Boston Scream Murder

by Ginger Bolton

  He rose to his feet and gazed toward the rear of the building. “Creative. I like all the windows and your use of foodie colors—coffee and chocolate browns, peaches, apricots, tangerines, butter, and whipped cream.”

  This time my smile was genuine. “We did that on purpose, but you’re the first person to comment on it, complete with foodie words. The colors go with the cat, too.” Dep was a torbie, a very special tortoiseshell tabby with rings on her sides that resembled donuts. She was watching us from the back of the café-au-lait couch. She wasn’t puffed up, but she was alert, as if she hadn’t yet decided whether the latest Deputy Donut customer was a friend or a foe. She could be persnickety about which customers I should or should not serve.

  The Boston Screamer gave me an approving nod. “And there’s an emergency exit from your office. Where does that go?”

  Wondering if he had a particular reason for checking on the location of emergency exits, I answered, “To the parking lot. And there’s another back door, too, from our storeroom. You have to go through the kitchen.”

  The Boston Screamer sat down again. “Good. I admire people who plan well. Did you and Chief Westhill design that office?”

  “We designed the entire shop. Tom’s wife, who teaches art at Fallingbrook High, helped us paint the tabletops.”

  “What about the kitchen? Commercial kitchens can be tricky. Didn’t you hire a professional designer?”

  “We designed it ourselves.”

  Smoothing the Deputy Donut logo on his paper napkin, he asked, not shouting but not whispering, either, “How would you like to earn extra money on the side?”

  I didn’t know where this was heading, but I was glad that the retired men were witnessing the conversation and that I still wore my wedding ring. “We cater, too,” I said quickly. “Donuts and beverages, and we can stack donuts into shapes for cake-like desserts or provide a donut wall.”

  “Hmm. I have a party coming up.”

  Uh-oh. I was planning a party for friends on Saturday, which was Halloween, after the trick-or-treating. I hoped his party wasn’t that night. I attempted an encouraging smile.

  The Boston Screamer didn’t need encouragement. “It’s tomorrow, my seventieth birthday. It’s being catered, but I’d like you to provide three dozen donuts and an urn of this superb coffee, by the time the party starts tomorrow at noon. The donuts shouldn’t be stacked into shapes or anything silly like that. I want double thickness on the chocolate frosting, and no holes in the frosting. Not Boston scream but Boston cream. When your birthday’s only four days before Halloween, you don’t want Halloween decorations upstaging you. But the important part is not my birthday. It’s Boston.”

  “Then maybe you’d like tea.”

  He pointed a finger at me. “You’re quick. I like that. Think you can be quick enough to make three dozen donuts and deliver them out at Lake Fleekom at eleven fifty-five tomorrow morning? Do you know where Lake Fleekom is?”

  “Yes.”

  He explained, anyway. “It’s only ten minutes away.”

  I glanced toward the kitchen again. All three of us were scheduled to work the next day. “We can do that,” I said.

  “Here’s what I also have in mind, in addition to my Boston tea party.” His lips twitched in a fleeting grin. “I have a cottage that I occasionally let renters use. The interior’s outdated, and last week’s tenants damaged it. I need to patch the walls and repaint, and I’d like to renovate the kitchen so that the ladies would love to cook in it. I’m not much for cooking. My late wife did all that, and here it is twenty years later, and I’m still not into cooking. Thank goodness for you folks and your restaurants and takeout.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I’ll get contractors in to do the work, but I’d like you to give me some ideas about the latest trends in colors and kitchen design. I do have a few ideas, so you wouldn’t be starting from scratch. For renters to feel at home, I should remove the pictures of my late wife. Also, I’d like to give the whole place an updated New England vibe, make people feel like they’re at a seaside cottage. Meet me there this evening, if you can. Bring Chief Westhill along if it makes you feel safer.”

  “This evening’s fine.” I did not want to go alone to a strange man’s cottage, but Tom worked long hours and enjoyed spending at least some time at home with Cindy. I asked, “How about if our assistant, Nina Lapeer, comes along instead of Tom? She’s an artist.”

  “The young lady who served me when I first came in? Did she help you paint these donut tables? They’re very well executed.”

  “Thank you. We did that before we met her.”

  “That’s okay, anyway. Bring Nina along. An artist, you say?” He didn’t seem to require an answer. “I’ve heard from my banking clients how that goes. It doesn’t pay, and she has to do jobs like waitressing to buy supplies and make ends meet. But I can tell by the way she uses makeup to show off those cheekbones and the planes of her face that she has artistic talent. After all my years as an executive, I can spot the ones who might expend enough effort to succeed.”

  I pointed to the largest painting in the room, a jumble of sailboats, rowboats, and canoes in an impressionistic style, seen from above, all in moody tones of indigo and blue. “She painted that one.”

  Sipping coffee, he gazed at it. “Is she represented by a gallery?”

  “The Craft Croft.”

  “I know the place.” He pointed south. “It’s a few blocks that way, down Wisconsin Street. Tell Nina she needs to aim higher than artisans’ co-ops. She should try for galleries in larger cities.”

  Pleased at his compliments for Nina, I ignored the slight to The Craft Croft and to Fallingbrook, which was big compared to nearby towns and villages. “I think that’s what she hopes to do. She’s good, isn’t she?”

  “Very. And I know a little bit about art. She shouldn’t be wasting her time here.”

  Fortunately, I didn’t need to find a diplomatic answer to that. The Knitpickers were outside the front door, surrounding a woman as if persuading her to come inside.

  At first, I didn’t recognize Cheryl. Last I knew, her curls had been white. Now they were shades of sun-kissed sand. One of Cheryl’s friends opened the door. “Cheryl’s coming in,” I told the Boston Screamer. “I’ll introduce her to you.”

  He stood up. “I’ll move to another table. Excuse me, gentlemen. I enjoyed our talk.”

  That was no wonder.

  Taking his mug and plate, he moved farther back to a table for two. I went to the front door and welcomed the Knitpickers.

  Although never having had children, let alone grandchildren, Cheryl reminded me of a grandmother. She had a way of beaming when she smiled, even though her biggest smiles often caused her round, rosy cheeks to nearly hide her eyes. Today, not only had she dyed her curls light brown with blond highlights, she was wearing a new outfit—gray slacks, a floral blouse, and a purple cardigan that matched the flowers on the blouse and the frames of her glasses, which I’d also never seen before.

  She seemed to be trying to appear brave. However, looking into her blue eyes, I was certain that she was nervous. The entire effect—hair color, new outfit, apprehensive expression—made her look younger than usual.

  I extended a hand toward her. “Cheryl, come with me. There’s someone here who wants to meet you.”

  Cheryl’s friends settled themselves at their usual table near the retired men. The Knitpickers weren’t paying a lot of attention to the retired men or to the knitting they were pulling out of bags and baskets. They were watching Cheryl.

  I led her to the table where the Boston Screamer was standing behind the chair across from his. He pulled out the chair.

  “This is Cheryl,” I told him. Not knowing his name, and not about to introduce him as the Boston Screamer, I let him introduce himself.

  “I’m Richmond P. Royalson the Third,” he informed her. “Call me Rich.” Emphasizing the shortened form of his first name, he flashed an
expensive-looking gold wristwatch. “Have a seat, Cheryl. I’ve ordered for you.”

  Chapter 3

  I gave Cheryl a reassuring smile. “I’ll get your coffee and donut.”

  In the kitchen, Tom and Nina were watching old-fashioned unraised donuts dancing among golden bubbles. Although Rich was conventionally handsome, I preferred Tom’s sturdy good looks. I said just loudly enough for him and Nina to hear, “The Boston Screamer’s name is Richmond P. Royalson the Third, call me Rich. Does that ring a bell?”

  Nina shook her head.

  Tom lifted the basket of donuts out of the oil and spoke quietly. “About twenty years ago, his wife drowned in Lake Fleekom.”

  Nina and I moved closer to Tom.

  He hung the basket on the side of the fryer to drain. “I was a patrol cop and not involved with the investigation, but I remember it.” He lowered another basket into the oil. “That fall was colder than this one, and the lake was slushy. She overturned her canoe. There were no witnesses. She was supposedly a good swimmer, but she was wearing heavy clothing and boots. Between hypothermia and waterlogged clothing, she didn’t make it to shore. The last I knew, Royalson was the manager of the Fallingbrook Mercantile Bank. I never met the man.”

  Nina tilted her head. “I would have thought that bank managers and police chiefs would, I don’t know, hang out together or join the same men’s clubs.”

  “Not this police chief,” Tom stated emphatically. “I prefer being home with my wife and my woodworking toys. I mean tools.”

  Near the front of the dining area, Cheryl smiled stonily at the widower waving his arms and shouting words like “Boston,” “New England,” and “lobster.” I told Tom and Nina, “He wants a Boston cream donut for Cheryl, not a Boston scream donut, and he wants us to double the fudge frosting. He ordered today’s special coffee for her.”

  Nina turned toward the coffee makers. “I’ll get the coffee.”

  I sliced a round raised donut without a hole in it and slathered a double load of frosting on the top half. It was impossible to eat these extravagant treats neatly, and the cream filling I dolloped on the lower half wasn’t going to help. I carefully balanced the top of the donut on the cream filling. Nina took the coffee and donut to Cheryl while I spread extra fudge frosting on the top halves of donuts. They did look and smell even better than the ones with less frosting.

  Nina returned from Cheryl and Rich’s table. She carved screaming faces into the thicker fudge frosting. She and Tom agreed that we could easily make the extra donuts for Rich’s party the next morning in time for me to deliver them at eleven fifty-five.

  Tom told us, “You two will be careful visiting Royalson at his cottage this evening, won’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

  Holding her wooden spoon by its bowl, Nina pointed the frosting-covered handle at him. “I’ll be perfectly safe with Emily. She has all that extra training from her days as a 911 operator.”

  “That was a few years ago,” I pointed out. “And our training wasn’t exactly about defending ourselves from people who were obsessed with crab cakes and lobster bisque.”

  “But you’ve kept up with first aid,” Nina reminded me.

  “I hope we won’t need first aid!”

  Nina turned back to Tom. “And I loved martial arts when I was a kid. Emily and I will look after each other.”

  Tom backed playfully away from the fudge-covered spoon handle. “Good. Take that death-by-chocolate spoon with you, and I won’t have to tag along.”

  I asked Tom, “Do you think Rich might have had something to do with his wife’s death?”

  “It was ruled an accidental drowning. Don’t go asking him if he had anything to do with it.”

  “Would I do such a thing?”

  Tom pierced me with those dark eyes. “No!” he answered so firmly that I had to laugh. “Certainly not.”

  I glanced over at Rich. He was sitting with his back to me, but I heard the word “Boston” again. Facing him, Cheryl dabbed frosting off one corner of her mouth and winked at me.

  When Rich and Cheryl left Deputy Donut, Rich was the perfect gentleman, holding the door for her. Before it closed, I heard again, “In Boston . . .”

  The retired men and the other Knitpickers departed around noon as usual. We fed assorted fried goodies like deep-fried dill pickles and arancini, delicious Italian rice and cheese balls, to a lunch crowd that included police officers and firefighters.

  Although the Knitpickers met in Deputy Donut weekday mornings and seldom showed up other times, Cheryl returned by herself later in the afternoon. She sat at a table for two, facing the door as if watching for someone. Did she already have a second date with Rich?

  I asked what she’d like.

  “Just a coffee. That donut I had this morning was filling.”

  “Too much fudge frosting?”

  Those blue eyes twinkled. “Can there be?”

  “Rich requested the extra frosting. Also, he asked me for suggestions for redecorating his cottage and renovating its kitchen. Nina and I will meet him there after work this evening. Would you like to come along?”

  “No, thanks. I heard enough about Boston this morning to last the rest of my life. He’s not bad, but I don’t have to have everything mansplained.” She lifted an index finger to her lips. “Sh. I arranged to meet a different man here this afternoon. I didn’t expect so many choices from one dating site.” She stared toward the door for a second. “Wow,” she whispered. “This one looks as good as the picture he posted on the site.”

  The man coming into Deputy Donut was tall and broad shouldered. His new-looking khakis and brown-striped shirt fit him well. At first, I was afraid that he might be a lot younger than Cheryl, but as he approached, I realized that his brown hair was graying at the temples. He had the amiable sort of face that made me feel like I already knew him. His most striking features were his hazel eyes and the smile wrinkles that deepened when he shook Cheryl’s hand. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I’m Steve.” He ordered a coffee and looked at the card on the table listing the day’s special donuts. “What’s a jack-o’-lantern donut?”

  I explained, “It’s an unraised pumpkin donut with orange frosting and candy corn eyes.”

  Cheryl asked, “What about the mouth?”

  “That’s the hole in the donut.” Between the open mouths and the way Nina had been placing the eyes, the expressions on our jack-o’-lantern donuts ran the gamut from comical to benign to scary. Well, almost scary.

  “I’ll try one,” Steve said.

  Rich Royalson walked in.

  A pixie-like woman clung to his arm. Although the younger woman’s short hair, turned-up nose, and complexion with its sprinkling of freckles were girlish and cute and her sleeveless wool dress showed off arms that were firm and muscular as if she worked out, she appeared to be about fifty. Rich had told me that he was turning seventy the next day. He was old enough to be the woman’s father.

  The way she was clinging to him was not daughterly.

  Reminding myself that gaping at customers wasn’t polite, I closed my mouth.

  Rich glanced toward Cheryl, turned red, gave her a curt nod, and hustled the woman to a table on the other side of the dining room.

  Cheryl lowered her head. For a second, I thought she was embarrassed or maybe even hurt, but when she looked up at me, I realized that her shoulders were shaking with laughter, not sobs. She gave me another wink. I was glad she’d already told me she wasn’t interested in Rich. Still, I hoped that the new guy wouldn’t hurt her. Steve seemed younger than Cheryl. Would he drop her as quickly as Rich apparently had?

  In the kitchen, I chose a cheerful jack-o’-lantern donut for Steve and poured his coffee. When I set them in front of him, he was asking Cheryl what he should see in Fallingbrook.

  Rich ordered Boston cream donuts and coffee for himself and his date. I plated a couple of fudge-frosted and pastry cream–filled donuts before Nina could carve screaming faces into them
. Rich and his date sat with their arms stretched across the table toward each other and their fingertips touching. It’s like Valentine’s Day in here, I thought, instead of almost Halloween. . . .

  I gave them their plates and returned to the kitchen for mugs and a pot of coffee.

  The front door opened with a bang.

  A blond man in dirty-looking jeans and a torn, sleeveless hoodie over a T-shirt strode to the table where Rich was making eyes at his date. “How dare you!” the blond man shouted. He appeared to be a little younger than the pixie-like woman, perhaps in his midforties. Biceps bulged beneath his shirt sleeves.

  Rich and his date thrust their chairs backward and stood up. Her chin up and her eyes blazing, the woman demanded, “What are you doing here, Derek?”

  The man she’d called Derek snarled out one side of his mouth, “I’m just here to warn your new boyfriend.” He turned toward Rich and raised his voice. “She’s only after your money.”

  I set the mugs on the nearest table and carried the heavy pot of hot coffee closer to Derek. Despite the whimsical hat on my head, I attempted to look formidable. “Please, sir.” No one seemed to hear me.

  Rich boomed, “I’ve known Terri for a long time. She’s the love of my life. I’m thrilled that we managed to reconnect.”

  Derek yelled, “She tricked me! She got me to rent your cottage for all of last week, encouraged me to have a party there, and called you and reported me so’s you’d come and toss me out and she could seduce you and pretend to be the victim of a party that she threw. You owe me for the two nights I paid for that cottage and didn’t get to use.” He peppered his speech with swear words. His blue eyes bulged. His hands balled into fists at his sides.

  Rich’s face became a deeper red than it had been when he walked in and noticed Cheryl. “And you owe me for the damage you and your drunken friends did to my cottage. The rental contract clearly stated that there were to be no parties. None. And no more than four people. You were letting a fifth person sleep on the couch. You don’t get a refund, and you don’t get your damage deposit back, either.”