Silver Scream : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

by Mary Daheim

  rearranged the toiletry articles by the sink. A bit of

  white powder floated up into the air and made her

  sneeze again.

  Judith looked at herself in the mirror. Ellie Linn had

  almond-colored skin. Winifred Best’s complexion was

  the color of milk chocolate. Angela La Belle was fair,

  but not that fair. None of them would have worn such

  a pale shade of face powder.

  “Joe,” she called from the entry hall, “come here. I

  want you to see something.”

  Joe, who’d just dumped what he estimated to be

  about three hundred dollars’ worth of uneaten hors

  d’oeuvres into the garbage, came in from the kitchen.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “You used to work vice years ago,” Judith said,

  pointing to a small film of white powder at the edge of

  the sink. “Is that what I think it is?”

  Joe ran his finger in the dusty residue, then tasted it.

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s what you think it is. Cocaine.”

  “Damn!” Judith swore. “I suppose it’s to be expected.”

  Joe nodded. “I’m afraid so. Too many Hollywood

  types get mixed up with this stuff.”

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  She sighed. “Well, it’s only for one more night.”

  He chucked his wife under the chin. “That’s right.

  Face it, they’re probably not the first guests you’ve

  hosted who’ve had a habit.”

  “That’s true.” Judith gave Joe a weary smile. “I’ll

  just be glad when they’re gone. I prefer normal people.”

  Joe lifted an eyebrow. “Like the gangsters and superstar tenors and gossip columnists you’ve had in the

  past?”

  Since all of the guests that he mentioned had been

  murdered or involved in murder, Judith shuddered.

  “No, not like that. I was thinking of the Kidds and even

  the Izards. They’re the ones who should be here this

  weekend, not this crew from L.A.”

  Joe shrugged. “As you said, it’s only for one more

  night. What could possibly happen?”

  Around two A.M., Judith was awakened by muffled

  noises from somewhere in the house. The guests, she

  thought hazily, returning from their revels. When the

  Flynns had gone to bed around eleven, the Hollywood

  crew had not yet come back. But, as with all Hillside

  Manor guests, they had keys to the front door. Judith

  rolled over and drifted off again.

  But moments later louder noises made her sit

  straight up in bed. She glanced at Joe, who was snoring softly. He’d put in a long day; there was no need to

  rouse him. Judith donned her robe and slippers, then

  headed down to the second floor.

  The lights were on in the hall. Bruno, clad only in

  underwear decorated with Porky and Petunia Pig figures, was collapsed on the settee. Winifred and Chips

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  Madigan stood over him while Dirk Farrar peered out

  from behind the door of Room Four. Angela, Ellie,

  Ben, and Dade were nowhere to be seen.

  “What’s going on?” Judith asked, noting that Bruno

  was shuddering and writhing just as he had done on the

  back porch.

  Dirk opened the door a few more inches. “Another

  damned spider. Big as a house. Or so he says.” He

  smothered a smile.

  “No!” Judith couldn’t believe it. In late summer,

  harmless, if imposing, wood spiders sometimes

  crawled into the basement, but it was too late in the

  year for them to show up. She marched to Bruno’s

  room, where the door was ajar.

  Ben Carmody was standing by Bruno’s bed, laughing so hard that his sides shook. “Look,” he finally

  managed to say. “It’s a spider, all right, but . . .”

  Judith charged over to the bed, then gave a start.

  “Ohmigod!”

  A black, long-legged creature with a furry body lay

  on the bottom sheet just below the pillows. Judith

  stood frozen in place until Ben picked the thing up by

  one leg and bounced it off the floor.

  “It’s fake,” he said, still chuckling. “It’s one of those

  rubber spiders kids have for Halloween. Where’s your

  garbage? I’ll take it outside and dump the thing in

  there.”

  “Oh!” Judith put a hand over her wildly beating

  heart, then reached out to Ben. “I’ll get rid of it. You

  tell Mr. Zepf that the spider wasn’t real.”

  Ben had grown serious. “Some prank. It could have

  given old Bruno a heart attack.”

  Judith stuffed the rubber spider in the pocket of her

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  bathrobe and went back into the hall. No one except

  Dirk seemed to notice her passage as she headed for

  the back stairs. Five minutes later she returned to the

  second floor, where Ben and Chips were helping a

  rubber-legged Bruno back into his room. Winifred had

  already disappeared and Dirk had closed his door. Judith continued up to the family quarters. She didn’t get

  back to sleep for almost an hour.

  Meanwhile, Joe continued to snore softly.

  As usual, Judith had breakfast ready to go by eight

  o’clock. Since it was a Saturday, and Joe had the day

  off, he didn’t come downstairs until eight-fifteen.

  “No-shows, huh?” he inquired, pouring himself a

  cup of coffee.

  “So far,” Judith replied. “I think they were out very

  late.” She then recounted the incidents with both the

  real and the fake spiders. “Bruno certainly is superstitious.”

  “Typical,” Joe remarked. “Bill once said that Hollywood types were like gamblers. It makes sense. People

  who make movies are gamblers.”

  An hour passed before Judith heard anyone stirring

  upstairs. Finally, Winifred Best appeared, her thin face

  drawn.

  “Very black coffee, please. With heated rusk.”

  Judith didn’t recall that rusk had been on the list of

  required grocery items. Still, Winifred wasn’t the first

  guest to ask for rusk instead of toast. With considerable

  effort, she got down on her knees and foraged in the

  cupboard next to the sink.

  “Ah!” she exclaimed. “Here it is.” She got up

  slowly, which was fortunate because the temperamen- SILVER SCREAM

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  tal cupboard door had swung out on its own. Judith hit

  her head, but not very hard. Muffling a curse, she

  looked around for Joe, then remembered that he’d

  gone to the garage to tinker with his beloved MG.

  “This coffee isn’t strong enough,” Winifred announced from the dining-room table. “Please make another pot, and double the amount.”

  Winifred Best wasn’t the first demanding guest that

  Hillside Manor had ever hosted, so Judith calmly put a

  percolator on the stove. She kept reminding herself

  that the current visitors were no worse than many she’d

  had stay at the B&B. It just seemed that this bunch was

  a wide-screen version in Dolby sound.

  Moments later the rusk had been warmed in the

  oven. Judith brought it out to the dining-room table.


  “Has Mr. Zepf recovered from his latest fright?” she

  inquired.

  “Yes,” Winifred responded, giving the rusk a suspicious look, “though the rubber spider was a bit much.”

  “Do you know who put it in Mr. Zepf’s bed?”

  Winifred shot Judith a withering glance. “I do not.

  Was it you?”

  Judith recoiled. “Of course not! Why would I do

  such a thing?”

  “Because,” Winifred said with ice in her voice, “no

  one else would dare.”

  “Well, I certainly didn’t do it,” Judith huffed. “Nor

  would anyone else around here. In fact, my husband

  and I are the only residents in the house.”

  “As you say.” Winifred took a small bite of rusk.

  “The coffee will be ready shortly,” Judith said in

  stilted tones.

  “I should hope so,” Winifred said. “Rusk is hard to

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  wash down with weak coffee. By the way,” she added

  as Judith started back to the kitchen, “we’ll bring the

  costumes down later so that you can press them.”

  Judith turned on her heel. “I don’t do ironing. I have

  a cleaning woman who takes care of the laundry.”

  “Where is she?” Winifred asked with a lift of her

  sharp chin.

  “She doesn’t work weekends,” Judith replied, fighting down her annoyance. “If you want something

  pressed, you’ll have to take it up to the cleaners at the

  top of the hill.”

  Winifred’s dark eyes snapped. “We’re not running

  errands. Since you don’t have a laundry service today

  and it seems you’re the innkeeper and concierge, taking care of the costumes falls on you. The costumes

  must be back by four. Don’t worry, you can send the

  bill to Bruno.”

  For a long moment Judith stared at Winifred, who

  was again attired in Armani. Her only accessory was a

  slim gold bracelet on her left wrist. If she wore

  makeup, it was too discreet to be noticeable. Late thirties or maybe forty, Judith guessed, and a life that may

  have been difficult. The Hollywood part, anyway. Judith wondered what it was like for a woman—a black

  woman especially—to wield such power as assistant to

  the biggest producer in filmdom.

  Nor were Winifred’s demands entirely outrageous.

  If it hadn’t been for Bruno’s superstition about staying

  in a B&B before a premiere, Winifred and the others

  would be ensconced in luxury at the Cascadia Hotel

  with every convenience at their fingertips.

  “Okay,” Judith said. “I’ll take the stuff up to Arlecchino’s. It’s a costume shop, so they’ll know exactly

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  how to handle the garments and whatever other items

  need to be fluffed up.”

  The faintest look of relief passed over Winifred’s

  face. “Thank you,” she said.

  Judith thought the woman sounded almost sincere,

  though that was a word she knew she probably

  shouldn’t apply to anyone from Hollywood. The coffee, which looked strong enough to melt tires, was

  ready just as Chips Madigan loped into the dining

  room.

  “Hey, Win, hey, Mrs. Flynn,” he said with a cheerful expression. “Hey—that rhymes! I should have been

  a writer, not a director.” Abruptly, the grin he’d been

  wearing turned down. “I guess,” he muttered, pulling

  out one of the chairs from Grandpa and Grandma

  Grover’s oak set, “I shouldn’t say stuff like that.”

  “No, you shouldn’t,” Winifred said with a warning

  glance.

  The guests trickled down for the next hour and a half,

  creating a frustrating breakfast service for Judith. Normally, she prepared three basic items and offered appropriate side dishes. But the menu requirements for the

  Hollywood people were vast and varied. Angela La

  Belle desired coconut milk, kiwi fruit, and yogurt. Dirk

  Farrar requested a sirloin steak, very rare, with raw eggplant and tomato slices. Ellie Linn ordered kippers on

  toast and Crenshaw melon. Ben Carmody preferred an

  omelette with red, green, and yellow peppers topped

  with Muenster cheese. An apparently restored Bruno

  Zepf downed a great many pills, which may or may not

  have been vitamins, shared the strong coffee with

  Winifred, and ate half a grapefruit and a slice of dry

  whole-wheat toast. Chips Madigan asked for cornflakes.

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  Dade Costello never showed. The moody screenwriter had gone for a walk, said Ellie Linn. He wasn’t

  hungry. Nobody seemed curious about his defection.

  The omnipresent cell phones were in use again, especially by Bruno, Winifred, and Ben. Somehow they

  all seemed capable of talking to whoever was on the

  other end of the line and to members of the party at the

  table. Between rustling up the various breakfast items

  and making what seemed like a hundred trips in and

  out of the dining room, Judith caught snatches of conversation. Most of it dealt with the logistics of the premiere and how to deal with the media. It struck Judith

  that the only topic of conversation the group shared

  was the movie business. Maybe it was the only thing

  that really mattered to them. She tuned her guests out

  and got on with the task of running Hillside Manor.

  As soon as she finished clearing up the kitchen, Judith called Renie. “Give me the details,” she requested.

  “Who’s marrying whom?”

  An elaborate sigh went out over the phone line.

  “I’m not sure I’ve got all this straight myself. Tom’s fiancée is the daughter of a local Native American tribal

  chief. Her name’s Heather Twobucks, which is symbolic, since that’s about all the money Tom has managed to save over the years. But at least she’s got a

  job—she’s the attorney for the tribe.”

  “That sounds very good,” Judith put in.

  “She’s also one of seven kids and does most of her

  work pro bono,” Renie said. “As for Anne, the man of

  her dreams is in medical school. You know what that

  means. Anne will have to get a real job instead of making jewelry out of volcanic lava and selling it at street

  fairs.”

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  “Mmm—yes, she probably will,” Judith agreed.

  “What’s the future doctor’s name?”

  “Odo Mann,” Renie replied. “She’ll become Anne

  Mann. Personally, I wouldn’t like that.”

  “Mmm,” Judith repeated. “And Tony?”

  Renie let out another big sigh. “Tony’s beloved just

  returned from Tangiers, where she was Doing Good.

  She works for a Catholic charity and makes just about

  enough to pay Tony’s monthly milk bill. She—her

  name is Cathleen Forte—wants Tony to join her in the

  leper colony over there.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “That’s what I said,” Renie responded. “Except not

  quite those words and much louder. Bill’s in a daze.”

  “Yes, I can see that he might be,” Judith allowed.

  “Have any of them set the date?”

  “Not yet,” Renie said, “though Anne and Odo are

  talking about next spring.”

 
“That gives you some time,” Judith remarked.

  “Time for what?” Renie demanded. “Time to kidnap

  our own children and seal them in the basement?”

  “I mean,” Judith said, “to . . . um . . . get used to the

  idea.”

  “You’re no help,” Renie snapped. “I’m hanging up

  now. Then maybe I’ll hang myself.” The phone went

  dead in Judith’s ear.

  It was noon before Winifred began bringing the costumes downstairs. Judith was astonished by the detail.

  They had come, Winifred informed her, from one of

  the big L.A. rental warehouses that stocked thousands

  of garments, many of them worn in movies from fifty

  and sixty years ago and lovingly restored.

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  “Bruno and I considered using the costumes from

  The Gasman, ” she explained, “but only Angela, Ben,

  Dirk, and Ellie appear in the film. We could have

  drawn from Wardrobe’s collection for bit players and

  extras, but we decided it would make a statement if we

  used older costumes. More in keeping with the picture’s theme, you see.”

  Judith thought she recognized Ellie’s outfit. It

  looked very much like one of Elizabeth Taylor’s gorgeous gowns in Cleopatra. Angela’s was familiar, too,

  though seen only briefly on the screen—Scarlett

  O’Hara’s honeymoon ensemble from Gone With the

  Wind.

  Pointing to the flowing robes and burnoose for

  Bruno, Judith made a guess: “Lawrence of Arabia?”

  “Khartoum,” Winifred replied.

  “Is this yours?” Judith gestured at a nun’s white

  habit.

  “Yes.” Winifred’s expression was rueful. “It’s a

  generic nun’s costume, depicting the growth of the

  monastic movement. We’re representing the eras the

  movie focuses on. I preferred wearing something

  closer to my own heritage, maybe Muslim dress, from

  the period of Muhammad. But Bruno insisted that he

  be Muhammad.” She waved a slim hand at the Khar-

  toum robes. “So I end up being a nun, and I’m not even

  Catholic.”

  “I am,” Judith said, “and I think it’s a lovely habit.

  Very graceful. You’ll look terrific.”

  Winifred gave an indifferent shrug. “Whatever. Dirk

  Farrar symbolizes the early Renaissance while showing off his manly physique in that silver-and-goldslashed doublet and tights. Tyrone Power wore it, I

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  think. The less lavish doublet and the fur-trimmed surcoat came from an MGM historical epic. Or maybe it