Silver Scream : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

by Mary Daheim

  “It’s a friend.”

  Winifred stiffened. “Not Vito?”

  “No . . .”

  “Who, then?” Winifred rasped out the question.

  “Ah . . . An old friend of my husband’s, actually.”

  Judith didn’t want to identify Woody as a cop. He had

  probably come to collect the physical evidence Joe had

  gathered. As much as she wanted to see Woody, she

  thought it best to stay out of sight. Joe could handle his

  ex-partner’s arrival with a minimum of fuss.

  But Winifred persisted. “Why is he here? He’s not

  media, is he?”

  “Heavens, no!” Judith’s laughter was false. “He

  won’t stay. I think he wants to borrow something from

  my husband.”

  Winifred looked relieved. “Morris has done an outstanding job of misleading the media about Bruno’s death.

  So far, they have no idea where or how it happened.”

  Judith could hear Joe greeting Woody in the entry

  hall. To divert the other guests, she led Winifred

  through the parlor door that opened directly into the

  living room.

  “Excuse me,” Judith said loudly. “Since I can use

  the kitchen, I’ll take dinner orders now. Does anyone

  have some particular craving?”

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  Only Ellie Linn seemed excited by the announcement. “Can I get some of my dad’s famous hot

  dogs? I’ve really missed them the past few days, you

  know.”

  Judith nodded. “There’s a Wienie Wizard just across

  the ship canal. Anyone else want something special?”

  “Not wieners,” Angela said with a sneer. “I’d rather

  eat rubber.”

  “Steak,” Dirk said, giving Angela’s shoulders a

  quick squeeze. “New York cut, an inch thick, rare.”

  “You know what sounds good to me?” Chips Madigan said in his ingenuous manner. “An old-fashioned

  chicken pot pie, like my mother makes.”

  Ben Carmody gazed at the ceiling. “Pasta. Any

  kind, with prawns and a really good baguette.”

  “If Vito is here,” Winifred put in, “he prefers sushi,

  particularly the spider rolls.”

  Judith’s innkeeper’s smile began to droop. She

  hadn’t planned on serving a smorgasbord.

  “Wine,” Ellie added. “You know—some really fine

  wines. I like a Merlot with my Wienie Wizards.” She

  shot Angela an insolent look.

  “Dade?” Judith called across the long room. “What

  about you?”

  The writer, who had, as usual, been staring out

  through the French doors, slowly turned around. “What

  about what?” he inquired in his soft Southern voice.

  “What you’d like to eat,” Judith said, hearing the

  front door close.

  “Chitlins,” Dade said, and turned his back again.

  “Winifred?” Judith said as Joe ambled back into the

  living room.

  Winifred shook her head. “I’m not hungry.” She

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  paused, tapping her sharp chin. “A small salad, perhaps. Mostly field greens.”

  “I’ll call a caterer. They’ll be able to stop by the

  Wienie Wizard on their way here.” Still trying to keep

  her hospitable smile in place, Judith hurried off to use

  the phone in the kitchen.

  “Woody’s heading for the crime lab,” Joe whispered

  as Judith went past him. “He’s doing some background

  checks, too.”

  It took ten minutes to place the order with the

  caterer, with Judith filling in various other items to tide

  her guests over until the next morning. She had just

  hung up when the phone rang in her hand.

  “Now what?” demanded an angry Ingrid Heffelman.

  “Zillah Young just called me from the state B&B—on

  my day off—to say you’d requested changes for tonight.

  What’s going on, Judith?”

  “Hey,” Judith retorted, “this Hollywood booking

  was your idea. I didn’t ask to change the Kidds and the

  Izards. You forced my hand.”

  “That’s beside the point,” Ingrid replied, simmering

  down just a bit. “The Kidds were considering staying

  over for a day or two and moving to your B&B. They

  felt they’d missed out. I wouldn’t be surprised if the

  Izards would still like to spend a night there for future

  reference.”

  “The Izards already checked out the place,” Judith

  said, still vexed. “Anyway, there’s nothing I can do. It’s

  out of my hands.”

  “How come?” Ingrid was heating up again.

  “I can’t tell you exactly,” Judith replied, trying to

  sound reasonable. “It has to do with an incident involving one of the guests.”

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  “An incident?” Ingrid sounded suspicious.

  “What would you expect?” Judith said, no longer

  reasonable but downright cross. “From the beginning,

  I figured this crew would be nothing but trouble. I was

  right.”

  “What kind of trouble?” Ingrid asked, then uttered a

  high-pitched squawk. “Not . . . ? Oh, Judith, not

  again!”

  “I can’t say. Really,” Judith added in a frustrated

  voice, “I’m not allowed to tell anyone just yet.”

  “You don’t have to,” Ingrid said sharply. “I can read

  the newspaper. It’s that Bruno person, isn’t it? He died

  last night. I didn’t put two and two together this morning because the story was so small and I was barely

  awake. Being my day off and all.”

  “I’m sorry, really I am.” Judith was about to say it

  wasn’t her fault. But this time she couldn’t. Maybe she

  was to blame. “Please, Ingrid, don’t tell anyone. We’re

  under siege from the studio, which is why the Hollywood guests can’t leave.”

  “Oh, God.” Ingrid expelled a huge sigh. “All right,

  I’ll be discreet, if only for the state association’s sake.

  You’re right—it’s my fault for putting them up at

  Hillside Manor. Given your track record, I should

  have known better.” With an apathetic good-bye, she

  hung up.

  Judith was still muttering to herself when Renie and

  Bill arrived at the back door.

  “You told us we could come through the kitchen,”

  Renie said, breezing through the narrow hallway.

  “Where are the nuts I’m supposed to observe?” Bill

  asked in his rich, carrying voice.

  Judith winced. “In the living room. We’re expecting

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  at least one more, I understand. Remember Morris

  Mayne from last night?”

  “The publicist?” Renie said, hanging her jacket on

  the antique coatrack.

  “The very same,” Judith replied. “And Vito Patricelli, the studio lawyer.”

  “What happened to the agent, Eugenia Whateverher-name-is?” Renie asked.

  Judith sighed. “I forgot about her. Who knows?

  Maybe the entire crew from the Cascadia will show up

  eventually.”

  “Let’s watch TV,” Bill said upon entering the living

  room. “There’s a pretty good NFL game
on.” As the

  guests stared at him, he marched over to the entertainment center next to the bay window, opened the oak

  doors, and switched on the big-screen television set.

  “Who’s a Packer fan?” he asked, being a Wisconsin native.

  “I am,” Chips Madigan declared.

  “I hate the Packers,” Dirk Farrar asserted.

  Dade actually expressed some interest. “Who are

  they playing? The Falcons, by any chance?”

  Angela rose from the sofa. “I hate football. I’m not

  watching.” She sailed past Judith and Renie, heading

  for the bathroom off the entry hall.

  “Me neither,” Ellie said, slipping off the window

  seat. “I’ve never understood how all those great big

  men like grabbing each other. It’s not natural, you

  know.” She wandered off into the dining room.

  “The observation period?” Judith murmured to

  Renie.

  “That’s right,” Renie said. “Bill insists you can tell

  quite a bit about people by the way they watch—or

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  don’t watch—sports. Have you chatted up Ellie or Angela yet?”

  Judith shook her head. “Only Winifred. Dade’s the

  one I’d really like to talk to. Maybe if Green Bay isn’t

  playing Atlanta, he’ll get bored.”

  “I’ll tackle Ellie,” Renie said, making motions like a

  football player. “You can grab Angela when she comes

  out of the can.”

  While her cousin went into the dining room, Judith

  slowly paced the entry-hall floor. A couple of minutes

  passed. Angela didn’t reappear. Judith fiddled with the

  guest registry and the visitor brochures she kept on the

  first landing. Still, Angela didn’t come out of the bathroom. Judith began to wonder if the actress might be

  ill.

  After another three minutes had passed, she rapped

  softly on the varnished walnut door. “Ms. La Belle?”

  she called, also softly.

  There was no response. Judith pressed her ear

  against the old wood, but heard nothing. She rapped

  again, this time louder.

  Still nothing.

  Alarmed, Judith tried the knob. The door was locked

  from the inside.

  “Ms. La Belle!” she called. “Angela! Are you all

  right?”

  Renie and Ellie Linn appeared from around the

  corner.

  “What’s going on?” Renie asked with a frown.

  Quickly, Judith explained. “I’m afraid Angela may

  be sick.”

  Renie’s frown deepened. “The lock’s one of those

  old-fashioned bolt things, isn’t it?”

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  “Right,” Judith said, “but it means damaging the

  door, which Skjoval Tolvang just rehung.”

  “Then leave Angela in there,” Ellie said with a

  shrug, and walked away.

  “We can’t,” Judith declared, scowling at Ellie’s departing figure. “I’ll get Joe.”

  Everyone in the living room seemed to be caught up

  in a third-and-three situation for the Packers except

  Joe, who was watching Bill watch the guests. Urgently,

  Judith grabbed her husband by the arm.

  “Come with me,” she commanded, keeping her

  voice down. “We have a lock problem.”

  “What lock?” he said, turning to Judith. “I thought

  you knew how to pick them.”

  “Not this one,” Judith said, pointing to the bathroom

  door. “It’s a bolt, remember? Angela La Belle is in

  there and won’t answer.”

  Joe looked skeptical, but saw that his wife was upset

  and threw up his hands. “Okay, but if there’s nothing

  wrong and she just wants to . . . well, sit around, then

  I’m going to be even less popular around here than I

  am already.”

  “Please, Joe,” Judith begged. “Do it.”

  First, however, Joe knocked. Then he called Angela’s

  name. There was still no response. Grasping the doorknob, he counted to three, then gave a mighty tug. The

  old wood shuddered, but stayed in place. He tried a second time. The bolt gave, but not enough to come free.

  “Get Bill,” Joe said to Renie. He was panting and

  beginning to perspire.

  Renie hurried out into the living room, returning almost immediately with her husband. “Commercial

  break,” she murmured to Judith. “Lucky us.”

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  Joe held on to the knob and Bill held on to Joe. With

  a mighty effort, they pulled the bolt lock out of the

  door, which swung outward.

  Angela La Belle was facedown in the bathroom

  sink.

  ELEVEN

  HAVING BEEN PRIVY to two, possibly three, murders

  at her B&B, and encountering corpses at various

  other sites, Judith couldn’t believe that history was

  repeating itself in less than twenty-four hours.

  In some tiny hidden corner of her mind, she honestly thought that nothing could sever her hold on

  reality. She’d seen everything, overcome so many

  obstacles, endured unaccountable hardships. Surely

  this was a dream, inspired by the discovery of Bruno

  Zepf’s body the previous night. Flashing stars and

  crazy comets sailed before her eyes as Judith

  swayed backward. She would have fallen if Bill

  hadn’t caught her.

  Dazedly, she heard Bill shout at Renie to get a

  chair out of the dining room. More dimly, she

  caught snatches of Joe speaking—or was he shouting?—he sounded so far away—to summon 911.

  “Call . . . Medics . . . CPR?”

  Judith thought she heard Joe mention CPR.

  Maybe Angela wasn’t dead in the bathroom sink. Or

  maybe Joe wanted CPR for Judith. As a former cop,

  he knew CPR. Maybe everybody needed CPR. . . .

  Someone—Bill, she guessed, catching her

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  blurred reflection off his glasses—was easing her into

  Grandpa Grover’s chair at the head of the dining-room

  table. A moment later a slender hand held out a balloon

  glass with what looked like brandy in it.

  “Take a sip,” Renie urged. “I got this out of the

  washstand bar.”

  Judith didn’t care if Renie had held up the state

  liquor store at the bottom of Heraldsgate Hill. Gratefully, she accepted the glass and inhaled deeply before

  taking a small sip. The darkness with its streaks of

  spinning lights began to recede; the dining room was

  coming into focus. Judith fixated on the middle of the

  table, where a Chinese bowl of gold and amber

  chrysanthemums sat in autumnal splendor.

  But reality returned along with her vision. “Angela!” she gasped. “Is she . . . ?”

  Renie gave a sharp shake of her head. “I’m not sure.

  I think Joe was asking if anyone knew CPR. I suspect

  he didn’t want to do it himself in case something

  else—” She caught herself. “In case Angela doesn’t

  make it. Dade Costello volunteered. Don’t move, I’ll

  take a peek into the entry hall.”

  Judith took another sip of brandy. Bill stepped behind the chair and began rubbing her shoulders.

  “Dir
k Farrar is passive-aggressive,” he said quietly.

  “Winifred Best has low self-esteem. Chips Madigan

  has an unresolved Oedipal complex. His father may

  have abused him.”

  Bill’s analyses, along with the brandy and the massage, brought Judith into complete focus. “You figured

  out all that in five minutes of watching the guests

  watch TV?”

  “It was longer than that,” Bill replied. “The Packers

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  got stalled on the Bears’ thirty-eight-yard line, punted,

  and the Bears made two nice pass plays before they

  kicked a field goal.”

  “Oh.” Judith smiled faintly. “I’m still amazed at

  how quickly you pinpointed their personalities.”

  “I’m guessing,” Bill said, finishing the massage.

  “Ordinarily, it’d take several sessions to peel the layers

  off a patient. But you’re under pressure to figure these

  people out.”

  “Yes,” Judith agreed as Renie returned to the dining

  room.

  “Angela’s alive,” she announced, “but still unconscious. Fortunately, there was no water in the sink.”

  “And no cupboard door to hit her in the head,” Judith murmured. “So what happened?”

  Renie shook her head. “Nobody knows. Maybe she

  fainted.”

  “She wouldn’t still be out cold,” Judith noted, getting to her feet with Bill’s help. “She’s either sick

  or . . .”

  “Or what?” Renie put in as her cousin’s voice trailed

  off.

  “I’m not sure.” Judith’s expression was grim as she

  moved unsteadily into the entry hall, where Dirk Farrar was kneeling over Angela’s motionless figure.

  Dade Costello, apparently weary from his CPR ministrations, leaned against the balustrade and used a blueand-white bandanna to wipe sweat from his forehead.

  Dirk looked up. “She’s alive. Her breathing’s better.

  Where the hell are the medics?”

  Judith’s ears picked up the sound of the medics’

  siren. “They’re outside,” she said, and staggered to the

  front door.

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  Chips Madigan was already on the alert. “In through

  here,” he told the emergency team, pointing to the

  entry-hall bathroom. As the trio made their way to Angela, Chips got down on one knee and framed an imaginary shot with his fingers. “Whoa! This is good!

  Medium shot, backs of uniforms looking great, equipment visible, love the red steel cases.” The director

  stood up. “Two men and a woman. That’s good, too.

  But the height differentials could be better. The