Silver Scream : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

by Mary Daheim

  threw up his hands. “Screw it. I don’t need to make the

  papers for mixing it up with some old fart. That’s why

  I usually have a couple of bodyguards around.” He

  stepped back, then started to stomp off—but not before

  he scooped three sugar doughnuts from the buffet.

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  “ ‘Some old fart?’ ” Joe echoed. “I don’t like that old

  part much.”

  “You’re not old,” Judith insisted, patting her husband’s cheek. “You’re middle-aged. When Dirk Farrar

  hits sixty, all that cragginess will turn into bagginess.

  You have such a wonderful round face, you hardly

  have any wrinkles at—”

  The phone rang. Judith let Joe pick up the receiver

  on the cherrywood table by the bookcases. When he

  turned his back on her, she was certain that he was

  speaking with Stone Cold Sam Cairo.

  “Right . . . Yes . . . No . . . So be it.” Joe hung up.

  “Well?” Judith asked anxiously. “Is it . . . ?” She

  couldn’t say the word murder.

  Joe looked rueful. “A blow to the head apparently

  knocked him unconscious and he fell in the sink and

  drowned.”

  Judith was mystified. “You mean someone hit him?”

  “Not necessarily,” Joe replied. “It could have been

  that cupboard door swinging out. He may have bent

  over for some reason, reared up, and conked himself.”

  Judith remembered the aspirin she’d picked up from

  the floor. Perhaps Bruno had dropped it, ducked down

  to retrieve it, and then—unaware that the door had

  swung open—hit his head with such force that he

  blacked out.

  “It’s possible,” she allowed, though with reluctance.

  “You don’t hear it coming,” Joe said ruefully, then

  walked over to Judith and lowered his head. “Feel the

  bump about two inches above my hairline.”

  Judith touched the spot. There was a slight swelling.

  “The door? When did that happen? You never mentioned it.”

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  “Friday,” Joe said, avoiding her gaze. “You were

  gone. I didn’t want to admit that I’d banged my head

  on the door, because I was supposed to fix it. I actually

  saw stars at the time.”

  Hands on hips, Judith stared at her husband. “You

  mean this is all our fault?”

  “Yes,” Joe said in a weak voice. “We may have

  killed Bruno Zepf.”

  NINE

  “THAT’S RIDICULOUS,” JUDITH declared. “How is it

  our fault that Bruno bumped his head on an open

  cupboard door? Maybe he opened it himself.”

  Joe gave Judith a bleak look. “The door was broken. That’s negligence. That’s our fault.”

  “My God,” Judith moaned, “we could be ruined!

  If they find out about that door, they’ll sue, they’ll

  take every cent we have!”

  Joe’s expression turned grim. “What’s the insurance for guests?”

  “Substantial,” Judith said, agitated. “I mean, adequate under normal circumstances. But not for

  something like this, if we’re shown as being negligent and a big Hollywood celebrity gets . . . Think

  of the publicity! It’s one thing to have a guest murdered by someone else, that can’t be helped,” Judith

  went on, her usual sound logic working in strange

  ways, “but an accident caused by the owners’ carelessness?” She put her hands over her face. “Oh,

  Joe, I can’t bear it! I feel sick!”

  “Well, you can’t throw up in the kitchen sink,”

  Joe remarked, a touch of his characteristic humor

  surfacing.

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  Judith took a deep breath. “I’m in shock. And that

  poor man—if it’s our fault that he’s dead . . .” Her nausea remained though she pressed her hands against her

  face as if trying to subdue the sensation.

  “Hang on.” Joe put an arm around his wife. “We’re

  not licked yet.”

  Judith peered between her fingers. “What do you

  mean?”

  “I mean,” he said quietly, “that we don’t know for

  sure how Bruno ended up unconscious in the first

  place.”

  “You mean . . . Someone may have hit him with a

  different object?”

  “No, there were slivers of wood and maybe varnish

  in what was left of Bruno’s hair,” Joe said. “Cairo was

  so busy giving me a bad time that the facts were a little

  hard to piece together.”

  Judith was still puzzled. “But what’s the official verdict?”

  “Death by misadventure. That means,” Joe explained,

  pouring himself a cup of coffee, “that there’s no evidence of foul play, but an investigation will continue.”

  “What about the guests?” she asked. “Are they free

  to go?”

  “I suppose so,” he said as the front doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it.”

  When Joe reappeared moments later, a tall, balding

  olive-skinned man wearing wraparound sunglasses

  and what looked like a very expensive Italian suit was

  right behind him.

  “This is Vito Patricelli,” Joe announced. “He’s a

  lawyer, representing Paradox Studios. He just flew in

  from L.A.”

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  The last person Judith wanted to meet was a lawyer.

  She reached out with an unsteady hand and tried to

  smile. “Hi, Mr. . . .” The name eluded her anguished

  brain.

  “Patricelli,” the attorney said smoothly, holding out

  a manicured hand. “I believe my clients are staying at

  your B&B.”

  “Clients?” Judith’s brain was still numb. “Which

  ones?”

  Vito Patricelli offered her a look that might have

  passed for compassion. “The Gasman’ s cast and crew.

  I represent the studio, ergo, I represent Misses Best, La

  Belle, and Linn as well as Messieurs Farrar, Carmody,

  Madigan, and Costello. And, of course, the late Mr.

  Zepf.”

  “I see,” said Judith, who almost did. “Excuse me, I

  have to sit down.” She flopped onto the sofa and

  rubbed at her temples.

  Joe took over. “I assume you want to meet with your

  clients. That door on the other side of the buffet leads

  to the parlor. There’s also a door off the entry hall.

  Shall I get them?”

  The attorney nodded. “I’d appreciate that. In fact,

  may I come with you?”

  “Sure.” Joe led the way out of the living room.

  Judith put her head back on the sofa’s soft cushions

  and closed her eyes. She saw strange visions, of her

  mother dressed as Cleopatra playing solitaire with

  chocolate cards, of Joe and Woody and Stone Cold

  Sam Cairo chasing each other in Keystone Kops costumes, of Skjoval Tolvang fending off Angela La

  Belle’s advances with a crowbar.

  The gentle squeeze on her shoulders brought her

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  back to reality. Startled, she looked up at Joe. “I must

  have fallen asleep,” she said in a sheepish voice.

  “I would
n’t doubt it,” Joe said, then gestured toward

  the parlor. “They’re all in there. Every so often you

  hear somebody yell. It’s usually Dirk or Angela.”

  “How long have they been meeting with Patricelli?”

  Judith inquired, moving around to remove the kinks

  she’d acquired in her neck and back.

  “Not that long,” Joe said. “Ten minutes at most.” He

  stiffened as Vito Patricelli emerged from the parlor

  door that led into the living room.

  “The meeting’s concluded,” Vito said in his unruffled manner. “I’ve made it clear to my clients where

  their responsibilities lie and what they must do to carry

  them out on behalf of Paradox Studios.”

  Joe was equally unflappable. “Which is?”

  A faintly sinister smile played at Vito’s thin lips.

  “That they are not to leave the vicinity until the studio

  knows exactly what happened to Bruno Zepf.”

  Judith didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She did

  neither, remaining on the sofa until the sullen guests

  exited the parlor.

  Vito sat down opposite her, carefully arranging his

  trousers to make sure the crease stayed in the proper

  position. “I have some questions for you both,” he said

  in that same, smooth voice.

  Joe joined Judith on the sofa. “Fire away,” he said.

  Vito removed his sunglasses, revealing wide-set

  dark eyes that seemed to have a fire lit behind them.

  “What time did Mr. Zepf die?”

  “Around one A.M.,” Joe answered.

  “Are you absolutely certain?” Vito asked.

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  “We can’t be precise,” Joe said reasonably. “My

  wife and I weren’t with Bruno when it happened. The

  time is an estimate, which is also what the ME gave

  us.”

  Only an almost imperceptible flicker of Vito’s eyelids indicated any emotion. “But,” he said, “you’re positive that Bruno died after midnight?”

  “Definitely,” Joe replied. “Why is the time so important?”

  The lawyer took a deep breath, then gave Joe what

  was probably meant to be a confidential smile, but

  looked a trifle piranhalike to Judith. “Let me explain

  two things. First, Paradox Studios insures all members

  of a shooting company when a picture is made. This is

  standard procedure, to make sure there’s due compensation for anyone involved in the production suffering

  a disabling injury or”—he paused to clear his throat—

  “dying. The policy the studio took out on The Gasman

  expired October thirty-first, which is today. The problem is, did it expire last night at midnight or is it still

  valid until tomorrow, November first?”

  Joe frowned. “Aren’t such policies specific?”

  “Not in this case,” Vito replied. “There was also a

  rider concerning postproduction. Bruno had stated—

  verbally—that once The Gasman premiered, he

  wouldn’t tinker with it. But last night he told Winifred

  Best and Chips Madigan that it was clear there would

  have to be some editing. He intended to pull the picture

  from release and postpone its general opening for a

  month.”

  Judith finally found her voice. “What does all this

  have to do with the guests not being able to leave?”

  Vito tried to look apologetic, but failed. “I’m afraid

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  I can’t discuss that with you at present. But I’m sure

  you realize that the studio wants to conduct its own investigation into the cause of Bruno’s death. You must

  be aware that the medical examiner’s report is inconclusive.”

  “We’re aware,” Joe said with a dour expression.

  “Good.” Vito stood up, ever mindful of the crease in

  his trousers. “I hope this doesn’t sound crass, but I believe you have a vacant room?”

  “Ah . . .” Judith’s jaw dropped. “You mean Bruno’s?

  Yes, but—”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll spend the night there,”

  Vito interposed. “Right now I have to head back

  downtown to talk with the rest of the company at the

  Cascadia Hotel. Don’t bother to show me out. I know

  the way.” He slipped his sunglasses back on and gave

  both Flynns the slightly sinister smile. “I’m a quick

  study.”

  Despite the lawyer’s assertion, Judith and Joe followed him as far as the entry hall. When the door had

  closed behind Vito, Joe put an arm around his wife.

  “Let’s go into the parlor in case the guests decide to

  come downstairs and commandeer the living room.”

  In the gray autumn light with the dead ashes in the

  grate and the single tall window streaked with rain, the

  room had lost its usual cheerfulness. The parlor

  seemed bleak, matching Judith’s mood.

  “Whatever are we going to do?” she groaned, slipping into one of the two matching side chairs. “Will

  the studio’s investigation make us the culprits?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Joe admitted, “but one thing’s for

  sure—Stone Cold Sam Cairo isn’t going to rush

  around on our account. He’s laughing up his sleeve

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  over our dilemma because he hates me. Resents me,

  too, which is maybe why he hates me. I always had a

  better ratio of cases solved than he did. It was a competition to Sam, one-on-one. The bottom line is we

  can’t rely on him.”

  Judith felt too dazed to respond.

  “So we’ll do our own investigating. I’ve got the experience, and you’ve got . . . a way with people.” Joe

  lowered his gaze. It was difficult for him to admit that

  his wife’s amateur tactics could ferret out murderers.

  “Between us, we may be able to get ourselves out of

  this jam.”

  “You mean,” Judith croaked, “we informally interrogate them?”

  “You do,” Joe said, patting her hand. “I’ll take a

  more professional stand. After all, I’m not only a retired cop, but a private detective.” He offered her his

  most engaging grin. “Want to hire me?”

  Judith grinned back, though she was still upset. “Of

  course. I’d better make arrangements with Ingrid for

  tonight’s other guests.”

  Joe patted her, then started for the door. “I’m on the

  case.”

  “Oh!” Judith called after him. “One thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  She swallowed hard. “Do you honestly believe that

  Bruno may have been murdered?”

  Joe regarded his wife with grim compassion. “I

  can’t rule it out.”

  Judith’s heart sank. “You sound like a cop.”

  He shrugged.

  Judith tried to regain her composure. “One more

  thing.”

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  “What?”

  “Can I use the kitchen?”

  When Judith drained the sink, she felt as if she were

  releasing the floodgates of evil. Joe had already removed the rubber spider and fingerprinted the entire

  area, including the wayward door, the window and

  windowsill, and the faucets. He’d ask Woody Price to

  run the evidence through
the lab.

  Judith called Ingrid at the state B&B association’s

  office, but was informed that Ms. Heffelman had the

  weekend off. In her place was a soft-spoken woman

  named Zillah Young. Apparently Zillah was new to the

  hostelry business and didn’t know of Judith’s reputation for murder and mayhem. Without giving the details, Judith meekly asked her to assign the five

  Sunday-night reservations to other B&Bs in the area.

  Finally, Judith had a chance to call Renie and let her

  know about the tragedy. It was shortly after eleven

  o’clock, and the Joneses should be back from Mass at

  Our Lady, Star of the Sea. Judith would either have to

  miss Mass or go in the evening. There was no way she

  could leave Hillside Manor at present.

  The only guests that Joe had found upstairs were

  Dirk Farrar and Angela La Belle. Joe reported that both

  were furious. He also noted that they seemed to be

  sharing Room Three, which had belonged to Bruno.

  “I told them to get out of there,” Joe said. “I want to

  search that room thoroughly before Vito settles in.”

  “Will they go?” Judith asked, her fingers poised to

  call Renie.

  “They stomped out of the house five minutes ago.”

  Judith sighed. “So there’s nobody here for me to

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  chat up. Heaven only knows where Dade Costello

  went. He seems to wander the neighborhood, thinking

  great thoughts.”

  “Or homicidal ones,” Joe put in.

  “Are you going to search Bruno’s room now?” Judith asked.

  “Yes. You want to come along?”

  “No,” Judith replied. “I have to call Renie, and then,

  if none of the guests are back, I’ll go down to St. Fabiola’s at the bottom of the hill for noon Mass. Oh, by

  the way, there’s a book in Bruno’s room called The

  Gasman. I heard he based the movie on it. It’s old and

  looks as if it’s been cherished. Chips Madigan said

  something this morning about Bruno being on a mission. I know it sounds silly, but I’m curious. Why don’t

  you bring it down and I’ll call one of my library

  mavens to see if they know anything about it.”

  “You never came across it when you worked as a librarian?” Joe inquired, referring to the weary years of

  Judith’s first marriage when she worked days at the

  public library and tended bar at the Meat & Mingle in

  the evenings.

  Judith shook her head. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  Joe left the kitchen while Judith dialed Renie’s