SILVER SCREAM A BED-AND-BREAKFAST MYSTERY To Dave— As they say in Hollywood, I couldn’t have done this book without him. Or done much else, either. Contents
ONE
JUDITH MCMONIGLE FLYNN twitched in
the kitchen chair, jumped up…
1
TWO
JUDITH RECOILED FROM the obscenity
screamed into her ear by…
18
THREE
RENIE AND ARLENE seemed to have
everything under control. Arlene already…
34
FOUR
“RENIE!” JUDITH CRIED, pulling on the
handle of the door…
53
FIVE
“WIN?” 71
SIX
WHEN JUDITH GOT back downstairs,
five early young trick-or-treaters came…
89
SEVEN
JUDITH DIDN’T HEAR Joe come
running down the hallway. She…
109
EIGHT
“LET’S GET OUT of here,” Joe whispered
to Judith. “We’ll…
125
NINE
“THAT’S RIDICULOUS,” JUDITH declared.
“How is it our fault that…
142
TEN
RENIE ALL BUT fell into the pew. By now,
several…
153
ELEVEN
HAVING BEEN PRIVY to two, possibly
three, murders at her…
169
TWELVE
JOE HADN’T YET detached the garden
hoses or covered the…
186
THIRTEEN
JUDITH STOOD ROOTED TO the spot,
staring at the tape…
204
FOURTEEN
“GIVE ME A clean piece of freezer wrap,”
Judith said…
225
FIFTEEN
“WHAT IS THIS?” Renie demanded when
the maître d’ had left…
240
SIXTEEN
JUDITH WANTED VERY much to see
Heathcliffe and Amy Lee…
253
SEVENTEEN
SLOWLY, SHE OPENED the door and peered
into the hallway.…
269
EIGHTEEN
“I DON’T GET it,” Judith said, stopping
herself from gnawing…
284
NINETEEN
“THE AIRPORT’S STILL closed,” Joe
announced as he brought in…
303
TWENTY
THERE WAS NO time for Judith to explain.
The
battalion…
322
About the Author
Praise
Other Books by Mary Daheim
Cover
Copyright
About the Publisher
First Floor
Toolshed
Living
Kitchen
Room
Patio
Garage
BathBedroom
room
Walkway
Back Porch
Basement Stairs
Pantry
French Doors
Back
Stairs
Kitchen
Living Room
Bay Window
Fireplace
Window
Seat
Rankers’ Hedge
Dining Room
Driveway
Powder Landing
Entry
Room
Hall
alkway W
Main
Front Parlor
Stairs
Fireplace
Landing
Front Porch
Front
Door
N W E Cul-de-sac
S Second Floor
Back Stairs
Room 6
Bathroom
Storage
Room 5
Stairs to
Bathroom
3rd Floor
Room 4
Bathroom
Room 3
Main
Settee/
Stairs
Phone
Room 2
Room 1
Landing
N W E S Third Floor
Guest
Bedroom
Storage
Master
Bedroom
Joe’s
Bathroom
Den
Storage
N W E S ONE
JUDITH MCMONIGLE FLYNN twitched in the kitchen
chair, jumped up, paced the floor, and leaned her
head against the cupboard by the sink. Desperately,
she tried reason, argument, and, finally, bad grammar in an attempt to fend off Ingrid Heffelman from
the state bed-and-breakfast association.
“I don’t want none of those crazy people at Hillside Manor,” she shouted into the phone. “I mean,
any of them. They’re Hollywood types, and they’re
nuts.”
“Just because they make movies doesn’t mean
they’re crazy.” Ingrid huffed. “Look, I know this is
a big favor. But you had only two other reservations
for the last weekend of October besides the producer, Bruno Zepf. I can put those non–movie people
up somewhere else to make room for the additions
to Mr. Zepf’s original guest list.”
Since Bruno Zepf had made his reservation two
weeks earlier, Judith knew she was on shaky
ground. Like many Hollywood big shots, Zepf was
as superstitious as he was successful. Ten years earlier, his career as an independent producer had been
launched at a film festival in the Midwest. At the
2 Mary Daheim time Zepf couldn’t afford a hotel; he’d had to stay in a
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.”
SILVER SCREAM 3 “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.”
“Mother,” Judith said patiently, “Ingrid Sack—I believe her married name was Grissom—has been dead
for ten years.”
Now it was Gertrude’s turn to stare. “No kidding? I
wonder how she looked in her casket. All tarted up, I
bet. Funny I didn’t hear about it at the time.”
There was no point in telling Gertrude that she’d undoubtedly read Ingrid’s obituary in the newspaper.
Read it with glee, as the old lady always did when she
discovered she’d outlived yet another contemporary.
Judith was used to her mother’s patchy memory.
“I’m stuck,” Judith announced, flipping the pages of
the American art calendar she’d been given by her
cousin Renie. August’s
Black Hollyhock, Blue Lark- 4 Mary Daheim spur by Georgia O’Keeffe was a sumptuous sight compared with the stark, deliberately mundane realism of
Louis Charles Moeller’s
Sculptor’s Studio, which heralded October. Vibrant natural beauty versus taxing,
gritty work. Maybe the painting was an omen. “Come
Halloween, we’re going to be invaded by Hollywood.”
Gertrude pulled a rumpled Kleenex from the pocket
of her baggy orange cardigan. “Hollywood?” she
echoed before gustily blowing her nose. “You mean
like the Gish sisters and Tom Mix and Mary Pickford?”
“Uh . . . like that,” Judith agreed, sitting down at the
kitchen table across from her mother. “A famous producer is premiering his new movie here in town because it was filmed in the area. He’s bringing his
entourage—at least some of it—to Hillside Manor.”
“Entourage?” Gertrude looked puzzled. “I thought
you didn’t allow pets.”
“I don’t,” Judith replied. “I meant his associates.
Speaking of pets,” she said sharply to Sweetums as the
cat leaped onto the kitchen table, “beat it. You don’t
prowl the furniture.”
Sweetums was batting at the lid of the sheep-shaped
cookie jar. The cat didn’t take kindly to Judith’s efforts
to pick him up and set him down.
“Feisty,” Gertrude remarked as Sweetums broke
free and ran off in a blur of orange-and-white fur. “You
got to admit it, Toots, that cat has spunk.”
Judith gave her mother an ironic smile. “So do you.
You’re kindred spirits.”
“He gets around better than I do,” Gertrude said,
turning stiffly to watch Sweetums disappear with a
bang of the screen door. The old lady reached into her
SILVER SCREAM 5 pocket again, rummaged around, and scowled.
“Where’d my candies go?”
“You probably ate them, Mother,” Judith said, getting up from the table. “There are some ginger cookies
in the jar. They may be getting a bit stale. It’s been too
warm to bake the last few days.”
The summer had indeed been warm, though not unbearable. As a native Pacific Northwesterner, Judith’s
tolerance for heat dropped lower every year. Fortunately, there was only a week left of August.
“I should call in person to cancel the displaced
guests’ reservations,” Judith said, scrolling down the
screen on her computer monitor. “Let’s see—the Kidds
from Wisconsin and the Izards from Iowa.”
“Those are guests? They sound like innards to me.”
Gertrude was struggling to get out of her chair. “You
got two lonesome old cookies in that jar,” she declared.
“I suppose that hog of a Serena was here and gobbled
them up.”
Judith reached out to give her mother a hand. “It
wasn’t Serena,” she said, referring to her cousin who
was more familiarly known as Renie. “It was little
Mac. Remember, he was here with Mike and Kristin
and Baby Joe the day before yesterday.”
Gertrude paused in her laborious passage from the
kitchen table to the rear hallway. “Baby Joe!” she exclaimed, waving a hand in derision. “Why did Mike
and his wife have to name the new kid after
Lunkhead?”
“Lunkhead” was what Gertrude called Judith’s second husband, Joe Flynn. “Lunkhead” was also what
she called her daughter’s first husband, Dan McMonigle.
Mac was the nickname of the older grandson, whose
6 Mary Daheim given name was Dan, after the man who had actually
raised Mike. Though Judith had first been engaged to
Joe, she had married Dan. It was only in the last year
that her son had come to realize that Joe, not Dan, was
his biological father. Thus, Mike had honored both
men by giving their names to his own sons.
“Mike thinks the world of Joe,” Judith replied, escorting her mother to the back door. She didn’t elaborate. Gertrude had never admitted that her daughter
had gotten pregnant out of wedlock. To Judith’s
mother, sex before marriage was as unthinkable as
chocolate without sugar.
They had reached the porch steps when Joe Flynn
pulled into the driveway in his cherished antique MG,
top down, red paint gleaming in the late afternoon sun.
“Ladies,” he called, getting out of the car with his cotton jacket slung over one shoulder. “You’re a vision.”
“You mean a sight for sore eyes,” Gertrude shot
back.
“Do I?” Gold flecks danced in Joe’s green eyes as
he kissed his wife’s cheek, then attempted to brush his
mother-in-law’s forehead with his lips.
Gertrude jerked away, almost throwing Judith off
balance. “Baloney!” the old girl cried. “You just want
to get my goat. As usual.” She plunked her walker on
the ground and shook off Judith’s hand. “I’m heading
for my earthly coffin. Send my supper on time, which
is five, not six or six-thirty.” Gertrude clumped off
toward the converted toolshed, her place of selfimposed exile since she had long ago declared she
wouldn’t live under the same roof as Joe Flynn.
“Ah,” Joe said, a hand under Judith’s elbow, “your
mother seems in fine spirits today.”
SILVER SCREAM 7 “I can’t tell the difference,” Judith muttered. “She’s
always mean to you.”
“It keeps her going,” Joe said, hanging his jacket on
a peg in the hall. “Beer would do the same for me.
Have we got any of that Harp left or did Mike drink it
all?”
“He didn’t drink as much as Kristin did,” Judith
replied, going to the fridge. “But I think there are a
couple of bottles left. Kristin, being of Amazonian proportions, has a much greater capacity than other mortals.” She glanced up at the old schoolroom clock,
which showed ten minutes to five. “You’re early. How
come?”
“I found Sir Francis Bacon,” Joe responded, sitting
down in the chair that Gertrude had vacated. “How the
hell can you lose an English sheepdog? They’re huge.”
“Where was he?” Judith asked, handing Joe a bottle
of Harp’s.
“In their basement,” Joe said, after taking a long
swallow of beer. “He was trying to keep cool, and in
the process, managed to get into the freezer. He found
some USDA prime cuts and ate about a half dozen,
which gave him a tummy ache. Then he went behind
the furnace and passed out. He was there for two days.”
“Sir Francis is okay?” Judith inquired, after pouring
herself a glass of lemonade.
“He will be,” Joe said. “They trotted him off to the
vet. I hate these damned lost pet cases, but the family’s
loaded, it took only a couple of hours to find the dog,
and they paid me a grand.” He patted the pocket of his
cotton shirt. “Nice work, huh?”
“Very nice,” Judith said with a big smile. “All your
private detective cases should be so easy. And prof-
8 Mary Daheim itable. Maybe we can use some of that money to have
Skjoval Tolvang make some more repairs around
here.”
“How old is that guy anyway?” Joe asked with a bemused expression on his round, florid face.
“Eighties, I’d guess,” Judith replied, “but strong as
an ox. You know how hearty those Scandinavians are.”
“Like our daughter-in-law,” Joe acknowledged,
opening the evening paper, which Judith had retrieved
earlier from the front porch.
“Yes,” Judith said in a contemplative voice. Kristin
was not only big and beautiful, but so infuriatingly
competent that her mother-in-law was occasionally intimidated. “Yes,” she repeated. “Formidable, too. What
is she not?”
The front doorbell rang, making Judith jump. “The
guests! They’re part of a tour, here for two nights. I
didn’t think they’d arrive until five-thirty.” She dashed
out through the swinging doors between the kitchen
and the dining room to greet the newcomers.
The tour group, consisting of a dozen retirees from
eastern Canada, were on the last leg of a trip that had
started in Toronto. Some of them looked as if they
were on their last legs, too. Judith escorted them to
their rooms, made sure everything was in order, and informed them that the social hour began at six. To a
man—and woman—they begged off, insisting that
they simply wanted to rest before going out to dinner.
The bus trip from Portland had taken six hours, a result
of summer highway construction. They were exhausted. They didn’t need to socialize, having been
cheek by jowl with each other for the past three weeks.
Indeed, judging from some of the glares that were ex-
SILVER SCREAM 9 changed, they were sick of each other. Could they
please be allowed to nap?
Judith assured them they could. Cancellation of the
social hour meant that she, too, could take it easy. Following hip replacement surgery in January, Judith still
tired easily. But before taking a respite, she had to call
the Kidds and the Izards to inform them that their
reservations were being changed because of unforeseen circumstances.
Joe had just opened his second Harp when Judith returned to the kitchen. She observed the top of his head
behind the sports section and smiled to herself. There
was more gray in his red hair, and in truth, there was
less of either color. But to Judith, Joe Flynn was still
the most attractive man on earth. She had waited a
quarter of a century to become his wife, but the years
in between seemed to have faded into an Irish mist. On
the way to the computer, she paused to kiss the top of
his head.
“What’s this rash outbreak of affection?” Joe asked
without glancing up.
“Just remembering that I love you,” Judith said lightly.
“Do you need reminding?”
“No.”
She noted the Kidds’ number in Appleton, Wisconsin, and dialed. They were repeat customers, having
come to Hillside Manor six years earlier. Judith hated
to cancel them.
Alice Kidd answered the phone on the second ring.
Judith relayed the doleful news and apologized most
humbly. “You’ll be put up at a lovely B&B which will
be convenient to everything. Ms. Heffelman will contact you in a day or two with the specifics.”
10 Mary Daheim “Well, darn it all anyway,” Mrs. Kidd said with a
Midwestern twang. “We so enjoyed your place. How is
your mother? Edgar and I thought she was a real doll.”
A voodoo doll perhaps, Judith thought. “Mother’s
fine,” she said aloud. “Of course her memory is sometimes iffy.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Kidd said in a quiet voice. “Edgar’s
mother is like that, too. So sad. My own dear mother
passed away last winter.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Judith said.
Alice Kidd acknowledged the expression of sympathy, then paused. “You’re certain we’ll be staying in as
nice a B&B as yours?”
“Definitely,” Judith declared. Ingrid wouldn’t let her
down. She’d better not. An inferior establishment
wouldn’t be a credit to Judith or to the association Ingrid guarded like a military sentry. “Maybe even
nicer.”
“I doubt that,” Mrs. Kidd said as if she meant it.
“You’re very kind,” Judith responded. “We’ll be in
touch.”
Next she dialed the number of Walt and Meg Izard
in Riceville, Iowa. A frazzled-sounding woman answered the phone.
“Mrs. Izard?” Judith inquired.
“Yeah, right. Who is this? We’re watching TV.”
“I’m sorry,” Judith said, then identified herself as
the owner of Hillside Manor.
“What’s that?” Mrs. Izard snapped. “A rest home?
Forget it.”
“Wait!” Judith cried, certain that Meg Izard was
about to slam down the receiver. “I own the bed-andbreakfast you’re staying at in October. The nights of
SILVER SCREAM 11 the twenty-ninth, thirtieth, and thirty-first. I’m afraid
there’s been a change.”
“A change?” Meg Izard sounded perplexed. “In
what? The dates? We can’t change. We’re celebrating
our twenty-fifth anniversary.”
“The change affects your lodgings,” Judith explained. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to accommodate
you that weekend.”
“Why not?” Meg’s voice had again turned harsh.
“You got the Queen of England staying there?”
“Not exactly,” Judith replied. “I’ve had to rearrange
my schedule. Unfortunately, there’s a movie crew
coming for a big premiere.”
“Movies!” Meg exclaimed. “Who’d pay five dollars
to see a movie when they can watch it on TV a year
later? Who cares? We like our sitcoms better anyway.
They make Walt laugh, which isn’t easy to do these
days.”
Riceville, Iowa, must indeed be rural if they only
charged five bucks for a first-run film, Judith thought.
“It’s a big event,” she said, with a need to defend herself. “Bruno Zepf is opening his new epic,
The Gas- man, here in town.”
There was a long pause at the other end. Finally,
Mrs. Izard spoke again: “Never heard of him.”
“I don’t know much about Mr. Zepf, either,” Judith
admitted in an effort to appease the disgruntled Mrs.
Izard. “You’ll be hearing from Ingrid Heffelman soon
to make sure you’re put up in a very nice inn.”
“Hunh.” Meg paused. “Okay, we’ll stay tuned. But
this Heffelbump woman better call soon. October’s not
that far away.”
It was two months away, Judith thought, but didn’t
12 Mary Daheim argue. She was beginning to feel grateful that the Izards
wouldn’t be staying at Hillside Manor. Trying to remain
gracious, she rang off. The Kidds and the Izards had
been disposed of; she needn’t worry about Bruno Zepf
and his movie people for two months. The waning summer and the early fall should be relatively uneventful.
It was typical of Judith that, as Cousin Renie would
say, she would bury her head in the sand. On that warm
August evening, she dug deep and tried to blot out
some of life’s less pleasant incidents.
One of them was Skjoval Tolvang. The tall, sinewy
old handyman with his stubborn nature and unshakable
convictions had already made some improvements to
Hillside Manor. He had repaired the sagging front
steps, replaced the ones in back, rebuilt both chimneys,
which had been damaged in an earthquake, inspected
the electrical wiring, and put in what he called a
“super-duper door spring” to keep the kitchen cupboard from swinging open by itself. What was left involved rehanging the door to the first-floor powder
room and checking the toolshed’s plumbing.
Judith came a cropper with the bathroom repair. On
the first day of September, Mr. Tolvang showed up
very early. It was not yet six o’clock when he banged
on the back door. Joe was in the shower and Judith had
just finished getting dressed. The noise was loud
enough to be heard in the third-floor family quarters,
and thus even louder for the sleeping guests on the second floor.
“Damn!” Judith breathed, hurrying down the first
flight of stairs. “Double damn!” she breathed, taking
the back stairs to the main floor as fast as she could
without risking a fall.
SILVER SCREAM 13 “By early,” she said, yanking open the back door, “I
thought you meant seven or eight.”
“Early is early,” the handyman replied. “Isn’t this
early, pygolly?”
“It’s too early for me to have made coffee,” Judith
asserted. “You’ll have to wait a few minutes.”
But Skjoval Tolvang reached into his big toolbox
and removed a tall blue thermos. “I got my medicine to
get me going. I vas up at four.”
Coffee fueled the handyman the way gasoline propels cars. He never ate on the job, putting in long, arduous days with only his seemingly bottomless
thermos to keep him going.
“I’m a little worried,” Judith said, pouring coffee
into both the big urn she used for guests and the family coffeemaker. “Having a bathroom just off the entry
hall may no longer be up to city code.”
“Code!” Skjoval coughed up the word as if he’d
swallowed a bug. “To hell vith the city! Vat do they
know, that bunch of crackpot desk yockeys? They be
lucky to
find the bathroom, let alone know vhere to put
it!”
“It was only a thought,” Judith said meekly.
“You vorry too much,” Skjoval declared, putting the
thermos back into his toolbox. “I don’t need no hassles. I quit.”
It wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last, that
the handyman had quit over some quibble. Skjoval
never lacked for work. He was good and he was cheap.
But he was also temperamental.
Judith knew the drill, though it wasn’t easy to repeat
at six-ten in the morning. She pleaded, groveled, cajoled, and used all of her considerable charm to get
14 Mary Daheim Skjoval to change his mind. Ultimately, he did, but it
took another ten minutes.
Luckily, the rest of the week and the Labor Day
weekend went smoothly. It was only the following Friday, when Skjoval was finishing in the toolshed, that
another fracas took place.
“That mother of yours,” Skjoval complained, wiping sweat from his brow as he stood on the back porch.
“She is Lucifer’s daughter. I hang the bathroom door
yust fine, but vhy vill she not let me fix the toilet?”
“I don’t know,” Judith replied. Indeed, she had been
afraid that Gertrude and Mr. Tolvang would get into it
before the job was done. Given their natures, it seemed
inevitable. “Did she give you a reason?”
“Hell, no,” the handyman shot back, “except that
she be sitting on the damned thing.”
“Oh.” Judith frowned in the direction of the toolshed. “I’ll talk to her.”
“Don’t bother,” Skjoval snapped. “I quit.”
“Please, Mr. Tolvang,” Judith begged, “let me
ask—”
But the handyman made a sharp dismissive gesture.
“Never you mind. I don’t vant to see that old bat no
more. She give me a bad time all veek. Let her sit on
the damned toilet until her backside falls off.” Skjoval
yanked the painter’s cap from his head and waved it in
a threatening manner. “I go now, you call me if she
ever acts like a human being and not a vitch.” He
stomped off down the drive to his pickup truck, which
was piled with ladders, scaffolding, and all manner of
tools.
Judith gritted her teeth and headed out under the
golden September sun. Surely her mother would coop-
SILVER SCREAM 15 erate. The toilet needed plunging; Gertrude threw all
sorts of things into it, including Sweetums. It was either Skjoval Tolvang for the job or a hundred bucks to
Roto-Rooter.
Gertrude wasn’t on the toilet when Judith reached
the toolshed. Instead, she was sitting in her old mohair
armchair, playing solitaire on the cluttered card table.
“Hi, Toots,” Gertrude said in a cheerful voice.
“What’s up, besides that old fart’s dander?”
“Why wouldn’t you let Mr. Tolvang plunge the toilet?” Judith demanded.
“Because I was using it, that’s why.” Gertrude
scooped up the cards and put them in her automatic
shuffler. “When’s lunch?”
“You ate lunch two hours ago,” Judith responded,
then had an inspiration. “Why don’t you come inside
with me? I’m going to make chocolate-chip cookies.”
Gertrude brightened. “You are?”
“Yes. Let me give you a hand.”
Judith was helping her mother to the door when
Skjoval Tolvang burst into the toolshed.
“You got spies,” he declared, banging the door behind him. “Building inspectors, ya sure, you betcha.”
Judith’s dark eyes widened. “Really? Where?”
“In the bushes,” Skjoval replied. “Spying.”
“Here,” Judith said, gesturing at Gertrude, “help my
mother into the house. I’ll go check on whoever’s out
there.”
But Gertrude balked. “I’m not letting this crazy old
coot touch me! He’ll shove me facedown into the barbecue and light it off.”
“Then stay here,” Judith said crossly, and guided her
mother back to the armchair.
16 Mary Daheim “Hey!” Gertrude shouted. “What about those
cookies?”
But Judith was already out the door. “Where is this
inspector or whoever?” she asked of Mr. Tolvang.
“By them bushes,” the handyman answered, nodding at the azaleas, rhododendrons, and roses that
flanked the west side of the house. “Making trouble,
mark my vords.”
“I wonder,” Judith murmured, heading down the
driveway.
There was, however, no one in sight. She moved on
to the front of the house. An unfamiliar white car was
parked in the cul-de-sac. There were no markings on it.
Judith moved on to the other side of the house.
A tall man in a dark suit and hat stood between the
house and the hedge that divided Judith and Joe
Flynn’s property from their neighbors, Carl and Arlene
Rankers. The man had his back to Judith and appeared
to be looking up under the eaves.
“Sir!” Judith spoke sharply. “May I help you?”
The man whirled around. “What?” He had a beard
and wore rimless spectacles. There was such an oldfashioned air about him that Judith was reminded of a
character out of a late-nineteenth-century novel.
“Are you looking for someone?” Judith inquired,
moving closer to the man.
He hesitated, one hand brushing nervously against
his trouser leg. “Well, yes,” he finally replied. “I am. A
Mr. Terwilliger. I was told he lived in this cul-de-sac.”
Judith shook her head. “There’s no one by that name
around here. Unless,” she added, “he intends to stay at
my B&B.” She made an expansive gesture toward the
SILVER SCREAM 17 old three-story Edwardian house. “I run this place. It’s
called Hillside Manor. There’s a sign out front.”
The man, who had been slowly but deliberately
backpedaling from Judith, ducked his head. “I must
have missed it. Sorry.” He turned and all but ran around
the rear of the house.
Judith’s hip replacement didn’t permit her to move
much faster than a brisk walk. Puzzled, she watched
the man disappear, then returned to the front yard. He
was coming down the driveway on the other side of the
house, still at a gallop. A moment later he got into the
car parked at the curb and pulled away with a burst of
the engine.
“Local plates,” she murmured. But from where Judith stood some ten yards away, she hadn’t been able
to read the license numbers. With a shrug, she headed
back to the toolshed. She’d mention the stranger’s appearance to Joe when he got home. If she remembered.
Five hours later, when Joe arrived cursing the dead
end he’d come up against in a missing antique clock
case, Judith had forgotten all about the man who’d
shown up at Hillside Manor.
It would be two months before she’d remember, and
by that time it was almost too late.
TWO
JUDITH RECOILED FROM the obscenity screamed into
her ear by Cousin Renie. The four-letter word was
rapidly repeated before Renie cried, “You’re not
911!” and hung up.
Shaken, Judith stared at her cleaning woman,
Phyliss Rackley. “Oh, dear. What now?” she
breathed to Phyliss.
“What ‘what now’?” Phyliss inquired, scarcely
missing a beat as she scoured the kitchen sink.
“My cousin—Serena,” Judith said, her high forehead wrinkled in worry. “I think she was trying to
call 911. I don’t want to call her back in case she’s
on the line with them. Maybe I should go over to her
house to see what’s happened.”
“You got those Hollywood sinners due in two
hours,” Phyliss pointed out. “Besides, that cousin of
yours is probably in Satan’s clutches. I always said
she’d end up in the hot spot.”
Judith’s gaze darted to the old schoolhouse clock.
It was two on the dot. Friday, October 29. The day
when Bruno Zepf and his Hollywood entourage
would arrive for the premiere of
The Gasman on the
following night.
SILVER SCREAM 19 But family came before filmdom. “I’ve still got
some spare time. I’m going to Renie and Bill’s. I don’t
dare call in case she’s tied up on the phone with 911.”
“Keep away from Lucifer!” Phyliss warned as Judith rushed out the back door. “He’ll come after you
when you least expect him!”
Judith was used to her cleaning woman’s fundamentalism. But like Skjoval Tolvang’s obstinacy,
Phyliss Rackley’s religious mania could be tolerated
for the sake of a reliable, thorough work ethic.
Traffic on Heraldsgate Avenue was relatively light
for a Friday afternoon. It was just a little over a mile
from Hillside Manor to the Joneses’ residence on the
north side of Heraldsgate Hill. Six minutes after she
had left Phyliss in the kitchen, Judith was at the door
of her cousin’s Dutch Colonial. So far, there were no
signs of emergency vehicles outside. Judith didn’t
know if that was a good or a bad portent.
When Renie and Bill had moved into their home
thirty years earlier, the doorbell had been broken. Bill
was a psychologist and a retired college professor, a
brilliant man in his field, but not adept at household repairs. The bell was still broken. Judith pounded on the
solid mahogany door.
No one responded. Anxiety mounting, Judith started
to go around to the back but was halted at the corner of
the house by a shout from Renie.
“Hey! Come in. I’ve got this junk all over my
hands.”
Judith returned to the porch. Renie stood in the
doorway, her hands and lower arms spattered with
what looked like the insides of a pumpkin. Bill came
down the hall from the kitchen. His head was covered
20 Mary Daheim with the same orange clumps and he’d left a trail of
yellow seeds in his wake.
“What on earth . . . ?” Judith began, her jaw dropping. “I thought you had a catastrophe!”
“We did,” Renie replied, moving back to the
kitchen, where she ran her hands and arms under the
tap. “Bill got a pumpkin stuck on his head.”
Judith looked at Bill. Bill shrugged, then took a
towel from the kitchen counter and began to wipe himself off. Judith then looked at what was left of the
pumpkin. It lay on the floor in several pieces. Only the
top with its jaunty green stem remained intact.
Putting a hand to her breast in relief, Judith leaned
against the refrigerator. “Good grief. You scared the
hell out of me.”
“Sorry,” Renie said, rinsing her hands. “I hit your
number on the speed dial instead of 911.”
“Then,” Bill put in, his voice muffled by the towel,
“she punched the button for her hairdresser. By that
time I’d gotten the pumpkin off my head.”
“I don’t suppose,” Judith said slowly, “I ought to
ask why you were wearing a pumpkin on your head,
Bill?”
Removing the towel, he shrugged again. “It was for
your Halloween party tomorrow. I planned to go as
Ichabod Crane.”
Judith shook her head in wonder, then frowned. “It’s
not my party, it’s Bruno Zepf’s. I’m merely catering
the damned thing.”
“I’m helping,” Renie said, looking a trifle hurt.
“That’s why we’re coming, isn’t it? We thought it
would be more fun if we wore costumes like everybody else.”
SILVER SCREAM 21 “What,” Judith asked Renie, “were you going as?
Ichabod’s horse?”
“A tree,” Renie said with a lift of her short chin.
“You know—the scary kind with a twisted trunk and
clawlike branches.”
“Don’t,” Judith advised. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
She glanced at Bill. “One of you already has. I’m
going home now. In fact, I might as well stop at Falstaff’s Grocery on the way to stock up for the party.
Bruno Zepf gave me a list. Some of the items had to
come from specialty stores. I hope he can pay all
these bills.”
“He can,” Bill said, his clean-cut Midwestern features finally free of pumpkin debris. “The man’s
movies make millions.
The Gasman may hit a billion.”
“Good for him,” Judith said on a bitter note. “I just
wish he wasn’t staying at Hillside Manor.”
“It’s only two nights,” Renie soothed. “Look at it as
an adventure. A big-time Hollywood producer. Glamorous stars. A famous director. It’ll be like having
Oscar night in your living room.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Judith said, making her
way to the door. “Glad you’re not dead. See you tomorrow night.”
“I’m coming to help at five,” Renie announced. “I’ll
change into my tree suit later.”
“Goody,” Judith said in a lifeless voice. “Maybe I’ll
turn into a pumpkin.”
“Hey!” Bill called after her. “
I’m wearing the pumpkin!”
Judith glanced back at the orange glop that littered
the kitchen. “You mean, you were.”
*
*
*
22 Mary Daheim An hour later Judith arrived at Hillside Manor with
fourteen grocery bags and an entry on the debit side of
her checking account for almost four hundred dollars.
“What are you feeding?” Phyliss asked as she put on
her shapeless black raincoat. “An army?”
Judith gazed at the paper-in-plastic bags and shook
her head. “The problem is, I don’t know how many
will come here after the premiere and the costume ball
at the Cascadia Hotel. Most of the movie people are
staying at the hotel. But Mr. Zepf had one of his staff
members send me a list of what he’d like served at the
midnight supper party. I don’t want to run short. He’s
also been shipping some things that I wouldn’t be able
to find here in town.”
Phyliss gave a toss of her gray sausage curls. “More
money than sense,” she declared. “What’s wrong with
meat and potatoes? As for all this shipping, at least two
more express trucks showed up today. There may have
been another one, but I was upstairs and my lumbago was
giving me fits, so I didn’t bother myself to come down.”
Judith eyed Phyliss. “Are you sure?”
“No, I’m not sure,” Phyliss answered crossly. “I’ve
no time for all this fancy-pants stuff. It’s gluttony, if
you ask me. That’s one of the Seven Deadly Sins. I
wonder how many of the others they’ll commit while
they’re here.”
Judith winced, and based on past history, hoped
murder wasn’t one of them.
The doorbell rang at precisely five o’clock. By that
time Judith had finished organizing and storing the
groceries. Feeling nervous, she hurried to greet her
first guests.
SILVER SCREAM 23 The middle-aged couple who stood on the front
porch didn’t look much like Hollywood to Judith. In
fact, they seemed more like Grant Wood, or at least his
famous painting of
American Gothic. The thin sourlooking woman with her fair hair pulled back in a bun
and the balding gaunt-faced man needed only a pitchfork to complete the image.
“May I help you?” Judith inquired.
“You sure didn’t help us before,” the woman asserted, “so I don’t expect you can help us now.”
The voice sounded familiar, but Judith couldn’t
place it. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. This is a B&B.
Have you been a guest here on a previous occasion?”
“Hell, no,” the man responded in a deep bass. “We
tried, though.”
“We need to find the place where they put us instead,” the woman said. “Some fool sent the directions
to your B&B instead of the one we got changed to.”
“Oh!” Judith exclaimed in relief, noticing what appeared to be a rental compact car out in the cul-de-sac.
“You must be the Izards. Of course, come in, let me
figure out how you can get where you’re going.”
City maps and guidebooks were kept at the registration desk in the entry hall. Walt Izard showed Judith
the address of the substitute inn, which was located
about four miles away, near the zoo. She gave him directions while Meg Izard wandered around the big living room.
“I’d like to check out your place,” she declared, returning to the entry hall. “I want to make sure we’re
not getting cheated in case this other B&B isn’t up to
snuff. We’d stay with my brother, Will, but his place is
too small.”
24 Mary Daheim “Well . . .” Judith hesitated. “All right, but don’t take
too long. My guests are due at any moment.”
Meg gave a snort. “Movie folks, right? Think
they’re big stuff. Bunch of phonies, if you ask me.”
Judith hadn’t asked, so she didn’t comment. “The
guest rooms are on the second floor. They’re unlocked
at present, but please just take a quick look. I have to
stay downstairs.”
“Will do,” Walt replied in the deep voice that
seemed too large for his skinny frame.
Judith stayed by the front door, but the phone rang
just as the Izards disappeared around the corner of the
second landing.
It was Alice Kidd, the wife of the other displaced
couple. “We’re at Cozy Fan Tutte,” she said, “and I
wanted to let you know it’s not nearly as nice as Hillside Manor.”
Judith knew the establishment, which was located
north of the university. It was a veritable stately mansion, Georgian in design, and featured amenities not
possessed by Hillside Manor, including a sauna and a
whirlpool.
“That’s very kind of you,” Judith said, hearing the
Izards’ footsteps overhead. “I’d love to have you come
to Hillside Manor again. I can’t say how sorry I am
about the inconvenience.”
“I suppose,” Alice Kidd said in a slightly wistful
voice, “the filmmakers have been given a warm welcome.”
“They’re not here yet,” Judith replied, jumping
slightly as the back door banged open. “Excuse me,
Mrs. Kidd, but someone has just arrived. Remember us
the next time you visit the area, and enjoy your stay.”
SILVER SCREAM 25 Clicking off, Judith saw Renie charge out of the dining room. “I’m here. Where’s Hollywood?”
“They’re late,” Judith noted, glancing at her watch,
which told her it was almost five-fifteen. “They probably got stuck in Friday rush-hour traffic coming from
the airport.”
“Probably,” Renie remarked, opening the oven. “No
appetizers?”
“No guests,” Judith said. “I’ll wait until they arrive.
Hey, what are you doing here? I don’t need help until
tomorrow night.”
“Yes, you do,” Renie insisted, pointing a finger at
her cousin. “You’re already twitching. You’re agitated,
uneasy, even a little scared. Hollywood descends upon
Hillside Manor. You have to be nervous.”
“I guess,” Judith admitted, “I am.”
“So,” Renie said, extending her arms in a gesture of
goodwill, “I’m at your disposal.”
“But what about dinner for Bill and the kids?” Judith inquired.
“Incredibly,” Renie said, removing a can of Pepsi
from the fridge, “Bill informed me that the kiddies are
making dinner tonight. Very brave of them.”
“It would be,” Judith said dryly, “if they were still
kiddies. But since they’re all in the thirtysomething
range and still living at home . . .”
Renie waved a hand. “Don’t remind me. They’re
merely a bit slow to develop a sense of independence.”
“Leeches,” Judith said under her breath as footsteps
emanated from the front hall.
Renie looked startled. “Who’s that? Is Joe home already?”
“No,” Judith replied, heading out of the kitchen. “It’s
26 Mary Daheim my ex-guests, the ones I had to cancel to make room for
the movie people. Hang on while I say good-bye.”
Renie, however, wandered out behind Judith, but
stopped in the archway between the dining room and
the entry hall. The Izards were at the door, city map in
hand.
“This place isn’t too bad,” Meg Izard allowed.
“Maybe next time we come through here, you’ll actually let us stay.”
“I hope so,” Judith said, not quite truthfully.
Walt Izard opened the door. “Lousy weather,
though.” He gestured outside. “It’s started to rain. Does
it really rain here all the time?”
“Often,” Judith answered, this time with honesty.
“Especially this time of year. Windy, too,” she added.
“Halloween weather, all right,” Meg said with a grimace. “That’s too bad. I hoped we’d have some sun to
celebrate our silver anniversary.”
“Drive safely,” Judith cautioned, moving closer to
the Izards in an effort to get them out of the house and
into their compact rental. “These streets can be slippery when—”
She stopped, staring into the cul-de-sac as a pair of
limos glided to the curb.
“Well, well,” Meg Izard muttered, “here come the
rich and famous. Let’s get out of their way, Walt. We
wouldn’t want to give them any just-plain-folks
germs.”
Judith was too flustered to protest. As the limo doors
were opened by their drivers, a third car pulled up and
stopped in front of the Steins’ house at the corner.
“Hey,” called one of the other drivers as a diverse
group of people began to emerge from the chauffeur-
SILVER SCREAM 27 driven cars, “will somebody move this crate?” The
young man gestured at what Judith assumed was the
Izards’ rental.
Both Meg and Walt froze momentarily on the
threshold. “Big-shot bastards,” Walt muttered. “To hell
with ’em.”
But Meg had already started for the car. With an annoyed shrug, Walt followed his wife. The couple drove
away as Arlene Rankers appeared from the other side
of the hedge and the first of the celebrities made their
way toward Hillside Manor.
Although at least a half-dozen people were approaching the front porch in styles ranging from a
brisk trot to a languid lope, Judith’s gaze was fixated
on just one man, who held a cell phone to his ear: He
was almost bald, with a short grizzled beard and a fireplug build. What little hair he had left had grown out
and was tied with a black ribbon into a thin, foot-long
ponytail. His cheeks were pitted with old acne scars,
and while his movements were controlled, energy exuded from him like sparks from a faulty toaster. Judith
realized that she recognized him from casually
glimpsed photographs. He was Bruno Zepf,
megaproducer and Hollywood legend-in-the-making.
“Mr. Zepf,” Judith said, putting out her hand.
“Mr. Zepf,” echoed Renie and Arlene, who had
joined Judith on the porch. Renie looked as if she were
trying very hard not to be impressed; Arlene appeared
close to bursting with unbridled gush.
Zepf clicked off the cell phone and zeroed in on Judith, his shrewd blue eyes narrowing a bit. “You’re
Mrs. . . . Flynn?”
“I am.” To her horror, Judith dropped a slight curtsy.
28 Mary Daheim “Welcome to Hillside Manor,” Arlene burbled, grabbing the hand that Judith had just released. “This is a
wonderful B&B. This is a wonderful neighborhood.
This is a wonderful city.” She lowered her voice only a
jot. “That’s why we’re thinking of moving.”
Judith and Renie were used to Arlene’s contradictions. Judith flinched, but Bruno apparently hadn’t
heard Arlene. He had already moved on to shake
Renie’s hand without ever looking right at her, and was
now in the entry hall, surveying his new surroundings.
Such was his air of possession that Judith felt as if
she’d not only rented Bruno a room but sold him the
entire house.
Judith had to force herself to take her eyes off the
great man and greet the other guests. She immediately
recognized Dirk Farrar and Angela La Belle, whose famous faces had appeared in a series of hit movies. Judith had actually seen two of their films, on video. Just
as the pair reached the porch, Judith noticed that
Naomi Stein had come out of her house on the corner
and Ted Ericson was pulling into his driveway across
the street.
As Ted got out of his car, Dirk Farrar also saw the
newcomers. “Beat it, scumbags!” he yelled. “No paparazzi!” Pushing past Angela La Belle and the threewoman welcoming team, he disappeared into the
living room.
With a faint sneer on her face, Angela La Belle ignored the gawking neighbors along with her fellow
actor and proceeded up the front steps.
“Ms. La Belle,” Judith said, gathering her aplomb,
“I so enjoyed your performance in”—her mind went
blank—“your last movie.”
SILVER SCREAM 29 Angela’s face, which seemed so angelic on the screen,
wore a chilly smile. “Thanks. Where’s the john?”
“Straight ahead,” Renie said, pointing to the new
door that Skjoval Tolvang had recently installed.
Judith was left to confront a somewhat less familiar
face. She racked her brain to recall who else was on
Bruno’s guest list.
“Hi, Mr. Carmody,” Renie said, coming to the rescue. “My husband and I were sorry you didn’t win
Best Supporting Actor this year. You were a really
great villain in
To Die in Davenport.”
“Thanks,” Ben Carmody replied with what appeared
to be a genuine smile. “Face it, I was up against some
pretty tough competition.”
Judith was startled by Carmody’s benign appearance. She was so used to seeing him as the embodiment of evil that she scarcely recognized him. He was
tall and lean, much better looking in person than on the
screen. Judith shook Ben Carmody’s hand and also received a warm smile.
Like Dirk Farrar, the next arrival ignored Judith and
the others. Unlike Dirk, the pencil-thin black woman
in the gray Armani suit glided over the threshold as if
she had wheels on her Manolo Blahnik pumps. Once
inside, she joined Bruno Zepf, who had migrated into
the front parlor. The woman closed the parlor door behind her, leaving the cousins and Arlene staring at each
other.
Last but not least was a small, exotic creature who
apparently was communing with the squirrels in the
maple tree near the front of the house.
“Who is that?” Arlene inquired, her pretty face perplexed. “She reminds me of someone.”
30 Mary Daheim “Ellie Linn-MacDermott,” Renie said. “Except I
think she’s dropped the MacDermott.”
“Y-e-s,” Arlene said slowly, “that’s who she reminds
me of. Ellie Linn-MacDermott. I’ve seen Ellie in two
or three movies. Funny, this girl’s a dead ringer for
her.”
“She
is Ellie Linn,” Renie responded, making way
for the chauffeurs, who were carrying in the luggage.
“She has a role in
The Gasman.”
“Oh!” Arlene’s hand flew to her mouth and her blue
eyes widened in surprise. “Of course! The actress! Or
is it hot dogs?”
“Both,” said Renie, then jumped out of the way as
the wheels of a large suitcase almost ran over her foot.
“Her father, Heathcliffe MacDermott, is the Wienie
Wizard of the Western World.”
Arlene again looked puzzled. “But this girl . . .” She
waved an arm toward the young woman who was trying to coax one of the squirrels down from the maple
tree. “She looks Chinese.”
“Her mother’s from Hong Kong,” Renie said. “Or
Shanghai. Or someplace like that.”
Judith excused herself to show the drivers where to
stow the luggage upstairs. When she started down
again, Angela La Belle met her on the second landing.
“Where’s my room?” she asked, blinking big brown
eyes that were offset by long lashes that might or might
not have been her own. The lashes, like the eyes, were
dark, and made a striking contrast with the actress’s
waist-length blond hair.
“Um . . .” Judith hesitated. “Let me get the room
chart. I’ll be right back. There’s a settee in the hallway
and a phone, if you need it.”
SILVER SCREAM 31 Without any response, Angela passed on to the second floor. Judith hurried to fetch the room chart, which
she’d left on the entry-hall table. The only thing she remembered was that Bruno Zepf had the largest room,
Number Three, to himself, though he shared the bathroom with Room Four. Judith couldn’t believe that she
was so rattled by a bunch of Hollywood hotshots. After
ten years in the hostelry business, she thought she’d
met just about every type of person from every level of
society. Maybe she was more impressionable than she
realized.
Swiftly, Judith tabulated the guests who had arrived
so far. Unless she was mistaken, at least one of the
members of Bruno’s party hadn’t shown up yet.
“Psst!” Renie hissed from the hallway. “We’re on
the job.”
Judith turned sharply. “You are? Doing what?”
“Plying your guests with adult beverages,” Renie
replied. “Or, in some cases, the freshest of springwaters and a vegetable drink that looks like a science
experiment.”
“Thanks, coz,” Judith said with a grateful smile.
“Thank Arlene for me, too. I’ll be right with you.”
Checking the chart, Judith noted that Winifred Best,
Bruno’s special assistant, was slotted for Room One.
Since there were only three women in the party and Judith had recognized the two actresses, Winifred must
be the Armani-clad black woman who had sailed into
the house and closeted herself with Bruno.
Dirk Farrar and Ben Carmody were sharing Room
Four. Judith wondered how—and why—they’d put up
with such an arrangement. The same could be said for
Angela La Belle and Ellie Linn, who would be staying
32 Mary Daheim in Room Six. Of course it was only for two nights. Perhaps the proximity to Bruno was worth the sacrifice.
Still, Judith wasn’t accustomed to such self-effacement
among the Well-Heeled.
Room Five had been assigned to
The Gasman’s director, Chips Madigan; the film’s screenwriter, Dade
Costello, was set for Room Two, the smallest of the
lodgings. Chart in hand, Judith went back upstairs to
find Angela La Belle.
“Room Six,” Judith said with a cheerful smile.
Angela was sprawled on the settee in the hallway,
leafing through one of the magazines Judith kept
handy for guests. “Okay.” The actress didn’t look up.
“Your key,” Judith said, reaching into the pocket of
her best black flannel slacks. “I’ll give the other one to
Ms. Linn.”
“Fine.” Angela still didn’t look up.
“Your baggage is right there,” Judith said, pointing
to the piled-up suitcases and fold-overs the drivers had
placed in front of Grandma and Grandpa Grover’s old
oak book shelving. “Only Mr. Zepf’s has been put
away because I wasn’t exactly sure who was staying
where. Some of his belongings arrived earlier today
via UPS.”
Angela yawned. “Right.”
Judith gave up and headed past Rooms Four, Five,
and Six to the back stairs. She wanted to pop the appetizers into the oven before she joined her other guests.
Halfway down, she realized she hadn’t given Angela
the front door key along with the one to her room.
Though her hips were growing weary, Judith hurried
back to the second floor.
The settee was empty, the magazine that Angela had
SILVER SCREAM 33 been perusing lay on the floor. Judith frowned. Could
Angela have already collected her luggage and gone
into Room Six so quickly?
The stacks of baggage sat untouched. But the door
to Room Three, Bruno’s room, was ajar.
“Hunh,” Judith said to herself. When she picked up
the copy of
In the Mode magazine, she noticed that it
was open to a spread on a recent Hollywood gala. The
large color photo on the left-hand page showed Dirk
Farrar and Angela La Belle with their arms around
each other. The caption read,
Super Hunk and the Ul- timate Babe get cozy at the annual Stars for Scoliosis Ball. Are Dirk and Angela hearing La Wedding Belles? Judith wondered if Angela and Dirk had no intention of staying in different rooms.
THREE
RENIE AND ARLENE seemed to have everything under
control. Arlene already claimed to have formed a
fast friendship with Ellie Linn, and insisted that Ben
Carmody would be the perfect husband for her unmarried daughter, Cathy.
“They’re not snooty,” Arlene declared, putting
another batch of puff pastries into the oven. “You
just have to go about it the right way when it comes
to asking questions. For example, when I spoke to
Dirk Farrar about the paternity suit that was in the
news a year ago, I mentioned how wonderful it was
to be a parent. Then I asked how he liked being
called Daddy. So simple.”
“What did he say?” Judith inquired.
“Oh, it was very cute,” Arlene replied breezily.
“He sort of hung his head and mumbled something
about ‘mother’ and ‘Tucker.’ I think he said
‘Tucker.’ That must be the little fellow’s name.”
The cousins exchanged bemused glances before
Judith carried a tray of French pâté and English
crackers into the living room. Dirk Farrar, with a cell
phone affixed to his ear, lazed on one of the matching sofas by the fireplace while Ellie Linn and
SILVER SCREAM 35 Winifred Best sat opposite him. Winifred was also
using a cell phone. Ben Carmody was examining the
built-in bookcases next to the bay window. A big shambling man in khaki cargo pants, plaid shirt, and suede
vest had his back turned and was staring out through
the French doors. There was no sign of Bruno Zepf.
Judith cleared her throat. “I’ll be serving the hors
d’oeuvres in just a few minutes,” she announced.
Only Ben Carmody looked at her. “Sounds good.
I’m kind of hungry.”
Winifred Best’s head twisted around. “You should
have eaten more of Bruno’s buffet on the plane. You
know he always serves excellent food.”
With an off-center grin, Ben shrugged. “I wasn’t
hungry then.”
Renie, who had been out in the kitchen with Arlene,
joined Judith. “Hey, coz,” she said brightly, “have you
met Dade Costello, the screenwriter for
The Gasman?
He’s been telling me all about the script.”
Judith nodded toward the big man by the French
doors. Renie’s nod confirmed his identity.
“I’ll introduce myself,” Judith murmured. Passing
through the living room, she caught a few cutting remarks:
“. . . worse than that no-star hotel in Oman . . .”
“. . . If I’d wanted to stay in a phone booth, I’d prefer it was in Paris. . . .”
“. . . bath towels like sandpaper. Whatever happened
to plush nubbiness? Atlanta was nubby, but Miami was
the nubbiest . . .”
Wincing, Judith arrived at Dade Costello’s elbow
before he turned around. “I’m Judith Flynn,” she said,
putting out a hand. “Your innkeeper.”
36 Mary Daheim “That right?” Dade shook Judith’s hand without enthusiasm. Or maybe because he was so big, he’d
learned to be gentle with somewhat smaller creatures.
“Yes.” Judith’s smile felt false. “I’m interested in
the story behind
The Gasman. Your story, that is.”
Dade’s ordinary features looked pained. He had
bushy dark hair dusted with gray, and overly long sideburns. “It’s not my story,” he said, with a trace of the
Old South in his voice.
“Oh.” Judith’s phony expression turned to genuine
confusion. “I thought you wrote the script.”
“I did.” Dade stuck his hands in his pockets. “But
the story isn’t the script.”
Judith waited for an explanation, but none was
forthcoming. “You mean . . . you adapted the story?”
Dade nodded. “My script was based on a novel.”
“I see.” Judith understood that this was often the
case. “Did the book have the same title?”
Again, Dade nodded, but offered no details. For a
man of words, Dade Costello didn’t seem to have
many at his command in a social situation. Maybe, Judith thought, that was why writers wrote instead of
talked.
“I never heard of the book,” she admitted. “Was it
published recently?”
This time, Dade shook his head. “No. It’s been
around awhile.”
“Oh.” Now Judith seemed at a loss to make conversation. She was about to excuse herself when Dade
rapped softly on one of the panes in the French doors.
“There’s a head in your backyard,” he said.
Judith gave a start. “What?”
Dade’s thumb gestured out past the porch that
SILVER SCREAM 37 flanked the rear of the house. “A head. It’s been sitting
there for at least five minutes.”
Judith tried not to shriek. “Where?”
“There.” Dade pointed to a spot almost out of their
line of vision. “See it? On top of those bushes.”
Judith stared. “Oh!” she exclaimed in relief. “That’s
not a head, it’s my mother. I mean . . .” With a rattle of
the handle, she opened the French doors. “Excuse me,
I’d better see what she’s doing out there.”
Despite the rain, Gertrude wore neither coat nor
head covering. She stood next to the lily-of-the-valley
bush, leaning on her walker and panting. At the foot of
the porch steps, Bruno Zepf hovered in the shelter of
the eaves with his head cocked to one side.
“So,” Bruno was saying to Gertrude, “you actually
survived the
Titanic’ s sinking?”
“You bet,” Gertrude replied, catching her breath.
“It’s a good thing I could swim.”
“Mother!” Judith spoke sharply as she moved to
take Gertrude’s arm. “It’s raining. What are you
doing out here?” She darted a glance at Bruno. “Excuse me, Mr. Zepf, but my mother shouldn’t be outdoors without a coat or a rain hat. I’ll take her back
inside.”
But Gertrude batted Judith’s hand away. “Stop that!
I’m not finished yet with this fine young Hollywood
fella.”
Bruno, however, held up a hand. “That’s all right,
Mrs. . . . ?”
“Grover,” Gertrude put in and shook a crooked finger. “You remember that when you make the movie
about me.”
Bruno forced a chuckle as Judith tried to move her
38 Mary Daheim mother along the walk toward the toolshed. “The problem is,” Bruno called after them, “someone else already made a movie about the
Titanic not very long
ago.”
Gertrude refused to move another inch. “What?”
“Yes,” Bruno responded, backing up the porch
steps. “It was a big success, an Oscar winner.”
“I’ll be,” Gertrude muttered, allowing Judith to
make some progress past the small patio. Then the old
lady suddenly balked and turned around to look at
Bruno Zepf. “Hey! Did I tell you about being on the
Hindenburg?”
“Keep moving,” Judith muttered. “We’re both getting wet.”
“You always were all wet,” Gertrude grumbled, but
shuffled along the walk under her daughter’s guiding
hand. “Who was that guy? Cecil B. DeMille?”
“No, Mother,” Judith replied as an agonized scream
erupted from behind her. She turned to see Bruno Zepf
clutching at the screen door and writhing like a madman.
“I can’t get in! I can’t get in!” he howled.
Abandoning Gertrude, Judith rushed to the back
porch. “What’s wrong? What is it?”
Bruno swung his head to one side. “There! By your
foot! It’s a spider! Help!”
Judith peered down at the tiny arachnid that was
scooting toward the edge of the porch. A moment later
the spider disappeared into the garden.
“It’s gone,” Judith said, over Bruno’s wails. “That
is, the very small spider has left the building.”
Bruno’s head jerked up. “It has? Are you sure?”
Judith was about to reassure Bruno when Winifred,
SILVER SCREAM 39 with Dirk Farrar right behind her, opened the back
door. Bruno all but collapsed into Winifred’s arms.
“What’s going on?” she demanded.
Judith grimaced. “Mr. Zepf saw a spider on the
porch.”
“Oh, no!” Winifred looked aghast. Dirk snickered.
“Does Mr. Zepf have arachnophobia?” Judith asked
as Bruno’s shudders subsided.
“Not exactly,” Winifred replied, patting Bruno on
the back as if he were a frightened child. “They’re bad
luck.” She managed to disentangle herself and took
Bruno’s hand. “Come inside, it’s quite safe.”
Dirk lingered at the door. “Twerp,” he muttered.
“Chickenhearted twerp.”
“Why are spiders bad luck?” Judith asked.
Dirk shrugged his broad shoulders. “Something to
do with a spider during the shooting of Bruno’s first
picture. Somehow, one got on the camera lens and ruined a perfect take. The crazy bastard’s never been the
same since.” He stopped and turned quickly to look
over his shoulder. No one was there. “Crazy like a fox,
maybe I should say.” With another shrug, Dirk Farrar
moved down the hallway.
Judith went back to the toolshed, where her mother
was still standing in the doorway.
“What caused that commotion?” Gertrude asked in
her raspy voice.
“The guest you were talking to doesn’t like spiders,”
Judith explained, steering her mother inside. “He’s
okay now. Say, what were you doing out in the rain?
Were you trying to come into the house?”
“Of course not,” Gertrude huffed. “Why would I do
that?”
40 Mary Daheim Judith eased the old lady into the overstuffed chair
behind the card table. “You do sometimes.”
“When Lunkhead’s not there, maybe,” Gertrude allowed, then gave Judith a sly look. “I don’t see his car.
Maybe I wanted to meet those movie stars, like Francis X. Bushman and Clara Bow.”
Judith didn’t feel up to adding her mother to the already motley mix. “How about seeing them tomorrow
when they’re all dressed up and ready to leave for the
premiere?”
Gertrude flopped into the chair. “Tomorrow? I could
be dead by tomorrow.”
“You won’t be,” Judith assured her mother. “Besides, not all of them have arrived yet.”
Judging from the pinched expression on Gertrude’s
face, the effort to reach the house had tired her.
“Well—okay. Who’s still coming? Theda Bara?”
Judith gave her mother’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.
“Someone more recent. I’ll be back with your supper
in just a bit.”
The truth was, Judith hadn’t even begun to prepare
the family meal. Gertrude didn’t mind a TV dinner, but
Joe was another matter. As soon as the hors d’oeuvres
were served, she would start the evening meal.
Arlene, however, had already brought the appetizers
out to the guests: crab cakes, mushrooms stuffed with
shrimp, teriyaki beef on skewers, tea sandwiches with
smoked salmon, and—courtesy of Bruno—an exotic
caviar from a shop and a city Judith had never heard of.
“Thanks, Arlene,” Judith said when the two women
were back in the kitchen. “You saved my life. Now I
can get dinner.”
“No need,” Arlene said, opening the oven. “I made
SILVER SCREAM 41 a chicken casserole this afternoon. It’s heating right
now. I put the green salad in the fridge. The homemade
rolls can be heated up in five minutes.”
Judith beamed at her friend and neighbor. “Arlene, I
could kiss you. In fact, I will.” She leaned forward and
gave Arlene a big smack on the cheek.
“It’s nothing,” Arlene said, her expression suddenly
gone sour as it always went when she was complimented for her charity. “I knew you’d have other things
on your mind. By the way, the last guest just arrived.
Serena took him upstairs to his room.”
“The director, Chips Madigan,” Judith murmured.
“I’d better say hello.”
But Renie and Chips were already coming back
down the stairs when Judith reached the entry hall.
“Hey, coz,” Renie called from over the balustrade,
“meet the Boy Wonder of the movies.”
Startled by Renie’s familiarity with the famous director, Judith was even more startled to see the Boy
Wonder. With his red hair, freckles, and gawky manner, Chips Madigan looked like a college freshman.
Half stumbling down the stairs, he grinned at his hostess, put out a hand, and almost knocked over a vase of
flowers with his elbow. He wore a viewfinder around
his neck, which he put to his eyes as soon as he
reached the landing.
“Wow!” Chips cried in excitement. “A great tracking shot into the living room. Bookcases, silver tea
service, lace curtains—this angle reeks of atmosphere.” He let the viewfinder dangle from his neck
and loped over to Judith.
“Hi,” he said with a big smile. “You’re Mrs. Flynn,
right? This is one swell place you’ve got here.” Chips
42 Mary Daheim got down on his haunches, the viewfinder again at his
eyes. “Great elephant’s-foot umbrella stand. It doesn’t
have a bad angle.”
Recalling the critical comments she’d overheard
from some of the other guests, Judith grinned back.
“Thank you, Mr. Madigan. I appreciate that.”
“Hey,” Chips responded, “my mom runs a bed-andbreakfast in Nebraska, right on the Missouri River. It’s
an old farmhouse. I’ll bet the two of you would get
along real well.”
“I’ll bet we would,” Judith agreed. Up close, she
could see that Chips wasn’t as young as he looked. The
red hair was thinning and there were fine lines around
his eyes and mouth. Maybe behind the camera he
coaxed rather than commanded his actors. Certainly he
emanated no aura of Hollywood’s legendary directors.
Judith found Chips Madigan’s friendly, boyish demeanor refreshing. Even endearing, she thought as he
turned toward the living room, tripped on the Persian
area rug, and sent his long, lanky frame sprawling
across the floor.
“Whoa!” Chips cried. “You’d never know I got my
start directing musicals!”
Though both Judith and Renie offered to help, he
politely brushed off their outstretched hands and
scrambled to an upright position on his own.
Judith noticed that none of the guests made the
slightest move to aid their fallen comrade. Indeed,
Chips Madigan’s unorthodox arrival was virtually ignored. Perhaps that was because Bruno Zepf was
standing in front of the fireplace, obviously over his
fright and looking like Napoleon about to rally his
generals.
SILVER SCREAM 43 Chips, however, seemed undaunted. With a cocky
air, he strolled into the living room and plopped down
on the window seat next to Angela La Belle, who had
also joined the company. At least three cell phones
were swiftly turned off. Judith was beginning to wonder if the devices were permanently attached to their
owners.
The director’s arrival was apparently a signal for
Bruno to shift gears. He took a cigar out of the pocket
of his denim shirt, rolled it around in his pudgy fingers,
and stuck it in his mouth, unlit.
“We’re assembled here on an historic occasion in the
annals of the motion-picture business.” The producer
paused to gaze around the long living room, from the
plate rails to the wainscoting. Several of his listeners’
expressions of distaste indicated that Hillside Manor
wasn’t worthy of so momentous a pronouncement.
“As you all know,” he continued after a sip of the
thirty-year-old Scotch he’d brought with him, “when I
first conceived
The Gasman, most people in the business told me it would be an impossible film to make.
The scope was too big, the concept too ambitious, the
goal too lofty, and the movie itself far too expensive
given the audience we’re aiming for.” He paused again,
this time gazing at the cousins, who were standing
under the archway between the entry hall and the living room. “Excuse me, ladies. This is a private meeting. Do you mind?”
“Not very well,” Renie shot back before Judith
could interfere.
“I’m sorry,” Judith broke in, yanking on her cousin’s
arm. “We were just checking to make sure you had
everything you needed for the social hour.”
44 Mary Daheim Winifred Best glanced at Judith in amusement. “The
social hour. How quaint.”
Bruno made a little bow to Judith and Renie. “We
have everything for now. You may go.”
Judith shoved Renie back into the entry hall. Renie
dug in with her heels and came to a dead stop at the
head of the dining-room table.
“That egotistical dork is treating us like slaves!” she
railed. “Who the hell does he think he is? I’ve faced off
with bigger fish before he came along!”
Judith knew that her cousin could back up her bluster. In Renie’s graphic design business, she had gone
up against everybody from Microsweet to the mayor.
She didn’t always win, but even if she lost, she still
managed to save face. Renie’s small, middle-aged matron’s appearance was deceptive. It concealed an abrasive manner that, upon occasion, could get physical.
Which was all the more reason why Judith had to keep
her cousin out of Bruno’s sight.
“Don’t even think about it,” Judith said under her
breath. She loomed over her cousin by a good five
inches, outweighed her by some forty pounds, yet Judith knew she was outmatched. Renie had had shoulder surgery on the same day that Judith had undergone
her hip replacement. If nothing else, Renie could still
run.
“Hey!” Joe Flynn’s voice cut through the kitchen
and into the dining room. “What’s going on? Still
fighting over who has the best Sparkle Plenty doll?”
Judith backed away from her cousin. Renie’s ire
evaporated, as it often did after the initial outburst.
“Not exactly,” Judith said, meeting her husband at
the swinging doors and giving him a big kiss on the
SILVER SCREAM 45 lips. “Boy, am I glad to see you. I’m not sure I’m ready
for the movies.”
“What’s wrong?” Joe inquired. “Aren’t your guests
behaving themselves?”
“It’s attitude,” Renie said, joining Joe and Judith
just inside the kitchen. “These creeps are loaded with
attitude, and some of it’s bad.”
“Relax,” Joe urged. “Years ago, I made big bucks
working security for location companies shooting
around town. I could keep the rabid fans and the
celebrity seekers and the nutcases away, but I couldn’t
offer the kind of security they really needed. The problem with these movie types is that they’re basically insecure.”
“That’s true,” Renie agreed. “Bill says that because
of the capricious nature of the business and the personalities involved in moviemaking, they’re constantly
seeking reassurance that they’re loved and wanted. Bill
sometimes uses feature films to study the behavior
of—”
Renie’s latest parroting of her husband’s expertise
was mercifully interrupted by Arlene, who poked her
head in the back door. “I took your mother’s supper out
to her. I’ve got to go home now and feed my darling,
patient Carl. To the dogs,” she added with a sinister expression.
“Thanks again, Arlene, I really appreciate . . .” But
Arlene was gone before Judith could finish the sentence.
“Have a drink on me, ladies,” Joe offered, taking
down a bottle of Scotch and a bottle of Canadian
whiskey from the cupboard. “What are the guests up
to?”
46 Mary Daheim Judith slumped into one of the kitchen chairs. “Listening to how wonderful Bruno is, from Bruno’s own
lips.”
“And,” Renie put in, opening the cupboard door by
the sink to get three glasses, “listening to Bruno tell
them how marvelous
The Gasman is, which I assume
they already know, having been involved in the making
of it.” Handing the glasses to Joe, she closed the cupboard door behind her. Or tried to. “Damn! What’s
with this thing? It won’t stay shut.”
Judith heaved a sigh. “Mr. Tolvang supposedly fixed
it when he was here, but the door still swings open on
its own.” She gave Joe a plaintive look from under her
dark lashes. “I don’t mean to nag, but I have mentioned
that you might look at it. I hate to ask Mr. Tolvang.
He’s so stubborn, he’d probably tell me I was imagining the problem.”
“I’ll give it a go,” Joe answered airily, handing Judith her Scotch. “I’ve been kind of busy lately.”
Judith didn’t respond. While Joe was slightly more
adept at household repairs than Bill, the Flynn to-do
list was never a priority.
“So what’s this movie about anyway?” Joe asked.
“A public utility?”
“Not exactly,” Renie replied. “Dade Costello—the
screenwriter—explained the basic plot to me.”
“That’s more than he did for me,” Judith remarked.
“Maybe you used the wrong approach,” Renie said.
“He’s kind of touchy. Sullen, too. Of course I’m used
to moody writers. Freelancers are the worst. They can’t
bear to have their precious copy rearranged so it will fit
the graphics. Anyway, the bare bones Dade sketched
out for me involve the entire history of the world as
SILVER SCREAM 47 seen through the eyes of a simple gasman. That is, an
employee who works for a gas company somewhere in
the Midwest.” Renie paused for effect. “Get it? Everyman in the middle of the country, the center of the universe.”
“I got it,” Joe murmured into his Scotch.
“Anyway,” Renie continued, sitting on the counter
with her glass of Canadian whiskey cradled in her
lap, “Bruno shows the viewer how certain periods of
history contributed to our evolution as a civilization.
He puts a positive spin on it, concentrating on early
forms of writing, the invention of paper, the printing
press, and so forth. Thus, he jumps from ancient
Egypt and China all the way up to the present. The
only problem that I can see is that it takes him four
hours to do it.”
“Wow,” said Judith. “I knew it was a long movie, but
isn’t that
too long?”
“There’s an intermission,” Renie responded. “I
gather Bruno wanted to do a real epic, sort of the upside of D. W. Griffith’s
Intolerance.”
“I’ll wait for the video,” Joe said. “I prefer scheduling my own snack and bathroom breaks.”
“I don’t blame you,” Renie said, “except that you’ll
miss the spectacle unless you see it on a big screen.”
Joe shrugged. “I’ll use my imagination. Besides,
how spectacular can it be watching Gutenberg set type
in his basement?”
The question went unanswered as Winifred Best entered the kitchen. “Where are the truffles?” she demanded. “Bruno must have his truffles. Served raw, of
course, with rosy salt. I assume you know how to prepare rosy salt?”
48 Mary Daheim Joe’s expression was benign. “Three parts salt, two
parts paprika, one part cayenne pepper.”
Judith was always amazed by her husband’s knowledge of fine cuisine. But she looked blankly at
Winifred. “I don’t recall seeing any truffles. Were they
shipped with the caviar and the other delicacies?”
Winifred’s thin face was shocked. “No! They were
shipped separately. Périgord truffles, from France.
They should have arrived this afternoon.”
Judith thought back to Phyllis’s comment about the
delivery truck that may or may not have stopped at
Hillside Manor. “I’ll check,” she said.
“You certainly will,” Winifred snapped. “And you’ll
do it now. Do you have any idea how rare, how delicate, and how
expensive those truffles are?”
Judith didn’t, but refused to admit it. She immediately dialed the number of FedEx’s tracking service.
They had made all the previous deliveries, so she assumed they had—or hadn’t—shipped the truffles.
“Yes,” the woman at the other end of the line said,
“that parcel arrived at your house and was signed for
by a Mrs. Gertrude Grover.”
Judith sucked in her breath, barely managing to
gasp out a thank-you. “Could you wait here?” she
asked Winifred. “I think I know where the truffles are.”
Winifred was aghast. “You
think?”
Judith didn’t pause for further criticism. She rushed
out to the toolshed, where Gertrude was watching TV
and finishing supper. The volume was so loud that Judith cringed upon entering the tiny living room.
“You’ll never guess what I saw on one of those talk
shows,” Gertrude said. “Men who love men who love
monkeys. What next?”
SILVER SCREAM 49 The query was ignored. Judith picked up the remote
and hit the mute button. “Mother, did you sign for a
package this afternoon?”
“A package?” Gertrude looked blank, then scowled
at her daughter. “Hey, turn that thing back on. I can’t
hear the news. There’s a bear loose in a used-car lot on
the Eastside.”
Judith put the remote behind her back. “Did someone deliver a package to the toolshed this afternoon?”
“Oh.” Looking distressed, Gertrude tried to sit up a
little straighter. “Yes, they did, and I’ve never seen anything so disgusting in my entire life. Who’d play such
an awful joke on an old lady? If you can call it a joke,”
she added in a dark voice.
Judith realized that her mother was serious. “The
package—where is it?”
Gertrude’s expression was highly indignant. “Where
it ought to be—down the toilet. At least it didn’t stink.
Much.”
“Oh, no!” Judith gasped. “That was . . . that
wasn’t . . . what did it look like?”
“I told you,” Gertrude said. “Like . . . you know
what. It was dark brown and all bumpy. It was just . . .
horrible. Now who would play such a filthy trick?”
Judith recalled seeing truffles in Falstaff’s delicacy
section. They had been grayish white and came from
Italy. Maybe French truffles were different. If their appearance was as loathsome as Gertrude had described,
she couldn’t blame her mother for flushing them down
the toilet.
“It wasn’t a joke,” Judith said, patting Gertrude’s
shoulder and handing over the remote. “It was a box of
truffles—sort of like mushrooms—and it was intended
50 Mary Daheim for the Hollywood guests. I’ve never eaten them, but I
guess they’re extremely delicious.”
Gertrude gave Judith an elbow. “Go on with you!
Nobody, not even those movie people, would eat anything that looked so foul.”
“I’m afraid they would—and do,” Judith replied. At
least they would if the truffles weren’t floating somewhere in the city’s sewer system. “Don’t worry about
it, Mother. It’s not your fault.”
“Of course it isn’t,” Gertrude huffed. “What are they
having for supper? Bacteria?”
Judith couldn’t discuss the matter further. She
headed back into the house, trying to come up with one
of her well-intentioned fibs to stave off the wrath of
Winifred and the rest of Bruno’s party.
As Judith entered the kitchen, Joe was answering
the phone. She gave him a questioning look, but he
shook his head. “It’s Bill,” he said, handing the receiver to Renie.
Winifred was waiting under the archway between
the entry hall and the living room. “Well?” she demanded, tapping a toe on the bare oak floor.
“The truffles were stolen,” Judith said. “A bushyhaired stranger burst into my mother’s apartment and
grabbed them off the table. He fled through the hedge
on foot.”
“What?”
Judith nodded several times. “I’ll notify the police at
once.”
Winifred looked homicidal. She also seemed incredulous. And, in fact, she was speechless.
Ben Carmody came to her side. “The truffles were
SILVER SCREAM 51 stolen?” he inquired in a mild voice. “That’s too bad.
But then I don’t like them.” As soon as the words were
out of his mouth, he shot a furtive glance at Bruno,
who was still standing by the fireplace. “I mean,” Ben
explained, “they’re not my favorite.”
Bruno eyed Judith, Ben, and Winifred with curiosity. “Did someone mention the police?”
Winifred pointed a long, thin finger at Judith. “She
claims the Périgord truffles were stolen.”
Bruno frowned. “Really?” He hesitated. “Calling
the police is a bad idea, even for a thousand dollars’
worth of truffles. We don’t need that kind of publicity.”
Chips Madigan jumped up from the window seat.
“How about a private detective?”
Bruno looked dubious, but before he could speak,
Judith broke in: “That’s a good idea. I know just the
man.” She paused and gulped. “I mean, my husband is
a private detective. I’m sure he can clear this up.”
Bruno shrugged. “Then let him do it.”
Winifred gave Bruno an inquiring look. “Are you
certain you want to do that? What do we know about
Mrs. What’s-her-name’s husband?”
All eyes were on Bruno. He scratched his bearded
chin before responding. “Why not? Maybe losing the
truffles isn’t our biggest problem.”
Nobody spoke, but there was much shifting of
stances and staring at the floor.
Finally, Winifred turned to Judith. “Very well. Let’s
have a word with your private detective husband.”
Judith tried not to grimace. Joe would not take well
to supporting his wife in one of her bold-faced lies.
“I’ll get him,” she said in a weak voice.
52 Mary Daheim She went back through the dining room and into the
kitchen. As she opened her mouth to explain the situation to Joe, Renie dropped the phone, let out a highpitched shriek, crawled under the kitchen sink, and
slammed the cupboard door behind her.
FOUR
“RENIE!” JUDITH CRIED, pulling on the handle of the
door beneath the sink. “Come out right now!”
“What the hell is she doing?” Joe demanded.
“She’s in shock,” Judith replied as the door—or
Renie—resisted her tugs. “I’ve seen her do this before. Once, when she found out she was pregnant
the third time, and again when she got the kids’ orthodontist bill.”
Joe bent down to pick up the receiver, but heard
only the dial tone. “So what is it?” he asked with a
worried expression. “Has something happened to
Bill?”
Placing the receiver on the counter, he nudged
Judith aside and gave the cupboard door a mighty
yank. Renie was folded up inside, pale of face, with
her chestnut curls in disarray, her mouth agape, and
her eyes almost crossed.
“Coz!” Judith urged, hampered by the hip replacement in her effort to kneel down. “What’s
wrong? Is it Bill?” Maybe he had another pumpkin
stuck on his head, Judith thought wildly. Maybe he
was suffocating. Maybe he
had suffocated. Maybe
Bill was dead.
54 Mary Daheim But Renie shook her head. “No,” she finally
croaked, struggling to crawl out of the small, cramped
space. “Where’s my drink?”
“You dropped it in the sink,” Joe replied, giving
Renie a hand. “The glass isn’t broken. I’ll make you
another.”
“Make it strong,” Renie said, then got to her feet and
half fell into one of the kitchen chairs. “After all these
years . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Judith sat down next to Renie. “Coz, if you don’t tell
us what’s happening, I’m going to have to shake you.”
“I’m already shaken,” Renie replied. “Down to my
toes.”
Joe gave Renie her drink, then reverted to his role as
detective. “Bill told you something. Therefore, he must
be alive and telephoning. Bill doesn’t like talking on
the phone. Thus, he must’ve had urgent news. Come
on, what was it? Something about your mother?”
Judith’s aunt Deb was the same age as Gertrude.
She, too, was in frail health and had been virtually confined to a wheelchair for many years. Judith knew that
it wouldn’t be surprising if Renie’s mother had . . .
But Renie was shaking her head. “No,” she said
after taking a deep swallow from her glass. “It’s our
kids. It’s why they made dinner. They thought I’d be
there, along with Bill.”
Joe frowned. “Your kids? All three of them?”
“All three of them,” Renie replied after another
quick quaff. “Tom, Anne, and Tony.”
“What about them?” Judith asked, beginning to
calm down. If the Jones offspring could make dinner,
they must be in one piece.
Renie set the glass down and wrung her hands.
SILVER SCREAM 55 “They’re getting married. All three. I think I’ll faint.”
She put her face down on the table.
“They’re
getting married?” Judith cried. “Are you
serious?”
“Of course I am.” Renie’s voice was muffled.
“Why, that’s wonderful!” Judith beamed at Joe. “It’s
what you hoped for, dreamed of, wanted to . . .”
Renie’s head jerked up. “But it’s such a shock. I
don’t know any of these people they’re marrying. Our
kids have had romances that went on and on and on,
then they all broke up at one time or another. But
these . . . future in-laws . . . are strangers. What if
they’re crazy or wanted by the police or . . .
poor?”
Renie wrapped her hands around her neck and made a
strangling gesture.
“Oh, good heavens!” Judith exclaimed. “Don’t be
such a snob! Why, when Mike and Kristin got engaged
I never cared for one minute if she or her family had a
dime.”
“Mike had a job,” Renie pointed out. “This is different. This is . . .” She swigged down the rest of her
drink and stood up. “I have to go home. Poor Bill. Poor
me. Good-bye.” Grabbing her jacket on the way out,
Renie dashed off into the rainy night.
“I hope she’s okay to drive,” Judith said with a worried expression.
“She only had one serious drink,” Joe responded.
“She’ll be fine.” He patted Judith’s shoulder. “Hey, can
I do anything to help with dinner?”
“Oh!” Judith jumped up. “Arlene did everything for
us. I just need to heat the rolls.”
“Sounds good,” Joe said. “I’ll wander out to peek in
on the guests.”
56 Mary Daheim Judith clapped a hand to her head. In all the excitement over Renie, she had forgotten about the proposal
to hire Joe as a private detective.
“Joe,” she said with her back to the oven, “wait.
Bruno Zepf wants to hire you.”
Joe’s round face was puzzled. “Me? Why? Didn’t
they bring their own security?”
“If they did, they’re at the Cascadia,” Judith replied.
“I mean, they’d want their own people for the premiere
and the costume ball, right?”
Joe gave a nod. “So they want me to watch out for
them while they’re here?”
“Sort of,” Judith hedged. “They also want you to
find out what happened to their thousand-dollar truffles.”
“Good God!” Joe paused, taking notice of Judith’s
jittery movements with the oven door. “What
did happen to the truffles?”
The answer came not from Judith but from Winifred
Best, who had reentered the kitchen. “They were
stolen by a bushy-haired stranger.”
Judith froze with her hand on the oven door. “I think
I’ll let Ms. Best explain it.” Putting the rolls on to heat,
she scooted out of the kitchen and into the pantry,
where Sweetums was sitting by the shelf that contained his cans of food.
But try as she might, Judith couldn’t hear the conversation between her husband and Winifred Best.
Winifred had lowered her usually sharp voice a notch
or two; Joe always spoke softly when he was in his
professional mode.
Instead, Judith heard other voices, loud and angry,
coming from the backyard. The pantry had no win-
SILVER SCREAM 57 dows, so she tiptoed into the hall to look out through
the door. Sweetums followed, meowing pitifully.
The wind, which was coming from the north,
splattered rain against the glass and blurred Judith’s
vision. Ignoring Sweetums’s claws, which were affixed to her slacks, she carefully opened the back
door.
In the darkness, she could make out two male figures near the driveway. They were arguing loudly, and
it looked as if they were about to come to blows.
The wind caught just a few words, sending them in
Judith’s direction: “. . . trashed what was a solid piece
of . . .”
“. . . bitching when you got paid as if you’d come up
with the whole . . .”
“. . . Why not? I had to virtually rework the damned
thing . . .”
The door blew shut, clipping Judith on the arm.
Sweetums continued to claw her slacks. With an air of
resignation, she opened a can of Seafarers’ Delight and
spooned it into the cat’s dish.
“Enjoy it,” she muttered. “It looks better than the
way Mother described those blasted truffles.”
There was a sudden silence in the kitchen. Winifred
must have returned to the living room. Judith took a
deep breath before rejoining Joe.
“Why?” The single word was plaintive.
Judith flinched. “I had to tell them something.”
Joe took a long sip of Scotch. “What really happened?”
Judith explained about the disgusting appearance of
the truffles and how Gertrude had—not without reason—flushed them down the toilet.
58 Mary Daheim “Great.” Joe leaned against the counter. “How about
telling the truth for once?”
Judith sighed. “I know,” she said, taking the green
salad out of the refrigerator. “Maybe I should have. But
I didn’t want to be liable for the loss of the truffles and
I didn’t want to get Mother in trouble.”
“You could have explained that your mother is
gaga,” Joe said. “That would have been the truth.”
“Well . . .” Judith swallowed hard. “It’s hard for me
to admit that sometimes she
is gaga. And in this case,
what she did made sense.” Taking silverware out of the
drawer, she gave Joe a bleak look. “What did you tell
Winifred?”
“That I’d check around,” Joe replied. “Without
charge. Tomorrow, I’ll them what really happened.”
“Oh.” Judith arranged the place settings, then
started out of the kitchen. “I want to check on something, too.”
Peeking around the corner of the archway into the
living room, she counted noses. Everyone was there.
But Chips Madigan and Dade Costello looked as if
their clothes were half soaked by rain.
Judith kept out of the visitors’ way as they lingered
over the social hour. Hillside Manor’s rule, though
never hard-and-fast, was that the hour was just that—
from six to seven. Most guests were anxious to leave by
then for dinner reservations or the theater or whatever
other activity they planned to enjoy during their stay.
The visitors from Hollywood were different. Apparently they dined later. Or maybe they never dined at
all. Perhaps they really were lotus-eaters, as depicted
by the scribes.
SILVER SCREAM 59 But they did leave eventually. Sometime between
eight-thirty and nine, the company trooped out to their
limos and disappeared into the October night. Joe
helped Judith tidy up the living room, which looked
not very much worse than it usually did after a more
conventional gathering of guests.
There was something different about the downstairs
bathroom, however. It wasn’t obvious at first. Judith,
who had started sneezing after dinner and fervently
hoped she wasn’t catching cold, sneezed again as she
rearranged the toiletry articles by the sink. A bit of
white powder floated up into the air and made her
sneeze again.
Judith looked at herself in the mirror. Ellie Linn had
almond-colored skin. Winifred Best’s complexion was
the color of milk chocolate. Angela La Belle was fair,
but not that fair. None of them would have worn such
a pale shade of face powder.
“Joe,” she called from the entry hall, “come here. I
want you to see something.”
Joe, who’d just dumped what he estimated to be
about three hundred dollars’ worth of uneaten hors
d’oeuvres into the garbage, came in from the kitchen.
“What is it?” he asked.
“You used to work vice years ago,” Judith said,
pointing to a small film of white powder at the edge of
the sink. “Is that what I think it is?”
Joe ran his finger in the dusty residue, then tasted it.
“Yes,” he said. “It’s what you think it is. Cocaine.”
“Damn!” Judith swore. “I suppose it’s to be expected.”
Joe nodded. “I’m afraid so. Too many Hollywood
types get mixed up with this stuff.”
60 Mary Daheim She sighed. “Well, it’s only for one more night.”
He chucked his wife under the chin. “That’s right.
Face it, they’re probably not the first guests you’ve
hosted who’ve had a habit.”
“That’s true.” Judith gave Joe a weary smile. “I’ll
just be glad when they’re gone. I prefer normal people.”
Joe lifted an eyebrow. “Like the gangsters and superstar tenors and gossip columnists you’ve had in the
past?”
Since all of the guests that he mentioned had been
murdered or involved in murder, Judith shuddered.
“No, not like that. I was thinking of the Kidds and even
the Izards. They’re the ones who should be here this
weekend, not this crew from L.A.”
Joe shrugged. “As you said, it’s only for one more
night. What could possibly happen?”
Around two A.M., Judith was awakened by muffled
noises from somewhere in the house. The guests, she
thought hazily, returning from their revels. When the
Flynns had gone to bed around eleven, the Hollywood
crew had not yet come back. But, as with all Hillside
Manor guests, they had keys to the front door. Judith
rolled over and drifted off again.
But moments later louder noises made her sit
straight up in bed. She glanced at Joe, who was snoring softly. He’d put in a long day; there was no need to
rouse him. Judith donned her robe and slippers, then
headed down to the second floor.
The lights were on in the hall. Bruno, clad only in
underwear decorated with Porky and Petunia Pig figures, was collapsed on the settee. Winifred and Chips
SILVER SCREAM 61 Madigan stood over him while Dirk Farrar peered out
from behind the door of Room Four. Angela, Ellie,
Ben, and Dade were nowhere to be seen.
“What’s going on?” Judith asked, noting that Bruno
was shuddering and writhing just as he had done on the
back porch.
Dirk opened the door a few more inches. “Another
damned spider. Big as a house. Or so he says.” He
smothered a smile.
“No!” Judith couldn’t believe it. In late summer,
harmless, if imposing, wood spiders sometimes
crawled into the basement, but it was too late in the
year for them to show up. She marched to Bruno’s
room, where the door was ajar.
Ben Carmody was standing by Bruno’s bed, laughing so hard that his sides shook. “Look,” he finally
managed to say. “It’s a spider, all right, but . . .”
Judith charged over to the bed, then gave a start.
“Ohmigod!”
A black, long-legged creature with a furry body lay
on the bottom sheet just below the pillows. Judith
stood frozen in place until Ben picked the thing up by
one leg and bounced it off the floor.
“It’s fake,” he said, still chuckling. “It’s one of those
rubber spiders kids have for Halloween. Where’s your
garbage? I’ll take it outside and dump the thing in
there.”
“Oh!” Judith put a hand over her wildly beating
heart, then reached out to Ben. “I’ll get rid of it. You
tell Mr. Zepf that the spider wasn’t real.”
Ben had grown serious. “Some prank. It could have
given old Bruno a heart attack.”
Judith stuffed the rubber spider in the pocket of her
62 Mary Daheim bathrobe and went back into the hall. No one except
Dirk seemed to notice her passage as she headed for
the back stairs. Five minutes later she returned to the
second floor, where Ben and Chips were helping a
rubber-legged Bruno back into his room. Winifred had
already disappeared and Dirk had closed his door. Judith continued up to the family quarters. She didn’t get
back to sleep for almost an hour.
Meanwhile, Joe continued to snore softly.
As usual, Judith had breakfast ready to go by eight
o’clock. Since it was a Saturday, and Joe had the day
off, he didn’t come downstairs until eight-fifteen.
“No-shows, huh?” he inquired, pouring himself a
cup of coffee.
“So far,” Judith replied. “I think they were out very
late.” She then recounted the incidents with both the
real and the fake spiders. “Bruno certainly is superstitious.”
“Typical,” Joe remarked. “Bill once said that Hollywood types were like gamblers. It makes sense. People
who make movies are gamblers.”
An hour passed before Judith heard anyone stirring
upstairs. Finally, Winifred Best appeared, her thin face
drawn.
“Very black coffee, please. With heated rusk.”
Judith didn’t recall that rusk had been on the list of
required grocery items. Still, Winifred wasn’t the first
guest to ask for rusk instead of toast. With considerable
effort, she got down on her knees and foraged in the
cupboard next to the sink.
“Ah!” she exclaimed. “Here it is.” She got up
slowly, which was fortunate because the temperamen-
SILVER SCREAM 63 tal cupboard door had swung out on its own. Judith hit
her head, but not very hard. Muffling a curse, she
looked around for Joe, then remembered that he’d
gone to the garage to tinker with his beloved MG.
“This coffee isn’t strong enough,” Winifred announced from the dining-room table. “Please make another pot, and double the amount.”
Winifred Best wasn’t the first demanding guest that
Hillside Manor had ever hosted, so Judith calmly put a
percolator on the stove. She kept reminding herself
that the current visitors were no worse than many she’d
had stay at the B&B. It just seemed that this bunch was
a wide-screen version in Dolby sound.
Moments later the rusk had been warmed in the
oven. Judith brought it out to the dining-room table.
“Has Mr. Zepf recovered from his latest fright?” she
inquired.
“Yes,” Winifred responded, giving the rusk a suspicious look, “though the rubber spider was a bit much.”
“Do you know who put it in Mr. Zepf’s bed?”
Winifred shot Judith a withering glance. “I do not.
Was it you?”
Judith recoiled. “Of course not! Why would I do
such a thing?”
“Because,” Winifred said with ice in her voice, “no
one else would dare.”
“Well, I certainly didn’t do it,” Judith huffed. “Nor
would anyone else around here. In fact, my husband
and I are the only residents in the house.”
“As you say.” Winifred took a small bite of rusk.
“The coffee will be ready shortly,” Judith said in
stilted tones.
“I should hope so,” Winifred said. “Rusk is hard to
64 Mary Daheim 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
SILVER SCREAM 65 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,
creating a frustrating breakfast service for Judith. Normally, she prepared three basic items and offered appropriate side dishes. But the menu requirements for the
Hollywood people were vast and varied. Angela La
Belle desired coconut milk, kiwi fruit, and yogurt. Dirk
Farrar requested a sirloin steak, very rare, with raw eggplant and tomato slices. Ellie Linn ordered kippers on
toast and Crenshaw melon. Ben Carmody preferred an
omelette with red, green, and yellow peppers topped
with Muenster cheese. An apparently restored Bruno
Zepf downed a great many pills, which may or may not
have been vitamins, shared the strong coffee with
Winifred, and ate half a grapefruit and a slice of dry
whole-wheat toast. Chips Madigan asked for cornflakes.
66 Mary Daheim Dade Costello never showed. The moody screenwriter had gone for a walk, said Ellie Linn. He wasn’t
hungry. Nobody seemed curious about his defection.
The omnipresent cell phones were in use again, especially by Bruno, Winifred, and Ben. Somehow they
all seemed capable of talking to whoever was on the
other end of the line and to members of the party at the
table. Between rustling up the various breakfast items
and making what seemed like a hundred trips in and
out of the dining room, Judith caught snatches of conversation. Most of it dealt with the logistics of the premiere and how to deal with the media. It struck Judith
that the only topic of conversation the group shared
was the movie business. Maybe it was the only thing
that really mattered to them. She tuned her guests out
and got on with the task of running Hillside Manor.
As soon as she finished clearing up the kitchen, Judith called Renie. “Give me the details,” she requested.
“Who’s marrying whom?”
An elaborate sigh went out over the phone line.
“I’m not sure I’ve got all this straight myself. Tom’s fiancée is the daughter of a local Native American tribal
chief. Her name’s Heather Twobucks, which is symbolic, since that’s about all the money Tom has managed to save over the years. But at least she’s got a
job—she’s the attorney for the tribe.”
“That sounds very good,” Judith put in.
“She’s also one of seven kids and does most of her
work pro bono,” Renie said. “As for Anne, the man of
her dreams is in medical school. You know what that
means. Anne will have to get a real job instead of making jewelry out of volcanic lava and selling it at street
fairs.”
SILVER SCREAM 67 “Mmm—yes, she probably will,” Judith agreed.
“What’s the future doctor’s name?”
“Odo Mann,” Renie replied. “She’ll become Anne
Mann. Personally, I wouldn’t like that.”
“Mmm,” Judith repeated. “And Tony?”
Renie let out another big sigh. “Tony’s beloved just
returned from Tangiers, where she was Doing Good.
She works for a Catholic charity and makes just about
enough to pay Tony’s monthly milk bill. She—her
name is Cathleen Forte—wants Tony to join her in the
leper colony over there.”
“Oh, dear.”
“That’s what I said,” Renie responded. “Except not
quite those words and much louder. Bill’s in a daze.”
“Yes, I can see that he might be,” Judith allowed.
“Have any of them set the date?”
“Not yet,” Renie said, “though Anne and Odo are
talking about next spring.”
“That gives you some time,” Judith remarked.
“Time for what?” Renie demanded. “Time to kidnap
our own children and seal them in the basement?”
“I mean,” Judith said, “to . . . um . . . get used to the
idea.”
“You’re no help,” Renie snapped. “I’m hanging up
now. Then maybe I’ll hang myself.” The phone went
dead in Judith’s ear.
It was noon before Winifred began bringing the costumes downstairs. Judith was astonished by the detail.
They had come, Winifred informed her, from one of
the big L.A. rental warehouses that stocked thousands
of garments, many of them worn in movies from fifty
and sixty years ago and lovingly restored.
68 Mary Daheim “Bruno and I considered using the costumes from
The Gasman, ” she explained, “but only Angela, Ben,
Dirk, and Ellie appear in the film. We could have
drawn from Wardrobe’s collection for bit players and
extras, but we decided it would make a statement if we
used older costumes. More in keeping with the picture’s theme, you see.”
Judith thought she recognized Ellie’s outfit. It
looked very much like one of Elizabeth Taylor’s gorgeous gowns in
Cleopatra. Angela’s was familiar, too,
though seen only briefly on the screen—Scarlett
O’Hara’s honeymoon ensemble from
Gone With the Wind.
Pointing to the flowing robes and burnoose for
Bruno, Judith made a guess:
“Lawrence of Arabia?” “Khartoum,” Winifred replied.
“Is this yours?” Judith gestured at a nun’s white
habit.
“Yes.” Winifred’s expression was rueful. “It’s a
generic nun’s costume, depicting the growth of the
monastic movement. We’re representing the eras the
movie focuses on. I preferred wearing something
closer to my own heritage, maybe Muslim dress, from
the period of Muhammad. But Bruno insisted that
he be Muhammad.” She waved a slim hand at the
Khar- toum robes. “So I end up being a nun, and I’m not even
Catholic.”
“I am,” Judith said, “and I think it’s a lovely habit.
Very graceful. You’ll look terrific.”
Winifred gave an indifferent shrug. “Whatever. Dirk
Farrar symbolizes the early Renaissance while showing off his manly physique in that silver-and-goldslashed doublet and tights. Tyrone Power wore it, I
SILVER SCREAM 69 think. The less lavish doublet and the fur-trimmed surcoat came from an MGM historical epic. Or maybe it
was Fox. Dade Costello’s wearing that for the era of
the printing press. The nineteenth-century frock coat
and top hat belong to Ben Carmody. The industrial revolution, of course. And Chips Madigan gets to dress as
the computer whiz kid.”
Judith smiled at the suntan pants, the flannel shirt,
the horn-rimmed spectacles, and the box of Twinkies.
Living in the land of Microsweet, she was familiar
with the outfit.
“What about the rest of the movie company? What
will they wear?” she asked.
“Whatever suits
The Gasman, ” Winifred replied.
“We left everybody else pretty much on their own.
They’ll conform, of course.”
The statement seemed to reflect the general attitude
of Bruno Zepf’s circle. Winifred had no need to add,
“Or else.”
Pointing at a stack of garment bags that lay on the
living-room floor, Winifred commented, “We’ll put
them in those. Remember, they have to be back by four
o’clock. The premiere is at six.”
Carefully, Judith picked up the Scarlett O’Hara costume. “I understand that the ball is at ten. What time do
you think you’ll be back here for the midnight supper?” She dreaded the idea of putting on such a late
event, but Bruno had consented to pay an extra two
grand, and Judith couldn’t refuse the money.
“A midnight supper is just that,” Winifred replied,
tucking her nun’s habit into one of the garment bags.
“We should return shortly before twelve.”
Judith gave an absent nod as she fumbled with the
70 Mary Daheim silks and taffeta that made up Angela’s post–Civil War
era gown.
“Careful!” Winifred cried. “Watch out for the decorative trim!”
“Right, okay,” Judith agreed. “Maybe I should turn
it over to protect the front of the outfit.”
Since Winifred didn’t argue, Judith did just that.
And stared.
The long black-and-white silk skirt and taffeta petticoat had been slashed in a half-dozen places from the
waist to the hem.
Winifred screamed.
Judith couldn’t stop staring, but a cold shiver crawling up her spine set off a familiar, terrifying alarm.
FIVE
“WIN?”
Ellie Linn was standing at the bottom of the
stairs, gazing into the living room. She saw Judith
and Winifred’s horror-stricken faces, and moved
quickly, if softly, to join them.
“What’s wrong?” Ellie glanced down at the torn
costume. “Oh, wow, that looks bad! What happened?”
Winifred was kneeling on the floor, pounding her
fists on the carpet. “Sabotage, that’s what happened!
Angela’s gown is ruined! Who would do such a
thing?”
Ellie rocked back and forth in her expensive
cross-trainers. She was wearing jeans and a longsleeved tee that didn’t quite cover her midriff. Judith
figured her for a size three at most.
“Golly, I don’t know,” Ellie said, gazing at the
ceiling. “Couldn’t Angela wear a bedsheet, cut two
eyeholes in it, and go as a ghost?”
“Ellie!” Winifred’s voice was sharp, then she
turned to Judith. “Do you think your local costume
shop could fix this?”
Judith studied the garment. “They’d have to replace the overskirt. I’ll ask them.”
72 Mary Daheim “The skirt—or what’s left of it—will have to be
saved,” Winifred declared, finally regaining control of
her emotions. “It’s the original.” She paused, tapping a
finger against her smooth cheek. “Yes, maybe an overskirt will do. But make sure it matches.”
Judith promised that she would. “By the way,” she
asked, “were these costumes still in Bruno’s room
where I had the UPS man deliver them?”
“Yes,” Winifred replied. “He was the only one who
had enough space.”
Ellie was kneeling down to study her
Cleopatra outfit. “You know, this really looks okay,” she observed.
“Don’t you love the gilded headdress? It’ll look way
cool with my long black hair.” For emphasis, she ran a
hand through her raven tresses. “Hey, Win, where are
the masks?”
“They’re still in Bruno’s room,” Winifred said, exhibiting the delicacy of a neurosurgeon in placing the
damaged Scarlett O’Hara costume into a garment bag.
“The masks are ready. Yours is marked with your name
on the inside.”
“Great.” Ellie stood up. “Wow”—she giggled—
“Angela’s going to be wild! I’ll tell her what happened
to her costume. You know—it’ll save you the trouble,
Win.” This time, her giggle sounded slightly sinister as
she headed for the entry hall.
“Ellie,” Winifred called after her, “don’t be mean!
Angela has enough problems as it is.”
Halfway up the stairs, Ellie leaned over the banister.
“Hey, Win, that’s not entirely my fault, is it?” The
young actress skipped up the steps, long hair swinging
behind her.
“I suppose,” Judith said in a musing tone as she put
SILVER SCREAM 73 Dirk Farrar’s doublet and hose into another garment
bag, “there’s bound to be jealousy between actresses
like Ellie and Angela.”
Winifred shot Judith a sidelong look. “Oh, yes.
You’ve no idea.”
Judith dared to risk a thorny question: “Enough that
Ellie would slash Angela’s gown?”
“No,” Winifred said flatly. “Ellie Linn doesn’t have
to resort to cheap stunts like that.”
Emboldened, Judith was about to ask why not when
Renie gave a shout from the kitchen.
“I’m here. I’m early. I’m out of my mind.”
Judith looked at her cousin, who had come into the
hallway and definitely appeared a little deranged. Her
hair, which was rarely combed unless she was attending a business meeting or a social event, was going off
in every direction of the compass. A smudge of dirt
stood out on one cheek and a pair of red socks peeked
through the holes in her shoes. Even the rattysweatshirt-and-baggy-pants combination that made up
Renie’s working ensemble was more disreputable than
usual. And old. The sweatshirt featured the Minnesota
Twins World Series victory in 1991.
“Good grief,” Judith breathed, “you do look sort of
awful.”
“I know.” Renie, who was carrying a large suitcase,
offered Winifred a desultory wave. “I had to get out of
the house. The children are arguing about who should
get married first. Bill left early for a very long walk,
maybe all the way to Wisconsin.”
Judith pointed to the suitcase. “Is that your costume?”
“Mine and Bill’s,” Renie replied. “We dumped the
74 Mary Daheim pumpkin idea. Bill’s glasses kept getting steamed up.
Oh!” she exclaimed, showing a spark of animation.
“Look at those costumes. They’re beautiful, and they
look familiar.”
Judith and Winifred explained how and why the
costumes had been chosen, then told Renie about the
damage that had been done to Angela’s.
Renie was genuinely upset. “That’s horrible. Bill
and I watched a special on TV a while ago about movie
costume restoration. It was criminal the way so many
of those gorgeous outfits had been left to deteriorate
and rot. If I hadn’t become a graphic artist, I might
have been a costume or a dress designer.”
“Then maybe you can help your sister here with getting these costumes to wherever she’s taking them,”
Winifred said briskly. “It’s almost twelve-thirty. We
don’t have much time, especially if Angela’s is to be
ready.”
Renie had bristled over the commanding tone in
Winifred’s voice, but Judith intervened, putting a hand
on her cousin’s arm.
“We’re not sisters,” she explained with a smile.
“We’re cousins. But we’ve always been as close as sisters. Closer, perhaps, without the sibling rivalry.”
“Lovely,” Winifred remarked, putting the last costume into a bag. “I’ll see you later.” She marched
toward the stairs and out of sight.
Driving to the top of Heraldsgate Hill, Judith allowed Renie two minutes to vent her ire about
Winifred’s high-handed manner. As they unloaded the
car in Arlecchino’s small parking lot, Judith gave her
cousin another three minutes to complain about the
Jones children. Then Judith insisted that Renie stay in
SILVER SCREAM 75 the car while she dealt with the costume store’s owner.
The cautions about the valuable ensembles and the discussion of how to repair Angela’s Scarlett O’Hara
gown took a full ten minutes. By the time she got back
to her Subaru, Renie was fuming again.
“You should have let me help you in there,” Renie
declared. “I’m not exactly a dunce when it comes to
color and fabric.”
“No, you’re not,” Judith acknowledged, “but it
would have taken twice as long with two of us. Time is
of the essence. Besides, I want to tell you about some
weird things that have been happening. Let’s drive to
Moonbeam’s, where we won’t be overheard by my
very peculiar guests.”
Moonbeam’s, however, was jammed and there were
no empty parking spots. On the Saturday before Halloween, the Heraldsgate Hill merchants had opened
their doors to all the trick-or-treaters in the area.
“I could have told you that,” Renie grumbled.
“While I was wasting away in the car, I counted eight
Harry Potters, four bunny rabbits, six fairy princesses,
three crocodiles, and two skunks. Not to mention assorted ghosts, witches, and skeletons. This part of the
avenue is a zoo—almost literally.”
Judith, who was stalled at the four-way stop between Moonbeam’s and Holliday’s Pharmacy, watched
the passing parade in awe. Not only were the children—from infants to teenagers—in costume, but so
were many of the parents. Adults dressed as prima ballerinas, football players, sheikhs, African warriors, Argentine gauchos, and a very realistic-looking gorilla
were strolling the sidewalks and filling the crosswalks
along with their offspring.
76 Mary Daheim “I forgot about all this,” Judith said. “They only
started doing it a couple of years ago. I guess I’ve been
too caught up with my guests to think much about Halloween.”
“You’d better have treats in store for tonight,” Renie
said. “I understand some of the kids will be going out
a day early because Sunday is a school night.”
“I bought all my candy a week or so ago,” Judith
replied. “Hey, where are we headed?”
“Let’s go down to the bottom of the hill,” Renie suggested. “I haven’t had lunch. How about you?”
“I forgot about lunch,” Judith admitted. “Okay, I’ll
turn off by M&M Meats and we’ll take the back way
out of here.”
Ten minutes later, the cousins were sitting in a
wooden booth at T. S. McSnort’s. Even there a handful
of customers were dressed for the holiday.
“Would it be terrible to have a drink?” Judith asked.
“I could use one.”
“So could I,” Renie responded. “It’s been a rough
outing at our house the past few hours.”
The cousins ordered screwdrivers, telling themselves that the orange juice would provide them with a
healthy dose of vitamin C. To Judith’s surprise, Renie
didn’t even bother to study the menu.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Judith asked. Renie was always hungry. Her metabolism could have permitted
her to gobble up at least two aisles of Falstaff’s Grocery in a single day.
Renie shook her head. “I’ve lost my appetite. Besides, Bill and I can’t afford food anymore. We have to
pay for all of Anne’s wedding and pony up for our
share of Tom and Tony’s. Are you forgetting how
SILVER SCREAM 77 Kristin’s parents tried to fleece you and Joe when Mike
got married?”
Judith hadn’t forgotten, but as usual, she tried to be
charitable. “I think it was mostly a misunderstanding.”
“Ha.” Renie looked up as their waitress brought the
drinks and asked if they wished to order their meal.
“I’m having just a cup of clam chowder,” Renie said.
Judith quickly perused the menu. “That sounds
good. Your chowder is so delicious. I’ll have the small
Caesar with it.”
Renie looked at the waitress again. “Yes, I should
eat some greens. I’ll have the Caesar, too. You can put
smoked prawns on it along with the anchovies. Oh, and
maybe I’ll make that a
bowl of chowder.”
The curly-haired waitress smiled. “Got it. Anything
else?”
Judith shook her head, but Renie held up a hand.
“How about the lox platter with the thin slices of rye
and onion and cream cheese and capers? That should
give me some strength.”
“Gee,” Judith said as the waitress trotted off, “I’m
glad you’re not hungry.”
“I’m not.” Renie sighed. “But I can’t allow myself
to become frail. Now tell me what’s going on at the
B&B.”
Judith complied, relating the rubber-spider incident
as well as the quarrel between Dade Costello and
Chips Madigan.
“Chips?” Renie said. “He doesn’t seem like a
fighter.”
“He’s tougher than he looks,” Judith said. “He has
to be, to deal with all those inflated egos when he’s directing a movie.”
78 Mary Daheim Renie tipped her head to one side in a gesture of assent. “Could you catch any of the exchange between
Chips and Dade?”
“Not much,” Judith admitted. “It sounded as if they
might be arguing about the script. They disagreed
about something or other. Maybe interpretation?
Would that make sense?”
“Yes,” Renie said slowly, “it could. Dade told me
The Gasman is based on a novel.”
“He told me the same thing.” Judith paused as the
salads arrived and the waitress sprinkled black pepper
over them. “Have you ever heard of it?”
“No,” Renie replied, attacking a plump pink prawn.
“I got the impression it was published years ago.”
“The concept for the movie sounds kind of weird,”
Judith said, “though I’m no film expert.”
Renie nodded. “I thought so, too. But I guess we’d
have to see it first. Bruno Zepf is a remarkable filmmaker. Remember his last movie,
They All Had In- fluenza?”
“I remember when it came out,” Judith said, savoring the tangy dressing on her salad. “But I didn’t see
it.”
“Neither did I,” Renie responded, buttering a slice
of Irish soda bread. “I heard it was a big hit, though,
and I think the critics liked it. It was about the terrible
flu epidemic of 1918, with imagery of the Black
Death. Or so Bill told me. He watched it on video one
night while I was at a baby shower for one of Anne’s
girlfriends.” Renie’s face fell. “Oh, gosh—do you suppose I’ll end up being a grandmother after all?”
“Why so glum?” Judith queried as the rest of their
order arrived. “I thought you envied my status.”
SILVER SCREAM 79 “I did. I do.” Renie sprinkled salt and pepper on her
bowl of chowder, then broke up a handful of water
crackers. “It’s just that . . . it’s kind of a shock somehow. All of this is a shock,” she said, dumping the
crackers into the chowder. “What if our kids all get
married at once?”
“That would save money,” Judith said dryly.
Renie brightened. “That’s a great idea. It would cut
down on arrangements, too. Anne’s already talking
about where she wants to have the reception.”
“Are you going to suggest a triple wedding?” Judith
asked.
Renie grimaced. “It sounds a little like the Reverend
Moon extravaganzas. I don’t know that the kids would
go for it.”
“It’s an idea,” Judith said as a familiar figure at the
bar caught her eye. “Hey—coz,” she said in a whisper,
“turn around as discreetly as you can to see who just
showed up for a drink.”
“Let’s try this,” Renie said, dumping her knife on
the floor. “I prefer using my hands when I eat anyway.”
She bent down to pick up the knife, then glanced up to
see Ben Carmody a mere ten feet away.
“Why isn’t he swilling down Bruno’s expensive
stash of alcohol at the B&B?” Judith murmured, noticing that some of the other customers were trying not to
stare at Ben. “Why is he here, alone?”
“Because,” Renie replied, loading a slice of rye with
lox, “he wants to be just that—alone. You know, like
Garbo.”
“I suppose.” Judith kept her eye on the actor. “He’s
ordering what looks like straight vodka. Two, in fact.
Uh-oh. Here comes Ellie Linn. Now what?”
80 Mary Daheim “Maybe the second vodka is for her,” Renie suggested.
Between bites of salad and spoonfuls of chowder,
Judith watched the couple at the bar, who were now
being eyeballed by at least a dozen other customers.
Typical of a city known for its good manners, none of
the oglers approached the famous pair.
A glass of white wine was placed before Ellie; Ben
downed both shots of vodka.
“They’re having a very serious conversation,” Judith
said. “I’m trying to read their body language. Oddly
enough, Ellie seems to be in control. She’s all business.
That strikes me as peculiar. I figure her for no more
than twenty or twenty-two at most.”
Renie had lapped up her chowder and almost finished the lox plate. “The control factor is money,” she
said. “Her dad, Heathcliffe MacDermott, is the hot-dog
king, remember? I heard he put money into
The Gas- man.”
“Why? To ensure that Ellie got a good part?”
“I suppose,” Renie replied, breaking up more crackers. “I don’t think she’s made more than two or three
movies before this.”
When the cousins had finished their meal and paid
the bill, Ben and Ellie were still head-to-head. Ben was
on his third vodka, though Ellie had barely touched her
wine. Unnoticed, Judith and Renie left T. S. McSnort’s
and headed back to Hillside Manor.
Joe met them in the driveway. “Nobody’s home except that writer, Costello. I tried to tell him about your
mother’s mistake, but he blew me off. I still think that
it serves them right. A grand for a bunch of mushrooms. Sheesh.”
SILVER SCREAM 81 “I know.” Judith started for the back door with
Renie behind her.
“Do you need some help?” Joe called after them.
“Not yet,” Judith replied. “You and Bill and Carl
Rankers will be waiters at the midnight supper, remember?”
Joe looked amused. “I remember. I’m dressing as a
choirboy.”
“So you are.” Judith sighed. “I’m dressing as a
Roman slave. It fits my role to a
T. Oh,” she added as
an afterthought, “you’ll have to pick up the costumes
from Arlecchino’s before four.” Keeping it brief, she
explained the damage that had been done to Angela’s
Scarlett O’Hara outfit.
“Sabotage?” Joe said. “What’s with this bunch?”
“Jealousy, hatred, malice, hostility,” Renie put in.
“All the usual Hollywood emotions.”
Joe shrugged. “I’m glad I never wanted to be a
movie star. Being a cop seems like a breeze by comparison. Perps aren’t nearly as vicious as people in the
movie business. Though,” he continued in a musing
tone, “I suppose a cop’s life is always interesting to
filmmakers.”
Judith scowled at Joe. “What are you thinking of?”
Joe gave Judith an innocent look. “Nothing. Not
really.”
“Good,” said Judith, and went into the house.
For the next hour the cousins worked in the kitchen,
preparing the supper dishes that could be made ahead.
Joe finally came in from the garage around three. He
was carrying a battered FedEx package.
“The deliveryman just brought this,” he said. “Shall I?”
82 Mary Daheim “Go ahead, open it,” Judith replied, wiping her
hands off on a towel. “It must be more exotic items for
tonight, though I thought we already had everything on
hand.”
“Whatever it is, it’s marked
perishable,” Joe said,
using scissors to cut the strong paper wrapping. “In
fact, I guess this was supposed to arrive yesterday. The
driver apologized, but explained that because it came
from overseas—” He stopped cold as he saw the box.
“It’s French truffles.”
Judith stared at the embossed gold lettering. “Périgord truffles. Dare we?” She cut away the tape that
sealed the box and lifted the lid. “Yuk! No wonder
Mother threw the other box out!”
Renie peered around Judith’s arm. “Oh, for heaven’s
sake, it’s just a bunch of brown truffles! I wouldn’t
mind tasting one.”
“Bleah!” Judith stuck out her tongue. “Go right
ahead. I wouldn’t touch those things with a ten-foot
pole.” But even as Renie picked up a paring knife, Judith smacked her hand. “No, you don’t! These are for
the guests, and now that they got here, Joe can pretend
he found them.”
“Hey,” Joe cried, “that would be a lie! I’m not accepting a fee on false pretenses.”
“Ooh . . .” Judith ran an agitated hand through her
salt-and-pepper hair. “It just seems to me that after all
the—” She stopped and sighed. “You’re right, we’ll
tell them the truth. The truffles got held up because
they came from”—she looked at the mailing label on
the wrapper—“Bordeaux.”
“Makes sense,” Renie remarked.
Judith turned to her cousin. “What does?”
SILVER SCREAM 83 Renie held out her hands. “That it would take longer
than if they came from Butte, Montana.”
Judith blinked at her cousin, then looked at Joe.
“True,” she said in a distracted voice. “But would they
send two boxes? I wonder what was in the package that
Mother flushed down the toilet?”
Judith offered up a prayer of thanksgiving when Joe
brought the costumes back from Arlecchino’s at threefifty. The Scarlett O’Hara costume had been mended,
if not restored. While Judith and Renie were examining it, Angela La Belle wandered into the living room.
“Oh,” she said in a disinterested voice, “that’s mine,
isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Judith replied. “I had the costume shop put
on a different skirt. It looks rather nice, doesn’t it?”
Angela barely glanced at the costume. “I guess.
Where’s Dade? Bruno’s looking for him.”
Judith said she hadn’t seen him, but understood that
he was the only member of the Zepf party who hadn’t
gone out that afternoon.
“Well, he’s not down here, and he’s not in his
room,” Angela declared. “Maybe he flew back to Malibu.” With a languid toss of her long blond hair, the actress wandered out to the front porch.
Renie gave Judith an inquiring look. “She doesn’t
seem very upset about her costume, does she?”
“No,” Judith said. “I thought she’d pitch a fit.”
Renie got up from her kneeling position. “What
time do they leave for the premiere?”
“Five,” Judith replied, heading for the kitchen.
“That doesn’t give them much time to dress,” Renie
pointed out.
84 Mary Daheim “They’re dressing at the hotel with the others,” Judith said, putting a mixture of salmon pâté into the
food processor. “The movie theater is just a minute’s
walk from the Cascadia, but they’ll still show up in
limos, so I suppose they’ll drive around the block a
couple of times first.”
“It’ll be a mob scene,” Renie remarked, cutting up
scallions. Her gaze traveled to the American artists’
calendar she’d given Judith for Christmas. “Say, how
much have you learned about twentieth-century
painters from that? I hoped it would be a teaching
tool.”
“I’ve learned there are a lot of them I don’t like,” Judith replied. “I must admit, though, September taught
me something. I didn’t realize that John Singer Sargent
painted anything but portraits.”
Renie went over to the wall and flipped back a page.
“Ah—
Spain. Sunlight and tiled roofs and fat green
plants in terra-cotta pots. Done with daubs and blobs.
Very different from
Madame X.” She returned to dicing
vegetables. “How many are coming for the midnight
supper?”
“The current guest list,” Judith said, “plus a few others connected with the film.”
“Not the entire Hollywood crew?”
Judith shook her head as she went to the pantry to
get a jar of mayonnaise. “This bunch will mingle with
the others at the costume ball in the hotel.”
“I hope they don’t stay late,” Renie called after her
cousin. “You know how Bill likes to make an early
evening of it.”
“He’ll have to tough it out tonight,” Judith said,
holding the jar of mayo and glancing out the back-door
SILVER SCREAM 85 window. “I really appreciate—” She stopped. “There’s
Dade Costello. He just came out of the toolshed.”
The screenwriter shambled along the walk, indifferent to the rain that had begun to fall again. Judith
opened the door for him.
“Hi,” she said. “Were you visiting my mother?”
“Mrs. Grover?” Dade nodded. “Interesting woman.”
“She is?” Judith bit her tongue. “I mean,
you found
her interesting.”
“Yes.” Dade proceeded down the hall, through the
kitchen, the dining room, and disappeared.
“Good grief,” Judith muttered. “I hope Mother
wasn’t telling Dade a bunch of tales like she did with
Bruno.”
“I wouldn’t put it past her,” Renie said.
Half an hour later the limo drivers arrived, along
with a small van in which the other costumes were
loaded. The guests straggled downstairs, Bruno and
Winifred first, then Dirk Farrar, Chips Madigan, and
Angela La Belle. Ben Carmody came next, apparently none the worse for his three shots of vodka.
Ellie Linn descended the stairs backward, humming
to herself. Finally, Dade Costello appeared. As usual,
he seemed to detach himself from the others as the
limos filled up.
Judith and Renie watched from the entry hall. At
precisely five o’clock, the trio of sleek white cars
pulled out of the cul-de-sac like so many ghosts floating just above the ground. Blurred by the rain, even the
headlights seemed ethereal in the gathering darkness.
“To work!” Renie exclaimed, holding up a finger
and marching into the kitchen.
But Judith paused at the foot of the stairs. “Now that
86 Mary Daheim they’re gone, I’ll straighten their rooms. Arlene should
be here to help in about twenty minutes.”
The state of the guest rooms was no better and no
worse than when they were used by more ordinary
mortals. Indeed, Dade Costello’s small quarters looked
as if it had never been occupied. The bed was made,
the bureau was bare, and no clothes had been hung in
the closet. Everything that Dade had brought with him
appeared to be contained in a suitcase and a briefcase.
Both were locked.
Though it showed signs of human habitation,
Winifred’s room was also orderly; so was that of Chips
Madigan. The bathroom that Chips shared with Ellie
and Angela was another matter. Hairdryers, curling
irons, magnifying mirrors, and at least two dozen
beauty products were strewn everywhere. Judith
looked around the sink for any signs of what Joe had
deemed to be cocaine. There were none.
Room Six, where the two actresses were bunking
together, was as untidy as the bathroom. Clothes were
everywhere, all casual, all bearing designer labels. At
least ten pairs of shoes littered the floor. Upon closer
scrutiny, Judith saw that except for some size-four
cross-trainers and strappy sandals, the rest belonged to
Angela’s size-seven feet.
In Room Four, Dirk and Ben’s movie stardom was
made known by a pile of scripts and a file folder
marked
projects. Judith glanced at the script on top
of the stack.
All the Way to Utah, by Amy Lee Wong.
Flipping through the script, she saw severe editing
marks on almost every page as well as derogatory
comments, some of them obscene. She replaced the
script, then dared to look inside the project file,
SILVER SCREAM 87 which contained loose newspaper and magazine clippings.
Judith extracted one of the clippings, which was
printed on slick paper. The headline read, MUCHO
MACHO COSTS FARRAR A GAUCHO.
Hunkster Dirk Farrar’s two-fisted attack on Mighty
Mogul Bruno Zepf has cost the actor the lead role
in Zepf’s Argentine epic,
El Gaucho Loco O No. The brouhaha occurred outside a restaurant last
week in Marina Del Rey when producer and actor
got into an argument over who would star in
All the Way to Utah, a project Zepf has temporarily put on
the back burner.
Judith slipped the clipping back into the file. She
shouldn’t be wasting her time snooping. There was
work to be done. Briskly, she went into Bruno Zepf’s
room. On the nightstand were at least ten pill bottles
along with a couple of tubes of ointment, an inhaler,
and two small brown-paper packets that felt as if they
held some kind of tablets. A tiny scrap of paper that
looked like part of a prescription lay on the floor. Judith picked it up, but could only make out the words
pharmacy and
thalidomide. She looked at the medications on the nightstand, but their labels were intact.
With a shrug, she put the little scrap in the wastebasket, then returned to her tasks.
Straightening the bed, Judith noticed a thick book
with a tattered cover and frayed pages slipped under
one of the shammed pillows. She picked it up, barely
making out the sunken lettering on the cover.
The Gasman.
88 Mary Daheim Opening the book, she noted the author’s name—C.
Douglas Carp. The copyright was 1929. The publisher,
Conkling & Stern of St. Louis, was unfamiliar to her.
What struck Judith was not the density of the prose but
the well-fingered pages. It reminded her of an aged,
much-loved, well-thumbed family Bible. Fragile
pieces of leaves and flowers, brittle with age, had been
placed between some of the pages. There was a small
lock of hair so fine it could have belonged to a baby.
Then, as she riffled through the last chapters of the
nine-hundred-page novel, a photograph fell out onto
the bedspread. It was a wallet-size picture of a young
woman, perhaps still in her teens. Like the book, the
photo was well-worn, but the girl’s face was fresh, innocent, pretty. Judith thought it might be a high-school
yearbook picture. She flipped it over, but nothing was
written on the back. The blond bouffant hairstyle indicated the sixties. Judith stared at the photo in fascination. She’d seen that face somewhere else, not so
young and definitely not so innocent.
But she couldn’t remember where. Or who.
SIX
WHEN JUDITH GOT back downstairs, five early young
trick-or-treaters came to the front door. While Renie
doled out candy to the zebra, the gorilla, the fairy
princess, and two wizards, Judith welcomed Arlene,
who had just reported for duty.
“I watched everyone leave for the premiere,” Arlene said, rolling up her sleeves to pitch in with the
cooking. “I hope Ben Carmody will like Cathy. I’ve
asked her to stop by for the midnight supper.”
Judith’s mouth fell open. “You have? But it’s supposed to be strictly for the movie people.”
“That’s all right,” Arlene replied. “Cathy’s going
to tend bar. She’s dressing as a panda.”
“Surely,” Renie remarked, “that costume will
conceal her charms.”
“And hide her flaws,” Arlene replied. “Mystery,
that’s what intrigues men. Ben will be able to see
her very attractive hands. She can’t wear paws if
she’s going to mix drinks.”
Judith didn’t contest Arlene’s decision. If Cathy
Rankers played bartender, Judith and Joe would not
have to share her duties. For the next few hours the
90 Mary Daheim women worked side by side until eleven o’clock when
all was in virtual readiness.
“I’m already exhausted,” Renie announced, leaning
against the sink. “Is Bill still napping on the sofa?”
“Yes,” Judith replied. “So’s Carl. On the other sofa.
Joe’s watching TV upstairs. He should be down in a
few minutes. Unless he’s napping, too.”
“Hey,” Renie said, suddenly rejuvenated and jumping away from the sink. “Let’s turn the TV on to
see—”
The cupboard door behind her sprang open, narrowly missing her head.
“Oops!” Renie exclaimed, then firmly closed the
door. “I wish you’d fix that thing.”
“Me too,” Judith agreed. “If Joe doesn’t give it a go,
I’ll have to call Mr. Tolvang next week. Say, do you
think the premiere is on the news?”
“Probably,” Renie replied, testing the cupboard door
to make sure it was shut.
Judith clicked on the small color set she kept on the
counter near her computer. Mavis Lean-Brodie, a familiar face from murders past, was making dire predictions about a storm blowing down from the north.
“. . . with winds gusting up to forty-five miles an
hour and heavy rains. Small-craft warnings are out on
the . . .”
“She changed her hair again,” Renie remarked.
“Now it’s pink.”
“I hope the rain lets up,” Arlene said in a doleful
voice. “It always seems to be nasty when the trick-ortreaters are making their rounds.”
“That’s because it’s late October,” Renie replied.
“We get some of our worst wind storms about now.”
SILVER SCREAM 91 “. . . For more on the weather,” Mavis was saying,
“our own Duff Stevens will be along later in the broadcast. But,” she added, now all smiles, “despite the rain,
the stars were out tonight downtown. Here’s KINETV’s entertainment editor, Byron Myron, with more
on that big event.”
Byron Myron was a jolly-looking black man whose
appearance belied a rapierlike tongue. He was shown
outside the movie theater holding an umbrella.
“
The Gasman arrived here this evening,” Byron
said, “and blew out the main line.” The camera traveled
to the glittering marquee, followed by clips of the
celebrity arrivals. “Bruno Zepf’s four-hour, hundredmillion-dollar extravaganza proved that money can’t
buy you love—or a good movie.”
“There’s Angela in her
Gone With the Wind costume,” Renie whispered as the female lead was shown
entering the theater.
“How can you tell?” Arlene whispered back. “She’s
wearing a mask.”
“I saw the costume here,” Renie said. “In fact,
somebody ripped—”
Judith waved a hand to shush the other women.
“. . . story which was based on an obscure novel of
the same name,” Byron Myron was saying, “doesn’t
merit four minutes, let alone four hours. As for the acting, the performers are in the unenviable position of
creating several different characters during the various
historical periods Zepf has chosen to make his statement about humanity’s progress over four millennia.
Or was it five? I’m not sure. The movie seemed to take
almost that long. This is Byron Myron, reporting
from—”
92 Mary Daheim Judith switched off the set. “Goodness. That doesn’t
sound so good for Bruno.”
“Maybe,” Renie suggested, “Byron Myron feels he
ought to trash the movie because it was filmed on location around here and the city hosted the premiere.
He may feel that if he praised it, he’d sound like a
homer.”
“Maybe,” Judith allowed, then started turning on
ovens and putting dishes on to heat. “The Zepf gang
will be back here in a little over half an hour. We
should get into our costumes. So should the husbands.”
As the three women changed in the third-floor bedroom, they could hear the wind begin to pick up in the
trees outside. The rain was coming down harder, too,
spattering the windows and running out of the downspouts.
Judith stared at herself in the mirror. She looked
more like a noble Roman lady than a humble slave.
The off-white gown was held on one shoulder by a
brooch that had belonged to Grandma Grover. An old
drapery cord served for the belt, and the scarf that hung
from her head was anchored by an ivory comb that was
a castoff from Auntie Vance.
“Gee, coz,” Renie said, “you look pretty hot.”
Judith had to admit that the long, graceful gown
suited her statuesque figure. “Thanks,” she said. “I
wish I could say the same for you.”
Renie tucked the head of her Daisy Duck costume
under her arm. “I thought my tail feathers were kind of
sexy.”
“Not as sexy as your big webbed feet,” Judith said,
then turned to Arlene, who looked somewhat more enchanting as Gretel, complete with long golden braids and
SILVER SCREAM 93 a gingerbread cookie embroidered on her apron. “How
does Carl feel about wearing Hansel’s lederhosen?”
“He loves it,” Arlene declared as a knock could be
heard on the door.
“We’re decent,” Judith called out.
Carl stuck his head in. “I hate lederhosen. Why
couldn’t I wear pants?”
“There’s nothing wrong with your legs, Carl,” Arlene retorted. “Just don’t walk like you’re knockkneed. And don’t forget your hat with the feather.”
The women joined the men, who had been changing
in Joe’s den. Judith thought Carl looked cute in his
Hansel outfit. With his round face and ruddy cheeks,
Joe made a presentable, if aging, choirboy. And Bill
certainly looked like Donald Duck. He couldn’t appear
otherwise, since he had his head in place along with
the rest of his costume.
“Quack, quack,” said Bill.
“Yes, you look terrific,” Renie replied, giving Bill’s
bill a tweak.
“You understood that?” Judith asked in surprise.
“Of course,” Renie answered. “Bill and I have been
married so long we can communicate in any language.”
Downstairs, Cathy was pounding at the back door.
Arlene let her daughter in. It was a tight squeeze, the
panda suit being very round and very wide.
“The head ruined my hair,” Cathy complained, batting at her blond locks with the hand that didn’t hold
the head itself. “This thing is hot. And now it’s wet
from the rain. I smell like a sheep, not a panda.”
“What does a panda smell like?” Renie inquired in
a musing tone.
94 Mary Daheim “Not as bad as I do,” Cathy complained.
“Now, dear,” Arlene soothed, “we all have to suffer
for love.” She gave Carl a sharp glance. “Think of what
I’ve had to put up with over the years.”
“Stick it in the oven, Gretel,” Carl shot back.
Bill waddled over to the cupboards by the work
area. “Quack, quacky, quack?” He addressed Renie.
“In here,” Renie replied, opening a cupboard underneath the counter. “Judith has four kinds of cocoa. You
choose.”
“Quack,” Bill said, pointing to the German chocolate brand, then to a row of cereal boxes on the bottom
shelf. “Quack,” he said, indicating the Cheerios.
“Quack,” he continued, tapping the Grape-Nuts.
“Quack,” he concluded, nudging a box of bran.
Renie placed her Daisy Duck head on the counter.
“You should have had your evening snack at home,”
she said in mild reproach. “I’ll have to heat the cocoa
in the microwave. All the burners are in use.”
“Quack,” said Bill.
Judith shook her head. She’d never understood how
her cousin, who was usually so fractious, could wait on
Bill hand and foot. At least some of the time. But
Renie was equally willing to spoil their children. It
seemed out of character, and therefore illogical. And
logic was the cornerstone of Judith’s thought
processes.
Bill had finished his snack and the final preparations
were being made when the first of the limos arrived
back at Hillside Manor. Judith went to the door.
The wind and rain seemed to blow the trio inside.
As Cleopatra, Ellie Linn was shivering with the cold,
despite the black cloak that hung from her shoulders.
SILVER SCREAM 95 “T-t-this awful weather!” she cried. “I’m g-g-going
t-t-to catch pneumonia!” She burst into hysterical
laughter and fled into the downstairs bathroom.
“That’s how she handles adversity.” Winifred
sneered. “The silly twit.” In her nun’s habit, Winifred
moved closer to Bruno. She seemed to be holding him
up as he stumbled through the entry hall. “Scotch,
quickly!” she cried. “Mr. Zepf isn’t feeling well.”
The liquor bottles that the guests had brought with
them were on the makeshift bar in the front parlor, but
Bruno’s favorite Scotch remained on the old-fashioned
washstand that served as a smaller bar in the dining
room. Judith grabbed the bottle and a glass, rushed to
the kitchen to get ice, and hurried back to the living
room, where Bruno was now slumped on one of the
sofas. His flowing robes and burnoose from
Khartoum sagged along with the rest of him.
“My God,” he whispered as Winifred took the drink
from Judith and raised it to his lips. “I’m ruined.” He
took a deep sip from the proffered glass, then raised his
white-robed arms as if invoking the gods of filmdom.
“
The Gasman had everything to please audiences—
sex, violence, art—even a small cuddly dog.”
Chips Madigan paused in his path across the room.
“I told you to leave the chimpanzee in. Chimps are always good.”
“Chimps are a desperation measure,” Bruno muttered as Chips moved on. “He’s a director, he knows
that. My God, think of the money we wasted on the TV
advertising budget alone!”
The cell phone in Winifred’s lap rang. She picked it
up, but had difficulty getting the earpiece under her
wimple. “Best here,” she finally said. Then she low-
96 Mary Daheim ered her eyes and her voice. “Yes . . . yes . . . we
know . . . morons . . . imbeciles . . . philistines . . .
yes . . . I’ll contact them first thing tomorrow, before
we leave for the airport . . . yes, have an ambulance
waiting . . . good.” She clicked off and suddenly
looked up at Judith. “What are you waiting for? Mr.
Zepf has his drink.”
“I wondered if there was anything else I could get
for him,” Judith said as a small man in a matador’s suit
of lights and a large woman dressed like Carmen in Act
IV of the opera entered the living room. “Is he ill?”
“Yes,” Winifred replied tersely, then caught sight of
the new arrivals. “Oh, damn! I must speak to Morris
and Eugenia.” Her gaze softened. “Mrs. Flynn, would
you sit with Mr. Zepf for just a moment?”
“Of course,” Judith replied, and perched on the edge
of the sofa.
A deep groan was coming from somewhere in the
folds of the burnoose. “It’s plague! It’s devastation!
It’s . . . the end.”
“Goodness,” Judith said. “Do you need a doctor?”
Bruno pushed the folds of his robes aside and
looked at Judith with bleary eyes. “It’s the critics. We
flew them in from all over the world. Those damnable
thickheaded critics. They hate
The Gasman. Every one
of them so far has trashed the picture. And how they
ate at the masked ball! They savage me, then they gobble up everything but the silverware!”
Judith tried to think of something positive to say.
“What about the audience? Sometimes, I’ve heard,
critics may hate a movie, but audiences adore it.”
Bruno’s head fell back against the sofa. “They
walked out. The theater was less than half full after the
SILVER SCREAM 97 intermission. We should have barred the doors. Oh, my
God, what’s to become of me?”
Ellie entered the living room with great caution, as
if she expected someone to hand her a poisonous asp.
She was still shivering inside the heavy black cloak as
she sidled up to Bruno and leaned down. “Hey, maybe
it’s not so bad. You know—every great producer has a
flop sometimes. Look at all the successes you’ve had.”
“That was then,” Bruno muttered. “This is now.”
Dade Costello, in his long brown velvet mantle and
Frisbee-shaped hat, passed in back of the sofa behind
Bruno. “I told you so,” he said, and moved on.
Bruno groaned some more. A cell phone rang from
somewhere. Bruno automatically reached for his, but
no one was on the other end. His expression was bleak
as Ellie pulled out her own cell to take the call.
“Yes,” she said. “I know.” Her sweet face turned
sour. “But . . . isn’t it possible that . . . Yes, I suppose
you’re right. Still . . .” She listened, then sighed.
“Okay . . . If you say so. Sure, you know I always do.
Bye.” She rang off, shot Bruno a blistering look, and
walked off toward the bar, where another newcomer,
attired in a pioneer woman’s gingham dress and floppy
bonnet, was accepting a drink from Cathy Rankers.
Angela La Belle came over to the sofa. Judith drew
back, assuming the actress wanted to speak with
Bruno. But Angela ignored the producer and spoke to
Judith instead.
“I see the truffles finally turned up. At least one
good thing happened tonight.” With a swish of Scarlett’s skirts, she turned away.
“You see?” Bruno whispered hoarsely. “You see
how they turn on me? That’s the way the business
98 Mary Daheim works. A hundred successes and one failure—that’s all
it takes to bring you down, to make you a nobody.”
Judith glanced around the big living room. Still
wearing their masks, Ben Carmody and Dirk Farrar
were talking by the piano. Judith recognized them by
their costumes. Dirk cut a dashing figure in his satinslashed doublet and hose; Ben looked more like his
sinister screen self in the nineteenth-century frock coat
and top hat. Judging from their body language, neither
seemed happy.
“Surely,” Judith said, her naturally kind heart filling
with sympathy for Bruno, “you don’t really believe
that you’re . . . um . . . washed up in Hollywood?”
Bruno’s eyes darted under the hood of his
burnoose. “See? They’re staying as far away as possible, like I’m poison, contagious. Do you watch pro
football?” He saw Judith give a faint nod. “Then you
know how the other players usually avoid a fallen
teammate. They’re superstitious, too; they think that if
they touch the downed man, they’ll be the next to get
hurt. That’s the way it is in the picture business. An injury, or a failure—or even a rumor of failure—can be
career-ending.”
Judith saw Chips Madigan as the computer geek,
speaking with Angela by the buffet bar. Ellie was
alone, studying the various pieces of china that sat
along the plate rail. Dade was also by himself, at his favorite place by the French doors, staring out into the
stormy October night. Dirk and Ben remained together, speaking and nodding in turn. Winifred apparently had gone into the front parlor with Morris the
matador and Eugenia in her Carmen costume. The pioneer woman stood at the buffet, sampling food from
SILVER SCREAM 99 the chafing dishes. It didn’t seem like much of a party
to Judith, but she reminded herself it wasn’t her fault.
The doorbell distracted her. She waited a moment,
thinking one of the company might be expecting more
hangers-on. But the bell rang a second time, and Judith
hurried to the front door.
“Trick-or-treat!” chimed two youthful voices.
Judith frowned at the spaceman and the alligator.
“Aren’t you out late?” she inquired, reaching for the
silver bowl on the entry-hall table.
The spaceman, who had what looked like a fish
bowl on his head, grinned through the filmy glass.
“We’re not little kids,” he responded. “I’m getting my
driver’s license next week.”
Considering that the spaceman was almost as tall as
Judith—at least in the silver platform boots—she
shrugged, then dumped four small chocolate bars into
each of the pillowcases the youngsters held in front of
them. “Okay, but doesn’t that make you a bit old for
trick-or-treating?”
The alligator shook its scaly green head. “We had to
take our little brothers and sisters out first. Most of the
people ignored us, so now it’s our turn.”
“I see,” Judith said. “But it’s still very late. You two
should head home now.”
The spaceman laughed and the alligator wagged his
tail as they headed down the porch steps. As Judith was
closing the door, they tossed a couple of thank-yous
over their shoulders.
In the living room, nothing much had changed. The
cloud of gloom still hung over the guests, so palpable
that Judith felt as if she were looking through the
blurred lens of a movie camera.
100 Mary Daheim Bill and Joe entered at that moment, each carrying
more platters of food. Spotting Bruno sitting in his favorite place on the sofa, Bill began to quack in an
angry tone.
“Quack, quack-quack-quack!” He pointed to the
melancholy producer. “Quack!”
Joe put a hand on Bill’s arm feathers. “Quack off.
That guy looks pretty grim. Let him be.”
Bill was slow to respond. “Qu-a-ck,” he finally said
in a reluctant voice.
Joe gave Bill a pat, observed the rest of the morose
gathering, and spoke up: “Anybody care to dance? I’ll
put on some music.”
Ellie laughed with a hint of hysteria and wandered
out into the entry hall just as Winifred appeared with
her Spanish-costumed duo. She glanced at Bruno,
winced, and requested a stiff bourbon from Cathy. No
one else responded to Joe’s invitation.
Bill turned around, calling to an unseen Renie.
“Daisy!” he shouted in his normal, if muffled, voice.
“It’s after midnight. Can we go home?”
Renie stumbled out of the entry hall. She seemed to
be having trouble with her webbed feet. “I’ll ask Judith,” she said.
Judith excused herself and got up from the sofa. “I
don’t see why you shouldn’t go,” she said in a low
voice. “This is one dead party. Arlene and Carl can
help clean up.” She glanced back at the buffet and
sighed. “All that expensive food gone to waste.”
“I put some pots and pans to soak in the sink,” Renie
said. “They should be scrubbed before you put them in
the dishwasher.”
SILVER SCREAM 101 “Okay,” Judith said. “Thanks for everything. As it
turned out, I didn’t need so much help after all.”
Renie nodded, her yellow bill bobbing up and down.
“A real bomb, I guess.”
“Right.” Judith hugged Bill and Renie. Joe, who
kept tripping over the hem of his choirboy’s cassock,
showed them out the back way.
When Judith returned to the living room, Winifred
offered to introduce her to Morris and Eugenia.
“Morris Mayne is Bruno’s studio publicist,”
Winifred said, a bit stiffly. “Eugenia Fleming is Bruno
and Dirk’s agent.”
Judith allowed her hand to be shaken by the pair.
Morris’s grip was feeble; Eugenia practically pulled
Judith’s arm out of the socket.
“We so wanted to stay here at your charming B&B,”
Eugenia boomed in a deep voice. She seemed more
than big; she towered over Judith’s five-foot-nine and
possessed a bust that could have triumphed in a headon collision with an armored car.
“There wasn’t room, I guess,” Morris said, then
cleared his throat. “Especially since my wife unexpectedly joined me on this trip.”
Judith assumed that his wife was the pioneer in the
sunbonnet and gingham dress. “I’m sure you’re enjoying the Cascadia,” she said. “It’s the most luxurious
hotel in the city.”
“It’s fine,” Morris said offhandedly. “The truth is,
my wife’s a real homebody. I was surprised that she
wanted to come along.”
Eugenia’s dark eyes were flashing around the room.
“Excuse me,” she said, “I must speak with Dirk. I
102 Mary Daheim hardly recognized him in that doublet and the hat with
those swooping feathers.” With a click of the castanets
she held in one hand, the agent stalked across the room
to reach her prey.
Judith was left with Morris, who kept darting
glances at Bruno, sitting alone and forlorn on the sofa.
Sweetums, who must have come in when the Joneses
went out, had planted his orange-and-white body at the
producer’s feet. To Judith’s surprise, Bruno patted his
lap. To her amazement, the cat leaped up and allowed
himself to be petted. Maybe even Sweetums wanted to
get into the movies.
“I should speak to Bruno,” Morris murmured, removing his matador’s cap. He was short, spare, and
balding. “I simply don’t know what to say to him. Perhaps I’ll get a drink first.”
Judith watched Morris accept a hefty martini from
Cathy. The publicist then stood off to one side by the
door to the front parlor and gulped down his drink.
Cathy removed her panda head, slipped out from behind the bar, and approached Judith.
“I’m dying of heat prostration in this stupid suit,”
she declared, and in fact, her face was dripping with
perspiration. “I knew I should never have let my
mother order my costume. I intended to come as Pandora, not a panda.”
Judith couldn’t help but smile. “That would have
been more fetching in order to attract Ben Carmody.”
Cathy shook out her long, damp blond locks. “Another idea of Mom’s! I’m not even a Ben Carmody fan.
He always plays meanies.”
“Go home,” Judith urged. “Joe and I can take care of
the bar. I don’t think this party is going to last much
SILVER SCREAM 103 longer. In fact, your parents might as well leave, too.
I’ll go out to the kitchen and thank them.”
Arlene, however, refused to leave Judith with such a
mess. “Cathy can go, Carl can go,” she asserted, “but
I’m staying until the bitter end.”
“I think we’re already there,” Judith said over the
hum of the dishwasher.
“I’ll stay, too,” Carl volunteered.
“Really,” Judith protested, “there’s no need. Joe and
I can clean up by ourselves. It’s late. Please, we’ll be
fine.”
“Not entirely,” Carl said, pointing to the sink.
“You’ve got a backed-up drain.”
Judith grimaced. “Renie! She never uses sink strainers. She says they don’t work for her.”
“What’s to work?” Joe asked, gazing into the eightinch basin of dirty water. “You put them in, turn the
button on top, and there you go.”
Judith shook her head. “Not for Renie. She says it’s
too complicated. I gave her a pair of brand new strainers for Christmas last year and she stuck them on her
ears and said that’s as close as they’d ever get to her
double sinks.”
Carl was still peering at the water. “Maybe if I used
a plunger . . .”
“No, you don’t,” Joe said, taking Carl by the shoulder. “Go home, Hansel. Your gingerbread house awaits
you.”
Carl shot Joe a dark look. “With Gretel or the
witch?”
“Gretel, of course,” Judith said, patting Arlene’s
arm. “Go on, please. Poor Cathy has to get out of that
panda suit.”
104 Mary Daheim With reluctance, the Rankerses exited with their
daughter. Joe went into the living room to tend bar, and
Judith scanned what was left of the crowd. On the window seat, Dirk and Angela were speaking with Eugenia in a serious manner. Chips Madigan was standing
by the piano, framing imaginary camera angles with
his hands. Dade, Ellie, and Ben were nowhere in sight.
Winifred stood behind the sofa, where Bruno sat with
Morris Mayne at his side. Sweetums remained tucked
in the folds of Bruno’s robes.
As innkeeper and hostess, Judith couldn’t help but
take Bruno’s gloom personally. She knew it wasn’t her
fault, but it upset her to see a guest in distress.
As if sensing Judith’s consternation, Eugenia
slipped off the window seat and moved quickly across
the room.
“I’m wondering if Bruno shouldn’t leave for L.A.
tonight,” she murmured. “Of course it’s none of my
business, really. I’d mention it to Winifred, but she and
I don’t speak.”
“Oh.” Judith glanced from Eugenia to Winifred. “I
see.” She didn’t really, but couldn’t think of anything
else to say. She hesitated, feeling Eugenia’s hard-eyed
stare. Judith cleared her throat. “Is there something I
can do?”
“Why, yes,” Eugenia replied. “You could ask what
Winifred thinks of my suggestion. Only don’t mention
that it came from me.”
“I don’t think there’s another flight to L.A. tonight,”
Judith said. “The red-eye leaves shortly after midnight.”
Eugenia waved a hand that was encased in fingerless black lace gloves. “Bruno doesn’t fly commercial.
He has his own jet.”
SILVER SCREAM 105 “Oh.” Judith started toward the sofa, aware that
Winifred was also giving her a steely-eyed stare. Taking
a deep breath, she decided to approach Bruno directly.
His eyes were dull as he gazed up at her from under
the hood of his burnoose. “Yes?”
“Mr. Zepf,” Judith began. She shivered slightly. The
fire had burned out on the hearth, and the wind created
a draft. Roman fashion wasn’t intended for a chilly autumn evening in the Pacific Northwest. “Mr. Zepf,” Judith repeated, “I want to say how sorry I am that your
movie wasn’t well received. Someone suggested that
perhaps you’d like to fly back to Los Angeles tonight.
What do you think?”
Bruno looked blank. “I don’t think. I can’t think. I
mustn’t think. Could you get me another Scotch?” He
pointed to his empty glass on the coffee table between
the matching sofas.
“Of course,” Judith responded, and went over to Joe
at the bar just as Dirk and Angela headed upstairs.
“Zepf needs zapping,” Judith said in a low voice. “I
feel sorry for him. Do you suppose it’s as bad as he
makes out?”
“Judging from the funereal pall around here,” Joe
said, opening Bruno’s favorite brand, “I’d say yes. I
don’t know much about the movie business, but a flop
can ruin a career. And I don’t mean just Bruno’s.”
“I never thought of it that way,” Judith said softly,
then gazed around the living room. Of the original
guest list, Chips Madigan and Winifred Best remained.
And Bruno, of course. Judith realized that even she
was beginning to consider him an afterthought. In a fit
of uncatlike compassion, Sweetums was still curled up
on Bruno’s lap.
106 Mary Daheim Joe pointed to the elaborate buffet. “I’ll wrap up
some of the food and put it in the freezer. There’s no
sense in letting it go to waste.”
Judith nodded. “They’re not the type to take doggie
bags with them. I’ll start putting away some of the
things from the bar in the washstand cabinet.”
As she took the first half-dozen unopened bottles
that belonged to the B&B into the dining room, Morris Mayne was at her heels.
“I must be on my way,” he said. “There’s not much
more I can do for poor Bruno. Besides, as strange as it
sounds for people in the picture business, my wife and
I keep regular hours. Thank you for your hospitality.”
He ducked his head and scurried off toward the front
door.
Judith was putting dirty dishes on a tray when a subdued Winifred Best came up to her. “I think Bruno
wants to sit for a while with his thoughts,” she said.
“I’m going to retire for the night.” Slipping her hands
up the sleeves of her nun’s habit, she seemed to strain
for the next words: “Thank you for all you’ve done.
I’m sorry this couldn’t have been a happier event. Perhaps next time—if there is a next time—Bruno will
want to stay in a hotel.”
Judith watched Winifred leave the room, then noted
that only Bruno and Eugenia Fleming remained. The
agent was nibbling on truffles and standing at the
piano, her free hand playing the fate motif from
Car- men. Notes composed by the devil himself, Renie had
once told Judith. An exaggeration, perhaps, but the
minor chords certainly sounded like doom and gloom.
Out in the kitchen, Joe had just come up from the
basement. “We’ve run out of room in the freezer,” he
SILVER SCREAM 107 announced. “How much of that stuff in there is worth
keeping? You’ve got dates on some of those packages
from six, eight years ago.”
“Really?” Judith looked sheepish. “Then we’d better toss anything that old. Come on, I’ll get some
garbage bags and go down with you.”
Joe looked up at the schoolhouse clock. “It’s going
on one in the morning. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
Judith shook her head and put a sweater on over her
Roman costume. “I want as much of this done tonight
as possible. Otherwise I’ll have a big mess in the
kitchen come morning. That makes getting breakfast
awkward. It won’t take that long. Let’s go.”
But like so many household tasks, it took longer
than Judith had predicted. Almost half an hour later the
Flynns trudged back upstairs. Joe headed directly for
the garbage cans outside while Judith returned to the
kitchen.
Or almost. She rounded the corner into the hall and
saw Bruno bending over the sink. Her initial reaction
was that he was throwing up. Not that she blamed him.
A sudden gust of wind roared over the house. She
heard a garbage-can lid rattle, roll, and clank outside.
She knew that Joe must be swearing a blue streak.
“Mr. Zepf,” she called softly, moving down the hallway. “Can I help you?”
Bruno didn’t move. His robes sagged around him
and the headpiece was askew. Judith moved closer. She
couldn’t see his face above the sink.
Then, as she reached the kitchen table, she realized
that Bruno’s face was in the standing water from the
plugged-up drain.
“Mr. Zepf!” she cried, fear seizing her like an iron
108 Mary Daheim clamp. She lurched at him, shaking his arm. “Mr.
Zepf!” she cried again.
Bruno Zepf slumped farther into the sink, his burly
upper body carrying him forward. With trembling fingers, Judith searched for a pulse. There was none. She
felt faint, but kept shaking Bruno’s arm. Then she noticed that the broken cupboard door was wide open.
And above the sink, suspended from the single light
fixture, was a big black spider.
SEVEN
JUDITH DIDN’T HEAR Joe come running down the
hallway. She was aware of his presence only when
he grabbed her by the shoulders and gently but
firmly pushed her out of the way.
“Call 911,” he ordered in a calm but emphatic
voice. “I’ll try to resuscitate him.”
A flicker of hope sparked in Judith’s breast.
“He’s alive?”
Joe didn’t reply. He hauled Bruno onto the floor
and started CPR. Judith couldn’t remember where
she’d put the phone. She finally buzzed the receiver
from its base and heard it beep from the opposite
kitchen counter.
How could she explain that a man might have
drowned in the kitchen? Not a swimming pool, not
a bathtub, not a hot tub, but a kitchen sink. Fumbling with the buttons on the phone, Judith felt
giddy. She wouldn’t give the details. She was afraid
to, for fear of becoming hysterical. Or worse yet,
disbelieved.
Finally she got a grip on her composure and informed the operator that there was a man near death.
Or already there, Judith thought dismally. Help was
110 Mary Daheim required immediately. The operator told her to stand
by, someone should arrive at Hillside Manor in just a
few minutes.
“But,” Judith said in amazement, “I haven’t given
you the address.”
“Our system showed it on the screen,” the female
voice replied. “Besides, you’ve called here before,
haven’t you?”
“Yes,” Judith said weakly. “So I have.”
“The patrol car is close by,” the operator assured
her, “and the medics and firefighters have been alerted.
You’re not calling for your mother, are you?”
“No,” Judith whispered, fixated on Joe, whose efforts appeared to be futile. “No.”
“How’s she doing?” the operator inquired. “I hear
she’s quite a character.”
“Fine. Good. I . . . must . . . hang . . . up . . . now.”
Judith clicked off and, with a limp wrist, placed the
phone on the kitchen table.
Panting, Joe looked up from Bruno’s prone form.
“It’s no good. He’s dead.”
Judith crossed herself while Joe hung his head.
“Damn,” he breathed, “how did this happen? Was it an
accident?” His eyes traveled to the light fixture. “Oh,
hell! What’s that thing?” He picked up a long cooking
fork and poked at the spider. “It’s fake.”
“I need a drink,” Judith said, her voice hoarse. She
noticed that the balky cupboard door had swung open
again and closed it with a shaky hand. “I can’t believe
this. Yes, I
can believe this. But why me? Why us?”
“Hey,” Joe said, reaching into the Flynns’ private
liquor stash, “it isn’t personal. When I was on the job,
I investigated at least a half-dozen homicides involving
SILVER SCREAM 111 families that had already suffered through at least a
couple of other murders.”
“They were probably all crooks,” Judith pointed
out, wincing as she looked at Bruno, whose face was
an unnatural color. She was about to turn away when
she saw something round and white on the floor next
to his body. Moving carefully so as not to touch the
dead man, Judith fingered the object. “Aspirin,” she
said, holding it between her thumb and index finger.
Not seeing the bottle she kept on the windowsill, she
placed the pill on the counter. “Then you don’t think
it’s all my fault?”
“No.” Joe handed Judith her drink, then stared at
Bruno. “I wish I could figure out what happened. Does
the spider suggest a setup?”
Judith gaped at him. “You mean . . . to scare Bruno
to death?”
“Maybe just to rattle him,” Joe replied, wearing his
deadpan policeman’s face.
As Judith gazed with compassion at Bruno’s lifeless
form, the familiar sound of sirens could be heard in the
distance. “The neighbors.” She sighed. “What will they
think now?” She paused, a hand clutching at the deep
neckline of her Roman gown. “The guests! What shall
I do?”
“Nothing,” Joe replied as the first of the sirens
stopped nearby. “Yet. I’ll get the door. You stay with
the stiff.”
Judith flinched. It was bad enough that she and Joe
were drinking Scotch and standing over a corpse. But
now her husband had reverted to his professional self,
hard-boiled, keeping his distance, just-part-of-the-job.
She, on the other hand, apparently had slipped into the
112 Mary Daheim role of Joe’s longtime partner, Woody Price. Despite
her not infrequent confrontations with corpses, Judith
wasn’t indifferent to the body on the kitchen floor.
Surely Bruno had family who must be notified.
Winifred would know.
Joe returned with two familiar figures in tow. Darnell
Hicks and Mercedes Berger had been summoned to Hillside Manor before, when a mobster had been gunned
down outside of Gertrude’s toolshed. Over two years
later they still looked young, but not nearly so naive.
“What a shame,” Darnell said, gazing down at
Bruno. “How’d he get so soggy?”
Mercedes glanced at the sink. “What’d he do, stick
his head in there and couldn’t get out?”
Before Judith or Joe could respond, the medics and
the firefighters arrived. “Come on,” Joe said with a
hand on Judith’s elbow, “let’s retreat into the dining
room and give the folks some space.”
“To do what?” Judith asked, moving through the
swinging doors. “Oh, Joe, I can’t stand it! It’s got to be
an accident, right?”
Joe didn’t answer directly. “We’ll find out more
after the ME gets done. It may be tomorrow afternoon
before we hear anything. Saturday nights can be pretty
busy, especially on a holiday weekend.”
Darnell Hicks gave a tentative rap on the swinging
doors. “May I?”
“Sure,” Joe said, going back into the kitchen.
“What’s up?”
“We’re going to take the body to the morgue.” Darnell’s brown eyes seemed intrigued by the Flynns’ costumes. “Do you or Mrs. Flynn have any idea what
happened to the guy? Was this a Halloween party?”
SILVER SCREAM 113 As Joe started to explain, Winifred appeared in the
dining room. “What’s going on?” she demanded of Judith. “Why are the police here?”
Judith put a hand out to the other woman. “Oh, Ms.
Best, I don’t know how to say this—except that Mr.
Zepf is dead.”
Winifred clutched at the front of her deep blue
bathrobe. “Dead? As in . . . actually
dead?”
Judith supposed that to someone in the movie business,
dead didn’t always mean losing one’s life. “Yes,
as in expired. We don’t know what happened.” She
glanced over the top of the swinging doors into the
kitchen. “They’re taking him to the morgue. We’ll
know more later.”
“Oh, my God!” Winifred swayed, then caught herself on the big breakfront. “His heart! Maybe he had a
heart attack! He was complaining of a terrible
headache earlier.” She pulled out one of the diningroom chairs and collapsed onto it, her slim body convulsing.
Judith glanced at Joe, who was answering routine
questions in the kitchen. She heard a squeal from Mercedes Berger as Joe mentioned Dirk Farrar’s name.
“Ms. Best,” Judith began, “do you want to have the
medics check you out?”
Winifred shook her head. “I must see Bruno,” she finally said, but couldn’t get to her feet. Winifred fell
back into the chair as a knock at the front door made
Judith jump. She hurried into the entry hall and peered
outside. Under the porch light she could see Dade
Costello, still in his costume and dripping wet.
“Mr. Costello!” she exclaimed, opening the door.
“What are you doing out in this rain?”
114 Mary Daheim Dade made an angry gesture toward the cul-de-sac.
“What are
they doing out here?”
Closing the door behind the screenwriter, Judith
glimpsed the emergency vehicles, their lights still
flashing. “I’m afraid I have bad news—”
“I don’t need any more bad news tonight,” Dade
broke in. Without another word, he stomped upstairs.
“Oh, no,” Judith groaned. Glancing at Winifred,
who had her head down on the dining-room table, she
hurried into the kitchen but had to step aside as the
medics began to remove Bruno’s body.
“Move, Jude-girl,” Joe said, taking Judith by the
arm. “They’re going out the back way, they need room
for the gurney. I gave them as much information as I
could.”
Mercedes’s blue eyes were huge. “Is it true?” she
asked Judith. “Is Dirk Farrar really under this very
roof?”
“Yes,” Judith answered. “As far as I know.” Nothing
seemed certain on this wretched night. For all she
knew, Dirk could have climbed out a window and been
blown away by the gusting winds.
“What a hunk!” Mercedes was visibly palpitating.
Darnell’s dark skin seemed to glow. “Movie people.
Wow. You know, I hate to bring this up just now, but I’ve
been working on a script, and I wonder if I could—”
“Patrolman Hicks,” Joe interrupted in a solemn
voice, “you’re on duty. Let’s get on with the job.
Maybe I can mention your name to . . .” He paused, apparently wondering which guest would be interested in
a script. “Chips Madigan, the director. Okay?”
“Really?” Darnell looked elated. “Golly. That
would be terrific. Believe me, my script isn’t just an-
SILVER SCREAM 115 other piece of junk. I’ve got serious themes.” He turned
to his partner. “Come on, Merce, let’s hit it.”
The kitchen was clearing out. Judith put both hands
to her head and gave Joe a frantic look.
“What do we do now?”
“We wait,” Joe said, sitting down at the kitchen
table. “It may look like some kind of freak accident,
but in fact they’re going to have to send the homicide
’tecs in.”
Judith was aghast. “Tonight?”
“Of course. You know the drill.” He shot her a wry
glance.
“But it’s two in the morning, and we’ve got all these
people upstairs, and—” She stopped, looked out over
the swinging doors, then lowered her voice.
“Winifred’s still at the dining-room table. She either
passed out or she’s asleep.”
But Winifred Best was wide-awake. Her head jerked
up, then she slowly rose to her feet. “Where’s Morris?”
she demanded.
“Morris?” Judith echoed in a dull voice. “Morris . . .
Mayne?”
Winifred thrust open the sliding doors and entered
the kitchen. “Of course I mean Morris Mayne. The
publicist. He must be at the hotel.” She pulled her cell
phone out of her bathrobe pocket and began to dial in
a staccato manner.
Judith felt not only exhausted but helpless. “I’ll
make coffee,” she said, and started for the sink.
“Hold it,” Joe said. “You can’t use the sink, remember?”
“Yes, I can,” Judith shot back. “We’ll plunge it. I
can’t imagine that it’s seriously plugged up. Anyway,
116 Mary Daheim we’ve got a snake. If the plunger doesn’t work, the
snake should clear the line.”
“You’re missing the point,” Joe said, his patience
sounding thin. “The sink may be a crime scene.”
“Oh.” Judith stared into the murky water. “Oh,
damn. You’re right, I should have realized that.” For
the first time she saw something bobbing listlessly
around in the sink. Judith reached out to touch it, then
quickly withdrew her hand. “Evidence,” she murmured. “It looks like my aspirin bottle. I found a pill
on the floor.”
“When I talked to Bruno the last time,” Winifred
said, clicking off the cell phone, “and he complained
of a headache, I told him I’d seen some aspirin in the
kitchen.” For a brief moment she looked as if she were
going to cry, then rallied. “Morris will be issuing a
statement. He’ll hold a press conference later for the
early newscasts.” She looked up at the schoolhouse
clock. “That will be four A.M. our time for the seven
o’clock news on the East Coast. Perhaps I should join
him at the Cascadia. I doubt I can do anything here.
Those cretins upstairs don’t need to be consoled.” With
a swish of her bathrobe, Winifred started to leave the
kitchen, but stopped abruptly. “Where is he?” she
asked in a hollow voice.
Judith was puzzled. “You mean . . . Morris? I
thought you just—”
“No!” Winifred exploded, waving a frantic hand.
“Bruno! Where did you put him?”
In the dishwasher? Judith almost said as the giddiness she’d felt earlier tried to reclaim her emotions.
But Joe intervened. “His body was removed just
minutes ago.”
SILVER SCREAM 117 “Oh.” Winifred’s shoulders slumped. “Of course.”
Without another word, she left the kitchen.
The doorbell sounded. Joe got up to answer it while
Judith gazed at the mess that still hadn’t been—
couldn’t be—cleaned up. She, too, felt like crying.
But there was no time for tears. Joe, whose face had
become so red that he looked as if he might explode,
came storming back into the kitchen.
“It’s Stone Cold Sam,” he said under his breath, and
then swore such a rapid blue streak that Judith—mercifully—could hardly understand him.
“Who,” she finally dared to inquire, “is Stone Cold
Sam?”
Joe stared at her. “You don’t remember? Stone Cold
Sam Cairo, my nemesis in the department? The
world’s biggest pain in the butt?”
“Oh!” Judith did remember. There had been several
occasions when Joe had come home from work fuming because Stone Cold Sam had interfered with an investigation, offered unwanted criticism, and generally
tried to make Joe’s life miserable.
The stocky man with the goatee and mustache
swaggered into the kitchen. Following him was a small
young woman with short blond hair sticking up in
peaks and an intimidated expression on her pretty face.
“You know, Flynn,” the man said in a rough, deep
voice, “it looks like you’ve got everything here, including the kitchen sink. Har, har.”
Joe cradled his drink and leaned against the refrigerator. The gold flecks glinted in his green eyes, but
with malice rather than mischief. “We don’t know if
we have a homicide or not,” he said without inflection.
Stone Cold Sam Cairo chuckled, an unpleasant,
118 Mary Daheim grating sound. “Yeah, I guess it always took you a
while to figure out the facts.”
Judith didn’t know whether to introduce herself or
not. Not, she decided. Any gesture of hospitality would
annoy Joe.
Cairo, however, took matters into his own hairy
hands. “Meet my new partner,” he said, dragging the
small blonde forward by the hand. “Dilys Oaks. Dilys,
this is Joe Flynn, a former colleague, now retired.
Don’t be misled by the choirboy outfit. Joe can’t sing
a lick.” Cairo glanced at Judith. “Let me guess. You’re
either a Roman empress, Joe’s wife, or Joe’s slave.
Maybe the last two combined. Har, har.”
“I’m Judith Flynn,” Judith said, as noncommittal as
Joe.
Cairo gave a faint nod. “Okay by me.” He looked at
the sink, and noted the phony spider, which swayed
grotesquely from the overhead light. “Halloween stuff,
huh? Nice touch. What was this movie guy doing, bobbing for apples?”
Joe didn’t respond, which forced Judith to speak. “I
think he was taking some aspirin. He had a headache.”
“Hunh.” Cairo steered Dilys to the sink. “What does
this tell you?”
Dilys’s smoky-gray eyes widened. “That the drain is
plugged?”
Cairo put an avuncular arm around Dilys’s narrow
shoulders. “Think a little harder. Take in the whole picture. Remember, you’re a rookie. This isn’t like your
first two cases with the drunks popping each other and
the spousal murder-suicide.”
“But,” Dilys protested in her little-girl voice, “is it a
homicide?”
SILVER SCREAM 119 Cairo removed his arm and wagged a finger at his
partner. “There you go, young lady. Is it? How can we
tell?”
“We don’t have the body,” Dilys noted. “Shouldn’t
they have waited until we got here before they removed it?”
Cairo nodded approval. “That’s right. Haste makes
waste,” he added with a disapproving glance at Joe,
who remained expressionless.
“I guess,” Dilys said slowly, “you should have told
them we were on our way. Now we’ll have to wait for
the autopsy.”
Cairo shot Dilys a sharp, wary glance. “They should
have known we were coming. But you’re right, only
the ME can tell us for sure how this guy died.” He gave
Joe an even darker look. “You know better, Flynn—
why didn’t you tell them to hold their horses?”
Joe stared up at the ceiling, looking innocent in his
choirboy costume. “I’m retired, I’m old, I forgot.”
Cairo grunted. “If you say so.”
Joe said nothing.
But his former colleague wasn’t giving up. “Hey,”
Cairo urged with an expansive gesture. “Share your
thoughts with us, for old times’ sake. Reach out. We’re
listening.”
“I never speculate,” Joe said quietly.
“No kidding?” Cairo gazed at Joe with feigned
shock, then swore as the faulty cupboard door swung
open and rested gently against his right ear. “What’s
with this thing?” the detective demanded. “Ghosts?”
Judith shook her head. “The spring is sprung. Or
something. It does that often.”
Cairo glared at Joe. “Can’t you or your slave here
120 Mary Daheim fix the damned thing?” He gave the door a vicious
slam, rattling china and glassware in the cupboards.
Judith gritted her teeth.
But Cairo’s gaze was now on the spider above the
sink. He turned to Judith. “What about you, Mrs.
Flynn? Is that scary tarantula wannabe one of your
Halloween decorations?”
“No.”
“Oh?” Cairo grew curious. “Then who put it there?”
“I’ve no idea,” Judith replied. “I didn’t see it when I
was in the kitchen before . . . before Mr. Zepf died.”
Cairo nudged Dilys. “You hear that, young lady?
Mrs. Flynn doesn’t know how that nasty old bug got
there. What’s your idea?”
Warily, Dilys looked up at the spider. “Are you sure
it’s not real?”
Cairo reached up and gave the spider a spin. “Definitely fake.”
Dilys gave a nod. “So maybe . . .” Her small voice
trailed off.
“Yes?” Cairo urged. “Maybe what?”
“Maybe”—Dilys swallowed hard—“someone put
the spider up there to frighten the deceased. You know,
like a practical joke.”
Cairo frowned at her. “Come now, isn’t that pretty
far-fetched?”
Dilys was blushing furiously. “Ah . . . maybe, but—”
“She could be right,” Judith put in, unable to watch
the young woman suffer further. “The deceased—Mr.
Zepf—was superstitious about spiders. They terrified
him. Someone had already tried to scare him by placing one of these phony tarantulas in his bed.”
SILVER SCREAM 121 “No kidding.” Cairo moved his frown to Judith.
“You sure about that, Mrs. Flynn?”
“Absolutely,” Judith replied. “There were several
witnesses. Not to mention that Mr. Zepf became frightened by a very small but very real spider out on the
back porch. I saw that with my own eyes.” To Judith’s
satisfaction, Dilys had slipped behind Cairo and was
making bunny ears above his head. Maybe, she
thought, the young detective wasn’t quite as cowed as
she pretended.
At that moment Angela La Belle and Ben Carmody
appeared in the hallway that led from the back stairs.
“What’s going on?” Ben asked, looking sleepy.
Joe turned to the pair. “Didn’t Ms. Best tell you?”
Ms. Best hadn’t. “What’s to tell?” Angela inquired.
“Bruno’s dead.” She was wearing a paper-thin wrapper
over a sheer, short nightgown. “Are there any truffles
left?”
Cairo’s dark eyes were bugging out from underneath the black brows that grew together. “Now who’s
this, I might ask?” He leered at Joe. “Another one of
your slaves?”
“This is Angela La Belle,” Joe said woodenly, “and
Ben Carmody. They’re part of the movie company that
came here with Bruno Zepf. You do have a list of possible witnesses, don’t you?”
“Ah!” The question was ignored as Cairo beamed
and put out a pawlike hand. “Celebrities! I’m thrilled.”
Despite the grin, it was obvious that Cairo would have
preferred meeting a pair of real tarantulas.
Dilys, however, was goggle-eyed as she stared at
Angela La Belle. “Ohmigod! I saw you in your first
122 Mary Daheim big movie, that musical—
Enjoy Your Pants! You have
such a beautiful voice!”
Angela was scanning the kitchen counters, apparently for truffles. “Thanks. It was a small part. My
voice was dubbed.”
“But the dancing!” Dilys enthused. “Looking down
from way up high on you with all the spinning and
leaping and twirling and—”
“That was a double,” Angela said, opening a couple
of plastic containers. “I’ve got two left feet.” She
looked at Judith. “So they ate all the truffles?”
“I guess so,” Judith replied. “Eugenia Fleming
seemed especially fond of them.”
“Bummer.” Angela took in the official yellow tape
that Stone Cold Sam Cairo was putting up between the
kitchen and the dining room. “Oh,” she said with mild
interest, “is this a crime scene or what?”
“Bruno couldn’t have drowned,” Ben Carmody remarked. “Win must be wrong. He probably had a heart
attack. Not that I blame him after what happened
tonight.”
Cairo whirled around with surprising agility for
such a thickset man. “And what was that, young fellow?”
Ben gazed incredulously at the detective. “The premiere. What else? Bruno bombed. Big time.”
“Ah, yes.” Cairo rummaged in the pocket of his
navy-blue raincoat. “What’s it called?” He peered at a
small notepad.
“The Gasbag?” “It might as well be,” Ben said with a heavy sigh.
“It’s
The Gasman, ” he added, emphasizing the final
syllable.
“So,” Cairo said, stuffing the notepad back inside
SILVER SCREAM 123 his raincoat, “the deceased had suffered a big disappointment, had he? Did he have a history of heart trouble?”
Angela and Ben looked at each other.
“Ulcers, maybe,” Angela said.
“High blood pressure?” Ben suggested.
“Ask Win.” Angela pulled the folds of her wrapper
more tightly around her body. “Win knows everything,” she added with a sniff.
Cairo nodded sagely. “Let’s have a word with this
Win. That would be Winifred Best, correct?”
“Right,” Ben said. “Come on, Angela, let’s go back
upstairs.”
“But no further,” Cairo called after them. “We don’t
want any of you fancy birds to fly the nest. Har, har.”
Angela, who had started down the hallway, turned
around and glared at the detective. “What do you
mean? Are we stuck in this place for some weird reason?”
“That’s right,” Cairo said with a sharp shake of his
head. “You’re stuck until I unstick you. Surely you’re
enjoying the company of Mr. and Mrs. Flynn here.”
Angela managed an ineffectual smile. “They’re
nice, but . . .”
“We’ve got meetings to take, lunches to do, people
to . . .” Ben began in a not unreasonable voice.
“In due time, my lad, in due time.” Cairo waved the
pair off with a faintly sinister smile.
They had just disappeared up the stairs when someone knocked at the back door. Judith and Joe stared at
each other. The rear entrance was reserved for family,
friends, and neighbors.
“Mother?” Judith mouthed and started for the door.
124 Mary Daheim Cairo put a hand to stop her. “Dilys will get that,” he
said. “It might be a reporter. Shoo him—or her—off,
will you, my girl?”
The young woman cautiously opened the door to reveal a startling figure. A tall platinum blonde of more
than a certain age stood on the threshold in an emeraldgreen satin lounging robe slit to the hip. She was carrying a paisley umbrella in one hand and a glass in the
other.
Judith’s jaw dropped. It was a neighbor, all right, it
was sort of family, but it wasn’t necessarily a friend.
Vivian Flynn, also known as Herself, was Joe’s first
wife and Judith’s nemesis. Their visitor dropped the
umbrella and swayed into the kitchen with a big
crimson-lipped smile on her face.
“Stone Cold Sam!” she cried, setting the glass down
by Judith’s computer. She reached out her arms, embraced the detective, and kissed him three times. “It’s
been too long!”
Cairo, his chin on Vivian’s shoulder, gave Joe a
wink and a smile. A nasty smile, Judith noted, and
thought the night would never end.
EIGHT
“LET’S GET OUT of here,” Joe whispered to Judith.
“We’ll go into the front parlor.”
Unobtrusively, Judith tried to edge toward the
door. The crime-scene tape barred her way. Joe
glanced at Cairo, saw that he was still in Vivian’s
embrace, pulled the tape aside, and with an arm
around Judith, slipped out through the dining room.
Dilys, though evincing curiosity about her partner
and Joe’s ex-wife, raised an eyebrow at the Flynns’
departure but made no comment.
“Good Lord.” Judith sighed, collapsing into one
of the two matching armchairs in front of the stone
fireplace. “I’m exhausted! And what’s Vivian doing
here?”
Joe’s grin was off center. “You know Vivian,
you’ve watched her for six years since she moved
into the cul-de-sac. She keeps late hours. No doubt
the emergency vehicles caught her attention.”
Meanly, Judith figured it was more likely they’d
roused her from an alcohol-induced stupor. Herself,
as Judith preferred to call Vivian, had brought a
glass with her. Maybe she’d come to borrow a refill.
Despite Joe’s efforts to get his ex to join AA, she
126 Mary Daheim continued to drink. Vivian Flynn wouldn’t admit that
she had a problem.
“Vivian obviously knows Stone Cold Sam,” Judith
remarked as Joe stirred the embers in the small fireplace.
“Oh, yes,” Joe replied, adding some paper and a
couple of small pieces of wood. “They go way back.”
“They must.” Judith stared into the fire, which was
now sparking into orange-and-yellow life. It rankled
her that Joe and Vivian had such a long—if rocky—
past. The marriage had been a mistake from the start, a
catastrophe set in motion by Joe’s first encounter with
a fatal teenage overdose. The cop bar he’d gone to afterward had offered strong drink and a stronger comeon by the woman perched atop the red piano. In
fighting off the shadows of wasted fifteen-year-old
lives, Joe lost his grasp on reality. When he awoke the
next morning, he was in a Las Vegas bed with a new
bride, the already twice-wed Vivian.
There was no going back, though Joe had tried.
He’d called Judith from the hotel casino to try to explain, to beg forgiveness. But Gertrude had told him
that her daughter never wanted to see him again. The
irony was that Judith never knew about Joe’s call, or
his subsequent attempts to reach her. Brokenhearted
and abandoned, she had married Dan McMonigle on
the rebound. That union was also doomed from the beginning. When Judith learned years later what had happened to Joe, she realized that both of them had
married alcoholics and were paying the price for their
folly. Joe’s folly more than her own, she had often
thought, but no one had compelled her to marry Dan.
It was only retaliation—and the unborn child she was
SILVER SCREAM 127 carrying—that had sent her so recklessly to the altar.
Eventually, she had begun to understand Joe’s ties to
Vivian. In addition to having been married twice before, she had a son by each ex-husband and was down
on her luck. Joe was a sucker for the underdog. Having
taken the vows, he felt obligated to live them, for better or for worse. And like Judith, Joe had endured more
worse and no better.
Those long, mean years had tempered both of them.
It hadn’t been just the chance meeting twenty years
later that caused him to file for divorce. The marriage
to Vivian had been a shambles for more than a decade;
the only good thing that had come of it was a daughter,
Caitlin. Perhaps it was proof of the dismal state of matrimony in the first Flynn household that had kept
Caitlin, now forty, from seeking a husband.
The thoughts flickered through Judith’s brain like
the flames dancing in the grate. She could picture Joe
and Vivian hosting a departmental party, with Stone
Cold Sam Cairo running his hand up the welcoming
slit in Herself’s dress. She could see Joe chatting with
his longtime partner, Woody Price, on the deck—if the
Flynns had had a deck—and being introduced to a
young woman named Sondra, who would later become
Mrs. Price. Joe would tend the barbecue, rustling up
steaks and burgers for many of the cops whom Judith
met later in life, and for some she’d never known at all.
Despite a decade with Joe, Judith still resented the
wasted years during which Vivian had held him
hostage.
“. . . too long now,” Joe was saying.
Judith realized she hadn’t been listening. So caught
up in her thoughts, so weary was her body, so en-
128 Mary Daheim wrapped in what had been and what might have been,
she hadn’t heard her husband.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized, “I faded out there for a
minute. What were you saying?”
Joe gave her a sardonic look. “That they can’t do
much tonight. They need the ME’s report to proceed if,
in fact, foul play is suspected.”
“Oh. Good,” Judith said. “You mean they’ll have to
go away?”
“Right.” Joe, who had sat down in the other armchair, turned as Stone Cold Sam Cairo entered the
parlor.
“So you’ve got two wives in the same cul-de-sac,”
he said with another one of his leers. “Two wives, two
slaves, and some sexy movie actresses upstairs. I guess
you’ve got it made, eh, Flynn? Maybe I should retire
right now. Then you could tell me your secret for the
good life. Har, har.”
“Don’t count on it, Sam,” Joe responded with a sour
expression. “What’s up?”
“Do you really want to know? Har, har.” Cairo
laughed again, then sobered. “I just heard from downtown. They won’t know anything until midmorning.
Bruno Zepf may be a big shot in Hollywood, but he’s
just another stiff on a busy Halloween weekend.”
“His companions won’t like that,” Joe said.
“They’re used to first-class treatment.”
“So what are they doing here?” Cairo slapped his
thigh and laughed even louder than usual.
“It’s a fluke,” Judith said, and wished she’d kept her
mouth shut.
“A fluke?” Cairo looked mildly interested.
“A superstition,” Judith replied as Herself and Dilys
SILVER SCREAM 129 entered the parlor. “Bruno Zepf considered B&Bs
lucky for his movies.”
Cairo scowled. “Not this time.”
“Goodness!” Vivian exclaimed, cradling her chimney glass, which was now almost full of what looked
like bourbon. “To think that all these Hollywood
people were here and I never noticed! That’s what I get
for being such a night owl! I miss the comings and goings during the day.”
Judith felt obliged to offer Joe’s ex a thin smile.
Cairo was moving restlessly around the room, his
gaze darting between Herself’s glass and Herself’s décolletage. “I’d better chat up these folks, just to remind
them they shouldn’t wander off.” His hooded eyes
turned to Joe. “You want to tell ’em to rise and shine?”
“No,” Joe responded. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“Hey!” Cairo raised his voice and scowled at Joe.
“Who’s in charge here?”
“You are,” Joe retorted. “You tell them to rise and
shine.”
Cairo started to speak, stopped, and turned his scowl
on Dilys. “You’re it.”
Dilys’s gray eyes widened. “Me?” She hesitated, as
if waiting for verification. “Okay.” Obediently, she
trotted out of the parlor.
“Now,” Vivian said, slithering onto the window seat,
“tell me about all these gorgeous hunks who are sleeping just over my head.”
When Joe didn’t answer, Judith stepped in. “There
are only two actors, Dirk Farrar and Ben Carmody. The
actresses are Angela La Belle and Ellie Linn.”
In a dismissive gesture, Herself waved the hand that
130 Mary Daheim wasn’t holding her drink. “Actresses! They’re all
made-up hussies. Surely there must be more . . . men.”
Judith glanced at Joe, whose expression was blank.
He and his ex remained on friendly terms, and not only
because they had a daughter. It seemed to Judith that
Herself was some kind of source of amusement to Joe.
Or maybe she was a reminder, the living reinforcement
of Joe and Judith’s good luck in finally finding each
other. Judith hoped it was the latter that made him so
indulgent of—or was it indifferent to?—Vivian’s notso-subtle charms.
In response to the question, Judith nodded. “There
are other men, but they’re not actors. They’re directors
and writers and—”
Herself waved again. “Aren’t those types homely?”
Before Judith could try to reply, Cairo intervened.
“Let’s cut out the chitchat, ladies. I want to hear some
specifics about this so-called accident. Tell me,” he
said, standing in front of the fireplace with his hands
folded behind his back, “who discovered Zepf’s body?”
“I did,” Judith admitted, sounding miserable.
“You did, eh?” Cairo glanced at Joe. “Not the great
detective over here?”
Judith didn’t comment.
“All right,” Cairo went on, “when did you find the
stiff?”
Judith glanced at Joe. “Around one-fifteen, maybe
later?”
Joe gave a faint nod.
“When and where,” Cairo queried, “did you last see
this Zepf character alive?”
Judith tried to focus on the question, though her
brain was fogging over. “He was on one of the living-
SILVER SCREAM 131 room sofas by the fireplace. That must have been about
a quarter to one, when Joe and I began to clean up
everything and take some of the perishable items down
to the freezer in the basement.”
Cairo flung out his hands. “So where’s the basement?”
Joe sneered. “Under the house.”
Herself burst out laughing; her bust almost burst the
seams of her emerald-green robe. “Oh, Joe-Joe! You’re
such a scream!”
Stone Cold Sam Cairo did not look amused. “You
know what I mean,” he snarled. “How do you get to the
damned basement?”
Judith spoke before Joe could further enrage Cairo.
“Through the kitchen, the hallway, and down the stairs
on the left.”
Cairo looked thoughtful. “So it’s quite a distance
from where Zepf was in the living room. Who was
with him?”
The fog enclosed Judith’s brain. “I don’t remember.” She glanced at Joe for assistance, but none was
forthcoming. “He may have been alone.” She paused,
straining in an effort to concentrate. “The cat—I think
Sweetums was sitting on Mr. Zepf’s lap.”
Cairo scowled, but Herself laughed again, though
this time the sound was soft and purring. “That lovely
cat! Oh, Sam, you’ve never seen such a beautiful
pussy. Not lately, anyway.”
Cairo ignored Herself. His attitude seemed to indicate
that perhaps he was getting tired, too. Maybe frustrated
as well, Judith thought in her exhausted haze. Before the
detective could pose another question, Dilys returned to
the parlor.
“They won’t come down,” she announced. “They
132 Mary Daheim won’t even open their doors. The woman in Room One
says we have no probable cause or any evidence of a
crime having been committed.” Dilys didn’t bother to
stifle a wide yawn.
“Not cooperating?” Cairo slammed his fist against
the fireplace, hurt himself, and swore under his breath.
“Poor baby,” Vivian murmured. “Let Mommy kiss
your boo-boo.” She advanced on the detective, allowing a great deal of bare leg to become exposed.
“Not now,” Cairo growled. “I’ll take a rain check,”
he added.
Joe looked at Judith. “Who’s in Room One?”
“Winifred Best,” Judith said, surprised that she
could remember where Room One was located, let
alone who occupied it.
“Ms. Best is right,” Joe said to Cairo. “Why don’t
you go away?”
Rubbing his sore knuckles, Cairo bristled. “I want
to hear the details about how this Zepf guy died.”
“You
have heard them,” Joe asserted. “He came into
the kitchen, maybe to get some aspirin, probably had a
heart attack, and fell face first into the sink. Look, the
guy had just had the biggest comedown of his career.
His future was on the line. You never knew of someone
to suffer a coronary after a life-altering shock?”
His face darkening, Cairo continued rubbing his
knuckles, but made no comment.
“I’m curious about that cupboard door,” Dilys put
in. “How often does it open by itself?”
“Occasionally,” Judith admitted.
“Interesting,” Dilys remarked, then turned to Cairo.
“Mr. Flynn has a point. We can’t do much until we get
the ME’s verdict.”
SILVER SCREAM 133 “Awwr . . .” Cairo grimaced, but nodded abruptly.
“Okay, we’ll hang it up for now.” He loomed over Judith. “I gotta trust you, Flynn. We’re shorthanded
tonight because of the holiday weekend. You see to it
that nobody goes near that kitchen, especially the sink.
You got that?”
Joe nodded solemnly; Judith blanched. “But I have
to serve breakfast for—” she began.
Cairo made a slashing gesture with his sore hand.
“Forget about it. Your fancy guests can go out to eat.
So can you.”
“But Mother can’t—” Judith began before Joe broke
in.
“Sam’s right. The kitchen is a potential crime scene.
We’ll manage.” He offered Cairo a dubious smile.
“Trying to get rid of me, eh, Flynn?” There was
nothing playful about the look in Cairo’s chilly eyes.
The equivocal smile remained on Joe’s lips. But he
said nothing.
Cairo gave Dilys a nudge and took Vivian by the
hand. “I’ll see one of your wives home,” he said.
“You’ll see me again tomorrow. Stay put.” Cairo,
Dilys, and Vivian left the house.
“Oh, Joe,” Judith murmured, “I’m so tired! But
what will we do about breakfast tomorrow?”
“We’ll work it out,” Joe said grimly. “You go to bed.
I’ll check things around here before I come up.”
Judith started to protest but lacked the energy for argument. She did, however, have one last question.
“So you really think Bruno’s death was an accident?”
Again, Joe said nothing.
Indeed, Judith was too tired to care.
*
*
*
134 Mary Daheim To her great surprise and relief, a smiling Chips
Madigan met her as she came down from the third
floor just before nine o’clock the next morning.
“That’s great!” he exclaimed, framing her with the
ever-present viewfinder. “ ‘Early A.M., overcoming
tragedy, ready to face the world.’ My mother would be
proud of you, Mrs. Flynn. She’s had a couple of B&B
guests die on her, too.”
“Really?” Judith quietly closed the door to the thirdfloor staircase. “What happened?”
Chips made a face. “I’m not sure. I mean, it was so
long ago that I don’t quite recall. One was maybe a
stroke. Maybe they both were.”
Strokes, heart attacks, even aneurysms sounded
comforting to Judith. Anything was better than murder.
She smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid I can’t make
breakfast this morning. No one is allowed in the
kitchen until the cause of Mr. Zepf’s death becomes
official.”
Chips nodded. “That’s what Win and Dade told us.
Dade got his start writing for a TV cop show a few
years back. He’s our police expert. And Win—well,
Win knows everything. Or so it seems.”
“How is she?” Judith inquired. “I thought she was
terribly upset last night.”
“She was,” Chips agreed. “She still is. She and
Bruno were like that.” The boyish-looking director entwined his first and second fingers. “But she’s a survivor. She’s had to be,” he added on a grim note.
“I guess everybody in Hollywood has to be a survivor,” Judith remarked, slowly heading for the front
stairs.
“True.” Chips’s voice held no expression. “We’re
SILVER SCREAM 135 going out to forage. At least Win and Ellie and Ben and
I are. Dade already left.”
“He’s a lone wolf, isn’t he?” Judith remarked as she
reached the top of the stairs.
Chips nodded. “A lot of writers are like that. They
work alone, they prefer their made-up characters to
real people.”
“I can understand that,” Judith said, though she really
couldn’t. People were the center of her world, her reason for being. Family, friends, and strangers—Judith
held out welcoming arms to them all. She would never
have been able to run a B&B if she hadn’t loved people.
Judith risked a touchy question. “I got the impression that directors and screenwriters don’t always
agree on how a movie is made.”
Chips flushed, his freckles blending in with the rest
of his face. “You mean that little dustup with Dade the
other night?” He didn’t wait for Judith to respond, but
shrugged in an exaggerated manner. “Typical. We call
it artistic differences. It doesn’t mean a thing.”
“Yes,” Judith said, “I see how that can happen. But
you and Bruno Zepf must have agreed on how
The Gasman was made, right?”
Chips cocked his head to one side, looking even
more boyish than usual. “Directors and producers have
their own differences. It wouldn’t be normal if they
didn’t. We’re all creative types, we all have our own
ideas about how a picture should be made.”
“Do you think Bruno had the wrong idea? I mean,”
Judith added hastily, “that he did something wrong to
get such a strong negative reaction to his movie?”
“Yes,” Chips said sadly. “Making the picture was
wrong. A passion for filmmaking is one thing—Bruno
136 Mary Daheim had plenty of passion. But personal missions seldom
make for good box office. The project was doomed
from the start. Maybe,” he continued on a mournful
note, “Bruno was, too.” With a shake of his head, he
turned back into Room Five.
Judith headed downstairs. Joe had already gone to
early Mass and was bringing back pastries and hot coffee in big thermoses. But Judith’s priority was
Gertrude. The old lady would be fussing, since her
daughter usually showed up at least an hour earlier
than this with breakfast.
Indeed, when Judith entered the toolshed Gertrude
wouldn’t speak to her. She was sitting in her usual
place behind the card table, sulking.
“One of our guests passed away last night,” Judith
began.
Gertrude turned her head and stared at the wall.
“He may have had a heart attack. That’s why I
haven’t been able to make breakfast. I can’t go into the
kitchen.”
Gertrude uttered a snort of derision.
“It’s possible that someone—” Judith stopped and
bit her lip. There was no point in alarming her mother.
“We have to get an official verdict from the coroner before I can use the kitchen.”
Gertrude picked up a deck of cards and shoved them
into the automatic shuffler.
Click-clackety-click-clack.
She removed the cards and began to lay out a game of
solitaire.
“In about fifteen minutes, Joe will come back with
pastries and hot coffee,” Judith said, then added with a
touch of irony, “I hope the trouble last night didn’t
bother you, Mother.”
SILVER SCREAM 137 Gertrude, who was about to put a red six on a black
seven, turned her small, beady eyes on her daughter. “I
didn’t hear a thing. At least your latest corpse was
quiet about sailing off through the Pearly Gates.”
“Thoughtful of him,” Judith murmured, so low that
her allegedly deaf mother couldn’t hear her.
“What kind of pastries?” Gertrude demanded, playing up an ace. “They’d better have that custard filling I
like. Or apples, with that gooey syrup. The last time,
Lunkhead brought something with apricots. I don’t
like apricots, at least not in my pastries.”
“He’ll do his best,” Judith avowed.
“No blueberries!” Gertrude exclaimed. “They turn
my dentures purple. I’d look like one of those trick-ortreaters who came by last night.”
Judith frowned. “You had kids come to the toolshed?”
“Kids, my hind end! They were as tall as I am. I
didn’t give ’em anything. Nobody eats my candy except me.” Gertrude slapped a deuce on the ace.
“What were they dressed as?” Judith asked, recalling the late arrival of the spaceman and the alligator.
“A cowboy with fancy snakeskin boots and a scarecrow that looked like he came out of
The Wizard of Oz, ” Gertrude replied, putting up another ace. “I could
hardly hear a word they said. That’s when I told them
to beat it. They did. They knew better than to mess
with this old lady.” With a savage gesture, she reeled
off a black nine, a red eight, and a black seven.
“What time was that?” Judith asked.
“Time?” Gertrude wrinkled her nose. “What’s time
to an old lady on her last legs? There’s not much of it
left. If you were me, you wouldn’t keep track of time,
either.”
138 Mary Daheim Judith eyed her mother shrewdly. “You seem to keep
track of mealtimes pretty well.”
Gertrude played up several more cards. “What does
it mean?” she said in a musing voice. “Think about it.
Why do they say that?”
“What? You mean about time?”
“No,” Gertrude replied with a scornful glance at her
daughter. “
Last legs. You don’t talk about somebody’s
first legs, or their second or their third. If you got more
legs as you went along, then they wouldn’t give out on
you. Your last legs should be your best legs, because
they’re newer.” She paused, scanning the cards in her
hand. “Now where’s that ace of clubs? I saw it someplace.”
Judith surrendered. She’d been curious about the
trick-or-treaters because she wondered why they’d
gone to the toolshed instead of to the house. But maybe
they had. Renie or Arlene would have taken care of
them. There’d be more tonight, she realized, since it
was officially Halloween. At least the wind had died
down and the rain had dwindled to a mere mist.
Joe had returned when Judith went back into the
house. He was putting a variety of pastries and doughnuts onto the buffet, along with crackers and various
cheeses. There was also a plate of cookies in the
shapes of jack-o’-lanterns, bats, and witches.
“Cute,” Judith remarked, kissing him on the cheek.
“Me or the cookies?” he responded, plugging in the
coffee urn.
“Both,” said Judith. “When should we hear from the
ME?”
“Elevenish,” Joe replied. “Then we’ll know if the
guests can leave.”
SILVER SCREAM 139 Judith began to pace the living-room floor. “I’d hate
to have to go through Ingrid at the B&B association to
put up the guests who are coming in later today. We’ve
got five reservations, you know.”
Dirk Farrar entered the room, looking belligerent.
“What’s going on? Nobody’s telling us a damned
thing. We can’t stick around forever.”
“We were just talking about that,” Judith said.
“We’re still waiting to hear from the police.”
“Screw ’em,” Dirk said fiercely. “That SOB Bruno
had a heart attack. It served him right. My price just
went down at least five mil and next time—if there is
a next time—I’ll be lucky to get any points at all.”
“But you’re a huge star,” Judith protested. “You’ve
been in several big hits, including with Mr. Zepf. Or so
I’ve heard,” she added humbly.
The handsome, craggy features that had made females hyperventilate on five continents, and possibly
Pluto, twisted with anger. “You don’t get it. None of
you people who aren’t in the business get it. Last
night’s flop could be the end of Dirk Farrar!”
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.
140 Mary Daheim “ ‘Some old fart?’ ” Joe echoed. “I don’t like that
old 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
murder.
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.”
SILVER SCREAM 141 “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
saw stars at the time.”
Hands on hips, Judith stared at her husband. “You
mean this is all our fault?”
“Yes,” Joe said in a weak voice. “We may have
killed Bruno Zepf.”
NINE
“THAT’S RIDICULOUS,” JUDITH declared. “How is it
our fault that Bruno bumped his head on an open
cupboard door? Maybe he opened it himself.”
Joe gave Judith a bleak look. “The door was broken. That’s negligence. That’s our fault.”
“My God,” Judith moaned, “we could be ruined!
If they find out about that door, they’ll sue, they’ll
take every cent we have!”
Joe’s expression turned grim. “What’s the insurance for guests?”
“Substantial,” Judith said, agitated. “I mean, adequate under normal circumstances. But not for
something like this, if we’re shown as being negligent and a big Hollywood celebrity gets . . . Think
of the publicity! It’s one thing to have a guest murdered by someone else, that can’t be helped,” Judith
went on, her usual sound logic working in strange
ways, “but an accident caused by the owners’ carelessness?” She put her hands over her face. “Oh,
Joe, I can’t bear it! I feel sick!”
“Well, you can’t throw up in the kitchen sink,”
Joe remarked, a touch of his characteristic humor
surfacing.
SILVER SCREAM 143 Judith took a deep breath. “I’m in shock. And that
poor man—if it’s our fault that he’s dead . . .” Her nausea remained though she pressed her hands against her
face as if trying to subdue the sensation.
“Hang on.” Joe put an arm around his wife. “We’re
not licked yet.”
Judith peered between her fingers. “What do you
mean?”
“I mean,” he said quietly, “that we don’t know for
sure how Bruno ended up unconscious in the first
place.”
“You mean . . . Someone may have hit him with a
different object?”
“No, there were slivers of wood and maybe varnish
in what was left of Bruno’s hair,” Joe said. “Cairo was
so busy giving me a bad time that the facts were a little
hard to piece together.”
Judith was still puzzled. “But what’s the official verdict?”
“Death by misadventure. That means,” Joe explained,
pouring himself a cup of coffee, “that there’s no evidence of foul play, but an investigation will continue.”
“What about the guests?” she asked. “Are they free
to go?”
“I suppose so,” he said as the front doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it.”
When Joe reappeared moments later, a tall, balding
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.”
144 Mary Daheim 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. “
The Gasman’ s cast and crew.
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
SILVER SCREAM 145 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.
“Not that long,” Joe said. “Ten minutes at most.” He
stiffened as Vito Patricelli emerged from the parlor
door that led into the living room.
“The meeting’s concluded,” Vito said in his unruffled manner. “I’ve made it clear to my clients where
their responsibilities lie and what they must do to carry
them out on behalf of Paradox Studios.”
Joe was equally unflappable. “Which is?”
A faintly sinister smile played at Vito’s thin lips.
“That they are not to leave the vicinity until the studio
knows exactly what happened to Bruno Zepf.”
Judith didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She did
neither, remaining on the sofa until the sullen guests
exited the parlor.
Vito sat down opposite her, carefully arranging his
trousers to make sure the crease stayed in the proper
position. “I have some questions for you both,” he said
in that same, smooth voice.
Joe joined Judith on the sofa. “Fire away,” he said.
Vito removed his sunglasses, revealing wide-set
dark eyes that seemed to have a fire lit behind them.
“What time did Mr. Zepf die?”
“Around one A.M.,” Joe answered.
“Are you absolutely certain?” Vito asked.
146 Mary Daheim “We can’t be precise,” Joe said reasonably. “My
wife and I weren’t with Bruno when it happened. The
time is an estimate, which is also what the ME gave
us.”
Only an almost imperceptible flicker of Vito’s eyelids indicated any emotion. “But,” he said, “you’re positive that Bruno died after midnight?”
“Definitely,” Joe replied. “Why is the time so important?”
The lawyer took a deep breath, then gave Joe what
was probably meant to be a confidential smile, but
looked a trifle piranhalike to Judith. “Let me explain
two things. First, Paradox Studios insures all members
of a shooting company when a picture is made. This is
standard procedure, to make sure there’s due compensation for anyone involved in the production suffering
a disabling injury or”—he paused to clear his throat—
“dying. The policy the studio took out on
The Gasman expired October thirty-first, which is today. The problem is, did it expire last night at midnight or is it still
valid until tomorrow, November first?”
Joe frowned. “Aren’t such policies specific?”
“Not in this case,” Vito replied. “There was also a
rider concerning postproduction. Bruno had stated—
verbally—that once
The Gasman premiered, he
wouldn’t tinker with it. But last night he told Winifred
Best and Chips Madigan that it was clear there would
have to be some editing. He intended to pull the picture
from release and postpone its general opening for a
month.”
Judith finally found her voice. “What does all this
have to do with the guests not being able to leave?”
Vito tried to look apologetic, but failed. “I’m afraid
SILVER SCREAM 147 I can’t discuss that with you at present. But I’m sure
you realize that the studio wants to conduct its own investigation into the cause of Bruno’s death. You must
be aware that the medical examiner’s report is inconclusive.”
“We’re aware,” Joe said with a dour expression.
“Good.” Vito stood up, ever mindful of the crease in
his trousers. “I hope this doesn’t sound crass, but I believe you have a vacant room?”
“Ah . . .” Judith’s jaw dropped. “You mean Bruno’s?
Yes, but—”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll spend the night there,”
Vito interposed. “Right now I have to head back
downtown to talk with the rest of the company at the
Cascadia Hotel. Don’t bother to show me out. I know
the way.” He slipped his sunglasses back on and gave
both Flynns the slightly sinister smile. “I’m a quick
study.”
Despite the lawyer’s assertion, Judith and Joe followed him as far as the entry hall. When the door had
closed behind Vito, Joe put an arm around his wife.
“Let’s go into the parlor in case the guests decide to
come downstairs and commandeer the living room.”
In the gray autumn light with the dead ashes in the
grate and the single tall window streaked with rain, the
room had lost its usual cheerfulness. The parlor
seemed bleak, matching Judith’s mood.
“Whatever are we going to do?” she groaned, slipping into one of the two matching side chairs. “Will
the studio’s investigation make us the culprits?”
“I’ve no idea,” Joe admitted, “but one thing’s for
sure—Stone Cold Sam Cairo isn’t going to rush
around on our account. He’s laughing up his sleeve
148 Mary Daheim over our dilemma because he hates me. Resents me,
too, which is maybe why he hates me. I always had a
better ratio of cases solved than he did. It was a competition to Sam, one-on-one. The bottom line is we
can’t rely on him.”
Judith felt too dazed to respond.
“So we’ll do our own investigating. I’ve got the experience, and you’ve got . . . a way with people.” Joe
lowered his gaze. It was difficult for him to admit that
his wife’s amateur tactics could ferret out murderers.
“Between us, we may be able to get ourselves out of
this jam.”
“You mean,” Judith croaked, “we informally interrogate them?”
“You do,” Joe said, patting her hand. “I’ll take a
more professional stand. After all, I’m not only a retired cop, but a private detective.” He offered her his
most engaging grin. “Want to hire me?”
Judith grinned back, though she was still upset. “Of
course. I’d better make arrangements with Ingrid for
tonight’s other guests.”
Joe patted her, then started for the door. “I’m on the
case.”
“Oh!” Judith called after him. “One thing.”
“What’s that?”
She swallowed hard. “Do you honestly believe that
Bruno may have been murdered?”
Joe regarded his wife with grim compassion. “I
can’t rule it out.”
Judith’s heart sank. “You sound like a cop.”
He shrugged.
Judith tried to regain her composure. “One more
thing.”
SILVER SCREAM 149 “What?”
“Can I use the kitchen?”
When Judith drained the sink, she felt as if she were
releasing the floodgates of evil. Joe had already removed the rubber spider and fingerprinted the entire
area, including the wayward door, the window and
windowsill, and the faucets. He’d ask Woody Price to
run the evidence through the lab.
Judith called Ingrid at the state B&B association’s
office, but was informed that Ms. Heffelman had the
weekend off. In her place was a soft-spoken woman
named Zillah Young. Apparently Zillah was new to the
hostelry business and didn’t know of Judith’s reputation for murder and mayhem. Without giving the details, Judith meekly asked her to assign the five
Sunday-night reservations to other B&Bs in the area.
Finally, Judith had a chance to call Renie and let her
know about the tragedy. It was shortly after eleven
o’clock, and the Joneses should be back from Mass at
Our Lady, Star of the Sea. Judith would either have to
miss Mass or go in the evening. There was no way she
could leave Hillside Manor at present.
The only guests that Joe had found upstairs were
Dirk Farrar and Angela La Belle. Joe reported that both
were furious. He also noted that they seemed to be
sharing Room Three, which had belonged to Bruno.
“I told them to get out of there,” Joe said. “I want to
search that room thoroughly before Vito settles in.”
“Will they go?” Judith asked, her fingers poised to
call Renie.
“They stomped out of the house five minutes ago.”
Judith sighed. “So there’s nobody here for me to
150 Mary Daheim chat up. Heaven only knows where Dade Costello
went. He seems to wander the neighborhood, thinking
great thoughts.”
“Or homicidal ones,” Joe put in.
“Are you going to search Bruno’s room now?” Judith asked.
“Yes. You want to come along?”
“No,” Judith replied. “I have to call Renie, and then,
if none of the guests are back, I’ll go down to St. Fabiola’s at the bottom of the hill for noon Mass. Oh, by
the way, there’s a book in Bruno’s room called
The Gasman. I heard he based the movie on it. It’s old and
looks as if it’s been cherished. Chips Madigan said
something this morning about Bruno being on a mission. I know it sounds silly, but I’m curious. Why don’t
you bring it down and I’ll call one of my library
mavens to see if they know anything about it.”
“You never came across it when you worked as a librarian?” Joe inquired, referring to the weary years of
Judith’s first marriage when she worked days at the
public library and tended bar at the Meat & Mingle in
the evenings.
Judith shook her head. “I’ve never heard of it.”
Joe left the kitchen while Judith dialed Renie’s
number. There was no answer except for Anne’s voice
on the machine.
“Anne Jones here. If you want to reach me immediately, call my cell phone or my pager. The numbers
are . . .” After reeling off the digits, she added, “If you
must speak to anybody else, leave your—” The message cut off abruptly, as if Anne didn’t give a damn
whether the rest of the Joneses ever got a phone call.
Which, Renie asserted, Anne didn’t.
SILVER SCREAM 151 Judith took a plateful of pastries out to the toolshed,
where Gertrude picked over them with a persnickety
air. Finally she selected two custard sweet rolls and
three sugar doughnuts.
“Some breakfast,” the old lady sniffed. “Isn’t it time
for lunch?”
Judith told her mother that lunch would be a little
late. Gertrude sniffed some more.
By five to twelve, none of the guests had returned.
Their absence made Judith nervous, but accepting it
as a sign from heaven, she headed off to St. Fabiola’s. The church was near the civic center, and was
a half century newer than Our Lady, Star of the Sea.
The amber brick edifice was only a few minutes’
drive from Hillside Manor. At the bottom of Heraldsgate Hill on a quiet Sunday morning, traffic was
light. Most of the businesses were closed, and the
few that were open had just unlocked their doors to
customers.
Judith arrived just after Mass had started, so she sat
in a pew near the back. The lector was reading the first
epistle when there was a commotion behind her.
Discreetly, she turned to look. At the side entrance,
an elderly usher was struggling to keep a disheveled
bundle of unsteadiness upright. It was a woman, Judith
thought, and wondered if she was drunk or ill. At last
the man steadied the unfortunate soul, propping her up
against a confessional door.
“. . . word of the Lord,” intoned the lector from the
pulpit.
“Oh, my Lord!” Judith gasped from the pew.
The disheveled woman was Renie. She was panting
and limping, her clothes in disarray and her hair going
152 Mary Daheim every which way, including over her eyes. Judith hurried into the aisle and approached her cousin.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered in a frantic voice.
“Are you sick?”
Renie shook her head, brushing unruly chestnut
strands of hair out of her eyes.
“Have you been attacked?” Judith asked.
Renie shook her head again. “Not exactly.”
Judith gestured toward the pew where she’d been
sitting. “Can you sit down?”
Renie nodded. The usher, whose wrinkled face was
etched with concern, made a move to help both
women.
“It’s okay,” Judith said softly. “She’s not heavy,
she’s my cousin.”
TEN
RENIE ALL BUT fell into the pew. By now, several of
the nearby worshipers were staring. But as she regained her breath and straightened her clothes, the
curious returned their attention to the altar. Judith,
however, still stared at her cousin with anxious eyes.
“Later,” Renie mouthed.
It seemed like the longest Mass that Judith had
ever attended. She had great difficulty concentrating
on the liturgy, though she found no problem in praying for Renie and for herself. It seemed that they
both were in a great deal of trouble. At last the priest
gave the final blessing. Judith offered to help Renie
out of the pew, but was shaken off.
“I’m okay now,” she declared. “I won.”
“You won what?” Judith asked as they started
down the aisle.
“The fight,” Renie said as they reached the
vestibule. “I got into a fight at the XYZ Market up
the street.”
“Oh, good grief!” Judith exclaimed, drawing
more stares from the exiting churchgoers. “How did
that happen?”
“Some middle-aged Amazon thought she was
154 Mary Daheim Wonder Woman and tried to edge me out at the checkout counter,” Renie explained as they headed down the
stairs to the door that led to the parking lot. “I’d already stood in line for ten minutes and I was afraid I’d
be late for Mass. Bill had gone to ten o’clock at Our
Lady, Star of the Sea. I was so pooped from everything
that happened yesterday that I slept in. Anyway, this
brazen broad ran her cart over my foot and said something like, ‘Move it, shorty.’ So I rammed her with my
cart. Then we got into it, and the next thing I knew we
were slugging it out over the counter and finally I put
a plastic produce bag over her head. She surrendered.”
Renie wore a grim expression of victory. “So what’s
new with you this morning?”
Judith started to speak, and discovered that she had
no voice. “I . . .” The single word was a squawk.
“Joe . . .” Her husband’s name was a guttural sound, as
if she were gagging.
Renie looked alarmed. “What’s wrong, coz? Is
something caught in your throat?”
Judith shook her head. The other churchgoers were
now swarming the parking lot, revving engines, and
readying for departure. The cousins were blocking
traffic. With a desperate effort, Judith mouthed the
words, “Buster’s Café.”
“Buster’s?” Renie looked bewildered.
Judith made chewing motions. Renie got it.
“You want me to meet you at Buster’s? Okay, see
you in a couple of minutes.”
Buster’s Café was old, a lower Heraldsgate Hill
landmark. Buster himself still ran the place after inheriting it from his parents forty years earlier. Nothing
much had changed in that time, or even before, but the
SILVER SCREAM 155 food was decent and the rubber-soled waitresses could
have won a restaurant Olympics for speed and efficiency.
It took each of the cousins less than three minutes to
drive to the café, but almost ten to find parking spaces,
even on a Sunday morning. Judith was out of breath
when she arrived; Renie seemed to have regained her
usual bounce.
“I can’t have more than coffee,” Judith said, “because I have to get home. If you think you’ve had a bad
weekend, listen to this . . .”
Renie did, her brown eyes growing wider and wider.
When Judith had finished about the same time that
Renie’s coffee had gone cold, an incredulous expression remained on her cousin’s face.
“You can’t lose the B&B!” Renie cried. “It’d be like
removing your liver!”
“I know.” Judith sighed. “It’s not just a job or making money, it’s who I am. The horrible part is that we
may be at fault. We were negligent in not getting that
cupboard door fixed. Why, you almost slammed into it
the other day.”
“True,” Renie allowed, her expression full of concern. “But you don’t really know what happened to
Bruno.”
“Also true,” Judith agreed.
A brief silence fell between the cousins. “I’m not
going to say it,” Renie said at last.
“Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it,” Judith responded, finally taking a sip from her water glass. “No
matter what, I’ve already said it about twenty times
since last night.”
Renie said it anyway. “It can’t be another homicide.
156 Mary Daheim That’d be three at Hillside Manor. On the other hand,
if it is, you wouldn’t be at fault.” She paused after stirring extra sugar into her coffee. “When is a murder not
a murder? How on earth do you and Joe expect to find
out?”
“I’m not sure,” Judith replied, looking worried. “I
talk, I listen, while Joe sleuths in a professional way.”
“Can Bill and I help?” Renie offered, her deep sense
of family loyalty leaping to the surface.
While not nearly as compassionate, Renie ran a decent second to her cousin when it came to striking up
a revealing conversation. As for Bill, whatever he disliked about idle socializing was more than made up for
by his extraordinary perceptiveness. Being a trained
psychologist didn’t hurt any, either.
“Why not?” Judith said, brightening a bit.
“Well . . .” Renie grimaced. “We were planning on
inviting our future in-laws over so we could make sure
who was marrying whom, but the kids aren’t positive
that will work with their various and elaborate schedules. They insist we’ve met them already. I’ll find out
what Bill thinks. If he gives me a green light, we’ll be
over as soon as we can.”
Driving to Hillside Manor, Judith breathed a little
easier. To her relief, the cul-de-sac was empty, except
for the patrol car that had crept close to the curb. She
couldn’t see who was inside, but assumed it was someone from the day shift. Darnell Hicks and Mercedes
Berger would have gone home hours ago.
As she often did, Judith left her Subaru in the driveway. She usually entered the house from the rear, but
on this anxious Sunday she retraced her route to the
front. Pausing on the walk, she drank in the entirety of
SILVER SCREAM 157 Hillside Manor, acknowledging its age, soaking up its
memories. The house was almost a hundred years old,
built in the Edwardian era. The dark green paint and
the off-white trim on the Prairie-style Craftsman had
just begun to chip and fade. Next summer, Judith
would have to hire a painter. If there was a next summer at Hillside Manor.
So many memories, she thought, ignoring the slight
drizzle. Her Grover grandparents had bought the house
in the twenties. Her father and Renie’s father had
grown up there along with four siblings. Gertrude and
Donald Grover had raised Judith within its sheltering
walls. After Don died, Judith and Mike had returned,
converting the house into a bed-and-breakfast. To Judith, it wasn’t just a building, it was a sanctuary. She
couldn’t possibly give it up. Not ever.
With a dragging step, Judith entered through the
front door, where her melancholia was swept away by
angry voices coming from the living room. One voice
soared above the rest.
“You don’t live in our world, Mr. Flynn,” proclaimed Angela La Belle. “You can’t possibly understand what it’s like to be in the picture business. If we
aren’t free to talk to people, to make contacts, to keep
up on every nuance of the business, our careers are in
jeopardy. Indeed, after last night’s fiasco, all”—she
paused, and Judith thought she glanced at Ellie Linn—
“or
almost all of us are already in deep doodoo.”
It seemed to Judith the reference was not to Bruno’s
death, but to
The Gasman’ s flop. She couldn’t help but
flinch at the lack of humanity.
Joe remained unruffled. “Don’t blame us. Talk to
your studio suits. You all have cell phones, don’t you?”
158 Mary Daheim He cupped one ear with his hand. “I could swear
they’ve been ringing like a satellite symphony.”
“It’s not the same,” Ben Carmody argued. “I
planned to take a dinner meeting tonight with the number two producer in Hollywood. Number one now,
with Bruno out of the picture. So to speak.” The actor
looked faintly sheepish, but continued, “After last
night, there may not be any producers who want to talk
to me.”
“You’re not kidding,” Angela chimed in. “Now
when my name comes up, they’ll say, ‘La Belle? She
was in that disaster,
The Gasman. I wouldn’t touch her
with a ten-foot pole.’ It’ll be like I have a contagious
disease. There’s no rationality in this business. Only
success and its afterglow count.”
The others enumerated their complaints, all of
which swelled into a dirge of doom. Judith studied the
gathering. Winifred was seated on one of the sofas by
the fireplace with Chips Madigan at her side. Opposite
them were Angela and Dirk. Ben Carmody leaned
against the mantelpiece and, while not wearing his
usual sinister screen expression, definitely looked morose. Dade Costello retained his lone-wolf status in his
favorite place by the French doors. Ellie Linn also
stood outside the circle, perched on the bay window
seat with her feet tucked under her. It seemed to Judith
that the young actress hadn’t been nearly as vocal
about the unfortunate movie premiere as her colleagues.
It was time, Judith believed, to cut someone from
the herd. She singled out Winifred Best.
“Excuse me,” she said in a deferential voice, “but
could I speak with you privately, Ms. Best?”
SILVER SCREAM 159 Briefly, Winifred looked hostile. Or maybe just
wary. But her response was sufficiently courteous.
“Yes, if you like.”
Judith led her guest into the front parlor. “It’s really
none of my business, but since I’ll have to fill out some
forms, I should know what the plans are for Mr. Zepf’s
body.”
“Oh.” Winifred’s face fell. “I’ve contacted his children—they’re both in the L.A. area—and they’re making the arrangements. My understanding is that the
body will be shipped from here tomorrow. Under the
circumstances, I should think any kind of service will
be private. Very private.” She uttered the last words
through taut lips.
Judith wondered if the very private services were
because the family was very private or because the deceased had suffered a huge professional catastrophe
and the survivors were afraid that nobody would attend.
“Are his children grown?” Judith inquired.
Winifred nodded. “Practically. That is, they’re both
in college. Greta’s at Pepperdine and Greg just started
USC.”
“Um . . .” Judith cleared her throat. “Is their mother
also in L.A.?”
Winifred arched her thin eyebrows. “Their mother is
in Dubai. She divorced Bruno several years ago and
married an emir. She was an actress named Taryn
McGuire. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d never heard
of her. She did mostly TV and only appeared briefly in
two or three feature films.”
The name meant nothing to Judith. “I suppose being
married to Bruno wasn’t easy,” she said in a sympa-
160 Mary Daheim thetic tone. “That is, he really was considered a movie
genius, wasn’t he?”
“Brilliant.” Winifred’s eyes lit up and her voice became almost caressing. “He always had his dreams.
Bruno attended every Saturday matinee, his attention
fixated on the screen, his imagination catching fire.
Early on, he understood what made a successful picture. It was born in him.”
Judith felt as if Winifred were reading from a press
release. Maybe she was; maybe she’d written it.
“It was only in the last six or seven years that he began
to recieve the kind of acclaim he’d always sought,”
Winifred went on. “Two years ago he made the short list.”
“Which is?” Judith asked, puzzled.
Winifred offered Judith a pitying smile. “It refers to
those few at the very top of their professions in the film
industry. Like Spielberg or Cameron. And Bruno.”
Quickly, she turned away. “Excuse me. It’s so hard to
think of Bruno going out . . . with a failure.”
“You seem genuinely fond of him,” Judith said, surprised at herself for being so bold, even more surprised
that she was using the word
genuine with a Hollywood
person.
Winifred drew back sharply. “Why wouldn’t I be?
He gave me an excellent job.”
Maybe it was as simple as that. Maybe gratitude
was possible in the movie business. Maybe something other than ice water ran in the veins of Winifred
Best.
“You’d been with Mr. Zepf a long time?” Judith
said, keeping her voice low and casual.
“Yes,” Winifred replied, still wary.
“You must have had excellent credentials to get the
SILVER SCREAM 161 job as Mr. Zepf’s assistant,” Judith remarked, hearing
a car pull up outside.
“Good enough,” Winifred said, her expression shutting down. “Is that Morris who just arrived?”
“Morris?” Judith echoed, puzzled.
“Morris Mayne, the studio publicist,” Winifred said,
joining Judith at the parlor’s tall window.
“No,” Judith said, recognizing Woody Price’s car.
“It’s a friend.”
Winifred stiffened. “Not Vito?”
“No . . .”
“Who, then?” Winifred rasped out the question.
“Ah . . . An old friend of my husband’s, actually.”
Judith didn’t want to identify Woody as a cop. He had
probably come to collect the physical evidence Joe had
gathered. As much as she wanted to see Woody, she
thought it best to stay out of sight. Joe could handle his
ex-partner’s arrival with a minimum of fuss.
But Winifred persisted. “Why is he here? He’s not
media, is he?”
“Heavens, no!” Judith’s laughter was false. “He
won’t stay. I think he wants to borrow something from
my husband.”
Winifred looked relieved. “Morris has done an outstanding job of misleading the media about Bruno’s death.
So far, they have no idea where or how it happened.”
Judith could hear Joe greeting Woody in the entry
hall. To divert the other guests, she led Winifred
through the parlor door that opened directly into the
living room.
“Excuse me,” Judith said loudly. “Since I can use
the kitchen, I’ll take dinner orders now. Does anyone
have some particular craving?”
162 Mary Daheim Only Ellie Linn seemed excited by the announcement. “Can I get some of my dad’s famous hot
dogs? I’ve really missed them the past few days, you
know.”
Judith nodded. “There’s a Wienie Wizard just across
the ship canal. Anyone else want something special?”
“Not wieners,” Angela said with a sneer. “I’d rather
eat rubber.”
“Steak,” Dirk said, giving Angela’s shoulders a
quick squeeze. “New York cut, an inch thick, rare.”
“You know what sounds good to me?” Chips Madigan said in his ingenuous manner. “An old-fashioned
chicken pot pie, like my mother makes.”
Ben Carmody gazed at the ceiling. “Pasta. Any
kind, with prawns and a really good baguette.”
“If Vito is here,” Winifred put in, “he prefers sushi,
particularly the spider rolls.”
Judith’s innkeeper’s smile began to droop. She
hadn’t planned on serving a smorgasbord.
“Wine,” Ellie added. “You know—some really fine
wines. I like a Merlot with my Wienie Wizards.” She
shot Angela an insolent look.
“Dade?” Judith called across the long room. “What
about you?”
The writer, who had, as usual, been staring out
through the French doors, slowly turned around. “What
about what?” he inquired in his soft Southern voice.
“What you’d like to eat,” Judith said, hearing the
front door close.
“Chitlins,” Dade said, and turned his back again.
“Winifred?” Judith said as Joe ambled back into the
living room.
Winifred shook her head. “I’m not hungry.” She
SILVER SCREAM 163 paused, tapping her sharp chin. “A small salad, perhaps. Mostly field greens.”
“I’ll call a caterer. They’ll be able to stop by the
Wienie Wizard on their way here.” Still trying to keep
her hospitable smile in place, Judith hurried off to use
the phone in the kitchen.
“Woody’s heading for the crime lab,” Joe whispered
as Judith went past him. “He’s doing some background
checks, too.”
It took ten minutes to place the order with the
caterer, with Judith filling in various other items to tide
her guests over until the next morning. She had just
hung up when the phone rang in her hand.
“Now what?” demanded an angry Ingrid Heffelman.
“Zillah Young just called me from the state B&B—on
my day off—to say you’d requested changes for tonight.
What’s going on, Judith?”
“Hey,” Judith retorted, “this Hollywood booking
was your idea. I didn’t ask to change the Kidds and the
Izards. You forced my hand.”
“That’s beside the point,” Ingrid replied, simmering
down just a bit. “The Kidds were considering staying
over for a day or two and moving to your B&B. They
felt they’d missed out. I wouldn’t be surprised if the
Izards would still like to spend a night there for future
reference.”
“The Izards already checked out the place,” Judith
said, still vexed. “Anyway, there’s nothing I can do. It’s
out of my hands.”
“How come?” Ingrid was heating up again.
“I can’t tell you exactly,” Judith replied, trying to
sound reasonable. “It has to do with an incident involving one of the guests.”
164 Mary Daheim “An incident?” Ingrid sounded suspicious.
“What would you expect?” Judith said, no longer
reasonable but downright cross. “From the beginning,
I figured this crew would be nothing but trouble. I was
right.”
“What kind of trouble?” Ingrid asked, then uttered a
high-pitched squawk. “Not . . . ? Oh, Judith, not
again!”
“I can’t say. Really,” Judith added in a frustrated
voice, “I’m not allowed to tell anyone just yet.”
“You don’t have to,” Ingrid said sharply. “I can read
the newspaper. It’s that Bruno person, isn’t it? He died
last night. I didn’t put two and two together this morning because the story was so small and I was barely
awake. Being
my day off and all.”
“I’m sorry, really I am.” Judith was about to say it
wasn’t her fault. But this time she couldn’t. Maybe she
was to blame. “Please, Ingrid, don’t tell anyone. We’re
under siege from the studio, which is why the Hollywood guests can’t leave.”
“Oh, God.” Ingrid expelled a huge sigh. “All right,
I’ll be discreet, if only for the state association’s sake.
You’re right—it’s my fault for putting them up at
Hillside Manor. Given your track record, I should
have known better.” With an apathetic good-bye, she
hung up.
Judith was still muttering to herself when Renie and
Bill arrived at the back door.
“You told us we could come through the kitchen,”
Renie said, breezing through the narrow hallway.
“Where are the nuts I’m supposed to observe?” Bill
asked in his rich, carrying voice.
Judith winced. “In the living room. We’re expecting
SILVER SCREAM 165 at least one more, I understand. Remember Morris
Mayne from last night?”
“The publicist?” Renie said, hanging her jacket on
the antique coatrack.
“The very same,” Judith replied. “And Vito Patricelli, the studio lawyer.”
“What happened to the agent, Eugenia Whateverher-name-is?” Renie asked.
Judith sighed. “I forgot about her. Who knows?
Maybe the entire crew from the Cascadia will show up
eventually.”
“Let’s watch TV,” Bill said upon entering the living
room. “There’s a pretty good NFL game on.” As the
guests stared at him, he marched over to the entertainment center next to the bay window, opened the oak
doors, and switched on the big-screen television set.
“Who’s a Packer fan?” he asked, being a Wisconsin native.
“I am,” Chips Madigan declared.
“I hate the Packers,” Dirk Farrar asserted.
Dade actually expressed some interest. “Who are
they playing? The Falcons, by any chance?”
Angela rose from the sofa. “I hate football. I’m not
watching.” She sailed past Judith and Renie, heading
for the bathroom off the entry hall.
“Me neither,” Ellie said, slipping off the window
seat. “I’ve never understood how all those great big
men like grabbing each other. It’s not natural, you
know.” She wandered off into the dining room.
“The observation period?” Judith murmured to
Renie.
“That’s right,” Renie said. “Bill insists you can tell
quite a bit about people by the way they watch—or
166 Mary Daheim don’t watch—sports. Have you chatted up Ellie or Angela yet?”
Judith shook her head. “Only Winifred. Dade’s the
one I’d really like to talk to. Maybe if Green Bay isn’t
playing Atlanta, he’ll get bored.”
“I’ll tackle Ellie,” Renie said, making motions like a
football player. “You can grab Angela when she comes
out of the can.”
While her cousin went into the dining room, Judith
slowly paced the entry-hall floor. A couple of minutes
passed. Angela didn’t reappear. Judith fiddled with the
guest registry and the visitor brochures she kept on the
first landing. Still, Angela didn’t come out of the bathroom. Judith began to wonder if the actress might be
ill.
After another three minutes had passed, she rapped
softly on the varnished walnut door. “Ms. La Belle?”
she called, also softly.
There was no response. Judith pressed her ear
against the old wood, but heard nothing. She rapped
again, this time louder.
Still nothing.
Alarmed, Judith tried the knob. The door was locked
from the inside.
“Ms. La Belle!” she called. “Angela! Are you all
right?”
Renie and Ellie Linn appeared from around the
corner.
“What’s going on?” Renie asked with a frown.
Quickly, Judith explained. “I’m afraid Angela may
be sick.”
Renie’s frown deepened. “The lock’s one of those
old-fashioned bolt things, isn’t it?”
SILVER SCREAM 167 “Right,” Judith said, “but it means damaging the
door, which Skjoval Tolvang just rehung.”
“Then leave Angela in there,” Ellie said with a
shrug, and walked away.
“We can’t,” Judith declared, scowling at Ellie’s departing figure. “I’ll get Joe.”
Everyone in the living room seemed to be caught up
in a third-and-three situation for the Packers except
Joe, who was watching Bill watch the guests. Urgently,
Judith grabbed her husband by the arm.
“Come with me,” she commanded, keeping her
voice down. “We have a lock problem.”
“What lock?” he said, turning to Judith. “I thought
you knew how to pick them.”
“Not this one,” Judith said, pointing to the bathroom
door. “It’s a bolt, remember? Angela La Belle is in
there and won’t answer.”
Joe looked skeptical, but saw that his wife was upset
and threw up his hands. “Okay, but if there’s nothing
wrong and she just wants to . . . well, sit around, then
I’m going to be even less popular around here than I
am already.”
“Please, Joe,” Judith begged. “Do it.”
First, however, Joe knocked. Then he called Angela’s
name. There was still no response. Grasping the doorknob, he counted to three, then gave a mighty tug. The
old wood shuddered, but stayed in place. He tried a second time. The bolt gave, but not enough to come free.
“Get Bill,” Joe said to Renie. He was panting and
beginning to perspire.
Renie hurried out into the living room, returning almost immediately with her husband. “Commercial
break,” she murmured to Judith. “Lucky us.”
168 Mary Daheim Joe held on to the knob and Bill held on to Joe. With
a mighty effort, they pulled the bolt lock out of the
door, which swung outward.
Angela La Belle was facedown in the bathroom
sink.
ELEVEN
HAVING BEEN PRIVY to two, possibly three, murders
at her B&B, and encountering corpses at various
other sites, Judith couldn’t believe that history was
repeating itself in less than twenty-four hours.
In some tiny hidden corner of her mind, she honestly thought that nothing could sever her hold on
reality. She’d seen everything, overcome so many
obstacles, endured unaccountable hardships. Surely
this was a dream, inspired by the discovery of Bruno
Zepf’s body the previous night. Flashing stars and
crazy comets sailed before her eyes as Judith
swayed backward. She would have fallen if Bill
hadn’t caught her.
Dazedly, she heard Bill shout at Renie to get a
chair out of the dining room. More dimly, she
caught snatches of Joe speaking—or was he shouting?—he sounded so far away—to summon 911.
“Call . . . Medics . . . CPR?”
Judith thought she heard Joe mention CPR.
Maybe Angela wasn’t dead in the bathroom sink. Or
maybe Joe wanted CPR for Judith. As a former cop,
he knew CPR. Maybe everybody needed CPR. . . .
Someone—Bill, she guessed, catching her
170 Mary Daheim blurred reflection off his glasses—was easing her into
Grandpa Grover’s chair at the head of the dining-room
table. A moment later a slender hand held out a balloon
glass with what looked like brandy in it.
“Take a sip,” Renie urged. “I got this out of the
washstand bar.”
Judith didn’t care if Renie had held up the state
liquor store at the bottom of Heraldsgate Hill. Gratefully, she accepted the glass and inhaled deeply before
taking a small sip. The darkness with its streaks of
spinning lights began to recede; the dining room was
coming into focus. Judith fixated on the middle of the
table, where a Chinese bowl of gold and amber
chrysanthemums sat in autumnal splendor.
But reality returned along with her vision. “Angela!” she gasped. “Is she . . . ?”
Renie gave a sharp shake of her head. “I’m not sure.
I think Joe was asking if anyone knew CPR. I suspect
he didn’t want to do it himself in case something
else—” She caught herself. “In case Angela doesn’t
make it. Dade Costello volunteered. Don’t move, I’ll
take a peek into the entry hall.”
Judith took another sip of brandy. Bill stepped behind the chair and began rubbing her shoulders.
“Dirk Farrar is passive-aggressive,” he said quietly.
“Winifred Best has low self-esteem. Chips Madigan
has an unresolved Oedipal complex. His father may
have abused him.”
Bill’s analyses, along with the brandy and the massage, brought Judith into complete focus. “You figured
out all that in five minutes of watching the guests
watch TV?”
“It was longer than that,” Bill replied. “The Packers
SILVER SCREAM 171 got stalled on the Bears’ thirty-eight-yard line, punted,
and the Bears made two nice pass plays before they
kicked a field goal.”
“Oh.” Judith smiled faintly. “I’m still amazed at
how quickly you pinpointed their personalities.”
“I’m guessing,” Bill said, finishing the massage.
“Ordinarily, it’d take several sessions to peel the layers
off a patient. But you’re under pressure to figure these
people out.”
“Yes,” Judith agreed as Renie returned to the dining
room.
“Angela’s alive,” she announced, “but still unconscious. Fortunately, there was no water in the sink.”
“And no cupboard door to hit her in the head,” Judith murmured. “So what happened?”
Renie shook her head. “Nobody knows. Maybe she
fainted.”
“She wouldn’t still be out cold,” Judith noted, getting to her feet with Bill’s help. “She’s either sick
or . . .”
“Or what?” Renie put in as her cousin’s voice trailed
off.
“I’m not sure.” Judith’s expression was grim as she
moved unsteadily into the entry hall, where Dirk Farrar was kneeling over Angela’s motionless figure.
Dade Costello, apparently weary from his CPR ministrations, leaned against the balustrade and used a blueand-white bandanna to wipe sweat from his forehead.
Dirk looked up. “She’s alive. Her breathing’s better.
Where the hell are the medics?”
Judith’s ears picked up the sound of the medics’
siren. “They’re outside,” she said, and staggered to the
front door.
172 Mary Daheim Chips Madigan was already on the alert. “In through
here,” he told the emergency team, pointing to the
entry-hall bathroom. As the trio made their way to Angela, Chips got down on one knee and framed an imaginary shot with his fingers. “Whoa! This is good!
Medium shot, backs of uniforms looking great, equipment visible, love the red steel cases.” The director
stood up. “Two men and a woman. That’s good, too.
But the height differentials could be better. The
woman’s too tall.”
Dirk Farrar had stepped aside as the medics began
their task. The woman—who was indeed over six
feet—waved the other onlookers away. “Clear the
area,” she commanded. “We need some room here.”
Judith, Joe, Renie, and Bill returned to the dining
room. The women sat down at the dining-room table;
the men remained standing, Bill by the window, Joe
next to the big breakfront that held three generations of
the Grover family’s favorite china.
“What could have happened to Angela?” Judith
mused in a fretful voice. “Stress?”
“In a way,” Joe said, rocking slightly on his heels.
“That is, if you figure that stress can lead to drug addiction.”
“Drugs!” Judith exclaimed. “You think Angela
overdosed?”
Joe nodded. “I’m certain that the white powder you
found in the downstairs bathroom was cocaine. I’m
having Woody analyze the residue to make sure. I
found traces of it upstairs in the bathroom that Dirk
and Angela shared when they usurped Bruno’s room.”
“Not surprising,” Bill remarked. “How many showbusiness people have a drug habit?”
SILVER SCREAM 173 “How many ordinary people do, too?” Renie said
with a touch of anger. “It’s everywhere.”
“Bruno!” Judith breathed. “What if he overdosed,
too?”
Joe, however, shook his head. “No traces of drugs
were found by the ME.”
Slipping out of her chair, Judith tiptoed to the door
that led to the entry hall and peeked around the corner.
An oxygen mask had been placed over Angela’s face
and an IV had been inserted into her arm. The two
male medics were preparing to remove her on a gurney. The woman was speaking in low tones to Dirk
Farrar. Judith couldn’t hear a word they said.
She barely had time to duck out of sight before Dirk
Farrar came into the dining room. Without his usual
bravado, he addressed Joe.
“I assume it wouldn’t break any rules if I went with
Angela to the hospital?” he said.
“Go ahead,” Joe responded. “What’s her condition?”
Dirk frowned. “Not so good. But they think she’ll
be okay.” He hurried out of the room.
“Halftime,” Bill murmured. “Let’s see how the other
guests are taking all this.” He, too, left the dining room.
Judith and Joe trailed behind him. Bill was correct:
The Packers and the Bears had retired to their respective dressing rooms to regroup for the second half. Ben
Carmody was on his cell phone; Chips Madigan was
leafing through a coffee-table book on Pacific Northwest photography; a disconsolate Winifred Best was
sitting in what had once been Grandpa Grover’s favorite armchair; Dade Costello had gone out through
the French doors and was standing on the back porch.
174 Mary Daheim Winifred’s head snapped up as Bill, Judith, and Joe
entered the living room. “What’s going on? What happened to Angela? Is she dead?”
Joe explained the situation, somehow managing to
leave out the part about a cocaine overdose.
“Was it a cocaine overdose?” Winifred demanded,
looking as if she were about to collapse.
Joe didn’t flinch. “That’s possible.”
Winifred wrung her thin hands. “I knew it. I knew it.
She can’t get off the damnable stuff. How many times
have they—” She stopped abruptly. “Where’s Dirk?”
“He rode to the hospital with Angela,” Joe replied.
“I believe they’re taking her to Norway General.”
The siren sounded as the medic van pulled away.
Judith went back into the entry hall and looked outside. A second van, apparently a backup, was also
turning out of the cul-de-sac. The neighbors, who
were accustomed to the occasional burst of mayhem
at Hillside Manor, were well represented by the
Porters, the Steins, and the Ericsons, who stood on
the sidewalk with Arlene Rankers. Across the street
on the corner, the elderly widow Miko Swanson sat at
her usual post by her front window. However, there
was no sign of Vivian Flynn, whose bungalow next
door to Mrs. Swanson’s typically had its drapes
closed during the daylight hours. Feeling obligated to
keep her fellow homeowners informed, Judith started
onto the porch just as a black limousine pulled into
the cul-de-sac.
Vito Patricelli emerged with Morris Mayne and Eugenia Fleming. With a weak wave in the neighbors’ direction, Judith ducked back inside, where she collided
with Winifred, who was hovering right behind her.
SILVER SCREAM 175 “Sorry,” Judith murmured.
Winifred ignored the remark as she hastened to
greet the newcomers, who barely acknowledged Judith’s presence as they entered the house.
“Dirk called me on his cell,” Vito said, his mouth set
in a grim line and his sunglasses hiding the expression
in his eyes. “We have to take a meeting. Now.” He
marched straight for the living room. “Ben, shut off
that damned TV. Where’s Dade? Where’s Ellie?”
“Dade’s out back,” Chips replied, his tone indifferent. “I think.”
Vito’s head turned in every direction. “What about
Ellie?”
“She went upstairs,” Winifred said in an unusually
meek voice. “I think.”
“I’ll get her,” Judith volunteered.
Vito gave a curt nod. “You do that. And clear the
room of any outsiders.” He particularly glared at Bill,
who maintained his stoic expression.
Joe had clicked off the television set. “Let’s give
these people some space,” he said amiably.
Hands in his pants pockets, Bill meandered out of
the living room. Renie, however, balked.
“Why don’t you hold this session in a regular meeting room at the Cascadia Hotel?” she demanded.
“There’s the Regency Room, the Rhododendron
Room, the—”
Bill turned around, grabbed his wife by the scruff of
her neck, and hauled her away, muttering, “Don’t
make trouble.”
“Hey,” Renie protested, “they’re such big shots, I
just thought they’d rather . . .”
Halfway up the stairs, Judith didn’t hear the rest of
176 Mary Daheim her cousin’s contrary reasoning. Going all the way
down to the end of the hall, she rapped on the door to
Room Six. When there was no response, Judith’s heart
skipped a beat. Originally, Angela and Ellie had shared
quarters. Then Angela had moved into Bruno’s room
with Dirk. Could Angela and Ellie also have shared a
habit, one that would overcome their apparent dislike
for one another?
Judith knocked again, much louder. When there was
still no answer, she turned the knob and held her
breath.
Ellie was lying on the double bed, wearing headphones and tapping out the beat of a song only she
could hear. The young actress looked up in surprise as
Judith moved into the room.
“What’s up?” she asked, removing the headphones.
“Are the Wienie Wizards here?”
“No,” Judith replied in relief. “But Mr. Patricelli,
Mr. Mayne, and Ms. Fleming are. Mr. Patricelli has
called a meeting in the living room.”
“Oh, drat!” Ellie switched off the CD player and
slid off the bed. “What a busybody! When are the wienies coming?”
“Not until after five,” Judith said.
“But it’s only three o’clock,” Ellie responded. “How
am I going to sit through a stupid meeting without my
wienies?”
“I’m sorry,” Judith said, then frowned. “Don’t you
want to know what happened to Angela?”
“Not really,” Ellie said, slipping into a pair of white
mules decorated with multicolored beads. “Angela’s
on a collision course, if you ask me.” She paused to
glance in the big oval mirror attached to the dressing
SILVER SCREAM 177 table. “Is she dead?” The question was asked without
much interest.
“No,” Judith said. “But I gather it was a close call.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Ellie responded, yanking at shafts
of her long jet-black hair. “Look at this—why can’t I
do what my stylist does to make this cut look right?
Oh, I’ll be so stoked to get back to Cosmo in L.A. They
should have let me bring him with me.” She gave her
hair a final tug. “Next time, I bet they will.” Her small,
perfect lips curved into a smug little smile.
“Next time?” Judith echoed.
“I mean,” Ellie said, turning away from the mirror,
“next time I have to make a special appearance. You
know—like this premiere.” Suddenly her usual perky
expression disappeared. “Except I don’t know if
All the Way to Utah will get made. At least not soon. You
know—with Bruno dead.”
The title struck a familiar chord with Judith. “I’ve
heard of that,” she said. “What’s it about?”
“Pioneers,” Ellie replied, picking up a pink cashmere cardigan that matched her pink cashmere shortsleeved sweater and tossing it over her slim shoulders.
“The Old West. You know—action, adventure, sex, big
rocks, bonnets, seagulls, Mormons.”
“Fascinating,” Judith commented, though it sounded
like a bit of a mishmash. “Do you have a big part?”
“Very,” Ellie said, joining Judith at the door. “I not
only play the female lead, but my name should go
above the title.”
“Really?” Judith knew that was good.
“Really,” Ellie said over her shoulder. “Got to scoot.
Vito can be an awful pest. Besides, I really need to talk
to him.”
178 Mary Daheim Judith took the back stairs. Renie was in the kitchen,
studying the contents of the refrigerator.
“What’d you do with all those leftovers?” she asked.
“We put most of them in the freezer,” Judith replied.
“There are still some cheeses and slices of Italian ham.”
“Good,” Renie said, checking the crisper drawers.
“I’m starved. I didn’t eat a serious lunch.” With a gesture of triumph, she held up some smoked Gouda and
a package of prosciutto. “Pass the crackers, coz.”
Judith fetched a box of table wafers from the cupboard. “Where are the husbands?” she asked.
“Eavesdropping in the front parlor,” Renie answered, putting two round slices of Gouda on top of
the ham.
“Ah,” Judith remarked. “That’s good.”
“Bill’s taking notes,” Renie said, making a sandwich out of the crackers.
“Did you get anything interesting from Ellie Linn?”
Judith inquired, sitting down at the kitchen table.
Renie opened a can of Pepsi and sat down across
from her. “You mean besides how much she hates Angela La Belle and Dirk Farrar?”
“And why is that?” Judith asked.
“Professional jealousy of Angela,” said Renie, after
swallowing a big bite of her concoction. “Maybe genuine dislike. Conflict of personalities. It can happen in
any business.”
“What about Ellie’s feelings for Dirk?”
Renie shrugged. “Couldn’t say.” She ate another
mouthful.
Judith took a pumpkin-shaped cookie from the jar
on the table. “Did Ellie mention a film called
All the Way to Utah?”
SILVER SCREAM 179 “Yeph,” Renie replied, still chewing. “Geb wha?
Ewwie’s muvver wode the scwip.”
“Her mother wrote that script?” Judith, who had
learned long ago to decipher her cousin’s words when
she spoke with a mouthful of food, was surprised at the
information. “I actually saw that script someplace. I
think it was in the room that Dirk and Ben shared.”
“Her mother,” Renie began, having swallowed, “is a
writer. Her name is Amy Lee Wong, wife of the Wienie Wizard. She’s Chinese by birth, from Hong Kong.
I gather she’s written a few romance novels under the
pen name of Lotus MacDermott.”
“Interesting,” Judith commented, looking thoughtful. “So Mrs. Wienie sold the script to—whom?
Bruno?”
“Could be.” Renie polished off the crackers, cheese,
and ham, then took a long drink of Pepsi. “Ellie is supposed to star as the seventh wife of a Mormon bishop
back in the 1850s. The narrative involves the Utah War,
which occurred when there was a public outcry about
the Mormon practice of polygamy. According to the
script, one of the reasons that the persecution or whatever you’d call it ended was because the Mormon
bishop took a Chinese wife. If I recall my Western history, it had more to do with the Mormons pledging allegiance to the Union when the Civil War broke out.
Ben Carmody is supposed to play the bishop.”
“My.” Judith got up and took a can of diet 7UP from
the fridge. “It sounds a bit implausible. I mean, the
Mormons weren’t famous in those days for being tolerant of other races.”
Renie grinned at her cousin. “That’s why it’s a
movie.”
180 Mary Daheim “I suppose,” Judith said. “Except for the distortion,
the film might have possibilities. Maybe that’s what
Ben and Ellie were discussing when we saw them at
T. S. McSnort’s.”
“That’s very likely,” Renie said. “Since Ellie looked
as if she had the upper hand, I wonder if she was talking Ben into it. Therefore, I wonder if Dirk Farrar
wasn’t her first choice.”
“So where does Ellie get so much clout?” Judith remarked, sitting down again. “She hasn’t made very
many movies.”
“Ah!” Renie grinned at her cousin. “Don’t you remember who bankrolled Bruno for
The Gasman?”
“Mr. MacDermott, the Wienie Wizard,” Judith responded.
“Right,” said Renie. “So naturally he would put
money into the Utah film. If he has any left after the
debacle with
The Gasman.”
“Hmm.” Judith drummed her nails on the table and
grimaced. “If Bruno was murdered, then we can eliminate Ellie and probably Ben Carmody as suspects.”
Renie shook her head. “Not necessarily. The fact
that the movie flopped at the premiere might make
Bruno dispensable.”
“What do you mean?” Judith queried.
“I can’t explain it,” Renie said. “Ask Bill. It may
have something to do with the studio’s insurance. Or
Bruno having a flop, which would have made raising
money for his next picture much harder. It was complicated. I got sort of mixed up.”
Judith was about to speculate further when the
phone rang. She picked it up from the counter behind
her and heard a vaguely familiar female voice.
SILVER SCREAM 181 “We’re sure glad we didn’t stay at your place,” the
woman declared. “And don’t think we ever will!”
“Mrs. Izard?” Judith ventured.
“You’re darned tootin’ it’s Mrs. Izard. And I’m
speaking for Mr. Izard, too. Walt here says you must
run a pretty half-baked bed-and-breakfast to let your
guests get murdered in their beds.”
“No one,” Judith said firmly as she cursed Ingrid for
breaking her word, “got murdered in their beds. In fact,
no one got murdered that we know of, period.”
Meg Izard chortled gleefully. “Whatever happened
wasn’t good. And doesn’t that just go to show you? No
matter how big a wheel, the Grim Reaper can still bust
up your spokes when you least expect it.”
The phone slammed down in Judith’s ear. “Damn
that Ingrid—she promised to be discreet about our . . .
misfortune. And she usually is. I’ve always trusted her,
even if we’ve had our differences. And,” Judith went
on, growing more annoyed by the second, “talk about
a poor sport. Since Meg Izard and her husband didn’t
get to stay at Hillside Manor, the old bat wants to lord
it over us because we’re in a pickle.”
Renie was trying not to smile. “Yes, it’s a pickle,
coz. At least the other displaced couple hasn’t bugged
you about what’s happened.”
“The Kidds?” Judith said, going to the refrigerator
and taking out a package of bologna. “No. They were
very nice about it. In the Izards and the Kidds, you see
the two ends of the spectrum when it comes to guests.
Some—most, really—are wonderful, and then others
can be a huge pain.” She deftly buttered two slices of
bread. “I’m going to take Mother a snack. She’s been
shortchanged today.”
182 Mary Daheim Upon entering the toolshed, Judith expected a testy
greeting. Instead, Gertrude was writing on a ruled
tablet as fast as her arthritic fingers would permit. She
barely looked up when her daughter arrived.
“I have a bologna sandwich with apple slices and
some hot chocolate,” Judith said as the old lady scribbled away.
Gertrude still didn’t look up from the tablet. “Put
’em there,” she said, nodding at the cluttered card
table.
Judith moved a bag of Tootsie Rolls and a copy of
TV Guide to make room for the small plastic tray.
“What are you doing? Writing a letter?”
“Nope,” Gertrude replied. She added a few more
words to the tablet, then finished with an awkward
flourish and finally looked up. “I’m writing my life
story. For the moving pictures.”
“You’re . . . what?” Judith gasped.
“You heard me,” Gertrude snapped. “That writer
fella, Wade or Dade or Cade, told me that everybody’s
life is a story. So I told him some things that had happened to me over the years and he said I should write
it all down. So I am.” She gave Judith a smug look.
Judith was puzzled. Her mother had led a seemingly
ordinary life. “What exactly are you writing?”
Gertrude shrugged her hunched shoulders. “My life.
Fleeing Germany in my youth. Starting a revolution in
primary school. Drinking bathtub gin and dancing the
black bottom. Eloping with your father.”
“You were a baby when you came to this country,”
Judith pointed out. “I don’t recall you ever mentioned
fleeing much of anything.”
“We fled,” Gertrude insisted. “We were fleeing
SILVER SCREAM 183 Grossmutter Hoffman. Your great-granny on that side
of the family was a real terror. She drove your grandfather crazy, and how she treated your grandmother—
her daughter-in-law—is hardly fit to print.”
Vaguely, Judith remembered scattered anecdotes
about the autocratic old girl and her savage tongue.
“Well . . . okay. But I never heard the part about the
primary-school revolution.”
“I’ve been ashamed,” Gertrude admitted. “But this
Wade or Dade or whoever told me to let it all come out.
I was in third grade, and those girls at St. Walburga’s
grade school never flushed the toilets. It disgusted me.
So I told my friends—Agnes and Rosemarie and Maria
Regina—to stop using the bathroom and piddle on the
playground. Protesting, you know, just like all those
goofy people in the sixties and seventies who didn’t
know half the time what they were protesting against.
Or for. Silly, if you ask me, burning brassieres and
smoking funny stuff. What kind of a revolution was
that?”
As she often did, Gertrude seemed to be getting derailed. “What about the bathroom protest?”
The old lady looked blank. “What bathroom? What
protest?”
“At St. Walburga’s,” Judith said patiently.
“Oh.” Gertrude gave a nod. “Well, we all got into
trouble, and the principal, Sister Ursula, sent for our
parents. We were suspended for two days, but by the
time we got back, those toilets were flushed, believe
me. In fact, the school’s water bill went up so much
they had to raise tuition three dollars a month.”
“You were ashamed to talk about this?” Judith
asked.
184 Mary Daheim “That’s right,” Gertrude said. “Nice little girls didn’t
piddle in public. In those days, nice little girls didn’t
even admit they piddled at all. But I feel good about it
now. We won a victory for hygiene.”
“You did indeed,” Judith declared, patting her
mother’s arm. “That was very brave.”
“I hope that writer fella will like it,” Gertrude said,
preening a bit. “He told me he could use a good script
about now. I guess he’s in some kind of a pickle.”
“Like what?” Judith asked.
Gertrude frowned. “I don’t rightly know, except it
had something to do with an ax.”
“An ax?” Judith looked puzzled. “Or . . . acts?”
Gertrude waved a hand. “No, it was an ax. A
hatchet—that’s what he said. Some kind of a job he
was supposed to do with a hatchet. Maybe he’s got a
part-time job as a logger. What kind of money do
scriptwriters get? I’d like to charge him at least fifty
dollars for my story.”
“At least,” Judith said vaguely. “Did Dade say anything else about this hatchet job?”
Gertrude shook her head. “Not that I remember. He
seemed kind of off his feed, though.”
There was no point in pressing her mother for details. If Gertrude remembered something later, fine.
Besides, Dade Costello’s moodiness seemed to be an
integral part of his personality.
Or so Judith was thinking when she smelled smoke.
“Mother,” she said, sniffing the air, “did you put
something on your hot plate?”
“Like what?” Gertrude retorted. “You think I could
roast a turkey on that thing? I can hardly boil an egg on
it.”
SILVER SCREAM 185 Nor did Gertrude ever try, preferring to have her
daughter wait on her. Still, Judith went out to the tiny
kitchen, with its sink, small fridge, microwave oven, and
hot plate. Nothing looked amiss, nor could Judith smell
anything burning. She went back into the living room.
“It must be coming from outside,” she remarked,
and headed for the door.
Gertrude didn’t respond or look up. She was writing
again, her white head bent over the card table.
The smell got stronger as Judith stepped outside and
closed the toolshed door behind her. The rain had
stopped, but fog was settling in over the rooftops. She
could barely make out either of Hillside Manor’s chimneys. Perhaps Joe had started a fire to ward off the increasingly gloomy October afternoon.
Then she noticed the barbecue. It sat as it had all
summer on the small patio by the statue of St. Francis
and the birds. Like the kitchen cupboard door, the barbecue had been another source of Judith’s prodding.
Joe should have taken it into the garage at least two
weeks earlier when the weather had made a definite
transition into autumn.
Instead, it remained, and smoke was coming out
from under the lid. Judith went to the patio and opened
the barbecue. A sudden burst of smoke and flame made
her step back and cough.
Reaching out with a long wood-and-steel meat fork
that was lying nearby, she stirred whatever was burning. Peering with smoke-stung eyes, she saw that it
was mostly paper. Quite a bit of paper, and attached to
a plastic binding, most of which had melted.
Judith was no expert, but she thought that what was
left might be a movie script.
TWELVE
JOE HADN’T YET detached the garden hoses or covered the faucets for the winter. Judith turned on the
hose by the back porch and gently aimed it at the
barbecue. The stack of paper hissed and sizzled, but
didn’t go out. When she increased the pressure, the
smoke finally died down and the heat faded away.
Standing over the barbecue, Judith stirred the ashes
with a meat fork.
“I don’t think I’ll ask what you’re doing,” Renie
called from the back porch, “but I thought you’d ordered food from a caterer.”
Startled, Judith turned toward her cousin. “Somebody burned something in here. I’m trying to figure
out what it was.”
“Wienie Wizards?” Renie inquired, coming down
the walk to the patio.
“Nothing so edible,” Judith said. “It looks like a
script.”
“It does for a fact,” Renie agreed, picking up a
pair of steel tongs. “It’s pretty well fried.” She
flipped through the ashes until she got to the last
few pages, which were only charred. “If I touch
them, they may burst into flame again, but it looks
SILVER SCREAM 187 like a script all right. See—it’s mostly dialogue on this
top page with some directions in between.”
“Can you see what any of it says?” Judith asked,
shivering slightly as the fog began to drift among the
trees and shrubs.
“Not really,” Renie admitted, after putting on her
much marred and thoroughly smudged reading
glasses. Judith could never figure out how her cousin
could see anything through the abused lenses. “Wait—
here are a couple of lines I can make out:
Benjamin: You have never had cause to be . . . I think the last
word is
afraid. The next line is dialogue by someone
named Tz’u-hsi, who replies,
It is not strange to be a concubine, though I am called wife. Yet I am more than a stranger, I am a . . . The rest of the page is too burned
to read.”
“A Chinese name,” Judith murmured. “Ellie’s role
in the script written by her mother,
All the Way to Utah?”
“Maybe,” Renie allowed. “So who’d burn the
script? And why?”
Judith started to stir the ashes again, thought better
of it, and replaced the lid to the barbecue. Heading
back into the house, she paused with her hand on the
doorknob. “It was in Dirk and Ben’s room,” she said.
“Room Four. The script was all marked up. There were
even some obscenities, as if whoever was reading it
didn’t like it much.”
“But which of the two actors?” Renie asked. “Ben
or Dirk?”
“Ben, of course,” Judith said. “He’s supposed to
costar, remember? Besides,” she added, “I read a clipping, also in Room Four, about how Dirk had lost the
188 Mary Daheim lead in another Zepf movie because he and Bruno got
into a fistfight at Marina Del Rey in L.A. I assume
Dirk was permanently scratched from Bruno’s A-list.”
“Very interesting,” Renie remarked. “So Ben gets to
be a leading man instead of a villain because Dirk
played smash-mouth with Bruno.”
“I suppose so,” Judith responded as the cousins
went inside. “I guess nice guys do finish first.”
“That’s not the saying,” Renie corrected. “It’s the
other way around.”
“You’re right,” Judith said. “With everything that’s
happened in the last couple of days, my mind’s a muddle.”
The cousins had barely reached the kitchen when an
insistent tap sounded at the back door. It was Arlene
Rankers, looking desperate.
“What’s wrong?” Judith asked, hastening to meet
her friend and neighbor.
“What’s wrong?” Arlene threw up her hands.
“That’s what I came to find out. Who got hauled off by
the medics?”
Judith realized that the Rankerses wouldn’t know of
the events that had occurred at Hillside Manor since
they left for home the previous night. “Have a seat,”
she said, pulling out a chair at the kitchen table. “I’ll
fill you in.”
Which Judith did, though she was careful to omit
specific details. Her good-hearted neighbor was famous for spreading the news over what was called Arlene’s Broadcasting System, or merely ABS. Judith felt
there was no need to make the situation any worse than
it already was.
“Goodness!” Arlene gasped when Judith had finally
SILVER SCREAM 189 finished. “You certainly get more trouble than you deserve. What can Carl and I do to help?”
Judith was about to reply that she was beyond help,
but changed her mind. “Keep an eye on who comes
and goes around here.” That was easy; the Rankerses’
kitchen windows overlooked Hillside Manor and the
cul-de-sac. At the sink and the dinette table, Arlene had
long ago established her personal observation deck.
“Fine,” Arlene responded, “but can’t you do that
yourself?”
“Not really,” Judith said. “There’s too much going
on. This is a big house. I can’t keep track of everybody’s movements.”
“Not to mention that it’s Halloween,” Renie put in.
Arlene was uncharacteristically silent. She was staring at the table, arms slack at her sides, forehead
creased in concentration. When she finally spoke, it
was as if she were in a trance.
“Seven-fifty A.M., Joe leaves through the back door in
his red MG. Eight-fourteen, the writer goes out the
French doors and disappears around the west side of the
house. Nine-oh-six, the red-headed youngish man leans
out the second-story window by the stairs and looks
every which way through something like a small camera. Nine-twenty-two, Joe returns with two white bakery
bags, two pink boxes, and a Moonbeam’s bag, probably
filled with hot coffee. Nine-thirty-one, writer comes
back and sits in lawn swing on front porch. Nine-forty,
black Lincoln Town Car pulls into cul-de-sac. Writer
jumps over porch rail and runs down driveway toward
garage. Nine-forty-one, well-dressed man wearing sunglasses goes to front door and is let in.” Arlene, wearing
a bright smile, looked up. “How am I doing?”
190 Mary Daheim “Wow!” Judith gasped in admiration. “So that’s how
you do it?”
Arlene looked blank. “Do what?”
“You know . . .” Judith faltered, never one to accuse
Arlene of snooping. “Keep track of things. Help Carl
run the Neighborhood Watch. Stay on top of events on
the block. You must file everything like a computer.”
“No,” Arlene asserted. “Not at all. Now that I’ve
said it out loud, I can barely remember anything.”
Judith didn’t quite believe her, but wouldn’t argue.
Any dispute with her neighbor brought grief in the
form of Arlene’s reversals and self-contradictions.
“That’s very helpful,” she said. “After Vito—the man
with the sunglasses—arrived, what happened next?”
Arlene’s smile faded. “There is no next. Carl and I
left for ten o’clock Mass at SOTS, went to coffee and
doughnuts in the school hall, and stopped at Falstaff’s
on the way back. We didn’t get home until almost one.
I didn’t notice anything or anybody until you showed
up shortly before one-thirty.”
“What about,” Renie inquired, “since Judith got
back?”
But Arlene shook her head in a regretful manner. “I
got caught up in dinner preparations. Most of our darling children are coming over tonight. Except for seeing you and Bill arrive, I didn’t notice anyone else until
the medics arrived.”
“Nothing in the backyard?” Judith asked.
Arlene’s eyes narrowed. “The backyard?” She automatically swerved around to look in that direction,
though she couldn’t see anything from her position at
the table. “No. What on earth did I miss?” She seemed
genuinely aggrieved.
SILVER SCREAM 191 “It may have happened while you were on the sidewalk with the other neighbors,” Judith said in a comforting voice. Quickly, she explained about finding the
burned script in the barbecue. She had just finished
when Joe came into the kitchen.
“They’re adjourning to the living room,” he announced. “I gather they may all be going out to dinner
in a private room at Capri’s.”
Capri’s, on the very edge of Heraldsgate Hill, was
one of the city’s oldest and most distinguished eateries.
“I didn’t think they were open on Sundays,” Judith
said.
“Apparently they are for this bunch,” Joe responded
with a wave for Arlene, who was heading to the back
door.
“But what about all the food I ordered?” Judith
wailed. “It’ll go to waste and I’ll get stuck paying for it.”
Arlene went into reverse in more ways than one.
“Send it over to our house. I can use it to feed those
wretched kids of ours. They eat like cannibals.”
“Cannibals?” Renie echoed.
“You know what I mean,” Arlene said peevishly.
“They eat like your children.”
“Oh.” Renie nodded. “Now I get it.”
Arlene hurried out of the house.
Judith was on her feet, gripping Joe’s shoulders.
“Well? What did they say in this latest meeting?”
“Spin-doctor stuff, mostly,” Joe replied. “Morris
Mayne has the burden of trying to make everything
sound as if Bruno died for Art.”
“Hunh?” Judith dropped her hands.
Joe shrugged, then opened the fridge and took out a
beer. “You know—that Bruno was so disturbed over
192 Mary Daheim the possibility of failure that it broke his heart. He’d
striven to be the best in his chosen profession, and anything less than a total triumph was too terrible to face.
Blah-blah.”
“So they think it was an accident?” Judith asked as
she heard footsteps climbing the main staircase.
“They want it to be more than an accident,” Joe said
as Bill also came into the kitchen, carrying a small
notepad. “They want it to be a Greek tragedy. It plays
better that way, as Dade Costello pointed out during
the powwow. Morris Mayne was all for it.”
“What’s the official news release?” Renie inquired.
“Go scavenge for it after they’ve cleared the area,”
Joe suggested. “Bill and I could hear the ripping and
tearing of many sheets of paper. Maybe you’ll find
what’s close to a finished product.”
Bill was now at the fridge, perusing its contents.
“They issued an earlier statement, but it sounded very
terse.” He paused, scowling at the shelves. “Don’t you
have any weird pop?”
Judith knew that Bill preferred oddly flavored sodas
that came in strangely decorated bottles. “Not really,”
she said.
“Oh.” Bill firmly closed the refrigerator door.
“Maybe I’ll just have a glass of water.”
He was turning on the faucet when Eugenia Fleming barged into the kitchen.
“Do you people know how to keep your mouths
shut?” she demanded.
“No,” Renie shot back.
“Yes,” Judith said, giving Renie a dirty look. “I assume you’re referring to the media?”
“Of course,” Eugenia replied with a scornful glance
SILVER SCREAM 193 at Renie. “Morris is very concerned that we can’t keep
the lid on this location much longer.”
Joe stepped forward to face Eugenia, who met him
at eye level. “Are you saying,” he inquired, “that
there’s been no leak as to where the non–Cascadia
Hotel guests are staying or where Bruno died?”
“That’s so,” interjected Morris Mayne, who had
come up behind Eugenia like a small caboose following a large locomotive. “But eventually they’ll put two
and two together. I’m sure they’ve checked out most of
the hotels by now. Eventually, they’ll get to the bedand-breakfasts. Once they tie in the emergency calls
that have been made from here, they’re bound to show
up en masse.”
Joe tipped his head to one side. “So?”
“So,” Eugenia said, rising up on her tiptoes to look
down at Joe, “we must insist on the utmost discretion—indeed, total silence—from all of you.”
“Fine,” Joe said.
Morris peeked out from behind Eugenia. “Really?”
Joe was nonchalant. “Sure.”
Bill moved closer to Joe. “I have a question.”
Both Eugenia and Morris looked surprised. “What
is that?” Eugenia asked.
“Why should we keep quiet? It hardly matters to my
wife and me what the media might learn from us.”
Bill’s voice was, as ever, very deliberate. “Mrs. Jones
and I could sell information about all these Hollywood
shenanigans for quite a big sum.”
Renie’s eyes practically bugged out. “We could?”
“Of course,” Bill replied. “Especially to the tabloids.”
Judith and Joe exchanged uneasy glances. Morris
seemed stunned. Eugenia was growing red in the face.
194 Mary Daheim “You wouldn’t dare!” she exclaimed. “Aren’t these
people your friends?” She waved a big arm in the
Flynns’ direction. “Do you know what legal straits they
might be in?”
Bill looked unfazed. “They’re not friends, they’re
my wife’s relatives.” He paused to pour himself more
water. “What about a compromise? Why don’t you let
us in on what you know about anyone who might have
had a motive to kill Bruno? Why not be up-front about
Angela’s drug habit? Why not”—the next word
seemed to gag Bill, who despised buzz-words—
“share?”
Eugenia whirled on Bill, who didn’t budge. “That’s
blackmail! What right do you have to ask such a thing?
Can you imagine the legal steps we could take to silence you?”
“My brother, Bub, is a lawyer,” Bill said quietly.
“Or maybe that wasn’t a threat?”
Joe, who along with Judith was looking relieved
now that Bill had tipped his hand, was nodding sagely.
“I think this is a good idea.” He gestured expansively.
“Take a seat. We’ll talk.”
“No, we won’t,” Eugenia retorted. “At least not until
we’ve consulted our legal counsel. Who, I might add,
is waiting for us in the limousine. We’re going back to
the hotel.” She turned abruptly, almost knocking Morris over.
“Have your suit call our suit,” Bill said as the pair
departed. “Bub’s number is—”
“That’s great, Bill.” Renie could barely contain herself. She was leaning against the fridge, holding her
sides. “You’ve got them worried.”
“They should be,” Bill said in a mild tone. “But I’d
SILVER SCREAM 195 have preferred that they give us some information on
the spot.”
Judith heard the door slam. “Tell us what you overheard from the parlor,” she urged.
Joe sat down at the kitchen table. Bill got out his
notepad.
“As we mentioned,” Joe began, “it was mostly spindoctor stuff. They talked more about how to make it
seem as if Bruno was such a dedicated artist that he
couldn’t survive failure. Eugenia—being Bruno’s
agent—was for that, but there was some disagreement,
especially when they discussed whether or not
The Gasman should be salvaged.”
“Could it be?” Renie asked.
“Maybe,” Bill put in. “They’d have to cut the running time by almost half. As it is, the film’s not only a
flop, but it’s a distribution nightmare. At four hours,
that means only one showing a night per house. That’s
economically unfeasible.”
“So they wouldn’t make a profit?” queried Judith.
“Not in domestic theaters,” Bill responded, also sitting down. “But these days there are all the ancillary
rights. There are so many other markets—offshore,
cable TV, syndication, merchandising tie-ins. A movie
can lose money in this country and still turn a profit.
Not to mention that the studio could cut back on its advertising and promotion. I suspect they intended to
spend huge sums before the general release.”
Joe sipped his beer before he spoke. “You sure know
a hell of a lot about Hollywood for a psychologist.”
Bill shrugged. “Cinema is both a reflection of and
an influence on contemporary life. Besides, I just like
movies.”
196 Mary Daheim Judith, however, was looking for a more personal
angle. “What about reactions? Did you catch any remarks or attitudes that might indicate animosity
toward Bruno?”
“Plenty,” Joe replied, “but nothing I’d call suspicious. Dade complained about what Bruno had done to
the script. He also griped that Chips Madigan hadn’t
directed the movie the way the script indicated. Chips
accused Dade of screwing up the original work.” Joe
glanced at Judith. “That must have been the book you
saw upstairs,
The Gasman novel.”
“Did you find it?” Judith asked, having forgotten
that she’d told Joe to look for it in Room Three.
“Yes,” Joe answered. “I put it in a drawer by your
computer. Anyway,” he continued, “Dade reminded
Chips that a movie is not a book. They started to get
into it, but Vito cut them off.”
“That,” Bill put in, “was when Ben Carmody declared that the whole thing was a mistake from the
start. He insisted that the movie would never have been
made if Bruno hadn’t been able to con a huge investment out of Heathcliffe MacDermott in order to boost
his daughter Ellie’s career.”
“I’m sorry,” Judith broke in, “but I don’t understand
how the financing works. If Bruno is an independent
producer, how does the studio get involved?”
As was his fashion, Bill waited to organize his
thoughts. Renie, who was long accustomed to her husband’s methodical and precise mental processes,
climbed up on the kitchen counter, popped the top on
another Pepsi, and settled in for the long haul.
“Usually,” Bill finally said, “it works this way: A
producer like Bruno never invests his own money.
SILVER SCREAM 197 Let’s say he’s already nailed down at least one big
bankable star. Dirk Farrar, in this case. Maybe the estimated budget is seventy million dollars. He—
Bruno—then goes to Paradox Studios and says he’s
got a project and he’s got a star. Dirk’s name is worth,
say, twenty million at the box office. Paradox says
okay, we’ll get our investors to come up with another
thirty million, then you—Bruno—raise the rest of it.
Bruno goes to private investors, in this case because of
the connection with Ellie Linn, he asks Heathcliffe
MacDermott for ten million. The other ten million he
gets from other sources—German businessmen,
Japanese investors, Italian bankers. I mention those
three countries because they’re big moviegoers. The
studio then says they want him to use one of their directors—maybe Chips Madigan—and one of their
stars—Ben Carmody, perhaps—plus a cinematographer, a writer, an editor, some other actors already
under contract to the studio. They’ll share the profits
with Bruno and they’ll handle distribution. Thus,
they’re ready to roll.”
“
The Gasman had a hundred-million-dollar budget,”
Joe remarked. “Isn’t that kind of high? And didn’t
Chips Madigan mention going over budget?”
“Did he?” Bill frowned. “Yes, you’re right. I think I
read something about that while the picture was being
made. Did Chips give a reason?”
Joe scratched his head. “I didn’t catch all of what
Chips said. He was toward the other end of the room,
by the bookcases. Dade, who always assumes his
stance by the French doors, was even harder to hear.
But I think—in essence—Chips put the blame on
Bruno for shooting some of the scenes over again.”
198 Mary Daheim “That’s possible,” Bill allowed. “If that’s the case,
Bruno would have had to scrounge up more money to
make the revised budget. The next thing I have in my
notes is that Winifred broke in saying that Bruno had
so much clout in the industry that he would have been
green-lighted for any project. A number of people
would back him because of his track record. Naturally,
Eugenia Fleming agreed.”
“How did Ellie react to all this?” Judith queried.
“She kept her mouth shut,” Joe said. “In fact, she
sort of simpered.”
Judith gave her husband a skeptical look. “You
could hear simpering through the parlor door?”
“It was open a crack,” Joe replied. “Besides, she
was standing next to it, fiddling with the CDs by the
stereo.”
Judith sighed. “This isn’t very helpful.”
“We did our best,” Joe said with a touch of sarcasm.
Renie also seemed disappointed. “That’s it?”
Bill carefully went through his notes. “There were
undertones, of course.”
Joe gave a little shake of his head. “Maybe so.
That’s your department, Bill. We cops tend to stick to
the facts. But since it’s you, go ahead. At least it’ll
please my wife.”
Judith shot her husband a dirty look. “You’ve certainly never been one to credit my intuition.”
“Intuition doesn’t hold up in court,” Joe pointed out.
Judith sniffed, then turned to Bill. “I’ll take all the
undertones I can get.”
“Let me see.” He studied the notepad pages for
some time. “What’s missing is interaction between the
absentees—Dirk and Angela—and the others. Ellie
SILVER SCREAM 199 made a couple of cracks about both of them. Only
Chips was inclined to defend them, though he wasn’t
very enthusiastic.”
“Are Dirk and Angela lovers?” Renie asked.
“Probably,” Bill replied, “though what that means in
Hollywood these days, I couldn’t say. They may have
been sleeping together just for the fun of it while they
were here. You have to allow for a certain amount of
old-fashioned promiscuity.”
“What about the cocaine?” Judith inquired. “Was
that mentioned?”
“Only in passing,” Bill responded, “though there
was a cryptic remark made by Morris. When someone . . .” He addressed his notes. “It was Ben Carmody
who said maybe Angela had learned her lesson. Morris agreed, observing that as they all knew, three times
could be a charm.”
“Curious,” Judith murmured.
“Come on, Bill,” Renie urged, “you know darned
well you’ve got some other information tucked away.”
“I’m sifting it,” Bill said, putting the notepad back
in his pocket.
“As usual,” Renie remarked, accustomed to her husband’s cautious but thorough approach to the deductive
process.
Judith started for the kitchen’s swinging doors. “I’m
going to look for the news-release drafts before the
guests come down to leave for dinner.” She glanced
back at the old school clock. “It’s almost four. They
should be a while.”
Renie followed her cousin out to the living room,
which was uncharacteristically untidy. As Joe had reported, there had been much tearing of legal pads, ac-
200 Mary Daheim companied, no doubt, by a certain amount of tearing of
hair. There were also empty springwater bottles and a
few glasses, the latter apparently used for beverages
foraged from the liquor supply in the washstand. The
buffet had been raided, too, with the last of Joe’s bakery goods reduced to crumbs. Someone had removed
several paperback books and left them scattered
around the window seat. Magazines from the coffee
table had been dumped on the carpet, and a stack of
tapes and CDs were lying by the stereo.
“Spoiled brats,” Judith muttered, picking up some
of the litter before perusing the discarded sheets of yellow paper.
“I’ll help,” Renie offered, already gathering up the
books by the bay window.
“These people must never wait on themselves,” Judith groused. “Frankly, I think it’d be awful to live like
that. No wonder they get bored and take drugs. They’d
be better off using a dust mop.”
Renie had replaced the books and was now collecting the tapes and CDs. “Gosh, coz, some of these
recordings are kind of old. Since when do you listen to
heavy metal?”
“I don’t,” Judith responded, brushing crumbs from
the matching sofas. “Half of those tapes and CDs are
Mike’s. He says he’s outgrown most of them, but when
I asked why he doesn’t throw them out or give them
away, he says someday he might want to hear them
again. Of course he doesn’t have room to store them up
at the cabin.” She sounded put-upon.
“He might be able to sell them,” Renie said, glancing at some of the labels. “A few of them are real classics.” She held up a tape. “Remember the Demures?
SILVER SCREAM 201 They had one huge hit, ‘Come Play with Me’—it’s on
this—and then the group fell out of sight.”
“I vaguely remember it,” Judith replied. “Didn’t the
lead singer have an unusual name?”
Renie peered at the tape. “Ramona Pomona. I hope
it wasn’t her real name. The two backup singers
were . . . Hunh.” Her eyes widened.
“What?” Judith inquired, pausing on her way to the
kitchen with an armful of glasses and water bottles.
Renie gave Judith a curious look. “The backups are
Jolene DuBois and Winnie Lou Best. What do you
make of that, coz?”
“I’m not sure,” Judith said slowly. “It may be a coincidence. Is there a picture of the group?”
“Yes,” Renie replied, “but it’s small and not very
good. The girls all have their mouths open—presumably singing—and are waving their arms.”
Judith moved next to Renie and looked over her
cousin’s shoulder. “You’re right. Three dark-skinned
girls with bouffant black hair. Let’s see the liner notes.”
“If you can believe them,” Renie cautioned.
But the information was brief and not very enlightening. “It says,” Judith read after taking the small
folder from Renie, “that Ramona, Jolene, and Winnie
Lou grew up together in Compton, California, and
started singing in their high-school glee club before
forming their own group. They got their first big break
when they were discovered at a high-school dance in
Glendale.
The trio, and I’m quoting now,
toured for two years as the opening act for several of the biggest names in the business before becoming headliners in 1978. This is their debut album, featuring the red-hot single . . . et cetera.” Judith examined the notes closely.
202 Mary Daheim “This is copyright 1979. Mike would have been
twelve. How old do you figure Winifred is now?”
Renie screwed up her face. “It’s hard to tell. Fortyish? She would have been in her late teens back then.
But maybe it’s not her.”
“And if it is,” Judith noted as she slipped the liner
notes back inside the plastic tape container, “so what?”
“So how do you go from being Ramona Pomona’s
backup with one hit single to Bruno Zepf’s assistant?”
Renie mused.
“Over twenty years,” Judith said. “A lot of things
can happen in that time, especially in a place like Hollywood.”
“There’s one way to find out,” Renie said.
“How?”
“We could ask Winifred.”
“Oh.” Judith felt almost disappointed. “We could at
that. I’ll do it now, before they leave for dinner.”
After depositing the dirty glasses and garbage in the
kitchen, she headed up the main staircase for the second floor. Winifred was in Room One just off the landing.
A double rap on the door brought an immediate response. Judith was relieved; it seemed as if every time
she knocked on a door, an anxiety attack ensued.
“What is it?” Winifred asked in an irritable tone.
“I wanted to show you something,” Judith said,
clasping the tape in her hand. “It’ll take just a moment.”
Warily, Winifred opened the door a scant four
inches. She was wearing her dark blue bathrobe and
her face was covered with cream. “What is it?” she repeated.
SILVER SCREAM 203 Judith wore her most ingratiating expression. “I
think my son may be a fan of yours. Or at least he was
several years ago.” She opened her hand to reveal the
tape. “Is this you?”
Winifred recoiled. “Oh, my God! Where did you get
that?”
“It was in our collection,” Judith replied equably.
“Mike—my son—left some of his belongings here
with us.”
“You’re lying.” The astonishment on Winifred’s
face had been superseded by a steely-eyed look.
“Where did you really get that?”
“I told you,” Judith persisted, “in with our other
recordings in the living room.”
“That’s impossible. This tape’s a demo. It was never
released.” Without opening the door further, Winifred’s
slim arm reached out to grab the tape.
But Judith pulled her hand back. “I’m sorry. I don’t
understand. Is this you on the tape? Is that why you’re
upset?”
But Winifred’s lips clamped shut as she slammed
the door in Judith’s face.
THIRTEEN
JUDITH STOOD ROOTED To the spot, staring at the tape
in her hand. She jumped when Chips Madigan came
into the hall, apparently heading for the bathroom
between Rooms Three and Four.
“Whoa!” he called, a bath towel slung over the
terrycloth robe that reached to his knees. “Sorry.
Did I scare you?”
“Startled is more like it,” Judith said with a weak
smile. “I was lost in thought.”
Ever the director looking for the perfect shot,
Chips half knelt to frame Judith’s stance by
Winifred’s room. “ ‘Shaken innkeeper, anxious about
guest, medium shot.’ ” He stood up and moved
nearer. “ ‘Close-up of innkeeper, looking weary and
somewhat distraught.’ How am I doing?”
“Better than I am,” Judith answered, keeping her
voice down. “How much do you know about
Winifred’s background?”
Chips fingered the towel. “Not much. I mean,
she’s been with Bruno a long time. As far as I
know, she started working for him nine, ten years
ago, after he made his first hit,
No Prunes for Pru- dence. That was the small-budget independent pic-
SILVER SCREAM 205 ture that won a film-festival prize at PAW in Iowa
City.”
Judith was puzzled. “PAW?”
Chips nodded. “It’s called THAW nowadays. I’m
not sure what it stands for.”
Judith hesitated before posing another question.
Judging from his youthful appearance, she assumed he
was in the same thirty-to thirty-five age group as
Mike. “Do you remember the Demures?” she asked,
holding out the tape.
Chips looked bemused. “Yes . . . yes, I do. They had
a big hit . . . What was it called?”
“ ‘Come Play with Me,’ ” Judith responded. “It’s on
this tape.”
“Right.” The director beamed at Judith. “It was a
single, really popular the year I graduated from high
school. We wanted to play it at our senior prom, but the
principal wouldn’t let us. It was kind of raunchy for
those days. I grew up in a typical Midwestern town,
sort of straitlaced. You know what they say—change
starts on the coasts, and it takes a long time to get to
the middle.”
Judith smiled back. “One of the singers was named
Winnie Lou Best. Do you think that’s a coincidence?”
“Winnie Lou . . .” Chips repeated, then slapped a
hand to his head. “You mean as in Winifred Best?”
Judith nodded. “I showed her this tape and she
pitched a small fit. Why would she do that?”
“Golly,” Chips said, “I’ve no idea. Maybe she’s embarrassed.”
The explanation was so simple that it made sense.
“That’s possible,” Judith allowed, though a snippet of
doubt remained. Before Chips could resume his walk
206 Mary Daheim to the bathroom, she held up a hand. “Quick question.
Why is there so much controversy over the way
The Gasman was filmed?”
“You mean the picture’s length?” Chips responded.
“No, not exactly,” Judith said. “I understand there
were differing opinions about the story itself.” Maybe
that was more to the point. “That the result wasn’t true
to the original book.”
Chips laughed. “You’d better ask Dade about that.
Of course, he’ll tell you I didn’t direct the picture right.
The fact is, I directed it the way Bruno wanted. Of
course I wouldn’t admit that publicly, but you’re not in
the business.”
“In other words,” Judith said, “Bruno dictated how
you should direct?”
Chips shrugged. “It was his picture.”
“You felt he knew what he was doing?”
A flush crept over Chips’s freckled face as he began
inching his way toward the bathroom. “I admit, I
hadn’t worked with him before, but until I signed on
for
The Gasman, he hadn’t missed a beat. Of course,
he directed his first six films himself. It was only for
the last two—including
The Gasman—that he’d hired
another director. I had reason to trust him. All his films
had been successful.”
Through the window over the landing, Judith could
see the fog swirling around the house. It was going to
be a gloomy, damp night for the trick-or-treaters.
“What went wrong with this movie?” she asked,
aware that Chips was trying to escape.
“Well . . .” He looked pained. He also looked around
the hallway. In the process, he noticed the fog through
the window. “Wow,” he said softly. “Real fog. We
SILVER SCREAM 207 didn’t have that in the Midwest, where I was raised. In
L.A., we have only smog, which doesn’t create this
kind of atmosphere. Would you mind moving to your
left about six inches?”
“What? Oh, sure.” Judith sidestepped a half foot.
“ ‘Troubled innkeeper,’ ” Chips murmured, framing
yet another shot with his fingers. “Fog in background
symbolizes her ambiguous thoughts, as well as impending danger. I like this very much.”
“About what went wrong,” Judith said as Chips
scooted around in a crouching position, seeking different angles. “Have you any idea what happened?”
“The length, for one thing,” he replied, one eye
closed as he peered through his imaginary lens. “Ah!
That’s perfect!” He stood up. “The ambitiousness of
the project. The concept itself. The original material.
The budget overrun.”
“In other words,” Judith put in, “everything?”
Chips gulped. “Sort of.”
“I see,” she said. “But you couldn’t tell that from the
start?”
“You wouldn’t believe how Bruno could talk up an
idea.” Chips grimaced. “That’s a talent in itself. After
five minutes with him, you’d think he was going to
make the next
Gone With the Wind.” He bobbed his
head as a door shut somewhere on the second floor.
“Excuse me, I’ve got to take a quick shower before we
go to dinner.”
Dade Costello shambled down the narrow corridor
that separated Room One from Rooms Two and Three.
When he saw Judith, he merely nodded and kept
going. He was halfway down the stairs before she
called to him.
208 Mary Daheim “Mr. Costello,” she said, hurrying down the top
flight and realizing that her hips were aching from all
her recent exertions, “may I ask you a question about
my mother?”
Dade turned to look over his shoulder. “Your
mother? Oh, Mrs. Grover. Sure.” He continued on
down the stairs. “I was just going out for some fresh air
before we took off to dinner.”
“It’s pretty foggy out there,” Judith said when she
reached the main floor. She pointed to Dade’s leather
vest, which he wore over a plaid shirt. “You should
wear a heavier jacket.”
“Think so?” He sounded dubious. “I’m not used to
all this damp. Now what’s this about your mother?”
“Are you really encouraging her to write her life
story?”
“Sure,” Dade replied, leaning one arm on the
balustrade and propping a booted foot up on the umbrella stand. “Why not? She seemed to like the idea.”
“She would,” Judith murmured. “You aren’t seriously thinking of buying it from her, are you?”
“I’m a writer,” Dade said. “I don’t buy scripts, I sell
them.”
“I don’t get it,” said Judith.
Dade shrugged his wide shoulders. “I’m interested
in ideas. Your mother sounds as if she’s had a colorful
life.” His casual demeanor evaporated, replaced by
weariness. “Besides, I could use some good ideas
about now. I feel tapped out.”
Judith was mystified. “You mean—you’d buy ideas
from her?”
“Not exactly,” he replied, eyeing the door as if he
SILVER SCREAM 209 were anxious to make his getaway. “It gets real complicated.”
Judith let the matter drop. She was more interested
in
The Gasman script than in her mother’s life story.
“Was it so complicated with the book that
The Gasman was based on? I mean, that was a very old book, wasn’t
it? Copyright may have expired.”
“It had,” Dade said without much interest. “I think.
Anyway, whoever wrote it had been dead for years.”
“How did Bruno come by the book? That is,” she
went on, not wanting to admit she’d been snooping in
the guest rooms, “I used to be a librarian, and I’ve
never heard of it. I’m assuming it was fairly obscure.”
“It was at that,” Dade drawled with a gleam in his
eye. “I heard that one of Bruno’s ancestors had written
it. In a nutshell, sophomoric and dull. Carp was the author’s name, as I recollect.”
“C. Douglas Carp,” Judith said as the name on the
title page sprang into her mind’s eye. “Was it his
grandfather or an uncle?”
Dade shrugged again. “I don’t really know. There
was a family tie, though. It was more textbook than
novel, almost impossible to use as the basis for a script.
Too much fact and not enough fiction. And too damned
much territory to cover. I struggled for almost a year to
get just the outline done.”
“I gather you had your differences with Chips Madigan over the script,” Judith said, trying to sound
matter-of-fact.
“Chips!” Dade growled, making a slashing motion
with one hand. “That punk. He and Bruno screwed up
my script every which way. They—Bruno speaking for
210 Mary Daheim both of them—insisted I hadn’t kept to the spirit of the
book. Bull. There was no spirit. It was just a bunch of
events strung together by a weak narrative. For all I
know, old Carp may have paid to get it published. It
was garbage, all nine hundred pages of it.” He paused
to pull out a pocket watch from inside his vest. “Hey,
it’s after five. I’d better get going. I think the limo’s
coming a little after six.” He ambled to the front door.
“Psst!” It was Renie, lurking behind the archway
that divided the entry hall and the living room.
“Where’ve you been? I pieced the statement together.”
“You did?” Judith hurried to join her cousin. “How
is it?”
“Stilted,” Renie said, flapping a half-dozen sheets of
yellow paper at Judith. “It’s the kind of corporate copy
that makes me want to shoot all writers and fill up
space with graphic designs instead.”
Judith held out her hand. “Let me see.”
“No,” Renie retorted, “don’t read this hodgepodge.
I’ve written it out in what’s probably close to the final
draft.” She held up the last sheet and began to read
what she’d patched together: “
In the wake of producer Bruno Zepf ’s tragic passing last night, Paradox Stu- dios launched an investigation to determine the cause of death. It is generally felt by studio executives and Zepf ’s close associates that The Gasman
premiere’s apparent inadequacies—some choice of words,” she
interposed before continuing, “
may have caused the producer to die of a broken heart. According to Zepf ’s agent, Eugenia Fleming, ‘Bruno set the bar extremely high, not only for himself, but for others in the indus- try. The Gasman
was a project he had nurtured for years, with roots going back to his youth. Having the SILVER SCREAM 211 picture receive such harsh criticism at its premiere may have been too much for him. He wasn’t used to negative reactions, and he had worked himself into ex- haustion. During the making of the film, he had to be hospitalized for a lengthy period. Obviously, his health was seriously affected. Bruno couldn’t tolerate a lack of excellence, especially in himself.’ End of quote,”
said Renie.
“That’s it?” Judith inquired, sitting on the arm of the
sofa.
“No,” Renie responded. “That’s the end of what Eugenia said. There’s more, but not much. In fact, there
were about three concluding statements they might
have used. The gist was that Bruno should be remembered for his many successes, rather than for
The Gas- man’ s flop.”
Judith didn’t respond immediately. When she did,
her words didn’t pertain to failure or success. “Do you
suppose Bruno really had health problems?”
Renie hesitated before answering. She flipped
through the discarded pages, then tapped her finger on
several fragments of writing. “There are some notes
about that, but they’re cryptic. Here.” She handed the
page to Judith.
B’s health, came first, written in an elegant if not
very legible hand, presumably by Vito. “How do you
read penmanship like this?”
Renie shrugged. “It’s all those years I’ve spent reading CEOs’ scribbles. Of course most of those people
never got past the block-printing stage. They thought
cursive meant cussing.”
“HPB,” Judith read aloud. “High blood pressure?”
Renie nodded. “Probably.”
212 Mary Daheim “
Ulcer . . . ulcer . . . ulcer. That’s clear enough.
So’s
colitis. What’s this?
C? It’s underlined twice.
Then it says
treatment. Cancer?”
“I couldn’t tell,” Renie said. “Maybe the
C is for colitis.”
“Do you remember a drug called thalidomide?”
“Sure,” Renie replied. “Years ago, it was prescribed
as a sleeping pill for pregnant women in Europe. Unfortunately, it caused horrendous birth defects.”
“True,” Judith agreed, “but when we were in Good
Cheer Hospital, I overheard a doctor and a nurse talking about thalidomide. It sounded as if it was being
used for cancer patients.”
Renie looked blank. “I don’t remember that. Maybe
you heard it after I’d been released from the hospital.
You had to stay a few days longer.”
“How could I forget?” Judith said with a grimace,
then grew silent again. “High blood pressure could
have killed Bruno. But wouldn’t the ME be able to
tell?”
“You’d think so.”
Setting the sheet of paper down on the coffee table,
Judith heaved a big sigh. “If only we could be sure that
Bruno was murdered.”
Renie looked askance. “Aren’t you being kind of
bloodthirsty, coz?”
“No, I’m being realistic,” Judith retorted. “I can’t
bear to think that Joe and I may be at fault for Bruno’s
death. It’s not just the possibility of a lawsuit, it’s the
moral implications. If we’re to blame, I’ll feel the most
awful guilt for the rest of my life.”
Renie’s face hardened. “What about that stupid spider over the sink? Who put it there? Why? Was it just
SILVER SCREAM 213 a prank to scare Bruno? Did it scare him into passing
out in the sink?”
Judith stared at Renie. “How odd—I never thought
about that. I mean, first there was the real spider on the
back porch, then the spider in his bed—he didn’t pass
out, by the way— and the one over the sink. Why
would that one have more of an effect on Bruno than
the others?”
“Maybe,” Renie reasoned, “because Bruno was already distraught. Wasn’t a spider a sign of bad luck for
him? And hadn’t he just had the worst luck of his career?”
“True,” Judith allowed in a thoughtful voice. “Who
put those spiders in the bed and in the kitchen? What,”
she went on, her voice rising as she stood up from her
perch on the sofa, “if there are more spiders somewhere?”
“Good point,” Renie remarked. “Have you looked?”
“No,” Judith said, “but Joe searched the guest
rooms. Still, it’s odd that there weren’t more than two.
If you wanted to scare somebody with a fake bug over
the course of a weekend, wouldn’t you bring along,
say, a half dozen?”
“I would,” Renie said. “Better safe than sorry.” She
turned as Joe and Bill entered the living room.
“Bill made a chart,” Joe said. “It shows all the relationships between the guests and their possible motives.”
Sure enough, Bill held up a sheet of butcher’s paper.
He had used different colored pens, made a legend in
one corner, and set down at least a dozen footnotes in
the other. It was so elaborate that it resembled a diagram of the solar system. Or Einstein’s theory of rela-
214 Mary Daheim tivity. As far as Judith could see, it was equally hard to
decipher.
“Goodness,” she said for lack of anything more positive. “Does it . . . make sense?”
“It does to Bill,” Joe replied.
“Of course,” Renie murmured.
Bill revealed a long bamboo skewer to use as a
pointer. “Bruno is here in the middle,” he said, indicating the largest of the circles.
“Like the sun,” Judith said softly.
Apparently, Bill didn’t hear her. “This smaller circle
closest to Bruno is Winifred Best. Note the lines coming from her. Can you read my handwriting?”
“Can I ever?” Renie remarked. “By the way,” she
said in an aside to Judith and Joe, “he can’t spell.”
Bill ignored his wife. “One line is for loyalty, another is for dependence, a third is for—”
“What’s that thing that looks like a bug?” Renie interrupted.
“It’s a bug,” Bill responded, smacking the creature
with his hand. He paused to use a handkerchief, wiping the victim off his palm.
“Not a spider,” Judith noted.
“The spider’s over here.” Bill pointed to what
looked like an asterisk. “Source unknown. To get back
to Winifred—”
The phone rang. Judith went to the small cherrywood table and picked up the receiver. “It’s for you,”
she said to Joe.
The others remained silent while Joe took the call.
His expression changed from mild interest to surprise.
“No kidding? That’s . . . a shame. Sure, let me know.”
He hung up.
SILVER SCREAM 215 “Who was that?” Judith inquired.
“Dilys,” Joe replied, looking preoccupied. “Stone
Cold Sam Cairo is in Norway General Hospital with a
heart attack.”
“Oh, no!” Judith exclaimed. “How serious is it?”
“Serious enough, I guess,” Joe said, trying to look
sympathetic but not succeeding very well. “Dilys is
waiting to hear who’ll take over the case with her until
he recovers.”
“I was wondering why we haven’t heard from
downtown,” Judith said. “I thought that Cairo and
Dilys had taken the day off. At least the police haven’t
given up. I mean, they must still believe that Bruno
could have been murdered.”
“It’s high profile,” Joe said. “They have to stay on it,
or they could get sued, too.”
“Don’t mention it.” Judith nodded at Bill. “Go ahead,
what else have you attached to Winifred’s circle?”
“The possibility of a love affair,” Bill replied, “or
her wish to have one with Bruno. Men and women
who work so closely together—especially in the Hollywood atmosphere where sex is so prevalent in every
phase of life. Often, it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just
casual sex. But sometimes it can be more, at least for
one of the parties involved.”
“Say,” Judith put in, “what’s Bruno’s marital track
record? Was he married to anyone besides the starlet
who’s now an emir’s wife in Dubai?”
The others looked blank. Finally, Renie spoke.
“Didn’t Winifred say Bruno’s kids were of college
age? He must have married—what was her name?”
Judith thought hard. “Tamara . . . no, Taryn. Taryn
McGuire.”
216 Mary Daheim Renie gave a brief nod. “Bruno must have married
Taryn at least twenty years ago. It’s hard to imagine
that he never married anyone else. I saw on one of
those discarded statements that he turned fifty-three
this year. Surely he couldn’t be the only man in Hollywood who had just one wife.”
“True,” Judith remarked. “But Winifred didn’t mention any other family except the two children. Let’s
face it, we don’t know much about his background.
Except,” she continued with a wag of her finger, “he
was related to the C. Douglas Carp who wrote
The Gasman novel.”
“Ah.” Bill glanced at Renie. “I need an orange pen.”
Dutifully, Renie reached into the box of markers on
the coffee table and handed her husband the object of
his desire.
Bill drew a rectangle on the chart. It could have
been a book—or a box of cereal. “That’s interesting,”
he noted. “Despite the fact that the novel wasn’t very
good, Bruno was deeply attached to it. Which suggests
he was deeply attached to the author, maybe more so
than to the book.”
Joe gave Bill an approving nod. “You may be onto
something, Mr. Jones.”
Judith was peering at what looked like a stick figure
wearing a big hat. Or maybe it was a halo. “What’s
that?” she asked.
Bill examined the clumsy sketch. “That’s the alien
suspect. See, it’s from outer space.”
“So’s Bill,” Renie murmured. “He can’t draw, either.”
“I don’t understand,” Judith admitted.
Bill tapped the figure twice. “We can’t exclude an
SILVER SCREAM 217 outsider. If you and Joe were in the basement when
Bruno died, he could have let someone in, someone
you never saw and don’t even know exists. Thus, the
alien suspect.”
“That’s not a bad theory,” Joe remarked. “I tell you,
Billy Boy, you may be going somewhere with this chart.”
“Speaking of going,” Renie said with a bored expression, “could we go on to something else?”
“No,” Judith responded. “I think Bill has a very important point.” She ignored her cousin, who was using
her hands to make a conical steeple over Bill’s head.
“Why don’t I call one of my buddies with the library
system and ask about
The Gasman?”
“Why?” Joe countered. “You said yourself you
didn’t remember anything about it.”
“But I’m not eighty-five years old,” Judith said, seeing Sweetums wander into the living room. “Delia
Cosgrove is. She might recall something. Delia’s been
retired for years, but she’s still very sharp. I ran into
her last spring at the annual library tea.”
“Forget Delia,” Renie said with a curious expression. “Call my mother.”
Bill looked askance. “Your mother?”
“Yes,” Renie replied with a touch of defiance. “My
father read all sorts of books, including some oddities
nobody else probably ever heard of. Mom might remember.”
Bill sucked in his breath. “I’ve gone to a lot of work
here.”
Judith started to speak, but Renie interrupted. “I’m
going to call my mother right now.” She picked up the
phone and dialed as Sweetums sashayed over to Bill
and sniffed the corner of his chart.
218 Mary Daheim “Why don’t we watch the end of the football
game?” Bill muttered. “We might as well. This is
going to take a long time.”
“The game’s over,” Joe said as the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it.”
Without any sense of optimism, Judith stood next to
Renie as Aunt Deb picked up the phone on the first
ring.
“Hi, Mom,” Renie began. “I’ve got a question for
you . . . Well, yes, of course I want to know how you
are, but I talked to you this morning for at least twenty
minutes and . . . No kidding? How did your big toe get
stuck in the drain? . . . Thank goodness for Mrs. Parker
stopping by . . . I didn’t realize Auntie Vance and
Uncle Vince were coming down from the island . . .
No, I won’t tell Aunt Gertrude . . . Yes, I know how she
and Auntie Vance like to argue . . . No, I realize you
aren’t one to quarrel . . . Yes, Aunt Gertrude can be a
trial sometimes. You’re very patient with her . . . I’m
aware that she thinks she’s the one who’s being patient
with you . . . Certainly Auntie Vance can have a rough
tongue . . . She told you to put your big toe where? . . .
Well, that is kind of coarse, but you know what Auntie
Vance is like . . .”
Judith was distracted by the return of Joe with three
deliverymen carrying several cartons and portable
heating units. “Oh, dear,” she sighed. “I forgot about
the caterers.”
“I’ll handle it,” Joe said grimly.
As the deliverymen began to unload the order onto
the buffet, Renie eyed the food with longing. “I know
it’s foggy,” she said into the phone. “Yes, I’ll cover all
my orifices when I go outside so that the damp won’t
SILVER SCREAM 219 harm me . . . Of course I’m wearing sturdy shoes.” She
glanced down at her flimsy brown flats. “No, this pair
doesn’t lace up to my ankles. I haven’t worn those oxfords since I was twelve . . .”
Judith’s attention drifted to the buffet, where Joe
was ripping open boxes and dumping out heated bags.
The deliverymen had already skittered out of the house
after presenting an embarrassingly large bill.
Joe emptied a box of Wienie Wizards, dropping almost all of them on the floor. They bounced, but not
very high.
“Wait!” Judith cried. “Let me do that. You’re angry,
and you’re making a mess.”
Joe’s jaw jutted. “Do you know what all this crap
cost?”
“No, and I don’t want to know,” Judith shot back.
“Not now. Let me call Arlene on my cell phone and see
if she wants any of this food before you destroy it.”
She started to get her purse from the kitchen
when she heard the sound of hurrying feet on the
stairs. “I smell Wienie Wizards!” cried Ellie Linn.
“Yum, yum!”
In a flurry, Judith scooped the hot dogs off the floor
and dumped them into a crystal bowl. “They’re nice
and warm. Be our guest.”
“I already am.” Ellie giggled, her dark eyes shining
with delight. “Mmm . . . my faves!” She immediately
pitched in, grabbing four wieners and four buns at
once.
Finally reaching the kitchen, Judith dialed Arlene’s
number.
“What food?” Arlene asked in a puzzled voice.
Judith reminded her neighbor about the large order
220 Mary Daheim from the caterer. “I thought you wanted some of it for
your family dinner tonight.”
“What family?” Arlene asked. “They canceled.
They all decided to stay home because of Halloween.”
“Rats!” Judith muttered. “Okay, sorry to bother
you.”
“Why don’t you freeze it?” Arlene suggested.
“Frankly,” Judith said, “we’re running out of room
in the freezer. But you’re right, I’ll try to squeeze in
some of the items that won’t keep.”
By the time she returned to the living room, Renie
was finally hanging up the phone. Ellie Linn had disappeared, apparently going upstairs to savor her Wienie Wizards.
“Guess what?” Renie said, looking dazed.
Bill and Joe barely looked up from their places on
the matching sofas. The TV screen showed Nazi planes
swooping over England. Bill had one eye on the set
and the other on his chart, which was spread out over
the coffee table. Sweetums was weaving in and out between his ankles, the cat’s great plume of a tail swishing back and forth.
“Go away,” Bill snarled under his breath, “or I’ll
turn you into cat chowder.”
“What is it?” Judith asked of Renie.
Bill spoke up before his wife could answer. “Get
this damned cat out of here. And I could use a purple
pen.”
Renie swooped down, grabbed Sweetums, and
made a face at Bill. “The marker pens are under your
chart, Galileo.” She moved away, unceremoniously
dumping Sweetums near the entry hall.
“My mother actually read
The Gasman, ” Renie de-
SILVER SCREAM 221 clared. “So, of course, did my father. He made her read
it because he insisted it was a quick way to learn the
history of the world.”
“You’re kidding!” Judith cried.
Joe hit the mute button on the TV’s remote control;
Bill didn’t take his eyes off the screen.
“Does Aunt Deb remember anything about the
book?” Judith asked, aware that her aunt’s memory
was much keener than her mother’s.
“Well . . .” Renie made a face. “She admits she
skimmed it. My dad enjoyed it because there were
some obscure facts he learned and some misconceptions he had that the book cleared up. I gather C. Douglas Carp meticulously researched his material.
Anyway, that sort of thing appealed to Dad. Mom
didn’t give a hoot, and thought the story itself was
silly, and she didn’t like all the wars.” Her gaze shot to
the TV, where London was being bombed into what
looked like charcoal clumps.
“Oh.” Judith was disappointed. “At least we know
that somebody besides Bruno read the book.”
“There was one other thing,” Renie said. “You know
my mother—she’s like you, coz. Her main interest in
life is people.”
Judith smiled faintly. It was a great irony that in
many ways, Judith’s personality was more like Aunt
Deb’s. Conversely, Renie had some of the same traits
as Gertrude. Reacting to Renie’s comment, Bill
groaned, but Joe gave a thumbs-up signal. Both men
felt they had a cross to bear when it came to their
mothers-in-law.
“So?” Judith prodded.
“So,” Renie began, “Mom had an old friend, Hattie
222 Mary Daheim McDonough, who married a man named Carp. In fact,
I guess she married him back in the late twenties, about
the time that my folks read
The Gasman. Naturally,
since Carp isn’t a common name, Mom wanted to
know if Hattie’s husband and C. Douglas were related.
Hattie—who, by the way, died a few years ago—said
they were cousins. Bernie Carp—the one Hattie married—was from the Midwest. Iowa or Nebraska, Mom
thought. Alas, Mr. Bernie Carp turned out to be a
drinker, and Hattie divorced him before World War
Two,
a war we all know who won by now.” Renie raked
the TV screen with a scathing look.
Judith clapped her hands together. “Damn! Why
didn’t I think of this before? I’m going on-line to find
out about Bruno’s background. If,” she added on a note
of doubt, “I can figure out how to do it.”
“I’ll do it,” Renie volunteered. “I’m semigood at
finding stuff like that. But only after I eat most of this
food. Then you can start putting it away while I surf.
Meanwhile,” she added, pointing to Joe and Bill, “we’ll
leave General Eisenhower and General Patton in here to
beat the stuffing out of the Führer all over again.”
Five minutes later Renie was at the computer in the
kitchen while Judith staggered past, carrying a load for
the freezer. Directly behind Renie’s chair, two of the
boxes fell over and hit Renie on the back.
“Yikes!” she cried. “Watch the shoulder! I’ve had
surgery, remember?”
“How can I forget?” Judith muttered. Favoring her
artificial hip, she bent over to retrieve the boxes and
dropped two more.
Renie jumped out of the chair. “Let me help. You
can’t carry all that at once.”
SILVER SCREAM 223 “I guess not,” Judith admitted. “How are you doing
on the Internet?”
“I just got into one of the main sites,” Renie said as
she scooped up the fallen boxes. “I had to eat a little
something first. Like the steaks.”
“Those I could have frozen,” Judith said, leading the
way down the basement steps.
“I didn’t really eat them,” Renie admitted. “I had
some of that field-green salad, a few tempura prawns,
a piece of fried chicken, and some excellent lox on an
outstanding bagel.”
Arriving at the freezer, Judith shook her head. “All
that in five minutes. How could you?” She always marveled at how much—and how fast—Renie could eat.
She also wondered why she couldn’t have inherited
Renie’s metabolism instead of Aunt Deb’s compassion.
“You’re right,” Renie said as Judith opened the
freezer. “You don’t have much room. Maybe we
should take this stuff out of the boxes and put it in
freezer wrap.”
“There’s some right up here,” Judith said, reaching
for a roll on the shelf above the freezer. “So did you
learn anything about Bruno’s background yet?”
“No, I just got started,” Renie replied, removing
four prime New York steaks from one of the boxes. “I
only learned his age, which indeed is fifty-three as of
March ninth. The next thing I knew, I was being
crushed by your cartons.”
“Here,” Judith said, moving some of the items in the
freezer, “I’ve made some room. We can put those
steaks in this corner by the—” She stopped and sucked
in her breath.
224 Mary Daheim Renie looked at her cousin with some alarm.
“What’s wrong? Did you cut yourself on something?”
“No,” Judith said slowly as she brought her hand out
of the freezer. “But I did find these.”
She opened her palm to reveal four black rubber spiders, stiff as boards and covered with frost.
FOURTEEN
“GIVE ME A clean piece of freezer wrap,” Judith said
to Renie. “I’ll put the spiders in it just in case there
might be fingerprints or fibers or something on them.”
After securing the evidence, the cousins worked
quickly to store the rest of the food. It was almost
six by the time they returned upstairs to find the
guests in the entry hall, awaiting their limousine.
On a whim, Judith approached them. “Hey, anybody lose some fake spiders?” She held them out in
their shroud of plastic wrap.
Ellie, Winifred, and Dade all gave a start. The
others looked mildly curious. Judith’s eyes darted
around the gathering, trying to assess the individual
reactions.
“Where’d those spiders come from?” Ben Carmody asked. “They look like the ones in Bruno’s
bed and over the sink.”
“I’m glad they’re fake,” Ellie said. “Those things
creep me out even if they are phony.”
“They devastated Bruno,” Winifred noted. “Why
do they look like they’ve been frozen?”
“Because they were,” Judith responded. “Nobody
wants to claim them, I see.”
226 Mary Daheim “Gosh, no,” Chips said. “Why don’t you put them
around the door for the kids who come trick-ortreating?”
“I don’t think so,” Judith said, trying not to show
disappointment at the lack of a revealing reaction.
“We shouldn’t be late,” Winifred said as a knock
sounded at the front door. “By the way,” she informed
Judith, “we heard from the hospital. Angela is going to
pull through, but it was a near thing. Dirk will be joining us at Capri’s for dinner.” Along with the others, she
moved toward the door, where their chauffeur awaited
them.
Joe ambled over to the entry hall after the guests had
left. “What was that all about?”
“This,” Judith said, showing him the frozen spiders.
“You should have Woody check them out.”
“Hidden in the freezer?” Joe cocked his head to one
side. “Not a bad place, I suppose. Nobody twigged
when you showed them off?”
“No,” Judith admitted. “Oh, Ellie and Winnie and
Dade gave a start, but that doesn’t prove anything. I
was hoping that either all of them except one, or none
of them except one, would react. Or not.”
“I think I understand you,” Joe said, taking the spiders from Judith. “Dilys can handle this. She saw the
spider over the sink.”
Judith went back into the living room. Bill, with the
sound on again, was now watching the Allies get revenge for London by blasting the bejeesus out of
Berlin.
“You two sofa soldiers can graze at the buffet,” she
announced. “I’m not making a formal dinner.”
In the kitchen, Renie was staring at the computer
SILVER SCREAM 227 screen. “Interesting,” she remarked. “Bruno was born
in Iowa of an army mother and a German war groom.
They moved to California when Bruno was very
young. His dad got a job in Hollywood as a translator
for German films. Young Bruno grew up obsessed by
the movies. Hence his destiny, but only after two years
of extensive travels in search of his roots. He was married briefly at the age of twenty, divorced before he
was twenty-one, then took Taryn McGuire as his second wife when he was twenty-seven, divorced six
years later, married a third time to a film cutter for five
years, again divorced. The two children by Taryn are
listed, ages eighteen and twenty.”
“Does it give his mother’s maiden name?” Judith
asked.
“Yes,” Renie replied, scrolling up the screen. “Father, Josef Zepf; mother, Helena Walls. No Carp.
Sorry.”
“What about wives number one and number three?
Any names?”
Renie shook her head. “The first marriage was so
brief they don’t mention her. And the film cutter’s
name isn’t listed, either. Since this is an official site,
they may have been omitted because they weren’t
names in the industry. There are other sites, I’m sure.”
“Check those,” Judith urged. “There’s got to be a
Carp somewhere.”
“I’ll try,” Renie said, “but sometimes it’s tricky to
get into the unofficial sites. At least it is for me. Meanwhile, I’ll print out the stuff we’ve already seen.
There’s quite a bit of information about Bruno’s films,
of course.”
In the living room, World War II had ended in Eu-
228 Mary Daheim rope. The program had moved on to the Pacific, where
General Douglas MacArthur was wearing his game
face. Bill was adding another section to his chart.
“Joe,” Judith said with a sigh, “I thought you were
detecting.”
“I am,” Joe replied. “I’m like Hercule Poirot, letting
my little gray cells cogitate.”
Bill gave Judith an accusing look. “You didn’t let
me finish explaining my chart.”
“You’re right,” Judith said, sitting down on the sofa
arm. “Really, I
am interested. Show me.”
While Bill wrestled with his unwieldy chart, Joe reluctantly turned off the TV as a mushroom cloud exploded over Hiroshima. Bill picked up his bamboo
skewer just as Renie burst into the living room.
“Hey!” she cried. “I found something. There’s a
whole Web site devoted to
The Gasman and its origins.”
Judith turned to look at her cousin. “What does it
say?”
“I don’t know,” Renie replied. “It’s kind of long, so
I’m printing it out.” She saw her husband with his chart
and pointer. “Oops. Sorry, Bill. Am I interrupting?”
“You usually are,” Bill said with a long-suffering
air.
“Go ahead,” Joe urged, nodding at Bill. “I’d like to
hear this, too. It might help me . . . cogitate.”
“What’s that new section?” Judith asked, noting that
two more circles had been added.
“Morris Mayne and Eugenia Fleming,” Bill replied
with a tap for each of the turquoise circles.
“You’re right,” Judith said. “We can’t ignore them.
They were here last night, too. What else can you tell
us?”
SILVER SCREAM 229 “I’ve been thinking about this,” Bill began, tapping
the corner of the chart. “We’re talking about Hollywood, and we should keep a few things in mind. One
is power. Who has it here? Bruno, of course. He was
one of the most powerful men in the movie industry.
That’s a very exclusive club. Who else, then?”
Judith felt she was in the classroom with Bill, and
automatically raised her hand. “Winifred? She was so
close to Bruno.”
Bill nodded solemnly. “That’s right. If nothing else,
Winifred would have had the power to say yes to a proposal or a script. Anyone in Hollywood can say no. But
saying yes is a risk. Winifred was probably able to do
that because of her close association with Bruno.”
“Then Eugenia would have power, too,” Judith conjectured, “because she’s Bruno’s agent?”
“Only to the extent of allowing access to the people
in her stable,” Bill replied. “Eugenia also represents
Dirk, doesn’t she? The amount of her power depends
more on her clients’ clout.”
“What about Morris?” Joe asked.
“Morris Mayne is a studio flack,” Bill said, tapping
the smaller of the circles in his addendum. “Morris can
be replaced on a whim. The only way publicists have
any power is if they’re keeping a secret. Let’s say, covering up for Angela’s overdose today.”
“Blackmail,” Joe said. “Morris is more likely a victim than a perp because he knows too much. Blackmailers are always vulnerable.”
The room went silent for a few moments as the foursome reflected. Finally, Renie spoke. “Angela and Dirk
are bankable. Doesn’t that give them some power?”
“Dirk, yes,” Bill said. “But not Angela. She’s a big
230 Mary Daheim star, though I doubt that a producer or a studio could
get a large investment on her name alone. Bruno could
and did with Dirk.”
“What about Chips Madigan?” Joe asked. “He’s a
successful director.”
Bill shook his head. “Chips is under contract to
Paradox. His power is limited. In fact,” he continued,
tapping at several of the smaller circles, “no one here
really has power except Bruno, Winifred, and Dirk.
Writers in particular are way down on the food chain.”
“Ellie had power,” Judith pointed out. “She was the
reason Bruno got a big chunk of money for
The Gas- man.”
Again, Bill shook his head. “That was a fluke. Ellie
had connections, which isn’t the same. Until now, her
father wasn’t a player.”
“But,” Renie said, “do people murder for power in
Hollywood? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of such a
thing.”
Bill pointed the pointer at Renie. “That’s right,” he
said approvingly. “They don’t. If Bruno was murdered,
I doubt that power was a motive.”
“You really think he was murdered?” Judith said eagerly.
Bill shrugged. “How do I know? But you and Joe
seem to be operating on that premise. Judging from the
studio’s involvement, they are, too.”
“So,” Renie inquired, “what’s the other factor besides power?”
“Factors, really,” Bill responded, then studied his
chart for a moment. “Image, for one. I realize it’s not
like it used to be in Hollywood, where studios manufactured images and personalities. Stars were shielded
SILVER SCREAM 231 from bad publicity; they had to live up to certain standards. Of course they misbehaved, but either they were
protected from the press or the reporters themselves
turned a blind eye. Nowadays actors don’t have that
kind of buffer. And journalism is different—no turn
goes unstoned, as they say. The tabloids not only exploit the stars’ misdeeds, but they invent some of
them.” Bill took a deep breath. “All that being said, it’s
only human nature for actors to want to keep certain
unsavory things from the public. Such as Angela’s apparent cocaine habit.”
“Dirk, too?” Judith offered. “If he and Angela were
romantically involved, isn’t it possible that he also had
a coke addiction?”
“We don’t know about Dirk,” Bill replied. “Do we
have proof?”
On the sofa, Joe stretched out his legs. “Only the
coke dust my bride discovered in the downstairs powder room and traces I noticed in the bathroom Angela
and Dirk used after they commandeered Bruno’s room
last night.”
“But that could have been only Angela,” Bill
pointed out.
“What about the bathroom Angela and Ellie shared
the first night?” Judith inquired of Joe. “Did you notice
anything in there?”
Joe shook his head. “It could have been cleaned up,
of course.”
Judith persisted. “The night that Dirk roomed with
Ben, they had access to Bruno’s bathroom, because it’s
the largest and it’s shared by Rooms Three and Four.”
“Nothing there, either,” Joe responded. “Angela
may not have wanted to haul out her stash while she
232 Mary Daheim was sharing a room with Ellie. They don’t like each
other much. Ellie might have lorded it over Angela
somehow. Haven’t we figured that Angela used the
bathroom on this floor to do coke?”
“That’s right,” Judith allowed.
“What else?” Bill asked, impatient with the latest
digression. “We’re talking image and reputation here,
remember.”
“Ellie’s too young to have much of a past,” Judith
noted.
“Chips,” Renie declared, “is too good to be true.”
“Do writers care what people think of them?” Joe
remarked. “Dade, at least, gives off I-don’t-give-adamn signals.”
“All writers are weird,” Renie said. “That’s why
they’re so difficult to deal with.”
Judith was staring at Renie. “Why do you think
Chips is too good to be true?”
Renie shrugged. “Isn’t he always telling you those
endearing stories about his wholesome youth in the
Midwest? Mother and apple pie—literally.”
“It was chicken pot pie,” Judith said, but Renie’s
comment caused her to wonder. “Could we check him
out on the Internet?”
“Probably,” Renie replied.
He pointed to the circle that represented Dirk Farrar.
“The worst thing about Dirk—from an image standpoint—would be to find out he was gay. He’s Mr.
Macho on the screen.”
“Can’t we rule that out?” Joe inquired. “He was
banging Angela.”
“He could be a switch-hitter,” Bill responded.
“What about Ben Carmody?” Judith asked.
SILVER SCREAM 233 “Ben’s a different case,” Bill said. “He usually plays
villains. Isn’t the role in the Utah picture his first
leading-man opportunity?”
“I guess,” Judith said, “though I don’t think all the
different parts he played in
The Gasman were bad
guys.”
“That’s not the same,” Bill pointed out. “Ben Carmody has built his reputation as an actor, not as a star.
You see the difference?” Like any good professor, he
waited for the others to nod their understanding. “As
for Ellie, you may be right, Judith. She’s not only
young, but grew up in a prominent family. I suspect
that her past is relatively blameless.”
But Renie didn’t agree. “She may have run over a
cripple. She could have done drugs. She might have
gone off on a lark with some friends and held up a convenience store at gunpoint.”
Bill gave his wife a withering look. “She may have
been the homecoming queen and won a scholarship to
Yale. Let’s assume she’s in the clear. You’re just being
contrary.”
“True,” Renie admitted, not looking the least contrite. “Still, I think there must be something unsavory
about Chips. And where did he get a name like that
anyway? It’s got to be a nickname.”
“You may be right,” Bill said. “Midwesterners are
very good at hiding things they don’t want others to
see, especially their dark side.”
Bill ought to know, Judith thought, since he was a
Wisconsin native. “Who’ve we left out?” she asked.
“Winifred?”
“Yes.” Bill tapped the circle nearest to Bruno’s.
“What do we know about her background?”
234 Mary Daheim “I think she was a Demure,” Judith said, walking
over to the stereo, where she had slipped the tape behind a rack of CDs. She related Renie’s discovery
along with Winifred’s reaction. “I’m sure it’s her,” Judith concluded, “but she doesn’t want it known.”
“Ah,” said Bill.
“I remember them,” Joe put in. “They were a onehit wonder. Vivian used to sing their song when she did
her piano-bar stints. ‘Come Play with Me,’ wasn’t it?”
Judith gave her husband a censorious look. “I’m
sure she did.”
Joe waved a hand. “It was her job. At least I had a
spouse who worked. Sometimes.”
“She only worked because she got free drinks,” Judith asserted.
“Truce!” Renie shouted, holding up both arms like
a football official signaling a touchdown. “No fighting,
no biting. Let’s go back to Winifred.”
Joe calmed down first. “So Winifred’s ashamed of
being a Demure? Why?”
“Because,” Judith suggested, still bristling a bit,
“they only had one big hit?”
“Another person deeply affected by failure,” Bill
murmured. He used the purple pen to make some
marks by Winifred’s circle. “Yet,” he continued, making a squiggle with the orange pen, “she rebounded to
become Bruno’s assistant, a position of great power.
So why,” he concluded, adding a chartreuse slash,
“wouldn’t Winifred be able to laugh off her early experience in the music world?”
“Bill,” Renie inquired, “have you any idea what all
those marks mean?”
“Of course.” With an expectant expression, he gazed
SILVER SCREAM 235 at the others as if waiting for the brightest student to
give the correct answer. “Well?”
“Because,” Judith said slowly, “there was something
shameful about that experience.”
Bill nodded approval. “There has to be. What could
it have been?”
“Guesswork,” Joe said in a disgusted voice. “That’s
all we can do is guess. That’s not a professional approach in law enforcement.”
“We don’t have anything else,” Renie pointed out.
With a hopeful expression, Judith turned to Renie.
“You couldn’t find it on the Internet?”
“I doubt it, coz,” Renie said.
“Then there has to be another way,” Judith declared,
getting up from the sofa and heading out of the room.
“Hey,” Renie called after her cousin, “what are you
going to do?”
Judith turned just before she reached the entry hall.
“I’m about to crash the dinner party. Anybody care to
join me?”
“Hey,” Bill said sharply, “I’m not finished yet.”
“Later,” Judith shot back. “I feel useless. I’m frustrated. I’m getting out of here.”
“Don’t act like a moron, Jude-girl,” Joe said with a
scowl. “You can’t go barging in on those people like that.”
“Look,” Judith said, almost stamping her foot but
afraid to, lest she jar her artificial hip, “we’re running
out of time. The guests may be gone by tomorrow.
You’re not the one who worked your tail off to build
this B&B. Do—or don’t do—what you want, but I’m
not sitting around waiting for a bunch of L.A. lawyers
to fleece us.” She turned on her heel and headed for the
back hallway to get her jacket.
236 Mary Daheim “Wait for me!” Renie cried, hurrying after Judith.
“Our car’s blocking the driveway. I’m coming with you.”
Judith waited, though it took only seconds until her
cousin was in the Joneses’ Toyota Camry. A moment
later Renie was reversing out into the foggy cul-de-sac.
“It’s just as well to take your car,” Judith said, fastening her seat belt. “It’s newer than my Subaru.
Maybe the parking attendants at Capri’s won’t act so
snooty.”
“They aren’t as snooty as they used to be,” Renie
replied, heading onto Heraldsgate Avenue. The fog had
settled in over the hill, making it difficult to see more
than twenty feet ahead. Though Renie had a reputation—which she claimed was unearned—for driving
too fast and erratically, she crept along the thoroughfare. “With all the new money in this town,” she said,
“especially among the younger set, it’s hard to tell a
millionaire from a millworker.”
Capri’s was located on the east side of the hill,
closer to Renie’s house than to the B&B. The cousins
climbed Heraldsgate Avenue to the commercial district
on the flat, then kept going north into a sloping residential neighborhood. They turned right in the direction of the restaurant, but within four blocks, Renie
took a left.
“Hey!” Judith cried. “What are we doing?”
“You do nothing,” Renie said. “I change clothes. I
can’t go into Capri’s wearing this Loyola University
sweatshirt and these black pants. They have a hole in
them, in case you haven’t noticed, which maybe you
haven’t because I’m wearing black underwear.”
“Good grief.” Judith held her head. “Okay, but don’t
take long.”
SILVER SCREAM 237 Sitting in the car, she studied her own attire. The
green wool slacks matched the green cable-knit turtleneck. Her shoes were fairly new, having been purchased at Nordquist’s annual women’s sale. She
supposed she could pass at Capri’s for a real customer.
As she continued to wait, Judith’s mind wandered
back to Bill’s chart. Someone was missing. Who, besides the Alien Suspect? The answer came to mind almost immediately. Vito Patricelli wasn’t represented
among Bruno’s satellites. But it appeared that he
hadn’t arrived in the city until this morning. Was that
true? Judith used her cell phone to dial one of the airlines that served passengers from L.A.
“We have no one named Patricelli on our manifests
in the last three days,” the pert voice said.
Judith tried the other connecting carriers and got the
same negative result. Maybe Vito had flown north by
private plane.
She was about to call Boring Field, where many of
the smaller aircraft landed, when Renie reappeared
wearing a great deal of brown suede, including her
pants, jacket, ankle boots, and handbag. She also wore
a brown cashmere sweater.
“How many animals had to die to clothe you in that
outfit?” Judith inquired as Renie slid into the driver’s seat.
“A lot of cows with really rotten dispositions,”
Renie replied, starting the car. “None of the children
were home. They must have gone a-wooing.”
“Very likely,” Judith agreed as they headed back up
the hill to the turnoff for Capri’s. “Really, I’m anxious
to meet the future in-laws.”
“So am I,” Renie said darkly, “even though I allegedly have already done so.”
238 Mary Daheim “Say,” Judith said, “did you get a chance to look at
the material you got off the Internet about
The Gasman and its origins?”
“Not yet,” Renie replied, slowing at a six-way stop
and peering into the fog to see if there were any vehicles coming from the other directions. “It looks as if it
came out to at least twenty pages. That includes artwork, of course.”
“Who puts those sites together?”
“This one may have been done by the studio,” Renie
said, curving around in front of the restaurant and
pulling into the driveway. “Some of the sites are created by fans.”
A blemish-free teenager with corn-tassel-colored
hair and a big smile greeted the cousins.
“Which private party will you be joining?” he asked
as Renie stepped out of the Camry. “That is,” he added
with an ingenuous expression, “on Sundays we’re not
open to regular customers.”
“How many parties are there?” Renie inquired as
Judith joined her under the porte cochere.
“Two,” the youth replied with a discreet wink. “The
Smith and the Jones parties.”
Renie darted a glance at Judith. “I’m Mrs. Jones,”
Renie said, winking back.
“Ah.” The young man made a flourish that was almost a bow. “This way, please. Derek will take care of
your car.” He nodded at a second fresh-faced adolescent who had been standing by the door.
“So which is which?” Judith murmured as they
passed across the flagstone flooring, where they were
met by a maître d’ so handsome that he could have
given Dirk Farrar a run for his money.
SILVER SCREAM 239 “We’ve got a fifty-fifty chance of getting the right
party,” Renie said out of the side of her mouth. “Serena
Jones here,” she informed the maître d’ in her normal
voice.
“I’m Charles,” the maître d’ informed the cousins.
His smile seemed to assure them that he was their new
best friend. Charles led the way up a winding black
iron staircase, then turned right to face a paneled mahogany door. With a dazzling smile and a flourish that
was indeed a bow, he opened the door.
“Your party, Mrs. Jones,” he said.
Renie rocked on the heels of her brown suede boots.
This was definitely the Jones party. All three of Renie
and Bill’s offspring sat at a table for at least a dozen
other people, some of whom looked vaguely familiar.
“Hi, Mom,” Tom said in greeting. “We thought
you’d never get here. Where’s Pop?”
FIFTEEN
“WHAT IS THIS?” Renie demanded when the maître d’
had left and she regained her equilibrium. “What do
you mean, ‘Where’s Pop’?”
“Didn’t you get our note?” Anne said with an innocent look on her pretty face.
“What note?” Renie all but shouted. Then, realizing that she must be in the presence of her future inlaws, she tried to smile. “No. Where was it?”
Anne turned to Tony, who was seated four places
down the table. “Where did you put the note, Big T?”
Tony’s chiseled features were vague. “I thought
Tom put it up by the hall closet.”
“Not me,” Tom said with a shake of his curly dark
head. “You wrote it, Annie-Bannany. What’d you do
with it?”
“I didn’t write it,” Anne retorted. “I thought—”
“Hold it!” Renie cried, this time unable to keep
her voice down. But she managed a smile for her bewildered audience. “Your father and I never saw a
note. We haven’t been home since early this afternoon. How about introducing your poor old mother
and your just-as-poor-and-almost-as-old aunt to
these other folks?”
SILVER SCREAM 241 Anne and Tony both gazed at Tom as they always
did when they expected the eldest of their lot to take
responsibility. The others included a fair-haired young
man who was growing something fuzzy that looked
like it might become a goatee, a raven-haired young
woman who looked as if she could be Native American, a red-headed girl who looked faintly ethereal, and
a half-dozen middle-aged adults who looked as if they
wished they were somewhere else. The whole group
stared at Renie.
“We told you and Pop about the dinner tonight,”
Tom said, looking wounded. “Remember, it was Friday, and you mentioned having everybody over at our
house. But we said we thought it’d be better to go out.
You and Pop didn’t say anything, so we assumed it was
all set.”
“Probably,” Renie muttered to Judith, “they were all
talking at once—and so loud—that we couldn’t hear
them.”
“What’s that, Mom?” Tony inquired.
“I said I guess we goofed.” Renie looked unusually
subdued. “I’ll call Pop and get him over here.”
“He won’t answer the phone,” Anne warned.
“He’s not home,” Renie said, delving into her brown
suede purse for her cell phone.
Judith whispered into Renie’s ear. “I’m out of here.”
“Coz!” Renie cried as she hit the wrong button,
causing the phone to emit a sharp squawk.
“Sorry,” Judith apologized. “I have a job to do.”
She scooted out of the room.
The only similar door was on her left. The other
doors along the corridor were for rest rooms, storage,
and other restaurant facilities. Grasping the mahogany
242 Mary Daheim door’s brass lever, Judith took a deep breath. Now that
her prey were at hand, she didn’t know what to do. Barging in, as Joe had cautioned, wasn’t a good idea. The
door was too thick to allow her to overhear what was
going on in the private dining room. Worse yet, the
servers were all young men wearing tuxedos. A wild idea
involving the impersonation of a waitress had struck her
earlier. Not only was it far-fetched, it was impossible.
At that moment, one of the waiters appeared at the
top of the stairs carrying a jeroboam of champagne.
Swiftly, Judith fished into her purse, searching for a
piece of paper.
“Young man,” she said, blocking the door, “could
you deliver a message to the Smith party? I’m with the
Joneses, in the other private dining room.”
The waiter, who was young, Asian, and very goodlooking, was too well trained to show surprise.
“To whom shall I give the message?” he asked.
Having found a small notebook, Judith scribbled out
a half-dozen words. “Morris Mayne,” she said. “Tell
him it’s urgent. Thank you.”
The waiter disappeared inside. Judith wondered if
she should have slipped him five dollars. Or ten. Or
twenty-five, considering that she was at Capri’s.
Moments later Morris Mayne dashed out into the
hall. “What is it? What’s happened at the studio?” Not
nearly as tall as Judith, he peered up at her through
rimless spectacles. “Wait! You’re the bed-andbreakfast lady, aren’t you?”
“That’s right,” Judith said, hoping to look appropriately solemn. “I think we’d best go downstairs to the
bar. Perhaps they’ll serve us a drink.”
“A drink?” Morris’s sparse tufts of hair stood out on
SILVER SCREAM 243 his round head. “Yes, I could use a drink. Though of
course I’ve already had . . . Never mind, let’s talk.” He
hurried down the winding staircase.
Charles the maître d’ expressed great pleasure at
serving the duo. Judith ordered Scotch rocks; Morris
requested a Bottle Rocket. Judith had never heard of it,
but it appeared to consist of several alcoholic beverages and a slice of kiwi.
“Tell me, please,” Morris begged after Charles
handed him his drink. “Why am I being recalled?”
“Recalled?” Judith’s dark eyes widened. “Is that
what I wrote? Oh, dear. My handwriting is so bad. I
meant you’d been called by the studio to . . . well, I
didn’t quite catch the rest of it, so I thought I’d better
come in person to make sure you got the message.”
Morris slumped in relief. “Oh! Thank God! I
thought I’d been fired!”
“Why would you think such a thing?” Judith asked,
still wide-eyed.
Morris gulped down some of his Bottle Rocket.
“Because of this
Gasman mess. I mean,” he amended
quickly, “it’s not exactly a mess, but it does present
some problems. With Bruno dying and all, you see.”
“Yes, that complicates matters,” Judith said in a
sympathetic tone. “What do you think will happen to
the movie now?”
“Who knows?” Morris spread his arms, knocking
over a candle on the bar. “Oops! Sorry, Charles.” The
gracious maître d’ picked up the candle and turned discreetly away.
“Hasn’t the studio given some instructions?” Judith
asked, taking a small sip of Scotch. It was excellent
Scotch, maybe Glenlivet. She sipped again.
244 Mary Daheim “Paradox is waiting to find out what happened to
Bruno,” Morris replied.
“What do the studio executives think happened?”
Judith asked.
Morris drank more Bottle Rocket. “Whew!” he exclaimed, passing a hand over his high forehead. “That’s
strong!” He leaned closer to Judith. “What did you say?”
She repeated the question. Morris reflected, though
his eyes weren’t quite in focus.
“Paradox is sure Bruno had a tart ahack. I mean”—
he corrected himself—“
a heart attack. He’s had problems, you shee.
See.” The publicist hiccuped once.
“You mean he’d had a history of heart trouble?”
Morris grimaced. “Not exactly.” He hiccuped again
and drew himself up on the bar stool, which luckily
had a large padded back. “Strain. That’s what Bruno
had. He worked under a lot of strain. That’s why he—”
He stopped abruptly. “I shouldn’t tell tales out of
school, should I?”
“You’re not,” Judith assured him. “I’m not in the
business. I don’t count. I’m nobody.”
“Thash shtrue,” Morris agreed. “You’re not.” He
took another gulp from his glass. “Anyway, Bruno
worked too hard. That caushes strain.”
“Yes,” Judith said amiably. “And strain can lead to
many things. To help him cope, of course.”
“Cope!” Morris’s arm shot out, striking a calla lily
in a tall black vase. “Oops!” He giggled and put a hand
over his mouth. “Mushn’t drink this too fast. Had a lot
of champagne upstairs.” He jabbed at the ceiling with
a pudgy finger.
“Yes, to cope,” Judith said patiently. “People cope in
many ways. Sometimes those ways aren’t healthy.”
SILVER SCREAM 245 Sadly, Morris shook his head. “True, too true. Like
Bruno. Not healthy. Don’t blame him. Too much
presshure. Not all his fault. Blame Big Daddy Dumas.”
Judith was taken aback. “Big Daddy Dumas? Who’s
that?”
Morris giggled some more and shook a finger at Judith. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Yes,” Judith said seriously, “I would.”
At the desk by the bar, the phone rang. Charles
picked it up. He appeared to be taking a reservation.
“Phone,” Morris said. “Musht phone the studio.” He
patted himself down, apparently searching for his cell.
“Hunh. Musht have left it upstairs. Here I go.” He
picked up what remained of his Bottle Rocket and
staggered off to the iron staircase.
Judith was on his heels. “But, Morris,” she said urgently, “you can tell me about Big Daddy Dumas. I’m
nobody, remember?”
On the second step, Morris turned around. “Doeshn’t
matter. Big Daddy’s dead. Ta-ta.” Clinging to the iron
rail, he wobbled up the stairs.
Judith returned to the bar, took another sip of fine
Scotch, and considered her next move. She was still in
a quandary when Bill came through the main entrance.
“Hi, Bill,” she said, waving from the bar stool. “You
aren’t really Big Daddy Dumas by any chance, are
you?”
Bill stared at Judith. “Why do you ask?”
Judith stared back at him. “Do you know who I’m
talking about?”
“Of course,” he replied. “Dumas is a famous psychological case study from about twenty years ago.
Where did you hear the name?”
246 Mary Daheim Quickly, Judith explained. “So what do you know
about this Dumas?”
Bill looked pained. “Dumas was a black gang lord
in L.A. He was involved in drugs and prostitution. He
was atypical because he didn’t allow his hookers to
take drugs, though he used them to sell the stuff. He
was interesting from a psychological standpoint because the control he exerted over his girls was paternal,
rather than intimidating or enabling. He was creating a
familial bond between himself and the prostitutes. Almost all of them had had no father figure in their lives,
or if they did, he was abusive. Big Daddy never had intercourse with the girls. He protected them and made
sure they were checked out for disease. He acted like a
real father, which was all the more intriguing because
he was only in his twenties and had a large brood of
children of his own. This was one of the first case studies that showed how young people got caught up in
gangs and prostitution rings. It emphasized how the
gang provides a surrogate family and a sense of belonging.”
“What happened to Dumas?” Judith asked. “Morris
Mayne told me he was dead.”
Bill nodded. “I suppose Morris knows the story,
being based in L.A. Dumas was quite a legend there
for almost ten years. One of his girls killed him. He
was also involved in the local music scene, though
whether with promoting talent or just peddling drugs
and sex, I can’t recall. This particular girl, who was
from Mexico, felt Dumas could help her get started as
a singer for the Hispanic audience. He couldn’t or
wouldn’t, so she stabbed him in a fit of rage, claiming
he’d betrayed their family bond.”
SILVER SCREAM 247 “A father-daughter quarrel,” Judith remarked.
“Speaking of children,” Bill said, starting up the
steps, “I’d better join mine before Renie and our kids
eat all the food.”
Judith watched Bill disappear at the top of the staircase, then resumed her place at the bar. The glimmer of
an idea was forming at the back of her brain.
Charles cleared his throat. “Will you be rejoining
your party upstairs?”
“Ah . . .” Judith paused to take a quick sip from her
glass. “Yes, in a few minutes. I had to get away.”
“Oh?” Charles tried to hide his puzzlement.
“I mean, I know I just got here,” Judith explained,
“but those people can be very . . . difficult.”
“The Joneses?” Charles inquired politely.
“Yes, the Joneses.” Judith smiled confidentially.
“They’re relatives, you see.”
“Yes,” Charles agreed tactfully. “Sometimes family
members can be taxing.”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll finish my drink down here,”
Judith said, wondering if she should call a taxi and go
home. Renie and Bill would be stuck with the future
in-laws for at least an hour or two.
“Of course,” Charles responded.
Before Judith could say anything else, a pair of
hefty legs and sensible black pumps came down the
stairway.
“There you are,” Eugenia Fleming said in an accusing tone. “What’s this about the studio calling Morris?
And how did you get him so drunk?”
“He got himself drunk,” Judith declared. “I’ve never
seen anybody drink a Bottle Rocket before. It’s a wonder he didn’t launch himself across the lake.”
248 Mary Daheim Eugenia turned her head in every direction. “What
lake?”
Judith gestured at the slanting windows that faced
the length of the restaurant. “There’s a lake out there.
Two lakes, in fact. And mountains. You can’t see them
because of the fog.”
“Miserable weather,” Eugenia muttered, planting
one black pump on the single step up to the bar. “Now
tell me what’s going on with Morris and the phone
call.”
Judith feigned innocence. “I’m only the messenger.”
“Morris was too drunk to call Paradox,” Eugenia
huffed, her majestic bust heaving. “I wouldn’t let him,
so I called for him. No one there knew anything about
trying to contact him. Vito is very annoyed.”
“That’s a shame,” Judith said placidly, then took another drink of Scotch. “Morris isn’t in trouble, is he?”
“Of course he is!” Eugenia shot back. “We’re all in
trouble!” Abruptly, she put a hand to her large crimson
lips. “That is,” she said in a much softer tone, “this
Bruno incident presents several challenges to all of us
who are involved.”
“I would imagine,” Judith said, sounding sympathetic. “You’ve lost a very important client.”
“Yes,” Eugenia said, then turned to Charles. “Give
me a shot of Tanqueray, straight up.”
Charles complied. Eugenia downed the gin in one
gulp. “Producers like Bruno don’t come around every
day,” she grumbled. “In fact, I was with him from the
beginning, right after he won that film-festival prize.
You might say he owed a lot of his success to me.” She
gave Charles a curt nod. “I’ll have another, please.”
“Really?” Judith remarked. “How does that work?”
SILVER SCREAM 249 Eugenia scowled at Judith. “How does it work? I do
the work, that’s how. I start a buzz, build an image,
play publicist as well as agent. It wasn’t easy with
Bruno,” she said, downing the second gin. “He had
hang-ups, phobias, problems. But I connected him to
the right people. Nobody gives agents credit for the
grunt work involved in building a reputation.”
Judith inadvertently neglected the agent’s efforts as
she zeroed in on a word that had captured her attention.
“You mentioned hang-ups?” Again, she wore her air of
innocence.
“Family background,” Eugenia said, snapping her
fingers at Charles for another hit. “His parents may
have moved to California, where Mr. Zepf worked in
the business, but they were very strict. What would you
expect with a German father and a Midwestern
mother? It’s a wonder Bruno’s creativity wasn’t stifled
before he could leave home.”
“I understand he went in search of his roots,” Judith
said, trying not to stare as Eugenia knocked back a
third gin.
“He did,” Eugenia replied. “He went to Germany to
discover his father’s past. Josef Zepf had come from
Wiesbaden, the son of a shoemaker. Bruno loved Germany, especially the music and the literature. No doubt
Wagner influenced him, which may be why his pictures always ran a bit long.”
“As long as
The Gasman?” Judith asked as Eugenia
signaled for yet another drink.
“Not that long,” Eugenia said. “But even the picture
that won the film-festival prize—
No Prunes for Pru- dence—was over two and a half hours.”
“That’s a lot of prunes,” Judith murmured.
250 Mary Daheim The agent, however, was in full spate, and apparently didn’t hear the remark. “He visited England as
well, since his mother, Helena, had been stationed
there before being sent to Germany,” Eugenia continued. Her voice had taken on a lilting quality, as if she
were narrating a documentary on Bruno’s life. Or
quoting from an A&E
Biography. Judith was reminded
of Winifred’s dissertation on Bruno. Maybe all his associates had been forced to memorize the producer’s
life story.
“After more than a year,” Eugenia went on, “he returned to the States. The farm in Iowa where his
mother had been raised was gone, the fields plowed
under for a development, but the house was still there.
Grandfather Walls had died, but Bruno’s grandmother
still lived in the old house with its rickety steps and
shutters which hung by a single hinge and clattered in
the wind. Grandmother Walls was very old and ill.
Bruno stayed with her until the end came, almost a
year later.”
“That’s admirable,” Judith said, thinking there
should be a violin accompaniment to Eugenia’s recital.
“Bruno sounds very compassionate.”
“Oh, he is. He
was,” Eugenia corrected herself with
a start. “My God, I can’t believe he’s gone!” She requested a fifth drink. “To Bruno,” she said, holding up
her glass.
“To Bruno,” Judith echoed, finishing her Scotch.
She tried not to stare at the other woman, who seemed
completely sober. Maybe her size accounted for her
ability to drink like a fish. Bracing herself, Judith
posed a question: “Who was C. Douglas Carp?”
Eugenia didn’t bat an eye. “You mean the man who
SILVER SCREAM 251 wrote
The Gasman novel? Some relative, I believe. I
never read novels, unless the book is adapted for a picture, and even then I skim. Books are inevitably dull.”
With surprising agility for her size and the amount of
gin she’d consumed, she slid off the bar stool, planting
her sensible shoes firmly on the floor. “I must go upstairs. I do wish you hadn’t disturbed Morris with that
silly message. He’s very drunk. Tsk, tsk.”
Charles smiled at Judith. “Would you care for another?” he asked, pointing to her empty glass.
Judith shook her head. “I should go, I suppose.”
“But I thought you were with the Joneses.” Charles
looked a trifle tense. “Or am I mistaken? You also seem
to know the people attending the Smith dinner.”
Judith wondered if the maître d’ suspected she
might be a groupie or a party crasher. “Charles”—she
sighed—“it’s a long story. Some members of the Smith
group are . . . ah . . . staying at my house.” She refrained from mentioning that her house was a B&B.
“Mrs. Jones is my cousin. It’s a coincidence that both
parties are here at once.”
“Ah.” The maître d’ offered her a conspiratorial
smile and seemed to relax. “Then you know these
Smiths are movie people. I recognized Dirk Farrar
right away. He came late, though.” The last sentence
almost sounded like a question.
“He came from someplace else,” Judith said,
“though he’s staying with us. How did he seem?”
Charles looked around to make sure no one could
overhear. But the lower part of the restaurant was still
vacant. Even the waiters seemed to have gone to
ground.
“I thought he looked kind of grim,” Charles said,
252 Mary Daheim keeping his voice down. “Is that because of the producer who passed away last night?”
“That’s part of it,” Judith said, then curbed her
tongue. She mustn’t gossip about Angela La Belle.
“I’m sure the poor reception
The Gasman got at the
premiere upset Dirk, too.”
“I never read movie reviews,” Charles said, then
turned as the valet with the corn-colored hair came into
the restaurant, looking worried. “What is it, Josh?” the
maître d’ inquired.
“There’s a couple out in the parking lot who insist
they want to eat here,” Josh said. “They won’t take no
for an answer. I think you’d better talk to them.”
“Excuse me,” Charles said to Judith. “This happens
almost every Sunday when we’re closed to regular diners. In fact, this is the second time an insistent couple
has shown up this evening. I won’t be long.”
Judith got up and strolled over to the big windows.
It was dark and the fog was thick. She couldn’t see any
lights, not even directly below the restaurant, which
was located about halfway up Heraldsgate Hill. When
she turned around again, she saw Charles leading a
middle-aged couple inside and up the winding staircase. The man was big, bald, and bearlike; the woman
was small, dark, and of Asian descent. Apparently,
they had an entrée to one of the private parties upstairs,
and Judith didn’t think they were keeping up with the
Joneses.
She could almost smell the aroma of Wienie Wizards wafting behind the couple as they disappeared
onto the second floor.
SIXTEEN
JUDITH WANTED VERY much to see Heathcliffe and
Amy Lee MacDermott up close. She wasn’t sure
why, but it seemed important to talk to them. Unfortunately, she couldn’t think of an excuse to get
past the Smith party’s mahogany door.
For several moments Judith stared down at the
smooth black marble bar, where she could see her
reflection. It was distorted by the slight grain, making her look old, tired, and ugly. A crone, she
thought, and was disheartened.
What was she doing at Capri’s, seeking clues to a
murder that might not be a murder? Was she bloodthirsty, as Renie had remarked? Surely possession
of material goods wasn’t so important that it made
her wish that one person had killed another. No, that
wasn’t the real reason she preferred murder over
more mundane deaths. So why was she beating herself up so badly? Slowly, she turned to the windows
again. There was nothing to see. The night was as
dark and blank as her brain.
Yet Judith knew that if the fog suddenly lifted,
the city’s lights would glitter like stars on a clear
winter’s eve. The lakes and the mountains were
254 Mary Daheim there, if only she could see them. So were the answers
to the riddle that was Bruno’s death. Judith always had
to know. If only the fog would lift from her brain, she
could find the truth.
Charles hadn’t come down from the second floor.
There was still no sign of the waiters. Judith was curious. The guests must be getting served. How was the
food coming from the kitchen, if not via the iron staircase?
Hurriedly, she crossed the restaurant to the far side,
where she saw a plain brown door. Turning the knob,
she discovered a narrow hallway on her left that presumably led to the kitchen. On her right was a staircase. Judith ascended to another plain door and opened
it. She came out into another narrow hall, where she
saw two identical doors.
The first one led into the main corridor, but judging
from her position in the restaurant, the second door
had to go into the Smith party’s private dining room. In
the shadows just beyond the door was a busing area.
On tiptoes, she approached the second door and cautiously opened it just a crack.
“. . . lose my investment” were the first words she
managed to hear, and they were spoken by a nasal male
voice she didn’t recognize. Heathcliffe MacDermott,
alias the Wienie Wizard? Judith peered through the
sliver of open doorway. All she could see was Morris
Mayne with his head down on the table and Dade
Costello’s blunt profile.
“Not necessarily,” said a smooth voice that Judith
identified as belonging to Vito Patricelli. “Paradox
may not shelve the picture. They have an investment,
too, even larger than yours, Mr. MacDermott.”
SILVER SCREAM 255 “Idiots,” snapped a waspish female voice that didn’t
sound like Winifred, Ellie, or Eugenia. “Idiots,” the
woman repeated. Judith figured the speaker had to be
Mrs. MacDermott.
“I don’t get it,” declared Heathcliffe MacDermott.
“The movie’s a dud. If I made wienies like Zepf made
movies, I’d be wearing a paper hat and peddling hot
dogs at minor league baseball games instead of running a billion-dollar empire.”
“The studio can make changes,” Vito said, his voice
unperturbed. “They’ll have free rein—under the circumstances.”
“You beast,” murmured Winifred. “How can you
say such things when Bruno has been dead less than
twenty-four hours?” Though Judith couldn’t see her, it
sounded as if Winifred was close to the service door.
“What kind of changes?” Ellie asked, not quite as
pert as usual.
“Cutting, for one thing,” Vito replied. “No one can
argue that the picture should be shortened by at least
an hour.”
“Are you saying,” Heathcliffe asked in a slightly
confused voice, “that Paradox can do whatever it wants
now that Bruno Zepf is dead?”
“Exactly,” Vito responded. “The studio has the
major chunk of money invested in the picture. They
can do as they please.”
Except for the creak of chairs and shuffling of
limbs, a silence fell over the room. Judith glanced at
the door to the stairs to make sure the coast was
clear. As far as she could tell, no one seemed to be
eating. Perhaps the group had finished its most recent course.
256 Mary Daheim “What about
Utah?” the unfamiliar female voice demanded. “What about my script?”
Judith heard Dade Costello snort.
Vito waited a moment to reply. “Your script?”
“All the Way to Utah,” Amy Lee MacDermott retorted with anger. “Bruno bought it, and it’s supposed
to star darling Ellie.”
“I can’t answer that right now,” Vito said, smooth as
ever. “There hasn’t been time for anyone to make that
decision.”
“Who makes it?” Amy Lee’s voice had grown strident.
“Bruno’s production company,” Vito replied.
“Isn’t that a weird setup?” Ben Carmody put in.
The actor sounded uncharacteristically harsh. “Bruno
had no second in command. He thought he was immortal.”
“That’s not true,” Winifred said in a strong, stiff
voice. “If anything happened to Bruno, I was to take
over. I already had, when he was in . . . the hospital.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Ben’s voice brightened. “Then I
guess any big decisions would be up to you, Win.”
“Not necessarily,” Vito interjected. “I suspect that
Winifred’s powers are limited to such situations as
Bruno being temporarily out of the picture. So to
speak.” No one laughed except Dirk Farrar, and the
sound wasn’t pleasant. “There are two other factors involved, one of which is the studio’s agreement to put
money into
All the Way to Utah. But now that Bruno is
dead—let’s not mince words—Paradox would be free
to pull out.”
“They wouldn’t dare!” Amy Lee cried. “They made
a commitment!”
SILVER SCREAM 257 “It’s not legally binding when the producer dies,”
Vito asserted. “But the other factor involves the heirs
to Bruno’s estate. Winifred, do you know if he made a
will?”
“Why . . .” Winifred’s voice sounded faint. “No,”
she went on slowly, “I don’t believe he did.”
“It figures,” Dirk snarled. “From A to Zepf. Bruno
thought he was the Alpha and the Omega, with no end
in sight.”
“Stop that!” Winifred shouted. “You’re angry because you and Bruno got into a big fight and Ben
ended up with the leading role in the
Utah picture.”
“Let’s stop wrangling and back up here,” Heathcliffe broke in, his voice sounding like that of a man
obviously used to exercising authority. “What’s this
other factor, Mr. L.A. Lawyer?”
Vito cleared his throat. “That was what I was getting
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
258 Mary Daheim tensed, wondering if he might be about to leave the
room.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about that
Utah crap,” he
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
Utah script. It’s going to be a blockbuster. After all,” she added with a sneer in her voice,
“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
The Gasman and
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
SILVER SCREAM 259 footsteps. It was the tap on her shoulder that made her
jump and let out a stifled cry.
I’m done for, she thought.
They’ll throw me out in the street. They might arrest me. They might ban me from Capri’s forever. They might put my picture up by the desk with a slash through it. “No Judith McMonigle Flynn.” With considerable trepidation, she turned
around to confront the enemy.
“Learn anything?” whispered Renie.
“Coz!” A sudden silence had descended over the
dining room. Judith was certain that the contentious
crew had heard a suspicious noise. She gently shut the
door. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for the busing station,” Renie replied, spying her goal behind Judith. “We need more napkins.
You know how our kids eat. The tablecloth looks like
an army field hospital.”
“You’re no slouch yourself,” Judith retorted.
“How’s the dinner going?”
Renie made a doleful face. “Could these people be
less fun? The parents are like mannequins. Thank God
our kids have some animation. They’re never afraid to
speak out.”
“Coz,” Judith said, keeping an eye on the service
door, “your family isn’t merely outspoken, you’re all
very loud. Even Bill can bellow when aroused. The future in-laws are probably cowed.”
Renie shot her a disdainful glance. “Okay, so we’ve
got pep. But these people hardly eat a thing. The fiancé
and fiancées are a little livelier. Heather is very
smart—she’s Tom’s girl—and Cathleen—Tony’s
beloved—seems genuinely kind. As for Odo, he laughs
at everything Bill says, which is good.”
260 Mary Daheim “Odo?” Judith responded. “His name is really
Odo?”
“Yes,” Renie replied, looking very serious. “You
know the original Odo. Bishop Odo became pope just
in time to launch the First Crusade.”
Judith shook her head. “Funny, the kid didn’t look
militant. Or religious.”
“He’s not,” Renie said. “At least as far as I can tell.
I just wish the parents had more zip. They never
flinched when our kids got into a shouting match. They
didn’t bat an eye when Tom threw one of Tony’s socks
in the consommé. And you know how Bill belches
sometimes when he eats—well, the rest of them sat
like statues when he practically blew up after taking a
bite of jalapeño pepper by mistake.” Renie shook herself. “I babble. What are you doing here? Or should I
guess?” She nodded in the direction of the door behind
Judith.
“It’s been interesting,” Judith said, edging around
the corner to the hallway, “but I’m pushing my luck.
I’ve been eavesdropping for over five minutes, and the
waiters are bound to reappear.”
“Care to join us?” Renie asked.
Judith grimaced. “I think I should go home. Mother
must be famished. I’ll call a cab.”
“You don’t have to,” Renie said, piling linen napkins over her arm. “Bill drove your Subaru to Capri’s.
Just get the keys from the valet.”
“Do I need the parking ticket?” Judith asked.
Renie shook her head as they approached the top
of the winding staircase. “Tell them you’re Mrs.
Jones. And by the way,” she said with a quizzical expression, “is there anything I should know about what
SILVER SCREAM 261 you discovered while you were lurking outside that
door?”
“Not now,” Judith said, “but I’ve got quite a bit of
information to sort out. Maybe I’ll have made some
sense of it by the time I talk to you later this evening.”
“Sounds good,” Renie said, heading for the private
dining room. “Time to rejoin the stuffed animals.”
Judith smiled at her cousin. But she was thinking
less about the stuffed animals at the Joneses’ table than
about the wild ones at the Smiths’.
She got as far as a block away from Capri’s when
she had another, possibly impractical idea. Instead of
going up Heraldsgate Hill, she took a left and swung
back onto the main thoroughfare through the city. Just
before reaching downtown, Judith took another left
and pointed the Subaru toward the hospital district. In
less than ten minutes, she was in the parking garage of
Norway General.
Angela La Belle would no doubt be listed under an
assumed name. Judith knew she’d have to think of a
really good fib to tell the person behind the reception
desk. Her role as Angela’s innkeeper probably
wouldn’t cut any ice with the staff.
Inside the main doors, she checked the directory.
Not ICU, Judith figured. Angela had been taken to the
hospital several hours ago and was reportedly on the
mend. She’d be in a private ward, of course. But under
what medical heading? Not yet ready to show her
hand, Judith approached the main desk and asked
where emergency patients were taken after they were
out of danger.
Specialty medicine sounded promising. Judith took
262 Mary Daheim an elevator to the seventh floor, then followed the arrows to the nurses’ station in the middle of the corridor.
A woman wearing a blue hospital smock over a print
dress looked up from a patient chart. She wore half
glasses on a silver chain and her white hair was in a severe pageboy that accented a hooked nose and prominent chin.
“May I help you?” she asked in a tone that indicated
she’d rather stuff her visitor into the recycling bin that
sat next to the desk.
Judith froze. The fib she’d been trying to conjure up
still hadn’t materialized. Briefly, she closed her eyes.
Angela’s pale face and tall, voluptuous figure floated
before her. The well-defined features, the wide shoulders, the above-average height, the dark eyes, the
blond hair that was undoubtedly colored by an expensive Beverly Hills stylist . . .
Inspiration struck. There was a physical resemblance as long as no one looked too closely. “I’m here
to see my daughter.” Judith leaned forward, striking a
conspiratorial pose. “I don’t know what name she’s
using, but to her adoring fans, she’s . . . Dare I say it?”
“Say what?” the woman snapped.
Judith glanced at the name tag on the blue smock.
“Perhaps you aren’t aware of her real identity, Wanda.
My daughter was brought in today with . . .” She
feigned embarrassment. “A drug reaction.”
Wanda’s expression went from unpleasant to sour.
“Oh, yes. One of those.” She scowled at Judith, no
doubt blaming her for the daughter’s decadence. “May
I see some ID?”
Momentarily flustered, Judith tried to come up with
SILVER SCREAM 263 another tall tale. “Her father and I,” she began, fumbling for her wallet, “were only married for—”
The phone rang on the desk. Wanda held up a hand
for Judith to be silent. After tersely answering some
questions regarding the status of another patient, the
aide hung up.
“Let’s see that ID,” she ordered. “I don’t need your
life story.”
Judith handed over the wallet with her driver’s license. Wanda gave it a piercing look, then nodded.
“Miss Flynn is in Room 704, back down the hall and
on your left.”
With a gulp, Judith nodded and hurried off before
Wanda noticed her astonishment at the coincidence.
The door to Room 704 was closed. Judith knocked
in a tentative fashion, but when no one responded, she
slowly opened the door. Except for the green and red
lights on the various monitors, the room was dark.
Nearing the bed, Judith saw that Angela was on her
side, turned away from the door. The IVs that trailed
from her left hand looked all too familiar.
Judith thought she was asleep. But the actress must
have heard someone approach. “What now?” she
asked in a disgruntled, if subdued voice.
“It’s Judith Flynn.”
“Who?” Angela didn’t bother to move.
“Judith Flynn, your innkeeper at the B&B. How are
you?”
“Awful,” Angela replied, still not moving. “What do
you want?”
Judith sat down in the molded plastic visitor’s chair.
“You’re my guest. Naturally I’m concerned.”
264 Mary Daheim “Bull,” Angela muttered. “You’re here to pry. Why
should you be concerned? Are you afraid I’m going to
peg out like Bruno did?”
“Of course not,” Judith said a bit testily. “I’m genuinely concerned about your welfare. You gave us an
awful scare today.” She paused, waiting for a response.
There was none, except for a restless flutter of the
young woman’s hands at the top of the bedsheet. “I
also wanted to know,” Judith continued, her voice a bit
stern, “why you used my name when you checked into
the hospital.”
“I didn’t use it,” Angela said querulously. “Dirk
checked me in. Or somebody. I was out of it.”
“But why Flynn?” Judith persisted.
At last Angela turned to look at her visitor, though
the movement made her wince. “Why? Because it’s
my name, dammit. You don’t really think I was born
Angela La Belle?”
“Ah . . .” Judith hadn’t considered this possibility. “I
see. I’m sorry I was impertinent. That is, I didn’t mind
you using my name, I just thought it was . . . odd.”
“It’s not odd,” Angela insisted, her voice a trifle
stronger. “I was born Portulaca Purslane Flynn. My
mother was into plants and herbs. Even if I hadn’t become an actress, I’d have dumped all three of those
names just like my mother dumped me when I was
two. Now how about getting out of here? My head
hurts like hell.”
“Shall I ring for the nurse to bring you more pain
medication?” Judith offered.
“Are you kidding? These sadists are afraid I’ll get
addicted to aspirin.”
“I’m sorry, really I am,” Judith said. “I was in the
SILVER SCREAM 265 hospital last January. I know how difficult the medical
profession can be when it comes to administering
painkillers.”
“Don’t be cute,” Angela snapped. “You know
damned well why they won’t give me anything. I’m a
coke hound. Now beat it, will you?”
“Of course,” Judith said, standing up. “Really, I feel
so sorry for you. Is it possible that you could kick the
habit if you went into rehab?”
Angela scowled at Judith. “The goody-goody side
of the Quick Fix, huh? Easier said than done, Mrs.
Flynn.” Suddenly her eyes widened. “Where are you
from?”
Judith was taken aback. “You mean . . . where was I
born?”
“Yes. Where? When?” The queries crackled like
scattershot.
“I was born right here,” Judith replied, “about two
blocks away, in a hospital that’s been turned into condos. Why do you ask?”
“Are you sure?”
“Certainly I’m sure,” Judith answered, indignant.
Then, seeing the disappointment on Angela’s face, she
understood the reason for the questions. “I’m sorry.
I’ve only had one child, a boy. And I didn’t become
Mrs. Flynn until ten years ago.”
Wearily, Angela turned away. “Never mind. I keep
hoping someday I’ll find my mother.”
Even when she wasn’t wanted, Judith was too softhearted to walk away. She remained standing, gazing
down at Angela’s blond hair and twitching hands.
“Do you want to meet your mother for revenge,” Judith asked softly, “or for an explanation?”
266 Mary Daheim Angela didn’t respond immediately. Indeed, her
whole body convulsed, then went slack. “I know why
she gave me away,” the actress finally replied, her
voice muffled by the pillow. “She never really wanted
me. My mother was a free spirit, a big-time flower
child. I was just a burden in her personal revolution.”
“Your mother sounds selfish and immature,” Judith
declared. “Who raised you?”
“An aunt in San Bernardino,” Angela said. “She meant
well, but she had four kids of her own. I was much
younger than they were. I was always the outsider.”
Abruptly, she turned again to face Judith. “This is none of
your business. Quit asking so damned many questions.”
“I apologize,” Judith said. “I can’t help myself. I’m
interested in people. I care about them.”
“You’re an oddity, then,” Angela said. “Most people
only care in terms of what they can get from you. The
funny thing is, my mother didn’t want anything from
me. She didn’t want me, period.”
“She may be a villain,” Judith said quietly, “but
she’s not the one who hooked you on drugs. Who did?”
Angela gaped at Judith. “What a rotten, snoopy
question!”
“No, it isn’t,” Judith said reasonably. “Addicts have
to start somewhere, and usually because someone
coaxed or goaded them into it. You don’t just walk into
the supermarket and get cocaine on Aisle B.”
“Why do you care?” Angela’s voice was toneless.
“It’s abnormal.”
“I guess,” Judith said, “I’m one of those rare people
who
do care. I must be eccentric. Humor me.”
Angela heaved a deep, shuddering sigh. “Why not?
It doesn’t matter now. It was good old Bruno.”
SILVER SCREAM 267 Judith was surprised. “Bruno? Did he do drugs?”
“For years,” Angela said, “right up until he overdosed midway through the making of
The Gasman.”
“Is that why he was hospitalized?” Judith asked, remembering Vito’s medical notes including the letter
C.
For cocaine, apparently.
“That’s right,” Angela said with a bitter note. “It
scared him, so he went into rehab. He’s been clean ever
since. Lucky him.”
“Not so lucky since he’s dead,” Judith remarked.
“You say he’d been an addict for years?”
“Yes.” Angela looked bitter. “Some people can
function forever on coke. Bruno thought so. I did, too.
Maybe I still do. As Bruno told me, coke can enhance
the creative process. He truly believed it did for him.”
Maybe, Judith thought, that explained
The Gasman disaster. “It’s more like Russian roulette,” she asserted.
“Eventually, you’re going to reach the chamber that
takes you out.”
“Sure, sure. Easy for you to say.” Angela made a
face at her.
“So who got Bruno hooked?” Judith inquired.
Angela shook her head. “You’re not going to get me
to tell you about that.”
“But Bruno’s dead,” Judith said as she heard the
faint sound of the doorknob turning. A nurse no doubt,
coming to take the endless vital signs. “What difference does it make?”
“Because the person who got him started is still
alive,” Angela said. “And if you ask me, very dangerous. You don’t want to know.”
But Judith did want to know. Despite the odds, even
the risks, she had to know.
268 Mary Daheim Yet she could get nothing more out of Angela. And
to be fair, the young woman seemed not only agitated,
but tired. Judith was heading out of the room when another click sounded at the door. She waited for the person in the corridor to come in.
But no one did, and when she turned the knob she
discovered that the door was firmly shut.
SEVENTEEN
SLOWLY, SHE OPENED the door and peered into the
hallway. A pair of orderlies had their heads together
by the elevators. Wanda was sitting at the reception
desk. A doctor in scrubs was talking to a nurse at the
far end of the corridor. None of them seemed interested in Room 704.
But someone was. As she’d turned the knob to
open the door a few inches, she’d heard footsteps
close by. Not the soft, almost noiseless tread of
shoes worn by members of the medical profession,
but high heels.
Tap-tap-tap. They’d stopped
abruptly just as Judith had looked into the corridor.
The door on the right of Angela’s room was open.
Moving as silently as possible, Judith looked inside. It
was dark, but she could tell that the single bed was
empty. On a whim, she opened the bathroom door and
flicked on the light. Nothing. Leaving the light on and
the bathroom door open, she went to the closet. Nothing there, either. But just as she was closing the closet
door, she heard the
tap-tap-tapping again. Quickly
switching off the bathroom light, she hurried into the
corridor. The tableau remained the same, except that
the orderlies by the elevators had gone.
270 Mary Daheim Judith walked softly to Room 702, on the other side
of Angela’s private room. There a light glowed above
the bed, where an old man with paper-thin skin
breathed with noisy effort. Judith gave up. She
couldn’t search every room. Besides, she reasoned, the
high heels might have belonged to a visitor who had
tried to get into the wrong room.
But she didn’t quite believe it. Feeling defeated, she
headed for the elevators. There was one good thing
about her visit, though. As she exited on the main floor,
Judith felt a sense of freedom at leaving the hospital
under her own power. It hadn’t been that way when she
exited Good Cheer on a cold day in January. She’d
been wheeled out to a cabulance and had spent the following week learning to walk again.
Fifteen minutes later she was back at Hillside Manor.
Joe was sitting in the living room, studying Bill’s chart.
“Where the hell have you been?” he demanded. “I
was about to file a missing-persons report.”
Judith explained everything except the hospital
visit. She had a question of her own that wouldn’t wait.
“What about Mother? It’s eight o’clock. She must be
starving.”
“Your mother is fine,” Joe replied. “Arlene brought
her dinner over a couple of hours ago. It seems that
none of the Rankers clan showed up. Arlene was furious—right up until she insisted she hadn’t wanted to
see any of them in the first place.”
“Dear Arlene.” Judith sighed, collapsing next to Joe
on the sofa. “A sea of contradictions. And a heart as big
as Alaska.”
“So what good did all your sleuthing at Capri’s do
for you?” Joe asked, putting Bill’s chart aside.
SILVER SCREAM 271 “I’m not sure,” Judith said, suddenly hearing her
stomach growl. “Goodness, I haven’t eaten in hours.
What’s left from the caterers?”
Joe peered at her. “You look beat. Let me fix you a
drink and bring you something to eat. How about
Winifred’s field greens and Chips’s chicken pot pie?”
“Sounds wonderful,” Judith said, slipping out of her
shoes as Sweetums crept up to the sofa. “I should see
Mother, but I’ll wait until I get my second wind.”
Joe had gone into the kitchen when the doorbell
sounded a minute later. Wearily, Judith trudged to the
front door. Eugenia Fleming and Morris Mayne stood
on the front porch with three small trick-or-treaters.
The youngsters, who had an adult waiting on the sidewalk, chorused their Halloween greeting. Eugenia
practically trampled them as she entered the house.
“It’s very damp out there,” she complained. “Did
Vito mention that he and I and Morris are staying in
your vacant rooms tonight?”
“I’m . . . not . . . sure,” Judith replied, scooping
candy bars out of a cut-glass bowl in the entry hall. She
stepped aside as Morris barged his way inside. Judith
scowled at him, then addressed the children. “Two
ghosts and a witch,” she said, dropping two chocolate
bars into each of the three pillowcases. “Very scary.
Don’t get a tummy ache.”
The children said thank you with varying degrees of
confidence, then turned around and ran off to join their
adult companion. Judith managed to flag down Eugenia before she reached the second landing of the main
staircase.
“Excuse me,” Judith said, “but the rooms aren’t
made up yet. It’s been a very busy day. Besides, there’s
272 Mary Daheim only one vacant room. Bruno’s,” she added, lowering
her voice. “We’ll have to see if Ellie or Winifred or
Chips or Dade will consent to share a room.”
“Chips and Dade wouldn’t share a bomb shelter if
a nuclear device went off,” Eugenia retorted. “You
might have better luck with Win and Ellie. Just tell
me which room is mine. I need to lie down. I’m quite
fatigued.”
Judith was forced into a quick decision. “Morris
will stay in Room Three. You take Room Six. I’ll make
it up as soon as I have something to eat.”
Eugenia leaned over the banister, her bust looming
like two large water balloons. “Now would be preferable.”
Judith was about to snap back when Joe appeared in
the entry hall bearing a tray with a Scotch rocks, a
steaming chicken pot pie, a generous salad, and a hot
roll.
“Take a seat, Jude-girl,” he said as the doorbell rang
again. “Dinner is served.”
Judith shot Eugenia a frigid look and returned to the
living room. Morris Mayne was reclining on the sofa,
his shirt and tie loosened and his suit jacket covering
the coffee table.
Joe stared down at the publicist. “Get the door, will
you, Morris? And move that jacket. My wife’s dinner
is going there.”
Morris looked affronted. “Pardon? I’m a guest, not
a servant.”
With a nimble move, Joe lifted one foot, caught the
jacket on the toe of his shoe, and dumped it on the
floor. “Maybe you didn’t hear me. Get that door. If you
want to lie down, use the stiff’s room. It’s behind Door
SILVER SCREAM 273 Number Three. Move it. I’m not in one of my good
moods.”
Morris moved. He scrambled for his jacket, gave
Joe a wary glance, and scooted out of the room. Sweetums, who had been napping by the sofa, woke up and
chased Morris all the way up the stairs.
Judith beamed at her husband. “I always find it exciting when you play bad cop.”
“Maybe we’ll both have a chance to get excited
when this crew of loonies gets the hell out of here,” Joe
grumbled. “Now sit and stay. And eat. I’ll take care of
the trick-or-treaters.”
“How many have we had so far?” Judith asked.
“About thirty,” Joe replied, heading to answer the
doorbell on the second ring.
By the time her husband returned, she’d eaten half
of the pot pie with its flaky crust and chunks of tender
chicken. “Were they cute?” she asked.
“It was some of the Dooleys,” Joe said, referring to
their neighbors whose house was across the back fence
by the Flynn garage. “I can never tell if it’s their kids,
grandkids, nieces, nephews, or just some strays they’ve
picked up.”
“Darn. I’d like to have seen them,” Judith said, tackling the field-green salad.
“You wouldn’t have wanted to see some of the bigger ones,” Joe said. “About half an hour ago there was
a scarecrow and a cowboy who were as tall as I am. I’d
swear they were old enough to vote.”
“Candy hogs,” Judith said with a smile that quickly
turned into a frown. “Did you say a scarecrow and a
cowboy?”
“Right,” Joe responded. “Why do you ask?”
274 Mary Daheim “A
Wizard of Oz scarecrow? Was the cowboy wearing snakeskin boots?”
“As a matter of fact he was,” Joe said.
“They were here last night.” Judith took her first sip
of Scotch. “Doesn’t that seem odd?”
Joe shrugged. “As you said, candy hogs. That’s the
problem with Halloween falling on a Sunday. It becomes a holiday weekend instead of just one night.”
Judith didn’t respond. But she was more than curious. She was alarmed.
Joe had offered to make up the rooms while Judith
finished her meal and put her feet up. He’d just come
downstairs when Dirk, Ellie, Chips, and Ben returned
to Hillside Manor. With a few succinct words, he explained the new room assignments. Ellie didn’t seem
pleased.
“Win’s such a fussbudget,” she said with a scowl.
“At least Angela didn’t care if my clothes weren’t hung
perfectly in the closet.”
Judith apologized for any inconvenience. “I had no
idea that Mr. Patricelli, Mr. Mayne, and Ms. Fleming
were all going to stay here tonight instead of at the
hotel downtown.”
“The Cascadia is in a pickle,” Chips Madigan remarked. “We’ve got about fifty people there who can’t
leave town, and some tour group is coming in from
Japan tonight. They’re overbooked.”
So, Judith thought, was she. There were other hotels, some high-class motels, and probably even a few
B&Bs that were empty on a Sunday night. She had the
feeling that it wasn’t a lack of vacancies that had
brought the trio to Hillside Manor, but Paradox Stu-
SILVER SCREAM 275 dios’ desire to keep certain persons under Vito’s eaglelike eye.
“Is it possible,” she inquired, recalling what she’d
overheard the attorney say in the private dining room,
“that you’ll all be going back to L.A. tomorrow?”
“Maybe,” Chips replied.
“Let’s hope so,” Ben Carmody put in.
“We’d damned well better be out of here by tomorrow,” Dirk growled, then turned on his heel and
stomped upstairs.
A smiling Ellie watched him disappear. “Goody.
Now we can watch Ben’s movie on TV.” She turned to
Judith. “It’s okay, isn’t it? Chips directed. You might
want to see it, Mrs. Flynn.
The Virgin Vessel. It comes
on in five minutes, and it’s really creepy. Perfect for
Halloween.”
Judith vacillated. “I’ll watch the first part while I
finish my dinner. But then I have some work to do.”
Joe volunteered to turn on the set. Ellie assumed her
usual perch on the window seat, even though it meant
she had to lean a little to see the screen. Chips
sprawled on the sofa across from Judith, and Ben settled into one of the big armchairs.
With the screen coming to life, Joe had just put
down the remote when there was a knock at the back
door. He went out through the French doors and appeared a few seconds later with Renie.
“I’m bored,” Renie announced as the movie’s opening credits appeared on the screen. “Bill’s exhausted
from meeting the future in-laws, so he’s going to bed
even earlier than usual. I don’t feel like reading, and
there’s nothing on TV,” she continued, stopping in the
middle of the room and blocking the screen. “Once the
276 Mary Daheim baseball season is over, there’s not much I want to see
on television.”
“Keep it down,” Ben called out.
“Did you pay for your seat?” Renie sneered.
“Get out of the way,” Ellie demanded. “You’re
blocking the screen.”
“Read a book,” Renie shot back as she refused to
budge. “Improve your mind.”
“Coz?” Judith forced a tense smile. “Our guests are
actually watching a movie. Or trying to. Would you
mind sitting down?” She patted the empty sofa cushion
next to her.
“They are?” Renie shrugged. “What movie? There
are some of them that I actually like.”
“The Virgin Vessel,” Ellie said, no longer annoyed.
“It’s really, really scary. We should turn out all the
lights.”
“Atmosphere!” Chips exclaimed, jumping up and
hurrying around the room to turn off the four lamps
that were burning. “How’s that? Fog outside, witches
flying on broomsticks, the whole Halloween scene.
Could it be more frightening?”
“I hate frightening movies,” Renie declared. “They
scare me.”
“They’re supposed to,” Chips replied, resuming his
place on the sofa. “It’s more thrill than scare when the
picture’s directed properly.”
Judith nudged Renie. “Chips directed this one,” she
whispered to her cousin.
“Jeez,” Renie sighed. “I guess I’ll shut up now.”
Joe edged past Renie to collect Judith’s tray.
“There’s a preseason NBA game on,” he said quietly.
“Care to join me upstairs?”
SILVER SCREAM 277 “If this thing gets too gruesome, I might do that,”
Renie responded.
The movie’s opening shot followed a young woman
in late-nineteenth-century dress down a dark, winding
London street. She was obviously nervous, and
stopped periodically to look over her shoulder. As she
turned a corner, a light glowed from a narrow timberfronted building. Expressing relief, she pulled the iron
knocker on the door. To the accompaniment of creaking hinges and ominous music, the heavy door opened
slowly. The young woman rushed inside. The door
slammed shut behind her. Strong, hairy hands swung a
big ax. She screamed in terror. The hands and the ax
came down again and again as blood spurted, presumably from her unseen body.
“That’s it,” Renie said, getting up. “I’m going to
check out the basketball game. If I wanted brutality, I’d
watch hockey.”
Judith didn’t much blame her cousin but felt obligated to watch at least the first fifteen minutes of the
movie. The scene changed to what appeared to be an
interior of Scotland Yard. The policemen were discussing the crime spree that had been taking place in
London’s East End. They shook their heads a great
deal and muttered “Baffling” several times.
“Wow!” Ellie enthused. “This is sooo good. Watch,
Mrs. Flynn, Ben’s coming up in the next scene.”
Sure enough, Ben Carmody, dressed in the garb of a
nineteenth-century gentleman, sauntered up the same
street where the young woman had presumably been
murdered. It was daylight, and Ben carried a cane. He
stopped in front of the building where the ax-wielding
maniac had done his dirty deed. Ben looked up to the
278 Mary Daheim second story. Then, as a stout woman carrying a wicker
basket entered the street, he turned and disappeared
around a corner. Judith suddenly realized she’d seen
this before.
“Excuse me,” she said, getting up. “It’s after nine,
and I’m going to take our jack-o’-lanterns in. The
trick-or-treaters should all be home by now.”
As far as Judith could determine, the fog-filled culde-sac was empty. Taking the trio of pumpkins inside,
she found Renie in the kitchen.
“I thought you were going to watch the game with
Joe,” she said, placing the pumpkins on the counter.
“I’m stealing a Pepsi first,” Renie said, opening the
refrigerator. “Did you get scared, too?”
“Sort of,” Judith admitted. “But I think I’ve seen
that movie before, though I can’t imagine why. Joe and
I don’t like horror films, either.”
“Maybe you saw a preview,” Renie suggested, opening a can of Pepsi.
“Maybe.” Judith paced a bit. “That must be it. I certainly can’t remember anything else about
The Virgin Vessel. But the scene with Ben Carmody looked very
familiar.” She went to the sink and stared out the
kitchen window. Suddenly something clicked in her
brain. “Coz!” she cried, whirling around to face Renie.
“Do you remember that man I saw a couple of months
ago between our house and the Rankerses’ hedge?”
“What man?” Renie looked blank. “I don’t think
you mentioned it to me.”
“Maybe I didn’t,” Judith allowed. “It was after
Labor Day, when Skjoval Tolvang was working on the
house and the toolshed. Mr. Tolvang saw him first. He
thought the man was a city inspector.”
SILVER SCREAM 279 “Did you see this guy up close?” Renie asked.
“Fairly close,” Judith replied, pacing a little faster.
“He had a beard and glasses. He said he was looking
for a Mr. . . . I forget, it was an odd name. Anyway, he
hurried off after that.”
“Okay,” Renie said. “And your point is . . . ?”
“My point,” Judith said slowly, “is that the man I
saw outside the house may have been Ben Carmody.”
Renie thought Judith was imagining things, and said
so. “Why on earth would you think that?”
“Because of his height and build,” Judith said. “At
the time he reminded me of someone. I’ve seen Ben in
a couple of movies, and one of them was a costume
picture from the same era as
The Virgin Vessel.”
“It’s a stretch.” Renie yawned. “Why would Ben
Carmody be hanging around outside Hillside Manor in
September?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” Judith said, reverting
to her old habit of chewing on a fingernail.
“Why indeed?” Renie said as they heard the front
door open. “I doubt that Ben did any such thing.”
Judith didn’t respond, but went into the dining room
to see who had arrived. It was Vito and Winifred. He
seemed fresh and vigorous; she appeared weary and
anxious. Judith informed Vito that he’d be staying in
Room Three.
“Bruno’s room,” Vito said solemnly. “It’s an honor.”
“You may find Morris Mayne already there,” Judith
said. “Would you mind asking him to move to Room
Five with Chips?”
The attorney informed Judith that he’d gladly pass
on the request. “I appreciate getting the larger room,”
he said. “I have some work to do.”
280 Mary Daheim Winifred, however, wasn’t pleased to hear that she
would have to share her room with Ellie. “Why
couldn’t Ellie and Eugenia share Room Six?”
“Because,” Judith said, clearing her throat, “you and
Ellie are quite slim. Eugenia is not. Both your room
and Room Six, where Ellie’s been staying, have double beds.”
Flattery didn’t have any effect on Winifred, who remained glum but didn’t argue further. Maybe, Judith
thought, that was because Eugenia had admitted that
she and Winifred weren’t on good terms. Whatever the
reason, Winifred immediately went upstairs while Vito
peered into the darkened living room.
“What’s going on?” Seeing the movie on TV, he
didn’t wait for an answer. “Ah—
The Virgin Vessel. The
role that made Ben famous. It was Chips’s first attempt
at directing. He was superb.” Without waiting for a response from Judith, Vito slipped gracefully into the living room just as a willowy blonde met her fate at the
hands of Mr. Ax.
Judith was still shuddering when she returned to the
kitchen. “Let’s go upstairs so we can talk privately,”
she said to Renie, who had fixed herself some cheese
and crackers. “I can still hear the screams from the
TV.”
“You want to watch the NBA’s preseason?” Renie
inquired, getting up from the table with her snacks.
“Not really,” Judith said. “We can go in Joe’s office.”
The cousins ascended the back stairs, then entered
the door that led up to the family quarters. Judith sat
down in Joe’s swivel chair and placed her unfinished
Scotch on the desk.
SILVER SCREAM 281 “Okay, so fill me in,” Renie said, seating herself in
the rocking chair that Joe used to relax his back.
Judith complied, and it took almost fifteen minutes.
Renie made only the briefest of comments until her
cousin had finished.
“You’ve got a lot of fragmentary information there,”
Renie pointed out. “Let’s start with
A for Angela. She’s
a coke addict who got started by Bruno. He went to
rehab and it apparently worked. She’s still hooked. Is
that a motive for murder?”
“I doubt it,” Judith said, hearing the wind pick up
outside. “But her most recent movie with Bruno turned
out to be a bomb, and Ellie was to have starred in the
next one. That might be more of a motive than mere
drug addiction.”
“Revenge,” Renie murmured. “What does Bill’s
chart say about that?”
Joe had fortuitously brought the chart up to the office before any of the guests could see it. “I don’t think
Bill got to revenge,” Judith said, spreading the chart
out on the desk. “Wait—he did. Bill and Joe must have
worked on this while we were gone. Angela, Dirk,
Ben, Dade, and Chips all have mauve marks, which
stand for revenge.”
“They’re all associated with the Big Flop,” Renie remarked. “But murder doesn’t seem like the right way
to rectify a career stumble. I can’t imagine that any of
those celebrities won’t bounce back.”
Judith studied the chart for several moments. “It’s
got to be something personal. It almost always is.”
“You ought to know,” Renie said with a grin. “I see
Bill’s keyed in jealousy, but he’s marked it only for Angela and Ellie, with a slash for professional rivalry.”
282 Mary Daheim Judith shook her head. “Why would either of them
kill Bruno?”
“Didn’t you say you overheard something about
Ellie’s next movie not being made now that Bruno’s
dead?”
“That’s my point,” Judith replied. “Bruno was worth
far more to Ellie alive than dead. Let’s face it, the only
person in the entourage who got violent with Bruno
was Dirk Farrar. They had that big fight in Marina Del
Rey. Which signifies to me that Dirk wouldn’t hesitate
to duke it out in a disagreement, but he’s not the homicidal type. If he killed someone, it would be in a burst
of temper with his bare hands.”
“You’re ruling out Dirk banging Bruno in the head
with the cupboard door and shoving him in the sink?”
“There would have had to be an argument first,” Judith asserted. “Dirk’s very loud. Joe or I would have
heard the two men quarreling, even from the basement.”
Renie didn’t say anything for a few moments.
“You’re convinced this wasn’t an accident?”
Judith grimaced. “I’m not going down without a
fight to prove otherwise.”
“I don’t blame you,” Renie said. “The problem is,
we don’t seem to be getting anywhere. We don’t even
know who all the guests were last night.”
Judith gave Renie a puzzled look. “Yes, we do. Except for Vito, the ones who came back here after the
premiere are the same people who attended the midnight supper.”
“So where’s Mrs. Mayne?” Renie queried.
“The one dressed as a pioneer woman?” Judith
shrugged. “I assume she’s still at the Cascadia. Morris
SILVER SCREAM 283 told me she wasn’t much of a traveler. She probably
didn’t want to make another move.”
“Let’s find out.” Renie reached across Judith to pick
up the phone on Joe’s desk. “If she’d dug in at the
hotel, you’d think Morris would have stayed with her.”
A moment later she was asking for Mrs. Mayne.
“That’s Mrs. Morris Mayne,” she said. “She and her
husband checked in either Friday or Saturday.” There
was a long silence from Renie. “Oh. Really? Well,
thanks all the same.” She replaced the phone and stared
at Judith. “Mrs. Mayne checked out at noon.”
EIGHTEEN
“I DON’T GET it,” Judith said, stopping herself from
gnawing on another nail. “Why would Mrs. Mayne
be allowed to leave town when the rest of them
weren’t?”
“Maybe because she’s not in the movie business,”
Renie suggested. “Maybe there was a family emergency in California.”
Judith nodded absently. “Maybe she was never
here.”
Renie looked startled. “What?”
“I mean,” Judith explained, “here in this house.
We only assumed that the pioneer woman was Mrs.
Mayne. Do you remember what she looked like?”
Renie hunched her shoulders. “No. She was
wearing a big floppy bonnet. I don’t think I ever saw
her face.”
Judith got up from the swivel chair. “Let’s find
out. We’ll ask Winifred. She’s still in Room One,
sharing it with Ellie.”
But Winifred wasn’t in Room One. As the
cousins reached the second floor, they could hear
her raised voice coming from Room Six. They could
also hear Eugenia’s bellow.
SILVER SCREAM 285 “Now what?” Renie said as they edged closer to the
angry voices.
Signaling for Renie to be quiet, Judith pricked up
her ears. The cousins stood at the door to Room Six
like a pair of sentries.
“. . . more harm than good,” Eugenia shouted.
“That’s not true!” Winifred rejoined. “It was Morris
more than you!”
“Oh,” Eugenia responded, her voice dropping a
notch, “it was Bruno. It was always Bruno. But why
was he killed?”
“Who says he was?” Winifred retorted. “I thought it
was an accident.”
“Nonsense,” Eugenia snapped as Judith gave Renie
a thumbs-up sign. “Think about it. How could anyone
hit a cupboard door or get hit by it hard enough to
knock themselves out? And even if they did, wouldn’t
falling in a sink filled with water snap them back into
consciousness? Why do you think the studio has insisted we stay in this stupid town? Because they’re
doing their own investigating, that’s why.”
“I don’t agree with you,” Winifred huffed. “If
they’re investigating, why haven’t we seen any detectives around here?”
“We haven’t been here all the time,” Eugenia said in
a reasonable voice, which still carried as if she were
speaking into a bullhorn. “The investigators may be
working with the local police. Or maybe they’re arriving tomorrow.”
“Vito said we could leave tomorrow,” Winifred said,
sounding sullen.
“Vito said maybe,” Eugenia responded. “Let’s stop
wrangling. I’d like to retire for the night in peace.”
286 Mary Daheim “Until you got here,” Winifred complained, “
I could
retire in peace. Now I have to share my room with that
little twit Ellie.”
“Ellie’s simply immature. And spoiled, but she has
talent,” Eugenia pointed out. “She’s limited, of
course.”
“You mean because of her race?” There was steel in
Winifred’s voice.
“No,” Eugenia replied, “I’m referring to her acting
range. And her looks, which have nothing to do with
the fact that she’s half Chinese.”
“You meant race,” Winifred accused. “It always
comes down to race, doesn’t it?”
“For you, apparently,” Eugenia snapped. “I often
find that different-colored skin is also very thin.”
Judith and Renie exchanged pained expressions.
“That’s not true!” Winifred cried. “But can you argue
that Hollywood has always been fair to minorities?”
“Certainly not,” Eugenia said in a self-righteous
tone. “But look at you. You’ve managed to claw your
way up to the top. Of course some would say you used
more than your brains to get there. I wouldn’t use
Winifred Best and
ethics in the same sentence.”
“Ethics? What have ethics got to do with this business?” Winifred demanded.
“You know perfectly well what I mean,” Eugenia
asserted. “A certain lack of ethics is one thing, but
criminal means are—”
“Ladies!” a masculine voice cut in. “Please! I can’t
stand any more of this quarreling. I’m trying to rest.”
Renie mouthed “Morris?” at Judith, who nodded.
“He’s in Room Five,” she whispered. “He’s sharing
SILVER SCREAM 287 with Chips. The bathroom connects between Five and
Six, remember?”
“This whole situation is intolerable,” Winifred declared. “Do you both realize that all three of us are out
of a job?”
“No, we’re not,” Morris replied. “I work for the studio as well as for Bruno. Eugenia has other clients. As
for you, Win, someone will have to stay at the helm of
Bruno’s production company at least for a while. Who
knows? His children may want to keep the company
going.”
“No, they won’t,” Winifred asserted. “I know them.
They’re utterly irresponsible. They couldn’t run a convenience store.”
“Win’s right,” Eugenia conceded. “Besides, there’s
the problem of bailing out
The Gasman. It may prove
very complicated, not to mention the harm done to
Bruno’s reputation.”
A door opened in the corridor. Judith and Renie
both jumped as they turned around to see who had
caught them eavesdropping.
It was Joe, coming from the family quarters. “Jeez,”
he said in a low but vexed voice, “could you be more
obvious?”
Judith gave her husband a sheepish look. “Okay,
we’re done here anyway. But this is how we sleuth.”
“Unprofessional,” Joe murmured, heading for the
back stairs. “I’m going to lock up for the night. It’s ten
o’clock straight up.”
Judith glanced at her watch as the cousins followed
Joe downstairs. “You’re right. I suppose they’re still
watching the movie in the living room.”
288 Mary Daheim “I suppose,” Joe said. “It was scheduled to run until
eleven.”
“I should go home,” Renie declared as they reached
the main floor.
“Don’t,” Judith urged as she saw the computer printouts on the kitchen counter. “We never had a chance to
go over the material you found on
The Gasman and its
origins.”
“Oh. Well . . . sure.” Renie began sorting the pages
as Joe headed for the front door to lock up.
A terrified scream erupted from that vicinity, causing Renie to drop several sheets on the floor. But the
exclamation of “Wow!” followed by “Way cool, Ben!”
from Ellie and a couple of masculine chuckles indicated that the scream had come from another hapless
movie victim.
Judith heard Joe say something to the guests that
she couldn’t quite make out. A moment later he was
back in the kitchen. “Everybody’s here except Dade,”
he said. “He has a key, right?”
“He should,” Judith said. “That’s odd. Has he been
back since they all left Capri’s?”
“Chips said he hasn’t,” Joe replied, removing a can
of beer from the fridge. “Dade arrived here with some
of the others, but never came in the house.”
“Typical,” Judith remarked, “though why he’d want
to walk around on such a foggy, windy night is beyond
me.”
“The wind’s blowing the fog away,” Joe said, then
yawned. “I’m going to watch
Sports Center and head
for bed. It’s been a long day. In fact, it’s been a long
weekend.” He kissed Judith, gave Renie a hug, and
headed back upstairs.
SILVER SCREAM 289 “I’m organized,” Renie announced. “I’ve skimmed
some of this stuff, especially Bruno’s filmmaker’s approach to the narrative. Naturally, he sounds like a genius.”
The cousins sat down at the kitchen table. More
screams could be heard from the living room.
“Wouldn’t you think they must have killed off most of
the cast by now?” Judith murmured.
“We wish,” Renie remarked, underlining points of
interest with a red pen. “Dade should be writing a
movie about what happened after this crew arrived at
the B&B. Who needs spooky London streets or the
human race’s time line?” She paused, shuffling some
papers. “Okay, here’s some information on C. Douglas
Carp.”
“Crappy Pappy Carp,” Judith said suddenly. “That’s
what Dirk Farrar called him.”
“You can call him Pappy, you can call him Crappy,
you can even call him Sappy,” Renie said, handing two
pages of underlined information to Judith, “but don’t
call him Slaphappy. Carp was a diligent scholar of
some repute. He wrote
The Gasman when he was
twenty-two.”
“Goodness,” Judith responded. “That’s impressive.”
“It may account for why my father read the damned
thing,” Renie noted. “Dad was probably swayed by
Carp’s credentials.” She flipped through a few more
pages. “This is what I found on Carp himself. I haven’t
read it yet. Shall I read to you?”
“You can also carry me up to bed and tuck me in.”
Judith sighed. “I’m not sure I can get up those two
flights of stairs again.”
Renie offered her cousin a sympathetic smile. “You
290 Mary Daheim should put an elevator in this place. And not for the
guests.” She cleared her throat and adjusted her muchabused glasses.
“Carson Douglas Carp was born in Cedar Falls, Iowa, in 1907, the son of Louis Franklin Carp and Annabelle Ernestine Carp (née Morgan). An outstanding student, Carp began his epic novel of civ- ilization, The Gasman,
while still attending Northern Iowa State Teachers College. While Carp’s fictional style has been criticized by some as tedious, pedantic, and maladroit, his meticulous attention to historical detail and his accuracy have merited praise from oth- ers. Although the novel never sold well except to li- braries, his next work, a nonfiction treatise on the Dahlak Archipelago, was eagerly awaited by scholars. Unfortunately, Carp suffered from severe alcoholism, and died at the age of thirty-eight, leaving the two- hundred-thousand-word tome unfinished. His son, William Euclid Carp, and his daughter, Marguerite Louisa Carp, attempted to find a publisher for the work in the mid-1960s, but without success.” “No kidding,” Judith said. “Where’s the Dahlak
Archipelago?”
Renie shrugged. “Wherever it is, I doubt that it’s a
major book market.”
“Pappy,” Judith said thoughtfully. “Whose Pappy?”
“You mean in reference to the guests?”
“Yes. Nobody would call someone Pappy—especially a man who died quite young—unless he was
their father or the father of someone they knew.”
Renie rested her chin on her fist. “I’m not sure why
it matters. Aren’t you grasping at straws?”
“Of course I am,” Judith said testily. “I’m desperate.”
SILVER SCREAM 291 “Okay.” Renie’s tone was unusually agreeable.
“Pappy Carp is dead. He died in 1945 or thereabouts,
right? Which means that if any of these people are his
offspring, it has to be someone over fifty. Bruno’s
out—his father was a German war groom. Dade,
Chips, Ben, Dirk, and Angela are too young. Did you
say Angela’s real last name is Flynn?”
“I did. It is.” Judith was still a bit testy.
“Rule Ellie out because her father is alive and hustling hot dogs,” Renie said. “That leaves Eugenia,
Morris, and . . . Vito?”
“Vito wasn’t here for the postpremiere supper,” Judith pointed out.
“Are you sure?”
Judith gave Renie a peculiar look. “What do you
mean?”
“How do you know that someone didn’t change costumes? Or that there weren’t two Arabian sheikhs or a
pair of matching Gutenbergs?” Renie demanded.
Judith considered the idea. “But never in the same
room at the same time,” she murmured. “It’s a thought.
There’s another thing we might have overlooked—
Chips is from the Midwest.”
“Even if he appears younger than he really is,”
Renie noted, “he couldn’t be over fifty.”
“Grandson, maybe?” Judith suggested.
“Oh.” Renie got up from the chair at the counter and
went to the refrigerator to claim another Pepsi. “That
could be. On the other hand, Chips often talks about
his mother, but not his father. I wonder why?” She
paused, then shook her head. “It can’t be Chips.
What’s the motive?”
Judith gave Renie a helpless look. “I’ve no idea. Un-
292 Mary Daheim less the novel was written by Chips’s father—big
stretch, I know—or grandfather, and Bruno stole it.
Remember, I told you that the book had keepsakes in
it. Obviously, it had been treasured by someone for
many years.” She suddenly jumped up. “Keepsakes!
What’s wrong with me? Where did I put that book?”
Frantically, she looked around the kitchen as the wind
rattled the windows.
“Ah!” she exclaimed, snapping her fingers. “I didn’t
put it anywhere. Joe brought it down from Room
Three.” Cautiously bending down to favor her artificial
hip, Judith opened the bottom cabinet drawer next to
the wall. “Here it is. Let’s see if we can learn anything
from these keepsakes.”
Renie wore a resigned expression but said nothing.
The cousins had just sat down at the counter again
when Sweetums sidled up to Judith. He had a partially
eaten chicken breast in his mouth, which he began to
wrestle around the kitchen floor.
Judith scowled at the cat. “Where did you get that?
Here, let me have it.”
Sweetums wasn’t in the mood to oblige. He backed
away, with the chicken still in his teeth. Judith chased
him into the pantry, where he got under the lowest
shelf, just out of reach. In recent months, Sweetums
had figured out that his human was limited in her capacity for capturing him.
“Damn!” she cried as she heard the cat chewing
lustily on the chicken. “He must have gotten that out of
the garbage. I’d better make sure the can didn’t blow
over.” Grabbing her jacket from its customary peg, she
headed outside.
Driven by the wind, the fog swirled around the
SILVER SCREAM 293 backyard like smoke from a beach fire. The light in the
toolshed appeared and disappeared as if it were coming from a lighthouse. Gertrude kept late hours, requiring less sleep as she got older. Of course, Judith
thought as she hurried to the garbage cans and recycling bins by the side of the house, her mother dozed
off frequently during the day.
The big green bins were intact, but one of the
garbage cans had blown over, spilling half its contents.
From inside the house, she could hear more screams
emanating from the TV. The terrified cries set her teeth
on edge. She was beginning to wonder if the events of
the past two days and her fears for the future were triggering an emotional collapse.
As Judith set the can upright, a loud banging noise
behind her made her jump. Peering through the eddies
of mist, she saw nothing. Gingerly, she began putting
the garbage back into the can.
She was about to replace the lid when something
brushed against her leg. Judith let out a small squeal,
then looked down to see Sweetums depositing bare
chicken bones on her shoe.
“Nasty!” she exclaimed under her breath. “If my
nerves weren’t going to pieces, I’d pull your tail.”
Sweetums responded with a growl, then trotted off
down the driveway. Judith started back to the porch,
but decided to make a quick visit to her mother. She
felt guilty for hardly seeing Gertrude all day. As she
headed down the walk to the toolshed, the wind rattled
her nerves along with the Rankerses’ wind chimes. The
usual gentle tinkling sounded more like an out-of-tune
brass band.
But the fog was definitely dissipating. She could see
294 Mary Daheim the toolshed clearly, though the lights had now gone
out. Judith stopped, debating whether or not to bother
her mother. She decided against it. Gertrude would
only berate her for being neglectful. Judith didn’t need
any more problems on this particular All Hallows’ Eve.
She’d started up the back-porch steps when she
heard another clatter nearby. It sounded like another
garbage-can lid. More annoyed than nervous, she
trudged around to the side of the house.
Within a foot of the cans, Judith stopped dead in her
tracks. There, down the driveway in a maelstrom of
fog, an unearthly creature seemed to levitate before her
eyes. She suppressed a scream as her legs wobbled and
her eyes grew huge. The pointy hat, the stiff shaggy
hair, the windblown garments, and the shoes with the
turned-up toes almost convinced her that witches did
indeed fly the skies on Halloween.
The image was enhanced when a cat with its fur
standing on end suddenly appeared out of the mists.
The animal hurtled straight for Judith. In fright, she
flung herself against the wall of the house, and only
recognized Sweetums when he hid himself between
her feet.
“P-p-poor k-k-kitty,” she stammered, glancing
down at the cat. “P-p-poor m-m-me.”
Then she looked up, and the eerie apparition was
gone.
A frowning Renie was standing on the steps.
“Where’ve you been? The back door blew shut, and I
thought maybe you got locked out.” Seeing Judith’s
pale face under the porch light, she gasped. “Hey,
what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
SILVER SCREAM 295 “A witch, actually,” Judith said, clinging to the
porch rail as Sweetums crept along beside her. She felt
dizzy, her teeth were chattering, and her feet seemed
glued to the steps. “I may be having a nervous breakdown. I need a drink.”
“I’ll fix it,” Renie volunteered, but first put a hand
under Judith’s elbow. “You are a mess. Easy does it.”
Carefully, she guided her cousin through the back door.
“How does Bill describe his patients who’ve gone
mad?” Judith asked, slumping into the nearest kitchen
chair.
“Clinically?” Renie responded, going to the cupboard where the liquor was kept.
With vacant eyes and mouth agape, Judith nodded.
“Crazy as a loon,” Renie replied, pouring her
cousin’s drink. “Tell me about the witch.”
It took Judith two big sips just to get started. She
scowled at the glass before she spoke. “I’m not only
insane, I’m turning into a drunk.”
“Hardly,” Renie said. “You’ve been through a lot the
last few days.”
“So I have.” Judith sighed, beginning to pull herself
together. “But I’m not seeing things. I don’t think.”
She proceeded to tell Renie about the apparition in the
driveway.
“A witch?” Renie said when Judith had finished the
horror story. “Maybe it was. It’s Halloween.”
“At this hour?” Judith glanced up at the schoolhouse
clock, which showed eleven on the dot. As if to underscore the time, applause and cheers could be heard
coming from the living room. “Then why didn’t whoever it was come to the door?” Judith asked, clutching
her drink as if it were a talisman against evil.
296 Mary Daheim “Maybe the witch went to the toolshed,” Renie
replied. “Your mother was probably still up, and with
the TV on and the lights out in the front of the house,
whoever it was may have thought everybody had gone
to bed.”
“That’s possible,” Judith allowed, then gave her
cousin a piercing look. “You don’t believe that. You’re
just trying to make me feel better.”
Renie winced. “Well—I’d like to make you feel better. Frankly, you look like bird poop.”
“Thanks. I feel like bird poop.”
“I’d better go home,” Renie said as the movie
watchers broke up and headed for bed. “Is there anything I can do before I leave?”
Judith slumped farther into the chair. “We still don’t
know who Crappy Pappy is.”
“Does it matter?” Renie asked gently as she stood
up.
“No.” Judith’s voice was lifeless. “Nothing does.”
“Coz!” Renie gave Judith a sharp slap on the back,
then let out a little yip. “I keep forgetting, I’m supposed to favor that arm and shoulder for a while
longer.”
Judith looked up. “Are you okay?”
Cringing a bit, Renie moved her right arm this way
and that. “I think so.” She sat down across from Judith.
“Maybe I should wait a couple of minutes. I only
started driving again in July. Even though the surgeon
assured me I couldn’t dislocate it again, I don’t want to
take a chance and wreck the car.”
“Don’t mention dislocating our body parts,” Judith
said, though there was evident relief in her voice. She
hadn’t wanted Renie to leave just yet. “I worry about
SILVER SCREAM 297 my hip all the time. Unlike your shoulder, there are
certain things I can’t do because it’ll dislocate. I suppose that’s next—more major surgery.”
“Oh, coz!” Renie shook her head. “Don’t fuss so.
You’ll only—”
A banging at the front door startled both cousins.
“The witch?” Judith gasped.
“Dubious. Stay here, I’ll get it.”
“No,” Judith said, already on her feet. “Rest your
shoulder.”
With considerable trepidation, she went through the
dining room and the entry hall. Except for the small
Tiffany-style lamp on the table by the stairs, the rest of
the house was dark.
“Who is it?” Judith called through the door.
“Me,” came the voice on the other side. “Dade.
Dade Costello.”
“Oh!” Relieved, Judith hurriedly unlocked the door.
“Come in. I thought you had your key.”
“I did,” Dade said, rubbing at the back of his head.
“I guess I lost it.”
“Oh, dear,” Judith sighed. “Do you think it’s in your
room? When did you use it last?”
Dade shrugged. “I don’t know that I’ve used it at all.
Or did I?”
Judith couldn’t remember, either. But she didn’t
want a key to Hillside Manor in the wrong hands. Disconcerted by the latest calamity, she said the first thing
that came into her head: “Wasn’t it kind of miserable
for a walk this evening?”
“I didn’t walk that much,” Dade said in his soft
Southern drawl as he started for the stairs.
The response further muddled Judith. “Wait,” she
298 Mary Daheim called after the screenwriter. “Do you have your room
key or was it with the one to the house?” Guests were
always given the two keys on a simple ring with their
room number taped on the room key.
“Let me see.” Dade rummaged in the pockets of his
cargo pants. “Here,” he said, holding up a single key.
“It says Room Two. That’s me.”
“Yes,” Judith answered. “But you’re sure you don’t
have the house key lying loose in your pockets?”
“I already checked.” He shrugged again. “Sorry.”
Once more, Dade started up the stairs.
“One other thing,” Judith said, standing by the banister. “Who was C. Douglas Carp related to?”
He paused, frowning. “Hunh. I think Carp was some
relation of Bruno’s.”
“Are you sure?” she pressed.
“Well . . .” Dade looked up into the stairwell. “Carp
was his father-in-law at one time. Yes.” He nodded to
himself. “Bruno was married to somebody whose
maiden name was Carp. C. Douglas must have been
her daddy. Bruno always referred to him as Pappy.”
“The father of which wife?” Judith hoped she didn’t
sound eager.
Again, Dade looked puzzled. “It wasn’t the second
wife,” he said slowly. “I met her at the Cannes Film
Festival a couple of years ago.”
“That was the actress?” Judith prompted.
“Right. Taryn, Taryn McGuire. But she doesn’t act
anymore. She’s married to an oil sheikh. They brought
their yacht to Cannes to attend all the parties.”
“What about the first and third wives?” Judith persisted. “Did you meet either of them? Wasn’t the third
wife in the movie business?”
SILVER SCREAM 299 “Right,” Dade said. “She was a film editor or something. I never met her. I think her name was Mary
Ellen.”
“But you don’t know if her maiden name was
Carp?”
“I’ve no idea.” Dade looked apologetic.
“I assume you never met wife number one,” Judith
said. “I understand that was a youthful marriage.”
“Way before my time,” Dade said, still leaning on
the banister. “She was the one Bruno rarely talked
about. When he did, he was critical. I’ll say this for
him—he never bad-mouthed the other two wives.”
“Why was he so hard on the first one?”
Dade grimaced. “I guess she was kind of a terror. I
recall Bruno saying he ran into her someplace where
he least expected. He always called her Spider
Woman.”
Judith stared up at him. “Did that have something to
do with his superstition about spiders?”
“I don’t think so.” Dade yawned. “Sorry, Ms. Flynn,
I’m beat. I’m afraid I haven’t been much help.” Once
more, he started up the stairs, but this time he was the
one to stop his own momentum. “Why do you need to
know about Bruno’s wives?”
Judith offered him an uncertain smile. “I’m just curious. You know—when someone dies under your roof
and all . . .” She let the sentence trail away.
“Oh. That makes sense. I guess.” At last he continued on up the stairs and out of sight.
Wearily, Judith trudged back to the kitchen. Renie
was wearing her suede jacket and holding her huge
handbag.
“What was that all about?” she asked.
300 Mary Daheim “Dade Costello. He lost his house key.” Judith made
a face. “But guess what? Bruno referred to his first
wife as Spider Woman.”
Renie looked surprised. “Really? Who was she?”
“Dade doesn’t know,” Judith said, espying
The Gas- man novel on the counter. “Did you find any of the
keepsakes interesting?”
Renie started ticking off items on her fingers. “The
usual pressed flowers and leaves, a faded red ribbon, a
pair of ticket stubs from the 1968 World Series between
St. Louis and Detroit, another pair of stubs from the
1975 Iowa State Fair, a lock of what looked like baby’s
hair, a young woman’s photo, a newspaper clipping of
C. Douglas Carp’s obituary, and a recipe for prune pie.”
Judith looked thoughtful. “Let’s see the obit.”
Renie flipped through the book, then handed her the
yellowed clipping.
“Hmm,” Judith said. “Nothing here that wasn’t in
the other account of his life and times. By the way, did
you come across a picture of a young woman?”
Renie flipped through the pages. “Yes, here it is.
Anybody we know?”
Judith studied the youthful face with the innocent
expression. “I don’t think so. And yet . . .” She held the
photo out for Renie’s perusal. “There is something familiar about her. Or maybe I’m imagining things. Do
you recognize this face?”
But Renie didn’t. “Why,” she inquired in a wistful
voice, “are you fixated on Mr. Carp?”
“Because,” Judith replied in a peevish tone, “I don’t
know where to go with this damned mess. I still think
the motive for this crime—if it was a crime—is personal. I don’t believe that anybody under this roof
SILVER SCREAM 301 killed Bruno for professional reasons. Somebody has a
secret that was worth committing murder for, or somebody just plain hated Bruno.”
Renie set her handbag down on the floor and leaned
against the counter. “As in hated him for personal reasons?”
Judith nodded. “Exactly.”
“A woman scorned?” Renie suggested.
“Possibly.”
“Which woman? Wives one through three, or someone who wanted to be number four?”
Judith sighed along with the wind, which was now
a dull moan. “It’s possible. We know nothing about the
personal lives of Eugenia Fleming or Winifred Best.”
“Eugenia?” Renie wrinkled her pug nose. “Hardly
the type you’d expect a bigwig producer to marry.”
“We might say Eugenia isn’t the right type,” Judith
pointed out, “but that doesn’t mean Eugenia would
agree.”
“Winifred?”
“She’s been a wife, in a way,” Judith said. “Women
who work closely with men are like wives.”
“True,” Renie said. “I’ve seen it in the corporate
world. The business partner, the executive secretary,
the special assistant. It’s not usually a sexual relationship, but sometimes it is. And of course one of the parties may suffer from unrequited love.”
“I think we can scratch Ellie and Angela,” Judith
mused. “They owe their careers to him in some way—
despite the Big Flop—but I can’t picture either of them
panting with desire for Bruno.”
“Power’s a great aphrodisiac, though,” Renie noted.
“Still . . .” She gave a shake of her head.
302 Mary Daheim “We’re on the wrong track there,” Judith said.
“We’re back to professional motives. I wish we knew
why Winifred is so reluctant to talk about her brief career as a singer.”
“Because it was so brief?” Renie offered.
“I think it’s more than that,” Judith said. “I think that
the brevity of her musical career could be a secret
worth keeping.”
Renie didn’t bother to stifle a big yawn. “I’ve got to
head home. The fog’s just about gone and the wind’s
dying down. If I had to, I could drive with my feet.”
“That might be an improvement,” Judith murmured.
“Sometimes you’re not so hot at using your hands.”
“Funny, coz,” Renie said sarcastically. “Talk to you
in the morning.”
As Renie left via the back door, Judith glanced at
the schoolhouse clock. It was almost midnight, the
witching hour on Halloween.
Maybe she wasn’t losing her mind. Maybe she
wasn’t even losing her nerve.
But she still believed she could be losing Hillside
Manor.
NINETEEN
“THE AIRPORT’S STILL closed,” Joe announced as he
brought in the morning paper. “That’s bad news.”
“I didn’t know it was closed,” Judith responded
with a frosty look.
“It’s the fog,” Joe said. “Haven’t you noticed it
settled in again during the night?”
“I haven’t had time to notice anything,” Judith retorted. “I’ve been too busy figuring out what to
serve our unwanted guests for breakfast.”
Joe rested his chin on her shoulder. “Need some
help?”
Judith jerked away from her husband. “Help? Like
what, plugging in the coffeemaker? I already did that.”
“Hey!” Joe sounded offended. “What’s wrong?”
She whirled on him. “What’s wrong? Are you
kidding?”
Joe held up his hands in a defensive gesture.
“Take it easy, Jude-girl. I know you’re upset, but
this morning I’m going to call Dilys at headquarters
and find out what she’s—”
“Dilys!” Judith exploded. “Where’s she been since
Saturday night? Sunbathing? And what have you
been doing except studying Bill’s stupid chart?”
304 Mary Daheim “That chart’s not a bad idea,” Joe said, still relatively calm. “Woody and I used to put together something like—”
“Woody!” Judith cried in exasperation. “I thought
he was helping you. Has he been kidnapped by Gypsies or did the floating bridge between here and the
Eastside sink again?”
Joe threw up his hands. “Okay, okay! Don’t knock
Woody. He’s been running background checks on
these goofballs all weekend. I expect to hear from him
soon.”
“And he won’t have one single thing that will help
us,” Judith declared, dumping two pounds of bacon
into a skillet. “Toast.” She bit off the word. “That’s it,
toast, bacon, and scrambled eggs. They can take their
weird food cravings someplace else if they don’t like
it.”
“Hey, has Woody ever failed when it comes to being
helpful?” Joe asked, getting two dozen eggs out of the
fridge. Judith started to grab them from him, but he
pulled the cartons out of her reach. “I’ll fix these. I do
a better job of it.”
Judith refused to acknowledge that Joe definitely
had a way with eggs. “I’m not criticizing Woody per
se,” she asserted. “I meant that any information he
comes up with—and I’ll bet there won’t be much—
isn’t going to help us in this particular instance.”
“You don’t know that,” Joe countered. “I don’t see
why you won’t sit back and let the police and the studio’s investigators figure out what happened. They’re
pros.”
“You used to be a pro,” Judith shot back. “I thought
you still were with your private detective jobs. But you
SILVER SCREAM 305 don’t seem very involved in this whole, horrible situation.”
“That’s because I’m retired from the force,” Joe said
with obvious resentment. “I don’t have the resources
anymore. Once you’ve been a cop, you realize that
most of the time law enforcement personnel know
what they’re doing.”
Judith didn’t respond, but gave him a skeptical look.
Maybe he was right. Maybe he didn’t have faith in his
ability to work without the backup provided by a fullfledged police staff. Maybe, she thought with a pang,
he didn’t care about Hillside Manor as much as she
did. It was even possible that in retirement, he disliked
the constant parade of strangers going in and out of his
home.
The phone rang as Joe was whisking eggs, green
onions, and slivers of red pepper in a big blue bowl. Judith answered, and somewhat sheepishly wished
Woody Price good morning. Without looking at Joe,
she handed over the receiver.
“Good morning!” Eugenia Fleming’s booming
voice and majestic presence filled the kitchen.
Judith pointed to Joe, who had put one finger in his
ear. He immediately began moving down the hall and
out of hearing range.
“Sorry,” the agent apologized, speaking with less
volume. She was already dressed, wearing a tailored
pants suit with a no-nonsense silk shirt.
“You’re up early,” Judith remarked, trying to be polite. “I usually don’t serve breakfast until eight.”
Eugenia checked her watch against the schoolhouse
clock. “Seven-forty on the dot. I’m a morning person,
which can be a disadvantage in Hollywood. Except for
306 Mary Daheim people who are actually involved in shooting a film,
everyone else tends to work late into the night.”
“The coffee’s ready,” Judith said. “Would you like a
cup?”
“Certainly,” Eugenia replied, surveying the kitchen
with a critical eye. “Black, please.”
Judith poured the coffee into a Moonbeam’s mug
and handed it to her guest. “I’m curious,” she said in a
casual tone. “Why was Morris Mayne’s wife allowed
to go back to L.A. when the rest of you weren’t?”
Eugenia choked on her first swallow of coffee.
“Well . . .” she began, gathering her aplomb, “that situation was different.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” Eugenia cleared her throat. “Different.” She
winked.
Judith gave the other woman a quizzical look. “I
don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to.” Eugenia winked again.
Enlightenment dawned. “You mean,” Judith said,
“Morris came here with someone who wasn’t his
wife?”
“Now,” Eugenia said, wagging a finger, “don’t be
too hard on Morris. His wife is a genuine recluse. She
hasn’t left their house in fifteen years. You can hardly
blame the man if he sometimes gets lonely when he
travels. It’s sad, really. I admire him for staying with
her.”
“Yes,” Judith said slowly, “you have a point. So the
woman who came here with him after the premiere
was his . . . ah . . . companion?”
It was Eugenia’s turn to look puzzled. “What
woman?”
SILVER SCREAM 307 “The one dressed as a pioneer,” Judith replied, turning the bacon in the cast-iron skillet.
Eugenia shrugged her broad shoulders. “I’ve no idea
what you’re talking about. Morris’s . . . companion remained at the hotel.”
Joe’s conversation with Woody ended just as Eugenia took her coffee into the front parlor.
“Eat your words, Jude-girl,” Joe said, wielding a
whisk in a bowl of eggs. “Woody came up with some
interesting stuff.”
“Criminal stuff?” Judith asked in surprise.
“If it was, would you stop treating me like I had
bubonic plague?”
So frazzled were Judith’s nerves that she actually
had to think twice before answering. “Yes, sure, go
ahead.” Her attempt to smile wasn’t very successful.
Joe didn’t respond until he’d put a quarter pound of
butter into a huge frying pan. “Nothing on Eugenia,
Morris, or Chips,” he said, keeping his voice down in
case Eugenia was still in hearing range. “Ellie has a
stack of speeding and parking tickets as high as the
Hollywood Hills. Ben got busted a couple of times for
possession.”
“Of what?” Judith asked, getting plates out of the
cupboard.
“Weed.” He shrugged. “Dirk has been arrested four
times for assault, but the charges were always
dropped.”
“Does that include the incident with Bruno at Marina Del Rey?” Judith asked.
Joe nodded. “It seems Mr. Farrar has to prove his
macho image on both sides of the camera.”
308 Mary Daheim “Unsure of his manhood? Low self-esteem?” Judith
murmured.
“Rotten disposition, no self-discipline.” Almost
forty years as a cop had caused Joe’s patience with
people’s foibles to erode long ago.
Judith placed the silverware settings next to the
plates on the counter. “What about the others?”
“I’m not finished with Dirk,” Joe said, taking a
break from his cook’s duties to refill his coffee mug.
“He was also involved in a messy paternity suit a year
or two ago. He lost, and is paying for the kid’s upbringing.”
“Is Mom anyone we know?”
Joe shook his head. “Dirk was on location in Spain
when he met Mom. She was an extra in a Basque uprising.”
“No help there,” Judith said.
“Only in terms of support payments.” He offered
more coffee to Judith. “Dade’s had a couple of DWIs.
He wiped out a Rolls-Royce on Sunset Boulevard and
ran his Range Rover into a palm tree in Benedict
Canyon. Not recently, though.”
“He doesn’t seem like much of a drinker,” Judith remarked as she set out a dozen juice glasses.
“You never can tell,” Joe said, reaching for a chafing dish high up in the cupboard. “Here’s one you expected—Angela La Belle’s been busted three times for
coke possession. Bruno was arrested twice. On one occasion, they were together.”
“That’s not surprising,” Judith said, “since Bruno
supposedly got Angela hooked in the first place. Did
they do time?”
“No,” Joe replied, reaching for a second chafing
SILVER SCREAM 309 dish. “Their clever lawyers—Vito, maybe?—got them
off with fines, community service, and promises to go
into rehab.”
“Anything on Vito himself?”
“Nothing criminal,” Joe replied, “though I suspect
that like any successful L.A. attorney, he may have a
few slightly unethical tricks up his sleeve.”
Judith narrowed her eyes at her husband. “You still
look a bit scrofulous to me. Why am I supposed to
heap you with praise and affection?”
Joe held up his index finger. “For one reason, and
one reason only. Ahem.” He paused so long for dramatic effect that Judith was poised to pounce on him.
“In 1979, Winifred Lou Best was arrested twice, once
for possession of cocaine and once for resisting arrest
along with a man named Bartholomew Anthony Riggs,
aka Big Daddy Dumas.”
“Wow!” Judith’s eyes sparkled as she threw her
arms around his neck. “Now that is news!”
“What did I tell you?” He chuckled as she planted
kisses all over his face. “I’m plague-free.”
“More than you know,” Judith said, finally releasing
her husband. “Morris mentioned Big Daddy Dumas
last night at Capri’s. He was a pimp and a drug dealer.
But Morris said Big Daddy was dead. He also said . . .”
She frowned in recollection. “What was it? Oh! To
blame Big Daddy for. . . . Damn, I forget.”
“Sounds like Big Daddy was a bad daddy,” Joe remarked.
“That’s the odd thing,” Judith said. “Bill had heard
about him via a case study. According to Bill, Big
Daddy wasn’t all bad. He was good to his girls, he
treated them like family. But that’s not the point. Now
310 Mary Daheim we know why Winifred doesn’t want to discuss her
past. It’s possible that Big Daddy helped the Demures
get their start in the music business. Maybe the three
singers were in his stable of hookers. That might explain why the group didn’t have more than one hit.
Their lives couldn’t have been conducive to the discipline required by a serious music career. For all we
know, the other two may have overdosed, gone to
prison, or were murdered in a drug deal gone sour.”
“Anything’s possible,” Joe allowed. “What happened to Big Daddy?”
“A dissatisfied hooker/would-be singer killed him,”
Judith replied. “Not one of the Demures, but a Latino
girl.”
“So maybe,” Joe conjectured, “Big Daddy was the
muscle who got Win and the other two started in the
music business. When he got whacked, the Demures
lost their leverage.”
He picked up the plates and silverware from the
counter. “Here, let me set up the dining-room table.”
“What?” Judith was lost in thought. “Oh, thanks. I’ll
cook Mother’s breakfast now. I feel bad, I’ve hardly
seen her lately.”
“Don’t worry,” Joe called from the dining room.
“She hasn’t improved.”
As Judith prepared Gertrude’s meal and set it on a
tray, the house seemed very quiet. Typical for early
November, she thought, with the fog not only isolating
but insulating Hillside Manor from the rest of the
world. The calm, however, was not reassuring.
As usual Gertrude was up and dressed before eight
o’clock, She sat behind the card table, not bothering to
look up when her daughter arrived with breakfast.
SILVER SCREAM 311 More surprisingly, the old lady was humming in an
off-key manner.
“Hmm-dee-dee-hmm.”
“Good morning,” Judith said, forcing a bright smile.
“You seem cheerful this morning.”
“Hmm-mm-hmm-mm.” Gertrude picked up her
TV Guide and riffled through the pages. “Hmm-dee-deehm-hm.”
Judith wasn’t in the mood to play games with her
mother. She placed the tray on the card table. Gertrude
ignored it. “What is it?” Judith asked. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“Dee-dee-mm-hmm.”
“Mother!” Judith’s patience fled. “Stop that humming! What’s going on?”
Slyly, Gertrude looked up from the
TV Guide. “Oh,
it’s you. I suppose you expect a tip now that I’m going
to be rich. Forget it, I’m spending every dime on satin
bloomers, lace hankies, and a walker with a motor on
it.”
Puzzled, Judith sat down on the arm of Gertrude’s
Davano. “What’s going on? Did you win the lottery?”
“That’s for suckers,” Gertrude declared, even
though she frequently conned Judith into buying lottery and scratch-card tickets for her. “You’ll find out
when the armored car pulls up with my loot.”
Judith fought an urge to shake her mother until the
old girl’s dentures rattled. “What then?”
Gertrude shot her a contemptuous look. “How do
you think, dummy? By selling my life story to the
movies. That nice young Southun gentleman is writin’
the script,” she went on, her speech suddenly tinged
with a drawl straight out of the cotton fields. “He’s
312 Mary Daheim promised me a piece. Up front, too, but no points. Ah
couldn’t expect that for my first story, could Ah?”
Judith didn’t know whether she was more amazed
by Dade’s offer or her mother’s use of movie jargon,
which, judging from the drawl, was straight from the
writer’s mouth. “Are you sure he’s not kidding you?”
“He’s not the kind to spoof,” Gertrude replied
smugly, the drawl gone. “He’s on the up-and-up. He
says I’m great. In fact, I’m part of the Greatest Generation. I’ve lived through a bunch of wars, a big Depression, a whole slew of newfangled gadgets, going to the
moon, riots, earthquakes, volcanoes, and bathtub gin.
Not to mention your two lunkhead husbands and listening to Aunt Deb talk my ear off on the telephone.”
It almost made sense. It was, in fact, not unlike the
concept of the simple gasman viewing the history of
the world. Judith was speechless.
“So what have you got to say for yourself now,
Toots?” Gertrude demanded, finally picking up a fork
and studying her meal.
“I think it’s . . . terrific,” Judith said at last. “If it all
works out.”
“That nice Southern boy says it will,” Gertrude
replied glibly. “What did he call it? ‘An intimate portrait of the twentieth century.’ See here?” She tapped a
small piece of paper. “I wrote it down so I wouldn’t
forget.”
Judith still had some reservations. “Have you signed
a contract?”
“Nope,” Gertrude said. “But some guy named Vito or
Zito or Tito is writing it up. Still, I figure I’d better get
an agent first. I can’t read all that fine print. Literally.”
Standing up, Judith reached out to hug her mother.
SILVER SCREAM 313 “It sounds promising. I hope everything turns out the
way you hope it will.”
“It will,” Gertrude said complacently. Then she
frowned. “I just hope they hurry.”
“You mean because the Hollywood people may be
leaving soon?”
Gertrude shook her head. “No. Because I may be
leaving soon. Even the Greatest Generation can’t live
forever.”
By the time Judith got back to the house, she was
surprised to see that several guests were sitting down
to breakfast. In the kitchen, Joe was hustling eggs,
bacon, and toast.
“The estimated time of departure is ten-thirty,” he
informed her in a low voice.
Judith gave her husband a startled look. “They’re
leaving? But the fog hasn’t lifted.”
“Vito says the studio has given them the go-ahead,”
Joe replied, placing toast in a rack. “The weather forecast predicts the fog will be gone by noon.”
Judith stood rooted to the spot. “Should we be glad?”
“I don’t know,” Joe replied, heading to the dining
room with the toast. “I couldn’t get a feel one way or
another from Vito.”
When he returned moments later, Judith inquired
after Angela. “Is she going, too?”
“No,” said Joe, pouring more eggs into the pan.
“They’re sending her directly to rehab at the Ford
Madox Ford Center on the Eastside. According to Vito,
she’ll be there at least a couple of months. Maybe this
time the cure will take.”
As Joe tended the stove, Judith peeked over the
314 Mary Daheim swinging doors that led into the dining room. The conversation seemed lighthearted. Maybe the movie people had put their differences aside now that they were
leaving what they considered a fogbound backwater.
Everyone was there. Everyone except Winifred.
Winifred Best seemed to be the least likely of the
guests to sleep in. A wave of apprehension came over
Judith as she started for the back stairs.
The phone rang. Judith grabbed it from its cradle,
hoping that Dilys Oaks was calling with good news for
Joe. Instead, it was Phyliss Rackley, calling with bad
news for Judith.
“I can’t breathe,” Phyliss announced in a voice that
was anything but short of wind. “I must have tuberculosis. Where’s the nearest sanitorium?”
“They don’t send people there for TB anymore,
Phyliss,” Judith asserted. “They can cure it with antibiotics. Call your doctor.”
“I can’t,” Phyliss replied, then coughed with what
sounded like feigned effort. “I’m fading fast. I need an
iron lung.”
“That’s for polio,” Judith said crossly. “Are you
telling me you won’t be here today?”
“How can I?” Phyliss asked, forlorn. “The Lord is
coming for me. I saw Him this morning in my closet.”
“Tell the Lord to come out of the closet and put you
on the bus to Hillside Manor,” Judith huffed. “I’ve got
a big mess here today, and I’m worn out. Furthermore,
it’s All Saints’ Day and I have to go to noon Mass.”
“You and your Roman rituals,” Phyliss complained.
“What kind of sacrifice do you make this time? A gopher?”
Judith refused to waste time discussing the sacrifice
SILVER SCREAM 315 of the Mass to Phyliss. She’d already explained it on at
least a dozen occasions. “I really need you, Phyliss. Do
you think you could make it by noon? The fog’s supposed to lift by then.”
“Well . . .” Phyliss seemed to consider the request.
“I’ll see. Maybe the Lord can work a miracle cure.”
She coughed some more for effect. “Kaff, kaff.”
Hanging up, Judith continued on her way upstairs,
then went the length of the hall to Room One, which
Winifred had shared the previous night with Ellie Linn.
Knocking gently at first, she got no response. She
rapped harder. Still no reply. She was about to hammer
on the door when she decided simply to open it.
The door was unlocked. A billow of smoke engulfed
Judith. Flames licked at the bedclothes just as the fire
alarm sounded and the sprinkler system went off.
Winifred lay awkwardly on the bed, her eyes closed,
her mouth agape. Even as Judith screamed for help,
she braved the smoke, fire, and drenching water to
reach the motionless woman. Coughing, gritting her
teeth, and ever aware that she could dislocate the artificial hip, she grabbed Winifred by the feet and attempted to tug her off the bed.
Despite Winifred’s slimness, Judith could move her
no more than a few inches. The water was pouring
down, dousing the flames but turning the room into a
nightmare of sizzling vapors. Judith gasped, coughed
again, and yanked at a pillowcase to put over her
mouth. She barely heard the pounding of feet on the
stairs or Joe’s shouts as he reached the second floor.
A moment later he was in the room, arms flailing,
trying to push Judith out of the way. He missed. Judith,
with the wet pillowcase protecting her nose and mouth,
316 Mary Daheim caught Winifred around the knees and, with a mighty
wrench, moved her into a sitting position against the
headboard.
At the same time she felt—and heard—an odd
sound in her hip. She collapsed on the floor.
“Don’t move!” Joe yelled as he picked up Winifred
and carried her into the hall.
Dazed, Judith choked, coughed, and shivered in a
huddled mass near the door. The fire, which had spread
to the lace curtains on the other side of the room, was
now sputtering out. Sirens could be heard in the distance. Someone must have called 911. Again.
“Winifred . . .” Judith murmured as Joe bent down
to put his arms around her shoulders. “Is she . . . ?”
“Never mind Winifred,” he said, his voice husky.
“Can you stand?”
She wasn’t sure. What was worse, she was afraid to
try. To her surprise, Dirk Farrar entered the room. “I
can lift her,” he volunteered.
“We both can,” Joe retorted.
They did, carefully moving her out of the room and
placing her on the settee in the hall. Winifred was lying
on the floor by the door to the bathroom between
Rooms Three and Four. Dade was leaning over her,
once again trying to revive a fallen comrade.
“She’s alive,” Eugenia announced.
Dade looked up. “She’s coming ’round.”
“Thank God,” Judith gasped, then tried to sit up
with Joe’s help.
Vito Patricelli’s customary calm was ruffled; he’d
removed his sunglasses. “What happened? How did
the fire start?”
He was ignored by both Flynns as the emergency
SILVER SCREAM 317 crew charged up the stairs with Eugenia Fleming in
their wake. Somewhat to her surprise, Judith didn’t
recognize any of the rescuers. Maybe, she thought a bit
hazily, that was because it was a Monday. She couldn’t
recall anyone ever dying or almost dying at Hillside
Manor on a Monday. This must be a different crew.
Somewhat giddily, she wondered if eventually she’d
know them all—police, firefighters, medics, maybe
even a coroner or two.
“Clear the area!” one of the firefighters shouted.
From somewhere on the stairs, Judith could hear a
vaguely familiar female voice giving orders for the rest
of the guests to stay put. The girlish tones sounded
more like Ellie than the buglelike Eugenia. But the
voice belonged to a newcomer.
The medics had moved Winifred down the hall.
“We’ll work on her here,” one of them announced with
a slight Spanish accent. “Everybody else get lost.”
Finally, Joe got Judith to her feet. “Can you walk?”
he whispered.
She bit her lip, then wiped at her eyes, which were
still smarting. “I’m not sure,” she replied unsteadily.
But one foot went in front of the other. There was none
of the agonizing pain she’d suffered from previous dislocations. Perhaps the sensations trying to move
Winifred had only been a warning.
The others had already trooped downstairs, except
for Vito, who lingered in the hallway.
Eugenia was standing under the arch between the
entry hall and the living room. Cautiously, Judith
stepped over the tan fire hoses.
“Where is that woman?” Eugenia demanded, fists
on hips. “It must be all her fault.”
318 Mary Daheim Judith stared. “What woman?”
“Your cleaning woman,” Eugenia snapped. “What
kind of a person is she to cause such a mess?”
“My—” Judith stopped, allowing Joe to help her
onto the sofa.
Eugenia followed, a bulldog running down a cat.
“I let her in while I was waiting for you to serve
breakfast,” Eugenia said, incensed. “How did I know
she was a pyromaniac?”
Judith forced her brain to kick-start. “No. That
couldn’t have been my cleaning woman. I spoke to her
on the phone just before I went upstairs looking for
Winifred. She lives a good four miles from here.”
“What did this person look like?” Joe asked, all
business.
“Why . . .” Eugenia paused. “Like a cleaning
woman. Which is who she said she was. Gray-haired,
thin, homely.”
Oddly enough, the description fit Phyliss Rackley.
But that was impossible. Ignoring her hip, Judith
jumped up. “Where is she now?”
“How do I know?” Eugenia shot back. “She went
upstairs just before the others came down to breakfast.”
“Christ!” Joe took off at a run, apparently heading
for the back stairs. The sound of water thundered overhead. Through the big bay window, Judith could see
two firefighters climbing up to the roof.
“Oh, no!” she wailed. “My poor B&B! It’s ruined!”
It was only then that she realized the fire wasn’t the
only thing that had laid waste to Room One. So overcome with shock and fear had Judith been at the time,
she had failed to take in the more minor damage.
Winifred’s room had been ransacked.
SILVER SCREAM 319 *
*
*
Joe returned a few minutes later with Dilys Oaks.
Judith realized that it was the young policewoman’s
voice she had recognized earlier.
“Nothing,” Joe said, out of breath. “We couldn’t
find any trace of the so-called cleaning woman.”
Judith turned to Eugenia, who had just finished a
call on her cell phone. “Did you notice a car outside
when you let this woman in?”
“A car?” Eugenia looked indignant. “How could I?
It’s too foggy to see past the front steps. I don’t know
when I’ve been in such a miserable place. Except
Croatia, perhaps.”
“Look here,” Judith said, her temper flaring, “you
were the one who admitted this woman. Why didn’t
you let me open the door?”
“You weren’t here,” Eugenia retorted. “Neither was
your husband. Besides, your cleaning woman had a
key. Apparently, she was having trouble turning it.”
Judith frowned. She must have been in the toolshed
with her mother. Maybe Joe had gone to the bathroom.
It wasn’t really fair to blame Eugenia for the disaster.
If, Judith suddenly thought, Eugenia was telling the
truth. As for the key, perhaps the intruder was faking it.
Or, it suddenly occurred to her, someone had found
Dade’s missing key. But who?
A firefighter, moving clumsily in his bulky safety
suit, entered the living room. “We think everything’s
under control,” he announced, then turned to Joe. “The
fire itself was just about extinguished by the sprinkler
system. But there’s quite a bit of water damage. We’ll
stick around to check things out, but if there’s danger
to the wiring, you’d better think about staying some-
320 Mary Daheim where else for a while. Also, it may take some time for
the investigators to do their job and for the insurance
adjusters to estimate the amount of damage.”
“That’s impossible!” Judith exclaimed. “This is a
bed-and-breakfast establishment! We can’t shut down.
And we certainly aren’t going to move out.”
With regret, the firefighter shook his head. “Sorry,
ma’am. I’m afraid you’ll have to do both. Safety first.”
Before Judith could argue further, the medics appeared on the staircase with Winifred on a gurney with
her eyes closed and an oxygen mask over her face. Vito
was right behind them.
“They’re taking her to the hospital to treat her for
smoke inhalation,” the lawyer announced from the
entry hall, a frown on his usually imperturbable face.
“I don’t get it,” Judith put in, moving with care.
“The fire had just started. There was plenty of smoke,
but not enough to render Ms. Best unconscious. She
wasn’t asleep; she was in her bathrobe lying atop the
bedcovers.”
The medics didn’t respond as they wheeled
Winifred out of the house and disappeared.
Vito started to follow, but Eugenia waylaid him with
a firm hand. “Mrs. Flynn’s right. What’s going on with
Win?”
With a pained expression, Vito leaned down to
whisper in Eugenia’s ear. She gave a start, then
scowled. “The medics told you that? I don’t believe
it!” she snapped, then turned on Judith as Vito exited
the house. “Your cleaning woman knocked Winifred
unconscious!”
“What?” Judith shrieked.
“That wasn’t my cleaning woman!” SILVER SCREAM 321 Eugenia shrugged her broad shoulders. “As you say.
Vito is accompanying Win to the hospital. I understand
this wretched house has to be evacuated. Don’t worry,
we’re all but on our way.”
Returning to the living room, Judith began to pace
the floor.
“Take it easy,” Joe warned. “You’re listing a bit to
starboard.”
“I’m fine,” Judith snarled. “I didn’t dislocate, I
just . . . twinged.” She stopped by the piano at the far
end of the room. “I can’t believe this. Even if we don’t
get sued, we’re out of business for God knows how
long!”
“Come on, Jude-girl,” Joe urged, “try to relax a little.
It’s not like the place burned down.” He looked at
Dilys, who had her back turned to both Flynns and was
on her cell phone. “An APB has gone out on the mysterious cleaning woman. If there was one,” he added,
lowering his voice.
Dilys clicked off to face Judith and Joe. “Unfortunately,” she said, “the description isn’t very helpful.
Ms. Fleming thought the woman was wearing dark
clothing. The rest of her appearance is quite ordinary.
With all the new apartments and condos on this side of
the hill, there must be a hundred women like that
within three square blocks of here.”
Judith abruptly sat down on the piano bench. “No,”
she said slowly, “there’s only one.”
TWENTY
THERE WAS NO time for Judith to explain. The battalion chief came into the living room to consult
with the Flynns. His main advice was to contact
their insurance agent as soon as possible. Joe
agreed, saying he’d drive up to the top of the hill as
soon as the local office opened at ten.
“What about the damage?” Judith asked in a
plaintive voice. “How bad is it?”
“We’ll let you know as soon as we can,” the chief
said kindly. His name was Ramirez, and he spoke
with a slight Spanish accent.
Judith winced. “You’re sure we have to move out?”
Ramirez nodded. “It may not be for long. It’s the
water damage, mostly. That’s often the case with a
small fire. Only the bedcovers, curtains, and carpet
were destroyed. The rest of the fire merely scorched
the bed itself, the mattress, and one wall. By the
way, who tossed the room?”
Joe and Dilys both stared at Judith. “Um . . .” She
put her hands to her cheeks, which seemed to have
suddenly grown quite warm. “I forgot to mention
that. It must have been the intruder who knocked out
Ms. Best.”
SILVER SCREAM 323 Ramirez frowned. “So that’s what I heard someone
talking about. Where are the police?”
Dilys took a step forward. “
I am the police,” she declared. “My backup should be along shortly. The patrol
cars are already on the lookout for the perp.”
The battalion chief seemed disconcerted. “You
mean . . . All these people in this house and no
one . . .” He gave himself a good shake. “Excuse me.
It’s a big house. In fact, haven’t you had a couple of
other 911 calls in the past few days?”
To Judith’s great relief, Dilys stepped in to spare the
Flynns the burden of an explanation. “To begin with,”
she said, guiding Ramirez out of the living room, “this
is a B&B. The current guests are somewhat unusual in
that they . . .”
The pair disappeared into the front parlor. Judith
glanced at the bay window. The ladder remained;
water still poured down the side of the house. Judith
couldn’t have felt worse if she’d suffered a physical
blow.
“What did you mean,” Joe inquired, “when you said
there was
only one woman?”
“I’ll tell you later.” Judith noticed the guests leaving
their breakfast table. “My,” she said in sarcasm, “I’m
glad we didn’t spoil their appetites.”
Joe gave her a quick hug. “Hang in there. It’s going
on ten. I’ll head out now to see Fred Sheets at the insurance agency.”
Judith said something that sounded like “Mrph.”
A moment later Dilys stuck her head back into the
living room. “I’m going to confer with my backup.
They seem to have gotten lost.” She winked. “At
Moonbeam’s.”
324 Mary Daheim “Great,” Judith said through gritted teeth, then threw
her hands up in the air. “Mother! I’d better tell her what
happened. She must be frantic.”
Gertrude, however, was in her usual place, leafing
through a film directory. “Hi, Toots,” she said, barely
looking up. “Abbott or Costello or whatever his last
name is brought this to me. It’s got all the directors and
actors and moving-picture people listed. It’s too bad
Joan Crawford’s dead. People used to say she looked
like me.”
“Mother . . .” Judith began.
But Gertrude interrupted. “Anyways, Dade—yes,
Dade, I remember his first name now—left me his card
and one from some woman named Fleming. She’s supposed to call me when she gets back to Los Angeles.”
The old lady pronounced it “Los
Ang-elees.” “Boy,
there sure are a lot of names in this book.” She tapped
the cover. “I never heard of most of them.” Finally,
Gertrude looked at her daughter. “Where’s lunch?”
“It’s ten o’clock,” Judith said, then pointed to the
breakfast tray. “You didn’t eat all your eggs.”
“They have funny stuff in them,” Gertrude said.
“What did you do, mix the eggs with an old salad?”
Judith refrained from saying that Joe had made the
eggs. She also refrained from telling her mother about
the fire. As long as Gertrude’s deafness had obscured
the sirens, there was no point in upsetting the old girl.
At least not yet. Judith had other things on her mind.
Back in the house, the guests were scurrying about,
completing their packing, hauling their luggage downstairs. They seemed as eager to leave as Judith was to
see them go.
“Incredible,” Ben Carmody said to Judith as he put
SILVER SCREAM 325 on a black leather jacket. “How did Win set fire to her
room?”
Looking guileless, Judith shrugged. “Who knows?
Does she smoke?”
“Hell, no,” Dirk declared. “She’s no drinker, either,
at least not at nine in the morning.”
Judith kept mum.
“She’ll be fine,” Ellie said, hooking her arm through
Ben’s. “I’d like to work with her on
All the Way to Utah.”
“Win’s spunky,” Chips said. “Maybe she’ll be able
to leave for L.A. later today.”
Again, Judith made no comment.
Vito slipped a white envelope into her hand. “The
studio wants to compensate you for your trouble. This
is a promissory note for five thousand dollars. As soon
as everything is cleared up in L.A., you’ll get your
money.”
Judith’s smile was off center. “Why . . . that’s generous. I think.” For all she knew, the money would
cover only the caterers. Of course it was better than a
subpoena.
Dade was the last one out the door. He was halfway
down the steps when he stopped and turned around.
“Tell your momma I’ll be in touch. I’m pretty excited
about this project.”
Judith still couldn’t believe Dade was serious. “You
are?”
“I sure am,” he responded. “That little lady has
some mighty swell tales to tell. I like her style.” With
a salute, Dade ambled along after the rest of the party.
The limos had barely pulled away when Judith
heard a knock at the back door. Maybe it was Renie,
326 Mary Daheim though she rarely got up until ten o’clock, and even
then, it took her another hour to become fully conscious.
It wasn’t her cousin who’d come to call. It was an
even more unlikely person to show up so early in the
day.
“Goodness!” Vivian Flynn exclaimed. “You’ve had
more excitement, I see. Those sirens woke me up. I
only managed to get dressed about five minutes ago,
and then I saw the limos in the cul-de-sac. What’s
going on now?”
“One of the guests had an accident,” Judith replied,
leading Herself into the kitchen. “A small fire upstairs.
She’ll be okay, I think. Would you care for coffee?”
The offer came with a tug of reluctance.
Vivian, however, waved a hand. “No, but thanks
anyway. As long as I’m dressed”—she ran a hand over
her ensemble, which consisted of a black wool suit
with slits in the skirt, a frilly white blouse, sling-back
stiletto heels, and a perky black beret adorned with
faux pearls—“I think I’ll pop over to Norway General
to see Stone Cold Sam.”
“I hear he’s doing well,” Judith said.
“He’s doing wonderfully,” Herself declared, then
giggled behind her hand. “But I feel sooo guilty!”
“About what?”
Vivian giggled again, then made a face. “About the
heart attack. I mean, it wasn’t as if we were doing anything really outrageous.”
Judith’s mouth was agape. “You mean . . . ? Stone
Cold Sam was . . . ah . . . with you when he had the
heart attack?”
Vivian’s false eyelashes fluttered. “With me. Yes.”
SILVER SCREAM 327 “Oh.” Judith gulped. “I see.”
“You’d better not!” Herself said, wagging a finger.
“Naughty of you to peek!” She giggled some more.
“That’s why I feel guilty. I went to see him last night,
and I was so upset I ended up on the wrong floor. I almost panicked when the room I thought was his turned
out to be empty. I was afraid he’d passed away. I practically ran all the way to the elevator. I thought he was
in 706, but it was 906. Silly me.”
An alarm bell went off in Judith’s brain. She stared
at Herself until the other woman stared back with a
puzzled expression.
“What’s wrong, Judith?” Vivian inquired. “You look
like you don’t feel well. I’ve noticed that you haven’t
really looked very good since your surgery. Did it age
you terribly?”
Judith was accustomed to Herself’s barbs, but on
this occasion, they were the least of her worries. “No,”
she said tersely. “I’m just tired. It’s been a difficult
weekend.”
“So it seems.” Vivian reached into her cobra-skin
handbag to retrieve a pair of black kid gloves. “I must
be off. I’ll give Sam your best. By the way, I hope that
nothing was badly burned. Except for those handsome
firefighters on the roof, everything looks fine from outside.”
“It’s not too bad,” Judith said, hoping the statement
might be true.
“Good,” Herself responded. “Toodles.” She departed through the front door on a wave of decadence
and a whiff of Chanel No. 5.
For at least a full minute, Judith stood in the hallway, thinking hard. She had been certain that the per-
328 Mary Daheim son wearing high heels at Norway General was Winifred,
coming to see Angela. She had ruled out Eugenia, who
always wore sensible shoes, and Ellie, who preferred
sandals and sneakers. The idea that Winifred had wanted
to ensure Angela’s silence concerning the source of
Bruno’s cocaine addiction was out the window.
She considered going upstairs to see what was happening on the guest floor. But she didn’t really want to
know. Besides, she was leery of overdoing it with her
hip. The first order of business was almost as painful
as the fire itself: She had to call Ingrid Heffelman to
change the current set of reservations.
With a heavy sigh, Judith looked at the calendar on
the wall above the computer. She hadn’t flipped the
page to November. Saying good-bye to
Sculptor’s Stu- dio, she stared at the new painting. It was Grant
Wood’s
American Gothic. Born 1892 in Anamosa, Iowa, the tag line read,
he taught in the Cedar Rapids public schools and later was an artist in residence at the University of Iowa. Wood was strongly influenced by German and Flemish painters of the . . .
Judith’s brain was going into overdrive, but was
short-circuited by the voice of Battalion Chief
Ramirez, who was calling from the entry hall.
“Everything’s under control,” he said, pulling off his
heavy gloves. “We’ll come by later today to check
things out and see what help we can offer once your
husband has finished talking to your insurance agent.”
Judith thanked the firefighter, then waited on the
porch until the hoses were rolled up and the fire truck
drove away. A small white sedan was pulled up to the
curb by the Rankerses’ driveway. Something about the
vehicle chafed at her memory, but she shrugged it
SILVER SCREAM 329 away. Small white cars were as common as the autumn
fog.
My brain’s in a fog, she thought. Rarely had she
felt so low in her mind.
As the firefighters disappeared out of the cul-de-sac,
Judith heard a sound just off the porch on the other side
of the Weigela bush. Walking down the steps, she
turned the corner and peered through the fog.
A gray-clad figure appeared like a wraith out of the
mists. Judith stood very still, her heart in her mouth.
Then, as the figure came closer, recognition dawned.
“Mrs. Izard!” Judith exclaimed. “What are you
doing here?”
Meg Izard clutched at her imitation-leather purse
with one hand and held the felt picture-frame hat in
place with the other. “Just passing by on our way out
of town,” she said, her usually cold gaze showing a
spark of life. “I didn’t think anybody was home. Walt
and I saw somebody leave the house. We thought it
was you. What’s going on with the firemen?”
“A small fire,” Judith replied. “Guests are sometimes heedless.”
“I’ll bet,” Meg said, looking away toward the
Weigela.
Judith retreated to the bottom of the porch steps.
“Despite the problems we had with your reservation,
do you plan on staying at Hillside Manor when you
visit again?”
“We’ll see about that,” Meg replied with a scowl.
“The weather here’s dismal.”
“September is lovely,” Judith said. “So is early October.”
“September’s no good,” Meg said, adjusting the
round felt hat before her hands tightened again on her
330 Mary Daheim purse. “We never miss the state fair.” She started to
move past Judith on the walk.
“Where’s Mr. Izard?” Judith asked, a hand on Meg’s
arm.
“He’s wandering around, having a smoke,” Meg
replied. “You can’t smoke in these rental cars, you
know.”
“We permit smoking,” Judith said. “Why don’t you
come in for a few minutes? The fog’s supposed to lift
soon. Then driving will be safer, especially in an unfamiliar city.”
“Well . . .” Meg flexed her fingers on the black
purse. “I’ll come in for a bit. Never mind Walt. He’s
happy just moseying around outside.”
Judith led the way into the house. “Have a seat at the
dining-room table,” she offered.
But Meg went straight into the kitchen, where she
fumbled with her purse.
“Would you prefer sitting in here?” Judith inquired.
“No. Just give me a minute to catch my breath.” She
stood by the sink, looking down. After almost a full
minute, she turned and followed Judith into the dining
room. Meg sat down with her purse in her lap and her
shabby gray coat unbuttoned. “I take cream,” she announced.
“Fine,” Judith said, going back into the kitchen. She
fixed Meg’s coffee and poured a glass of orange juice
for herself. “Are you headed for the airport?” she inquired when she was seated at the big oak table.
Meg nodded. “We got a flight out at two. If the fog
lifts.”
“It should,” Judith said. “So you always attend the
Iowa State Fair,” she remarked in a casual tone.
SILVER SCREAM 331 “Haven’t missed it since I was two,” Meg answered
with a hint of pride. “Best fair in the Midwest.”
“Do you and Walt own a farm?” Judith asked.
“A small one, just outside Riceville.” The corners
of Meg’s thin mouth turned down. “Walt’s dad sold
out to one of those combines years ago. They cheated
Mr. Izard. Now we’ve only got some chickens, a couple of cows, and a cornfield. It’s been a struggle, believe me.”
“Farming certainly has changed,” Judith remarked.
“But you must do okay. I mean, you and Walt are able
to take vacations like this one.”
“First time since our honeymoon,” Meg said, with
her usual sour expression. “We wouldn’t have done it
now except it’s our silver wedding anniversary. That,
and with—” She stopped abruptly, her thin shoulders
tensing under the worn wool coat.
Recalling Walt Izard’s gaunt frame, Judith gently
posed a question. “Is your husband ill?”
Meg scowled at Judith. “No. Why do you ask? It’s
none of your beeswax.”
“That’s true,” Judith admitted. “I’m sorry. It’s just
that I’m interested in people. Sometimes it gets me
into awkward situations.”
Meg’s face softened slightly. “Well . . . you can’t do
much about serious sickness. Trouble is, the doctors
can’t either. Folks like us can’t afford big-city specialists like some.”
“Maybe not,” Judith responded, then paused before
speaking again. “Shall I tell you a story?”
“A story?” Meg wrinkled her long nose. “Why do I
want to hear a story?” But a flicker of interest kindled
in her eyes.
332 Mary Daheim “You’ll want to hear this story,” Judith said, placing
her elbows on the table and leaning closer to her guest.
“It’s about a young girl from a small town in Iowa who
fell in love with a romantic young man.”
Meg tensed, her hands tightening on the purse in her
lap. But she said nothing. In Judith’s mind’s eye, she
tried to picture the thin, haggard woman across the
table as a young girl—the girl in the photograph that
lay between the pages of
The Gasman.
“This young man had a vivid imagination,” Judith
continued, “and he wooed her with all the passion of
his creative nature. Unfortunately, the girl got pregnant. Her family insisted on a wedding. Since the
young man had roots in the area, he gave in, and they
were married. His bride made the mistake of believing
he’d keep his vows. She trusted him, even if she
thought his ambitions were out of reach. She couldn’t
understand why farm life in Iowa didn’t suit him. But
he had bigger dreams, and moved on, leaving her behind.” Judith paused, recalling the lock of hair. She
looked Meg right in the eye. “What happened to that
baby, Mrs. Izard?”
Meg sat stony-faced for a long moment. When she
finally spoke, her lips scarcely moved. “He was stillborn. My so-called husband had already left me. I
named the poor baby Douglas, after my father. We
buried him next to Pa in the family plot.”
“I’m sorry,” Judith said softly. “Do you have other
children?”
Meg shook her head. “I couldn’t. Something went
wrong at the time of the birth.”
Now it was Judith’s turn to be silent. The fog
seemed to permeate the kitchen, like a sad, gray pall.
SILVER SCREAM 333 “Your first husband took something else besides your
happiness, didn’t he?” she finally asked.
Meg sat up very straight. “You mean . . . the book?”
Judith nodded. “That’s what you came for earlier
this morning, isn’t it? The book. Your copy of the
book.”
Meg’s jaw dropped, but she recovered quickly.
“That Best woman—she was the one who all but stole
it from us.”
“Not your personal copy, though,” Judith put in.
“Bruno took it with him when he left you, didn’t he?”
“I could have killed him right then and there,” Meg
declared. “Pa’s book was his monument. It was all that
we had left of him, except for the manuscript he never
finished. And no one would buy that one from us.
Foolishly, we let the copyright on
The Gasman run out
in 1985. We thought, what’s the use? There was never
more than the one printing. Then Bruno . . .” She spat
out his name as if it were tainted with gall. “Then he
used the book to make this big, big movie. Winifred
Best had gotten hold of the rights for him. Walt and I
couldn’t believe it when we saw it on a TV show about
Hollywood. Millions of dollars. And we were practically on food stamps. After all those years—thirty-one,
to be exact—that son of a bitch uses Pa’s book to make
himself even more rich and famous.”
“You never forgave Bruno, did you?” Judith asked
quietly.
Meg shook her head decisively. “Never. How could
I? He ruined my life, he destroyed my future,
he stole Pa’s book. It ate at me, like a cancer.”
“Cancer,” Judith repeated. “You have cancer, don’t
you?”
334 Mary Daheim Meg’s body jerked in the chair. “How do you
know?”
“I found a piece of label from a prescription bottle
in Bruno’s room the morning after he died,” Judith
said. “It was for thalidomide. If it wasn’t for Bruno and
it wasn’t for Walt, then it had to be for you. I’d heard
that the drug was being used again, this time for cancer patients. Thalidomide has proved effective in retarding end-stage cancers. I think that scrap of label
was dropped when you were exploring the upstairs.
You didn’t notice because you were too busy destroying Angela’s costume and putting the rubber spider in
Bruno’s bed.”
Meg’s gaze dropped along with her shoulders. “That
medicine helps. But it doesn’t cure. I’ve got blood cancer. Multiple myeloma, if you want to put a fancy
name to it.”
“I’m so sorry,” Judith said, feeling as if she had to
apologize for too many tragedies in Meg’s life. “When
you learned Bruno was premiering his movie here in
town, it must have come as a shock to discover that he
and his company were registered at the same B&B
you’d chosen.”
“Not really,” Meg said on a weary sigh. “It figured.
Our first trip in twenty-five years, and somehow Bruno
managed to foul it up for us. I guess that was the last
straw. It was right after that when I found out about the
cancer.”
The damp air seemed to seep into Judith’s skin; she
felt faintly chilled. The ticking of the schoolhouse
clock sounded unnaturally loud in her ears. For all she
knew, Meg had a gun in her purse. It seemed heavy,
judging from the way Meg held it. Judith braced her-
SILVER SCREAM 335 self before asking the next question. “Did you intend to
kill Bruno?”
Meg smirked before speaking. “Of course I did. I’d
wished him dead every day of my life. But then I saw
him again, after so many years.” She looked away and
bit her lip. “I had to talk to him, to tell him what a
skunk he was, to make him
give me back my book. And
of course money from him would have been nice. I
don’t know how Walt will manage without me. He
hasn’t been the same since the farming went bad.” She
looked away, into the corner of the dining room, with
its quaint washstand, porcelain ewer, and pitcher. Judith thought the sight must have reminded the other
woman of home.
“Bruno was so snotty to me,” Meg went on, “so
mean, like he was after we were married. When I first
began to show with the baby, he called me Spider
Woman. He said that with the big belly and my scrawny
long arms and legs, I reminded him of a spider.”
“How cruel,” Judith said with a shake of her head.
“Bruno sounds as if he was held captive by his ego,
even then.”
“He was nice only in the beginning,” Meg said,
“when he was trying to seduce me. I was so green. I’d
never met anyone like him.”
Judith started to reach out to comfort Meg, but
thought better of it. “Don’t blame yourself,” she said.
“You were a farm girl from a small town. He was in
search of his Iowa roots, and already had the aura of
Southern California about him.” She paused, knowing
that Meg had a need to talk about the confrontation
with Bruno. “Night before last must have been very
hard when you finally faced him again.”
336 Mary Daheim “It was and it wasn’t,” Meg responded, her sharp
features hardening even more. “I was glad that when I
finally saw him, he was feeling miserable. How the
mighty have fallen, I thought to myself. But then he
got nasty. When Bruno went to take some pills he had
in his hand, he opened the cupboard by the sink to
fetch a glass. Then he dropped one of the pills. When
he bent down to get it, he reared up so fast that he
banged his head on the cupboard door and knocked
himself silly. He fell right into the sink with all that
water in it. For a second I thought I should haul him
out.” Her face twisted with bitterness. “Then I thought,
to hell with him. He never cared about me, why should
I care about him? So I held his head under the water
until he stopped flailing around. Then I put the spider
over the sink and left.” Meg’s pallor had a strange
glow. She’d won the final battle with Bruno.
For a long time neither woman spoke. Judith forced
herself not to look in the direction of Meg’s purse.
“Your brother, Will,” Judith said at last, recalling the
information on the Internet. “You mentioned at some
point that he lives here. He’s William Euclid Carp,
isn’t he?” Silently, she cursed herself. She’d never
thought of looking up
Carp in the phone book.
Meg nodded. “He moved out this way a couple of
years ago. He couldn’t stand trying to make a living
selling farm equipment anymore. The market had
fallen out of that, too. I figured that this trip would be
my last chance to see him. Will was real pleased. But
sad. I’d asked him to scout out this place so we could
find it without running around all over a strange city.
By then, we’d been displaced, and knew from you that
Bruno was coming here for his big shindig.”
SILVER SCREAM 337 “Ah!” Judith exclaimed softly. She couldn’t believe
she’d been such a dunce. The tall, old-fashioned figure
she’d seen alongside the house wasn’t Ben Carmody;
it was William Euclid Carp. “But you were the pioneer
woman at the party,” she said. It was a statement, not a
question.
American Gothic, Judith had thought the first
time she’d met the Izards. Gothic, as in grotesque. Out
of the corner of her eye, she could see the calendar
with the Grant Wood painting.
“What else could I be?” Meg replied. “That was
Great-Grandma Carp’s dress and bonnet I found a long
time ago in the attic. I brought it with me. I couldn’t afford a fancy-dress costume. I’d heard about the ball on
TV, and I figured I’d confront Bruno afterward at your
B&B.”
“Did Walt dress up?” Judith inquired. “I don’t recall
seeing him at the party.”
“He never came inside,” Meg said. “He and Will put
together some makeshift costumes. Walt was a scarecrow. Will was a cowboy. Those were easy to do, after
all the scarecrows we’ve had on the farm. Will had
herded cattle for many years. He still had his boots and
his vest and his cowboy hat. They didn’t blame me for
what I’d done, but they fussed. They were afraid I’d be
found out. Will was especially worried, so he and Walt
tried to keep tabs on what was going on here after
Bruno died.”
So the witch wasn’t a witch, but a scarecrow,
thought Judith. Another mistake she’d made, though
understandable. In the fog, the pointed hat, the turnedup shoes, the ragged garments, the strawlike hair, and
the fact that it was Halloween had made the illusion
credible.
338 Mary Daheim “Who found the missing key to Hillside Manor?”
Judith asked.
“Walt.” Meg smiled thinly. “It was in your driveway.
He picked it up on a . . . whim, I guess. I tried to use it
this morning, but before I could make it turn right,
some fat old bag came to the door.”
Judith had another query for Meg. “Why did you hit
Winifred Best and start the fire?”
Meg’s jaw jutted. “I thought she had my book. She
said she didn’t—Bruno had it. But that didn’t make
sense. Bruno was dead, so where did it go? She swore
she didn’t know. That’s when I hit her. Then I went all
through her room, but I couldn’t find the book. I got
mad.” Her eyes grew cold as marble. “I struck a match
and set fire to the bedclothes. That woman may not
have had my book on her, but she’s had Bruno all these
years.
It wasn’t fair.”
Judith tried not to gape. Could Meg still love Bruno
in spite of everything he’d done? Sometimes love and
hate were so hard to distinguish. Maybe it was obsession. Yet Bruno Zepf had inspired love in several
women, perhaps including Winifred Best.
“And there was this,” Meg added, releasing the grip
on her purse. She fumbled a bit before she held out a
black rubber spider. “I came to leave this. Sort of a . . .
what do you call it? A calling card, maybe.”
“An epitaph,” Judith murmured. “Why did you put
the other spiders in our freezer?”
“Walt did that,” Meg said, looking askance. “Don’t
ask why Walt does things. Sometimes I think he’s a
little tetched. Losing his pa’s farm, you know.”
Judith suddenly recalled another seemingly inexplicable incident. “And the truffles that were sent here?”
SILVER SCREAM 339 “Truffles?” Meg scowled. “I don’t know what a
truffle looks like.”
“They’re kind of . . . disgusting,” Judith explained,
“but they taste wonderful.”
Meg continued scowling, then suddenly let out a
sharp yip of laughter. “I sent Bruno a cowpie, straight
off the farm.”
“Oh!” Gertrude had been right to flush the parcel’s
contents down the toilet. “I see.”
Meg toyed with the spider for a moment, then
pushed it across the table to Judith. “Here, you keep it
as a souvenir. What are you going to do now, call the
cops?”
Judith gazed at the gray, gaunt face. Meg Izard was
already condemned to death.
“I have to,” she finally said.
Meg reached into her purse. “Okay,” she said. “But
not yet.” In her hand was a .45 revolver. No doubt it had
been used previously to shoo away unwelcome birds
and even more unwelcome strangers on the Izard farm.
Judith tensed in her chair. Her feet were planted
firmly on the floor, her fingers gripping the table’s
edge. “Why would you shoot me?” she asked in a
voice that didn’t sound like her own.
“I want my book,” Meg said, now holding the gun
with both hands. “Give me my book.”
“Okay.” Judith forced herself to move. “May I?”
“Yes.” Meg stood up. “No tricks, just my book.”
It had never been harder for Judith to walk, not even
when she’d taken her first tenuous steps after hip surgery. Slowly, agonizingly, she made her way to the
drawer by the computer. Keeping one hand in full
sight, she reached down to get the book.
340 Mary Daheim “Here,” she said, still moving with difficulty.
“Here’s your book.”
Meg removed her left hand from the gun and took
the heavy volume from Judith. “Thank you,” she said
with great dignity. She clasped
The Gasman to her flat
breast and slipped the gun back into her purse. “Goodbye.”
Judith stared as Meg walked toward the entry hall.
The other woman moved slowly now, almost decorously, to the front door. Trying to control a sudden
spasm of trembling, Judith started to follow. But Meg
had closed the door behind her before Judith could get
beyond the dining room.
“My God!” Judith exclaimed under her breath, and
leaned against the wall.
She took several breaths before she could go on. Finally, she reached the door just as the shot rang out. Judith had expected it. She didn’t want to look outside,
but she had to.
Meg Izard was lying facedown at the sidewalk’s
edge. Her copy of
The Gasman had fallen in the gutter.
Judith inspected the items on the silver tray and decided to start breakfast with the fruit compote. “How’s
your omelette?” she asked of Joe, who was sitting in a
plush armchair with his tray on his lap.
“Excellent,” he replied. “I couldn’t have made a better one myself. The Cascadia Hotel has one of the best
chefs on the West Coast.”
“I have to admit it,” Judith said with a pleasurable
little smile, “this is heaven.”
“As long as we’ve been turned out of our house, we
might as well make the most of it,” Joe said, his green-
SILVER SCREAM 341 eyed gaze taking in the extensive hotel suite with its
lavish old-world appointments. “Especially since Paradox Studios is paying for it.”
“I can’t believe they ended up paying us,” Judith remarked, admiring the thick slice of Virginia ham on the
white Limoges plate. “Twenty-five thousand dollars,
plus our expenses. And the insurance money for the
fire—I’m wondering if we shouldn’t keep the B&B
closed for a while. Business gets increasingly slow this
time of year. We could make some renovations I’ve
been thinking about.”
“You decide,” Joe said.
“We might even enlarge the toolshed for Mother
now that she’s gotten used to being out of it for a few
days while the major work is being done to the house.”
“I still say all the noise of the construction wouldn’t
have bothered her,” Joe asserted. “She’s deaf, she’s
daffy.”
“She’s also selling her life story to the movies,” Judith pointed out. “At least she hopes so.”
Joe merely shook his head. He didn’t notice that his
wife was staring at him.
“I’m not so hungry anymore,” Judith said softly. She
put the tray aside. “At least not for breakfast.”
“What?” Joe looked up from his marmaladecovered toast. He grinned. “Well, now. Maybe I’m not
either. But do you really want to let things cool off?”
“That depends on what you’re talking about,” Judith
replied.
Joe set his tray down on a French marquetry table
and moved toward her. “You’re right. Seize the moment.” Instead, he climbed onto the king-size bed and
seized his wife around the waist.
342 Mary Daheim “Oh, Joe.” Judith sighed, her lips against his cheek.
“This is perfect!”
A knock sounded at the door.
“Damn!” Judith breathed. “Shall I get it?”
Joe buried his face in the bare curve of her shoulder.
“No,” he said, his voice muffled.
The knock sounded again, louder, more insistent.
“We’d better answer that,” Judith said through
clenched teeth. “Whoever it is will go away fast
enough.” Pulling her terrycloth robe closed, she
slipped off the bed and went to the door.
Gertrude stood in the hallway. “Where’s my breakfast?”
Judith gaped at her mother. “Didn’t you order from
room service?”
“Of course not,” Gertrude shot back. “You know
how I hate to use the phone.” She and her walker
clumped past Judith and into the room. “Lunkhead
here can order for me. And what’s this leaving a newspaper outside my door? I’m not paying for it. I get my
news on TV. Why are people always giving me things
to read that I don’t want? Even that nice Dade Whoozits brought me some goofy script when he was here, all
about the Mormons. Now why would I want to read
such a thing? I’m not a Mormon. I’m a Catholic and a
Democrat. I just put that script in the barbecue and set
a match to it. I think I’ll do the same thing with that
newspaper. It’s not even local.” Gertrude ran out of
breath, but not for long. She glared at Joe.
“Where’s my breakfast?” Judith proffered her own tray. “Here. I’ve lost my
appetite.”
As Gertrude sat down in the armchair Joe had va-
SILVER SCREAM 343 cated, Judith cast a longing look at her husband. Joe
simply shook his head.
“Hey,” Gertrude cried, “where are my dentures?”
“In your mouth,” Judith responded a bit testily.
“Oh.” Gertrude began to eat. After swallowing a
mouthful of omelette, she stared at her daughter.
“Where’s that danged cat?”
“In your room, remember?” Judith said.
“Maybe not,” Joe put in. He gestured at Judith.
“Let’s go look for him.”
Judith started to protest, caught the gleam in Joe’s
eyes, and agreed. They’d search for Sweetums.
“Take your time eating, Mother,” Judith called over
her shoulder as they headed for Gertrude’s adjoining
room.
Hand in hand, Judith and Joe hurried out of the
suite.
If life wasn’t perfect, this was the next best thing.
About the Author
Seattle native MARY RICHARDSON DAHEIM began
reading mysteries when she was seven. She began her
writing career about the same time, but after getting a
journalism degree, she put her skills to use on
newspapers and in public relations. Publishing novels
was always her goal, and she finally hit the racks with
her first B&B mystery in 1991, adding the Alpine series
the next year. Daheim received the Pacific Northwest
Writers Association’s Achievement Award in 2000. She
lives with her husband, David Daheim, in Seattle.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information
on your favorite HarperCollins author.
Praise
“MARY DAHEIM
IS THE REIGNING QUEEN OF THE COZIES” Portland Oregonian “Delightful mysteries.”
Kansas City Star “Daheim writes with wit, wisdom, and a big heart . . .
Judith and Renie are sleuths to treasure.”
Carolyn Hart
“
Silver Scream is a pleasing addition to a joyous series.”
Romantic Times “Like Joan Hess’ Maggody series, Daheim’s bed-and-breakfast mysteries show a funny and often stinging
insight into people’s relationships and behavior.”
Houston Chronicle “Rife with loony Hollywood types, Mary Daheim’s
latest is a ‘Scream.’ ”
Stuart News (Fl.)
“Mary Daheim is one of the brightest stars in our
city’s literary constellation.”
Seattle Times “
Silver Scream is a must read . . . If you’re not
familiar with award-winning author
Mary Daheim, become so.”
I Love A Mystery Bed-and-Breakfast Mysteries by
Mary Daheim
SILVER SCREAM SUTURE SELF
A STREETCAR NAMED EXPIRE CREEPS SUZETTE
LEGS BENEDICT SNOW PLACE TO DIE
WED AND BURIED SEPTEMBER MOURN
NUTTY AS A FRUITCAKE AUNTIE MAYHEM
MURDER, MY SUITE
MAJOR VICES A FIT OF TEMPERA
BANTAM OF THE OPERA DUNE TO DEATH
HOLY TERRORS FOWL PREY
JUST DESSERTS Available in hardcover
HOCUS CROAKUS Copyright This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents,
and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and
are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual
events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SILVER SCREAM. Copyright © 2002 by Mary Daheim. All
rights reserved under International and Pan-American
Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees,
you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable
right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen.
No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or
introduced into any information storage and retrieval
system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or
mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without
the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Adobe Acrobat eBook Reader February 2007
ISBN 978-0-06-135935-4
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Document Outline Title Page
Dedication Page
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
About the Author
Praise
Bed-and-Breakfast Mysteries by Mary Daheim
Copyright Notice
About the Publisher
Table of Contents ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
About the Author
Praise
Other Books by Mary Daheim
Cover
Copyright
About the Publisher
Bed-and-Breakfast Mysteries by
Table of Contents ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
About the Author
Praise
Other Books by Mary Daheim
Cover
Copyright
About the Publisher
Bed-and-Breakfast Mysteries by
