like apricots, at least not in my pastries.”
“He’ll do his best,” Judith avowed.
“No blueberries!” Gertrude exclaimed. “They turn
my dentures purple. I’d look like one of those trick-ortreaters who came by last night.”
Judith frowned. “You had kids come to the toolshed?”
“Kids, my hind end! They were as tall as I am. I
didn’t give ’em anything. Nobody eats my candy except me.” Gertrude slapped a deuce on the ace.
“What were they dressed as?” Judith asked, recalling the late arrival of the spaceman and the alligator.
“A cowboy with fancy snakeskin boots and a scarecrow that looked like he came out of The Wizard of
Oz, ” Gertrude replied, putting up another ace. “I could
hardly hear a word they said. That’s when I told them
to beat it. They did. They knew better than to mess
with this old lady.” With a savage gesture, she reeled
off a black nine, a red eight, and a black seven.
“What time was that?” Judith asked.
“Time?” Gertrude wrinkled her nose. “What’s time
to an old lady on her last legs? There’s not much of it
left. If you were me, you wouldn’t keep track of time,
either.”
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Mary Daheim
Judith eyed her mother shrewdly. “You seem to keep
track of mealtimes pretty well.”
Gertrude played up several more cards. “What does
it mean?” she said in a musing voice. “Think about it.
Why do they say that?”
“What? You mean about time?”
“No,” Gertrude replied with a scornful glance at her
daughter. “Last legs. You don’t talk about somebody’s
first legs, or their second or their third. If you got more
legs as you went along, then they wouldn’t give out on
you. Your last legs should be your best legs, because
they’re newer.” She paused, scanning the cards in her
hand. “Now where’s that ace of clubs? I saw it someplace.”
Judith surrendered. She’d been curious about the
trick-or-treaters because she wondered why they’d
gone to the toolshed instead of to the house. But maybe
they had. Renie or Arlene would have taken care of
them. There’d be more tonight, she realized, since it
was officially Halloween. At least the wind had died
down and the rain had dwindled to a mere mist.
Joe had returned when Judith went back into the
house. He was putting a variety of pastries and doughnuts onto the buffet, along with crackers and various
cheeses. There was also a plate of cookies in the
shapes of jack-o’-lanterns, bats, and witches.
“Cute,” Judith remarked, kissing him on the cheek.
“Me or the cookies?” he responded, plugging in the
coffee urn.
“Both,” said Judith. “When should we hear from the
ME?”
“Elevenish,” Joe replied. “Then we’ll know if the
guests can leave.”
SILVER SCREAM
139
Judith began to pace the living-room floor. “I’d hate
to have to go through Ingrid at the B&B association to
put up the guests who are coming in later today. We’ve
got five reservations, you know.”
Dirk Farrar entered the room, looking belligerent.
“What’s going on? Nobody’s telling us a damned
thing. We can’t stick around forever.”
“We were just talking about that,” Judith said.
“We’re still waiting to hear from the police.”
“Screw ’em,” Dirk said fiercely. “That SOB Bruno
had a heart attack. It served him right. My price just
went down at least five mil and next time—if there is
a next time—I’ll be lucky to get any points at all.”
“But you’re a huge star,” Judith protested. “You’ve
been in several big hits, including with Mr. Zepf. Or so
I’ve heard,” she added humbly.
The handsome, craggy features that had made females hyperventilate on five continents, and possibly
Pluto, twisted with anger. “You don’t get it. None of
you people who aren’t in the business get it. Last
night’s flop could be the end of Dirk Farrar!”
Joe may have been three inches shorter and twentyfive years older, but he stepped smoothly between the
actor and Judith. “That could come sooner if you don’t
stop yelling at my wife. Back off, big fella, or I’ll have
to do a little cosmetic surgery on that famous face of
yours.”
“Why, you—” Dirk began, but suddenly stopped and
threw up his hands. “Screw it. I don’t need to make the
papers for mixing it up with some old fart. That’s why
I usually have a couple of bodyguards around.” He
stepped back, then started to stomp off—but not before
he scooped three sugar doughnuts from the buffet.
140
Mary Daheim
“ ‘Some old fart?’ ” Joe echoed. “I don’t like that old
part much.”
“You’re not old,” Judith insisted, patting her husband’s cheek. “You’re middle-aged. When Dirk Farrar
hits sixty, all that cragginess will turn into bagginess.
You have such a wonderful round face, you hardly
have any wrinkles at—”
The phone rang. Judith let Joe pick up the receiver
on the cherrywood table by the bookcases. When he
turned his back on her, she was certain that he was
speaking with Stone Cold Sam Cairo.
“Right . . . Yes . . . No . . . So be it.” Joe hung up.
“Well?” Judith asked anxiously. “Is it . . . ?” She
couldn’t say the word murder.
Joe looked rueful. “A blow to the head apparently
knocked him unconscious and he fell in the sink and
drowned.”
Judith was mystified. “You mean someone hit him?”
“Not necessarily,” Joe replied. “It could have been
that cupboard door swinging out. He may have bent
over for some reason, reared up, and conked himself.”
Judith remembered the aspirin she’d picked up from
the floor. Perhaps Bruno had dropped it, ducked down
to retrieve it, and then—unaware that the door had
swung open—hit his head with such force that he
blacked out.
“It’s possible,” she allowed, though with reluctance.
“You don’t hear it coming,” Joe said ruefully, then
walked over to Judith and lowered his head. “Feel the
bump about two inches above my hairline.”
Judith touched the spot. There was a slight swelling.
“The door? When did that happen? You never mentioned it.”
SILVER SCREAM
141
“Friday,” Joe said, avoiding her gaze. “You were
gone. I didn’t want to admit that I’d banged my head
on the door, because I was supposed to fix it. I actually
saw stars at the time.”
Hands on hips, Judith stared at her husband. “You
mean this is all our fault?”
“Yes,” Joe said in a weak voice. “We may have
killed Bruno Zepf.”
NINE
“THAT’S RIDICULOUS,” JUDITH declared. “How is it
our fault that Bruno bumped his head on an open
cupboard door? Maybe he opened it himself.”
Joe gave Judith a bleak look. “The door was broken. That’s negligence. That’s our fault.”
“My God,” Judith moaned, “we could be ruined!
If they find out about that door, they’ll sue, they’ll