it?” Amy Lee’s voice had grown strident.

  “Bruno’s production company,” Vito replied.

  “Isn’t that a weird setup?” Ben Carmody put in. The actor sounded uncharacteristically harsh. “Bruno had no second in command. He thought he was immortal.”

  “That’s not true,” Winifred said in a strong, stiff voice. “If anything happened to Bruno, I was to take over. I already had, when he was in…the hospital.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” Ben’s voice brightened. “Then I guess any big decisions would be up to you, Win.”

  “Not necessarily,” Vito interjected. “I suspect that Winifred’s powers are limited to such situations as Bruno being temporarily out of the picture. So to speak.” No one laughed except Dirk Farrar, and the sound wasn’t pleasant. “There are two other factors involved, one of which is the studio’s agreement to put money into All the Way to Utah. But now that Bruno is dead—let’s not mince words—Paradox would be free to pull out.”

  “They wouldn’t dare!” Amy Lee cried. “They made a commitment!”

  “It’s not legally binding when the producer dies,” Vito asserted. “But the other factor involves the heirs to Bruno’s estate. Winifred, do you know if he made a will?”

  “Why…” Winifred’s voice sounded faint. “No,” she went on slowly, “I don’t believe he did.”

  “It figures,” Dirk snarled. “From A to Zepf. Bruno thought he was the Alpha and the Omega, with no end in sight.”

  “Stop that!” Winifred shouted. “You’re angry because you and Bruno got into a big fight and Ben ended up with the leading role in the Utah picture.”

  “Let’s stop wrangling and back up here,” Heathcliffe broke in, his voice sounding like that of a man obviously used to exercising authority. “What’s this other factor, Mr. L.A. Lawyer?”

  Vito cleared his throat. “That was what I was getting at when I inquired about a will. Since Bruno had no wife, his entire estate goes to his two children.”

  “His children?” Amy Lee and Ellie Linn shrieked in unison.

  “That’s ridiculous,” the mother scoffed.

  “That’s stupid,” the daughter declared. “Those kids aren’t as old as I am!”

  “How old?” Amy Lee demanded.

  “Greta was twenty in June,” Winifred said quietly. “Greg just turned eighteen a month ago.”

  “The son’s name is Greg?” Ellie’s voice had taken on a lighter note.

  “Yes,” Winifred replied. “After Gregory Peck. Greta was named for Garbo.”

  “Hmm.” There was a faint simper from Ellie.

  Judith saw Dirk Farrar’s back at the door. She tensed, wondering if he might be about to leave the room.

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass about that Utah crap,” he said. “All I want to know is when the hell we can get out of this fog bank and go back to L.A.”

  “The matter should be resolved by tomorrow,” Vito responded.

  “It better be,” Dirk shot back. “This place sucks scissors.” His back moved away from the door. Apparently, he’d gotten up only to stretch his legs.

  “Mr. Farquhar,” Amy Lee said sternly, “don’t speak so nastily of my Utah script. It’s going to be a block-buster. After all,” she added with a sneer in her voice, “you were slated to star in it until you behaved so badly toward Mr. Zepf.”

  “The name’s Farrar,” Dirk shouted, “as you damned well know! And I’ll tell you something else,” he continued, not as loud, but just as intense, “I didn’t really give a damn when Bruno canned me. I’d put up with enough crap from him with The Gasman and that lousy script he’d taken from Crappy Pappy Carp’s book.”

  “Don’t be so disrespectful!” Winifred exclaimed in dismay. “You’re callous, Dirk. Everybody knows how self-centered you are, even more so than most actors. I suppose you intend to leave Angela lying in the hospital while you head back to Los Angeles.”

  “It’s her own damned fault she’s there in the first place,” Dirk retorted. “I begged her to go into rehab. Besides, I’m not a doctor. What good can I do her hanging around the hospital?”

  Judith was so caught up in the heated drama just a few inches away that she never heard the approaching footsteps. It was the tap on her shoulder that made her jump and let out a stifled cry.

  I’m done for, she thought. They’ll throw me out in the street. They might arrest me. They might ban me from Capri’s forever. They might put my picture up by the desk with a slash through it. “No Judith McMonigle Flynn.” With considerable trepidation, she turned around to confront the enemy.

  “Learn anything?” whispered Renie.

  “Coz!” A sudden silence had descended over the dining room. Judith was certain that the contentious crew had heard a suspicious noise. She gently shut the door. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for the busing station,” Renie replied, spying her goal behind Judith. “We need more napkins. You know how our kids eat. The tablecloth looks like an army field hospital.”

  “You’re no slouch yourself,” Judith retorted. “How’s the dinner going?”

  Renie made a doleful face. “Could these people be less fun? The parents are like mannequins. Thank God our kids have some animation. They’re never afraid to speak out.”

  “Coz,” Judith said, keeping an eye on the service door, “your family isn’t merely outspoken, you’re all very loud. Even Bill can bellow when aroused. The future in-laws are probably cowed.”

  Renie shot her a disdainful glance. “Okay, so we’ve got pep. But these people hardly eat a thing. The fiancé and fiancées are a little livelier. Heather is very smart—she’s Tom’s girl—and Cathleen—Tony’s beloved—seems genuinely kind. As for Odo, he laughs at everything Bill says, which is good.”

  “Odo?” Judith responded. “His name is really Odo?”

  “Yes,” Renie replied, looking very serious. “You know the original Odo. Bishop Odo became pope just in time to launch the First Crusade.”

  Judith shook her head. “Funny, the kid didn’t look militant. Or religious.”

  “He’s not,” Renie said. “At least as far as I can tell. I just wish the parents had more zip. They never flinched when our kids got into a shouting match. They didn’t bat an eye when Tom threw one of Tony’s socks in the consommé. And you know how Bill belches sometimes when he eats—well, the rest of them sat like statues when he practically blew up after taking a bite of jalapeño pepper by mistake.” Renie shook herself. “I babble. What are you doing here? Or should I guess?” She nodded in the direction of the door behind Judith.

  “It’s been interesting,” Judith said, edging around the corner to the hallway, “but I’m pushing my luck. I’ve been eavesdropping for over five minutes, and the waiters are bound to reappear.”

  “Care to join us?” Renie asked.

  Judith grimaced. “I think I should go home. Mother must be famished. I’ll call a cab.”

  “You don’t have to,” Renie said, piling linen napkins over her arm. “Bill drove your Subaru to Capri’s. Just get the keys from the valet.”

  “Do I need the parking ticket?” Judith asked.

  Renie shook her head as they approached the top of the winding staircase. “Tell them you’re Mrs. Jones. And by the way,” she said with a quizzical expression, “is there anything I should know about what you discovered while you were lurking outside that door?”

  “Not now,” Judith said, “but I’ve got quite a bit of information to sort out. Maybe I’ll have made some sense of it by the time I talk to you later this evening.”

  “Sounds good,” Renie said, heading for the private dining room. “Time to rejoin the stuffed animals.”

  Judith smiled at her cousin. But she was thinking less about the stuffed animals at the Joneses’ table than about the wild ones at the Smiths’.

  She got as far as a block away from Capri’s when she had another, possibly impractical idea. Instead of going up Heraldsgate Hill, she took a left and swung back onto the main thoroughfare through the city. Just before reaching downtown, Judith took another left and pointed the Subaru toward the hospital district. In less than ten minutes, she was in the parking garage of Norway General.

  Angela La Belle would no doubt be listed under an assumed name. Judith knew she’d have to think of a really good fib to tell the person behind the reception desk. Her role as Angela’s innkeeper probably wouldn’t cut any ice with the staff.

  Inside the main doors, she checked the directory. Not ICU, Judith figured. Angela had been taken to the hospital several hours ago and was reportedly on the mend. She’d be in a private ward, of course. But under what medical heading? Not yet ready to show her hand, Judith approached the main desk and asked where emergency patients were taken after they were out of danger.

  Specialty medicine sounded promising. Judith took an elevator to the seventh floor, then followed the arrows to the nurses’ station in the middle of the corridor. A woman wearing a blue hospital smock over a print dress looked up from a patient chart. She wore half glasses on a silver chain and her white hair was in a severe pageboy that accented a hooked nose and prominent chin.

  “May I help you?” she asked in a tone that indicated she’d rather stuff her visitor into the recycling bin that sat next to the desk.

  Judith froze. The fib she’d been trying to conjure up still hadn’t materialized. Briefly, she closed her eyes. Angela’s pale face and tall, voluptuous figure floated before her. The well-defined features, the wide shoulders, the above-average height, the dark eyes, the blond hair that was undoubtedly colored by an expensive Beverly Hills stylist…

  Inspiration struck. There was a physical resemblance as long as no one looked too closely. “I’m here to see my daughter.” Judith leaned forward, striking a conspiratorial pose. “I don’t know what name she’s using, but to her adoring fans, she’s…Dare I say it?”

  “Say what?” the woman snapped.

  Judith glanced at the name tag on the blue smock. “Perhaps you aren’t aware of her real identity, Wanda. My daughter was brought in today with…” She feigned embarrassment. “A drug reaction.”

  Wanda’s expression went from unpleasant to sour. “Oh, yes. One of those.” She scowled at Judith, no doubt blaming her for the daughter’s decadence. “May I see some ID?”

  Momentarily flustered, Judith tried to come up with another tall tale. “Her father and I,” she began, fumbling for her wallet, “were only married for—”

  The phone rang on the desk. Wanda held up a hand for Judith to be silent. After tersely answering some questions regarding the status of another patient, the aide hung up.

  “Let’s see that ID,” she ordered. “I don’t need your life story.”

  Judith handed over the wallet with her driver’s license. Wanda gave it a piercing look, then nodded. “Miss Flynn is in Room 704, back down the hall and on your left.”

  With a gulp, Judith nodded and hurried off before Wanda noticed her astonishment at the coincidence.

  The door to Room 704 was closed. Judith knocked in a tentative fashion, but when no one responded, she slowly opened the door. Except for the green and red lights on the various monitors, the room was dark.

  Nearing the bed, Judith saw that Angela was on her side, turned away from the door. The IVs that trailed from her left hand looked all too familiar.

  Judith thought she was asleep. But the actress must have heard someone approach. “What now?” she asked in a disgruntled, if subdued voice.

  “It’s Judith Flynn.”

  “Who?” Angela didn’t bother to move.

  “Judith Flynn, your innkeeper at the B&B. How are you?”

  “Awful,” Angela replied, still not moving. “What do you want?”

  Judith sat down in the molded plastic visitor’s chair. “You’re my guest. Naturally I’m concerned.”

  “Bull,” Angela muttered. “You’re here to pry. Why should you be concerned? Are you afraid I’m going to peg out like Bruno did?”

  “Of course not,” Judith said a bit testily. “I’m genuinely concerned about your welfare. You gave us an awful scare today.” She paused, waiting for a response. There was none, except for a restless flutter of the young woman’s hands at the top of the bedsheet. “I also wanted to know,” Judith continued, her voice a bit stern, “why you used my name when you checked into the hospital.”

  “I didn’t use it,” Angela said querulously. “Dirk checked me in. Or somebody. I was out of it.”

  “But why Flynn?” Judith persisted.

  At last Angela turned to look at her visitor, though the movement made her wince. “Why? Because it’s my name, dammit. You don’t really think I was born Angela La Belle?”

  “Ah…” Judith hadn’t considered this possibility. “I see. I’m sorry I was impertinent. That is, I didn’t mind you using my name, I just thought it was…odd.”

  “It’s not odd,” Angela insisted, her voice a trifle stronger. “I was born Portulaca Purslane Flynn. My mother was into plants and herbs. Even if I hadn’t become an actress, I’d have dumped all three of those names just like my mother dumped me when I was two. Now how about getting out of here? My head hurts like hell.”

  “Shall I ring for the nurse to bring you more pain medication?” Judith offered.

  “Are you kidding? These sadists are afraid I’ll get addicted to aspirin.”

  “I’m sorry, really I am,” Judith said. “I was in the hospital last January. I know how difficult the medical profession can be when it comes to administering painkillers.”

  “Don’t be cute,” Angela snapped. “You know damned well why they won’t give me anything. I’m a coke hound. Now beat it, will you?”

  “Of course,” Judith said, standing up. “Really, I feel so sorry for you. Is it possible that you could kick the habit if you went into rehab?”

  Angela scowled at Judith. “The goody-goody side of the Quick Fix, huh? Easier said than done, Mrs. Flynn.” Suddenly her eyes widened. “Where are you from?”

  Judith was taken aback. “You mean…where was I born?”

  “Yes. Where? When?” The queries crackled like scattershot.

  “I was born right here,” Judith replied, “about two blocks away, in a hospital that’s been turned into condos. Why do you ask?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Certainly I’m sure,” Judith answered, indignant. Then, seeing the disappointment on Angela’s face, she understood the reason for the questions. “I’m sorry. I’ve only had one child, a boy. And I didn’t become Mrs. Flynn until ten years ago.”

  Wearily, Angela turned away. “Never mind. I keep hoping someday I’ll find my mother.”

  Even when she wasn’t wanted, Judith was too soft-hearted to walk away. She remained standing, gazing down at Angela’s blond hair and twitching hands.

  “Do you want to meet your mother for revenge,” Judith asked softly, “or for an explanation?”

  Angela didn’t respond immediately. Indeed, her whole body convulsed, then went slack. “I know why she gave me away,” the actress finally replied, her voice muffled by the pillow. “She never really wanted me. My mother was a free spirit, a big-time flower child. I was just a burden in her personal revolution.”

  “Your mother sounds selfish and immature,” Judith declared. “Who raised you?”

  “An aunt in San Bernardino,” Angela said. “She meant well, but she had four kids of her own. I was much younger than they were. I was always the outsider.” Abruptly, she turned again to face Judith. “This is none of your business. Quit asking so damned many questions.”

  “I apologize,” Judith said. “I can’t help myself. I’m interested in people. I care about them.”

  “You’re an oddity, then,” Angela said. “Most people only care in terms of what they can get from you. The funny thing is, my mother didn’t want anything from me. She didn’t want me, period.”

  “She may be a villain,” Judith said quietly, “but she’s not the one who hooked you on drugs. Who did?”