settled in over the hill, making it difficult to see more
than twenty feet ahead. Though Renie had a reputation—which she claimed was unearned—for driving
too fast and erratically, she crept along the thoroughfare. “With all the new money in this town,” she said,
“especially among the younger set, it’s hard to tell a
millionaire from a millworker.”
Capri’s was located on the east side of the hill,
closer to Renie’s house than to the B&B. The cousins
climbed Heraldsgate Avenue to the commercial district
on the flat, then kept going north into a sloping residential neighborhood. They turned right in the direction of the restaurant, but within four blocks, Renie
took a left.
“Hey!” Judith cried. “What are we doing?”
“You do nothing,” Renie said. “I change clothes. I
can’t go into Capri’s wearing this Loyola University
sweatshirt and these black pants. They have a hole in
them, in case you haven’t noticed, which maybe you
haven’t because I’m wearing black underwear.”
“Good grief.” Judith held her head. “Okay, but don’t
take long.”
SILVER SCREAM
237
Sitting in the car, she studied her own attire. The
green wool slacks matched the green cable-knit turtleneck. Her shoes were fairly new, having been purchased at Nordquist’s annual women’s sale. She
supposed she could pass at Capri’s for a real customer.
As she continued to wait, Judith’s mind wandered
back to Bill’s chart. Someone was missing. Who, besides the Alien Suspect? The answer came to mind almost immediately. Vito Patricelli wasn’t represented
among Bruno’s satellites. But it appeared that he
hadn’t arrived in the city until this morning. Was that
true? Judith used her cell phone to dial one of the airlines that served passengers from L.A.
“We have no one named Patricelli on our manifests
in the last three days,” the pert voice said.
Judith tried the other connecting carriers and got the
same negative result. Maybe Vito had flown north by
private plane.
She was about to call Boring Field, where many of
the smaller aircraft landed, when Renie reappeared
wearing a great deal of brown suede, including her
pants, jacket, ankle boots, and handbag. She also wore
a brown cashmere sweater.
“How many animals had to die to clothe you in that
outfit?” Judith inquired as Renie slid into the driver’s seat.
“A lot of cows with really rotten dispositions,”
Renie replied, starting the car. “None of the children
were home. They must have gone a-wooing.”
“Very likely,” Judith agreed as they headed back up
the hill to the turnoff for Capri’s. “Really, I’m anxious
to meet the future in-laws.”
“So am I,” Renie said darkly, “even though I allegedly have already done so.”
238
Mary Daheim
“Say,” Judith said, “did you get a chance to look at
the material you got off the Internet about The Gasman
and its origins?”
“Not yet,” Renie replied, slowing at a six-way stop
and peering into the fog to see if there were any vehicles coming from the other directions. “It looks as if it
came out to at least twenty pages. That includes artwork, of course.”
“Who puts those sites together?”
“This one may have been done by the studio,” Renie
said, curving around in front of the restaurant and
pulling into the driveway. “Some of the sites are created by fans.”
A blemish-free teenager with corn-tassel-colored
hair and a big smile greeted the cousins.
“Which private party will you be joining?” he asked
as Renie stepped out of the Camry. “That is,” he added
with an ingenuous expression, “on Sundays we’re not
open to regular customers.”
“How many parties are there?” Renie inquired as
Judith joined her under the porte cochere.
“Two,” the youth replied with a discreet wink. “The
Smith and the Jones parties.”
Renie darted a glance at Judith. “I’m Mrs. Jones,”
Renie said, winking back.
“Ah.” The young man made a flourish that was almost a bow. “This way, please. Derek will take care of
your car.” He nodded at a second fresh-faced adolescent who had been standing by the door.
“So which is which?” Judith murmured as they
passed across the flagstone flooring, where they were
met by a maître d’ so handsome that he could have
given Dirk Farrar a run for his money.
SILVER SCREAM
239
“We’ve got a fifty-fifty chance of getting the right
party,” Renie said out of the side of her mouth. “Serena
Jones here,” she informed the maître d’ in her normal
voice.
“I’m Charles,” the maître d’ informed the cousins.
His smile seemed to assure them that he was their new
best friend. Charles led the way up a winding black
iron staircase, then turned right to face a paneled mahogany door. With a dazzling smile and a flourish that
was indeed a bow, he opened the door.
“Your party, Mrs. Jones,” he said.
Renie rocked on the heels of her brown suede boots.
This was definitely the Jones party. All three of Renie
and Bill’s offspring sat at a table for at least a dozen
other people, some of whom looked vaguely familiar.
“Hi, Mom,” Tom said in greeting. “We thought
you’d never get here. Where’s Pop?”
FIFTEEN
“WHAT IS THIS?” Renie demanded when the maître d’
had left and she regained her equilibrium. “What do
you mean, ‘Where’s Pop’?”
“Didn’t you get our note?” Anne said with an innocent look on her pretty face.
“What note?” Renie all but shouted. Then, realizing that she must be in the presence of her future inlaws, she tried to smile. “No. Where was it?”
Anne turned to Tony, who was seated four places
down the table. “Where did you put the note, Big T?”
Tony’s chiseled features were vague. “I thought
Tom put it up by the hall closet.”
“Not me,” Tom said with a shake of his curly dark
head. “You wrote it, Annie-Bannany. What’d you do
with it?”
“I didn’t write it,” Anne retorted. “I thought—”
“Hold it!” Renie cried, this time unable to keep
her voice down. But she managed a smile for her bewildered audience. “Your father and I never saw a
note. We haven’t been home since early this afternoon. How about introducing your poor old mother
and your just-as-poor-and-almost-as-old aunt to
these other folks?”
SILVER SCREAM
241
Anne and Tony both gazed at Tom as they always
did when they expected the eldest of their lot to take
responsibility. The others included a fair-haired young
man who was growing something fuzzy that looked
like it might become a goatee, a raven-haired young
woman who looked as if she could be Native American, a red-headed girl who looked faintly ethereal, and
a half-dozen middle-aged adults who looked as if they
wished they were somewhere else. The whole group
stared at Renie.
“We told you and Pop about the dinner tonight,”
Tom said, looking wounded. “Remember, it was Friday, and you mentioned having everybody over at our