“It’ll be a mob scene,” Renie remarked, cutting up scallions. Her gaze traveled to the American artists’ calendar she’d given Judith for Christmas. “Say, how much have you learned about twentieth-century painters from that? I hoped it would be a teaching tool.”

  “I’ve learned there are a lot of them I don’t like,” Judith replied. “I must admit, though, September taught me something. I didn’t realize that John Singer Sargent painted anything but portraits.”

  Renie went over to the wall and flipped back a page. “Ah—Spain. Sunlight and tiled roofs and fat green plants in terra-cotta pots. Done with daubs and blobs. Very different from Madame X.” She returned to dicing vegetables. “How many are coming for the midnight supper?”

  “The current guest list,” Judith said, “plus a few others connected with the film.”

  “Not the entire Hollywood crew?”

  Judith shook her head as she went to the pantry to get a jar of mayonnaise. “This bunch will mingle with the others at the costume ball in the hotel.”

  “I hope they don’t stay late,” Renie called after her cousin. “You know how Bill likes to make an early evening of it.”

  “He’ll have to tough it out tonight,” Judith said, holding the jar of mayo and glancing out the back-door window. “I really appreciate—” She stopped. “There’s Dade Costello. He just came out of the toolshed.”

  The screenwriter shambled along the walk, indifferent to the rain that had begun to fall again. Judith opened the door for him.

  “Hi,” she said. “Were you visiting my mother?”

  “Mrs. Grover?” Dade nodded. “Interesting woman.”

  “She is?” Judith bit her tongue. “I mean, you found her interesting.”

  “Yes.” Dade proceeded down the hall, through the kitchen, the dining room, and disappeared.

  “Good grief,” Judith muttered. “I hope Mother wasn’t telling Dade a bunch of tales like she did with Bruno.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past her,” Renie said.

  Half an hour later the limo drivers arrived, along with a small van in which the other costumes were loaded. The guests straggled downstairs, Bruno and Winifred first, then Dirk Farrar, Chips Madigan, and Angela La Belle. Ben Carmody came next, apparently none the worse for his three shots of vodka. Ellie Linn descended the stairs backward, humming to herself. Finally, Dade Costello appeared. As usual, he seemed to detach himself from the others as the limos filled up.

  Judith and Renie watched from the entry hall. At precisely five o’clock, the trio of sleek white cars pulled out of the cul-de-sac like so many ghosts floating just above the ground. Blurred by the rain, even the headlights seemed ethereal in the gathering darkness.

  “To work!” Renie exclaimed, holding up a finger and marching into the kitchen.

  But Judith paused at the foot of the stairs. “Now that they’re gone, I’ll straighten their rooms. Arlene should be here to help in about twenty minutes.”

  The state of the guest rooms was no better and no worse than when they were used by more ordinary mortals. Indeed, Dade Costello’s small quarters looked as if it had never been occupied. The bed was made, the bureau was bare, and no clothes had been hung in the closet. Everything that Dade had brought with him appeared to be contained in a suitcase and a briefcase. Both were locked.

  Though it showed signs of human habitation, Winifred’s room was also orderly; so was that of Chips Madigan. The bathroom that Chips shared with Ellie and Angela was another matter. Hairdryers, curling irons, magnifying mirrors, and at least two dozen beauty products were strewn everywhere. Judith looked around the sink for any signs of what Joe had deemed to be cocaine. There were none.

  Room Six, where the two actresses were bunking together, was as untidy as the bathroom. Clothes were everywhere, all casual, all bearing designer labels. At least ten pairs of shoes littered the floor. Upon closer scrutiny, Judith saw that except for some size-four cross-trainers and strappy sandals, the rest belonged to Angela’s size-seven feet.

  In Room Four, Dirk and Ben’s movie stardom was made known by a pile of scripts and a file folder marked projects. Judith glanced at the script on top of the stack. All the Way to Utah, by Amy Lee Wong. Flipping through the script, she saw severe editing marks on almost every page as well as derogatory comments, some of them obscene. She replaced the script, then dared to look inside the project file, which contained loose newspaper and magazine clippings.

  Judith extracted one of the clippings, which was printed on slick paper. The headline read, MUCHO MACHO COSTS FARRAR A GAUCHO.

  Hunkster Dirk Farrar’s two-fisted attack on Mighty Mogul Bruno Zepf has cost the actor the lead role in Zepf’s Argentine epic, El Gaucho Loco O No. The brouhaha occurred outside a restaurant last week in Marina Del Rey when producer and actor got into an argument over who would star in All the Way to Utah, a project Zepf has temporarily put on the back burner.

  Judith slipped the clipping back into the file. She shouldn’t be wasting her time snooping. There was work to be done. Briskly, she went into Bruno Zepf’s room. On the nightstand were at least ten pill bottles along with a couple of tubes of ointment, an inhaler, and two small brown-paper packets that felt as if they held some kind of tablets. A tiny scrap of paper that looked like part of a prescription lay on the floor. Judith picked it up, but could only make out the words pharmacy and thalidomide. She looked at the medications on the nightstand, but their labels were intact. With a shrug, she put the little scrap in the wastebasket, then returned to her tasks.

  Straightening the bed, Judith noticed a thick book with a tattered cover and frayed pages slipped under one of the shammed pillows. She picked it up, barely making out the sunken lettering on the cover.

  The Gasman.

  Opening the book, she noted the author’s name—C. Douglas Carp. The copyright was 1929. The publisher, Conkling & Stern of St. Louis, was unfamiliar to her. What struck Judith was not the density of the prose but the well-fingered pages. It reminded her of an aged, much-loved, well-thumbed family Bible. Fragile pieces of leaves and flowers, brittle with age, had been placed between some of the pages. There was a small lock of hair so fine it could have belonged to a baby.

  Then, as she riffled through the last chapters of the nine-hundred-page novel, a photograph fell out onto the bedspread. It was a wallet-size picture of a young woman, perhaps still in her teens. Like the book, the photo was well-worn, but the girl’s face was fresh, innocent, pretty. Judith thought it might be a high-school yearbook picture. She flipped it over, but nothing was written on the back. The blond bouffant hairstyle indicated the sixties. Judith stared at the photo in fascination. She’d seen that face somewhere else, not so young and definitely not so innocent.

  But she couldn’t remember where. Or who.

  SIX

  WHEN JUDITH GOT back downstairs, five early young trick-or-treaters came to the front door. While Renie doled out candy to the zebra, the gorilla, the fairy princess, and two wizards, Judith welcomed Arlene, who had just reported for duty.

  “I watched everyone leave for the premiere,” Arlene said, rolling up her sleeves to pitch in with the cooking. “I hope Ben Carmody will like Cathy. I’ve asked her to stop by for the midnight supper.”

  Judith’s mouth fell open. “You have? But it’s supposed to be strictly for the movie people.”

  “That’s all right,” Arlene replied. “Cathy’s going to tend bar. She’s dressing as a panda.”

  “Surely,” Renie remarked, “that costume will conceal her charms.”

  “And hide her flaws,” Arlene replied. “Mystery, that’s what intrigues men. Ben will be able to see her very attractive hands. She can’t wear paws if she’s going to mix drinks.”

  Judith didn’t contest Arlene’s decision. If Cathy Rankers played bartender, Judith and Joe would not have to share her duties. For the next few hours the women worked side by side until eleven o’clock when all was in virtual readiness.

  “I’m already exhausted,” Renie announced, leaning against the sink. “Is Bill still napping on the sofa?”

  “Yes,” Judith replied. “So’s Carl. On the other sofa. Joe’s watching TV upstairs. He should be down in a few minutes. Unless he’s napping, too.”

  “Hey,” Renie said, suddenly rejuvenated and jumping away from the sink. “Let’s turn the TV on to see—”

  The cupboard door behind her sprang open, narrowly missing her head.

  “Oops!” Renie exclaimed, then firmly closed the door. “I wish you’d fix that thing.”

  “Me too,” Judith agreed. “If Joe doesn’t give it a go, I’ll have to call Mr. Tolvang next week. Say, do you think the premiere is on the news?”

  “Probably,” Renie replied, testing the cupboard door to make sure it was shut.

  Judith clicked on the small color set she kept on the counter near her computer. Mavis Lean-Brodie, a familiar face from murders past, was making dire predictions about a storm blowing down from the north.

  “…with winds gusting up to forty-five miles an hour and heavy rains. Small-craft warnings are out on the…”

  “She changed her hair again,” Renie remarked. “Now it’s pink.”

  “I hope the rain lets up,” Arlene said in a doleful voice. “It always seems to be nasty when the trick-ortreaters are making their rounds.”

  “That’s because it’s late October,” Renie replied. “We get some of our worst wind storms about now.”

  “…For more on the weather,” Mavis was saying, “our own Duff Stevens will be along later in the broadcast. But,” she added, now all smiles, “despite the rain, the stars were out tonight downtown. Here’s KINETV’s entertainment editor, Byron Myron, with more on that big event.”

  Byron Myron was a jolly-looking black man whose appearance belied a rapierlike tongue. He was shown outside the movie theater holding an umbrella.

  “The Gasman arrived here this evening,” Byron said, “and blew out the main line.” The camera traveled to the glittering marquee, followed by clips of the celebrity arrivals. “Bruno Zepf’s four-hour, hundred-million-dollar extravaganza proved that money can’t buy you love—or a good movie.”

  “There’s Angela in her Gone With the Wind costume,” Renie whispered as the female lead was shown entering the theater.

  “How can you tell?” Arlene whispered back. “She’s wearing a mask.”

  “I saw the costume here,” Renie said. “In fact, somebody ripped—”

  Judith waved a hand to shush the other women.

  “…story which was based on an obscure novel of the same name,” Byron Myron was saying, “doesn’t merit four minutes, let alone four hours. As for the acting, the performers are in the unenviable position of creating several different characters during the various historical periods Zepf has chosen to make his statement about humanity’s progress over four millennia. Or was it five? I’m not sure. The movie seemed to take almost that long. This is Byron Myron, reporting from—”

  Judith switched off the set. “Goodness. That doesn’t sound so good for Bruno.”

  “Maybe,” Renie suggested, “Byron Myron feels he ought to trash the movie because it was filmed on location around here and the city hosted the premiere. He may feel that if he praised it, he’d sound like a homer.”

  “Maybe,” Judith allowed, then started turning on ovens and putting dishes on to heat. “The Zepf gang will be back here in a little over half an hour. We should get into our costumes. So should the husbands.”

  As the three women changed in the third-floor bedroom, they could hear the wind begin to pick up in the trees outside. The rain was coming down harder, too, spattering the windows and running out of the down-spouts.

  Judith stared at herself in the mirror. She looked more like a noble Roman lady than a humble slave. The off-white gown was held on one shoulder by a brooch that had belonged to Grandma Grover. An old drapery cord served for the belt, and the scarf that hung from her head was anchored by an ivory comb that was a castoff from Auntie Vance.

  “Gee, coz,” Renie said, “you look pretty hot.”

  Judith had to admit that the long, graceful gown suited her statuesque figure. “Thanks,” she said. “I wish I could say the same for you.”

  Renie tucked the head of her Daisy Duck costume under her arm. “I thought my tail feathers were kind of sexy.”

  “Not as sexy as your big webbed feet,” Judith said, then turned to Arlene, who looked somewhat more enchanting as Gretel, complete with long golden braids and a gingerbread cookie embroidered on her apron. “How does Carl feel about wearing Hansel’s lederhosen?”

  “He loves it,” Arlene declared as a knock could be heard on the door.

  “We’re decent,” Judith called out.

  Carl stuck his head in. “I hate lederhosen. Why couldn’t I wear pants?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with your legs, Carl,” Arlene retorted. “Just don’t walk like you’re knock-kneed. And don’t forget your hat with the feather.”

  The women joined the men, who had been changing in Joe’s den. Judith thought Carl looked cute in his Hansel outfit. With his round face and ruddy cheeks, Joe made a presentable, if aging, choirboy. And Bill certainly looked like Donald Duck. He couldn’t appear otherwise, since he had his head in place along with the rest of his costume.

  “Quack, quack,” said Bill.

  “Yes, you look terrific,” Renie replied, giving Bill’s bill a tweak.

  “You understood that?” Judith asked in surprise.

  “Of course,” Renie answered. “Bill and I have been married so long we can communicate in any language.”

  Downstairs, Cathy was pounding at the back door. Arlene let her daughter in. It was a tight squeeze, the panda suit being very round and very wide.

  “The head ruined my hair,” Cathy complained, batting at her blond locks with the hand that didn’t hold the head itself. “This thing is hot. And now it’s wet from the rain. I smell like a sheep, not a panda.”

  “What does a panda smell like?” Renie inquired in a musing tone.

  “Not as bad as I do,” Cathy complained.

  “Now, dear,” Arlene soothed, “we all have to suffer for love.” She gave Carl a sharp glance. “Think of what I’ve had to put up with over the years.”

  “Stick it in the oven, Gretel,” Carl shot back.

  Bill waddled over to the cupboards by the work area. “Quack, quacky, quack?” He addressed Renie.

  “In here,” Renie replied, opening a cupboard underneath the counter. “Judith has four kinds of cocoa. You choose.”

  “Quack,” Bill said, pointing to the German chocolate brand, then to a row of cereal boxes on the bottom shelf. “Quack,” he said, indicating the Cheerios. “Quack,” he continued, tapping the Grape-Nuts. “Quack,” he concluded, nudging a box of bran.

  Renie placed her Daisy Duck head on the counter. “You should have had your evening snack at home,” she said in mild reproach. “I’ll have to heat the cocoa in the microwave. All the burners are in use.”

  “Quack,” said Bill.

  Judith shook her head. She’d never understood how her cousin, who was usually so fractious, could wait on Bill hand and foot. At least some of the time. But Renie was equally willing to spoil their children. It seemed out of character, and therefore illogical. And logic was the cornerstone of Judith’s thought processes.

  Bill had finished his snack and the final preparations were being made when the first of the limos arrived back at Hillside Manor. Judith went to the door.

  The wind and rain seemed to blow the trio inside. As Cleopatra, Ellie Linn was shivering with the cold, despite the black cloak that hung from her shoulders.

  “T-t-this awful weather!” she cried. “I’m g-g-going t-t-to catch pneumonia!” She burst into hysterical laughter and fled into the downstairs bathroom.

  “That’s how she handles adversity.” Winifred sneered. “The silly twit.” In her nun’s habit, Winifred moved closer to Bruno. She seemed to be holding him up as he stumbled through the entry hall. “Scotch, quickly!” she cried. “Mr. Zepf isn’t feeling well.”

  The liquor bottles that the guests had brought with them were on the makeshift bar in the front parlor, but Bruno’s favorite Scotch remained on the old-fashioned washstand that served as a smaller bar in the dining room. Judith grabbed the bottle and a glass, rushed to the kitchen to get ice, and hurried back to the living room, where Bruno was now slumped on one of the sofas. His flowing robes and burnoose from Khartoum sagged along with the rest of him.

  “My God,” he whispered as Winifred took the drink from Judith and raised it to his lips. “I’m ruined.” He took a deep sip from the proffered glass, then raised his white-robed arms as if invoking the gods of filmdom. “The Gasman had everything to please audiences—sex, violence, art—even a small cuddly dog.”

  Chips Madigan paused in his path across the room. “I told you to leave the chimpanzee in. Chimps are always good.”

  “Chimps are a desperation measure,” Bruno muttered as Chips moved on. “He’s a director, he knows that. My God, think of the money we wasted on the TV advertising budget alone!”

  The cell phone in Winifred’s lap rang. She picked it up, but had difficulty getting the earpiece under her wimple. “Best here,” she finally said. Then she lowered her eyes and her voice. “Yes…yes…we know…morons…imbeciles…philistines…yes…I’ll contact them first thing tomorrow, before we leave for the airport…yes, have an ambulance waiting…good.” She clicked off and suddenly looked up at Judith. “What are you waiting for? Mr. Zepf has his drink.”

  “I wondered if there was anything else I could get for him,” Judith said as a small man in a matador’s suit of lights and a large woman dressed like Carmen in Act IV of the opera entered the living room. “Is he ill?”

  “Yes,” Winifred replied tersely, then caught sight of the new arrivals. “Oh, damn! I must speak to Morris and Eugenia.” Her gaze softened. “Mrs. Flynn, would you sit with Mr. Zepf for just a moment?”