T. S. McSnort’s.”
“That’s very likely,” Renie said. “Since Ellie looked
as if she had the upper hand, I wonder if she was talking Ben into it. Therefore, I wonder if Dirk Farrar
wasn’t her first choice.”
“So where does Ellie get so much clout?” Judith remarked, sitting down again. “She hasn’t made very
many movies.”
“Ah!” Renie grinned at her cousin. “Don’t you remember who bankrolled Bruno for
“Mr. MacDermott, the Wienie Wizard,” Judith responded.
“Right,” said Renie. “So naturally he would put
money into the Utah film. If he has any left after the
debacle with
“Hmm.” Judith drummed her nails on the table and
grimaced. “If Bruno was murdered, then we can eliminate Ellie and probably Ben Carmody as suspects.”
Renie shook her head. “Not necessarily. The fact
that the movie flopped at the premiere might make
Bruno dispensable.”
“What do you mean?” Judith queried.
“I can’t explain it,” Renie said. “Ask Bill. It may
have something to do with the studio’s insurance. Or
Bruno having a flop, which would have made raising
money for his next picture much harder. It was complicated. I got sort of mixed up.”
Judith was about to speculate further when the
phone rang. She picked it up from the counter behind
her and heard a vaguely familiar female voice.
“We’re sure glad we didn’t stay at your place,” the
woman declared. “And don’t think we ever will!”
“Mrs. Izard?” Judith ventured.
“You’re darned tootin’ it’s Mrs. Izard. And I’m
speaking for Mr. Izard, too. Walt here says you must
run a pretty half-baked bed-and-breakfast to let your
guests get murdered in their beds.”
“No one,” Judith said firmly as she cursed Ingrid for
breaking her word, “got murdered in their beds. In fact,
no one got murdered that we know of, period.”
Meg Izard chortled gleefully. “Whatever happened
wasn’t good. And doesn’t that just go to show you? No
matter how big a wheel, the Grim Reaper can still bust
up your spokes when you least expect it.”
The phone slammed down in Judith’s ear. “Damn
that Ingrid—she promised to be discreet about our . . .
misfortune. And she usually is. I’ve always trusted her,
even if we’ve had our differences. And,” Judith went
on, growing more annoyed by the second, “talk about
a poor sport. Since Meg Izard and her husband didn’t
get to stay at Hillside Manor, the old bat wants to lord
it over us because we’re in a pickle.”
Renie was trying not to smile. “Yes, it’s a pickle,
