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

know he always serves excellent food.”

With an off-center grin, Ben shrugged. “I wasn’t

hungry then.”

Renie, who had been out in the kitchen with Arlene,

joined Judith. “Hey, coz,” she said brightly, “have you

met Dade Costello, the screenwriter for The Gasman ?

He’s been telling me all about the script.”

Judith nodded toward the big man by the French

doors. Renie’s nod confirmed his identity.

“I’ll introduce myself,” Judith murmured. Passing

through the living room, she caught a few cutting remarks:

“. . . worse than that no-star hotel in Oman . . .”

“. . . If I’d wanted to stay in a phone booth, I’d prefer it was in Paris. . . .”

“. . . bath towels like sandpaper. Whatever happened

to plush nubbiness? Atlanta was nubby, but Miami was

the nubbiest . . .”

Wincing, Judith arrived at Dade Costello’s elbow

before he turned around. “I’m Judith Flynn,” she said,

putting out a hand. “Your innkeeper.”

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Mary Daheim

“That right?” Dade shook Judith’s hand without enthusiasm. Or maybe because he was so big, he’d

learned to be gentle with somewhat smaller creatures.

“Yes.” Judith’s smile felt false. “I’m interested in

the story behind The Gasman . Your story, that is.”

Dade’s ordinary features looked pained. He had

bushy dark hair dusted with gray, and overly long sideburns. “It’s not my story,” he said, with a trace of the

Old South in his voice.

“Oh.” Judith’s phony expression turned to genuine

confusion. “I thought you wrote the script.”

“I did.” Dade stuck his hands in his pockets. “But

the story isn’t the script.”

Judith waited for an explanation, but none was

forthcoming. “You mean . . . you adapted the story?”

Dade nodded. “My script was based on a novel.”

“I see.” Judith understood that this was often the

case. “Did the book have the same title?”

Again, Dade nodded, but offered no details. For a

man of words, Dade Costello didn’t seem to have

many at his command in a social situation. Maybe, Judith thought, that was why writers wrote instead of

talked.

“I never heard of the book,” she admitted. “Was it

published recently?”

This time, Dade shook his head. “No. It’s been

around awhile.”

“Oh.” Now Judith seemed at a loss to make conversation. She was about to excuse herself when Dade

rapped softly on one of the panes in the French doors.

“There’s a head in your backyard,” he said.

Judith gave a start. “What?”

Dade’s thumb gestured out past the porch that

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37

flanked the rear of the house. “A head. It’s been sitting

there for at least five minutes.”

Judith tried not to shriek. “Where?”

“There.” Dade pointed to a spot almost out of their

line of vision. “See it? On top of those bushes.”

Judith stared. “Oh!” she exclaimed in relief. “That’s

not a head, it’s my mother. I mean . . .” With a rattle of

the handle, she opened the French doors. “Excuse me,

I’d better see what she’s doing out there.”

Despite the rain, Gertrude wore neither coat nor

head covering. She stood next to the lily-of-the-valley

bush, leaning on her walker and panting. At the foot of

the porch steps, Bruno Zepf hovered in the shelter of

the eaves with his head cocked to one side.

“So,” Bruno was saying to Gertrude, “you actually

survived the Titanic’ s sinking?”

“You bet,” Gertrude replied, catching her breath.

“It’s a good thing I could swim.”

“Mother!” Judith spoke sharply as she moved to

take Gertrude’s arm. “It’s raining. What are you

doing out here?” She darted a glance at Bruno. “Excuse me, Mr. Zepf, but my mother shouldn’t be outdoors without a coat or a rain hat. I’ll take her back

inside.”

But Gertrude batted Judith’s hand away. “Stop that!

I’m not finished yet with this fine young Hollywood

fella.”

Bruno, however, held up a hand. “That’s all right,

Mrs. . . . ?”

“Grover,” Gertrude put in and shook a crooked finger. “You remember that when you make the movie

about me.”

Bruno forced a chuckle as Judith tried to move her

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Mary Daheim

mother along the walk toward the toolshed. “The problem is,” Bruno called after them, “someone else already made a movie about the Titanic not very long

ago.”

Gertrude refused to move another inch. “What?”

“Yes,” Bruno responded, backing up the porch

steps. “It was a big success, an Oscar winner.”

“I’ll be,” Gertrude muttered, allowing Judith to

make some progress past the small patio. Then the old

lady suddenly balked and turned around to look at

Bruno Zepf. “Hey! Did I tell you about being on the

Hindenburg ?”

“Keep moving,” Judith muttered. “We’re both getting wet.”

“You always were all wet,” Gertrude grumbled, but

shuffled along the walk under her daughter’s guiding

hand. “Who was that guy? Cecil B. DeMille?”

“No, Mother,” Judith replied as an agonized scream

erupted from behind her. She turned to see Bruno Zepf

clutching at the screen door and writhing like a madman.

“I can’t get in! I can’t get in!” he howled.

Abandoning Gertrude, Judith rushed to the back

porch. “What’s wrong? What is it?”

Bruno swung his head to one side. “There! By your

foot! It’s a spider! Help!”

Judith peered down at the tiny arachnid that was

scooting toward the edge of the porch. A moment later

the spider disappeared into the garden.

“It’s gone,” Judith said, over Bruno’s wails. “That

is, the very small spider has left the building.”

Bruno’s head jerked up. “It has? Are you sure?”

Judith was about to reassure Bruno when Winifred,

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39

with Dirk Farrar right behind her, opened the back

door. Bruno all but collapsed into Winifred’s arms.

“What’s going on?” she demanded.

Judith grimaced. “Mr. Zepf saw a spider on the

porch.”

“Oh, no!” Winifred looked aghast. Dirk snickered.

“Does Mr. Zepf have arachnophobia?” Judith asked

as Bruno’s shudders subsided.

“Not exactly,” Winifred replied, patting Bruno on

the back as if he were a frightened child. “They’re bad

luck.” She managed to disentangle herself and took

Bruno’s hand. “Come inside, it’s quite safe.”

Dirk lingered at the door. “Twerp,” he muttered.

“Chickenhearted twerp.”

“Why are spiders bad luck?” Judith asked.

Dirk shrugged his broad shoulders. “Something to

do with a spider during the shooting of Bruno’s first

picture. Somehow, one got on the camera lens and ruined a perfect take. The crazy bastard’s never been the

same since.” He stopped and turned quickly to look

over his shoulder. No one was there. “Crazy like a fox,

maybe I should say.” With another shrug, Dirk Farrar

moved down the hallway.

Judith went back to the toolshed, where her mother

was still standing in the doorway.

“What caused that commotion?” Gertrude asked in