bed-and-breakfast. The movie had won the top prize,
launching his Hollywood career. Ever since, he had
stayed at B&Bs before premiering a new production.
But other members of his company wanted to stay in
the same B&B, hoping that Bruno’s good luck would
rub off on them. Magnanimously—egotistically—the
Great Man had allowed at least a half-dozen associates
to join him at Hillside Manor.
“Please, Ingrid,” Judith pleaded, moving away from
the cupboard, “I’m stuck with Mr. Zepf, but I’ve had
my fill of so-called beautiful people, from opera
singers to gossip columnists to TV media types. I’ve
had gangsters and psychos and—”
“I know,” Ingrid interrupted, her tone suddenly cold.
“That’s one of the reasons you’re going to accept this
deal. You’ve managed to have some very big problems
at Hillside Manor, and while they don’t seem to have
hurt your business, they give the rest of the B&Bs a
black eye. Look what happened a year or so ago—your
establishment was included in a sightseeing tour of murder sites, and you ended up on TV with a dead body.”
“The body wasn’t at Hillside Manor,” Judith retorted as the cupboard door swung open all by itself.
She took her frustration out on the innocent piece of
wood, slamming it shut. “And it certainly wasn’t my
fault. Besides, I got the tour group to take Hillside
Manor off the sightseeing itinerary, didn’t I?”
“You still looked like an idiot in that television interview about your so-called sleuthing,” Ingrid countered. “It was embarrassing for innkeepers all over the
state. You owe me—and the rest of the good people
who run B&Bs around here.”
“That was the editing,” Judith protested. “I didn’t
ask to be on TV. In fact, I begged them not to do the
piece. I hardly consider myself a sleuth. I run a B&B,
period. I can’t help it if all sorts of weird people come
here. Look, now you’re the one who’s setting me up.
Who will you blame if something happens while these
movie nutcases are staying at Hillside Manor?”
There was no response. The line was dead. Ingrid
had hung up on her.
“Damn,” Judith breathed. “Ingrid’s a mule.”
“She always was,” Gertrude Grover responded.
“Fast, too. She wore her skirts way too short in high
school. No wonder she got into trouble.”
Judith stared at her mother. “This is a different Ingrid. She runs the state B&B association. She’s my
age, not yours.”
Gertrude’s small eyes narrowed. “You just think she
is. Ingrid Sack’s been dyeing her hair for years. Had a
face-lift, too. More than once, I heard.”
