ers. Although the novel never sold well except to li-
braries, his next work, a nonfiction treatise on the
Dahlak Archipelago, was eagerly awaited by scholars.
Unfortunately, Carp suffered from severe alcoholism,
and died at the age of thirty-eight, leaving the two-
hundred-thousand-word tome unfinished. His son,
William Euclid Carp, and his daughter, Marguerite
Louisa Carp, attempted to find a publisher for the
work in the mid-1960s, but without success.”
“No kidding,” Judith said. “Where’s the Dahlak
Archipelago?”
Renie shrugged. “Wherever it is, I doubt that it’s a
major book market.”
“Pappy,” Judith said thoughtfully. “Whose Pappy?”
“You mean in reference to the guests?”
“Yes. Nobody would call someone Pappy—especially a man who died quite young—unless he was
their father or the father of someone they knew.”
Renie rested her chin on her fist. “I’m not sure why
it matters. Aren’t you grasping at straws?”
“Of course I am,” Judith said testily. “I’m desperate.”
SILVER SCREAM
291
“Okay.” Renie’s tone was unusually agreeable.
“Pappy Carp is dead. He died in 1945 or thereabouts,
right? Which means that if any of these people are his
offspring, it has to be someone over fifty. Bruno’s
out—his father was a German war groom. Dade,
Chips, Ben, Dirk, and Angela are too young. Did you
say Angela’s real last name is Flynn?”
“I did. It is.” Judith was still a bit testy.
“Rule Ellie out because her father is alive and hustling hot dogs,” Renie said. “That leaves Eugenia,
Morris, and . . . Vito?”
“Vito wasn’t here for the postpremiere supper,” Judith pointed out.
“Are you sure?”
Judith gave Renie a peculiar look. “What do you
mean?”
“How do you know that someone didn’t change costumes? Or that there weren’t two Arabian sheikhs or a
pair of matching Gutenbergs?” Renie demanded.
Judith considered the idea. “But never in the same
room at the same time,” she murmured. “It’s a thought.
There’s another thing we might have overlooked—
Chips is from the Midwest.”
“Even if he appears younger than he really is,”
Renie noted, “he couldn’t be over fifty.”
“Grandson, maybe?” Judith suggested.
“Oh.” Renie got up from the chair at the counter and
went to the refrigerator to claim another Pepsi. “That
could be. On the other hand, Chips often talks about
his mother, but not his father. I wonder why?” She
paused, then shook her head. “It can’t be Chips.
What’s the motive?”
Judith gave Renie a helpless look. “I’ve no idea. Un- 292
Mary Daheim
less the novel was written by Chips’s father—big
stretch, I know—or grandfather, and Bruno stole it.
Remember, I told you that the book had keepsakes in
it. Obviously, it had been treasured by someone for
many years.” She suddenly jumped up. “Keepsakes!
What’s wrong with me? Where did I put that book?”
Frantically, she looked around the kitchen as the wind
rattled the windows.
“Ah!” she exclaimed, snapping her fingers. “I didn’t
put it anywhere. Joe brought it down from Room
Three.” Cautiously bending down to favor her artificial
hip, Judith opened the bottom cabinet drawer next to
the wall. “Here it is. Let’s see if we can learn anything
from these keepsakes.”
Renie wore a resigned expression but said nothing.
The cousins had just sat down at the counter again
when Sweetums sidled up to Judith. He had a partially
eaten chicken breast in his mouth, which he began to
wrestle around the kitchen floor.
Judith scowled at the cat. “Where did you get that?
Here, let me have it.”
Sweetums wasn’t in the mood to oblige. He backed
away, with the chicken still in his teeth. Judith chased
him into the pantry, where he got under the lowest
shelf, just out of reach. In recent months, Sweetums
had figured out that his human was limited in her capacity for capturing him.
“Damn!” she cried as she heard the cat chewing
lustily on the chicken. “He must have gotten that out of
the garbage. I’d better make sure the can didn’t blow
over.” Grabbing her jacket from its customary peg, she
headed outside.
Driven by the wind, the fog swirled around the
SILVER SCREAM
293
backyard like smoke from a beach fire. The light in the
toolshed appeared and disappeared as if it were coming from a lighthouse. Gertrude kept late hours, requiring less sleep as she got older. Of course, Judith
thought as she hurried to the garbage cans and recycling bins by the side of the house, her mother dozed
off frequently during the day.
The big green bins were intact, but one of the
garbage cans had blown over, spilling half its contents.
From inside the house, she could hear more screams
emanating from the TV. The terrified cries set her teeth
on edge. She was beginning to wonder if the events of
the past two days and her fears for the future were triggering an emotional collapse.
As Judith set the can upright, a loud banging noise
behind her made her jump. Peering through the eddies
of mist, she saw nothing. Gingerly, she began putting
the garbage back into the can.
She was about to replace the lid when something
brushed against her leg. Judith let out a small squeal,
then looked down to see Sweetums depositing bare
chicken bones on her shoe.
“Nasty!” she exclaimed under her breath. “If my
nerves weren’t going to pieces, I’d pull your tail.”
Sweetums responded with a growl, then trotted off
down the driveway. Judith started back to the porch,
but decided to make a quick visit to her mother. She
felt guilty for hardly seeing Gertrude all day. As she
headed down the walk to the toolshed, the wind rattled
her nerves along with the Rankerses’ wind chimes. The
usual gentle tinkling sounded more like an out-of-tune
brass band.
But the fog was definitely dissipating. She could see
294
Mary Daheim
the toolshed clearly, though the lights had now gone
out. Judith stopped, debating whether or not to bother
her mother. She decided against it. Gertrude would
only berate her for being neglectful. Judith didn’t need
any more problems on this particular All Hallows’ Eve.
She’d started up the back-porch steps when she
heard another clatter nearby. It sounded like another
garbage-can lid. More annoyed than nervous, she
trudged around to the side of the house.
Within a foot of the cans, Judith stopped dead in her
tracks. There, down the driveway in a maelstrom of
fog, an unearthly creature seemed to levitate before her
eyes. She suppressed a scream as her legs wobbled and
her eyes grew huge. The pointy hat, the stiff shaggy
hair, the windblown garments, and the shoes with the
turned-up toes almost convinced her that witches did