Silver Scream: A Bed-And-Breakfast Mystery (22 page)

“Nope,” Gertrude said. “But some guy named Vito or Zito or Tito is writing it up. Still, I figure I’d better get an agent first. I can’t read all that fine print. Literally.”

Standing up, Judith reached out to hug her mother.
“It sounds promising. I hope everything turns out the way you hope it will.”

“It will,” Gertrude said complacently. Then she frowned. “I just hope they hurry.”

“You mean because the Hollywood people may be leaving soon?”

Gertrude shook her head. “No. Because I may be leaving soon. Even the Greatest Generation can’t live forever.”

By the time Judith got back to the house, she was surprised to see that several guests were sitting down to breakfast. In the kitchen, Joe was hustling eggs, bacon, and toast.

“The estimated time of departure is ten-thirty,” he informed her in a low voice.

Judith gave her husband a startled look. “They’re leaving? But the fog hasn’t lifted.”

“Vito says the studio has given them the go-ahead,” Joe replied, placing toast in a rack. “The weather forecast predicts the fog will be gone by noon.”

Judith stood rooted to the spot. “Should we be glad?”

“I don’t know,” Joe replied, heading to the dining room with the toast. “I couldn’t get a feel one way or another from Vito.”

When he returned moments later, Judith inquired after Angela. “Is she going, too?”

“No,” said Joe, pouring more eggs into the pan. “They’re sending her directly to rehab at the Ford Madox Ford Center on the Eastside. According to Vito, she’ll be there at least a couple of months. Maybe this time the cure will take.”

As Joe tended the stove, Judith peeked over the
swinging doors that led into the dining room. The conversation seemed lighthearted. Maybe the movie people had put their differences aside now that they were leaving what they considered a fogbound backwater. Everyone was there. Everyone except Winifred.

Winifred Best seemed to be the least likely of the guests to sleep in. A wave of apprehension came over Judith as she started for the back stairs.

The phone rang. Judith grabbed it from its cradle, hoping that Dilys Oaks was calling with good news for Joe. Instead, it was Phyliss Rackley, calling with bad news for Judith.

“I can’t breathe,” Phyliss announced in a voice that was anything but short of wind. “I must have tuberculosis. Where’s the nearest sanitorium?”

“They don’t send people there for TB anymore, Phyliss,” Judith asserted. “They can cure it with antibiotics. Call your doctor.”

“I can’t,” Phyliss replied, then coughed with what sounded like feigned effort. “I’m fading fast. I need an iron lung.”

“That’s for polio,” Judith said crossly. “Are you telling me you won’t be here today?”

“How can I?” Phyliss asked, forlorn. “The Lord is coming for me. I saw Him this morning in my closet.”

“Tell the Lord to come out of the closet and put you on the bus to Hillside Manor,” Judith huffed. “I’ve got a big mess here today, and I’m worn out. Furthermore, it’s All Saints’ Day and I have to go to noon Mass.”

“You and your Roman rituals,” Phyliss complained. “What kind of sacrifice do you make this time? A gopher?”

Judith refused to waste time discussing the sacrifice
of the Mass to Phyliss. She’d already explained it on at least a dozen occasions. “I really need you, Phyliss. Do you think you could make it by noon? The fog’s supposed to lift by then.”

“Well…” Phyliss seemed to consider the request. “I’ll see. Maybe the Lord can work a miracle cure.” She coughed some more for effect. “Kaff, kaff.”

Hanging up, Judith continued on her way upstairs, then went the length of the hall to Room One, which Winifred had shared the previous night with Ellie Linn. Knocking gently at first, she got no response. She rapped harder. Still no reply. She was about to hammer on the door when she decided simply to open it.

The door was unlocked. A billow of smoke engulfed Judith. Flames licked at the bedclothes just as the fire alarm sounded and the sprinkler system went off.

Winifred lay awkwardly on the bed, her eyes closed, her mouth agape. Even as Judith screamed for help, she braved the smoke, fire, and drenching water to reach the motionless woman. Coughing, gritting her teeth, and ever aware that she could dislocate the artificial hip, she grabbed Winifred by the feet and attempted to tug her off the bed.

Despite Winifred’s slimness, Judith could move her no more than a few inches. The water was pouring down, dousing the flames but turning the room into a nightmare of sizzling vapors. Judith gasped, coughed again, and yanked at a pillowcase to put over her mouth. She barely heard the pounding of feet on the stairs or Joe’s shouts as he reached the second floor.

A moment later he was in the room, arms flailing, trying to push Judith out of the way. He missed. Judith, with the wet pillowcase protecting her nose and mouth,
caught Winifred around the knees and, with a mighty wrench, moved her into a sitting position against the headboard.

At the same time she felt—and heard—an odd sound in her hip. She collapsed on the floor.

“Don’t move!” Joe yelled as he picked up Winifred and carried her into the hall.

Dazed, Judith choked, coughed, and shivered in a huddled mass near the door. The fire, which had spread to the lace curtains on the other side of the room, was now sputtering out. Sirens could be heard in the distance. Someone must have called 911. Again.

“Winifred…” Judith murmured as Joe bent down to put his arms around her shoulders. “Is she…?”

“Never mind Winifred,” he said, his voice husky. “Can you stand?”

She wasn’t sure. What was worse, she was afraid to try. To her surprise, Dirk Farrar entered the room. “I can lift her,” he volunteered.

“We both can,” Joe retorted.

They did, carefully moving her out of the room and placing her on the settee in the hall. Winifred was lying on the floor by the door to the bathroom between Rooms Three and Four. Dade was leaning over her, once again trying to revive a fallen comrade.

“She’s alive,” Eugenia announced.

Dade looked up. “She’s coming ’round.”

“Thank God,” Judith gasped, then tried to sit up with Joe’s help.

Vito Patricelli’s customary calm was ruffled; he’d removed his sunglasses. “What happened? How did the fire start?”

He was ignored by both Flynns as the emergency
crew charged up the stairs with Eugenia Fleming in their wake. Somewhat to her surprise, Judith didn’t recognize any of the rescuers. Maybe, she thought a bit hazily, that was because it was a Monday. She couldn’t recall anyone ever dying or almost dying at Hillside Manor on a Monday. This must be a different crew. Somewhat giddily, she wondered if eventually she’d know them all—police, firefighters, medics, maybe even a coroner or two.

“Clear the area!” one of the firefighters shouted.

From somewhere on the stairs, Judith could hear a vaguely familiar female voice giving orders for the rest of the guests to stay put. The girlish tones sounded more like Ellie than the buglelike Eugenia. But the voice belonged to a newcomer.

The medics had moved Winifred down the hall. “We’ll work on her here,” one of them announced with a slight Spanish accent. “Everybody else get lost.”

Finally, Joe got Judith to her feet. “Can you walk?” he whispered.

She bit her lip, then wiped at her eyes, which were still smarting. “I’m not sure,” she replied unsteadily. But one foot went in front of the other. There was none of the agonizing pain she’d suffered from previous dislocations. Perhaps the sensations trying to move Winifred had only been a warning.

The others had already trooped downstairs, except for Vito, who lingered in the hallway.

Eugenia was standing under the arch between the entry hall and the living room. Cautiously, Judith stepped over the tan fire hoses.

“Where is that woman?” Eugenia demanded, fists on hips. “It must be all her fault.”

Judith stared. “What woman?”

“Your cleaning woman,” Eugenia snapped. “What kind of a person is she to cause such a mess?”

“My—” Judith stopped, allowing Joe to help her onto the sofa.

Eugenia followed, a bulldog running down a cat.

“I let her in while I was waiting for you to serve breakfast,” Eugenia said, incensed. “How did I know she was a pyromaniac?”

Judith forced her brain to kick-start. “No. That couldn’t have been my cleaning woman. I spoke to her on the phone just before I went upstairs looking for Winifred. She lives a good four miles from here.”

“What did this person look like?” Joe asked, all business.

“Why…” Eugenia paused. “Like a cleaning woman. Which is who she said she was. Gray-haired, thin, homely.”

Oddly enough, the description fit Phyliss Rackley. But that was impossible. Ignoring her hip, Judith jumped up. “Where is she now?”

“How do I know?” Eugenia shot back. “She went upstairs just before the others came down to breakfast.”

“Christ!” Joe took off at a run, apparently heading for the back stairs. The sound of water thundered overhead. Through the big bay window, Judith could see two firefighters climbing up to the roof.

“Oh, no!” she wailed. “My poor B&B! It’s ruined!”

It was only then that she realized the fire wasn’t the only thing that had laid waste to Room One. So overcome with shock and fear had Judith been at the time, she had failed to take in the more minor damage.

Winifred’s room had been ransacked.

Joe returned a few minutes later with Dilys Oaks. Judith realized that it was the young policewoman’s voice she had recognized earlier.

“Nothing,” Joe said, out of breath. “We couldn’t find any trace of the so-called cleaning woman.”

Judith turned to Eugenia, who had just finished a call on her cell phone. “Did you notice a car outside when you let this woman in?”

“A car?” Eugenia looked indignant. “How could I? It’s too foggy to see past the front steps. I don’t know when I’ve been in such a miserable place. Except Croatia, perhaps.”

“Look here,” Judith said, her temper flaring, “you were the one who admitted this woman. Why didn’t you let me open the door?”

“You weren’t here,” Eugenia retorted. “Neither was your husband. Besides, your cleaning woman had a key. Apparently, she was having trouble turning it.”

Judith frowned. She must have been in the toolshed with her mother. Maybe Joe had gone to the bathroom. It wasn’t really fair to blame Eugenia for the disaster. If, Judith suddenly thought, Eugenia was telling the truth. As for the key, perhaps the intruder was faking it. Or, it suddenly occurred to her, someone had found Dade’s missing key. But who?

A firefighter, moving clumsily in his bulky safety suit, entered the living room. “We think everything’s under control,” he announced, then turned to Joe. “The fire itself was just about extinguished by the sprinkler system. But there’s quite a bit of water damage. We’ll stick around to check things out, but if there’s danger to the wiring, you’d better think about staying some-
where else for a while. Also, it may take some time for the investigators to do their job and for the insurance adjusters to estimate the amount of damage.”

“That’s impossible!” Judith exclaimed. “This is a bed-and-breakfast establishment! We can’t shut down. And we certainly aren’t going to move out.”

With regret, the firefighter shook his head. “Sorry, ma’am. I’m afraid you’ll have to do both. Safety first.”

Before Judith could argue further, the medics appeared on the staircase with Winifred on a gurney with her eyes closed and an oxygen mask over her face. Vito was right behind them.

“They’re taking her to the hospital to treat her for smoke inhalation,” the lawyer announced from the entry hall, a frown on his usually imperturbable face.

“I don’t get it,” Judith put in, moving with care. “The fire had just started. There was plenty of smoke, but not enough to render Ms. Best unconscious. She wasn’t asleep; she was in her bathrobe lying atop the bedcovers.”

The medics didn’t respond as they wheeled Winifred out of the house and disappeared.

Vito started to follow, but Eugenia waylaid him with a firm hand. “Mrs. Flynn’s right. What’s going on with Win?”

With a pained expression, Vito leaned down to whisper in Eugenia’s ear. She gave a start, then scowled. “The medics told you that? I don’t believe it!” she snapped, then turned on Judith as Vito exited the house. “Your cleaning woman knocked Winifred unconscious!”

“What?” Judith shrieked.
“That wasn’t my cleaning woman!”

Eugenia shrugged her broad shoulders. “As you say. Vito is accompanying Win to the hospital. I understand this wretched house has to be evacuated. Don’t worry, we’re all but on our way.”

Returning to the living room, Judith began to pace the floor.

“Take it easy,” Joe warned. “You’re listing a bit to starboard.”

“I’m fine,” Judith snarled. “I didn’t dislocate, I just…twinged.” She stopped by the piano at the far end of the room. “I can’t believe this. Even if we don’t get sued, we’re out of business for God knows how long!”

“Come on, Jude-girl,” Joe urged, “try to relax a little. It’s not like the place burned down.” He looked at Dilys, who had her back turned to both Flynns and was on her cell phone. “An APB has gone out on the mysterious cleaning woman. If there was one,” he added, lowering his voice.

Dilys clicked off to face Judith and Joe. “Unfortunately,” she said, “the description isn’t very helpful. Ms. Fleming thought the woman was wearing dark clothing. The rest of her appearance is quite ordinary. With all the new apartments and condos on this side of the hill, there must be a hundred women like that within three square blocks of here.”

Judith abruptly sat down on the piano bench. “No,” she said slowly, “there’s only one.”

T
HERE WAS NO
time for Judith to explain. The battalion chief came into the living room to consult with the Flynns. His main advice was to contact their insurance agent as soon as possible. Joe agreed, saying he’d drive up to the top of the hill as soon as the local office opened at ten.

“What about the damage?” Judith asked in a plaintive voice. “How bad is it?”

“We’ll let you know as soon as we can,” the chief said kindly. His name was Ramirez, and he spoke with a slight Spanish accent.

Judith winced. “You’re sure we have to move out?”

Ramirez nodded. “It may not be for long. It’s the water damage, mostly. That’s often the case with a small fire. Only the bedcovers, curtains, and carpet were destroyed. The rest of the fire merely scorched the bed itself, the mattress, and one wall. By the way, who tossed the room?”

Joe and Dilys both stared at Judith. “Um…” She put her hands to her cheeks, which seemed to have suddenly grown quite warm. “I forgot to mention that. It must have been the intruder who knocked out Ms. Best.”

Ramirez frowned. “So that’s what I heard someone talking about. Where are the police?”

Dilys took a step forward. “
I
am the police,” she declared. “My backup should be along shortly. The patrol cars are already on the lookout for the perp.”

The battalion chief seemed disconcerted. “You mean…All these people in this house and no one…” He gave himself a good shake. “Excuse me. It’s a big house. In fact, haven’t you had a couple of other 911 calls in the past few days?”

To Judith’s great relief, Dilys stepped in to spare the Flynns the burden of an explanation. “To begin with,” she said, guiding Ramirez out of the living room, “this is a B&B. The current guests are somewhat unusual in that they…”

The pair disappeared into the front parlor. Judith glanced at the bay window. The ladder remained; water still poured down the side of the house. Judith couldn’t have felt worse if she’d suffered a physical blow.

“What did you mean,” Joe inquired, “when you said there was
only one woman
?”

“I’ll tell you later.” Judith noticed the guests leaving their breakfast table. “My,” she said in sarcasm, “I’m glad we didn’t spoil their appetites.”

Joe gave her a quick hug. “Hang in there. It’s going on ten. I’ll head out now to see Fred Sheets at the insurance agency.”

Judith said something that sounded like “Mrph.”

A moment later Dilys stuck her head back into the living room. “I’m going to confer with my backup. They seem to have gotten lost.” She winked. “At Moonbeam’s.”

“Great,” Judith said through gritted teeth, then threw her hands up in the air. “Mother! I’d better tell her what happened. She must be frantic.”

Gertrude, however, was in her usual place, leafing through a film directory. “Hi, Toots,” she said, barely looking up. “Abbott or Costello or whatever his last name is brought this to me. It’s got all the directors and actors and moving-picture people listed. It’s too bad Joan Crawford’s dead. People used to say she looked like me.”

“Mother…” Judith began.

But Gertrude interrupted. “Anyways, Dade—yes,
Dade,
I remember his first name now—left me his card and one from some woman named Fleming. She’s supposed to call me when she gets back to Los Angeles.” The old lady pronounced it “Los
Ang
-elees.” “Boy, there sure are a lot of names in this book.” She tapped the cover. “I never heard of most of them.” Finally, Gertrude looked at her daughter. “Where’s lunch?”

“It’s ten o’clock,” Judith said, then pointed to the breakfast tray. “You didn’t eat all your eggs.”

“They have funny stuff in them,” Gertrude said. “What did you do, mix the eggs with an old salad?”

Judith refrained from saying that Joe had made the eggs. She also refrained from telling her mother about the fire. As long as Gertrude’s deafness had obscured the sirens, there was no point in upsetting the old girl. At least not yet. Judith had other things on her mind.

Back in the house, the guests were scurrying about, completing their packing, hauling their luggage downstairs. They seemed as eager to leave as Judith was to see them go.

“Incredible,” Ben Carmody said to Judith as he put
on a black leather jacket. “How did Win set fire to her room?”

Looking guileless, Judith shrugged. “Who knows? Does she smoke?”

“Hell, no,” Dirk declared. “She’s no drinker, either, at least not at nine in the morning.”

Judith kept mum.

“She’ll be fine,” Ellie said, hooking her arm through Ben’s. “I’d like to work with her on
All the Way to Utah
.”

“Win’s spunky,” Chips said. “Maybe she’ll be able to leave for L.A. later today.”

Again, Judith made no comment.

Vito slipped a white envelope into her hand. “The studio wants to compensate you for your trouble. This is a promissory note for five thousand dollars. As soon as everything is cleared up in L.A., you’ll get your money.”

Judith’s smile was off center. “Why…that’s generous. I think.” For all she knew, the money would cover only the caterers. Of course it was better than a subpoena.

Dade was the last one out the door. He was halfway down the steps when he stopped and turned around. “Tell your momma I’ll be in touch. I’m pretty excited about this project.”

Judith still couldn’t believe Dade was serious. “You are?”

“I sure am,” he responded. “That little lady has some mighty swell tales to tell. I like her style.” With a salute, Dade ambled along after the rest of the party.

The limos had barely pulled away when Judith heard a knock at the back door. Maybe it was Renie,
though she rarely got up until ten o’clock, and even then, it took her another hour to become fully conscious.

It wasn’t her cousin who’d come to call. It was an even more unlikely person to show up so early in the day.

“Goodness!” Vivian Flynn exclaimed. “You’ve had more excitement, I see. Those sirens woke me up. I only managed to get dressed about five minutes ago, and then I saw the limos in the cul-de-sac. What’s going on now?”

“One of the guests had an accident,” Judith replied, leading Herself into the kitchen. “A small fire upstairs. She’ll be okay, I think. Would you care for coffee?” The offer came with a tug of reluctance.

Vivian, however, waved a hand. “No, but thanks anyway. As long as I’m dressed”—she ran a hand over her ensemble, which consisted of a black wool suit with slits in the skirt, a frilly white blouse, sling-back stiletto heels, and a perky black beret adorned with faux pearls—“I think I’ll pop over to Norway General to see Stone Cold Sam.”

“I hear he’s doing well,” Judith said.

“He’s doing wonderfully,” Herself declared, then giggled behind her hand. “But I feel sooo guilty!”

“About what?”

Vivian giggled again, then made a face. “About the heart attack. I mean, it wasn’t as if we were doing anything really outrageous.”

Judith’s mouth was agape. “You mean…? Stone Cold Sam was…ah…with you when he had the heart attack?”

Vivian’s false eyelashes fluttered. “With me. Yes.”

“Oh.” Judith gulped. “I see.”

“You’d better not!” Herself said, wagging a finger. “Naughty of you to peek!” She giggled some more. “That’s why I feel guilty. I went to see him last night, and I was so upset I ended up on the wrong floor. I almost panicked when the room I thought was his turned out to be empty. I was afraid he’d passed away. I practically ran all the way to the elevator. I thought he was in 706, but it was 906. Silly me.”

An alarm bell went off in Judith’s brain. She stared at Herself until the other woman stared back with a puzzled expression.

“What’s wrong, Judith?” Vivian inquired. “You look like you don’t feel well. I’ve noticed that you haven’t really looked very good since your surgery. Did it age you terribly?”

Judith was accustomed to Herself’s barbs, but on this occasion, they were the least of her worries. “No,” she said tersely. “I’m just tired. It’s been a difficult weekend.”

“So it seems.” Vivian reached into her cobra-skin handbag to retrieve a pair of black kid gloves. “I must be off. I’ll give Sam your best. By the way, I hope that nothing was badly burned. Except for those handsome firefighters on the roof, everything looks fine from outside.”

“It’s not too bad,” Judith said, hoping the statement might be true.

“Good,” Herself responded. “Toodles.” She departed through the front door on a wave of decadence and a whiff of Chanel No. 5.

For at least a full minute, Judith stood in the hallway, thinking hard. She had been certain that the per
son wearing high heels at Norway General was Winifred, coming to see Angela. She had ruled out Eugenia, who always wore sensible shoes, and Ellie, who preferred sandals and sneakers. The idea that Winifred had wanted to ensure Angela’s silence concerning the source of Bruno’s cocaine addiction was out the window.

She considered going upstairs to see what was happening on the guest floor. But she didn’t really want to know. Besides, she was leery of overdoing it with her hip. The first order of business was almost as painful as the fire itself: She had to call Ingrid Heffelman to change the current set of reservations.

With a heavy sigh, Judith looked at the calendar on the wall above the computer. She hadn’t flipped the page to November. Saying good-bye to
Sculptor’s Studio,
she stared at the new painting. It was Grant Wood’s
American Gothic. Born 1892 in Anamosa, Iowa,
the tag line read,
he taught in the Cedar Rapids public schools and later was an artist in residence at the University of Iowa. Wood was strongly influenced 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
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
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.

“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?”