olive-skinned man wearing wraparound sunglasses
and what looked like a very expensive Italian suit was
right behind him.
“This is Vito Patricelli,” Joe announced. “He’s a
lawyer, representing Paradox Studios. He just flew in
from L.A.”
The last person Judith wanted to meet was a lawyer.
She reached out with an unsteady hand and tried to
smile. “Hi, Mr. . . .” The name eluded her anguished
brain.
“Patricelli,” the attorney said smoothly, holding out
a manicured hand. “I believe my clients are staying at
your B&B.”
“Clients?” Judith’s brain was still numb. “Which
ones?”
Vito Patricelli offered her a look that might have
passed for compassion. “
I represent the studio, ergo, I represent Misses Best, La
Belle, and Linn as well as Messieurs Farrar, Carmody,
Madigan, and Costello. And, of course, the late Mr.
Zepf.”
“I see,” said Judith, who almost did. “Excuse me, I
have to sit down.” She flopped onto the sofa and
rubbed at her temples.
Joe took over. “I assume you want to meet with your
clients. That door on the other side of the buffet leads
to the parlor. There’s also a door off the entry hall.
Shall I get them?”
The attorney nodded. “I’d appreciate that. In fact,
may I come with you?”
“Sure.” Joe led the way out of the living room.
Judith put her head back on the sofa’s soft cushions
and closed her eyes. She saw strange visions, of her
mother dressed as Cleopatra playing solitaire with
chocolate cards, of Joe and Woody and Stone Cold
Sam Cairo chasing each other in Keystone Kops costumes, of Skjoval Tolvang fending off Angela La
Belle’s advances with a crowbar.
The gentle squeeze on her shoulders brought her
back to reality. Startled, she looked up at Joe. “I must
have fallen asleep,” she said in a sheepish voice.
“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Joe said, then gestured toward
the parlor. “They’re all in there. Every so often you
hear somebody yell. It’s usually Dirk or Angela.”
“How long have they been meeting with Patricelli?”
Judith inquired, moving around to remove the kinks
she’d acquired in her neck and back.
