to be a parent. Then I asked how he liked being
called Daddy. So simple.”
“What did he say?” Judith inquired.
“Oh, it was very cute,” Arlene replied breezily.
“He sort of hung his head and mumbled something
about ‘mother’ and ‘Tucker.’ I think he said
‘Tucker.’ That must be the little fellow’s name.”
The cousins exchanged bemused glances before
Judith carried a tray of French pâté and English
crackers into the living room. Dirk Farrar, with a cell
phone affixed to his ear, lazed on one of the matching sofas by the fireplace while Ellie Linn and
SILVER SCREAM
35
Winifred Best sat opposite him. Winifred was also
using a cell phone. Ben Carmody was examining the
built-in bookcases next to the bay window. A big shambling man in khaki cargo pants, plaid shirt, and suede
vest had his back turned and was staring out through
the French doors. There was no sign of Bruno Zepf.
Judith cleared her throat. “I’ll be serving the hors
d’oeuvres in just a few minutes,” she announced.
Only Ben Carmody looked at her. “Sounds good.
I’m kind of hungry.”
Winifred Best’s head twisted around. “You should
have eaten more of Bruno’s buffet on the plane. You
know he always serves excellent food.”
With an off-center grin, Ben shrugged. “I wasn’t
hungry then.”
Renie, who had been out in the kitchen with Arlene,
joined Judith. “Hey, coz,” she said brightly, “have you
met Dade Costello, the screenwriter for The Gasman?
He’s been telling me all about the script.”
Judith nodded toward the big man by the French
doors. Renie’s nod confirmed his identity.
“I’ll introduce myself,” Judith murmured. Passing
through the living room, she caught a few cutting remarks:
“. . . worse than that no-star hotel in Oman . . .”
“. . . If I’d wanted to stay in a phone booth, I’d prefer it was in Paris. . . .”
“. . . bath towels like sandpaper. Whatever happened
to plush nubbiness? Atlanta was nubby, but Miami was
the nubbiest . . .”
Wincing, Judith arrived at Dade Costello’s elbow
before he turned around. “I’m Judith Flynn,” she said,
putting out a hand. “Your innkeeper.”
36
Mary Daheim
“That right?” Dade shook Judith’s hand without enthusiasm. Or maybe because he was so big, he’d
learned to be gentle with somewhat smaller creatures.
“Yes.” Judith’s smile felt false. “I’m interested in
the story behind The Gasman. Your story, that is.”
Dade’s ordinary features looked pained. He had
bushy dark hair dusted with gray, and overly long sideburns. “It’s not my story,” he said, with a trace of the
Old South in his voice.
“Oh.” Judith’s phony expression turned to genuine
confusion. “I thought you wrote the script.”
“I did.” Dade stuck his hands in his pockets. “But
the story isn’t the script.”
Judith waited for an explanation, but none was
forthcoming. “You mean . . . you adapted the story?”
Dade nodded. “My script was based on a novel.”
“I see.” Judith understood that this was often the
case. “Did the book have the same title?”
Again, Dade nodded, but offered no details. For a
man of words, Dade Costello didn’t seem to have
many at his command in a social situation. Maybe, Judith thought, that was why writers wrote instead of
talked.
“I never heard of the book,” she admitted. “Was it
published recently?”
This time, Dade shook his head. “No. It’s been
around awhile.”
“Oh.” Now Judith seemed at a loss to make conversation. She was about to excuse herself when Dade
rapped softly on one of the panes in the French doors.
“There’s a head in your backyard,” he said.
Judith gave a start. “What?”
Dade’s thumb gestured out past the porch that
SILVER SCREAM
37
flanked the rear of the house. “A head. It’s been sitting
there for at least five minutes.”
Judith tried not to shriek. “Where?”
“There.” Dade pointed to a spot almost out of their
line of vision. “See it? On top of those bushes.”
Judith stared. “Oh!” she exclaimed in relief. “That’s
not a head, it’s my mother. I mean . . .” With a rattle of
the handle, she opened the French doors. “Excuse me,
I’d better see what she’s doing out there.”
Despite the rain, Gertrude wore neither coat nor
head covering. She stood next to the lily-of-the-valley
bush, leaning on her walker and panting. At the foot of
the porch steps, Bruno Zepf hovered in the shelter of
the eaves with his head cocked to one side.
“So,” Bruno was saying to Gertrude, “you actually
survived the Titanic’ s sinking?”
“You bet,” Gertrude replied, catching her breath.
“It’s a good thing I could swim.”
“Mother!” Judith spoke sharply as she moved to
take Gertrude’s arm. “It’s raining. What are you
doing out here?” She darted a glance at Bruno. “Excuse me, Mr. Zepf, but my mother shouldn’t be outdoors without a coat or a rain hat. I’ll take her back
inside.”
But Gertrude batted Judith’s hand away. “Stop that!
I’m not finished yet with this fine young Hollywood
fella.”
Bruno, however, held up a hand. “That’s all right,
Mrs. . . . ?”
“Grover,” Gertrude put in and shook a crooked finger. “You remember that when you make the movie
about me.”
Bruno forced a chuckle as Judith tried to move her
38
Mary Daheim
mother along the walk toward the toolshed. “The problem is,” Bruno called after them, “someone else already made a movie about the Titanic not very long
ago.”
Gertrude refused to move another inch. “What?”
“Yes,” Bruno responded, backing up the porch
steps. “It was a big success, an Oscar winner.”
“I’ll be,” Gertrude muttered, allowing Judith to
make some progress past the small patio. Then the old
lady suddenly balked and turned around to look at
Bruno Zepf. “Hey! Did I tell you about being on the
Hindenburg?”
“Keep moving,” Judith muttered. “We’re both getting wet.”
“You always were all wet,” Gertrude grumbled, but
shuffled along the walk under her daughter’s guiding
hand. “Who was that guy? Cecil B. DeMille?”
“No, Mother,” Judith replied as an agonized scream
erupted from behind her. She turned to see Bruno Zepf
clutching at the screen door and writhing like a madman.
“I can’t get in! I can’t get in!” he howled.
Abandoning Gertrude, Judith rushed to the back
porch. “What’s wrong? What is it?”
Bruno swung his head to one side. “There! By your
foot! It’s a spider! Help!”
Judith peered down at the tiny arachnid that was
scooting toward the edge of the porch. A moment later
the spider disappeared into the garden.
“It’s gone,” Judith said, over Bruno’s wails. “That
is, the very small spider has left the building.”