Boston Scream Murder

by Ginger Bolton

  My dress would undoubtedly slow me down, but so would the corners of the sheet dangling around Steve’s shoes.

  Behind me, Dep hissed, a long and angry sound.

  Steve was chasing me. He said, “Thanks for telling us you had a gas stove, Emily.”

  I made it into the kitchen and reached for my phone.

  I heard another loud exhalation from Steve. Sheets rustled.

  Pain sliced into the back of my head, and everything went bleary.

  Chapter 30

  I was lying on the hard tiles of the kitchen floor. Hoping that playing dead would save me from a worse attack, I kept my eyes closed and tried not to move.

  I couldn’t see anything besides colors swooping around the insides of my eyelids.

  I could hear.

  Steve’s voice. “Sorry, Emily. I don’t know if you can hear me, but if you could, I’d tell you that you and Cheryl are nice people. I didn’t want to hurt either one of you, but I was afraid that both of you saw my real name when I accidentally used the wrong charge card this afternoon. Cheryl mentioned that she’d told you we’d arrived at Rich’s party separately, and then I went back to my room and discovered that I’d forgotten some of the white I’d been putting in my hair to make me look closer to Cheryl’s age. It was only a matter of time before one of you would figure out that Patty was my big sister. My half sister, but she was like another mother to me until my stepfather moved me to California. I loved her, but I was only seven and she and I lost track of each other. I didn’t know she married, and I didn’t know she died until a few years afterward. She drowned, very conveniently, while that monster she married was having an affair. I bided my time until I could pay him back for what he did to Patty. I followed dating sites for this area, and he appeared on one recently. I guessed he would throw a seventieth birthday party for himself, so I connected with the only woman for miles around who was near his age and on the dating site he was on. I planned everything, even to sticking around afterward to continue pretending to research cheese. I was going to get away with murdering someone who deserved it. But you and Cheryl ruined my careful planning.”

  No, I thought, still playing dead, you were wrong. Rich didn’t kill her.

  I heard Steve’s feet shuffle on the tile floor toward the range. “I can’t let that happen,” he said. I heard the tick-tick-tick of the gas stovetop’s ignition, and the whoosh as the gas caught fire. Six times, one for each burner. And I heard him take six deep breaths, heard him blow six times.

  One for each burner.

  I was only stunned, but if he thought I was unconscious or dead, he might leave without noticing that, thanks to my late husband’s caution, my top-of-the-line range automatically shut off the gas after the flames went out. If he realized that the gas wasn’t likely to kill Cheryl and me, he might do something else drastic. Probably with that skillet.

  What if I sneezed? Merely thinking it made my nose itch.

  How was Cheryl?

  And Dep?

  I hoped that Steve would go outside by the back door and accidentally lock it. He’d be stuck between the house and the walls around the yard, making it easy for the police to catch him when they got here.

  Between throbs of pain in my head, I realized that I had not called the police.

  Brent was on his way, wasn’t he?

  I heard Steve walk, not toward the back door, but toward the dining room. Toward the living room.

  There were sounds of a scuffle and an enraged howl from Dep, louder than any of the times I had put her into her carrier and taken her for a ride in a car.

  Something crashed. Dishes clattered. Steve swore. Dep’s little feet pounded toward me. Loud human footsteps pounded away from me. There was a semi-metallic thud like the skillet hitting the pine plank floor.

  The front door slammed.

  Silence.

  Danger, I reminded myself. Steve must have left, but any stray spark might ignite lingering gas fumes. There was danger—for me, for Cheryl, and for Dep.

  The sweet cat was urgently licking my face with her rough little tongue.

  Cautiously, I opened my eyes. I was lying beside my kitchen island.

  I smelled gas. Steve had lit all six burners and blown out the flames. By now, the gas should have shut off automatically, but what if it hadn’t? Move, Emily.

  The timer on the oven, which was electric, not gas, beeped.

  I sneezed.

  Dep patted my cheek with one soft paw. “Mew!”

  I rolled over and rose onto my hands and knees. Looking perfectly fine, Dep rubbed against my arms. I clutched at a bar stool and pulled myself up until I was standing, leaning on the granite counter with both hands.

  My phone was where I’d left it. “First things first,” I mumbled.

  Afraid that my velvet dress might rub against my tights and create a spark that would set off an explosion, I stumbled to the range. The gas seemed to have stopped flowing. Resting a hand on the counter beside the range, I turned off each burner, one by one.

  I turned off the oven, too, and hoped it would keep the little quiches warm without drying them out.

  In the hampering dress, I minced to the back door, opened it wide, and called, “Want to go outside, Dep?”

  She streaked past me into the safety of the moonlit night. I left the door open to let in fresh air.

  On the block behind mine, high voices hollered, “Trick or treat!”

  Glad that Alec and I had replaced the old sunroom windows with new double-hung ones that opened easily, I shoved the lower halves upward and tugged the upper halves downward. Cool air streamed in through the lower sections.

  “Stay out there, Dep,” I muttered, “as far as possible from the house.”

  The lace-sleeved black velvet dress was elegant and sophisticated, but it was totally impractical and had no pockets. Carrying my phone in one hand and hoping that the fresh air coming in through the back of the house would replace the fumes before they could explode, I eased through the dining room and into the living room.

  Cheryl was lying in a heap of Maria’s skirts and petticoats next to the front door. The skillet’s handle was sticking out below the wing chair.

  I peeked through the peephole. I couldn’t see anyone. I opened the door. Chilly air wafted inside. The goofy, loose-jointed skeletons I’d hung from the living room ceiling performed an almost silent and eerie dance.

  Finally, I knelt beside Cheryl. The back of her head was bleeding, but she didn’t seem to be in danger of bleeding to death, and I doubted that I was, either. I felt her pulse. To my relief, it was strong. And the fresh air was bracing.

  I called 911, gave my address, and asked for an ambulance, police officers, and the fire department. “Two of us have been attacked. I’m okay, but the other woman is injured and seems to be unconscious. The attacker turned on the range and blew out the flames. The gas went out automatically. I opened doors and windows, but I need the fire department to make certain it’s safe.”

  “Stay on the line,” the dispatcher said. I heard the clicks of a computer keyboard. “Help is on the way. How bad are the other woman’s injuries?”

  I ran my hands down Cheryl’s arms and legs. “No broken bones, as far as I can tell.”

  “Can you safely get yourself and the injured person outside?”

  “Not knowing the extent of her injuries, I shouldn’t move her.”

  “Are you dizzy or woozy?”

  “No.” It wasn’t quite true. My head hurt, and I felt disoriented, probably due to shock and not to the fumes. I could no longer smell them. I didn’t know if that meant they were gone or if I’d become used to them.

  “I want you to go out into the fresh air. Leave the injured woman where she is. You have to keep a clear head for her sake.”

  I would have said the same thing when I was a 911 operator. “Okay,” I agreed reluctantly. I could be outside but also close to Cheryl if I stayed on the porch.

  Cheryl stretched her
arms and legs and opened her eyes. “Emily? What happened?” She slurred her words.

  “Steve knocked us out.”

  “The Sound of Music.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I think I’m supposed to say I’m Maria, but I’m not, am I?”

  “You’re Cheryl, dressed like Maria for Halloween.”

  “That’s a pretty dress you’re wearing.”

  “I’m a witch.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re a lovely young woman.”

  I thought, I Feel Pretty. No, that’s a different Maria.

  I needed to get both of us outside. “Cheryl, do you think you can sit up?”

  “Climb Ev’ry mountain.” She didn’t sit up.

  “What hurts?”

  “Just my head, and it’s not bad. I can’t remember for sure, but I think Steve hit me. Only that’s not his real name, is it?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She sang, “Steve, a name he calls himself.”

  “How about your arms and legs, your back, your hips, your neck? Do any of them hurt?”

  “Not so much that I can’t sit up. But I don’t feel like knitting.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I don’t know where my knitting basket is.”

  “Did you leave it at home?”

  Her smile was close to her usual grandmotherly one. “Yes, Emily, I think I did. Steve brought me trick-or-treating. He wanted to come here. Did you give him your address?”

  “It’s easy to find. And I think he’s a private investigator, so it would have been easy for him, anyway.” I touched the back of my head. It wasn’t wet, and I didn’t feel lumps or dents.

  Cheryl managed to sit up. “Investigating Wisconsin cheese? There. I’m just about better.”

  “Can you move closer to the door, maybe sit on the doorstep?”

  “That’s a long way to run.”

  “You don’t have to run.”

  “I was thinking of a song. But sure, I can.”

  I heard sirens coming closer. “Are you warm enough?”

  “Almost, dear. You know, a doe is a deer. Really, I’m fine.” Sitting, she scooted toward the porch.

  I plopped my witch hat with its magnificent poufy wig onto my head and immediately felt warmer. Despite the 911 dispatcher’s order, I went farther into the living room. Judging by how cold the living room felt, fresh air had almost replaced the air inside the house, at least downstairs.

  Dep was sitting on the coffee table. She lifted one paw tentatively as if she were about to bat at a platter of donuts. “Mew?”

  Another platter was on the floor. Most of the donuts from that platter were smashed, their fillings oozing out. A Boston scream donut was no longer screaming. Its fudge frosting was badly smeared.

  That scuffle I’d heard, that loud kitty howl, that crash . . .

  I looked down at Dep. “Did you trip that man in the ghost costume and make him fall into the donuts?”

  A small voice in my ear said, “What?”

  I told the 911 operator, “Sorry, I was talking to my cat.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine. And the other woman has regained consciousness.”

  “I gathered that. I heard another woman’s voice.”

  Dep leaped down from the coffee table. Sitting on the floor beside the smeared Boston scream donut, she blinked up at me. “Meow.”

  I held the phone away from my mouth. “You did, you little heroine! You tripped him!”

  The 911 dispatcher asked, “What’s this about heroin?”

  “Heroine, with an e at the end, a female hero. My cat is one.”

  “Okay.” The dispatcher drew the word out. “Are you outside?”

  “No, but there’s so much cold air that I’m nearly freezing, so I think it’s fresh.”

  “Go outside,” the dispatcher insisted.

  Dep lifted one dainty paw, gave it a swift lick, and shook it as if it had touched something nasty, like a donut. Or a murderer.

  I pulled a crocheted afghan off the couch, took it outside, wrapped it around Cheryl, and told the dispatcher, “We’re both on the front porch.”

  “If you can, go farther from the house.”

  “As soon as the victim can walk,” I promised.

  I asked Cheryl, “How did you and Steve get here?”

  “We met at the Fireplug Pub and walked. We stopped at a few houses on the way and he got candy. But his pillowcase was already full when we got together at the Fireplug Pub. I think he probably filled it himself before he started out, but maybe I’m remembering it all wrong. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Not unless you want to hide a skillet in a pillowcase.”

  She twisted her mouth into a sort of grin. “Does that make sense? Was I hit harder than I thought?”

  I told her firmly, “It doesn’t make sense. None of it does.”

  Dep came out onto the porch with us, the pumpkins, the scarecrow, the unscared crow, and the goblins. I set the phone down on the porch floor, reached around the jamb for Dep’s leash and halter, snapped them on her, and asked Cheryl, “Do you know where Steve parked his car?”

  “Near the pub, I think.”

  “Do you know what kind of car he drives?”

  “I’m not sure I ever saw it.”

  “You said you drove separate cars to Rich’s party. Did you see it that time?”

  She scratched her head. “I must have, but I was worrying about you and what had upset you, and I was focusing on the cars arriving so I could send them away.”

  Two police cars, an ambulance, and a firetruck stopped in front. I picked up the phone and told the 911 dispatcher that the first responders had arrived. She let me disconnect. Two EMTs from the ambulance ran up onto the porch. I pointed at Cheryl. “She was knocked out.”

  “I’m okay,” Cheryl said.

  One of the EMTs crouched beside her and asked quiet questions.

  A crew of firefighters clomped onto the porch in their bulky firefighting outfits and heavy boots. I pointed toward the kitchen. “The gas was left on without flames, but my range turns off automatically. I made certain the burners were off, and opened doors and windows.”

  “We’ll test the air inside your house and blow in fresh air if we need to,” one of the firefighters assured me. “Wait outside.”

  As soon as he disappeared into the dining room, I grabbed the orange wicker jack-o’-lantern basket of candy, gave the EMTs a handful of chocolate bars, and gently placed my phone in the basket with the remaining chocolate bars. I hung the handle over my arm, pushed my witch hat with its attached frizzy silver hair more firmly onto my own curls, picked Dep up—leash, halter and all—and followed the firefighter’s instructions.

  Well, sort of. I went back outside, but I wasn’t about to wait.

  Dep and I were going ghost hunting.

  Chapter 31

  I wasn’t going to confront Steve. If I saw him, I would stay back. With luck I would be able to tell the police which way he was going, and if he got into a car, I could describe that.

  Cheryl had said that he might have left his car near the Fireplug Pub, which was close to Deputy Donut. Steve probably thought I was still lying on the floor in a house filling with explosive fumes. He wouldn’t expect to see me out here. Trusting my hat with its attached hair and my trick-or-treat basket to disguise me, I turned left, toward downtown Fallingbrook, Deputy Donut, and the Fireplug Pub. Far up the street, trick-or-treaters were going house to house, but even by the light of the full moon, which was higher and no longer huge and orange, I couldn’t make out what costumes they were wearing.

  Dep squirmed in my arms. “Meow!”

  “I’m not putting you down,” I informed her. “Your usual pace might not be fast enough for us to see him before he drives away.” I didn’t want to think about the harm she might be doing to my lace sleeves, or the harm I knew she was doing to my arms.

  Front porches were decorated with creative jack
-o’-lanterns displaying every emotion known to man—or to pumpkin—plus some beautifully carved designs. The three football players who had been at my place earlier were ringing a doorbell.

  Chilly, I hugged Dep closer. She reached up and batted at my hat. I tilted my head back. “Don’t knock it off, please. I guess I should have made you a black cat costume to go with my witch costume.”

  She sniffed at my fake hair. Sooner or later, she was going to find a way to make me put her down.

  At the end of my block, I had to decide whether to turn left and stay in the residential neighborhood for a little longer on our way toward the Fireplug, or take the quickest route to Wisconsin Street where no one would be trick-or-treating now that the shops were closed.

  Far up the block to my left, a tall white ghostlike creature was among other trick-or-treaters heading toward someone’s front porch. Was Steve mingling with trick-or-treaters to hide in plain sight as he fled my neighborhood? I turned left and walked a little faster.

  Dep and I were only a few houses away when the trick-or-treaters ran down the porch steps. Carrying a bulging pillowcase, the tall ghost followed the other trick-or-treaters, glanced my way, and turned the other direction.

  The back of the ghost’s sheet was smudged with something that looked like fudge frosting.

  I retreated behind a hedge next to the front walk of a house decorated with giant spiders. I set Dep down, looped her leash over my arm, and took my phone out of my basket of chocolate bars.

  A car passed on the street I’d left moments earlier. The car was heading toward my house. It was a powerful black car with a kayak on top.

  Instead of dialing 911, I called Brent’s personal number. He didn’t answer.

  I left a message telling him where I was, and that Steve Quail alias Stanley Quentin Meadows had told me he’d murdered Rich. I also told him where Quail was and which direction he was heading. “At the moment, he’s disguised as a ghost in a sheet, smeared in back with fudge frosting.”

  Feeling silly for not having pockets and for resembling a witch who’d stolen Little Red Riding Hood’s basket, I put my phone back among the chocolate bars.