tonight because of the holiday weekend. You see to it
that nobody goes near that kitchen, especially the sink.
You got that?”
Joe nodded solemnly; Judith blanched. “But I have
to serve breakfast for—” she began.
Cairo made a slashing gesture with his sore hand.
“Forget about it. Your fancy guests can go out to eat.
So can you.”
“But Mother can’t—” Judith began before Joe broke
in.
“Sam’s right. The kitchen is a potential crime scene.
We’ll manage.” He offered Cairo a dubious smile.
“Trying to get rid of me, eh, Flynn?” There was
nothing playful about the look in Cairo’s chilly eyes.
The equivocal smile remained on Joe’s lips. But he
said nothing.
Cairo gave Dilys a nudge and took Vivian by the
hand. “I’ll see one of your wives home,” he said.
“You’ll see me again tomorrow. Stay put.” Cairo,
Dilys, and Vivian left the house.
“Oh, Joe,” Judith murmured, “I’m so tired! But
what will we do about breakfast tomorrow?”
“We’ll work it out,” Joe said grimly. “You go to bed.
I’ll check things around here before I come up.”
Judith started to protest but lacked the energy for argument. She did, however, have one last question.
“So you really think Bruno’s death was an accident?”
Again, Joe said nothing.
Indeed, Judith was too tired to care.
*
*
*
134
Mary Daheim
To her great surprise and relief, a smiling Chips
Madigan met her as she came down from the third
floor just before nine o’clock the next morning.
“That’s great!” he exclaimed, framing her with the
ever-present viewfinder. “ ‘Early A.M., overcoming
tragedy, ready to face the world.’ My mother would be
proud of you, Mrs. Flynn. She’s had a couple of B&B
guests die on her, too.”
“Really?” Judith quietly closed the door to the thirdfloor staircase. “What happened?”
Chips made a face. “I’m not sure. I mean, it was so
long ago that I don’t quite recall. One was maybe a
stroke. Maybe they both were.”
Strokes, heart attacks, even aneurysms sounded
comforting to Judith. Anything was better than murder.
She smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid I can’t make
breakfast this morning. No one is allowed in the
kitchen until the cause of Mr. Zepf’s death becomes
official.”
Chips nodded. “That’s what Win and Dade told us.
Dade got his start writing for a TV cop show a few
years back. He’s our police expert. And Win—well,
Win knows everything. Or so it seems.”
“How is she?” Judith inquired. “I thought she was
terribly upset last night.”
“She was,” Chips agreed. “She still is. She and
Bruno were like that.” The boyish-looking director entwined his first and second fingers. “But she’s a survivor. She’s had to be,” he added on a grim note.
“I guess everybody in Hollywood has to be a survivor,” Judith remarked, slowly heading for the front
stairs.
“True.” Chips’s voice held no expression. “We’re
SILVER SCREAM
135
going out to forage. At least Win and Ellie and Ben and
I are. Dade already left.”
“He’s a lone wolf, isn’t he?” Judith remarked as she
reached the top of the stairs.
Chips nodded. “A lot of writers are like that. They
work alone, they prefer their made-up characters to
real people.”
“I can understand that,” Judith said, though she really
couldn’t. People were the center of her world, her reason for being. Family, friends, and strangers—Judith
held out welcoming arms to them all. She would never
have been able to run a B&B if she hadn’t loved people.
Judith risked a touchy question. “I got the impression that directors and screenwriters don’t always
agree on how a movie is made.”
Chips flushed, his freckles blending in with the rest
of his face. “You mean that little dustup with Dade the
other night?” He didn’t wait for Judith to respond, but
shrugged in an exaggerated manner. “Typical. We call
it artistic differences. It doesn’t mean a thing.”
“Yes,” Judith said, “I see how that can happen. But
you and Bruno Zepf must have agreed on how The
Gasman was made, right?”
Chips cocked his head to one side, looking even
more boyish than usual. “Directors and producers have
their own differences. It wouldn’t be normal if they
didn’t. We’re all creative types, we all have our own
ideas about how a picture should be made.”
“Do you think Bruno had the wrong idea? I mean,”
Judith added hastily, “that he did something wrong to
get such a strong negative reaction to his movie?”
“Yes,” Chips said sadly. “Making the picture was
wrong. A passion for filmmaking is one thing—Bruno
136
Mary Daheim
had plenty of passion. But personal missions seldom
make for good box office. The project was doomed
from the start. Maybe,” he continued on a mournful
note, “Bruno was, too.” With a shake of his head, he
turned back into Room Five.
Judith headed downstairs. Joe had already gone to
early Mass and was bringing back pastries and hot coffee in big thermoses. But Judith’s priority was
Gertrude. The old lady would be fussing, since her
daughter usually showed up at least an hour earlier
than this with breakfast.
Indeed, when Judith entered the toolshed Gertrude
wouldn’t speak to her. She was sitting in her usual
place behind the card table, sulking.
“One of our guests passed away last night,” Judith
began.
Gertrude turned her head and stared at the wall.
“He may have had a heart attack. That’s why I
haven’t been able to make breakfast. I can’t go into the
kitchen.”
Gertrude uttered a snort of derision.
“It’s possible that someone—” Judith stopped and
bit her lip. There was no point in alarming her mother.
“We have to get an official verdict from the coroner before I can use the kitchen.”
Gertrude picked up a deck of cards and shoved them
into the automatic shuffler. Click-clackety-click-clack.
She removed the cards and began to lay out a game of
solitaire.
“In about fifteen minutes, Joe will come back with
pastries and hot coffee,” Judith said, then added with a
touch of irony, “I hope the trouble last night didn’t
bother you, Mother.”
SILVER SCREAM
137
Gertrude, who was about to put a red six on a black
seven, turned her small, beady eyes on her daughter. “I
didn’t hear a thing. At least your latest corpse was
quiet about sailing off through the Pearly Gates.”
“Thoughtful of him,” Judith murmured, so low that
her allegedly deaf mother couldn’t hear her.
“What kind of pastries?” Gertrude demanded, playing up an ace. “They’d better have that custard filling I
like. Or apples, with that gooey syrup. The last time,
Lunkhead brought something with apricots. I don’t