by Mary Daheim
an ox. You know how hearty those Scandinavians are.”
“Like our daughter-in-law,” Joe acknowledged,
opening the evening paper, which Judith had retrieved
earlier from the front porch.
“Yes,” Judith said in a contemplative voice. Kristin
was not only big and beautiful, but so infuriatingly
competent that her mother-in-law was occasionally intimidated. “Yes,” she repeated. “Formidable, too. What
is she not?”
The front doorbell rang, making Judith jump. “The
guests! They’re part of a tour, here for two nights. I
didn’t think they’d arrive until five-thirty.” She dashed
out through the swinging doors between the kitchen
and the dining room to greet the newcomers.
The tour group, consisting of a dozen retirees from
eastern Canada, were on the last leg of a trip that had
started in Toronto. Some of them looked as if they
were on their last legs, too. Judith escorted them to
their rooms, made sure everything was in order, and informed them that the social hour began at six. To a
man—and woman—they begged off, insisting that
they simply wanted to rest before going out to dinner.
The bus trip from Portland had taken six hours, a result
of summer highway construction. They were exhausted. They didn’t need to socialize, having been
cheek by jowl with each other for the past three weeks.
Indeed, judging from some of the glares that were ex- SILVER SCREAM
9
changed, they were sick of each other. Could they
please be allowed to nap?
Judith assured them they could. Cancellation of the
social hour meant that she, too, could take it easy. Following hip replacement surgery in January, Judith still
tired easily. But before taking a respite, she had to call
the Kidds and the Izards to inform them that their
reservations were being changed because of unforeseen circumstances.
Joe had just opened his second Harp when Judith returned to the kitchen. She observed the top of his head
behind the sports section and smiled to herself. There
was more gray in his red hair, and in truth, there was
less of either color. But to Judith, Joe Flynn was still
the most attractive man on earth. She had waited a
quarter of a century to become his wife, but the years
in between seemed to have faded into an Irish mist. On
the way to the computer, she paused to kiss the top of
his head.
“What’s this rash outbreak of affection?” Joe asked
without glancing up.
“Just remembering that I love you,” Judith said lightly.
“Do you need reminding?”
“No.”
She noted the Kidds’ number in Appleton, Wisconsin, and dialed. They were repeat customers, having
come to Hillside Manor six years earlier. Judith hated
to cancel them.
Alice Kidd answered the phone on the second ring.
Judith relayed the doleful news and apologized most
humbly. “You’ll be put up at a lovely B&B which will
be convenient to everything. Ms. Heffelman will contact you in a day or two with the specifics.”
10
Mary Daheim
“Well, darn it all anyway,” Mrs. Kidd said with a
Midwestern twang. “We so enjoyed your place. How is
your mother? Edgar and I thought she was a real doll.”
A voodoo doll perhaps, Judith thought. “Mother’s
fine,” she said aloud. “Of course her memory is sometimes iffy.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Kidd said in a quiet voice. “Edgar’s
mother is like that, too. So sad. My own dear mother
passed away last winter.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Judith said.
Alice Kidd acknowledged the expression of sympathy, then paused. “You’re certain we’ll be staying in as
nice a B&B as yours?”
“Definitely,” Judith declared. Ingrid wouldn’t let her
down. She’d better not. An inferior establishment
wouldn’t be a credit to Judith or to the association Ingrid guarded like a military sentry. “Maybe even
nicer.”
“I doubt that,” Mrs. Kidd said as if she meant it.
“You’re very kind,” Judith responded. “We’ll be in
touch.”
Next she dialed the number of Walt and Meg Izard
in Riceville, Iowa. A frazzled-sounding woman answered the phone.
“Mrs. Izard?” Judith inquired.
“Yeah, right. Who is this? We’re watching TV.”
“I’m sorry,” Judith said, then identified herself as
the owner of Hillside Manor.
“What’s that?” Mrs. Izard snapped. “A rest home?
Forget it.”
“Wait!” Judith cried, certain that Meg Izard was
about to slam down the receiver. “I own the bed-andbreakfast you’re staying at in October. The nights of
SILVER SCREAM
11
the twenty-ninth, thirtieth, and thirty-first. I’m afraid
there’s been a change.”
“A change?” Meg Izard sounded perplexed. “In
what? The dates? We can’t change. We’re celebrating
our twenty-fifth anniversary.”
“The change affects your lodgings,” Judith explained. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to accommodate
you that weekend.”
“Why not?” Meg’s voice had again turned harsh.
“You got the Queen of England staying there?”
“Not exactly,” Judith replied. “I’ve had to rearrange
my schedule. Unfortunately, there’s a movie crew
coming for a big premiere.”
“Movies!” Meg exclaimed. “Who’d pay five dollars
to see a movie when they can watch it on TV a year
later? Who cares? We like our sitcoms better anyway.
They make Walt laugh, which isn’t easy to do these
days.”
Riceville, Iowa, must indeed be rural if they only
charged five bucks for a first-run film, Judith thought.
“It’s a big event,” she said, with a need to defend herself. “Bruno Zepf is opening his new epic, The Gas-
man, here in town.”
There was a long pause at the other end. Finally,
Mrs. Izard spoke again: “Never heard of him.”
“I don’t know much about Mr. Zepf, either,” Judith
admitted in an effort to appease the disgruntled Mrs.
Izard. “You’ll be hearing from Ingrid Heffelman soon
to make sure you’re put up in a very nice inn.”
“Hunh.” Meg paused. “Okay, we’ll stay tuned. But
this Heffelbump woman better call soon. October’s not
that far away.”
It was two months away, Judith thought, but didn’t
12
Mary Daheim
argue. She was beginning to feel grateful that the Izards
wouldn’t be staying at Hillside Manor. Trying to remain
gracious, she rang off. The Kidds and the Izards had
been disposed of; she needn’t worry about Bruno Zepf
and his movie people for two months. The waning summer and the early fall should be relatively uneventful.
It was typical of Judith that, as Cousin Renie would
say, she would bury her head in the sand. On that warm
August evening, she dug deep and tried to blot out
some of life’s less pleasant incidents.
One of them was Skjoval Tolvang. The tall, sinewy
old handyman with his stubborn nature and unshakable
convictions had already made some improvements to
Hillside Manor. He had repaired the sagging front
steps, replaced the ones in back, rebuilt both chimneys,
which had been damaged in an earthquake, inspected
the electrical wiring, and put in what he called a
“super-duper door spring” to keep the kitchen cupboard from swinging open by itself. What was left involved rehanging the door to the first-floor powder
room and checking the toolshed’s plumbing.
Judith came a cropper with the bathroom repair. On
the first day of September, Mr. Tolvang showed up
very early. It was not yet six o’clock when he banged
on the back door. Joe was in the shower and Judith had
just finished getting dressed. The noise was loud
enough to be heard in the third-floor family quarters,
and thus even louder for the sleeping guests on the second floor.
“Damn!” Judith breathed, hurrying down the first
flight of stairs. “Double damn!” she breathed, taking
the back stairs to the main floor as fast as she could
without risking a fall.
SILVER SCREAM
13
“By early,” she said, yanking open the back door, “I
thought you meant seven or eight.”
“Early is early,” the handyman replied. “Isn’t this
early, pygolly?”
“It’s too early for me to have made coffee,” Judith
asserted. “You’ll have to wait a few minutes.”
But Skjoval Tolvang reached into his big toolbox
and removed a tall blue thermos. “I got my medicine to
get me going. I vas up at four.”
Coffee fueled the handyman the way gasoline propels cars. He never ate on the job, putting in long, arduous days with only his seemingly bottomless
thermos to keep him going.
“I’m a little worried,” Judith said, pouring coffee
into both the big urn she used for guests and the family coffeemaker. “Having a bathroom just off the entry
hall may no longer be up to city code.”
“Code!” Skjoval coughed up the word as if he’d
swallowed a bug. “To hell vith the city! Vat do they
know, that bunch of crackpot desk yockeys? They be
lucky to find the bathroom, let alone know vhere to put
it!”
“It was only a thought,” Judith said meekly.
“You vorry too much,” Skjoval declared, putting the
thermos back into his toolbox. “I don’t need no hassles. I quit.”
It wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last, that
the handyman had quit over some quibble. Skjoval
never lacked for work. He was good and he was cheap.
But he was also temperamental.
Judith knew the drill, though it wasn’t easy to repeat
at six-ten in the morning. She pleaded, groveled, cajoled, and used all of her considerable charm to get
14
Mary Daheim
Skjoval to change his mind. Ultimately, he did, but it
took another ten minutes.
Luckily, the rest of the week and the Labor Day
weekend went smoothly. It was only the following Friday, when Skjoval was finishing in the toolshed, that
another fracas took place.
“That mother of yours,” Skjoval complained, wiping sweat from his brow as he stood on the back porch.
“She is Lucifer’s daughter. I hang the bathroom door
yust fine, but vhy vill she not let me fix the toilet?”
“I don’t know,” Judith replied. Indeed, she had been
afraid that Gertrude and Mr. Tolvang would get into it
before the job was done. Given their natures, it seemed
inevitable. “Did she give you a reason?”
“Hell, no,” the handyman shot back, “except that
she be sitting on the damned thing.”
“Oh.” Judith frowned in the direction of the toolshed. “I’ll talk to her.”
“Don’t bother,” Skjoval snapped. “I quit.”
“Please, Mr. Tolvang,” Judith begged, “let me
ask—”
But the handyman made a sharp dismissive gesture.
“Never you mind. I don’t vant to see that old bat no
more. She give me a bad time all veek. Let her sit on
the damned toilet until her backside falls off.” Skjoval
yanked the painter’s cap from his head and waved it in
a threatening manner. “I go now, you call me if she
ever acts like a human being and not a vitch.” He
stomped off down the drive to his pickup truck, which
was piled with ladders, scaffolding, and all manner of
tools.
Judith gritted her teeth and headed out under the
golden September sun. Surely her mother would coop- SILVER SCREAM
15
erate. The toilet needed plunging; Gertrude threw all
sorts of things into it, including Sweetums. It was either Skjoval Tolvang for the job or a hundred bucks to
Roto-Rooter.
Gertrude wasn’t on the toilet when Judith reached
the toolshed. Instead, she was sitting in her old mohair
armchair, playing solitaire on the cluttered card table.
“Hi, Toots,” Gertrude said in a cheerful voice.
“What’s up, besides that old fart’s dander?”
“Why wouldn’t you let Mr. Tolvang plunge the toilet?” Judith demanded.
“Because I was using it, that’s why.” Gertrude
scooped up the cards and put them in her automatic
shuffler. “When’s lunch?”
“You ate lunch two hours ago,” Judith responded,
then had an inspiration. “Why don’t you come inside
with me? I’m going to make chocolate-chip cookies.”
Gertrude brightened. “You are?”
“Yes. Let me give you a hand.”
Judith was helping her mother to the door when
Skjoval Tolvang burst into the toolshed.
“You got spies,” he declared, banging the door behind him. “Building inspectors, ya sure, you betcha.”
Judith’s dark eyes widened. “Really? Where?”
“In the bushes,” Skjoval replied. “Spying.”
“Here,” Judith said, gesturing at Gertrude, “help my
mother into the house. I’ll go check on whoever’s out
there.”
But Gertrude balked. “I’m not letting this crazy old
coot touch me! He’ll shove me facedown into the barbecue and light it off.”
“Then stay here,” Judith said crossly, and guided her
mother back to the armchair.
16
Mary Daheim
“Hey!” Gertrude shouted. “What about those
cookies?”
But Judith was already out the door. “Where is this
inspector or whoever?” she asked of Mr. Tolvang.
“By them bushes,” the handyman answered, nodding at the azaleas, rhododendrons, and roses that
flanked the west side of the house. “Making trouble,
mark my vords.”
“I wonder,” Judith murmured, heading down the
driveway.
There was, however, no one in sight. She moved on
to the front of the house. An unfamiliar white car was
parked in the cul-de-sac. There were no markings on it.
Judith moved on to the other side of the house.
A tall man in a dark suit and hat stood between the
h
ouse 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