by Mary Daheim
heard Arlene. He had already moved on to shake
Renie’s hand without ever looking right at her, and was
now in the entry hall, surveying his new surroundings.
Such was his air of possession that Judith felt as if
she’d not only rented Bruno a room but sold him the
entire house.
Judith had to force herself to take her eyes off the
great man and greet the other guests. She immediately
recognized Dirk Farrar and Angela La Belle, whose famous faces had appeared in a series of hit movies. Judith had actually seen two of their films, on video. Just
as the pair reached the porch, Judith noticed that
Naomi Stein had come out of her house on the corner
and Ted Ericson was pulling into his driveway across
the street.
As Ted got out of his car, Dirk Farrar also saw the
newcomers. “Beat it, scumbags!” he yelled. “No paparazzi!” Pushing past Angela La Belle and the threewoman welcoming team, he disappeared into the
living room.
With a faint sneer on her face, Angela La Belle ignored the gawking neighbors along with her fellow
actor and proceeded up the front steps.
“Ms. La Belle,” Judith said, gathering her aplomb,
“I so enjoyed your performance in”—her mind went
blank—“your last movie.”
SILVER SCREAM
29
Angela’s face, which seemed so angelic on the screen,
wore a chilly smile. “Thanks. Where’s the john?”
“Straight ahead,” Renie said, pointing to the new
door that Skjoval Tolvang had recently installed.
Judith was left to confront a somewhat less familiar
face. She racked her brain to recall who else was on
Bruno’s guest list.
“Hi, Mr. Carmody,” Renie said, coming to the rescue. “My husband and I were sorry you didn’t win
Best Supporting Actor this year. You were a really
great villain in To Die in Davenport.”
“Thanks,” Ben Carmody replied with what appeared
to be a genuine smile. “Face it, I was up against some
pretty tough competition.”
Judith was startled by Carmody’s benign appearance. She was so used to seeing him as the embodiment of evil that she scarcely recognized him. He was
tall and lean, much better looking in person than on the
screen. Judith shook Ben Carmody’s hand and also received a warm smile.
Like Dirk Farrar, the next arrival ignored Judith and
the others. Unlike Dirk, the pencil-thin black woman
in the gray Armani suit glided over the threshold as if
she had wheels on her Manolo Blahnik pumps. Once
inside, she joined Bruno Zepf, who had migrated into
the front parlor. The woman closed the parlor door behind her, leaving the cousins and Arlene staring at each
other.
Last but not least was a small, exotic creature who
apparently was communing with the squirrels in the
maple tree near the front of the house.
“Who is that?” Arlene inquired, her pretty face perplexed. “She reminds me of someone.”
30
Mary Daheim
“Ellie Linn-MacDermott,” Renie said. “Except I
think she’s dropped the MacDermott.”
“Y-e-s,” Arlene said slowly, “that’s who she reminds
me of. Ellie Linn-MacDermott. I’ve seen Ellie in two
or three movies. Funny, this girl’s a dead ringer for
her.”
“She is Ellie Linn,” Renie responded, making way
for the chauffeurs, who were carrying in the luggage.
“She has a role in The Gasman.”
“Oh!” Arlene’s hand flew to her mouth and her blue
eyes widened in surprise. “Of course! The actress! Or
is it hot dogs?”
“Both,” said Renie, then jumped out of the way as
the wheels of a large suitcase almost ran over her foot.
“Her father, Heathcliffe MacDermott, is the Wienie
Wizard of the Western World.”
Arlene again looked puzzled. “But this girl . . .” She
waved an arm toward the young woman who was trying to coax one of the squirrels down from the maple
tree. “She looks Chinese.”
“Her mother’s from Hong Kong,” Renie said. “Or
Shanghai. Or someplace like that.”
Judith excused herself to show the drivers where to
stow the luggage upstairs. When she started down
again, Angela La Belle met her on the second landing.
“Where’s my room?” she asked, blinking big brown
eyes that were offset by long lashes that might or might
not have been her own. The lashes, like the eyes, were
dark, and made a striking contrast with the actress’s
waist-length blond hair.
“Um . . .” Judith hesitated. “Let me get the room
chart. I’ll be right back. There’s a settee in the hallway
and a phone, if you need it.”
SILVER SCREAM
31
Without any response, Angela passed on to the second floor. Judith hurried to fetch the room chart, which
she’d left on the entry-hall table. The only thing she remembered was that Bruno Zepf had the largest room,
Number Three, to himself, though he shared the bathroom with Room Four. Judith couldn’t believe that she
was so rattled by a bunch of Hollywood hotshots. After
ten years in the hostelry business, she thought she’d
met just about every type of person from every level of
society. Maybe she was more impressionable than she
realized.
Swiftly, Judith tabulated the guests who had arrived
so far. Unless she was mistaken, at least one of the
members of Bruno’s party hadn’t shown up yet.
“Psst!” Renie hissed from the hallway. “We’re on
the job.”
Judith turned sharply. “You are? Doing what?”
“Plying your guests with adult beverages,” Renie
replied. “Or, in some cases, the freshest of springwaters and a vegetable drink that looks like a science
experiment.”
“Thanks, coz,” Judith said with a grateful smile.
“Thank Arlene for me, too. I’ll be right with you.”
Checking the chart, Judith noted that Winifred Best,
Bruno’s special assistant, was slotted for Room One.
Since there were only three women in the party and Judith had recognized the two actresses, Winifred must
be the Armani-clad black woman who had sailed into
the house and closeted herself with Bruno.
Dirk Farrar and Ben Carmody were sharing Room
Four. Judith wondered how—and why—they’d put up
with such an arrangement. The same could be said for
Angela La Belle and Ellie Linn, who would be staying
32
Mary Daheim
in Room Six. Of course it was only for two nights. Perhaps the proximity to Bruno was worth the sacrifice.
Still, Judith wasn’t accustomed to such self-effacement
among the Well-Heeled.
Room Five had been assigned to The Gasman’s director, Chips Madigan; the film’s screenwriter, Dade
Costello, was set for Room Two, the smallest of the
lodgings. Chart in hand, Judith went back upstairs to
find Angela La Belle.
“Room Six,” Judith said with a cheerful smile.
Angela was sprawled on the settee in the hallway,
leafing
through one of the magazines Judith kept
handy for guests. “Okay.” The actress didn’t look up.
“Your key,” Judith said, reaching into the pocket of
her best black flannel slacks. “I’ll give the other one to
Ms. Linn.”
“Fine.” Angela still didn’t look up.
“Your baggage is right there,” Judith said, pointing
to the piled-up suitcases and fold-overs the drivers had
placed in front of Grandma and Grandpa Grover’s old
oak book shelving. “Only Mr. Zepf’s has been put
away because I wasn’t exactly sure who was staying
where. Some of his belongings arrived earlier today
via UPS.”
Angela yawned. “Right.”
Judith gave up and headed past Rooms Four, Five,
and Six to the back stairs. She wanted to pop the appetizers into the oven before she joined her other guests.
Halfway down, she realized she hadn’t given Angela
the front door key along with the one to her room.
Though her hips were growing weary, Judith hurried
back to the second floor.
The settee was empty, the magazine that Angela had
SILVER SCREAM
33
been perusing lay on the floor. Judith frowned. Could
Angela have already collected her luggage and gone
into Room Six so quickly?
The stacks of baggage sat untouched. But the door
to Room Three, Bruno’s room, was ajar.
“Hunh,” Judith said to herself. When she picked up
the copy of In the Mode magazine, she noticed that it
was open to a spread on a recent Hollywood gala. The
large color photo on the left-hand page showed Dirk
Farrar and Angela La Belle with their arms around
each other. The caption read, Super Hunk and the Ul-
timate Babe get cozy at the annual Stars for Scoliosis
Ball. Are Dirk and Angela hearing La Wedding Belles?
Judith wondered if Angela and Dirk had no intention of staying in different rooms.
THREE
RENIE AND ARLENE seemed to have everything under
control. Arlene already claimed to have formed a
fast friendship with Ellie Linn, and insisted that Ben
Carmody would be the perfect husband for her unmarried daughter, Cathy.
“They’re not snooty,” Arlene declared, putting
another batch of puff pastries into the oven. “You
just have to go about it the right way when it comes
to asking questions. For example, when I spoke to
Dirk Farrar about the paternity suit that was in the
news a year ago, I mentioned how wonderful it was
to be a parent. Then I asked how he liked being
called Daddy. So simple.”
“What did he say?” Judith inquired.
“Oh, it was very cute,” Arlene replied breezily.
“He sort of hung his head and mumbled something
about ‘mother’ and ‘Tucker.’ I think he said
‘Tucker.’ That must be the little fellow’s name.”
The cousins exchanged bemused glances before
Judith carried a tray of French pâté and English
crackers into the living room. Dirk Farrar, with a cell
phone affixed to his ear, lazed on one of the matching sofas by the fireplace while Ellie Linn and
SILVER SCREAM
35
Winifred Best sat opposite him. Winifred was also
using a cell phone. Ben Carmody was examining the
built-in bookcases next to the bay window. A big shambling man in khaki cargo pants, plaid shirt, and suede
vest had his back turned and was staring out through
the French doors. There was no sign of Bruno Zepf.
Judith cleared her throat. “I’ll be serving the hors
d’oeuvres in just a few minutes,” she announced.
Only Ben Carmody looked at her. “Sounds good.
I’m kind of hungry.”
Winifred Best’s head twisted around. “You should
have eaten more of Bruno’s buffet on the plane. You
know he always serves excellent food.”
With an off-center grin, Ben shrugged. “I wasn’t
hungry then.”
Renie, who had been out in the kitchen with Arlene,
joined Judith. “Hey, coz,” she said brightly, “have you
met Dade Costello, the screenwriter for The Gasman?
He’s been telling me all about the script.”
Judith nodded toward the big man by the French
doors. Renie’s nod confirmed his identity.
“I’ll introduce myself,” Judith murmured. Passing
through the living room, she caught a few cutting remarks:
“. . . worse than that no-star hotel in Oman . . .”
“. . . If I’d wanted to stay in a phone booth, I’d prefer it was in Paris. . . .”
“. . . bath towels like sandpaper. Whatever happened
to plush nubbiness? Atlanta was nubby, but Miami was
the nubbiest . . .”
Wincing, Judith arrived at Dade Costello’s elbow
before he turned around. “I’m Judith Flynn,” she said,
putting out a hand. “Your innkeeper.”
36
Mary Daheim
“That right?” Dade shook Judith’s hand without enthusiasm. Or maybe because he was so big, he’d
learned to be gentle with somewhat smaller creatures.
“Yes.” Judith’s smile felt false. “I’m interested in
the story behind The Gasman. Your story, that is.”
Dade’s ordinary features looked pained. He had
bushy dark hair dusted with gray, and overly long sideburns. “It’s not my story,” he said, with a trace of the
Old South in his voice.
“Oh.” Judith’s phony expression turned to genuine
confusion. “I thought you wrote the script.”
“I did.” Dade stuck his hands in his pockets. “But
the story isn’t the script.”
Judith waited for an explanation, but none was
forthcoming. “You mean . . . you adapted the story?”
Dade nodded. “My script was based on a novel.”
“I see.” Judith understood that this was often the
case. “Did the book have the same title?”
Again, Dade nodded, but offered no details. For a
man of words, Dade Costello didn’t seem to have
many at his command in a social situation. Maybe, Judith thought, that was why writers wrote instead of
talked.
“I never heard of the book,” she admitted. “Was it
published recently?”
This time, Dade shook his head. “No. It’s been
around awhile.”
“Oh.” Now Judith seemed at a loss to make conversation. She was about to excuse herself when Dade
rapped softly on one of the panes in the French doors.
“There’s a head in your backyard,” he said.
Judith gave a start. “What?”
Dade’s thumb gestured out past the porch that
SILVER SCREAM
37
flanked the rear of the house. “A head. It’s been sitting
there for at least five minutes.”
Judith tried not to shriek. “Where?”
“There.” Dade pointed to a spot almost out of their
line of vision. “See it? On top of those bushes.”
Judith stared. “Oh!” she exclaimed in relief. “That’s
not a head, it’s my mother. I mean . . .” With a rattle of
the handle, she opened the French doors. “Excuse me,<
br />
I’d better see what she’s doing out there.”
Despite the rain, Gertrude wore neither coat nor
head covering. She stood next to the lily-of-the-valley
bush, leaning on her walker and panting. At the foot of
the porch steps, Bruno Zepf hovered in the shelter of
the eaves with his head cocked to one side.
“So,” Bruno was saying to Gertrude, “you actually
survived the Titanic’ s sinking?”
“You bet,” Gertrude replied, catching her breath.
“It’s a good thing I could swim.”
“Mother!” Judith spoke sharply as she moved to
take Gertrude’s arm. “It’s raining. What are you
doing out here?” She darted a glance at Bruno. “Excuse me, Mr. Zepf, but my mother shouldn’t be outdoors without a coat or a rain hat. I’ll take her back
inside.”
But Gertrude batted Judith’s hand away. “Stop that!
I’m not finished yet with this fine young Hollywood
fella.”
Bruno, however, held up a hand. “That’s all right,
Mrs. . . . ?”
“Grover,” Gertrude put in and shook a crooked finger. “You remember that when you make the movie
about me.”
Bruno forced a chuckle as Judith tried to move her
38
Mary Daheim
mother along the walk toward the toolshed. “The problem is,” Bruno called after them, “someone else already made a movie about the Titanic not very long
ago.”
Gertrude refused to move another inch. “What?”
“Yes,” Bruno responded, backing up the porch
steps. “It was a big success, an Oscar winner.”
“I’ll be,” Gertrude muttered, allowing Judith to
make some progress past the small patio. Then the old
lady suddenly balked and turned around to look at
Bruno Zepf. “Hey! Did I tell you about being on the
Hindenburg?”
“Keep moving,” Judith muttered. “We’re both getting wet.”
“You always were all wet,” Gertrude grumbled, but
shuffled along the walk under her daughter’s guiding
hand. “Who was that guy? Cecil B. DeMille?”
“No, Mother,” Judith replied as an agonized scream
erupted from behind her. She turned to see Bruno Zepf
clutching at the screen door and writhing like a madman.
“I can’t get in! I can’t get in!” he howled.
Abandoning Gertrude, Judith rushed to the back
porch. “What’s wrong? What is it?”
Bruno swung his head to one side. “There! By your
foot! It’s a spider! Help!”