Silver Scream : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

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

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  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.”

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  “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

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  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

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  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.

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  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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  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

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  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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  “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

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  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