Silver Scream : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

by Mary Daheim

  Judith peered down at the tiny arachnid that was

  scooting toward the edge of the porch. A moment later

  the spider disappeared into the garden.

  “It’s gone,” Judith said, over Bruno’s wails. “That

  is, the very small spider has left the building.”

  Bruno’s head jerked up. “It has? Are you sure?”

  Judith was about to reassure Bruno when Winifred,

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  with Dirk Farrar right behind her, opened the back

  door. Bruno all but collapsed into Winifred’s arms.

  “What’s going on?” she demanded.

  Judith grimaced. “Mr. Zepf saw a spider on the

  porch.”

  “Oh, no!” Winifred looked aghast. Dirk snickered.

  “Does Mr. Zepf have arachnophobia?” Judith asked

  as Bruno’s shudders subsided.

  “Not exactly,” Winifred replied, patting Bruno on

  the back as if he were a frightened child. “They’re bad

  luck.” She managed to disentangle herself and took

  Bruno’s hand. “Come inside, it’s quite safe.”

  Dirk lingered at the door. “Twerp,” he muttered.

  “Chickenhearted twerp.”

  “Why are spiders bad luck?” Judith asked.

  Dirk shrugged his broad shoulders. “Something to

  do with a spider during the shooting of Bruno’s first

  picture. Somehow, one got on the camera lens and ruined a perfect take. The crazy bastard’s never been the

  same since.” He stopped and turned quickly to look

  over his shoulder. No one was there. “Crazy like a fox,

  maybe I should say.” With another shrug, Dirk Farrar

  moved down the hallway.

  Judith went back to the toolshed, where her mother

  was still standing in the doorway.

  “What caused that commotion?” Gertrude asked in

  her raspy voice.

  “The guest you were talking to doesn’t like spiders,”

  Judith explained, steering her mother inside. “He’s

  okay now. Say, what were you doing out in the rain?

  Were you trying to come into the house?”

  “Of course not,” Gertrude huffed. “Why would I do

  that?”

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  Judith eased the old lady into the overstuffed chair

  behind the card table. “You do sometimes.”

  “When Lunkhead’s not there, maybe,” Gertrude allowed, then gave Judith a sly look. “I don’t see his car.

  Maybe I wanted to meet those movie stars, like Francis X. Bushman and Clara Bow.”

  Judith didn’t feel up to adding her mother to the already motley mix. “How about seeing them tomorrow

  when they’re all dressed up and ready to leave for the

  premiere?”

  Gertrude flopped into the chair. “Tomorrow? I could

  be dead by tomorrow.”

  “You won’t be,” Judith assured her mother. “Besides, not all of them have arrived yet.”

  Judging from the pinched expression on Gertrude’s

  face, the effort to reach the house had tired her.

  “Well—okay. Who’s still coming? Theda Bara?”

  Judith gave her mother’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.

  “Someone more recent. I’ll be back with your supper

  in just a bit.”

  The truth was, Judith hadn’t even begun to prepare

  the family meal. Gertrude didn’t mind a TV dinner, but

  Joe was another matter. As soon as the hors d’oeuvres

  were served, she would start the evening meal.

  Arlene, however, had already brought the appetizers

  out to the guests: crab cakes, mushrooms stuffed with

  shrimp, teriyaki beef on skewers, tea sandwiches with

  smoked salmon, and—courtesy of Bruno—an exotic

  caviar from a shop and a city Judith had never heard of.

  “Thanks, Arlene,” Judith said when the two women

  were back in the kitchen. “You saved my life. Now I

  can get dinner.”

  “No need,” Arlene said, opening the oven. “I made

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  a chicken casserole this afternoon. It’s heating right

  now. I put the green salad in the fridge. The homemade

  rolls can be heated up in five minutes.”

  Judith beamed at her friend and neighbor. “Arlene, I

  could kiss you. In fact, I will.” She leaned forward and

  gave Arlene a big smack on the cheek.

  “It’s nothing,” Arlene said, her expression suddenly

  gone sour as it always went when she was complimented for her charity. “I knew you’d have other things

  on your mind. By the way, the last guest just arrived.

  Serena took him upstairs to his room.”

  “The director, Chips Madigan,” Judith murmured.

  “I’d better say hello.”

  But Renie and Chips were already coming back

  down the stairs when Judith reached the entry hall.

  “Hey, coz,” Renie called from over the balustrade,

  “meet the Boy Wonder of the movies.”

  Startled by Renie’s familiarity with the famous director, Judith was even more startled to see the Boy

  Wonder. With his red hair, freckles, and gawky manner, Chips Madigan looked like a college freshman.

  Half stumbling down the stairs, he grinned at his hostess, put out a hand, and almost knocked over a vase of

  flowers with his elbow. He wore a viewfinder around

  his neck, which he put to his eyes as soon as he

  reached the landing.

  “Wow!” Chips cried in excitement. “A great tracking shot into the living room. Bookcases, silver tea

  service, lace curtains—this angle reeks of atmosphere.” He let the viewfinder dangle from his neck

  and loped over to Judith.

  “Hi,” he said with a big smile. “You’re Mrs. Flynn,

  right? This is one swell place you’ve got here.” Chips

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  got down on his haunches, the viewfinder again at his

  eyes. “Great elephant’s-foot umbrella stand. It doesn’t

  have a bad angle.”

  Recalling the critical comments she’d overheard

  from some of the other guests, Judith grinned back.

  “Thank you, Mr. Madigan. I appreciate that.”

  “Hey,” Chips responded, “my mom runs a bed-andbreakfast in Nebraska, right on the Missouri River. It’s

  an old farmhouse. I’ll bet the two of you would get

  along real well.”

  “I’ll bet we would,” Judith agreed. Up close, she

  could see that Chips wasn’t as young as he looked. The

  red hair was thinning and there were fine lines around

  his eyes and mouth. Maybe behind the camera he

  coaxed rather than commanded his actors. Certainly he

  emanated no aura of Hollywood’s legendary directors.

  Judith found Chips Madigan’s friendly, boyish demeanor refreshing. Even endearing, she thought as he

  turned toward the living room, tripped on the Persian

  area rug, and sent his long, lanky frame sprawling

  across the floor.

  “Whoa!” Chips cried. “You’d never know I got my

  start directing musicals!”

  Though both Judith and Renie offered to help, he

  politely brushed off their outstretched hands and

  scrambled to an upright position on his own.

  Judith noticed that none of the guests made the

  slightest move to aid their fallen comrade. Indeed,

>   Chips Madigan’s unorthodox arrival was virtually ignored. Perhaps that was because Bruno Zepf was

  standing in front of the fireplace, obviously over his

  fright and looking like Napoleon about to rally his

  generals.

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  Chips, however, seemed undaunted. With a cocky

  air, he strolled into the living room and plopped down

  on the window seat next to Angela La Belle, who had

  also joined the company. At least three cell phones

  were swiftly turned off. Judith was beginning to wonder if the devices were permanently attached to their

  owners.

  The director’s arrival was apparently a signal for

  Bruno to shift gears. He took a cigar out of the pocket

  of his denim shirt, rolled it around in his pudgy fingers,

  and stuck it in his mouth, unlit.

  “We’re assembled here on an historic occasion in the

  annals of the motion-picture business.” The producer

  paused to gaze around the long living room, from the

  plate rails to the wainscoting. Several of his listeners’

  expressions of distaste indicated that Hillside Manor

  wasn’t worthy of so momentous a pronouncement.

  “As you all know,” he continued after a sip of the

  thirty-year-old Scotch he’d brought with him, “when I

  first conceived The Gasman, most people in the business told me it would be an impossible film to make.

  The scope was too big, the concept too ambitious, the

  goal too lofty, and the movie itself far too expensive

  given the audience we’re aiming for.” He paused again,

  this time gazing at the cousins, who were standing

  under the archway between the entry hall and the living room. “Excuse me, ladies. This is a private meeting. Do you mind?”

  “Not very well,” Renie shot back before Judith

  could interfere.

  “I’m sorry,” Judith broke in, yanking on her cousin’s

  arm. “We were just checking to make sure you had

  everything you needed for the social hour.”

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  Winifred Best glanced at Judith in amusement. “The

  social hour. How quaint.”

  Bruno made a little bow to Judith and Renie. “We

  have everything for now. You may go.”

  Judith shoved Renie back into the entry hall. Renie

  dug in with her heels and came to a dead stop at the

  head of the dining-room table.

  “That egotistical dork is treating us like slaves!” she

  railed. “Who the hell does he think he is? I’ve faced off

  with bigger fish before he came along!”

  Judith knew that her cousin could back up her bluster. In Renie’s graphic design business, she had gone

  up against everybody from Microsweet to the mayor.

  She didn’t always win, but even if she lost, she still

  managed to save face. Renie’s small, middle-aged matron’s appearance was deceptive. It concealed an abrasive manner that, upon occasion, could get physical.

  Which was all the more reason why Judith had to keep

  her cousin out of Bruno’s sight.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Judith said under her

  breath. She loomed over her cousin by a good five

  inches, outweighed her by some forty pounds, yet Judith knew she was outmatched. Renie had had shoulder surgery on the same day that Judith had undergone

  her hip replacement. If nothing else, Renie could still

  run.

  “Hey!” Joe Flynn’s voice cut through the kitchen

  and into the dining room. “What’s going on? Still

  fighting over who has the best Sparkle Plenty doll?”

  Judith backed away from her cousin. Renie’s ire

  evaporated, as it often did after the initial outburst.

  “Not exactly,” Judith said, meeting her husband at

  the swinging doors and giving him a big kiss on the

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  lips. “Boy, am I glad to see you. I’m not sure I’m ready

  for the movies.”

  “What’s wrong?” Joe inquired. “Aren’t your guests

  behaving themselves?”

  “It’s attitude,” Renie said, joining Joe and Judith

  just inside the kitchen. “These creeps are loaded with

  attitude, and some of it’s bad.”

  “Relax,” Joe urged. “Years ago, I made big bucks

  working security for location companies shooting

  around town. I could keep the rabid fans and the

  celebrity seekers and the nutcases away, but I couldn’t

  offer the kind of security they really needed. The problem with these movie types is that they’re basically insecure.”

  “That’s true,” Renie agreed. “Bill says that because

  of the capricious nature of the business and the personalities involved in moviemaking, they’re constantly

  seeking reassurance that they’re loved and wanted. Bill

  sometimes uses feature films to study the behavior

  of—”

  Renie’s latest parroting of her husband’s expertise

  was mercifully interrupted by Arlene, who poked her

  head in the back door. “I took your mother’s supper out

  to her. I’ve got to go home now and feed my darling,

  patient Carl. To the dogs,” she added with a sinister expression.

  “Thanks again, Arlene, I really appreciate . . .” But

  Arlene was gone before Judith could finish the sentence.

  “Have a drink on me, ladies,” Joe offered, taking

  down a bottle of Scotch and a bottle of Canadian

  whiskey from the cupboard. “What are the guests up

  to?”

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  Judith slumped into one of the kitchen chairs. “Listening to how wonderful Bruno is, from Bruno’s own

  lips.”

  “And,” Renie put in, opening the cupboard door by

  the sink to get three glasses, “listening to Bruno tell

  them how marvelous The Gasman is, which I assume

  they already know, having been involved in the making

  of it.” Handing the glasses to Joe, she closed the cupboard door behind her. Or tried to. “Damn! What’s

  with this thing? It won’t stay shut.”

  Judith heaved a sigh. “Mr. Tolvang supposedly fixed

  it when he was here, but the door still swings open on

  its own.” She gave Joe a plaintive look from under her

  dark lashes. “I don’t mean to nag, but I have mentioned

  that you might look at it. I hate to ask Mr. Tolvang.

  He’s so stubborn, he’d probably tell me I was imagining the problem.”

  “I’ll give it a go,” Joe answered airily, handing Judith her Scotch. “I’ve been kind of busy lately.”

  Judith didn’t respond. While Joe was slightly more

  adept at household repairs than Bill, the Flynn to-do

  list was never a priority.

  “So what’s this movie about anyway?” Joe asked.

  “A public utility?”

  “Not exactly,” Renie replied. “Dade Costello—the

  screenwriter—explained the basic plot to me.”

  “That’s more than he did for me,” Judith remarked.

  “Maybe you used the wrong approach,” Renie said.

  “He’s kind of touchy. Sullen, too. Of course I’m used

  to moody writers. Freelancers are the worst. They can’t

  bear to have their precious copy rearranged so it will fit

  the graphics.
Anyway, the bare bones Dade sketched

  out for me involve the entire history of the world as

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  seen through the eyes of a simple gasman. That is, an

  employee who works for a gas company somewhere in

  the Midwest.” Renie paused for effect. “Get it? Everyman in the middle of the country, the center of the universe.”

  “I got it,” Joe murmured into his Scotch.

  “Anyway,” Renie continued, sitting on the counter

  with her glass of Canadian whiskey cradled in her

  lap, “Bruno shows the viewer how certain periods of

  history contributed to our evolution as a civilization.

  He puts a positive spin on it, concentrating on early

  forms of writing, the invention of paper, the printing

  press, and so forth. Thus, he jumps from ancient

  Egypt and China all the way up to the present. The

  only problem that I can see is that it takes him four

  hours to do it.”

  “Wow,” said Judith. “I knew it was a long movie, but

  isn’t that too long?”

  “There’s an intermission,” Renie responded. “I

  gather Bruno wanted to do a real epic, sort of the upside of D. W. Griffith’s Intolerance.”

  “I’ll wait for the video,” Joe said. “I prefer scheduling my own snack and bathroom breaks.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Renie said, “except that you’ll

  miss the spectacle unless you see it on a big screen.”

  Joe shrugged. “I’ll use my imagination. Besides,

  how spectacular can it be watching Gutenberg set type

  in his basement?”

  The question went unanswered as Winifred Best entered the kitchen. “Where are the truffles?” she demanded. “Bruno must have his truffles. Served raw, of

  course, with rosy salt. I assume you know how to prepare rosy salt?”

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  Joe’s expression was benign. “Three parts salt, two

  parts paprika, one part cayenne pepper.”

  Judith was always amazed by her husband’s knowledge of fine cuisine. But she looked blankly at

  Winifred. “I don’t recall seeing any truffles. Were they

  shipped with the caviar and the other delicacies?”

  Winifred’s thin face was shocked. “No! They were

  shipped separately. Périgord truffles, from France.

  They should have arrived this afternoon.”

  Judith thought back to Phyllis’s comment about the

  delivery truck that may or may not have stopped at

  Hillside Manor. “I’ll check,” she said.

  “You certainly will,” Winifred snapped. “And you’ll