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

“Leeches,” Judith said under her breath as footsteps

emanated from the front hall.

Renie looked startled. “Who’s that? Is Joe home already?”

“No,” Judith replied, heading out of the kitchen. “It’s

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my ex-guests, the ones I had to cancel to make room for

the movie people. Hang on while I say good-bye.”

Renie, however, wandered out behind Judith, but

stopped in the archway between the dining room and

the entry hall. The Izards were at the door, city map in

hand.

“This place isn’t too bad,” Meg Izard allowed.

“Maybe next time we come through here, you’ll actually let us stay.”

“I hope so,” Judith said, not quite truthfully.

Walt Izard opened the door. “Lousy weather,

though.” He gestured outside. “It’s started to rain. Does

it really rain here all the time?”

“Often,” Judith answered, this time with honesty.

“Especially this time of year. Windy, too,” she added.

“Halloween weather, all right,” Meg said with a grimace. “That’s too bad. I hoped we’d have some sun to

celebrate our silver anniversary.”

“Drive safely,” Judith cautioned, moving closer to

the Izards in an effort to get them out of the house and

into their compact rental. “These streets can be slippery when—”

She stopped, staring into the cul-de-sac as a pair of

limos glided to the curb.

“Well, well,” Meg Izard muttered, “here come the

rich and famous. Let’s get out of their way, Walt. We

wouldn’t want to give them any just-plain-folks

germs.”

Judith was too flustered to protest. As the limo doors

were opened by their drivers, a third car pulled up and

stopped in front of the Steins’ house at the corner.

“Hey,” called one of the other drivers as a diverse

group of people began to emerge from the chauffeur- SILVER SCREAM

27

driven cars, “will somebody move this crate?” The

young man gestured at what Judith assumed was the

Izards’ rental.

Both Meg and Walt froze momentarily on the

threshold. “Big-shot bastards,” Walt muttered. “To hell

with ’em.”

But Meg had already started for the car. With an annoyed shrug, Walt followed his wife. The couple drove

away as Arlene Rankers appeared from the other side

of the hedge and the first of the celebrities made their

way toward Hillside Manor.

Although at least a half-dozen people were approaching the front porch in styles ranging from a

brisk trot to a languid lope, Judith’s gaze was fixated

on just one man, who held a cell phone to his ear: He

was almost bald, with a short grizzled beard and a fireplug build. What little hair he had left had grown out

and was tied with a black ribbon into a thin, foot-long

ponytail. His cheeks were pitted with old acne scars,

and while his movements were controlled, energy exuded from him like sparks from a faulty toaster. Judith

realized that she recognized him from casually

glimpsed photographs. He was Bruno Zepf,

megaproducer and Hollywood legend-in-the-making.

“Mr. Zepf,” Judith said, putting out her hand.

“Mr. Zepf,” echoed Renie and Arlene, who had

joined Judith on the porch. Renie looked as if she were

trying very hard not to be impressed; Arlene appeared

close to bursting with unbridled gush.

Zepf clicked off the cell phone and zeroed in on Judith, his shrewd blue eyes narrowing a bit. “You’re

Mrs. . . . Flynn?”

“I am.” To her horror, Judith dropped a slight curtsy.

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“Welcome to Hillside Manor,” Arlene burbled, grabbing the hand that Judith had just released. “This is a

wonderful B&B. This is a wonderful neighborhood.

This is a wonderful city.” She lowered her voice only a

jot. “That’s why we’re thinking of moving.”

Judith and Renie were used to Arlene’s contradictions. Judith flinched, but Bruno apparently hadn’t

heard Arlene. He had already moved on to shake

Renie’s hand without ever looking right at her, and was

now in the entry hall, surveying his new surroundings.

Such was his air of possession that Judith felt as if

she’d not only rented Bruno a room but sold him the

entire house.

Judith had to force herself to take her eyes off the

great man and greet the other guests. She immediately

recognized Dirk Farrar and Angela La Belle, whose famous faces had appeared in a series of hit movies. Judith had actually seen two of their films, on video. Just

as the pair reached the porch, Judith noticed that

Naomi Stein had come out of her house on the corner

and Ted Ericson was pulling into his driveway across

the street.

As Ted got out of his car, Dirk Farrar also saw the

newcomers. “Beat it, scumbags!” he yelled. “No paparazzi!” Pushing past Angela La Belle and the threewoman welcoming team, he disappeared into the

living room.

With a faint sneer on her face, Angela La Belle ignored the gawking neighbors along with her fellow

actor and proceeded up the front steps.

“Ms. La Belle,” Judith said, gathering her aplomb,

“I so enjoyed your performance in”—her mind went

blank—“your last movie.”

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Angela’s face, which seemed so angelic on the screen,

wore a chilly smile. “Thanks. Where’s the john?”

“Straight ahead,” Renie said, pointing to the new

door that Skjoval Tolvang had recently installed.

Judith was left to confront a somewhat less familiar

face. She racked her brain to recall who else was on

Bruno’s guest list.

“Hi, Mr. Carmody,” Renie said, coming to the rescue. “My husband and I were sorry you didn’t win

Best Supporting Actor this year. You were a really

great villain in To Die in Davenport .”

“Thanks,” Ben Carmody replied with what appeared

to be a genuine smile. “Face it, I was up against some

pretty tough competition.”

Judith was startled by Carmody’s benign appearance. She was so used to seeing him as the embodiment of evil that she scarcely recognized him. He was

tall and lean, much better looking in person than on the

screen. Judith shook Ben Carmody’s hand and also received a warm smile.

Like Dirk Farrar, the next arrival ignored Judith and

the others. Unlike Dirk, the pencil-thin black woman

in the gray Armani suit glided over the threshold as if

she had wheels on her Manolo Blahnik pumps. Once

inside, she joined Bruno Zepf, who had migrated into

the front parlor. The woman closed the parlor door behind her, leaving the cousins and Arlene staring at each

other.

Last but not least was a small, exotic creature who

apparently was communing with the squirrels in the

maple tree near the front of the house.

“Who is that?” Arlene inquired, her pretty face perplexed. “She reminds me of someone.”

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Mary Daheim

“Ellie Linn-MacDermott,” Renie said. “Except I

think she’s dropped the MacDermott.”

“Y-e-s,” Arlene said slowly, “that’s who she reminds

me of. Ellie Linn-MacDermott. I’ve seen Ellie in two

or three movies. Funny, this girl’s a dead ringer for

her.”

“She is Ellie Linn,” Renie responded, making way