Silver Scream : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

Bruno’s favorite Scotch remained on the old-fashioned

washstand that served as a smaller bar in the dining

room. Judith grabbed the bottle and a glass, rushed to

the kitchen to get ice, and hurried back to the living

room, where Bruno was now slumped on one of the

sofas. His flowing robes and burnoose from Khartoum

sagged along with the rest of him.

“My God,” he whispered as Winifred took the drink

from Judith and raised it to his lips. “I’m ruined.” He

took a deep sip from the proffered glass, then raised his

white-robed arms as if invoking the gods of filmdom.

“The Gasman had everything to please audiences—

sex, violence, art—even a small cuddly dog.”

Chips Madigan paused in his path across the room.

“I told you to leave the chimpanzee in. Chimps are always good.”

“Chimps are a desperation measure,” Bruno muttered as Chips moved on. “He’s a director, he knows

that. My God, think of the money we wasted on the TV

advertising budget alone!”

The cell phone in Winifred’s lap rang. She picked it

up, but had difficulty getting the earpiece under her

wimple. “Best here,” she finally said. Then she low- 96

Mary Daheim

ered her eyes and her voice. “Yes . . . yes . . . we

know . . . morons . . . imbeciles . . . philistines . . .

yes . . . I’ll contact them first thing tomorrow, before

we leave for the airport . . . yes, have an ambulance

waiting . . . good.” She clicked off and suddenly

looked up at Judith. “What are you waiting for? Mr.

Zepf has his drink.”

“I wondered if there was anything else I could get

for him,” Judith said as a small man in a matador’s suit

of lights and a large woman dressed like Carmen in Act

IV of the opera entered the living room. “Is he ill?”

“Yes,” Winifred replied tersely, then caught sight of

the new arrivals. “Oh, damn! I must speak to Morris

and Eugenia.” Her gaze softened. “Mrs. Flynn, would

you sit with Mr. Zepf for just a moment?”

“Of course,” Judith replied, and perched on the edge

of the sofa.

A deep groan was coming from somewhere in the

folds of the burnoose. “It’s plague! It’s devastation!

It’s . . . the end.”

“Goodness,” Judith said. “Do you need a doctor?”

Bruno pushed the folds of his robes aside and

looked at Judith with bleary eyes. “It’s the critics. We

flew them in from all over the world. Those damnable

thickheaded critics. They hate The Gasman. Every one

of them so far has trashed the picture. And how they

ate at the masked ball! They savage me, then they gobble up everything but the silverware!”

Judith tried to think of something positive to say.