Silver Scream: A Bed-And-Breakfast Mystery (8 page)

“Mr. Zepf!” she cried, fear seizing her like an iron
clamp. She lurched at him, shaking his arm. “Mr. Zepf!” she cried again.

Bruno Zepf slumped farther into the sink, his burly upper body carrying him forward. With trembling fingers, Judith searched for a pulse. There was none. She felt faint, but kept shaking Bruno’s arm. Then she noticed that the broken cupboard door was wide open.

And above the sink, suspended from the single light fixture, was a big black spider.

J
UDITH DIDN’T HEAR
Joe come running down the hallway. She was aware of his presence only when he grabbed her by the shoulders and gently but firmly pushed her out of the way.

“Call 911,” he ordered in a calm but emphatic voice. “I’ll try to resuscitate him.”

A flicker of hope sparked in Judith’s breast. “He’s alive?”

Joe didn’t reply. He hauled Bruno onto the floor and started CPR. Judith couldn’t remember where she’d put the phone. She finally buzzed the receiver from its base and heard it beep from the opposite kitchen counter.

How could she explain that a man might have drowned in the kitchen? Not a swimming pool, not a bathtub, not a hot tub, but a kitchen sink. Fumbling with the buttons on the phone, Judith felt giddy. She wouldn’t give the details. She was afraid to, for fear of becoming hysterical. Or worse yet, disbelieved.

Finally she got a grip on her composure and informed the operator that there was a man near death. Or already there, Judith thought dismally. Help was
required immediately. The operator told her to stand by, someone should arrive at Hillside Manor in just a few minutes.

“But,” Judith said in amazement, “I haven’t given you the address.”

“Our system showed it on the screen,” the female voice replied. “Besides, you’ve called here before, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Judith said weakly. “So I have.”

“The patrol car is close by,” the operator assured her, “and the medics and firefighters have been alerted. You’re not calling for your mother, are you?”

“No,” Judith whispered, fixated on Joe, whose efforts appeared to be futile. “No.”

“How’s she doing?” the operator inquired. “I hear she’s quite a character.”

“Fine. Good. I…must…hang…up…now.” Judith clicked off and, with a limp wrist, placed the phone on the kitchen table.

Panting, Joe looked up from Bruno’s prone form. “It’s no good. He’s dead.”

Judith crossed herself while Joe hung his head. “Damn,” he breathed, “how did this happen? Was it an accident?” His eyes traveled to the light fixture. “Oh, hell! What’s that thing?” He picked up a long cooking fork and poked at the spider. “It’s fake.”

“I need a drink,” Judith said, her voice hoarse. She noticed that the balky cupboard door had swung open again and closed it with a shaky hand. “I can’t believe this. Yes, I
can
believe this. But why me? Why us?”

“Hey,” Joe said, reaching into the Flynns’ private liquor stash, “it isn’t personal. When I was on the job, I investigated at least a half-dozen homicides involving
families that had already suffered through at least a couple of other murders.”

“They were probably all crooks,” Judith pointed out, wincing as she looked at Bruno, whose face was an unnatural color. She was about to turn away when she saw something round and white on the floor next to his body. Moving carefully so as not to touch the dead man, Judith fingered the object. “Aspirin,” she said, holding it between her thumb and index finger. Not seeing the bottle she kept on the windowsill, she placed the pill on the counter. “Then you don’t think it’s all my fault?”

“No.” Joe handed Judith her drink, then stared at Bruno. “I wish I could figure out what happened. Does the spider suggest a setup?”

Judith gaped at him. “You mean…to scare Bruno to death?”

“Maybe just to rattle him,” Joe replied, wearing his deadpan policeman’s face.

As Judith gazed with compassion at Bruno’s lifeless form, the familiar sound of sirens could be heard in the distance. “The neighbors.” She sighed. “What will they think now?” She paused, a hand clutching at the deep neckline of her Roman gown. “The guests! What shall I do?”

“Nothing,” Joe replied as the first of the sirens stopped nearby. “Yet. I’ll get the door. You stay with the stiff.”

Judith flinched. It was bad enough that she and Joe were drinking Scotch and standing over a corpse. But now her husband had reverted to his professional self, hard-boiled, keeping his distance, just-part-of-the-job. She, on the other hand, apparently had slipped into the
role of Joe’s longtime partner, Woody Price. Despite her not infrequent confrontations with corpses, Judith wasn’t indifferent to the body on the kitchen floor. Surely Bruno had family who must be notified. Winifred would know.

Joe returned with two familiar figures in tow. Darnell Hicks and Mercedes Berger had been summoned to Hillside Manor before, when a mobster had been gunned down outside of Gertrude’s toolshed. Over two years later they still looked young, but not nearly so naive.

“What a shame,” Darnell said, gazing down at Bruno. “How’d he get so soggy?”

Mercedes glanced at the sink. “What’d he do, stick his head in there and couldn’t get out?”

Before Judith or Joe could respond, the medics and the firefighters arrived. “Come on,” Joe said with a hand on Judith’s elbow, “let’s retreat into the dining room and give the folks some space.”

“To do what?” Judith asked, moving through the swinging doors. “Oh, Joe, I can’t stand it! It’s got to be an accident, right?”

Joe didn’t answer directly. “We’ll find out more after the ME gets done. It may be tomorrow afternoon before we hear anything. Saturday nights can be pretty busy, especially on a holiday weekend.”

Darnell Hicks gave a tentative rap on the swinging doors. “May I?”

“Sure,” Joe said, going back into the kitchen. “What’s up?”

“We’re going to take the body to the morgue.” Darnell’s brown eyes seemed intrigued by the Flynns’ costumes. “Do you or Mrs. Flynn have any idea what happened to the guy? Was this a Halloween party?”

As Joe started to explain, Winifred appeared in the dining room. “What’s going on?” she demanded of Judith. “Why are the police here?”

Judith put a hand out to the other woman. “Oh, Ms. Best, I don’t know how to say this—except that Mr. Zepf is dead.”

Winifred clutched at the front of her deep blue bathrobe. “Dead? As in…actually
dead
?”

Judith supposed that to someone in the movie business,
dead
didn’t always mean losing one’s life. “Yes, as in expired. We don’t know what happened.” She glanced over the top of the swinging doors into the kitchen. “They’re taking him to the morgue. We’ll know more later.”

“Oh, my God!” Winifred swayed, then caught herself on the big breakfront. “His heart! Maybe he had a heart attack! He was complaining of a terrible headache earlier.” She pulled out one of the dining-room chairs and collapsed onto it, her slim body convulsing.

Judith glanced at Joe, who was answering routine questions in the kitchen. She heard a squeal from Mercedes Berger as Joe mentioned Dirk Farrar’s name.

“Ms. Best,” Judith began, “do you want to have the medics check you out?”

Winifred shook her head. “I must see Bruno,” she finally said, but couldn’t get to her feet. Winifred fell back into the chair as a knock at the front door made Judith jump. She hurried into the entry hall and peered outside. Under the porch light she could see Dade Costello, still in his costume and dripping wet.

“Mr. Costello!” she exclaimed, opening the door. “What are you doing out in this rain?”

Dade made an angry gesture toward the cul-de-sac. “What are
they
doing out here?”

Closing the door behind the screenwriter, Judith glimpsed the emergency vehicles, their lights still flashing. “I’m afraid I have bad news—”

“I don’t need any more bad news tonight,” Dade broke in. Without another word, he stomped upstairs.

“Oh, no,” Judith groaned. Glancing at Winifred, who had her head down on the dining-room table, she hurried into the kitchen but had to step aside as the medics began to remove Bruno’s body.

“Move, Jude-girl,” Joe said, taking Judith by the arm. “They’re going out the back way, they need room for the gurney. I gave them as much information as I could.”

Mercedes’s blue eyes were huge. “Is it true?” she asked Judith. “Is Dirk Farrar really under this very roof?”

“Yes,” Judith answered. “As far as I know.” Nothing seemed certain on this wretched night. For all she knew, Dirk could have climbed out a window and been blown away by the gusting winds.

“What a hunk!” Mercedes was visibly palpitating.

Darnell’s dark skin seemed to glow. “Movie people. Wow. You know, I hate to bring this up just now, but I’ve been working on a script, and I wonder if I could—”

“Patrolman Hicks,” Joe interrupted in a solemn voice, “you’re on duty. Let’s get on with the job. Maybe I can mention your name to…” He paused, apparently wondering which guest would be interested in a script. “Chips Madigan, the director. Okay?”

“Really?” Darnell looked elated. “Golly. That would be terrific. Believe me, my script isn’t just an
other piece of junk. I’ve got serious themes.” He turned to his partner. “Come on, Merce, let’s hit it.”

The kitchen was clearing out. Judith put both hands to her head and gave Joe a frantic look.

“What do we do now?”

“We wait,” Joe said, sitting down at the kitchen table. “It may look like some kind of freak accident, but in fact they’re going to have to send the homicide ’tecs in.”

Judith was aghast. “Tonight?”

“Of course. You know the drill.” He shot her a wry glance.

“But it’s two in the morning, and we’ve got all these people upstairs, and—” She stopped, looked out over the swinging doors, then lowered her voice. “Winifred’s still at the dining-room table. She either passed out or she’s asleep.”

But Winifred Best was wide-awake. Her head jerked up, then she slowly rose to her feet. “Where’s Morris?” she demanded.

“Morris?” Judith echoed in a dull voice. “Morris…Mayne?”

Winifred thrust open the sliding doors and entered the kitchen. “Of course I mean Morris Mayne. The publicist. He must be at the hotel.” She pulled her cell phone out of her bathrobe pocket and began to dial in a staccato manner.

Judith felt not only exhausted but helpless. “I’ll make coffee,” she said, and started for the sink.

“Hold it,” Joe said. “You can’t use the sink, remember?”

“Yes, I can,” Judith shot back. “We’ll plunge it. I can’t imagine that it’s seriously plugged up. Anyway,
we’ve got a snake. If the plunger doesn’t work, the snake should clear the line.”

“You’re missing the point,” Joe said, his patience sounding thin. “The sink may be a crime scene.”

“Oh.” Judith stared into the murky water. “Oh, damn. You’re right, I should have realized that.” For the first time she saw something bobbing listlessly around in the sink. Judith reached out to touch it, then quickly withdrew her hand. “Evidence,” she murmured. “It looks like my aspirin bottle. I found a pill on the floor.”

“When I talked to Bruno the last time,” Winifred said, clicking off the cell phone, “and he complained of a headache, I told him I’d seen some aspirin in the kitchen.” For a brief moment she looked as if she were going to cry, then rallied. “Morris will be issuing a statement. He’ll hold a press conference later for the early newscasts.” She looked up at the schoolhouse clock. “That will be four
A.M
. our time for the seven o’clock news on the East Coast. Perhaps I should join him at the Cascadia. I doubt I can do anything here. Those cretins upstairs don’t need to be consoled.” With a swish of her bathrobe, Winifred started to leave the kitchen, but stopped abruptly. “Where is he?” she asked in a hollow voice.

Judith was puzzled. “You mean…Morris? I thought you just—”

“No!” Winifred exploded, waving a frantic hand. “Bruno! Where did you put him?”

In the dishwasher?
Judith almost said as the giddiness she’d felt earlier tried to reclaim her emotions.

But Joe intervened. “His body was removed just minutes ago.”

“Oh.” Winifred’s shoulders slumped. “Of course.” Without another word, she left the kitchen.

The doorbell sounded. Joe got up to answer it while Judith gazed at the mess that still hadn’t been—couldn’t be—cleaned up. She, too, felt like crying.

But there was no time for tears. Joe, whose face had become so red that he looked as if he might explode, came storming back into the kitchen.

“It’s Stone Cold Sam,” he said under his breath, and then swore such a rapid blue streak that Judith—mercifully—could hardly understand him.

“Who,” she finally dared to inquire, “is Stone Cold Sam?”

Joe stared at her. “You don’t remember? Stone Cold Sam Cairo, my nemesis in the department? The world’s biggest pain in the butt?”

“Oh!” Judith did remember. There had been several occasions when Joe had come home from work fuming because Stone Cold Sam had interfered with an investigation, offered unwanted criticism, and generally tried to make Joe’s life miserable.

The stocky man with the goatee and mustache swaggered into the kitchen. Following him was a small young woman with short blond hair sticking up in peaks and an intimidated expression on her pretty face.

“You know, Flynn,” the man said in a rough, deep voice, “it looks like you’ve got everything here, including the kitchen sink. Har, har.”

Joe cradled his drink and leaned against the refrigerator. The gold flecks glinted in his green eyes, but with malice rather than mischief. “We don’t know if we have a homicide or not,” he said without inflection.

Stone Cold Sam Cairo chuckled, an unpleasant,
grating sound. “Yeah, I guess it always took you a while to figure out the facts.”

Judith didn’t know whether to introduce herself or not. Not, she decided. Any gesture of hospitality would annoy Joe.

Cairo, however, took matters into his own hairy hands. “Meet my new partner,” he said, dragging the small blonde forward by the hand. “Dilys Oaks. Dilys, this is Joe Flynn, a former colleague, now retired. Don’t be misled by the choirboy outfit. Joe can’t sing a lick.” Cairo glanced at Judith. “Let me guess. You’re either a Roman empress, Joe’s wife, or Joe’s slave. Maybe the last two combined. Har, har.”

“I’m Judith Flynn,” Judith said, as noncommittal as Joe.

Cairo gave a faint nod. “Okay by me.” He looked at the sink, and noted the phony spider, which swayed grotesquely from the overhead light. “Halloween stuff, huh? Nice touch. What was this movie guy doing, bobbing for apples?”