Silver Scream : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

by Mary Daheim

  From inside the house, she could hear more screams

  emanating from the TV. The terrified cries set her teeth

  on edge. She was beginning to wonder if the events of

  the past two days and her fears for the future were triggering an emotional collapse.

  As Judith set the can upright, a loud banging noise

  behind her made her jump. Peering through the eddies

  of mist, she saw nothing. Gingerly, she began putting

  the garbage back into the can.

  She was about to replace the lid when something

  brushed against her leg. Judith let out a small squeal,

  then looked down to see Sweetums depositing bare

  chicken bones on her shoe.

  “Nasty!” she exclaimed under her breath. “If my

  nerves weren’t going to pieces, I’d pull your tail.”

  Sweetums responded with a growl, then trotted off

  down the driveway. Judith started back to the porch,

  but decided to make a quick visit to her mother. She

  felt guilty for hardly seeing Gertrude all day. As she

  headed down the walk to the toolshed, the wind rattled

  her nerves along with the Rankerses’ wind chimes. The

  usual gentle tinkling sounded more like an out-of-tune

  brass band.

  But the fog was definitely dissipating. She could see

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  the toolshed clearly, though the lights had now gone

  out. Judith stopped, debating whether or not to bother

  her mother. She decided against it. Gertrude would

  only berate her for being neglectful. Judith didn’t need

  any more problems on this particular All Hallows’ Eve.

  She’d started up the back-porch steps when she

  heard another clatter nearby. It sounded like another

  garbage-can lid. More annoyed than nervous, she

  trudged around to the side of the house.

  Within a foot of the cans, Judith stopped dead in her

  tracks. There, down the driveway in a maelstrom of

  fog, an unearthly creature seemed to levitate before her

  eyes. She suppressed a scream as her legs wobbled and

  her eyes grew huge. The pointy hat, the stiff shaggy

  hair, the windblown garments, and the shoes with the

  turned-up toes almost convinced her that witches did

  indeed fly the skies on Halloween.

  The image was enhanced when a cat with its fur

  standing on end suddenly appeared out of the mists.

  The animal hurtled straight for Judith. In fright, she

  flung herself against the wall of the house, and only

  recognized Sweetums when he hid himself between

  her feet.

  “P-p-poor k-k-kitty,” she stammered, glancing

  down at the cat. “P-p-poor m-m-me.”

  Then she looked up, and the eerie apparition was

  gone.

  A frowning Renie was standing on the steps.

  “Where’ve you been? The back door blew shut, and I

  thought maybe you got locked out.” Seeing Judith’s

  pale face under the porch light, she gasped. “Hey,

  what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

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  “A witch, actually,” Judith said, clinging to the

  porch rail as Sweetums crept along beside her. She felt

  dizzy, her teeth were chattering, and her feet seemed

  glued to the steps. “I may be having a nervous breakdown. I need a drink.”

  “I’ll fix it,” Renie volunteered, but first put a hand

  under Judith’s elbow. “You are a mess. Easy does it.”

  Carefully, she guided her cousin through the back door.

  “How does Bill describe his patients who’ve gone

  mad?” Judith asked, slumping into the nearest kitchen

  chair.

  “Clinically?” Renie responded, going to the cupboard where the liquor was kept.

  With vacant eyes and mouth agape, Judith nodded.

  “Crazy as a loon,” Renie replied, pouring her

  cousin’s drink. “Tell me about the witch.”

  It took Judith two big sips just to get started. She

  scowled at the glass before she spoke. “I’m not only

  insane, I’m turning into a drunk.”

  “Hardly,” Renie said. “You’ve been through a lot the

  last few days.”

  “So I have.” Judith sighed, beginning to pull herself

  together. “But I’m not seeing things. I don’t think.”

  She proceeded to tell Renie about the apparition in the

  driveway.

  “A witch?” Renie said when Judith had finished the

  horror story. “Maybe it was. It’s Halloween.”

  “At this hour?” Judith glanced up at the schoolhouse

  clock, which showed eleven on the dot. As if to underscore the time, applause and cheers could be heard

  coming from the living room. “Then why didn’t whoever it was come to the door?” Judith asked, clutching

  her drink as if it were a talisman against evil.

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  “Maybe the witch went to the toolshed,” Renie

  replied. “Your mother was probably still up, and with

  the TV on and the lights out in the front of the house,

  whoever it was may have thought everybody had gone

  to bed.”

  “That’s possible,” Judith allowed, then gave her

  cousin a piercing look. “You don’t believe that. You’re

  just trying to make me feel better.”

  Renie winced. “Well—I’d like to make you feel better. Frankly, you look like bird poop.”

  “Thanks. I feel like bird poop.”

  “I’d better go home,” Renie said as the movie

  watchers broke up and headed for bed. “Is there anything I can do before I leave?”

  Judith slumped farther into the chair. “We still don’t

  know who Crappy Pappy is.”

  “Does it matter?” Renie asked gently as she stood

  up.

  “No.” Judith’s voice was lifeless. “Nothing does.”

  “Coz!” Renie gave Judith a sharp slap on the back,

  then let out a little yip. “I keep forgetting, I’m supposed to favor that arm and shoulder for a while

  longer.”

  Judith looked up. “Are you okay?”

  Cringing a bit, Renie moved her right arm this way

  and that. “I think so.” She sat down across from Judith.

  “Maybe I should wait a couple of minutes. I only

  started driving again in July. Even though the surgeon

  assured me I couldn’t dislocate it again, I don’t want to

  take a chance and wreck the car.”

  “Don’t mention dislocating our body parts,” Judith

  said, though there was evident relief in her voice. She

  hadn’t wanted Renie to leave just yet. “I worry about

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  my hip all the time. Unlike your shoulder, there are

  certain things I can’t do because it’ll dislocate. I suppose that’s next—more major surgery.”

  “Oh, coz!” Renie shook her head. “Don’t fuss so.

  You’ll only—”

  A banging at the front door startled both cousins.

  “The witch?” Judith gasped.

  “Dubious. Stay here, I’ll get it.”

  “No,” Judith said, already on her feet. “Rest your

  shoulder.”

  With considerable trepidation, she went through the

  dining room and the entry hall.
Except for the small

  Tiffany-style lamp on the table by the stairs, the rest of

  the house was dark.

  “Who is it?” Judith called through the door.

  “Me,” came the voice on the other side. “Dade.

  Dade Costello.”

  “Oh!” Relieved, Judith hurriedly unlocked the door.

  “Come in. I thought you had your key.”

  “I did,” Dade said, rubbing at the back of his head.

  “I guess I lost it.”

  “Oh, dear,” Judith sighed. “Do you think it’s in your

  room? When did you use it last?”

  Dade shrugged. “I don’t know that I’ve used it at all.

  Or did I?”

  Judith couldn’t remember, either. But she didn’t

  want a key to Hillside Manor in the wrong hands. Disconcerted by the latest calamity, she said the first thing

  that came into her head: “Wasn’t it kind of miserable

  for a walk this evening?”

  “I didn’t walk that much,” Dade said in his soft

  Southern drawl as he started for the stairs.

  The response further muddled Judith. “Wait,” she

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  called after the screenwriter. “Do you have your room

  key or was it with the one to the house?” Guests were

  always given the two keys on a simple ring with their

  room number taped on the room key.

  “Let me see.” Dade rummaged in the pockets of his

  cargo pants. “Here,” he said, holding up a single key.

  “It says Room Two. That’s me.”

  “Yes,” Judith answered. “But you’re sure you don’t

  have the house key lying loose in your pockets?”

  “I already checked.” He shrugged again. “Sorry.”

  Once more, Dade started up the stairs.

  “One other thing,” Judith said, standing by the banister. “Who was C. Douglas Carp related to?”

  He paused, frowning. “Hunh. I think Carp was some

  relation of Bruno’s.”

  “Are you sure?” she pressed.

  “Well . . .” Dade looked up into the stairwell. “Carp

  was his father-in-law at one time. Yes.” He nodded to

  himself. “Bruno was married to somebody whose

  maiden name was Carp. C. Douglas must have been

  her daddy. Bruno always referred to him as Pappy.”

  “The father of which wife?” Judith hoped she didn’t

  sound eager.

  Again, Dade looked puzzled. “It wasn’t the second

  wife,” he said slowly. “I met her at the Cannes Film

  Festival a couple of years ago.”

  “That was the actress?” Judith prompted.

  “Right. Taryn, Taryn McGuire. But she doesn’t act

  anymore. She’s married to an oil sheikh. They brought

  their yacht to Cannes to attend all the parties.”

  “What about the first and third wives?” Judith persisted. “Did you meet either of them? Wasn’t the third

  wife in the movie business?”

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  “Right,” Dade said. “She was a film editor or something. I never met her. I think her name was Mary

  Ellen.”

  “But you don’t know if her maiden name was

  Carp?”

  “I’ve no idea.” Dade looked apologetic.

  “I assume you never met wife number one,” Judith

  said. “I understand that was a youthful marriage.”

  “Way before my time,” Dade said, still leaning on

  the banister. “She was the one Bruno rarely talked

  about. When he did, he was critical. I’ll say this for

  him—he never bad-mouthed the other two wives.”

  “Why was he so hard on the first one?”

  Dade grimaced. “I guess she was kind of a terror. I

  recall Bruno saying he ran into her someplace where

  he least expected. He always called her Spider

  Woman.”

  Judith stared up at him. “Did that have something to

  do with his superstition about spiders?”

  “I don’t think so.” Dade yawned. “Sorry, Ms. Flynn,

  I’m beat. I’m afraid I haven’t been much help.” Once

  more, he started up the stairs, but this time he was the

  one to stop his own momentum. “Why do you need to

  know about Bruno’s wives?”

  Judith offered him an uncertain smile. “I’m just curious. You know—when someone dies under your roof

  and all . . .” She let the sentence trail away.

  “Oh. That makes sense. I guess.” At last he continued on up the stairs and out of sight.

  Wearily, Judith trudged back to the kitchen. Renie

  was wearing her suede jacket and holding her huge

  handbag.

  “What was that all about?” she asked.

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  “Dade Costello. He lost his house key.” Judith made

  a face. “But guess what? Bruno referred to his first

  wife as Spider Woman.”

  Renie looked surprised. “Really? Who was she?”

  “Dade doesn’t know,” Judith said, espying The Gas-

  man novel on the counter. “Did you find any of the

  keepsakes interesting?”

  Renie started ticking off items on her fingers. “The

  usual pressed flowers and leaves, a faded red ribbon, a

  pair of ticket stubs from the 1968 World Series between

  St. Louis and Detroit, another pair of stubs from the

  1975 Iowa State Fair, a lock of what looked like baby’s

  hair, a young woman’s photo, a newspaper clipping of

  C. Douglas Carp’s obituary, and a recipe for prune pie.”

  Judith looked thoughtful. “Let’s see the obit.”

  Renie flipped through the book, then handed her the

  yellowed clipping.

  “Hmm,” Judith said. “Nothing here that wasn’t in

  the other account of his life and times. By the way, did

  you come across a picture of a young woman?”

  Renie flipped through the pages. “Yes, here it is.

  Anybody we know?”

  Judith studied the youthful face with the innocent

  expression. “I don’t think so. And yet . . .” She held the

  photo out for Renie’s perusal. “There is something familiar about her. Or maybe I’m imagining things. Do

  you recognize this face?”

  But Renie didn’t. “Why,” she inquired in a wistful

  voice, “are you fixated on Mr. Carp?”

  “Because,” Judith replied in a peevish tone, “I don’t

  know where to go with this damned mess. I still think

  the motive for this crime—if it was a crime—is personal. I don’t believe that anybody under this roof

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  killed Bruno for professional reasons. Somebody has a

  secret that was worth committing murder for, or somebody just plain hated Bruno.”

  Renie set her handbag down on the floor and leaned

  against the counter. “As in hated him for personal reasons?”

  Judith nodded. “Exactly.”

  “A woman scorned?” Renie suggested.

  “Possibly.”

  “Which woman? Wives one through three, or someone who wanted to be number four?”

  Judith sighed along with the wind, which was now

  a dull moan. “It’s possible. We know nothing about the

  personal lives of Eugenia Fleming or Winifred Best.”

  “Eugenia?” Renie wrinkled her pug nose. “Hardly

  the type you’d e
xpect a bigwig producer to marry.”

  “We might say Eugenia isn’t the right type,” Judith

  pointed out, “but that doesn’t mean Eugenia would

  agree.”

  “Winifred?”

  “She’s been a wife, in a way,” Judith said. “Women

  who work closely with men are like wives.”

  “True,” Renie said. “I’ve seen it in the corporate

  world. The business partner, the executive secretary,

  the special assistant. It’s not usually a sexual relationship, but sometimes it is. And of course one of the parties may suffer from unrequited love.”

  “I think we can scratch Ellie and Angela,” Judith

  mused. “They owe their careers to him in some way—

  despite the Big Flop—but I can’t picture either of them

  panting with desire for Bruno.”

  “Power’s a great aphrodisiac, though,” Renie noted.

  “Still . . .” She gave a shake of her head.

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  “We’re on the wrong track there,” Judith said.

  “We’re back to professional motives. I wish we knew

  why Winifred is so reluctant to talk about her brief career as a singer.”

  “Because it was so brief?” Renie offered.

  “I think it’s more than that,” Judith said. “I think that

  the brevity of her musical career could be a secret

  worth keeping.”

  Renie didn’t bother to stifle a big yawn. “I’ve got to

  head home. The fog’s just about gone and the wind’s

  dying down. If I had to, I could drive with my feet.”

  “That might be an improvement,” Judith murmured.

  “Sometimes you’re not so hot at using your hands.”

  “Funny, coz,” Renie said sarcastically. “Talk to you

  in the morning.”

  As Renie left via the back door, Judith glanced at

  the schoolhouse clock. It was almost midnight, the

  witching hour on Halloween.

  Maybe she wasn’t losing her mind. Maybe she

  wasn’t even losing her nerve.

  But she still believed she could be losing Hillside

  Manor.

  NINETEEN

  “THE AIRPORT’S STILL closed,” Joe announced as he

  brought in the morning paper. “That’s bad news.”

  “I didn’t know it was closed,” Judith responded

  with a frosty look.

  “It’s the fog,” Joe said. “Haven’t you noticed it

  settled in again during the night?”

  “I haven’t had time to notice anything,” Judith retorted. “I’ve been too busy figuring out what to

  serve our unwanted guests for breakfast.”