Give Me a K-I-L-L

by R. L. Stine

  As they entered North Hills, the houses were larger, the front lawns wider and deeper. Tall hedges along the street hid many houses from view.

  A team of gardeners was raking the dead leaves off a lawn as they turned onto Heather Court. A group of five or six small kids, shouting and laughing, chased after a soccer ball in the yard next door.

  “Do you mind telling me what we’re doing?” Sid asked. “Why exactly are we going to Devra’s house when we know she isn’t there?”

  “I hope no one is there,” Gretchen said. She slowed the car as the soccer ball bounced into the street. The kids waited at the curb for her to pass before running out to retrieve it.

  “It’s two blocks down,” Sid said. “So? What are we doing?”

  “Snooping,” Gretchen answered.

  Sid stared at her, waiting for her to say more.

  “I have an idea,” she continued finally. “About the acid. Devra said she was using acid to remove the paint on the old cabinet she wanted to give her dad. And I think she used that acid to kill Madison. And then she planted it in my garage.”

  “I know that’s your theory,” Sid said impatiently.

  “So what if we sneak into Devra’s house, find the cabinet she was working on—and there’s no acid anywhere around? Wouldn’t that prove that she took the acid and put it in my garage?”

  “Not really,” Sid said. “Maybe she used the acid and removed the paint. And when she was finished with the acid, she threw it away.”

  Gretchen shook her head. “People don’t just throw away acid. It’s too dangerous.”

  Sid thought about it for a while, scrunching up his face in concentration. “They have servants who could get rid of the acid. Your idea is a bit crazy, Gretchen.”

  “It’s not crazy,” Gretchen insisted. She swerved to avoid a large pothole in the street. “Listen to me. When we get there and take a look, there won’t be any acid bottle. Maybe it won’t totally prove the one in my garage was the one Devra used. But it will almost prove it.”

  “What if there is an acid bottle there?” Sid said, frowning. “What will that prove?”

  “That I’m wrong?” Gretchen replied, slowing at an intersection. “Why are you so eager to prove me wrong? It’s like you’re defending Devra.”

  “No way,” Sid insisted. “I think Devra is horrible. Ernie says she is the worst person in the world. She orders everyone around like they’re her servants and complains when they’re not fast enough for her. Ernie said she isn’t even nice to the horses.”

  Gretchen edged the car into the next block. “Which house is it?”

  Sid pointed. “The one with the tall hedge and the lampposts on both sides of the driveway. Park on the street. Don’t pull into the driveway.”

  Gretchen rolled her eyes. “Do you think I’m an idiot? Of course I’m not going to pull into the driveway. We don’t want to be seen—remember?”

  “Okay, okay.” Sid swept a hand tensely through his dark hair. “And your plan is?”

  “First we have to see if Devra or her father are at home.”

  “What about servants?” Sid said, eyes on the tall house rising at the top of the tree-dotted lawn.

  “Maybe they have Saturday off,” Gretchen said. She pulled the car to a stop at the edge of the neighbor’s lawn and cut the engine. “We’ll start in the garage. Maybe she worked on the cabinet in there.”

  “And if it isn’t there?” Sid demanded.

  “We’ll have to sneak into the house,” Gretchen said, reaching for the car door handle.

  Sid didn’t move. “We’re going to sneak into the house and look for what exactly? No acid bottle?”

  Gretchen nodded. “If there’s no acid bottle, Devra is a murderer. Trust me. I’m right.”

  “I … don’t like this,” Sid said, shaking his head.

  She gave him a shove. “Let’s get going. Get out of the car.”

  “Gretchen, what do we say if we get caught?”

  “We’ll think of something.”

  36.

  Gretchen led the way to the driveway. They stopped in the shadow of the tall hedge. Gretchen wrapped her hands around one of the old-fashioned-looking lampposts and leaned forward, peering up the wide, gravel driveway.

  The house stood at the top of a sloping lawn. A line of tall evergreen trees ran along the far edge of the property. Oak trees dotted the lawn, already winter bare. The grass had been raked. A tall mound of dead leaves leaned against one side of the house.

  “The house is dark,” Gretchen whispered. “That’s a good sign.”

  Sid didn’t reply. He had his hands shoved into his jeans pockets. His eyes glanced all around, revealing his nervousness.

  “The garage is attached to the house,” Gretchen reported. She shielded her eyes with one hand. “Wow. A three-car garage. The doors are closed.” She turned to Sid, who lingered at the curb. “Are you with me or not?”

  “I think you’re crazy,” he replied. “But I’m with you.”

  She motioned him forward. “If we keep in the shadow of the trees, it will be hard for anyone to see us.”

  Sid tapped her shoulder. “You don’t think Mr. Dalby has a gun—do you?”

  She pushed his hand away. “Now you’re being stupid. He’s not going to shoot us. If he sees us, he’ll think we’re friends of Devra’s.”

  “Friends of Devra’s snooping around in the garage.”

  Gretchen began trotting up the gravel drive, her shoes crunching loudly. “No sign of life, Sid. There’s no one home. Let’s hurry.”

  He hesitated another few seconds. Then he followed her, his eyes darting from side to side, his clenched fists still buried deep in his jeans pockets.

  A gray squirrel, its jaws bulging with nuts, stood up straight in the center of the lawn and gazed at them as they jogged past. Its tail was raised behind it, and its eyes followed them warily as they made their way to the side of the garage.

  Even though it was a short distance, Gretchen found herself breathing hard as she pressed herself against the brick wall at the side. She turned and did a quick survey of the windows of the house. No lights. No movement.

  Feeling a little more confident, she slid around to the front of the garage and peered into the window of the first of the three doors. “Only one car in there,” she reported to Sid. “At the other end. A convertible. I think it’s a Jaguar.”

  “Sweet,” Sid murmured.

  Gretchen moved to the window on the middle door and pressed her face against the glass. She cupped her hands around the sides of her head to cut the glare of the sunlight behind them.

  “Do you see a cabinet?” Sid stayed by the side wall. His eyes kept darting to the house.

  “No. No cabinet,” Gretchen reported. “Lots of shelves with gardening tools and supplies and other stuff. All very organized and neat.”

  “They probably have a garage servant who dusts the garage every day,” Sid joked.

  “Not funny.” She turned to him. “Devra didn’t work on the cabinet in here. We’re going to have to get into the house.”

  Sid nodded. His expression went blank.

  “They probably have a basement workshop,” Gretchen said. “I’ll bet that’s where Devra worked on the cabinet.” Keeping against the wall, she edged toward the entryway down a short passage from the garage.

  Sid shook his head. “Maybe someday I’ll write a book about two people who broke into a house to see if there was no acid bottle there.”

  “I didn’t know you like to write,” Gretchen said.

  “I don’t,” Sid replied. “But I’ll have to do something while I’m in prison for breaking and entering.”

  “Sssshh.” Gretchen stepped down the five or six concrete steps that led to the door. She peered into the window. “Hey, this door leads right into the basement. We don’t even have to go upstairs.”

  “Awesome,” Sid whispered, brightening. “If we’re real quiet…”

  Gretchen tried the do
or knob. She turned it and pulled, and the door slid open. “Not locked. Come on. We got a break.”

  Sid took one last look around the backyard and side of the house. Then he slipped through the doorway after Gretchen.

  “I don’t hear any burglar alarm,” Gretchen whispered. “Maybe we’re okay.”

  They found themselves in a small, carpeted room. Gretchen saw a long counter obviously used as a desk, a laptop and printer, a small armchair, and a low vinyl couch. A tall bookshelf filled one wall. A framed photo of the Eiffel Tower in Paris was hung over the desk beside a wall calendar.

  “It’s like a little office,” Gretchen said. She motioned for Sid to follow her as she stepped through a narrow, open doorway.

  Gym equipment filled the next room. Gretchen saw a StairMaster machine, a stationary bike, an elliptical machine, a treadmill, several weights stacked on a shelf against the wall. A flatscreen TV was suspended on the wall facing the exercise machines.

  “Wow. They’ve got everything,” Sid whispered. “And it’s just Devra and her dad?”

  Gretchen didn’t answer. She had her eyes on the low ceiling. She listened for footsteps or any other sounds above them, signs that someone was home.

  Silence.

  They both crept through the doorway on the far end of the gym. Orange sunlight through windows up at ground level revealed that this was the part that looked like a basement. No carpeting here. A massive furnace took up nearly half the room. Pipes and cables and rolls of insulation material, wooden crates, old furniture covered in bedsheets.

  “I knew it. A workshop,” Gretchen said, pointing. A long workbench stood against one wall with wooden shelves above it, a huge metal vice attached to one end. As she moved toward it, she saw a large power saw resting on a separate table. Small chunks of wood sat in a puddle of sawdust, littering the floor.

  “There it is,” Sid whispered, grabbing her shoulder. “You were right. That has to be the cabinet.”

  Gretchen followed his gaze. There it was, a small wooden cabinet with six drawers across the front. It was about the size of a bed table. Each drawer had a brass knob in its center, newly polished. The top was framed by a carved wooden design that looked a little like ocean waves.

  “She removed all the paint,” Gretchen said. “Look. She’s already started to stain the cabinet with some kind of dark stain.” Her eyes went to the shelves above the workbench. “So where’s the acid she used to remove the paint?”

  Sid stepped up to the workbench. He gazed at the shelves filled with tools and supplies. A large can of wood stain stood at the edge of the workbench, a paintbrush beside it.

  “I don’t see it,” Gretchen said, turning and searching for another table that might hold the supplies Devra used. “Nope. No acid bottle. I think I was right, Sid. I think the acid she used is in my garage.”

  “You’re wrong,” Sid said. He reached onto the highest shelf and pulled something down. He turned and showed it to her.

  Gretchen gasped. An orange bottle, a little larger than the one in her garage. She squinted hard at it. “Is it—?”

  “It’s an acid bottle,” Sid said. “And it’s almost empty. You were wrong, Gretchen. This is what Devra used. The acid in your garage—”

  “Let me see it.” She grabbed the bottle from his hand. She turned it so she could read the label. She raised it closer to her face and read the label out loud. “Muriatic Acid.”

  She and Sid stared at each other.

  “What’s Muriatic acid?” Gretchen whispered.

  Sid shrugged.

  Gretchen fumbled in her pocket and pulled out her phone. Her fingers trembled as she brought up the Google app and typed in Muriatic Acid.

  “It’s an acid used to remove paint,” she read it to Sid. “It’s usually used to remove paint from cars. But it also works on furniture.”

  Her shoulders slumped. She suddenly felt as if she was deflating, like a balloon emptying out. “Oh, wow.”

  Sid placed the bottle of acid back on the shelf. “Have we proved anything here?”

  Gretchen shook her head. “I don’t think so. I … I don’t know what to think, Sid. Now I’m totally confused. The acid in my garage … sulfuric acid.… That’s the acid that killed Madison. And … and…”

  They both heard the car door slam. They froze and listened. The hum of a garage door lowering itself. And then … the thud and bump of the basement door being pushed open.

  Soft footsteps.

  Gretchen gasped. “We’re caught.”

  37.

  While Gretchen and Sid were sneaking into the Dalby basement, Devra Dalby was across town, at Shadyside General Hospital. She came to visit her cheerleader friend Stacy. She had come straight from the stables and made quite an image and she walked in wearing her expensive riding outfit.

  She arrived to the wail of ambulance sirens and the tense shouts of orderlies in pale green scrubs, who were rushing to the parking lot. The flashing blue-and-red lights reflected in her windshield as she maneuvered her Acura around the cluster of ambulances.

  Devra slowed to let a wheeled stretcher go past. She slid down the window. “What happened?”

  “Collision on Division Street,” a young nurse answered, running beside the stretcher. “Three cars.”

  The entrance to the main parking lot was blocked, so Devra made her way to the lot in back of the big redbrick building. Why do they have to block the entire lot? Why can’t they park the ambulances by the emergency room door?

  Devra always felt tense, jumpy, after a horseback riding session. The adrenaline rush stayed with her a long time. Horses, she felt, were smelly and stupid. But the rush of taking them from a trot to a full gallop was outstanding.

  Mopping perspiration from her forehead with a tissue, she climbed out of the car. I probably smell like a horse, but Stacy won’t care. I’m sure she’s bored to tears in there, desperate for visitors.

  The sirens had cut off, but the red-and-blue lights continued to flash. A hush fell over the parking lot as the hospital crew hurried to unload the injured from the ambulances.

  Devra turned her head away as she walked. She didn’t want to see any injured people. She took a certain pride in avoiding ugly things. Sure, she was squeamish, but wasn’t that a good quality? Didn’t that mean she was especially sensitive?

  She stepped into the crowded reception area of the hospital and fumbled in her bag for her sunglasses. Why did the lighting in hospitals have to be so harsh? Wouldn’t it be more comforting to patients to have the lights dim?

  The woman in the reception booth was on the phone. Devra snickered. The woman was so fat, she nearly filled the whole booth. She ignored Devra, kept her eyes down as she talked.

  Devra tapped her fingernails impatiently on the desktop. “Excuse me. I think you’re supposed to help people.”

  The woman lowered her phone and glared at Devra. “I am helping someone.”

  Devra ignored her reply. “I need the room number of Stacy Grande. If it isn’t too much trouble.”

  Muttering under her breath, the woman found the room number for Devra.

  After an endless wait for an elevator, Devra found herself at the doorway to Stacy’s room. She peeked in and saw that Courtney was already there, seated on a folding chair beside Stacy’s bed.

  Courtney jumped to her feet. “Devra! You’re here!” She motioned with both hands. “Come see how great Stacy looks.”

  Devra stepped into the room and turned to Stacy in her bed. She didn’t look great. She looked pale and thin, her hair a tangled mess, and tubes in both arms, heavy bandages over both arms and her hands.

  “Hey,” Devra said weakly, feeling her stomach lurch. “Stacy … How’s it going?”

  “Not so bad,” Stacy said.

  She’s always so bright and perky. Even in a hospital bed covered in bandages.

  “I’d hug you,” Devra said, “But I don’t think I can.”

  Stacy sighed. “The only hugs I get are when the
nurses come to lift me out of bed.”

  “It’s a cheerleader reunion,” Courtney said, grinning at Devra. “We could have a spirit rally right here.”

  “Go, Tigers,” Stacy said. Her voice was muffled. She didn’t appear to Devra to have much strength.

  “Someone should bring you some blusher or something,” Devra blurted out.

  Stacy blinked. “Am I that pale?”

  Courtney laughed. “Devra, you’re always so tactful.” She pulled a folding chair to the other side of Stacy’s bed and motioned for Devra to sit down.

  “I can’t stay long,” Devra said. “I just came from the stable, and I’m a smelly mess.” She dropped into the chair and gently wrapped a hand around Stacy’s bandaged wrist. “So? What’s the report?”

  “I’ve got full movement in my hands,” Stacy answered. “That’s the good news. And the bad news? My chest is taking a long time to heal. The burn wounds are still pretty bad.”

  “Before you came we were just talking about how she’s lucky in one way,” Courtney said.

  Devra squinted at Stacy. “Lucky?”

  “Yes. The flames didn’t reach my face. My face isn’t burned or scarred at all.”

  Devra nodded. “You’re right. That part is lucky.” She leaned closer to Stacy. “I just feel so bad. Guilty.”

  Stacy blinked. “Guilty?”

  “Well … I was supposed to take that fire baton,” Devra said. “If I didn’t suddenly have that stomach cramp, it would have been me. Not you.”

  “Well you can’t feel guilty about that,” Courtney chimed in. “You had no way of knowing.”

  Devra suddenly felt eager to change the subject. She had said what she came to say. Now she’d really like to get out of there. The hospital smell was making her nauseous. And she really didn’t want to think about what Stacy’s arms and chest looked like under all those bandages.

  “Are your parents around?” she asked.

  Stacy shook her head. “No. They were here this morning. But now they’re at a lawyer’s.”

  “Lawyers?”

  “They’re going to sue the school,” Stacy said. “The lawyer thinks we can collect damages. If we sue them for negligence, I guess.”