She tried not to stare at the other woman, who seemed
completely sober. Maybe her size accounted for her
ability to drink like a fish. Bracing herself, Judith
posed a question: “Who was C. Douglas Carp?”
Eugenia didn’t bat an eye. “You mean the man who
wrote
never read novels, unless the book is adapted for a picture, and even then I skim. Books are inevitably dull.”
With surprising agility for her size and the amount of
gin she’d consumed, she slid off the bar stool, planting
her sensible shoes firmly on the floor. “I must go upstairs. I do wish you hadn’t disturbed Morris with that
silly message. He’s very drunk. Tsk, tsk.”
Charles smiled at Judith. “Would you care for another?” he asked, pointing to her empty glass.
Judith shook her head. “I should go, I suppose.”
“But I thought you were with the Joneses.” Charles
looked a trifle tense. “Or am I mistaken? You also seem
to know the people attending the Smith dinner.”
Judith wondered if the maitre d’ suspected she
might be a groupie or a party crasher. “Charles”—she
sighed—“it’s a long story. Some members of the Smith
group are . . . ah . . . staying at my house.” She refrained from mentioning that her house was a B&B.
“Mrs. Jones is my cousin. It’s a coincidence that both
parties are here at once.”
“Ah.” The maitre d’ offered her a conspiratorial
smile and seemed to relax. “Then you know these
Smiths are movie people. I recognized Dirk Farrar
right away. He came late, though.” The last sentence
almost sounded like a question.
“He came from someplace else,” Judith said,
“though he’s staying with us. How did he seem?”
Charles looked around to make sure no one could
overhear. But the lower part of the restaurant was still
vacant. Even the waiters seemed to have gone to
ground.
“I thought he looked kind of grim,” Charles said,
keeping his voice down. “Is that because of the producer who passed away last night?”
“That’s part of it,” Judith said, then curbed her
tongue. She mustn’t gossip about Angela La Belle.
“I’m sure the poor reception
premiere upset Dirk, too.”
“I never read movie reviews,” Charles said, then
turned as the valet with the corn-colored hair came into
the restaurant, looking worried. “What is it, Josh?” the
maitre d’ inquired.
“There’s a couple out in the parking lot who insist
