Boston Scream Murder

by Ginger Bolton

  Gartborg asked. “And do you kayak a lot, Ms. Westhill?”

  “Not as much as I’d like to.” I was careful not to look at Brent or give Gartborg a clue that I ever went kayaking with the handsome detective she was directing in this investigation. If he wanted her to know that, he could tell her. “But I’m fit from running around our donut shop.”

  Nina chimed in, “And I’m fit from that and from manhandling huge canvases and tall ladders so I can paint the upper halves of the canvases. But that skillet was still heavy.”

  Brent said, “I didn’t pick it up, but it looked substantial. Emily, where was the platter like the broken one you saw near the body of the deceased?” For once, he didn’t shorten my name to Em.

  “It was on the bottom of the stack in the cabinet above the counter to the right of the sink.”

  Gartborg pulled at the lower corner of the cabinet door with one gloved finger.

  Nina gasped. “The clamshell bowl is gone!”

  We described the bowl to the detectives. Nina told them about Cindy Westhill’s fame as a potter and that the bowl was dated about twenty years before and numbered. She added, “It was worth a lot.”

  Gazing toward Brent, Gartborg’s face hardened as if she thought she might have found a motive for Rich’s murder. She wasn’t going to pin it on Nina or me, though. We’d both been with Tom at Deputy Donut when I believed Rich was murdered, and no one was likely to suspect Tom of lying about that or anything else.

  I stood on tiptoe and peered into the cabinet without touching anything. “The platter like the one that was broken inside the party tent isn’t here, either.” I explained to Nina that it was the one we’d left on the bottom of the stack, the one depicting one sail on the horizon.

  Nina didn’t have to stand on tiptoe. “I agree. That platter was larger than the others, and we’d be able to see its rim if it was still here. It’s gone.”

  Gartborg asked Nina, “Was that platter valuable, also?”

  “No,” Nina answered. “It was mass-produced, like the one that Detective Fyne put into the cruiser outside. Those two platters might have some value as vintage collectibles, but they’re not pieces of art like the clamshell bowl, and they’re probably not unusual enough to have much value.”

  Brent finished what he was writing in his notebook and looked at me. I recognized the bleakness in his eyes. It showed up when he was deeply involved in a serious investigation and disappeared when he was relaxing or having fun. “Can you two show us the wills and the book with the rental notes that you told me about, Emily?”

  Wishing I could make the bleak look go away, I led the others into the cottage’s combined living and dining room.

  The table where Nina had found the wills underneath a jumble of books was bare.

  Nina raised her shoulders and held both of her hands, palms up, in front of her. “The wills are gone, and it looks like the books they were under are now back on the bookshelf. I found the wills when I started straightening the books.”

  Gartborg frowned at her. “Why would you do that?”

  Lowering her hands to her sides, Nina stared toward the wall above the fireplace. Even if she did paint a picture small enough, it would probably never display one of her paintings. “I don’t know. We were here to come up with ideas about redecorating and renovating. Those books were just heaped on that table, and I can think better if things are tidy.”

  Gartborg relaxed the frown wrinkles. “I get that.” She stared toward Brent. “Those two wills could be anywhere.”

  “I’ll check the wastebaskets,” he promised. “But maybe the wills have been removed from the premises.”

  I pointed to the colonial-style desk. “The rental book was in the top drawer.”

  Gartborg opened the drawer and pulled out the maroon notebook. “This?”

  I clasped my hands behind my back to prevent myself from touching anything. “That looks like it.”

  She peered down into the drawer. “Aha. Here are some wills.” She pulled out stapled packets and examined them. “Three wills. Write this down, Brent. One is signed by Richmond P. Royalson the Third, and leaves everything to Terri Estable. Another is signed by Terri Estable and leaves everything to Richmond P. Royalson the Third. Both are witnessed. They’re dated yesterday.”

  “Yesterday?” I repeated. “They weren’t signed or dated last night when Nina and I were here. And there were two copies of each will.”

  Although I hadn’t meant to sound doubtful, Detective Gartborg thrust the signed pages of the two wills almost underneath my nose. They’d been dated yesterday. Rich’s signature was dark and heavy like the writing on the to-do list and in his rental book. Terri’s was feminine with the curlicued top line of the T sweeping above its entire length.

  “What time did you two leave here last night?” Brent asked.

  I looked at Nina for confirmation. “About seven?”

  “Around then. Maybe a little before.”

  Brent concluded, “They could have been signed last night after you two left.”

  “People don’t always get the dates right.” Gartborg’s tone was cold, especially compared to Brent’s. She examined another will. “The third is the one that Emily told you about, Brent, the nineteen-year-old will made out to Richmond P. Royalson Junior and Alma Ruth Royalson.” Still wearing her gloves, she riffled through other papers in the drawer. “I don’t see any other wills.”

  Brent was writing in his notebook, but I spoke more to him than to the DCI detective. “Rich or Terri must have put those wills in the drawer and taken the copies away. They probably straightened the books, and they could have taken the skillet, the platter, and the clamshell bowl away with them when they left. I mean, we don’t know if the attacker got the skillet from here. Maybe Rich took the skillet to the tent for some reason.”

  Gartborg sighed as if she didn’t want to hear civilians theorizing about things that she had already figured out. I realized I’d been doing it almost ever since Nina and I arrived. Brent had always seemed to appreciate my brainstorming.

  He glanced up at me, nodded, and continued writing.

  Gartborg pointed out, “If Rich took the skillet, he didn’t need to break in.”

  I asked politely, “Could Nina and I have had his only key?”

  “No,” Gartborg said. “He had another one in his pocket.” She asked Nina and me, “Can you two see anything else that has changed since yesterday evening?”

  Neither of us could, and we all went upstairs to the slope-ceilinged second floor. We didn’t see any differences up there.

  Downstairs again, all of us went outside.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Nina and I had succeeded in not touching anything except with our feet.

  Detective Gartborg turned to Brent. “You know the area. Can you arrange for someone to board up the broken window?”

  He stared down toward the water. “I called someone before Emily and Nina arrived. They should be here any minute.”

  I followed Brent’s gaze. The dock was bare. I asked, “Does anyone know what happened to the canoe that was on the dock yesterday?”

  Chapter 10

  “What canoe?” Gartborg asked.

  “There was one there last night,” Nina said. “An aluminum one, plain aluminum, not painted.”

  Hiding an appreciative smile at her eye for detail, I peered through the screen into the porch. “A paddle might be missing, too, from that custom-made cabinet next to the kitchen door. I didn’t count them last night, but I don’t remember that empty space.” Two dowels that were meant to support the grip of the paddle were bare.

  “I don’t remember it, either,” Nina said. “I think there were five paddles yesterday, different lengths.”

  Now there were four.

  Brent asked, “Were they arranged that way last night, longest to shortest?”

  Nina and I both said that they were.

  Gartborg suggested, “We could be missing the longest paddl
e. Taller people use longer paddles, right?”

  Brent nodded. I wondered if he was thinking what I was thinking: after one paddle was taken out of the cabinet, the others could have been moved, like if a short person wanted to make it look like the missing paddle was a long one. Terri was short.

  Brent pointed out that whoever took the canoe could have simply grabbed the paddle that was easiest to reach when he or she opened the door. “Royalson was shorter than average, but he might have preferred a longer paddle. Maybe he went canoeing before he died. He must have been over here last night or earlier today. He could have been here with Ms. Estable and the witness, or the wills could have been signed and witnessed somewhere else, but someone put a copy of each will into that desk drawer after you two”—he nodded at Nina and me—“were here. Maybe he came by himself, put the wills away, and canoed back home, with or without the clamshell bowl, the platter, and the skillet.”

  Gartborg folded her arms. “I didn’t see a canoe fitting that description at his home. Did you, Brent?”

  “No. Only a red one under the deck.” Brent turned to me. “You told us you saw Terri Estable put a red canoe there, right, Emily?”

  “Right. You arrived a few minutes later. If her paddle had the name Royalson wood-burned into the shaft, I didn’t see it, but it wasn’t close enough for me to have seen it, anyway.” I asked the detectives, “Did Rich live alone in that big house?”

  Instead of answering, Gartborg questioned me. “Why do you ask?”

  “It seems weird to keep important papers in a rental cottage. I thought maybe he was living with someone, and he wanted to keep the wills a secret from that person. But if he was living with anyone, it seems like it would be Terri Estable.”

  Brent said quickly, “She works in Gooseleg but she lives in a town house in Fallingbrook. Her ex’s town house is in the same complex. If he is her ex.”

  I tried to hide my satisfaction at having discovered Derek’s and Terri’s addresses. “So, Rich did reconnect with Terri recently?”

  “As far as we know,” Brent said.

  Nina crossed her arms and scowled. “He could have canceled the date with Cheryl. When he met her at Deputy Donut, he already knew he’d rediscovered the love of his life. Stringing Cheryl along was rude.”

  I had to smile. “He was sort of comical about that, in a self-centered way. He said he hadn’t wanted to disappoint Cheryl by canceling their date.”

  Nina stared down toward the lake, now the same dusky blue as the sky. “Terri was probably after him for his money. A personality like Rich’s would be hard to live with.”

  I added, “Not to mention his booming voice.”

  Gartborg spoke sharply. “Estable’s not going to have to, now.”

  I thought about the way people tended to repeat their mistakes, especially when it came to choosing partners. Terri might simply wind up with yet another difficult personality. However, from what I’d seen, Rich had been an improvement over Derek, so maybe Terri was heading in the right direction. Or maybe Gartborg expected Terri to spend many years in prison. Was Gartborg suspecting the two most logical villains—Terri Estable and Derek Bengsen?

  Nina flapped a hand toward the dock. “Maybe the unpainted aluminum canoe that Emily and I saw last night fell off the dock and sank. Like, fell off sideways. Or there was a hole in it, and that’s why it was on the dock and not in the water, but then someone pushed it in. Maybe a gust of wind caught it. Last night’s storm was windy at times.”

  Brent turned toward the dock. “Let’s go have a look.”

  Gartborg didn’t move. “Let me know if you find anything interesting, Brent.”

  Brent, Nina, and I made our way down a stony path to the shore. Peering into the water on one side of the dock, we walked to the end. We couldn’t be certain that the murkiest depths weren’t hiding a canoe, but we didn’t see one. And we didn’t see a canoe when we sauntered back toward shore and looked down into the water on the other side of the dock, either.

  Stepping onto the muddy beach, I noticed a partial footprint. I showed it to Brent. Remembering Gartborg’s comment that standing far away and throwing stones at a window and using a skillet as a murder weapon seemed like things a woman might do, I said, “That looks like a man’s shoe print.”

  Brent shined his phone’s flashlight down at the mud. “It could be from a woman wearing oversized boots.”

  I pictured the people on Rich’s lawn earlier that day. “Terri was wearing big boots when she came back from canoeing.”

  Brent gave me one of his warmest smiles. “So she was.”

  Nina reminded us that if Rich had canoed away from his cottage, the shoe print could have been his.

  Brent wrote in his notebook and took pictures with his phone. “Thanks, Em and Nina. You two can go now.” He called up the hill, “Kim, can you come take a look at this?”

  Running up the bank, Nina and I passed Gartborg planting her stiletto heels carefully on probably slippery grass. She offered a just-between-us-girls smile and muttered, “I should have taken time to change into comfy shoes before I came out here.” She raised her voice, “Coming, Brent, slowly and unsurely!”

  We made it to the flagstone pathway and around the corner of the building, out of sight of Brent and Gartborg, before Nina whispered, “I think she likes your detective.”

  “He’s not my—”

  “Gotcha! But if you might ever want him to be yours, you’d better watch her.”

  I pretended a breezy nonchalance. “She’s welcome to him. She’s more his type than I am. Tall, sophisticated, gorgeous—”

  “You’re gorgeous,” Nina said, “for a shrimpy person.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Didn’t you like my New England vibe?”

  I wasn’t sure how to make my voice drip with sarcasm, but I tried. “Is that what it was?”

  “New England. Seafood. Shrimp.”

  I opened the driver’s door of my car. “Ha, ha.”

  We both got into the car. I turned it around and started back toward town.

  Nina was quiet until we bumped past the county park and its cozy little beach. She slapped at the dashboard. “Do you know what I think?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “The mystery man who showed up in Deputy Donut this afternoon and barely said a word had a grudge against Rich. He came to town, killed Rich, and went to the local donut shop to eavesdrop on conversations to figure out if he was a suspect. He could have seen you at Rich’s this morning, even if you didn’t see him. Maybe he was in those woods near Rich’s house. When the mystery man finally recognized you this afternoon, he ran to his car and drove out of town as fast as he could.”

  “I guess I’d better call Brent and describe him. He could have been one of Rich’s banking clients. Maybe Rich did something nasty to him.”

  “The mystery man’s expensive suit didn’t seem like the best outfit for a murderer to wear. He could have gotten it totally messed up. But it was fine for a birthday party, I guess.”

  “Or,” I suggested, “he was wearing a more casual outfit when he killed Rich, but he went home and dressed in his most expensive suit because if people saw him in it, they would automatically think he wasn’t a murderer. He seemed nervous. One of his eyes kept closing and opening, but I don’t think he was winking at me.”

  “Maybe he had something in his eye.”

  “Like a crumb of Boston brown bread.” I told Nina that Rich might have attempted to defend himself with a platter of sliced Boston brown bread.

  She sat back and folded her arms. “It’s too easy to pin the murder on a mystery man. He was probably just an art critic who became more critical when he saw my painting, and he had to get away from it before it made him sick.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “And I doubt that he’s a murderer. It’s much more likely that Terri and her ex-boyfriend Derek planned the entire thing—the drunken buddies and their party, the wills, and all. I think they worked together to kill
Rich so they could have his house, his money, and his cottage.”

  “It’s possible, but Terri didn’t seem happy to see Derek when he showed up at Rich’s birthday party. She yelled at him to go away. Also, you should have seen Terri with Rich’s neighbor, a man about Rich’s age. He and Terri appeared to be close. Maybe Terri and the neighbor worked together to kill Rich.”

  Nina summarized, “So, we’re almost certain that Terri was involved in Rich’s death, but we’re not sure who her partner in crime was, if she had one.”

  We reached the paved section of the road. I accelerated.

  Nina snapped her fingers. “If Rich didn’t move his canoe, Derek or Rich’s neighbor might have done it. Or both, one in the bow and one in the stern, especially if they found another paddle or brought their own. What do you bet that the neighbor has boats and paddles?”

  “I didn’t see any, but he has a dock.” I slowed and steered around the road’s right curve. “And no matter who took that paddle, Terri, maybe with Derek’s help, could now be angling to get the neighbor to will everything he owns to her.” We were passing Rich’s neighbor’s timber frame house. I slowed. “His house isn’t a mansion like Rich’s, but it’s gorgeous. And it is also on a large and presumably valuable lakefront property.”

  “I like the neighbor’s house better. I like the way the natural wood finish blends in with the forest and the lake. Rich’s palace doesn’t fit in.”

  “It probably wasn’t meant to.” It certainly didn’t at the moment, with yellow police tape draped around the property. I drove up the hill and away from Lake Fleekom.

  Ten minutes later, we were a few blocks south of the center of Fallingbrook. I stopped outside Nina’s apartment and studio combination. Nina waved at the balding identical twin brothers staring out through the front windows of Klassy Kitchens. She turned back to me. “Harry and Larry showed me around their store last night. I saw cabinets, sinks, and fixtures that would have been perfect for Rich’s cottage.” She and I exchanged sad glances. She opened her car door. “I’ll have to tell them I’m not in the market for kitchen stuff, after all. Have a good day off tomorrow, Emily.”