Joe nodded. “I’m afraid so. Too many Hollywood types get mixed up with this stuff.”

  She sighed. “Well, it’s only for one more night.”

  He chucked his wife under the chin. “That’s right. Face it, they’re probably not the first guests you’ve hosted who’ve had a habit.”

  “That’s true.” Judith gave Joe a weary smile. “I’ll just be glad when they’re gone. I prefer normal people.”

  Joe lifted an eyebrow. “Like the gangsters and superstar tenors and gossip columnists you’ve had in the past?”

  Since all of the guests that he mentioned had been murdered or involved in murder, Judith shuddered. “No, not like that. I was thinking of the Kidds and even the Izards. They’re the ones who should be here this weekend, not this crew from L.A.”

  Joe shrugged. “As you said, it’s only for one more night. What could possibly happen?”

  Around two A.M., Judith was awakened by muffled noises from somewhere in the house. The guests, she thought hazily, returning from their revels. When the Flynns had gone to bed around eleven, the Hollywood crew had not yet come back. But, as with all Hillside Manor guests, they had keys to the front door. Judith rolled over and drifted off again.

  But moments later louder noises made her sit straight up in bed. She glanced at Joe, who was snoring softly. He’d put in a long day; there was no need to rouse him. Judith donned her robe and slippers, then headed down to the second floor.

  The lights were on in the hall. Bruno, clad only in underwear decorated with Porky and Petunia Pig figures, was collapsed on the settee. Winifred and Chips Madigan stood over him while Dirk Farrar peered out from behind the door of Room Four. Angela, Ellie, Ben, and Dade were nowhere to be seen.

  “What’s going on?” Judith asked, noting that Bruno was shuddering and writhing just as he had done on the back porch.

  Dirk opened the door a few more inches. “Another damned spider. Big as a house. Or so he says.” He smothered a smile.

  “No!” Judith couldn’t believe it. In late summer, harmless, if imposing, wood spiders sometimes crawled into the basement, but it was too late in the year for them to show up. She marched to Bruno’s room, where the door was ajar.

  Ben Carmody was standing by Bruno’s bed, laughing so hard that his sides shook. “Look,” he finally managed to say. “It’s a spider, all right, but…”

  Judith charged over to the bed, then gave a start. “Ohmigod!”

  A black, long-legged creature with a furry body lay on the bottom sheet just below the pillows. Judith stood frozen in place until Ben picked the thing up by one leg and bounced it off the floor.

  “It’s fake,” he said, still chuckling. “It’s one of those rubber spiders kids have for Halloween. Where’s your garbage? I’ll take it outside and dump the thing in there.”

  “Oh!” Judith put a hand over her wildly beating heart, then reached out to Ben. “I’ll get rid of it. You tell Mr. Zepf that the spider wasn’t real.”

  Ben had grown serious. “Some prank. It could have given old Bruno a heart attack.”

  Judith stuffed the rubber spider in the pocket of her bathrobe and went back into the hall. No one except Dirk seemed to notice her passage as she headed for the back stairs. Five minutes later she returned to the second floor, where Ben and Chips were helping a rubber-legged Bruno back into his room. Winifred had already disappeared and Dirk had closed his door. Judith continued up to the family quarters. She didn’t get back to sleep for almost an hour.

  Meanwhile, Joe continued to snore softly.

  As usual, Judith had breakfast ready to go by eight o’clock. Since it was a Saturday, and Joe had the day off, he didn’t come downstairs until eight-fifteen.

  “No-shows, huh?” he inquired, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

  “So far,” Judith replied. “I think they were out very late.” She then recounted the incidents with both the real and the fake spiders. “Bruno certainly is superstitious.”

  “Typical,” Joe remarked. “Bill once said that Hollywood types were like gamblers. It makes sense. People who make movies are gamblers.”

  An hour passed before Judith heard anyone stirring upstairs. Finally, Winifred Best appeared, her thin face drawn.

  “Very black coffee, please. With heated rusk.”

  Judith didn’t recall that rusk had been on the list of required grocery items. Still, Winifred wasn’t the first guest to ask for rusk instead of toast. With considerable effort, she got down on her knees and foraged in the cupboard next to the sink.

  “Ah!” she exclaimed. “Here it is.” She got up slowly, which was fortunate because the temperamental cupboard door had swung out on its own. Judith hit her head, but not very hard. Muffling a curse, she looked around for Joe, then remembered that he’d gone to the garage to tinker with his beloved MG.

  “This coffee isn’t strong enough,” Winifred announced from the dining-room table. “Please make another pot, and double the amount.”

  Winifred Best wasn’t the first demanding guest that Hillside Manor had ever hosted, so Judith calmly put a percolator on the stove. She kept reminding herself that the current visitors were no worse than many she’d had stay at the B&B. It just seemed that this bunch was a wide-screen version in Dolby sound.

  Moments later the rusk had been warmed in the oven. Judith brought it out to the dining-room table.

  “Has Mr. Zepf recovered from his latest fright?” she inquired.

  “Yes,” Winifred responded, giving the rusk a suspicious look, “though the rubber spider was a bit much.”

  “Do you know who put it in Mr. Zepf’s bed?”

  Winifred shot Judith a withering glance. “I do not. Was it you?”

  Judith recoiled. “Of course not! Why would I do such a thing?”

  “Because,” Winifred said with ice in her voice, “no one else would dare.”

  “Well, I certainly didn’t do it,” Judith huffed. “Nor would anyone else around here. In fact, my husband and I are the only residents in the house.”

  “As you say.” Winifred took a small bite of rusk.

  “The coffee will be ready shortly,” Judith said in stilted tones.

  “I should hope so,” Winifred said. “Rusk is hard to wash down with weak coffee. By the way,” she added as Judith started back to the kitchen, “we’ll bring the costumes down later so that you can press them.”

  Judith turned on her heel. “I don’t do ironing. I have a cleaning woman who takes care of the laundry.”

  “Where is she?” Winifred asked with a lift of her sharp chin.

  “She doesn’t work weekends,” Judith replied, fighting down her annoyance. “If you want something pressed, you’ll have to take it up to the cleaners at the top of the hill.”

  Winifred’s dark eyes snapped. “We’re not running errands. Since you don’t have a laundry service today and it seems you’re the innkeeper and concierge, taking care of the costumes falls on you. The costumes must be back by four. Don’t worry, you can send the bill to Bruno.”

  For a long moment Judith stared at Winifred, who was again attired in Armani. Her only accessory was a slim gold bracelet on her left wrist. If she wore makeup, it was too discreet to be noticeable. Late thirties or maybe forty, Judith guessed, and a life that may have been difficult. The Hollywood part, anyway. Judith wondered what it was like for a woman—a black woman especially—to wield such power as assistant to the biggest producer in filmdom.

  Nor were Winifred’s demands entirely outrageous. If it hadn’t been for Bruno’s superstition about staying in a B&B before a premiere, Winifred and the others would be ensconced in luxury at the Cascadia Hotel with every convenience at their fingertips.

  “Okay,” Judith said. “I’ll take the stuff up to Arlecchino’s. It’s a costume shop, so they’ll know exactly how to handle the garments and whatever other items need to be fluffed up.”

  The faintest look of relief passed over Winifred’s face. “Thank you,” she said.

  Judith thought the woman sounded almost sincere, though that was a word she knew she probably shouldn’t apply to anyone from Hollywood. The coffee, which looked strong enough to melt tires, was ready just as Chips Madigan loped into the dining room.

  “Hey, Win, hey, Mrs. Flynn,” he said with a cheerful expression. “Hey—that rhymes! I should have been a writer, not a director.” Abruptly, the grin he’d been wearing turned down. “I guess,” he muttered, pulling out one of the chairs from Grandpa and Grandma Grover’s oak set, “I shouldn’t say stuff like that.”

  “No, you shouldn’t,” Winifred said with a warning glance.

  The guests trickled down for the next hour and a half, creating a frustrating breakfast service for Judith. Normally, she prepared three basic items and offered appropriate side dishes. But the menu requirements for the Hollywood people were vast and varied. Angela La Belle desired coconut milk, kiwi fruit, and yogurt. Dirk Farrar requested a sirloin steak, very rare, with raw eggplant and tomato slices. Ellie Linn ordered kippers on toast and Crenshaw melon. Ben Carmody preferred an omelette with red, green, and yellow peppers topped with Muenster cheese. An apparently restored Bruno Zepf downed a great many pills, which may or may not have been vitamins, shared the strong coffee with Winifred, and ate half a grapefruit and a slice of dry whole-wheat toast. Chips Madigan asked for cornflakes.

  Dade Costello never showed. The moody screen-writer had gone for a walk, said Ellie Linn. He wasn’t hungry. Nobody seemed curious about his defection.

  The omnipresent cell phones were in use again, especially by Bruno, Winifred, and Ben. Somehow they all seemed capable of talking to whoever was on the other end of the line and to members of the party at the table. Between rustling up the various breakfast items and making what seemed like a hundred trips in and out of the dining room, Judith caught snatches of conversation. Most of it dealt with the logistics of the premiere and how to deal with the media. It struck Judith that the only topic of conversation the group shared was the movie business. Maybe it was the only thing that really mattered to them. She tuned her guests out and got on with the task of running Hillside Manor.

  As soon as she finished clearing up the kitchen, Judith called Renie. “Give me the details,” she requested. “Who’s marrying whom?”

  An elaborate sigh went out over the phone line. “I’m not sure I’ve got all this straight myself. Tom’s fiancée is the daughter of a local Native American tribal chief. Her name’s Heather Twobucks, which is symbolic, since that’s about all the money Tom has managed to save over the years. But at least she’s got a job—she’s the attorney for the tribe.”

  “That sounds very good,” Judith put in.

  “She’s also one of seven kids and does most of her work pro bono,” Renie said. “As for Anne, the man of her dreams is in medical school. You know what that means. Anne will have to get a real job instead of making jewelry out of volcanic lava and selling it at street fairs.”

  “Mmm—yes, she probably will,” Judith agreed. “What’s the future doctor’s name?”

  “Odo Mann,” Renie replied. “She’ll become Anne Mann. Personally, I wouldn’t like that.”

  “Mmm,” Judith repeated. “And Tony?”

  Renie let out another big sigh. “Tony’s beloved just returned from Tangiers, where she was Doing Good. She works for a Catholic charity and makes just about enough to pay Tony’s monthly milk bill. She—her name is Cathleen Forte—wants Tony to join her in the leper colony over there.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “That’s what I said,” Renie responded. “Except not quite those words and much louder. Bill’s in a daze.”

  “Yes, I can see that he might be,” Judith allowed. “Have any of them set the date?”

  “Not yet,” Renie said, “though Anne and Odo are talking about next spring.”

  “That gives you some time,” Judith remarked.

  “Time for what?” Renie demanded. “Time to kidnap our own children and seal them in the basement?”

  “I mean,” Judith said, “to…um…get used to the idea.”

  “You’re no help,” Renie snapped. “I’m hanging up now. Then maybe I’ll hang myself.” The phone went dead in Judith’s ear.

  It was noon before Winifred began bringing the costumes downstairs. Judith was astonished by the detail. They had come, Winifred informed her, from one of the big L.A. rental warehouses that stocked thousands of garments, many of them worn in movies from fifty and sixty years ago and lovingly restored.

  “Bruno and I considered using the costumes from The Gasman,” she explained, “but only Angela, Ben, Dirk, and Ellie appear in the film. We could have drawn from Wardrobe’s collection for bit players and extras, but we decided it would make a statement if we used older costumes. More in keeping with the picture’s theme, you see.”

  Judith thought she recognized Ellie’s outfit. It looked very much like one of Elizabeth Taylor’s gorgeous gowns in Cleopatra. Angela’s was familiar, too, though seen only briefly on the screen—Scarlett O’Hara’s honeymoon ensemble from Gone With the Wind.

  Pointing to the flowing robes and burnoose for Bruno, Judith made a guess: “Lawrence of Arabia?”

  “Khartoum,” Winifred replied.

  “Is this yours?” Judith gestured at a nun’s white habit.

  “Yes.” Winifred’s expression was rueful. “It’s a generic nun’s costume, depicting the growth of the monastic movement. We’re representing the eras the movie focuses on. I preferred wearing something closer to my own heritage, maybe Muslim dress, from the period of Muhammad. But Bruno insisted that he be Muhammad.” She waved a slim hand at the Khartoum robes. “So I end up being a nun, and I’m not even Catholic.”

  “I am,” Judith said, “and I think it’s a lovely habit. Very graceful. You’ll look terrific.”

  Winifred gave an indifferent shrug. “Whatever. Dirk Farrar symbolizes the early Renaissance while showing off his manly physique in that silver-and-gold-slashed doublet and tights. Tyrone Power wore it, I think. The less lavish doublet and the fur-trimmed sur-coat came from an MGM historical epic. Or maybe it was Fox. Dade Costello’s wearing that for the era of the printing press. The nineteenth-century frock coat and top hat belong to Ben Carmody. The industrial revolution, of course. And Chips Madigan gets to dress as the computer whiz kid.”

  Judith smiled at the suntan pants, the flannel shirt, the horn-rimmed spectacles, and the box of Twinkies. Living in the land of Microsweet, she was familiar with the outfit.

  “What about the rest of the movie company? What will they wear?” she asked.

  “Whatever suits The Gasman,” Winifred replied. “We left everybody else pretty much on their own. They’ll conform, of course.”

  The statement seemed to reflect the general attitude of Bruno Zepf’s circle. Winifred had no need to add, “Or else.”

  Pointing at a stack of garment bags that lay on the living-room floor, Winifred commented, “We’ll put them in those. Remember, they have to be back by four o’clock. The premiere is at six.”

  Carefully, Judith picked up the Scarlett O’Hara costume. “I understand that the ball is at ten. What time do you think you’ll be back here for the midnight supper?” She dreaded the idea of putting on such a late event, but Bruno had consented to pay an extra two grand, and Judith couldn’t refuse the money.

  “A midnight supper is just that,” Winifred replied, tucking her nun’s habit into one of the garment bags. “We should return shortly before twelve.”

  Judith gave an absent nod as she fumbled with the silks and taffeta that made up Angela’s post–Civil War era gown.

  “Careful!” Winifred cried. “Watch out for the decorative trim!”

  “Right, okay,” Judith agreed. “Maybe I should turn it over to protect the front of the outfit.”

  Since Winifred didn’t argue, Judith did just that. And stared.

  The long black-and-white silk skirt and taffeta petticoat had been slashed in a half-dozen places from the waist to the hem.

  Winifred screamed.

  Judith couldn’t stop staring, but a cold shiver crawling up her spine set off a familiar, terrifying alarm.

  FIVE

  “WIN?”

  Ellie Linn was standing at the bottom of the stairs, gazing into the living room. She saw Judith and Winifred’s horror-stricken faces, and moved quickly, if softly, to join them.

  “What’s wrong?” Ellie glanced down at the torn costume. “Oh, wow, that looks bad! What happened?”

  Winifred was kneeling on the floor, pounding her fists on the carpet. “Sabotage, that’s what happened! Angela’s gown is ruined! Who would do such a thing?”

  Ellie rocked back and forth in her expensive cross-trainers. She was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved tee that didn’t quite cover her midriff. Judith figured her for a size three at most.

  “Golly, I don’t know,” Ellie said, gazing at the ceiling. “Couldn’t Angela wear a bedsheet, cut two eyeholes in it, and go as a ghost?”

  “Ellie!” Winifred’s voice was sharp, then she turned to Judith. “Do you think your local costume shop could fix this?”

  Judith studied the garment. “They’d have to replace the overskirt. I’ll ask them.”

  “The skirt—or what’s left of it—will have to be saved,” Winifred declared, finally regaining control of her emotions. “It’s the original.” She paused, tapping a finger against her smooth cheek. “Yes, maybe an over-skirt will do. But make sure it matches.”

  Judith promised that she would. “By the way,” she asked, “were these costumes still in Bruno’s room where I had the UPS man deliver them?”

  “Yes,” Winifred replied. “He was the only one who had enough space.”

  Ellie was kneeling down to study her Cleopatra outfit. “You know, this really looks okay,” she observed. “Don’t you love the gilded headdress? It’ll look way cool with my long black hair.” For emphasis, she ran a hand through her raven tresses. “Hey, Win, where are the masks?”