Joe may have been three inches shorter and twentyfive years older, but he stepped smoothly between the
actor and Judith. “That could come sooner if you don’t
stop yelling at my wife. Back off, big fella, or I’ll have
to do a little cosmetic surgery on that famous face of
yours.”
“Why, you—” Dirk began, but suddenly stopped and
threw up his hands. “Screw it. I don’t need to make the
papers for mixing it up with some old fart. That’s why
I usually have a couple of bodyguards around.” He
stepped back, then started to stomp off—but not before
he scooped three sugar doughnuts from the buffet.
“ ‘Some old fart?’ ” Joe echoed. “I don’t like that
part much.”
“You’re not old,” Judith insisted, patting her husband’s cheek. “You’re middle-aged. When Dirk Farrar
hits sixty, all that cragginess will turn into bagginess.
You have such a wonderful round face, you hardly
have any wrinkles at—”
The phone rang. Judith let Joe pick up the receiver
on the cherrywood table by the bookcases. When he
turned his back on her, she was certain that he was
speaking with Stone Cold Sam Cairo.
“Right . . . Yes . . . No . . . So be it.” Joe hung up.
“Well?” Judith asked anxiously. “Is it . . . ?” She
couldn’t say the word
Joe looked rueful. “A blow to the head apparently
knocked him unconscious and he fell in the sink and
drowned.”
Judith was mystified. “You mean someone hit him?”
“Not necessarily,” Joe replied. “It could have been
that cupboard door swinging out. He may have bent
over for some reason, reared up, and conked himself.”
Judith remembered the aspirin she’d picked up from
the floor. Perhaps Bruno had dropped it, ducked down
to retrieve it, and then—unaware that the door had
swung open—hit his head with such force that he
blacked out.
“It’s possible,” she allowed, though with reluctance.
“You don’t hear it coming,” Joe said ruefully, then
walked over to Judith and lowered his head. “Feel the
bump about two inches above my hairline.”
Judith touched the spot. There was a slight swelling.
“The door? When did that happen? You never mentioned it.”
“Friday,” Joe said, avoiding her gaze. “You were
gone. I didn’t want to admit that I’d banged my head
on the door, because I was supposed to fix it. I actually
