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?”
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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
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Mary Daheim
for the Hollywood guests. I’ve never eaten them, but I
guess they’re extremely delicious.”
Gertrude gave Judith an elbow. “Go on with you!
Nobody, not even those movie people, would eat anything that looked so foul.”
“I’m afraid they would—and do,” Judith replied. At
least they would if the truffles weren’t floating somewhere in the city’s sewer system. “Don’t worry about
it, Mother. It’s not your fault.”
“Of course it isn’t,” Gertrude huffed. “What are they
having for supper? Bacteria?”
Judith couldn’t discuss the matter further. She
headed back into the house, trying to come up with one
of her well-intentioned fibs to stave off the wrath of
Winifred and the rest of Bruno’s party.
As Judith entered the kitchen, Joe was answering
the phone. She gave him a questioning look, but he
shook his head. “It’s Bill,” he said, handing the receiver to Renie.
Winifred was waiting under the archway between
the entry hall and the living room. “Well?” she demanded, tapping a toe on the bare oak floor.
“The truffles were stolen,” Judith said. “A bushyhaired stranger burst into my mother’s apartment and
grabbed them off the table. He fled through the hedge
on foot.”
“What?”
Judith nodded several times. “I’ll notify the police at
once.”
Winifred looked homicidal. She also seemed incredulous. And, in fact, she was speechless.
Ben Carmody came to her side. “The truffles were
SILVER SCREAM
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.
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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
Ju
dith 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.
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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