left about six inches?”
“What? Oh, sure.” Judith sidestepped a half foot.
“ ‘Troubled innkeeper,’ ” Chips murmured, framing
yet another shot with his fingers. “Fog in background
symbolizes her ambiguous thoughts, as well as impending danger. I like this very much.”
“About what went wrong,” Judith said as Chips
scooted around in a crouching position, seeking different angles. “Have you any idea what happened?”
“The length, for one thing,” he replied, one eye
closed as he peered through his imaginary lens. “Ah!
That’s perfect!” He stood up. “The ambitiousness of
the project. The concept itself. The original material.
The budget overrun.”
“In other words,” Judith put in, “everything?”
Chips gulped. “Sort of.”
“I see,” she said. “But you couldn’t tell that from the
start?”
“You wouldn’t believe how Bruno could talk up an
idea.” Chips grimaced. “That’s a talent in itself. After
five minutes with him, you’d think he was going to
make the next
head as a door shut somewhere on the second floor.
“Excuse me, I’ve got to take a quick shower before we
go to dinner.”
Dade Costello shambled down the narrow corridor
that separated Room One from Rooms Two and Three.
When he saw Judith, he merely nodded and kept
going. He was halfway down the stairs before she
called to him.
“Mr. Costello,” she said, hurrying down the top
flight and realizing that her hips were aching from all
her recent exertions, “may I ask you a question about
my mother?”
Dade turned to look over his shoulder. “Your
mother? Oh, Mrs. Grover. Sure.” He continued on
down the stairs. “I was just going out for some fresh air
before we took off to dinner.”
“It’s pretty foggy out there,” Judith said when she
reached the main floor. She pointed to Dade’s leather
vest, which he wore over a plaid shirt. “You should
wear a heavier jacket.”
“Think so?” He sounded dubious. “I’m not used to
all this damp. Now what’s this about your mother?”
“Are you really encouraging her to write her life
story?”
“Sure,” Dade replied, leaning one arm on the
balustrade and propping a booted foot up on the umbrella stand. “Why not? She seemed to like the idea.”
“She would,” Judith murmured. “You aren’t seriously thinking of buying it from her, are you?”
“I’m a writer,” Dade said. “I don’t buy scripts, I sell
