Judith nodded toward the big man by the French doors. Renie’s nod confirmed his identity.

  “I’ll introduce myself,” Judith murmured. Passing through the living room, she caught a few cutting remarks:

  “…worse than that no-star hotel in Oman…”

  “…If I’d wanted to stay in a phone booth, I’d prefer it was in Paris….”

  “…bath towels like sandpaper. Whatever happened to plush nubbiness? Atlanta was nubby, but Miami was the nubbiest…”

  Wincing, Judith arrived at Dade Costello’s elbow before he turned around. “I’m Judith Flynn,” she said, putting out a hand. “Your innkeeper.”

  “That right?” Dade shook Judith’s hand without enthusiasm. Or maybe because he was so big, he’d learned to be gentle with somewhat smaller creatures.

  “Yes.” Judith’s smile felt false. “I’m interested in the story behind The Gasman. Your story, that is.”

  Dade’s ordinary features looked pained. He had bushy dark hair dusted with gray, and overly long sideburns. “It’s not my story,” he said, with a trace of the Old South in his voice.

  “Oh.” Judith’s phony expression turned to genuine confusion. “I thought you wrote the script.”

  “I did.” Dade stuck his hands in his pockets. “But the story isn’t the script.”

  Judith waited for an explanation, but none was forthcoming. “You mean…you adapted the story?”

  Dade nodded. “My script was based on a novel.”

  “I see.” Judith understood that this was often the case. “Did the book have the same title?”

  Again, Dade nodded, but offered no details. For a man of words, Dade Costello didn’t seem to have many at his command in a social situation. Maybe, Judith thought, that was why writers wrote instead of talked.

  “I never heard of the book,” she admitted. “Was it published recently?”

  This time, Dade shook his head. “No. It’s been around awhile.”

  “Oh.” Now Judith seemed at a loss to make conversation. She was about to excuse herself when Dade rapped softly on one of the panes in the French doors.

  “There’s a head in your backyard,” he said.

  Judith gave a start. “What?”

  Dade’s thumb gestured out past the porch that flanked the rear of the house. “A head. It’s been sitting there for at least five minutes.”

  Judith tried not to shriek. “Where?”

  “There.” Dade pointed to a spot almost out of their line of vision. “See it? On top of those bushes.”

  Judith stared. “Oh!” she exclaimed in relief. “That’s not a head, it’s my mother. I mean…” With a rattle of the handle, she opened the French doors. “Excuse me, I’d better see what she’s doing out there.”

  Despite the rain, Gertrude wore neither coat nor head covering. She stood next to the lily-of-the-valley bush, leaning on her walker and panting. At the foot of the porch steps, Bruno Zepf hovered in the shelter of the eaves with his head cocked to one side.

  “So,” Bruno was saying to Gertrude, “you actually survived the Titanic’s sinking?”

  “You bet,” Gertrude replied, catching her breath. “It’s a good thing I could swim.”

  “Mother!” Judith spoke sharply as she moved to take Gertrude’s arm. “It’s raining. What are you doing out here?” She darted a glance at Bruno. “Excuse me, Mr. Zepf, but my mother shouldn’t be outdoors without a coat or a rain hat. I’ll take her back inside.”

  But Gertrude batted Judith’s hand away. “Stop that! I’m not finished yet with this fine young Hollywood fella.”

  Bruno, however, held up a hand. “That’s all right, Mrs….?”

  “Grover,” Gertrude put in and shook a crooked finger. “You remember that when you make the movie about me.”

  Bruno forced a chuckle as Judith tried to move her mother along the walk toward the toolshed. “The problem is,” Bruno called after them, “someone else already made a movie about the Titanic not very long ago.”

  Gertrude refused to move another inch. “What?”

  “Yes,” Bruno responded, backing up the porch steps. “It was a big success, an Oscar winner.”

  “I’ll be,” Gertrude muttered, allowing Judith to make some progress past the small patio. Then the old lady suddenly balked and turned around to look at Bruno Zepf. “Hey! Did I tell you about being on the Hindenburg?”

  “Keep moving,” Judith muttered. “We’re both getting wet.”

  “You always were all wet,” Gertrude grumbled, but shuffled along the walk under her daughter’s guiding hand. “Who was that guy? Cecil B. DeMille?”

  “No, Mother,” Judith replied as an agonized scream erupted from behind her. She turned to see Bruno Zepf clutching at the screen door and writhing like a madman.

  “I can’t get in! I can’t get in!” he howled.

  Abandoning Gertrude, Judith rushed to the back porch. “What’s wrong? What is it?”

  Bruno swung his head to one side. “There! By your foot! It’s a spider! Help!”

  Judith peered down at the tiny arachnid that was scooting toward the edge of the porch. A moment later the spider disappeared into the garden.

  “It’s gone,” Judith said, over Bruno’s wails. “That is, the very small spider has left the building.”

  Bruno’s head jerked up. “It has? Are you sure?”

  Judith was about to reassure Bruno when Winifred, with Dirk Farrar right behind her, opened the back door. Bruno all but collapsed into Winifred’s arms.

  “What’s going on?” she demanded.

  Judith grimaced. “Mr. Zepf saw a spider on the porch.”

  “Oh, no!” Winifred looked aghast. Dirk snickered.

  “Does Mr. Zepf have arachnophobia?” Judith asked as Bruno’s shudders subsided.

  “Not exactly,” Winifred replied, patting Bruno on the back as if he were a frightened child. “They’re bad luck.” She managed to disentangle herself and took Bruno’s hand. “Come inside, it’s quite safe.”

  Dirk lingered at the door. “Twerp,” he muttered. “Chickenhearted twerp.”

  “Why are spiders bad luck?” Judith asked.

  Dirk shrugged his broad shoulders. “Something to do with a spider during the shooting of Bruno’s first picture. Somehow, one got on the camera lens and ruined a perfect take. The crazy bastard’s never been the same since.” He stopped and turned quickly to look over his shoulder. No one was there. “Crazy like a fox, maybe I should say.” With another shrug, Dirk Farrar moved down the hallway.

  Judith went back to the toolshed, where her mother was still standing in the doorway.

  “What caused that commotion?” Gertrude asked in her raspy voice.

  “The guest you were talking to doesn’t like spiders,” Judith explained, steering her mother inside. “He’s okay now. Say, what were you doing out in the rain? Were you trying to come into the house?”

  “Of course not,” Gertrude huffed. “Why would I do that?”

  Judith eased the old lady into the overstuffed chair behind the card table. “You do sometimes.”

  “When Lunkhead’s not there, maybe,” Gertrude allowed, then gave Judith a sly look. “I don’t see his car. Maybe I wanted to meet those movie stars, like Francis X. Bushman and Clara Bow.”

  Judith didn’t feel up to adding her mother to the already motley mix. “How about seeing them tomorrow when they’re all dressed up and ready to leave for the premiere?”

  Gertrude flopped into the chair. “Tomorrow? I could be dead by tomorrow.”

  “You won’t be,” Judith assured her mother. “Be-sides, not all of them have arrived yet.”

  Judging from the pinched expression on Gertrude’s face, the effort to reach the house had tired her. “Well—okay. Who’s still coming? Theda Bara?”

  Judith gave her mother’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Someone more recent. I’ll be back with your supper in just a bit.”

  The truth was, Judith hadn’t even begun to prepare the family meal. Gertrude didn’t mind a TV dinner, but Joe was another matter. As soon as the hors d’oeuvres were served, she would start the evening meal.

  Arlene, however, had already brought the appetizers out to the guests: crab cakes, mushrooms stuffed with shrimp, teriyaki beef on skewers, tea sandwiches with smoked salmon, and—courtesy of Bruno—an exotic caviar from a shop and a city Judith had never heard of.

  “Thanks, Arlene,” Judith said when the two women were back in the kitchen. “You saved my life. Now I can get dinner.”

  “No need,” Arlene said, opening the oven. “I made a chicken casserole this afternoon. It’s heating right now. I put the green salad in the fridge. The homemade rolls can be heated up in five minutes.”

  Judith beamed at her friend and neighbor. “Arlene, I could kiss you. In fact, I will.” She leaned forward and gave Arlene a big smack on the cheek.

  “It’s nothing,” Arlene said, her expression suddenly gone sour as it always went when she was complimented for her charity. “I knew you’d have other things on your mind. By the way, the last guest just arrived. Serena took him upstairs to his room.”

  “The director, Chips Madigan,” Judith murmured. “I’d better say hello.”

  But Renie and Chips were already coming back down the stairs when Judith reached the entry hall.

  “Hey, coz,” Renie called from over the balustrade, “meet the Boy Wonder of the movies.”

  Startled by Renie’s familiarity with the famous director, Judith was even more startled to see the Boy Wonder. With his red hair, freckles, and gawky manner, Chips Madigan looked like a college freshman. Half stumbling down the stairs, he grinned at his hostess, put out a hand, and almost knocked over a vase of flowers with his elbow. He wore a viewfinder around his neck, which he put to his eyes as soon as he reached the landing.

  “Wow!” Chips cried in excitement. “A great tracking shot into the living room. Bookcases, silver tea service, lace curtains—this angle reeks of atmosphere.” He let the viewfinder dangle from his neck and loped over to Judith.

  “Hi,” he said with a big smile. “You’re Mrs. Flynn, right? This is one swell place you’ve got here.” Chips got down on his haunches, the viewfinder again at his eyes. “Great elephant’s-foot umbrella stand. It doesn’t have a bad angle.”

  Recalling the critical comments she’d overheard from some of the other guests, Judith grinned back. “Thank you, Mr. Madigan. I appreciate that.”

  “Hey,” Chips responded, “my mom runs a bed-and-breakfast in Nebraska, right on the Missouri River. It’s an old farmhouse. I’ll bet the two of you would get along real well.”

  “I’ll bet we would,” Judith agreed. Up close, she could see that Chips wasn’t as young as he looked. The red hair was thinning and there were fine lines around his eyes and mouth. Maybe behind the camera he coaxed rather than commanded his actors. Certainly he emanated no aura of Hollywood’s legendary directors. Judith found Chips Madigan’s friendly, boyish demeanor refreshing. Even endearing, she thought as he turned toward the living room, tripped on the Persian area rug, and sent his long, lanky frame sprawling across the floor.

  “Whoa!” Chips cried. “You’d never know I got my start directing musicals!”

  Though both Judith and Renie offered to help, he politely brushed off their outstretched hands and scrambled to an upright position on his own.

  Judith noticed that none of the guests made the slightest move to aid their fallen comrade. Indeed, Chips Madigan’s unorthodox arrival was virtually ignored. Perhaps that was because Bruno Zepf was standing in front of the fireplace, obviously over his fright and looking like Napoleon about to rally his generals.

  Chips, however, seemed undaunted. With a cocky air, he strolled into the living room and plopped down on the window seat next to Angela La Belle, who had also joined the company. At least three cell phones were swiftly turned off. Judith was beginning to wonder if the devices were permanently attached to their owners.

  The director’s arrival was apparently a signal for Bruno to shift gears. He took a cigar out of the pocket of his denim shirt, rolled it around in his pudgy fingers, and stuck it in his mouth, unlit.

  “We’re assembled here on an historic occasion in the annals of the motion-picture business.” The producer paused to gaze around the long living room, from the plate rails to the wainscoting. Several of his listeners’ expressions of distaste indicated that Hillside Manor wasn’t worthy of so momentous a pronouncement.

  “As you all know,” he continued after a sip of the thirty-year-old Scotch he’d brought with him, “when I first conceived The Gasman, most people in the business told me it would be an impossible film to make. The scope was too big, the concept too ambitious, the goal too lofty, and the movie itself far too expensive given the audience we’re aiming for.” He paused again, this time gazing at the cousins, who were standing under the archway between the entry hall and the living room. “Excuse me, ladies. This is a private meeting. Do you mind?”

  “Not very well,” Renie shot back before Judith could interfere.

  “I’m sorry,” Judith broke in, yanking on her cousin’s arm. “We were just checking to make sure you had everything you needed for the social hour.”

  Winifred Best glanced at Judith in amusement. “The social hour. How quaint.”

  Bruno made a little bow to Judith and Renie. “We have everything for now. You may go.”

  Judith shoved Renie back into the entry hall. Renie dug in with her heels and came to a dead stop at the head of the dining-room table.

  “That egotistical dork is treating us like slaves!” she railed. “Who the hell does he think he is? I’ve faced off with bigger fish before he came along!”

  Judith knew that her cousin could back up her bluster. In Renie’s graphic design business, she had gone up against everybody from Microsweet to the mayor. She didn’t always win, but even if she lost, she still managed to save face. Renie’s small, middle-aged matron’s appearance was deceptive. It concealed an abrasive manner that, upon occasion, could get physical. Which was all the more reason why Judith had to keep her cousin out of Bruno’s sight.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Judith said under her breath. She loomed over her cousin by a good five inches, outweighed her by some forty pounds, yet Judith knew she was outmatched. Renie had had shoulder surgery on the same day that Judith had undergone her hip replacement. If nothing else, Renie could still run.

  “Hey!” Joe Flynn’s voice cut through the kitchen and into the dining room. “What’s going on? Still fighting over who has the best Sparkle Plenty doll?”

  Judith backed away from her cousin. Renie’s ire evaporated, as it often did after the initial outburst.

  “Not exactly,” Judith said, meeting her husband at the swinging doors and giving him a big kiss on the lips. “Boy, am I glad to see you. I’m not sure I’m ready for the movies.”

  “What’s wrong?” Joe inquired. “Aren’t your guests behaving themselves?”

  “It’s attitude,” Renie said, joining Joe and Judith just inside the kitchen. “These creeps are loaded with attitude, and some of it’s bad.”

  “Relax,” Joe urged. “Years ago, I made big bucks working security for location companies shooting around town. I could keep the rabid fans and the celebrity seekers and the nutcases away, but I couldn’t offer the kind of security they really needed. The problem with these movie types is that they’re basically insecure.”

  “That’s true,” Renie agreed. “Bill says that because of the capricious nature of the business and the personalities involved in moviemaking, they’re constantly seeking reassurance that they’re loved and wanted. Bill sometimes uses feature films to study the behavior of—”

  Renie’s latest parroting of her husband’s expertise was mercifully interrupted by Arlene, who poked her head in the back door. “I took your mother’s supper out to her. I’ve got to go home now and feed my darling, patient Carl. To the dogs,” she added with a sinister expression.

  “Thanks again, Arlene, I really appreciate…” But Arlene was gone before Judith could finish the sentence.

  “Have a drink on me, ladies,” Joe offered, taking down a bottle of Scotch and a bottle of Canadian whiskey from the cupboard. “What are the guests up to?”

  Judith slumped into one of the kitchen chairs. “Listening to how wonderful Bruno is, from Bruno’s own lips.”

  “And,” Renie put in, opening the cupboard door by the sink to get three glasses, “listening to Bruno tell them how marvelous The Gasman is, which I assume they already know, having been involved in the making of it.” Handing the glasses to Joe, she closed the cupboard door behind her. Or tried to. “Damn! What’s with this thing? It won’t stay shut.”

  Judith heaved a sigh. “Mr. Tolvang supposedly fixed it when he was here, but the door still swings open on its own.” She gave Joe a plaintive look from under her dark lashes. “I don’t mean to nag, but I have mentioned that you might look at it. I hate to ask Mr. Tolvang. He’s so stubborn, he’d probably tell me I was imagining the problem.”

  “I’ll give it a go,” Joe answered airily, handing Judith her Scotch. “I’ve been kind of busy lately.”

  Judith didn’t respond. While Joe was slightly more adept at household repairs than Bill, the Flynn to-do list was never a priority.

  “So what’s this movie about anyway?” Joe asked. “A public utility?”

  “Not exactly,” Renie replied. “Dade Costello—the screenwriter—explained the basic plot to me.”

  “That’s more than he did for me,” Judith remarked.

  “Maybe you used the wrong approach,” Renie said. “He’s kind of touchy. Sullen, too. Of course I’m used to moody writers. Freelancers are the worst. They can’t bear to have their precious copy rearranged so it will fit the graphics. Anyway, the bare bones Dade sketched out for me involve the entire history of the world as seen through the eyes of a simple gasman. That is, an employee who works for a gas company somewhere in the Midwest.” Renie paused for effect. “Get it? Every-man in the middle of the country, the center of the universe.”

  “I got it,” Joe murmured into his Scotch.