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?”
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?”
SILVER SCREAM
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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Mary Daheim
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
SILVER SCREAM
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