Winifred Best and start the fire?”
Meg’s jaw jutted. “I thought she had my book. She
said she didn’t—Bruno had it. But that didn’t make
sense. Bruno was dead, so where did it go? She swore
she didn’t know. That’s when I hit her. Then I went all
through her room, but I couldn’t find the book. I got
mad.” Her eyes grew cold as marble. “I struck a match
and set fire to the bedclothes. That woman may not
have had my book on her, but she’s had Bruno all these
years. It wasn’t fair.”
Judith tried not to gape. Could Meg still love Bruno
in spite of everything he’d done? Sometimes love and
hate were so hard to distinguish. Maybe it was obsession. Yet Bruno Zepf had inspired love in several
women, perhaps including Winifred Best.
“And there was this,” Meg added, releasing the grip
on her purse. She fumbled a bit before she held out a
black rubber spider. “I came to leave this. Sort of a . . .
what do you call it? A calling card, maybe.”
“An epitaph,” Judith murmured. “Why did you put
the other spiders in our freezer?”
“Walt did that,” Meg said, looking askance. “Don’t
ask why Walt does things. Sometimes I think he’s a
little tetched. Losing his pa’s farm, you know.”
Judith suddenly recalled another seemingly inexplicable incident. “And the truffles that were sent here?”
SILVER SCREAM
339
“Truffles?” Meg scowled. “I don’t know what a
truffle looks like.”
“They’re kind of . . . disgusting,” Judith explained,
“but they taste wonderful.”
Meg continued scowling, then suddenly let out a
sharp yip of laughter. “I sent Bruno a cowpie, straight
off the farm.”
“Oh!” Gertrude had been right to flush the parcel’s
contents down the toilet. “I see.”
Meg toyed with the spider for a moment, then
pushed it across the table to Judith. “Here, you keep it
as a souvenir. What are you going to do now, call the
cops?”
Judith gazed at the gray, gaunt face. Meg Izard was
already condemned to death.
“I have to,” she finally said.
Meg reached into her purse. “Okay,” she said. “But
not yet.” In her hand was a .45 revolver. No doubt it had
been used previously to shoo away unwelcome birds
and even more unwelcome strangers on the Izard farm.
Judith tensed in her chair. Her feet were planted
firmly on the floor, her fingers gripping the table’s
edge. “Why would you shoot me?” she asked in a
voice that didn’t sound like her own.
“I want my book,” Meg said, now holding the gun
with both hands. “Give me my book.”
“Okay.” Judith forced herself to move. “May I?”
“Yes.” Meg stood up. “No tricks, just my book.”
It had never been harder for Judith to walk, not even
when she’d taken her first tenuous steps after hip surgery. Slowly, agonizingly, she made her way to the
drawer by the computer. Keeping one hand in full
sight, she reached down to get the book.
340
Mary Daheim
“Here,” she said, still moving with difficulty.
“Here’s your book.”
Meg removed her left hand from the gun and took
the heavy volume from Judith. “Thank you,” she said
with great dignity. She clasped The Gasman to her flat
breast and slipped the gun back into her purse. “Goodbye.”
Judith stared as Meg walked toward the entry hall.
The other woman moved slowly now, almost decorously, to the front door. Trying to control a sudden
spasm of trembling, Judith started to follow. But Meg
had closed the door behind her before Judith could get
beyond the dining room.
“My God!” Judith exclaimed under her breath, and
leaned against the wall.
She took several breaths before she could go on. Finally, she reached the door just as the shot rang out. Judith had expected it. She didn’t want to look outside,
but she had to.
Meg Izard was lying facedown at the sidewalk’s
edge. Her copy of The Gasman had fallen in the gutter.
Judith inspected the items on the silver tray and decided to start breakfast with the fruit compote. “How’s
your omelette?” she asked of Joe, who was sitting in a
plush armchair with his tray on his lap.
“Excellent,” he replied. “I couldn’t have made a better one myself. The Cascadia Hotel has one of the best
chefs on the West Coast.”
“I have to admit it,” Judith said with a pleasurable
little smile, “this is heaven.”
“As long as we’ve been turned out of our house, we
might as well make the most of it,” Joe said, his green- SILVER SCREAM
341
eyed gaze taking in the extensive hotel suite with its
lavish old-world appointments. “Especially since Paradox Studios is paying for it.”
“I can’t believe they ended up paying us,” Judith remarked, admiring the thick slice of Virginia ham on the
white Limoges plate. “Twenty-five thousand dollars,
plus our expenses. And the insurance money for the
fire—I’m wondering if we shouldn’t keep the B&B
closed for a while. Business gets increasingly slow this
time of year. We could make some renovations I’ve
been thinking about.”
“You decide,” Joe said.
“We might even enlarge the toolshed for Mother
now that she’s gotten used to being out of it for a few
days while the major work is being done to the house.”
“I still say all the noise of the construction wouldn’t
have bothered her,” Joe asserted. “She’s deaf, she’s
daffy.”
“She’s also selling her life story to the movies,” Judith pointed out. “At least she hopes so.”
Joe merely shook his head. He didn’t notice that his
wife was staring at him.
“I’m not so hungry anymore,” Judith said softly. She
put the tray aside. “At least not for breakfast.”
“What?” Joe looked up from his marmaladecovered toast. He grinned. “Well, now. Maybe I’m not
either. But do you really want to let things cool off?”
“That depends on what you’re talking about,” Judith
replied.
Joe set his tray down on a French marquetry table
and moved toward her. “You’re right. Seize the moment.” Instead, he climbed onto the king-size bed and
seized his wife around the waist.
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Mary Daheim
“Oh, Joe.” Judith sighed, her lips against his cheek.
“This is perfect!”
A knock sounded at the door.
“Damn!” Judith breathed. “Shall I get it?”
Joe buried his face in the bare curve of her shoulder.
“No,” he said, his voice muffled.
The knock sounded again, louder, more insistent.
“We’d better answer that,” Judith said through
clenched teeth. “Whoever it is will go away fast
enough.” Pulling her terrycloth robe closed, she
slipped off the bed and went to the door.
Gertrude stood in the hallway. “Where’s my breakfast?”
Judith gaped at her mother. “Didn’t you order from
room service?”
“Of course not,” Gertrude shot back. “You know
how I hate to use the phone.” She and her walker
clumped past Judith and into the room. “Lunkhead