Silver Scream : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

by Mary Daheim

  happiness, didn’t he?” she finally asked.

  Meg sat up very straight. “You mean . . . the book?”

  Judith nodded. “That’s what you came for earlier

  this morning, isn’t it? The book. Your copy of the

  book.”

  Meg’s jaw dropped, but she recovered quickly.

  “That Best woman—she was the one who all but stole

  it from us.”

  “Not your personal copy, though,” Judith put in.

  “Bruno took it with him when he left you, didn’t he?”

  “I could have killed him right then and there,” Meg

  declared. “Pa’s book was his monument. It was all that

  we had left of him, except for the manuscript he never

  finished. And no one would buy that one from us.

  Foolishly, we let the copyright on The Gasman run out

  in 1985. We thought, what’s the use? There was never

  more than the one printing. Then Bruno . . .” She spat

  out his name as if it were tainted with gall. “Then he

  used the book to make this big, big movie. Winifred

  Best had gotten hold of the rights for him. Walt and I

  couldn’t believe it when we saw it on a TV show about

  Hollywood. Millions of dollars. And we were practically on food stamps. After all those years—thirty-one,

  to be exact—that son of a bitch uses Pa’s book to make

  himself even more rich and famous.”

  “You never forgave Bruno, did you?” Judith asked

  quietly.

  Meg shook her head decisively. “Never. How could

  I? He ruined my life, he destroyed my future, he stole

  Pa’s book. It ate at me, like a cancer.”

  “Cancer,” Judith repeated. “You have cancer, don’t

  you?”

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  Meg’s body jerked in the chair. “How do you

  know?”

  “I found a piece of label from a prescription bottle

  in Bruno’s room the morning after he died,” Judith

  said. “It was for thalidomide. If it wasn’t for Bruno and

  it wasn’t for Walt, then it had to be for you. I’d heard

  that the drug was being used again, this time for cancer patients. Thalidomide has proved effective in retarding end-stage cancers. I think that scrap of label

  was dropped when you were exploring the upstairs.

  You didn’t notice because you were too busy destroying Angela’s costume and putting the rubber spider in

  Bruno’s bed.”

  Meg’s gaze dropped along with her shoulders. “That

  medicine helps. But it doesn’t cure. I’ve got blood cancer. Multiple myeloma, if you want to put a fancy

  name to it.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Judith said, feeling as if she had to

  apologize for too many tragedies in Meg’s life. “When

  you learned Bruno was premiering his movie here in

  town, it must have come as a shock to discover that he

  and his company were registered at the same B&B

  you’d chosen.”

  “Not really,” Meg said on a weary sigh. “It figured.

  Our first trip in twenty-five years, and somehow Bruno

  managed to foul it up for us. I guess that was the last

  straw. It was right after that when I found out about the

  cancer.”

  The damp air seemed to seep into Judith’s skin; she

  felt faintly chilled. The ticking of the schoolhouse

  clock sounded unnaturally loud in her ears. For all she

  knew, Meg had a gun in her purse. It seemed heavy,

  judging from the way Meg held it. Judith braced her- SILVER SCREAM

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  self before asking the next question. “Did you intend to

  kill Bruno?”

  Meg smirked before speaking. “Of course I did. I’d

  wished him dead every day of my life. But then I saw

  him again, after so many years.” She looked away and

  bit her lip. “I had to talk to him, to tell him what a

  skunk he was, to make him give me back my book. And

  of course money from him would have been nice. I

  don’t know how Walt will manage without me. He

  hasn’t been the same since the farming went bad.” She

  looked away, into the corner of the dining room, with

  its quaint washstand, porcelain ewer, and pitcher. Judith thought the sight must have reminded the other

  woman of home.

  “Bruno was so snotty to me,” Meg went on, “so

  mean, like he was after we were married. When I first

  began to show with the baby, he called me Spider

  Woman. He said that with the big belly and my scrawny

  long arms and legs, I reminded him of a spider.”

  “How cruel,” Judith said with a shake of her head.

  “Bruno sounds as if he was held captive by his ego,

  even then.”

  “He was nice only in the beginning,” Meg said,

  “when he was trying to seduce me. I was so green. I’d

  never met anyone like him.”

  Judith started to reach out to comfort Meg, but

  thought better of it. “Don’t blame yourself,” she said.

  “You were a farm girl from a small town. He was in

  search of his Iowa roots, and already had the aura of

  Southern California about him.” She paused, knowing

  that Meg had a need to talk about the confrontation

  with Bruno. “Night before last must have been very

  hard when you finally faced him again.”

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  “It was and it wasn’t,” Meg responded, her sharp

  features hardening even more. “I was glad that when I

  finally saw him, he was feeling miserable. How the

  mighty have fallen, I thought to myself. But then he

  got nasty. When Bruno went to take some pills he had

  in his hand, he opened the cupboard by the sink to

  fetch a glass. Then he dropped one of the pills. When

  he bent down to get it, he reared up so fast that he

  banged his head on the cupboard door and knocked

  himself silly. He fell right into the sink with all that

  water in it. For a second I thought I should haul him

  out.” Her face twisted with bitterness. “Then I thought,

  to hell with him. He never cared about me, why should

  I care about him? So I held his head under the water

  until he stopped flailing around. Then I put the spider

  over the sink and left.” Meg’s pallor had a strange

  glow. She’d won the final battle with Bruno.

  For a long time neither woman spoke. Judith forced

  herself not to look in the direction of Meg’s purse.

  “Your brother, Will,” Judith said at last, recalling the

  information on the Internet. “You mentioned at some

  point that he lives here. He’s William Euclid Carp,

  isn’t he?” Silently, she cursed herself. She’d never

  thought of looking up Carp in the phone book.

  Meg nodded. “He moved out this way a couple of

  years ago. He couldn’t stand trying to make a living

  selling farm equipment anymore. The market had

  fallen out of that, too. I figured that this trip would be

  my last chance to see him. Will was real pleased. But

  sad. I’d asked him to scout out this place so we could

  find it without running around all over a strange city.

  By then, we’d been displaced, and knew from you that

&nb
sp; Bruno was coming here for his big shindig.”

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  “Ah!” Judith exclaimed softly. She couldn’t believe

  she’d been such a dunce. The tall, old-fashioned figure

  she’d seen alongside the house wasn’t Ben Carmody;

  it was William Euclid Carp. “But you were the pioneer

  woman at the party,” she said. It was a statement, not a

  question. American Gothic, Judith had thought the first

  time she’d met the Izards. Gothic, as in grotesque. Out

  of the corner of her eye, she could see the calendar

  with the Grant Wood painting.

  “What else could I be?” Meg replied. “That was

  Great-Grandma Carp’s dress and bonnet I found a long

  time ago in the attic. I brought it with me. I couldn’t afford a fancy-dress costume. I’d heard about the ball on

  TV, and I figured I’d confront Bruno afterward at your

  B&B.”

  “Did Walt dress up?” Judith inquired. “I don’t recall

  seeing him at the party.”

  “He never came inside,” Meg said. “He and Will put

  together some makeshift costumes. Walt was a scarecrow. Will was a cowboy. Those were easy to do, after

  all the scarecrows we’ve had on the farm. Will had

  herded cattle for many years. He still had his boots and

  his vest and his cowboy hat. They didn’t blame me for

  what I’d done, but they fussed. They were afraid I’d be

  found out. Will was especially worried, so he and Walt

  tried to keep tabs on what was going on here after

  Bruno died.”

  So the witch wasn’t a witch, but a scarecrow,

  thought Judith. Another mistake she’d made, though

  understandable. In the fog, the pointed hat, the turnedup shoes, the ragged garments, the strawlike hair, and

  the fact that it was Halloween had made the illusion

  credible.

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  “Who found the missing key to Hillside Manor?”

  Judith asked.

  “Walt.” Meg smiled thinly. “It was in your driveway.

  He picked it up on a . . . whim, I guess. I tried to use it

  this morning, but before I could make it turn right,

  some fat old bag came to the door.”

  Judith had another query for Meg. “Why did you hit

  Winifred Best and start the fire?”

  Meg’s jaw jutted. “I thought she had my book. She

  said she didn’t—Bruno had it. But that didn’t make

  sense. Bruno was dead, so where did it go? She swore

  she didn’t know. That’s when I hit her. Then I went all

  through her room, but I couldn’t find the book. I got

  mad.” Her eyes grew cold as marble. “I struck a match

  and set fire to the bedclothes. That woman may not

  have had my book on her, but she’s had Bruno all these

  years. It wasn’t fair.”

  Judith tried not to gape. Could Meg still love Bruno

  in spite of everything he’d done? Sometimes love and

  hate were so hard to distinguish. Maybe it was obsession. Yet Bruno Zepf had inspired love in several

  women, perhaps including Winifred Best.

  “And there was this,” Meg added, releasing the grip

  on her purse. She fumbled a bit before she held out a

  black rubber spider. “I came to leave this. Sort of a . . .

  what do you call it? A calling card, maybe.”

  “An epitaph,” Judith murmured. “Why did you put

  the other spiders in our freezer?”

  “Walt did that,” Meg said, looking askance. “Don’t

  ask why Walt does things. Sometimes I think he’s a

  little tetched. Losing his pa’s farm, you know.”

  Judith suddenly recalled another seemingly inexplicable incident. “And the truffles that were sent here?”

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  “Truffles?” Meg scowled. “I don’t know what a

  truffle looks like.”

  “They’re kind of . . . disgusting,” Judith explained,

  “but they taste wonderful.”

  Meg continued scowling, then suddenly let out a

  sharp yip of laughter. “I sent Bruno a cowpie, straight

  off the farm.”

  “Oh!” Gertrude had been right to flush the parcel’s

  contents down the toilet. “I see.”

  Meg toyed with the spider for a moment, then

  pushed it across the table to Judith. “Here, you keep it

  as a souvenir. What are you going to do now, call the

  cops?”

  Judith gazed at the gray, gaunt face. Meg Izard was

  already condemned to death.

  “I have to,” she finally said.

  Meg reached into her purse. “Okay,” she said. “But

  not yet.” In her hand was a .45 revolver. No doubt it had

  been used previously to shoo away unwelcome birds

  and even more unwelcome strangers on the Izard farm.

  Judith tensed in her chair. Her feet were planted

  firmly on the floor, her fingers gripping the table’s

  edge. “Why would you shoot me?” she asked in a

  voice that didn’t sound like her own.

  “I want my book,” Meg said, now holding the gun

  with both hands. “Give me my book.”

  “Okay.” Judith forced herself to move. “May I?”

  “Yes.” Meg stood up. “No tricks, just my book.”

  It had never been harder for Judith to walk, not even

  when she’d taken her first tenuous steps after hip surgery. Slowly, agonizingly, she made her way to the

  drawer by the computer. Keeping one hand in full

  sight, she reached down to get the book.

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  “Here,” she said, still moving with difficulty.

  “Here’s your book.”

  Meg removed her left hand from the gun and took

  the heavy volume from Judith. “Thank you,” she said

  with great dignity. She clasped The Gasman to her flat

  breast and slipped the gun back into her purse. “Goodbye.”

  Judith stared as Meg walked toward the entry hall.

  The other woman moved slowly now, almost decorously, to the front door. Trying to control a sudden

  spasm of trembling, Judith started to follow. But Meg

  had closed the door behind her before Judith could get

  beyond the dining room.

  “My God!” Judith exclaimed under her breath, and

  leaned against the wall.

  She took several breaths before she could go on. Finally, she reached the door just as the shot rang out. Judith had expected it. She didn’t want to look outside,

  but she had to.

  Meg Izard was lying facedown at the sidewalk’s

  edge. Her copy of The Gasman had fallen in the gutter.

  Judith inspected the items on the silver tray and decided to start breakfast with the fruit compote. “How’s

  your omelette?” she asked of Joe, who was sitting in a

  plush armchair with his tray on his lap.

  “Excellent,” he replied. “I couldn’t have made a better one myself. The Cascadia Hotel has one of the best

  chefs on the West Coast.”

  “I have to admit it,” Judith said with a pleasurable

  little smile, “this is heaven.”

  “As long as we’ve been turned out of our house, we

  might as well make the most of it,” Joe said, his green- SILVER SCREAM

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  eyed gaze taking in the extensive hotel suit
e with its

  lavish old-world appointments. “Especially since Paradox Studios is paying for it.”

  “I can’t believe they ended up paying us,” Judith remarked, admiring the thick slice of Virginia ham on the

  white Limoges plate. “Twenty-five thousand dollars,

  plus our expenses. And the insurance money for the

  fire—I’m wondering if we shouldn’t keep the B&B

  closed for a while. Business gets increasingly slow this

  time of year. We could make some renovations I’ve

  been thinking about.”

  “You decide,” Joe said.

  “We might even enlarge the toolshed for Mother

  now that she’s gotten used to being out of it for a few

  days while the major work is being done to the house.”

  “I still say all the noise of the construction wouldn’t

  have bothered her,” Joe asserted. “She’s deaf, she’s

  daffy.”

  “She’s also selling her life story to the movies,” Judith pointed out. “At least she hopes so.”

  Joe merely shook his head. He didn’t notice that his

  wife was staring at him.

  “I’m not so hungry anymore,” Judith said softly. She

  put the tray aside. “At least not for breakfast.”

  “What?” Joe looked up from his marmaladecovered toast. He grinned. “Well, now. Maybe I’m not

  either. But do you really want to let things cool off?”

  “That depends on what you’re talking about,” Judith

  replied.

  Joe set his tray down on a French marquetry table

  and moved toward her. “You’re right. Seize the moment.” Instead, he climbed onto the king-size bed and

  seized his wife around the waist.

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  “Oh, Joe.” Judith sighed, her lips against his cheek.

  “This is perfect!”

  A knock sounded at the door.

  “Damn!” Judith breathed. “Shall I get it?”

  Joe buried his face in the bare curve of her shoulder.

  “No,” he said, his voice muffled.

  The knock sounded again, louder, more insistent.

  “We’d better answer that,” Judith said through

  clenched teeth. “Whoever it is will go away fast

  enough.” Pulling her terrycloth robe closed, she

  slipped off the bed and went to the door.

  Gertrude stood in the hallway. “Where’s my breakfast?”

  Judith gaped at her mother. “Didn’t you order from

  room service?”

  “Of course not,” Gertrude shot back. “You know

  how I hate to use the phone.” She and her walker

  clumped past Judith and into the room. “Lunkhead