inspector or whoever?” she asked of Mr. Tolvang.
“By them bushes,” the handyman answered, nodding at the azaleas, rhododendrons, and roses that
flanked the west side of the house. “Making trouble,
mark my vords.”
“I wonder,” Judith murmured, heading down the
driveway.
There was, however, no one in sight. She moved on
to the front of the house. An unfamiliar white car was
parked in the cul-de-sac. There were no markings on it.
Judith moved on to the other side of the house.
A tall man in a dark suit and hat stood between the
house and the hedge that divided Judith and Joe
Flynn’s property from their neighbors, Carl and Arlene
Rankers. The man had his back to Judith and appeared
to be looking up under the eaves.
“Sir!” Judith spoke sharply. “May I help you?”
The man whirled around. “What?” He had a beard
and wore rimless spectacles. There was such an oldfashioned air about him that Judith was reminded of a
character out of a late-nineteenth-century novel.
“Are you looking for someone?” Judith inquired,
moving closer to the man.
He hesitated, one hand brushing nervously against
his trouser leg. “Well, yes,” he finally replied. “I am. A
Mr. Terwilliger. I was told he lived in this cul-de-sac.”
Judith shook her head. “There’s no one by that name
around here. Unless,” she added, “he intends to stay at
my B&B.” She made an expansive gesture toward the
SILVER SCREAM
17
old three-story Edwardian house. “I run this place. It’s
called Hillside Manor. There’s a sign out front.”
The man, who had been slowly but deliberately
backpedaling from Judith, ducked his head. “I must
have missed it. Sorry.” He turned and all but ran around
the rear of the house.
Judith’s hip replacement didn’t permit her to move
much faster than a brisk walk. Puzzled, she watched
the man disappear, then returned to the front yard. He
was coming down the driveway on the other side of the
house, still at a gallop. A moment later he got into the
car parked at the curb and pulled away with a burst of
the engine.
“Local plates,” she murmured. But from where Judith stood some ten yards away, she hadn’t been able
to read the license numbers. With a shrug, she headed
back to the toolshed. She’d mention the stranger’s appearance to Joe when he got home. If she remembered.
Five hours later, when Joe arrived cursing the dead
end he’d come up against in a missing antique clock
case, Judith had forgotten all about the man who’d
shown up at Hillside Manor.
It would be two months before she’d remember, and
by that time it was almost too late.
TWO
JUDITH RECOILED FROM the obscenity screamed into
her ear by Cousin Renie. The four-letter word was
rapidly repeated before Renie cried, “You’re not
911!” and hung up.
Shaken, Judith stared at her cleaning woman,
Phyliss Rackley. “Oh, dear. What now?” she
breathed to Phyliss.
“What ‘what now’?” Phyliss inquired, scarcely
missing a beat as she scoured the kitchen sink.
“My cousin—Serena,” Judith said, her high forehead wrinkled in worry. “I think she was trying to
call 911. I don’t want to call her back in case she’s
on the line with them. Maybe I should go over to her
house to see what’s happened.”
“You got those Hollywood sinners due in two
hours,” Phyliss pointed out. “Besides, that cousin of
yours is probably in Satan’s clutches. I always said
she’d end up in the hot spot.”
Judith’s gaze darted to the old schoolhouse clock.
It was two on the dot. Friday, October 29. The day
when Bruno Zepf and his Hollywood entourage
would arrive for the premiere of The Gasman on the
following night.
SILVER SCREAM
19
But family came before filmdom. “I’ve still got
some spare time. I’m going to Renie and Bill’s. I don’t
dare call in case she’s tied up on the phone with 911.”
“Keep away from Lucifer!” Phyliss warned as Judith rushed out the back door. “He’ll come after you
when you least expect him!”
Judith was used to her cleaning woman’s fundamentalism. But like Skjoval Tolvang’s obstinacy,
Phyliss Rackley’s religious mania could be tolerated
for the sake of a reliable, thorough work ethic.
Traffic on Heraldsgate Avenue was relatively light
for a Friday afternoon. It was just a little over a mile
from Hillside Manor to the Joneses’ residence on the
north side of Heraldsgate Hill. Six minutes after she
had left Phyliss in the kitchen, Judith was at the door
of her cousin’s Dutch Colonial. So far, there were no
signs of emergency vehicles outside. Judith didn’t
know if that was a good or a bad portent.
When Renie and Bill had moved into their home
thirty years earlier, the doorbell had been broken. Bill
was a psychologist and a retired college professor, a
brilliant man in his field, but not adept at household repairs. The bell was still broken. Judith pounded on the
solid mahogany door.
No one responded. Anxiety mounting, Judith started
to go around to the back but was halted at the corner of
the house by a shout from Renie.
“Hey! Come in. I’ve got this junk all over my
hands.”
Judith returned to the porch. Renie stood in the
doorway, her hands and lower arms spattered with
what looked like the insides of a pumpkin. Bill came
down the hall from the kitchen. His head was covered
20
Mary Daheim
with the same orange clumps and he’d left a trail of
yellow seeds in his wake.
“What on earth . . . ?” Judith began, her jaw dropping. “I thought you had a catastrophe!”
“We did,” Renie replied, moving back to the
kitchen, where she ran her hands and arms under the
tap. “Bill got a pumpkin stuck on his head.”
Judith looked at Bill. Bill shrugged, then took a
towel from the kitchen counter and began to wipe himself off. Judith then looked at what was left of the
pumpkin. It lay on the floor in several pieces. Only the
top with its jaunty green stem remained intact.
Putting a hand to her breast in relief, Judith leaned
against the refrigerator. “Good grief. You scared the
hell out of me.”
“Sorry,” Renie said, rinsing her hands. “I hit your
number on the speed dial instead of 911.”
“Then,” Bill put in, his voice muffled by the towel,
“she punched the button for her hairdresser. By that
time I’d gotten the pumpkin off my head.”
“I don’t suppose,” Judith said slowly, “I ought to
ask why you were wearing a pumpkin on your head,
Bill?”
Removing the towel, he shrugged again. “It was for
your Halloween party tomorrow. I planned to go as
Ichabod Crane.”
Judith shook her head in wonder, then frowned. “It’s
not my party, it’s Bruno Zepf’s. I’m merely catering
the damned thing.”
“I’m helping,” Renie said, looking a trifle hurt.
“That’s why we’re coming, isn’t it? We thought it
would be more fun if we wore costumes like everybody else.”