Mary Daheim - Silver Scream - A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

have everything for now. You may go.”

Judith shoved Renie back into the entry hall. Renie

dug in with her heels and came to a dead stop at the

head of the dining-room table.

“That egotistical dork is treating us like slaves!” she

railed. “Who the hell does he think he is? I’ve faced off

with bigger fish before he came along!”

Judith knew that her cousin could back up her bluster. In Renie’s graphic design business, she had gone

up against everybody from Microsweet to the mayor.

She didn’t always win, but even if she lost, she still

managed to save face. Renie’s small, middle-aged matron’s appearance was deceptive. It concealed an abrasive manner that, upon occasion, could get physical.

Which was all the more reason why Judith had to keep

her cousin out of Bruno’s sight.

“Don’t even think about it,” Judith said under her

breath. She loomed over her cousin by a good five

inches, outweighed her by some forty pounds, yet Judith knew she was outmatched. Renie had had shoulder surgery on the same day that Judith had undergone

her hip replacement. If nothing else, Renie could still

run.

“Hey!” Joe Flynn’s voice cut through the kitchen

and into the dining room. “What’s going on? Still

fighting over who has the best Sparkle Plenty doll?”

Judith backed away from her cousin. Renie’s ire

evaporated, as it often did after the initial outburst.

“Not exactly,” Judith said, meeting her husband at

the swinging doors and giving him a big kiss on the

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45

lips. “Boy, am I glad to see you. I’m not sure I’m ready

for the movies.”

“What’s wrong?” Joe inquired. “Aren’t your guests

behaving themselves?”

“It’s attitude,” Renie said, joining Joe and Judith

just inside the kitchen. “These creeps are loaded with

attitude, and some of it’s bad.”

“Relax,” Joe urged. “Years ago, I made big bucks

working security for location companies shooting

around town. I could keep the rabid fans and the

celebrity seekers and the nutcases away, but I couldn’t

offer the kind of security they really needed. The problem with these movie types is that they’re basically insecure.”

“That’s true,” Renie agreed. “Bill says that because

of the capricious nature of the business and the personalities involved in moviemaking, they’re constantly

seeking reassurance that they’re loved and wanted. Bill

sometimes uses feature films to study the behavior

of—”

Renie’s latest parroting of her husband’s expertise

was mercifully interrupted by Arlene, who poked her

head in the back door. “I took your mother’s supper out

to her. I’ve got to go home now and feed my darling,

patient Carl. To the dogs,” she added with a sinister expression.

“Thanks again, Arlene, I really appreciate . . .” But

Arlene was gone before Judith could finish the sentence.

“Have a drink on me, ladies,” Joe offered, taking

down a bottle of Scotch and a bottle of Canadian

whiskey from the cupboard. “What are the guests up

to?”

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Mary Daheim

Judith slumped into one of the kitchen chairs. “Listening to how wonderful Bruno is, from Bruno’s own

lips.”

“And,” Renie put in, opening the cupboard door by

the sink to get three glasses, “listening to Bruno tell

them how marvelous The Gasman is, which I assume

they already know, having been involved in the making

of it.” Handing the glasses to Joe, she closed the cupboard door behind her. Or tried to. “Damn! What’s

with this thing? It won’t stay shut.”

Judith heaved a sigh. “Mr. Tolvang supposedly fixed

it when he was here, but the door still swings open on

its own.” She gave Joe a plaintive look from under her

dark lashes. “I don’t mean to nag, but I have mentioned

that you might look at it. I hate to ask Mr. Tolvang.

He’s so stubborn, he’d probably tell me I was imagining the problem.”

“I’ll give it a go,” Joe answered airily, handing Judith her Scotch. “I’ve been kind of busy lately.”

Judith didn’t respond. While Joe was slightly more

adept at household repairs than Bill, the Flynn to-do

list was never a priority.

“So what’s this movie about anyway?” Joe asked.

“A public utility?”

“Not exactly,” Renie replied. “Dade Costello—the

screenwriter—explained the basic plot to me.”

“That’s more than he did for me,” Judith remarked.

“Maybe you used the wrong approach,” Renie said.

“He’s kind of touchy. Sullen, too. Of course I’m used

to moody writers. Freelancers are the worst. They can’t

bear to have their precious copy rearranged so it will fit

the graphics. Anyway, the bare bones Dade sketched

out for me involve the entire history of the world as

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47

seen through the eyes of a simple gasman. That is, an

employee who works for a gas company somewhere in

the Midwest.” Renie paused for effect. “Get it? Everyman in the middle of the country, the center of the universe.”

“I got it,” Joe murmured into his Scotch.

“Anyway,” Renie continued, sitting on the counter

with her glass of Canadian whiskey cradled in her

lap, “Bruno shows the viewer how certain periods of

history contributed to our evolution as a civilization.

He puts a positive spin on it, concentrating on early

forms of writing, the invention of paper, the printing

press, and so forth. Thus, he jumps from ancient

Egypt and China all the way up to the present. The

only problem that I can see is that it takes him four

hours to do it.”

“Wow,” said Judith. “I knew it was a long movie, but

isn’t that too long?”

“There’s an intermission,” Renie responded. “I

gather Bruno wanted to do a real epic, sort of the upside of D. W. Griffith’s Intolerance .”

“I’ll wait for the video,” Joe said. “I prefer scheduling my own snack and bathroom breaks.”

“I don’t blame you,” Renie said, “except that you’ll

miss the spectacle unless you see it on a big screen.”

Joe shrugged. “I’ll use my imagination. Besides,

how spectacular can it be watching Gutenberg set type

in his basement?”

The question went unanswered as Winifred Best entered the kitchen. “Where are the truffles?” she demanded. “Bruno must have his truffles. Served raw, of

course, with rosy salt. I assume you know how to prepare rosy salt?”

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Mary Daheim

Joe’s expression was benign. “Three parts salt, two

parts paprika, one part cayenne pepper.”

Judith was always amazed by her husband’s knowledge of fine cuisine. But she looked blankly at

Winifred. “I don’t recall seeing any truffles. Were they

shipped with the caviar and the other delicacies?”

Winifred’s thin face was shocked. “No! They were

shipped separately. Périgord truffles, from France.

They should have arrived this afternoon.”

Judith thought back to Phyllis’s comment about the

delivery truck that may or may not have stopped at

Hillside Manor. “I’ll check,” she said.

“You certainly will,” Winifred snapped. “And you’ll

do it now. Do you have any idea how rare, how delicate, and how expensive those truffles are?”