at when I inquired about a will. Since Bruno had no
wife, his entire estate goes to his two children.”
“His children?” Amy Lee and Ellie Linn shrieked in
unison.
“That’s ridiculous,” the mother scoffed.
“That’s stupid,” the daughter declared. “Those kids
aren’t as old as I am!”
“How old?” Amy Lee demanded.
“Greta was twenty in June,” Winifred said quietly.
“Greg just turned eighteen a month ago.”
“The son’s name is Greg?” Ellie’s voice had taken
on a lighter note.
“Yes,” Winifred replied. “After Gregory Peck. Greta
was named for Garbo.”
“Hmm.” There was a faint simper from Ellie.
Judith saw Dirk Farrar’s back at the door. She
tensed, wondering if he might be about to leave the
room.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about that
said. “All I want to know is when the hell we can get
out of this fog bank and go back to L.A.”
“The matter should be resolved by tomorrow,” Vito
responded.
“It better be,” Dirk shot back. “This place sucks
scissors.” His back moved away from the door. Apparently, he’d gotten up only to stretch his legs.
“Mr. Farquhar,” Amy Lee said sternly, “don’t speak
so nastily of my
“you were slated to star in it until you behaved so
badly toward Mr. Zepf.”
“The name’s Farrar,” Dirk shouted, “as you
damned well know! And I’ll tell you something else,”
he continued, not as loud, but just as intense, “I didn’t
really give a damn when Bruno canned me. I’d put up
with enough crap from him with
that lousy script he’d taken from Crappy Pappy
Carp’s book.”
“Don’t be so disrespectful!” Winifred exclaimed in
dismay. “You’re callous, Dirk. Everybody knows how
self-centered you are, even more so than most actors. I
suppose you intend to leave Angela lying in the hospital while you head back to Los Angeles.”
“It’s her own damned fault she’s there in the first
place,” Dirk retorted. “I begged her to go into rehab.
Besides, I’m not a doctor. What good can I do her
hanging around the hospital?”
Judith was so caught up in the heated drama just a
few inches away that she never heard the approaching
