“Hey,” Joe said, reaching into the Flynns’ private
liquor stash, “it isn’t personal. When I was on the job,
I investigated at least a half-dozen homicides involving
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families that had already suffered through at least a
couple of other murders.”
“They were probably all crooks,” Judith pointed
out, wincing as she looked at Bruno, whose face was
an unnatural color. She was about to turn away when
she saw something round and white on the floor next
to his body. Moving carefully so as not to touch the
dead man, Judith fingered the object. “Aspirin,” she
said, holding it between her thumb and index finger.
Not seeing the bottle she kept on the windowsill, she
placed the pill on the counter. “Then you don’t think
it’s all my fault?”
“No.” Joe handed Judith her drink, then stared at
Bruno. “I wish I could figure out what happened. Does
the spider suggest a setup?”
Judith gaped at him. “You mean . . . to scare Bruno
to death?”
“Maybe just to rattle him,” Joe replied, wearing his
deadpan policeman’s face.
As Judith gazed with compassion at Bruno’s lifeless
form, the familiar sound of sirens could be heard in the
distance. “The neighbors.” She sighed. “What will they
think now?” She paused, a hand clutching at the deep
neckline of her Roman gown. “The guests! What shall
I do?”
“Nothing,” Joe replied as the first of the sirens
stopped nearby. “Yet. I’ll get the door. You stay with
the stiff.”
Judith flinched. It was bad enough that she and Joe
were drinking Scotch and standing over a corpse. But
now her husband had reverted to his professional self,
hard-boiled, keeping his distance, just-part-of-the-job.
She, on the other hand, apparently had slipped into the
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Mary Daheim
role of Joe’s longtime partner, Woody Price. Despite
her not infrequent confrontations with corpses, Judith
wasn’t indifferent to the body on the kitchen floor.
Surely Bruno had family who must be notified.
Winifred would know.
Joe returned with two familiar figures in tow. Darnell
Hicks and Mercedes Berger had been summoned to Hillside Manor before, when a mobster had been gunned
down outside of Gertrude’s toolshed. Over two years
later they still looked young, but not nearly so naive.
“What a shame,” Darnell said, gazing down at
Bruno. “How’d he get so soggy?”
Mercedes glanced at the sink. “What’d he do, stick
his head in there and couldn’t get out?”
Before Judith or Joe could respond, the medics and
the firefighters arrived. “Come on,” Joe said with a
hand on Judith’s elbow, “let’s retreat into the dining
room and give the folks some space.”
“To do what?” Judith asked, moving through the
swinging doors. “Oh, Joe, I can’t stand it! It’s got to be
an accident, right?”
Joe didn’t answer directly. “We’ll find out more
after the ME gets done. It may be tomorrow afternoon
before we hear anything. Saturday nights can be pretty
busy, especially on a holiday weekend.”
Darnell Hicks gave a tentative rap on the swinging
doors. “May I?”
“Sure,” Joe said, going back into the kitchen.
“What’s up?”
“We’re going to take the body to the morgue.” Darnell’s brown eyes seemed intrigued by the Flynns’ costumes. “Do you or Mrs. Flynn have any idea what
happened to the guy? Was this a Halloween party?”
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As Joe started to explain, Winifred appeared in the
dining room. “What’s going on?” she demanded of Judith. “Why are the police here?”
Judith put a hand out to the other woman. “Oh, Ms.
Best, I don’t know how to say this—except that Mr.
Zepf is dead.”
Winifred clutched at the front of her deep blue
bathrobe. “Dead? As in . . . actually dead?”
Judith supposed that to someone in the movie business, dead didn’t always mean losing one’s life. “Yes,
as in expired. We don’t know what happened.” She
glanced over the top of the swinging doors into the
kitchen. “They’re taking him to the morgue. We’ll
know more later.”
“Oh, my God!” Winifred swayed, then caught herself on the big breakfront. “His heart! Maybe he had a
heart attack! He was complaining of a terrible
headache earlier.” She pulled out one of the diningroom chairs and collapsed onto it, her slim body convulsing.
Judith glanced at Joe, who was answering routine
questions in the kitchen. She heard a squeal from Mercedes Berger as Joe mentioned Dirk Farrar’s name.
“Ms. Best,” Judith began, “do you want to have the
medics check you out?”
Winifred shook her head. “I must see Bruno,” she finally said, but couldn’t get to her feet. Winifred fell
back into the chair as a knock at the front door made
Judith jump. She hurried into the entry hall and peered
outside. Under the porch light she could see Dade
Costello, still in his costume and dripping wet.
“Mr. Costello!” she exclaimed, opening the door.
“What are you doing out in this rain?”
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Mary Daheim
Dade made an angry gesture toward the cul-de-sac.
“What are they doing out here?”
Closing the door behind the screenwriter, Judith
glimpsed the emergency vehicles, their lights still
flashing. “I’m afraid I have bad news—”
“I don’t need any more bad news tonight,” Dade
broke in. Without another word, he stomped upstairs.
“Oh, no,” Judith groaned. Glancing at Winifred,
who had her head down on the dining-room table, she
hurried into the kitchen but had to step aside as the
medics began to remove Bruno’s body.
“Move, Jude-girl,” Joe said, taking Judith by the
arm. “They’re going out the back way, they need room
for the gurney. I gave them as much information as I
could.”
Mercedes’s blue eyes were huge. “Is it true?” she
asked Judith. “Is Dirk Farrar really under this very
roof?”
“Yes,” Judith answered. “As far as I know.” Nothing
seemed certain on this wretched night. For all she
knew, Dirk could have climbed out a window and been
blown away by the gusting winds.
“What a hunk!” Mercedes was visibly palpitating.
Darnell’s dark skin seemed to glow. “Movie people.
Wow. You know, I hate to bring this up just now, but I’ve
been working on a script, and I wonder if I could—”
“Patrolman Hicks,” Joe interrupted in a solemn
voice, “you’re on duty. Let’s get on with the job.
Maybe I can mention your name to . . .” He paused, apparently wondering which guest would be interested in
a script. “Chips Madigan, the director. Okay?”
“Really?” Darnell looked elated. “Golly. That
would be terrific. Believe me, my script isn’t just an- SILVER SCREAM
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other piece of junk. I’ve got serious themes.” He turned
to his partner. “Come on, Merce, let’s hit it.”