Silver Scream : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

by German and Flemish painters of the . . .

Judith’s brain was going into overdrive, but was

short-circuited by the voice of Battalion Chief

Ramirez, who was calling from the entry hall.

“Everything’s under control,” he said, pulling off his

heavy gloves. “We’ll come by later today to check

things out and see what help we can offer once your

husband has finished talking to your insurance agent.”

Judith thanked the firefighter, then waited on the

porch until the hoses were rolled up and the fire truck

drove away. A small white sedan was pulled up to the

curb by the Rankerses’ driveway. Something about the

vehicle chafed at her memory, but she shrugged it

SILVER SCREAM

329

away. Small white cars were as common as the autumn

fog. My brain’s in a fog, she thought. Rarely had she

felt so low in her mind.

As the firefighters disappeared out of the cul-de-sac,

Judith heard a sound just off the porch on the other side

of the Weigela bush. Walking down the steps, she

turned the corner and peered through the fog.

A gray-clad figure appeared like a wraith out of the

mists. Judith stood very still, her heart in her mouth.

Then, as the figure came closer, recognition dawned.

“Mrs. Izard!” Judith exclaimed. “What are you

doing here?”

Meg Izard clutched at her imitation-leather purse

with one hand and held the felt picture-frame hat in

place with the other. “Just passing by on our way out

of town,” she said, her usually cold gaze showing a

spark of life. “I didn’t think anybody was home. Walt

and I saw somebody leave the house. We thought it

was you. What’s going on with the firemen?”

“A small fire,” Judith replied. “Guests are sometimes heedless.”

“I’ll bet,” Meg said, looking away toward the

Weigela.

Judith retreated to the bottom of the porch steps.

“Despite the problems we had with your reservation,

do you plan on staying at Hillside Manor when you

visit again?”

“We’ll see about that,” Meg replied with a scowl.

“The weather here’s dismal.”

“September is lovely,” Judith said. “So is early October.”

“September’s no good,” Meg said, adjusting the

round felt hat before her hands tightened again on her

330

Mary Daheim

purse. “We never miss the state fair.” She started to

move past Judith on the walk.

“Where’s Mr. Izard?” Judith asked, a hand on Meg’s

arm.

“He’s wandering around, having a smoke,” Meg

replied. “You can’t smoke in these rental cars, you

know.”

“We permit smoking,” Judith said. “Why don’t you

come in for a few minutes? The fog’s supposed to lift

soon. Then driving will be safer, especially in an unfamiliar city.”

“Well . . .” Meg flexed her fingers on the black

purse. “I’ll come in for a bit. Never mind Walt. He’s

happy just moseying around outside.”

Judith led the way into the house. “Have a seat at the

dining-room table,” she offered.

But Meg went straight into the kitchen, where she

fumbled with her purse.

“Would you prefer sitting in here?” Judith inquired.

“No. Just give me a minute to catch my breath.” She

stood by the sink, looking down. After almost a full

minute, she turned and followed Judith into the dining

room. Meg sat down with her purse in her lap and her

shabby gray coat unbuttoned. “I take cream,” she announced.

“Fine,” Judith said, going back into the kitchen. She

fixed Meg’s coffee and poured a glass of orange juice

for herself. “Are you headed for the airport?” she inquired when she was seated at the big oak table.

Meg nodded. “We got a flight out at two. If the fog

lifts.”

“It should,” Judith said. “So you always attend the

Iowa State Fair,” she remarked in a casual tone.

SILVER SCREAM

331

“Haven’t missed it since I was two,” Meg answered

with a hint of pride. “Best fair in the Midwest.”

“Do you and Walt own a farm?” Judith asked.

“A small one, just outside Riceville.” The corners

of Meg’s thin mouth turned down. “Walt’s dad sold

out to one of those combines years ago. They cheated

Mr. Izard. Now we’ve only got some chickens, a couple of cows, and a cornfield. It’s been a struggle, believe me.”

“Farming certainly has changed,” Judith remarked.

“But you must do okay. I mean, you and Walt are able

to take vacations like this one.”

“First time since our honeymoon,” Meg said, with

her usual sour expression. “We wouldn’t have done it

now except it’s our silver wedding anniversary. That,

and with—” She stopped abruptly, her thin shoulders

tensing under the worn wool coat.

Recalling Walt Izard’s gaunt frame, Judith gently

posed a question. “Is your husband ill?”

Meg scowled at Judith. “No. Why do you ask? It’s

none of your beeswax.”

“That’s true,” Judith admitted. “I’m sorry. It’s just

that I’m interested in people. Sometimes it gets me

into awkward situations.”

Meg’s face softened slightly. “Well . . . you can’t do

much about serious sickness. Trouble is, the doctors

can’t either. Folks like us can’t afford big-city specialists like some.”

“Maybe not,” Judith responded, then paused before

speaking again. “Shall I tell you a story?”

“A story?” Meg wrinkled her long nose. “Why do I

want to hear a story?” But a flicker of interest kindled

in her eyes.

332

Mary Daheim

“You’ll want to hear this story,” Judith said, placing

her elbows on the table and leaning closer to her guest.

“It’s about a young girl from a small town in Iowa who

fell in love with a romantic young man.”

Meg tensed, her hands tightening on the purse in her

lap. But she said nothing. In Judith’s mind’s eye, she

tried to picture the thin, haggard woman across the

table as a young girl—the girl in the photograph that

lay between the pages of The Gasman.

“This young man had a vivid imagination,” Judith

continued, “and he wooed her with all the passion of

his creative nature. Unfortunately, the girl got pregnant. Her family insisted on a wedding. Since the

young man had roots in the area, he gave in, and they

were married. His bride made the mistake of believing

he’d keep his vows. She trusted him, even if she

thought his ambitions were out of reach. She couldn’t

understand why farm life in Iowa didn’t suit him. But

he had bigger dreams, and moved on, leaving her behind.” Judith paused, recalling the lock of hair. She

looked Meg right in the eye. “What happened to that

baby, Mrs. Izard?”

Meg sat stony-faced for a long moment. When she

finally spoke, her lips scarcely moved. “He was stillborn. My so-called husband had already left me. I

named the poor baby Douglas, after my father. We

buried him next to Pa in the family plot.”

“I’m sorry,” Judith said softly. “Do you have other

children?”

Meg shook her head. “I couldn’t. Something went

wrong at the time of the birth.”

Now it was Judith’s turn to be silent. The fog

seemed to permeate the kitchen, like a sad, gray pall.

SILVER SCREAM

333

“Your first husband took something else besides your

happiness, didn’t he?” she finally asked.

Meg sat up very straight. “You mean . . . the book?”

Judith nodded. “That’s what you came for earlier

this morning, isn’t it? The book. Your copy of the

book.”

Meg’s jaw dropped, but she recovered quickly.

“That Best woman—she was the one who all but stole

it from us.”

“Not your personal copy, though,” Judith put in.

“Bruno took it with him when he left you, didn’t he?”

“I could have killed him right then and there,” Meg

declared. “Pa’s book was his monument. It was all that

we had left of him, except for the manuscript he never

finished. And no one would buy that one from us.

Foolishly, we let the copyright on The Gasman run out

in 1985. We thought, what’s the use? There was never

more than the one printing. Then Bruno . . .” She spat

out his name as if it were tainted with gall. “Then he

used the book to make this big, big movie. Winifred

Best had gotten hold of the rights for him. Walt and I

couldn’t believe it when we saw it on a TV show about

Hollywood. Millions of dollars. And we were practically on food stamps. After all those years—thirty-one,

to be exact—that son of a bitch uses Pa’s book to make

himself even more rich and famous.”

“You never forgave Bruno, did you?” Judith asked

quietly.

Meg shook her head decisively. “Never. How could

I? He ruined my life, he destroyed my future, he stole

Pa’s book. It ate at me, like a cancer.”

“Cancer,” Judith repeated. “You have cancer, don’t

you?”

334

Mary Daheim

Meg’s body jerked in the chair. “How do you

know?”

“I found a piece of label from a prescription bottle

in Bruno’s room the morning after he died,” Judith

said. “It was for thalidomide. If it wasn’t for Bruno and

it wasn’t for Walt, then it had to be for you. I’d heard

that the drug was being used again, this time for cancer patients. Thalidomide has proved effective in retarding end-stage cancers. I think that scrap of label

was dropped when you were exploring the upstairs.

You didn’t notice because you were too busy destroying Angela’s costume and putting the rubber spider in

Bruno’s bed.”

Meg’s gaze dropped along with her shoulders. “That

medicine helps. But it doesn’t cure. I’ve got blood cancer. Multiple myeloma, if you want to put a fancy

name to it.”

“I’m so sorry,” Judith said, feeling as if she had to

apologize for too many tragedies in Meg’s life. “When

you learned Bruno was premiering his movie here in

town, it must have come as a shock to discover that he

and his company were registered at the same B&B

you’d chosen.”

“Not really,” Meg said on a weary sigh. “It figured.

Our first trip in twenty-five years, and somehow Bruno

managed to foul it up for us. I guess that was the last

straw. It was right after that when I found out about the

cancer.”

The damp air seemed to seep into Judith’s skin; she

felt faintly chilled. The ticking of the schoolhouse

clock sounded unnaturally loud in her ears. For all she

knew, Meg had a gun in her purse. It seemed heavy,

judging from the way Meg held it. Judith braced her- SILVER SCREAM

335

self before asking the next question. “Did you intend to

kill Bruno?”

Meg smirked before speaking. “Of course I did. I’d

wished him dead every day of my life. But then I saw

him again, after so many years.” She looked away and

bit her lip. “I had to talk to him, to tell him what a

skunk he was, to make him give me back my book. And

of course money from him would have been nice. I

don’t know how Walt will manage without me. He

hasn’t been the same since the farming went bad.” She

looked away, into the corner of the dining room, with

its quaint washstand, porcelain ewer, and pitcher. Judith thought the sight must have reminded the other

woman of home.

“Bruno was so snotty to me,” Meg went on, “so

mean, like he was after we were married. When I first

began to show with the baby, he called me Spider

Woman. He said that with the big belly and my scrawny

long arms and legs, I reminded him of a spider.”

“How cruel,” Judith said with a shake of her head.

“Bruno sounds as if he was held captive by his ego,

even then.”

“He was nice only in the beginning,” Meg said,

“when he was trying to seduce me. I was so green. I’d

never met anyone like him.”

Judith started to reach out to comfort Meg, but

thought better of it. “Don’t blame yourself,” she said.

“You were a farm girl from a small town. He was in

search of his Iowa roots, and already had the aura of

Southern California about him.” She paused, knowing

that Meg had a need to talk about the confrontation

with Bruno. “Night before last must have been very

hard when you finally faced him again.”

336

Mary Daheim

“It was and it wasn’t,” Meg responded, her sharp

features hardening even more. “I was glad that when I

finally saw him, he was feeling miserable. How the

mighty have fallen, I thought to myself. But then he

got nasty. When Bruno went to take some pills he had

in his hand, he opened the cupboard by the sink to

fetch a glass. Then he dropped one of the pills. When

he bent down to get it, he reared up so fast that he

banged his head on the cupboard door and knocked

himself silly. He fell right into the sink with all that

water in it. For a second I thought I should haul him

out.” Her face twisted with bitterness. “Then I thought,

to hell with him. He never cared about me, why should

I care about him? So I held his head under the water

until he stopped flailing around. Then I put the spider

over the sink and left.” Meg’s pallor had a strange

glow. She’d won the final battle with Bruno.

For a long time neither woman spoke. Judith forced

herself not to look in the direction of Meg’s purse.

“Your brother, Will,” Judith said at last, recalling the

information on the Internet. “You mentioned at some

point that he lives here. He’s William Euclid Carp,

isn’t he?” Silently, she cursed herself. She’d never

thought of looking up Carp in the phone book.

Meg nodded. “He moved out this way a couple of

years ago. He couldn’t stand trying to make a living

selling farm equipment anymore. The market had

fallen out of that, too. I figured that this trip would be

my last chance to see him. Will was real pleased. But

sad. I’d asked him to scout out this place so we could

find it without running around all over a strange city.

By then, we’d been displaced, and knew from you that

Bruno was coming here for his big shindig.”

SILVER SCREAM

337

“Ah!” Judith exclaimed softly. She couldn’t believe

she’d been such a dunce. The tall, old-fashioned figure

she’d seen alongside the house wasn’t Ben Carmody;

it was William Euclid Carp. “But you were the pioneer

woman at the party,” she said. It was a statement, not a

question. American Gothic, Judith had thought the first

time she’d met the Izards. Gothic, as in grotesque. Out

of the corner of her eye, she could see the calendar

with the Grant Wood painting.

“What else could I be?” Meg replied. “That was

Great-Grandma Carp’s dress and bonnet I found a long

time ago in the attic. I brought it with me. I couldn’t afford a fancy-dress costume. I’d heard about the ball on

TV, and I figured I’d confront Bruno afterward at your

B&B.”

“Did Walt dress up?” Judith inquired. “I don’t recall

seeing him at the party.”

“He never came inside,” Meg said. “He and Will put

together some makeshift costumes. Walt was a scarecrow. Will was a cowboy. Those were easy to do, after

all the scarecrows we’ve had on the farm. Will had

herded cattle for many years. He still had his boots and

his vest and his cowboy hat. They didn’t blame me for

what I’d done, but they fussed. They were afraid I’d be

found out. Will was especially worried, so he and Walt

tried to keep tabs on what was going on here after

Bruno died.”

So the witch wasn’t a witch, but a scarecrow,

thought Judith. Another mistake she’d made, though

understandable. In the fog, the pointed hat, the turnedup shoes, the ragged garments, the strawlike hair, and

the fact that it was Halloween had made the illusion

credible.

338

Mary Daheim

“Who found the missing key to Hillside Manor?”

Judith asked.

“Walt.” Meg smiled thinly. “It was in your driveway.

He picked it up on a . . . whim, I guess. I tried to use it

this morning, but before I could make it turn right,

some fat old bag came to the door.”

Judith had another query for Meg. “Why did you hit

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

here can order for me. And what’s this leaving a newspaper outside my door? I’m not paying for it. I get my

news on TV. Why are people always giving me things

to read that I don’t want? Even that nice Dade Whoozits brought me some goofy script when he was here, all

about the Mormons. Now why would I want to read

such a thing? I’m not a Mormon. I’m a Catholic and a

Democrat. I just put that script in the barbecue and set

a match to it. I think I’ll do the same thing with that

newspaper. It’s not even local.” Gertrude ran out of

breath, but not for long. She glared at Joe. “Where’s

my breakfast?”

Judith proffered her own tray. “Here. I’ve lost my

appetite.”

As Gertrude sat down in the armchair Joe had va- SILVER SCREAM

343

cated, Judith cast a longing look at her husband. Joe

simply shook his head.

“Hey,” Gertrude cried, “where are my dentures?”

“In your mouth,” Judith responded a bit testily.

“Oh.” Gertrude began to eat. After swallowing a

mouthful of omelette, she stared at her daughter.

“Where’s that danged cat?”

“In your room, remember?” Judith said.

“Maybe not,” Joe put in. He gestured at Judith.

“Let’s go look for him.”

Judith started to protest, caught the gleam in Joe’s

eyes, and agreed. They’d search for Sweetums.

“Take your time eating, Mother,” Judith called over

her shoulder as they headed for Gertrude’s adjoining

room.

Hand in hand, Judith and Joe hurried out of the

suite.

If life wasn’t perfect, this was the next best thing.

About the Author

Seattle native MARY RICHARDSON DAHEIM began

reading mysteries when she was seven. She began her

writing career about the same time, but after getting a

journalism degree, she put her skills to use on

newspapers and in public relations. Publishing novels

was always her goal, and she finally hit the racks with

her first B&B mystery in 1991, adding the Alpine series

the next year. Daheim received the Pacific Northwest

Writers Association’s Achievement Award in 2000. She

lives with her husband, David Daheim, in Seattle.

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information

on your favorite HarperCollins author.

Praise

“MARY DAHEIM

IS THE REIGNING QUEEN

OF THE COZIES”

Portland Oregonian

“Delightful mysteries.”

Kansas City Star

“Daheim writes with wit, wisdom, and a big heart . . .

Judith and Renie are sleuths to treasure.”

Carolyn Hart

“Silver Scream is a pleasing addition to a joyous series.”

Romantic Times

“Like Joan Hess’ Maggody series, Daheim’s bed-and-breakfast mysteries show a funny and often stinging

insight into people’s relationships and behavior.”

Houston Chronicle

“Rife with loony Hollywood types, Mary Daheim’s

latest is a ‘Scream.’ ”

Stuart News (Fl.)

“Mary Daheim is one of the brightest stars in our

city’s literary constellation.”

Seattle Times

“Silver Scream is a must read . . . If you’re not

familiar with award-winning author

Mary Daheim, become so.”

I Love A Mystery

Bed-and-Breakfast Mysteries by

Mary Daheim

SILVER SCREAM

SUTURE SELF

A STREETCAR NAMED EXPIRE

CREEPS SUZETTE

LEGS BENEDICT

SNOW PLACE TO DIE

WED AND BURIED

SEPTEMBER MOURN

NUTTY AS A FRUITCAKE

AUNTIE MAYHEM

MURDER, MY SUITE

MAJOR VICES

A FIT OF TEMPERA

BANTAM OF THE OPERA

DUNE TO DEATH

HOLY TERRORS

FOWL PREY

JUST DESSERTS

Available in hardcover

HOCUS CROAKUS

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents,

and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and

are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual

events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

SILVER SCREAM. Copyright © 2002 by Mary Daheim. All

rights reserved under International and Pan-American

Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees,

you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable

right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen.

No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or

introduced into any information storage and retrieval

system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or

mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without

the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Adobe Acrobat eBook Reader February 2007

ISBN 978-0-06-135935-4

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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Document Outline

Title Page

Dedication Page

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

About the Author

Praise

Bed-and-Breakfast Mysteries by Mary Daheim

Copyright Notice

About the Publisher

Table of Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

About the Author

Praise

Other Books by Mary Daheim

Cover

Copyright

About the Publisher

Bed-and-Breakfast Mysteries by

Table of Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

About the Author

Praise

Other Books by Mary Daheim

Cover

Copyright

About the Publisher

Bed-and-Breakfast Mysteries by