Silver Scream: A Bed-And-Breakfast Mystery by Mary Daheim Page A

terrific,” Renie replied, giving Bill’s bill a tweak.
    “You understood that?” Judith asked in surprise.
    “Of course,” Renie answered. “Bill and I have been married so long we can communicate in any language.”
    Downstairs, Cathy was pounding at the back door. Arlene let her daughter in. It was a tight squeeze, the panda suit being very round and very wide.
    “The head ruined my hair,” Cathy complained, batting at her blond locks with the hand that didn’t hold the head itself. “This thing is hot. And now it’s wet from the rain. I smell like a sheep, not a panda.”
    “What does a panda smell like?” Renie inquired in a musing tone.
    “Not as bad as I do,” Cathy complained.
    “Now, dear,” Arlene soothed, “we all have to suffer for love.” She gave Carl a sharp glance. “Think of what I’ve had to put up with over the years.”
    “Stick it in the oven, Gretel,” Carl shot back.
    Bill waddled over to the cupboards by the work area. “Quack, quacky, quack?” He addressed Renie.
    “In here,” Renie replied, opening a cupboard underneath the counter. “Judith has four kinds of cocoa. You choose.”
    “Quack,” Bill said, pointing to the German chocolate brand, then to a row of cereal boxes on the bottom shelf. “Quack,” he said, indicating the Cheerios. “Quack,” he continued, tapping the Grape-Nuts. “Quack,” he concluded, nudging a box of bran.
    Renie placed her Daisy Duck head on the counter. “You should have had your evening snack at home,” she said in mild reproach. “I’ll have to heat the cocoa in the microwave. All the burners are in use.”
    “Quack,” said Bill.
    Judith shook her head. She’d never understood how her cousin, who was usually so fractious, could wait on Bill hand and foot. At least some of the time. But Renie was equally willing to spoil their children. It seemed out of character, and therefore illogical. And logic was the cornerstone of Judith’s thought processes.
    Bill had finished his snack and the final preparations were being made when the first of the limos arrived back at Hillside Manor. Judith went to the door.
    The wind and rain seemed to blow the trio inside. As Cleopatra, Ellie Linn was shivering with the cold, despite the black cloak that hung from her shoulders.
    “T-t-this awful weather!” she cried. “I’m g-g-going t-t-to catch pneumonia!” She burst into hysterical laughter and fled into the downstairs bathroom.
    “That’s how she handles adversity.” Winifred sneered. “The silly twit.” In her nun’s habit, Winifred moved closer to Bruno. She seemed to be holding him up as he stumbled through the entry hall. “Scotch, quickly!” she cried. “Mr. Zepf isn’t feeling well.”
    The liquor bottles that the guests had brought with them were on the makeshift bar in the front parlor, but 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