Daheim Mary

Silver Scream : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

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

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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-

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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

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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

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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

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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.

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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,

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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

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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.

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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

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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

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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

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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.”

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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.

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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.

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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.”

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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.

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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.”

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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.

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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

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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

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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.”

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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

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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

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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

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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.

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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

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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.”

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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.”

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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?”

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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.”

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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?”

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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?”

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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.

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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

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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

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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,

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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.

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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

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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.”

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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—”

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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

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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.

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“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.

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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

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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

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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

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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.

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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.”

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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

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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

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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.”

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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.”

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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.

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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?”

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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?”

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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,

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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.”

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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,

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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?”

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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

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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.”

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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

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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

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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.

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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.”

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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.

*

*

*

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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

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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

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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.”

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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.”

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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.”

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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.

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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.”

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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.”

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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

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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.

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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

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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

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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.”

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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

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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.

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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

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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

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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

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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.

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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

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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?”

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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?”

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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

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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?”

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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

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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.”

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“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

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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

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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?”

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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.”

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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

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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

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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.

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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?”

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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.

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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.

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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

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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

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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.”

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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?”

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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.”

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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.

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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.”

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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

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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.

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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.”

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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

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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

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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

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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?”

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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.

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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

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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

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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.

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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

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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.”

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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.

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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.”

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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

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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?

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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.

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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.

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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

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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

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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.

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“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

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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

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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

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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.”

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“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

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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.

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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.”

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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

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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.

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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

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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

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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

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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.”

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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.

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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.”

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“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

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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?”

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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

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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

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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

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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.

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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?”

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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

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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.

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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.”

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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?”

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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

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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?”

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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.”

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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.”

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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?”

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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.

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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

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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,

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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

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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.”

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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.

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“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!”

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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

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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

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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.”

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“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

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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

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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

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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.”

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“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

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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?”

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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.”

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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

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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

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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?”

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“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

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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?”

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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

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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.”

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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.”

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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.

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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.”

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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

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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.

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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.”

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“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

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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.”

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“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.

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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

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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.”

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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

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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

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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!”

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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.

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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

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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

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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?”

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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.

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“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

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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.

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“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?”

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“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

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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

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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?”

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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.”

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“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

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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

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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.

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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

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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.

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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

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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

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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,

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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

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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.”

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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.

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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!”

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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.”

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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,

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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.”

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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

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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

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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.

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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.

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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?”

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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.”

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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.

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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

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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http://www.harpercollinsebooks.com

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

Content

Daheim Mary Silver Scream : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery