Opening the book, she noted the author’s name—C.
Douglas Carp. The copyright was 1929. The publisher,
Conkling & Stern of St. Louis, was unfamiliar to her.
What struck Judith was not the density of the prose but
the well-fingered pages. It reminded her of an aged,
much-loved, well-thumbed family Bible. Fragile
pieces of leaves and flowers, brittle with age, had been
placed between some of the pages. There was a small
lock of hair so fine it could have belonged to a baby.
Then, as she riffled through the last chapters of the
nine-hundred-page novel, a photograph fell out onto
the bedspread. It was a wallet-size picture of a young
woman, perhaps still in her teens. Like the book, the
photo was well-worn, but the girl’s face was fresh, innocent, pretty. Judith thought it might be a high-school
yearbook picture. She flipped it over, but nothing was
written on the back. The blond bouffant hairstyle indicated the sixties. Judith stared at the photo in fascination. She’d seen that face somewhere else, not so
young and definitely not so innocent.
But she couldn’t remember where. Or who.
SIX
WHEN JUDITH GOT back downstairs, five early young
trick-or-treaters came to the front door. While Renie
doled out candy to the zebra, the gorilla, the fairy
princess, and two wizards, Judith welcomed Arlene,
who had just reported for duty.
“I watched everyone leave for the premiere,” Arlene said, rolling up her sleeves to pitch in with the
cooking. “I hope Ben Carmody will like Cathy. I’ve
asked her to stop by for the midnight supper.”
Judith’s mouth fell open. “You have? But it’s supposed to be strictly for the movie people.”
“That’s all right,” Arlene replied. “Cathy’s going
to tend bar. She’s dressing as a panda.”
“Surely,” Renie remarked, “that costume will
conceal her charms.”
“And hide her flaws,” Arlene replied. “Mystery,
that’s what intrigues men. Ben will be able to see
her very attractive hands. She can’t wear paws if
she’s going to mix drinks.”
Judith didn’t contest Arlene’s decision. If Cathy
Rankers played bartender, Judith and Joe would not
have to share her duties. For the next few hours the
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Mary Daheim
women worked side by side until eleven o’clock when
all was in virtual readiness.
“I’m already exhausted,” Renie announced, leaning
against the sink. “Is Bill still napping on the sofa?”
“Yes,” Judith replied. “So’s Carl. On the other sofa.
Joe’s watching TV upstairs. He should be down in a
few minutes. Unless he’s napping, too.”
“Hey,” Renie said, suddenly rejuvenated and jumping away from the sink. “Let’s turn the TV on to
see—”
The cupboard door behind her sprang open, narrowly missing her head.
“Oops!” Renie exclaimed, then firmly closed the
door. “I wish you’d fix that thing.”
“Me too,” Judith agreed. “If Joe doesn’t give it a go,
I’ll have to call Mr. Tolvang next week. Say, do you
think the premiere is on the news?”
“Probably,” Renie replied, testing the cupboard door
to make sure it was shut.
Judith clicked on the small color set she kept on the
counter near her computer. Mavis Lean-Brodie, a familiar face from murders past, was making dire predictions about a storm blowing down from the north.
“. . . with winds gusting up to forty-five miles an
hour and heavy rains. Small-craft warnings are out on
the . . .”
“She changed her hair again,” Renie remarked.
“Now it’s pink.”
“I hope the rain lets up,” Arlene said in a doleful
voice. “It always seems to be nasty when the trick-ortreaters are making their rounds.”
“That’s because it’s late October,” Renie replied.
“We get some of our worst wind storms about now.”
SILVER SCREAM
91
“. . . For more on the weather,” Mavis was saying,
“our own Duff Stevens will be along later in the broadcast. But,” she added, now all smiles, “despite the rain,
the stars were out tonight downtown. Here’s KINETV’s entertainment editor, Byron Myron, with more
on that big event.”
Byron Myron was a jolly-looking black man whose
appearance belied a rapierlike tongue. He was shown
outside the movie theater holding an umbrella.
“The Gasman arrived here this evening,” Byron
said, “and blew out the main line.” The camera traveled
to the glittering marquee, followed by clips of the
celebrity arrivals. “Bruno Zepf’s four-hour, hundredmillion-dollar extravaganza proved that money can’t
buy you love—or a good movie.”
“There’s Angela in her Gone With the Wind costume,” Renie whispered as the female lead was shown
entering the theater.
“How can you tell?” Arlene whispered back. “She’s
wearing a mask.”
“I saw the costume here,” Renie said. “In fact,
somebody ripped—”
Judith waved a hand to shush the other women.
“. . . story which was based on an obscure novel of
the same name,” Byron Myron was saying, “doesn’t
merit four minutes, let alone four hours. As for the acting, the performers are in the unenviable position of
creating several different characters during the various
historical periods Zepf has chosen to make his statement about humanity’s progress over four millennia.
Or was it five? I’m not sure. The movie seemed to take
almost that long. This is Byron Myron, reporting
from—”
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Mary Daheim
Judith switched off the set. “Goodness. That doesn’t
sound so good for Bruno.”
“Maybe,” Renie suggested, “Byron Myron feels he
ought to trash the movie because it was filmed on location around here and the city hosted the premiere.
He may feel that if he praised it, he’d sound like a
homer.”
“Maybe,” Judith allowed, then started turning on
ovens and putting dishes on to heat. “The Zepf gang
will be back here in a little over half an hour. We
should get into our costumes. So should the husbands.”
As the three women changed in the third-floor bedroom, they could hear the wind begin to pick up in the
trees outside. The rain was coming down harder, too,
spattering the windows and running out of the downspouts.
Judith stared at herself in the mirror. She looked
more like a noble Roman lady than a humble slave.
The off-white gown was held on one shoulder by a
brooch that had belonged to Grandma Grover. An old
drapery cord served for the belt, and the scarf that hung
from her head was anchored by an ivory comb that was
a castoff from Auntie Vance.
“Gee, coz,” Renie said, “you look pretty hot.”
Judith had to admit that the long, graceful gown
suited her statuesque figure. “Thanks,” she said. “I
wish I could say the same for you.”
Renie tucked the head of her Daisy Duck costume
under her arm. “I thought my tail feathers were kind of
sexy.”
“Not as sexy as your big webbed feet,” Judith said,
then turned to Arlene, who looked somewhat more enchanting as Gretel, complete with long golden braids and
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