of them except one, would react. Or not.”
“I think I understand you,” Joe said, taking the spiders from Judith. “Dilys can handle this. She saw the
spider over the sink.”
Judith went back into the living room. Bill, with the
sound on again, was now watching the Allies get revenge for London by blasting the bejeesus out of
Berlin.
“You two sofa soldiers can graze at the buffet,” she
announced. “I’m not making a formal dinner.”
In the kitchen, Renie was staring at the computer
screen. “Interesting,” she remarked. “Bruno was born
in Iowa of an army mother and a German war groom.
They moved to California when Bruno was very
young. His dad got a job in Hollywood as a translator
for German films. Young Bruno grew up obsessed by
the movies. Hence his destiny, but only after two years
of extensive travels in search of his roots. He was married briefly at the age of twenty, divorced before he
was twenty-one, then took Taryn McGuire as his second wife when he was twenty-seven, divorced six
years later, married a third time to a film cutter for five
years, again divorced. The two children by Taryn are
listed, ages eighteen and twenty.”
“Does it give his mother’s maiden name?” Judith
asked.
“Yes,” Renie replied, scrolling up the screen. “Father, Josef Zepf; mother, Helena Walls. No Carp.
Sorry.”
“What about wives number one and number three?
Any names?”
Renie shook her head. “The first marriage was so
brief they don’t mention her. And the film cutter’s
name isn’t listed, either. Since this is an official site,
they may have been omitted because they weren’t
names in the industry. There are other sites, I’m sure.”
“Check those,” Judith urged. “There’s got to be a
Carp somewhere.”
“I’ll try,” Renie said, “but sometimes it’s tricky to
get into the unofficial sites. At least it is for me. Meanwhile, I’ll print out the stuff we’ve already seen.
There’s quite a bit of information about Bruno’s films,
of course.”
In the living room, World War II had ended in Eu-
rope. The program had moved on to the Pacific, where
General Douglas MacArthur was wearing his game
face. Bill was adding another section to his chart.
“Joe,” Judith said with a sigh, “I thought you were
detecting.”
“I am,” Joe replied. “I’m like Hercule Poirot, letting
my little gray cells cogitate.”
Bill gave Judith an accusing look. “You didn’t let
