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