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

Judith didn’t, but refused to admit it. She immediately dialed the number of FedEx’s tracking service.

They had made all the previous deliveries, so she assumed they had—or hadn’t—shipped the truffles.

“Yes,” the woman at the other end of the line said,

“that parcel arrived at your house and was signed for

by a Mrs. Gertrude Grover.”

Judith sucked in her breath, barely managing to

gasp out a thank-you. “Could you wait here?” she

asked Winifred. “I think I know where the truffles are.”

Winifred was aghast. “You think ?”

Judith didn’t pause for further criticism. She rushed

out to the toolshed, where Gertrude was watching TV

and finishing supper. The volume was so loud that Judith cringed upon entering the tiny living room.

“You’ll never guess what I saw on one of those talk

shows,” Gertrude said. “Men who love men who love

monkeys. What next?”

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49

The query was ignored. Judith picked up the remote

and hit the mute button. “Mother, did you sign for a

package this afternoon?”

“A package?” Gertrude looked blank, then scowled

at her daughter. “Hey, turn that thing back on. I can’t

hear the news. There’s a bear loose in a used-car lot on

the Eastside.”

Judith put the remote behind her back. “Did someone deliver a package to the toolshed this afternoon?”

“Oh.” Looking distressed, Gertrude tried to sit up a

little straighter. “Yes, they did, and I’ve never seen anything so disgusting in my entire life. Who’d play such

an awful joke on an old lady? If you can call it a joke,”

she added in a dark voice.

Judith realized that her mother was serious. “The

package—where is it?”

Gertrude’s expression was highly indignant. “Where

it ought to be—down the toilet. At least it didn’t stink.

Much.”

“Oh, no!” Judith gasped. “That was . . . that

wasn’t . . . what did it look like?”

“I told you,” Gertrude said. “Like . . . you know

what. It was dark brown and all bumpy. It was just . . .

horrible. Now who would play such a filthy trick?”

Judith recalled seeing truffles in Falstaff’s delicacy

section. They had been grayish white and came from

Italy. Maybe French truffles were different. If their appearance was as loathsome as Gertrude had described,

she couldn’t blame her mother for flushing them down

the toilet.

“It wasn’t a joke,” Judith said, patting Gertrude’s

shoulder and handing over the remote. “It was a box of

truffles—sort of like mushrooms—and it was intended

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for the Hollywood guests. I’ve never eaten them, but I

guess they’re extremely delicious.”

Gertrude gave Judith an elbow. “Go on with you!

Nobody, not even those movie people, would eat anything that looked so foul.”

“I’m afraid they would—and do,” Judith replied. At

least they would if the truffles weren’t floating somewhere in the city’s sewer system. “Don’t worry about

it, Mother. It’s not your fault.”

“Of course it isn’t,” Gertrude huffed. “What are they

having for supper? Bacteria?”

Judith couldn’t discuss the matter further. She

headed back into the house, trying to come up with one

of her well-intentioned fibs to stave off the wrath of

Winifred and the rest of Bruno’s party.

As Judith entered the kitchen, Joe was answering

the phone. She gave him a questioning look, but he

shook his head. “It’s Bill,” he said, handing the receiver to Renie.

Winifred was waiting under the archway between

the entry hall and the living room. “Well?” she demanded, tapping a toe on the bare oak floor.

“The truffles were stolen,” Judith said. “A bushyhaired stranger burst into my mother’s apartment and

grabbed them off the table. He fled through the hedge

on foot.”

“What?”

Judith nodded several times. “I’ll notify the police at

once.”

Winifred looked homicidal. She also seemed incredulous. And, in fact, she was speechless.

Ben Carmody came to her side. “The truffles were

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51

stolen?” he inquired in a mild voice. “That’s too bad.

But then I don’t like them.” As soon as the words were

out of his mouth, he shot a furtive glance at Bruno,

who was still standing by the fireplace. “I mean,” Ben

explained, “they’re not my favorite.”

Bruno eyed Judith, Ben, and Winifred with curiosity. “Did someone mention the police?”

Winifred pointed a long, thin finger at Judith. “She

claims the Périgord truffles were stolen.”

Bruno frowned. “Really?” He hesitated. “Calling

the police is a bad idea, even for a thousand dollars’

worth of truffles. We don’t need that kind of publicity.”

Chips Madigan jumped up from the window seat.

“How about a private detective?”

Bruno looked dubious, but before he could speak,

Judith broke in: “That’s a good idea. I know just the

man.” She paused and gulped. “I mean, my husband is

a private detective. I’m sure he can clear this up.”

Bruno shrugged. “Then let him do it.”

Winifred gave Bruno an inquiring look. “Are you

certain you want to do that? What do we know about

Mrs. What’s-her-name’s husband?”

All eyes were on Bruno. He scratched his bearded

chin before responding. “Why not? Maybe losing the

truffles isn’t our biggest problem.”

Nobody spoke, but there was much shifting of

stances and staring at the floor.

Finally, Winifred turned to Judith. “Very well. Let’s

have a word with your private detective husband.”

Judith tried not to grimace. Joe would not take well

to supporting his wife in one of her bold-faced lies.

“I’ll get him,” she said in a weak voice.

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Mary Daheim

She went back through the dining room and into the

kitchen. As she opened her mouth to explain the situation to Joe, Renie dropped the phone, let out a highpitched shriek, crawled under the kitchen sink, and

slammed the cupboard door behind her.

FOUR

“RENIE!” JUDITH CRIED, pulling on the handle of the

door beneath the sink. “Come out right now!”

“What the hell is she doing?” Joe demanded.

“She’s in shock,” Judith replied as the door—or

Renie—resisted her tugs. “I’ve seen her do this before. Once, when she found out she was pregnant

the third time, and again when she got the kids’ orthodontist bill.”

Joe bent down to pick up the receiver, but heard

only the dial tone. “So what is it?” he asked with a

worried expression. “Has something happened to

Bill?”

Placing the receiver on the counter, he nudged

Judith aside and gave the cupboard door a mighty

yank. Renie was folded up inside, pale of face, with

her chestnut curls in disarray, her mouth agape, and

her eyes almost crossed.

“Coz!” Judith urged, hampered by the hip replacement in her effort to kneel down. “What’s

wrong? Is it Bill?” Maybe he had another pumpkin

stuck on his head, Judith thought wildly. Maybe he

was suffocating. Maybe he had suffocated. Maybe

Bill was dead.

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Mary Daheim