“Judging from the funereal pall around here,” Joe
said, opening Bruno’s favorite brand, “I’d say yes. I
don’t know much about the movie business, but a flop
can ruin a career. And I don’t mean just Bruno’s.”
“I never thought of it that way,” Judith said softly,
then gazed around the living room. Of the original
guest list, Chips Madigan and Winifred Best remained.
And Bruno, of course. Judith realized that even she
was beginning to consider him an afterthought. In a fit
of uncatlike compassion, Sweetums was still curled up
on Bruno’s lap.
106
Mary Daheim
Joe pointed to the elaborate buffet. “I’ll wrap up
some of the food and put it in the freezer. There’s no
sense in letting it go to waste.”
Judith nodded. “They’re not the type to take doggie
bags with them. I’ll start putting away some of the
things from the bar in the washstand cabinet.”
As she took the first half-dozen unopened bottles
that belonged to the B&B into the dining room, Morris Mayne was at her heels.
“I must be on my way,” he said. “There’s not much
more I can do for poor Bruno. Besides, as strange as it
sounds for people in the picture business, my wife and
I keep regular hours. Thank you for your hospitality.”
He ducked his head and scurried off toward the front
door.
Judith was putting dirty dishes on a tray when a subdued Winifred Best came up to her. “I think Bruno
wants to sit for a while with his thoughts,” she said.
“I’m going to retire for the night.” Slipping her hands
up the sleeves of her nun’s habit, she seemed to strain
for the next words: “Thank you for all you’ve done.
I’m sorry this couldn’t have been a happier event. Perhaps next time—if there is a next time—Bruno will
want to stay in a hotel.”
Judith watched Winifred leave the room, then noted
that only Bruno and Eugenia Fleming remained. The
agent was nibbling on truffles and standing at the
piano, her free hand playing the fate motif from Car-
men. Notes composed by the devil himself, Renie had
once told Judith. An exaggeration, perhaps, but the
minor chords certainly sounded like doom and gloom.
Out in the kitchen, Joe had just come up from the
basement. “We’ve run out of room in the freezer,” he
SILVER SCREAM
107
announced. “How much of that stuff in there is worth
keeping? You’ve got dates on some of those packages
from six, eight years ago.”
“Really?” Judith looked sheepish. “Then we’d better toss anything that old. Come on, I’ll get some
garbage bags and go down with you.”
Joe looked up at the schoolhouse clock. “It’s going
on one in the morning. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
Judith shook her head and put a sweater on over her
Roman costume. “I want as much of this done tonight
as possible. Otherwise I’ll have a big mess in the
kitchen come morning. That makes getting breakfast
awkward. It won’t take that long. Let’s go.”
But like so many household tasks, it took longer
than Judith had predicted. Almost half an hour later the
Flynns trudged back upstairs. Joe headed directly for
the garbage cans outside while Judith returned to the
kitchen.
Or almost. She rounded the corner into the hall and
saw Bruno bending over the sink. Her initial reaction
was that he was throwing up. Not that she blamed him.
A sudden gust of wind roared over the house. She
heard a garbage-can lid rattle, roll, and clank outside.
She knew that Joe must be swearing a blue streak.
“Mr. Zepf,” she called softly, moving down the hallway. “Can I help you?”
Bruno didn’t move. His robes sagged around him
and the headpiece was askew. Judith moved closer. She
couldn’t see his face above the sink.
Then, as she reached the kitchen table, she realized
that Bruno’s face was in the standing water from the
plugged-up drain.
“Mr. Zepf!” she cried, fear seizing her like an iron
108
Mary Daheim
clamp. She lurched at him, shaking his arm. “Mr.
Zepf!” she cried again.
Bruno Zepf slumped farther into the sink, his burly
upper body carrying him forward. With trembling fingers, Judith searched for a pulse. There was none. She
felt faint, but kept shaking Bruno’s arm. Then she noticed that the broken cupboard door was wide open.
And above the sink, suspended from the single light
fixture, was a big black spider.
SEVEN
JUDITH DIDN’T HEAR Joe come running down the
hallway. She was aware of his presence only when
he grabbed her by the shoulders and gently but
firmly pushed her out of the way.
“Call 911,” he ordered in a calm but emphatic
voice. “I’ll try to resuscitate him.”
A flicker of hope sparked in Judith’s breast.
“He’s alive?”
Joe didn’t reply. He hauled Bruno onto the floor
and started CPR. Judith couldn’t remember where
she’d put the phone. She finally buzzed the receiver
from its base and heard it beep from the opposite
kitchen counter.
How could she explain that a man might have
drowned in the kitchen? Not a swimming pool, not
a bathtub, not a hot tub, but a kitchen sink. Fumbling with the buttons on the phone, Judith felt
giddy. She wouldn’t give the details. She was afraid
to, for fear of becoming hysterical. Or worse yet,
disbelieved.
Finally she got a grip on her composure and informed the operator that there was a man near death.
Or already there, Judith thought dismally. Help was
110
Mary Daheim
required immediately. The operator told her to stand
by, someone should arrive at Hillside Manor in just a
few minutes.
“But,” Judith said in amazement, “I haven’t given
you the address.”
“Our system showed it on the screen,” the female
voice replied. “Besides, you’ve called here before,
haven’t you?”
“Yes,” Judith said weakly. “So I have.”
“The patrol car is close by,” the operator assured
her, “and the medics and firefighters have been alerted.
You’re not calling for your mother, are you?”
“No,” Judith whispered, fixated on Joe, whose efforts appeared to be futile. “No.”
“How’s she doing?” the operator inquired. “I hear
she’s quite a character.”
“Fine. Good. I . . . must . . . hang . . . up . . . now.”
Judith clicked off and, with a limp wrist, placed the
phone on the kitchen table.
Panting, Joe looked up from Bruno’s prone form.
“It’s no good. He’s dead.”
Judith crossed herself while Joe hung his head.
“Damn,” he breathed, “how did this happen? Was it an
accident?” His eyes traveled to the light fixture. “Oh,
hell! What’s that thing?” He picked up a long cooking
fork and poked at the spider. “It’s fake.”
“I need a drink,” Judith said, her voice hoarse. She
noticed that the balky cupboard door had swung open
again and closed it with a shaky hand. “I can’t believe
this. Yes, I can believe this. But why me? Why us?”