Boston Scream Murder

by Ginger Bolton

  “There,” I told Dep. “And in case you were planning some mischief, that spider and its web in the front window are not toys.”

  She jumped down from the windowsill. “Meow.”

  “Promise you’ll leave them alone?”

  Her lack of response did not bode well for the spider and its web.

  I cautioned her, “You’d get all tangled up.”

  Tail up, she dashed to the back of the house.

  In the kitchen, I sat at the island and ate a spinach, dried cranberry, and walnut salad and a bowl of homemade tomato soup with parmesan croutons. Dep watched me through half-closed eyes as if she thought that the foods humans ate were so strange that she couldn’t force herself to take a good look. When I bit into a crunchy and juicy apple, she left the kitchen and went to the sunroom, which was separated from the kitchen by a half-height wall sort of like the one between the kitchen and the dining area in Deputy Donut. Dep perched on one of the room’s wide windowsills. Watching a squirrel race up and down the trunk of the oak tree, she made strange little utterances and swished her tail back and forth.

  I put my lunch dishes into the dishwasher. Yesterday when he first arrived at Lake Fleekom, Brent had mentioned that he’d rather be kayaking. He couldn’t go kayaking today, either.

  I could.

  Unlike streams and rivers, Lake Fleekom would have no dangerous currents or rapids. Even the strongest winds wouldn’t churn up much in the way of waves on such a small lake. Exploring Lake Fleekom by myself would be safe.

  Right—it was also close to where a murderer had been the day before. He or she might still be hanging around in the woods.

  But I’d be out on the lake. I wouldn’t stay long, and I had no plans to interfere with the investigation. Besides, maybe the lake would be misty again, and I’d be out there marveling at being inside those clouds on the water. How many more opportunities would I have to do that before winter?

  Although the day was warm, I changed into wool socks and pants, a turtleneck, and a warm wool sweater. I put on sneakers, a weather-resistant jacket, and a sunhat. I rubbed sunscreen onto my face and the backs of my hands.

  Feeling almost carefree, I ran downstairs. Dep was perched on the wing chair in the living room. She stared at me with her pupils at their widest. “I’m going kayaking without him,” I admitted.

  Dep licked a paw. Vigorously.

  Chapter 12

  Driving toward Lake Fleekom, I daydreamed that Brent had driven his own car, with his kayak on top, to Rich’s house or cottage, and we would end up exploring Lake Fleekom together in the mist.

  I crested the hill above Rich’s mansion. Disappointment was like a punch in the ribs.

  There was no mist.

  And Brent’s car was not in Rich’s driveway. A couple of unmarked cruisers like the ones that he and visiting DCI agents often drove were among the investigators’ vehicles in both the circular and the straight sections of Rich’s driveway.

  I would be safe out on the lake. With so many investigators nearby, Rich’s murderer, even if he’d stolen Rich’s aluminum canoe from his dock, was probably not prowling around looking for more victims.

  Rich’s party tent was still near the beach and inside the perimeter of crime scene tape. The blue lake sparkled in the sunshine. I didn’t see any boats on it.

  I followed the road as it turned to the right. With a noisy leaf blower, Rich’s neighbor was corralling leaves in his own driveway. He didn’t look up. I kept going, around the left curve, through the woods, past the end of the pavement, and onto the uneven gravel. I pulled into the parking lot at Lake Fleekom County Park.

  One of the advantages of carrying a kayak on a sports car was the car’s low roof. I didn’t have to move the kayak far either up or down. I unfastened it and set in on the ground.

  I put on my life jacket and made it snug enough to keep my head above water if I fell in. Brent had bought us each waterproof cases for our phones. The cases would stay afloat if they tumbled out of our kayaks. So far, that hadn’t happened, and I hadn’t fallen into water that was more than ankle deep. I inserted my phone into the case, latched it, and zipped the case inside one of the life jacket’s mesh pockets. Finally, I carried my kayak and paddle to the edge of the water and set the kayak down parallel to the beach, far enough out in the water that it would float even with me in it, but not too far out to step into it from the shore.

  Once that summer I had put one foot into the kayak and accidentally started the kayak on its journey while my other foot was still on the shore. I’d ended up sitting in six inches of water. Remembering how the work-related tension in Brent’s shoulders relaxed and how hard we both laughed after he was sure I was all right, I couldn’t help smiling.

  Since then, I’d more or less gotten the hang of getting into my kayak without entertaining onlookers. I rested my paddle across the coaming at the front of the cockpit, used both hands to grip the paddle and the sides of the coaming, put most of my weight on my hands, and carefully stepped in. The second foot didn’t get very wet. With no one watching or anticipating hapless comedy, I was fairly graceful as gravity plunked me down onto the seat. I pushed away from the sandy beach.

  Launching my kayak was always both freeing and exhilarating, almost like I imagined flying would be. I felt nearly weightless.

  I tightened the straps to the footrests and braced my feet. Dipping first one end of the paddle and then the other into the lake in a comfortable rhythm of left, right, left, right, I slipped through the water almost silently. Steering had become automatic. I decided that exploring the entire shoreline, even slowly, couldn’t take more than an hour or two, depending on how much I stopped to admire my surroundings.

  I turned right, toward the end of the lake where the cottages were. Small birds twittered in almost leafless shrubs. Even though there was no magical mist hovering over the water, I felt sorry for Brent. The sun was warm, the sky was cloudless, and he was missing what might be the last kayak excursion until spring.

  Between trees, I caught glimpses of a log cabin near the water. It appeared to be shuttered tight for the coming winter. Farther ahead, I recognized Rich’s dock. Picturing Brent and Detective Gartborg reexamining footprints on the muddy beach, and not certain I wanted them to see me close to Rich’s cottage and conclude that I was snooping, I angled away from shore. Not that Brent, if he saw a wide-brimmed straw hat and an orange life jacket in a red kayak, would fail to recognize me.

  Although I was not, of course, snooping, I didn’t see anyone around Rich’s cottage. I passed it and eased closer to land. Cottages were on large properties with boulder-strewn woods between them. Some of the cottages must have been behind trees. I could only guess they were there because of pathways leading up into the woods from the water or docks jutting into the lake.

  I counted eight docks or canoe launches on that side of the lake, and then the road that serviced the cottages must have ended. Across from the county park and its public beach, a long stretch of undeveloped shoreline undulated in and out between coves, leaning trees, and rocks. The forest on this shore seemed tangled and wild.

  I came to an inlet where a stream emptied into the lake. The stream was deep enough that my kayak was not going to beach itself, and the current was sluggish. I started up the stream. It widened into a small pond. I went through the pond and up the stream until it narrowed and became too twisty to navigate. Ahead, I heard water tumbling over rocks and caught a glimpse of a miniature waterfall. I backed downstream, turned around in the pond, and drifted to a stop. A pair of mallards ducked their heads underneath the water. The kayak rocked gently.

  I was close to Rich’s house, but except for the smell of wood smoke and the sound of Rich’s neighbor’s leaf blower, I could have been the only person on earth. A turtle slid off a log and swam out of sight. The ducks took off, gaining altitude over Lake Fleekom.

  This hidden little pond was the perfect place for someone to lurk in a boat on a morning when
mist covered the lake, on a morning when the boater had just swung a cast-iron skillet at a man celebrating his seventieth birthday. It was a perfect place for an attacker to plan the next move.

  Becoming chilled and needing to exercise, I paddled down the stream and into the lake. The leaf blower became louder. The door of a vehicle clunked. I paddled around junipers leaning over the water at the end of a stony point. I could again see Rich’s house, the party tent, and beyond that, his neighbor blowing leaves off his dock into the lake.

  I didn’t mind if Brent saw me, even if he thought I was snooping. He would know I wouldn’t interfere, at least not on purpose. However, I did not want Gartborg to think I was chasing Brent. I cut across the lake as far as I could from the two large homes. The neighbor looked up and waved. Did he recognize me, or did he wave at all boaters? I returned the greeting.

  From what I’d seen while driving past his house, the front was wood with normal-sized windows. Except for their sturdy timber framing, the walls facing the lake were glass. Smoke drifted from a chimney.

  I poked along the shore that was closest to the unpaved section of the road. What creatures had made the round holes in the dirt of the steeper banks? I watched, hoping a mink or an otter would peek out.

  I toured every cove. One was slightly larger than the others, with a muddy beach that sloped down to the water. Grooves in the mud showed where a canoe or rowboat, something with a keel, had been dragged across the little beach since Monday night’s rain. Brent’s and my kayaks didn’t have noticeable keels.

  The cove wasn’t a perfect place to pull a boat onto shore, but many people must have done it. Avoiding scraping against rocks sticking up out of the mud must have been impossible. There were red, green, and blue smudges on the rocks, plus silvery streaks that could have been scratched-off aluminum.

  Dawdling, enjoying the warmth of the sun, the scenery, and the lightness of floating, I paddled back to the public beach. My car was still the only vehicle in the lot, which wasn’t surprising on a Wednesday afternoon in late October.

  I managed to disembark without completely resoaking my damp foot, and I didn’t fall into the wavelets lapping the shore, either. I lifted my kayak onto my car, fastened it, and stowed my hat, life jacket, paddle, and my phone’s waterproof case in the trunk.

  Rather than head straight home, I drove slowly up the dirt road toward Rich’s cottage. Yellow crime scene tape surrounded it, but no vehicles were parked outside. I passed it and about ten cottages and cabins with names like Dewdrop Inn and Dunrovin. The road ended.

  I got out but could find no pathway that might lead around that side of the lake to the burbling stream, the duck pond, and eventually to Rich’s house and the road back to Fallingbrook. Dense underbrush would make cutting through, even on foot, slow and difficult.

  Lulled by my lazy tour of Lake Fleekom, I drove back at a turtle’s pace, past the Bide-a-Wees and Hideaways, past Rich’s cottage and the two-track driveway that I now knew led to a shuttered log cabin. I slowed even more on the forested stretch beyond the county park beach. If people dragged their boats ashore in the cove with the grooves in the mud and the colored streaks on the rocks, did they bring them to and from the road? If so, there might be a place where they pulled off....

  And there it was, on the shoulder nearest the lake—a dried-up mud puddle with tire prints crossing it. The rain on Monday night and yesterday morning had ended yesterday before I left for work. That mud had probably been damp in the hours before Rich was killed.

  I stopped my car, blocking anyone from driving through that dried mud.

  Those prints might mean nothing.

  It wouldn’t hurt to check.

  A narrow pathway disappeared into woods sloping toward the lake. I walked carefully down the path. As I’d hoped, it ended at the cove with the paint-smudged rocks. I crossed the small muddy beach to the water’s edge, but could see no buildings, not Rich’s or his neighbor’s house, not even the party tent, and none of the recreational cottages across the lake from the homes. This cove was completely hidden from anyone who wasn’t actually nearby on the water.

  Could Rich’s murderer have fled through the fog across the lake and dragged his or her boat ashore at this spot? Could some of the red streaks on the rocks have come from Terri’s canoe? I started up the path toward the road.

  I hadn’t gone far when, to my left, I noticed that plants had been knocked over as if something heavy had been dragged through them. I hadn’t noticed the line of broken saplings and bushes before because of the way it angled back from the more established pathway, but it was easy to spot when I was climbing toward the road.

  The trail of bent and broken twigs went around a grove of cedars next to a boulder. Between the green, scaly leaves of the cedars, I saw dull silvery metal.

  I pushed the branches aside.

  Someone had dragged an aluminum canoe behind the boulder and had left it there, upside down and almost completely hidden.

  Chapter 13

  Could the canoe behind the boulder and cedars be the one that Nina and I had seen on the dock of Rich’s cottage the night before he was murdered? Accidentally pinching the cedar’s needle-like leaves too tightly, I released their pungent fragrance.

  A paddle was sticking out from underneath the canoe. I could read some of the dark brown letters on the shaft: R-O-Y.

  This paddle resembled the ones we had seen at Rich’s cottage. We’d been certain that one paddle had gone missing from that cabinet between Monday night, when Nina and I had first visited the cottage, and last night, when we’d been there with Brent and Detective Gartborg.

  I wanted to rescue that wooden paddle from the damp ground and future rain and snow, but in case this almost-concealed canoe and paddle could be evidence in Rich’s murder, I let the cedar branches snap back into place, left the canoe and paddle where they were, and called Brent’s personal number.

  He answered immediately. “How’s the kayaking on Lake Fleekom?”

  “Perfect except for the lack of mist.”

  “I’m in Royalson’s driveway. I can’t see you. Are you still on the water?”

  I twisted back toward the lake as if expecting to see myself out there. Or a murderer. “I’m on the shore. I might have found the canoe that was on Rich’s cottage dock Tuesday evening.”

  “Where?” The question was like a shot.

  “In the woods between the county park and Rich’s mansion.”

  “Are you near the canoe now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you be seen from the road?”

  “No.”

  “Is anyone else nearby?”

  “Not that I know of.” Shivering, although I wasn’t really cold, I glanced over my shoulder again.

  “We’re on our way.” Over the phone, I heard a car door slam, then another. Someone started the car’s engine. Brent asked me, “Are you close to your car?”

  “About a one-minute walk. It’s partially on the road, blocking tire prints in a dried-up mud puddle. The way I’m parked, you can’t drive through the prints, but be careful not to walk in them.”

  “Got it.” I heard a smile in his voice.

  Shaking my head at myself for warning a detective not to mess up possible evidence, I pocketed my phone.

  And what damage might I have done by walking down the narrow pathway?

  Risking compromising the evidence even more—and super-alert for cookware-wielding murderers to come crashing out of the bushes—I walked carefully and quietly up the slope toward my car.

  All I heard besides breezes rattling the season’s last leaves was the purr of a powerful engine and the crunch of tires on gravel.

  While still mostly behind pine trees, I cautiously peeked at the road. A black unmarked cruiser drove past, turned around, and stopped beside my car. I emerged into the sunlight and waited near the dried-up mud puddle.

  Detective Gartborg got out of the driver’s seat. She was wearing low-heeled boots, blac
k slacks that showed off her long legs, and a short fleece-trimmed black jacket with lots of pockets. Brent was in a suit that didn’t look warm enough for the shadowy woods. He shook my hand. That was more formal than the quick hugs we sometimes gave each other when he wasn’t on duty.

  I pointed toward the pathway leading down into the woods. “The canoe’s down there, about halfway to the shore.” Then I pointed at the dried-up mud puddle. “Here are the tire prints.”

  Brent asked me, “Mind backing your car about thirty feet?” He tapped his phone’s screen.

  “Don’t drive through the tire prints,” Gartborg reminded me. I gave her a thumbs-up, moved my car, and walked back to her.

  Brent moved the cruiser close to where my car had been, blocking the tire prints and more of the road. He removed a roll of crime scene tape from the cruiser’s trunk. While Gartborg photographed the tire prints, Brent tied one end of the tape to a tree, strung the tape around the cruiser, tore the tape off the roll, and tied the end of it to another tree.

  Gartborg slid her small camera into one of her jacket’s many pockets and glanced from the woods to me. “Can you show us this canoe you found? Bring the crime scene tape, Brent.”

  Starting down the barely distinguishable trail, I admitted something that was probably obvious to both detectives. “The canoe might not be the one that I saw on Rich’s dock on Monday night.”

  Gartborg reminded me, “The canoe you saw on the dock might not have been Mr. Royalson’s.”

  I shuddered. “I hope it was. If it belonged to the murderer, he could have been lurking nearby when Nina and I were at Rich’s cottage.”

  As if my caution about possibly compromising the scene taxed Gartborg’s patience, she stayed right behind me, and it was easy to hear her quiet question. “Did you see, hear, or smell evidence of anyone else in these woods?”