wash down with weak coffee. By the way,” she added
as Judith started back to the kitchen, “we’ll bring the
costumes down later so that you can press them.”
Judith turned on her heel. “I don’t do ironing. I have
a cleaning woman who takes care of the laundry.”
“Where is she?” Winifred asked with a lift of her
sharp chin.
“She doesn’t work weekends,” Judith replied, fighting down her annoyance. “If you want something
pressed, you’ll have to take it up to the cleaners at the
top of the hill.”
Winifred’s dark eyes snapped. “We’re not running
errands. Since you don’t have a laundry service today
and it seems you’re the innkeeper and concierge, taking care of the costumes falls on you. The costumes
must be back by four. Don’t worry, you can send the
bill to Bruno.”
For a long moment Judith stared at Winifred, who
was again attired in Armani. Her only accessory was a
slim gold bracelet on her left wrist. If she wore
makeup, it was too discreet to be noticeable. Late thirties or maybe forty, Judith guessed, and a life that may
have been difficult. The Hollywood part, anyway. Judith wondered what it was like for a woman—a black
woman especially—to wield such power as assistant to
the biggest producer in filmdom.
Nor were Winifred’s demands entirely outrageous.
If it hadn’t been for Bruno’s superstition about staying
in a B&B before a premiere, Winifred and the others
would be ensconced in luxury at the Cascadia Hotel
with every convenience at their fingertips.
“Okay,” Judith said. “I’ll take the stuff up to Arlecchino’s. It’s a costume shop, so they’ll know exactly
how to handle the garments and whatever other items
need to be fluffed up.”
The faintest look of relief passed over Winifred’s
face. “Thank you,” she said.
Judith thought the woman sounded almost sincere,
though that was a word she knew she probably
shouldn’t apply to anyone from Hollywood. The coffee, which looked strong enough to melt tires, was
ready just as Chips Madigan loped into the dining
room.
“Hey, Win, hey, Mrs. Flynn,” he said with a cheerful expression. “Hey—that rhymes! I should have been
a writer, not a director.” Abruptly, the grin he’d been
wearing turned down. “I guess,” he muttered, pulling
out one of the chairs from Grandpa and Grandma
Grover’s oak set, “I shouldn’t say stuff like that.”
“No, you shouldn’t,” Winifred said with a warning
glance.
The guests trickled down for the next hour and a half,
