Silver Scream : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery Read online

  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

  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 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