Death Comes to Suburbia (Book 2 Molly Masters Mysteries) Page 2

  To brace myself, I took a deep breath, then rounded the corner…and barely stifled a scream. Blood was everywhere. Stephanie, on her hands and knees with a wash rag and a bucket of soapy, reddish water, scrubbed at it.

  “Stephanie! What in heaven’s name are you doing?”

  She looked up at me, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I have to clean this. Now.” She dried her tears on the sleeves of her yellow terry-cloth robe. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a stain out of white wool carpet once it sets in?” She went back to her scrubbing. Her belly was so swollen it nearly touched the floor.

  Two thoughts flashed into my mind, virtually simultaneously. One: Stephanie was in shock and was cleaning because of the dementia. Two: Stephanie had murdered her husband and wanted to enlist me in the cover-up of her crime.

  Number two was not out of the realm of possibility. Several months ago, just before Stephanie had learned she was pregnant, she’d also learned Preston had cheated on her—with my best friend. But the sight of Stephanie washing the floor in her current condition was so pathetic that I opted to believe number one.

  I took another step. Preston’s body was behind her, on the oak kitchen floor. I gasped and averted my eyes, trying to focus on Stephanie. Her face was blotchy, her bleached-blond hair was damp and pulled into a sloppy ponytail, and her eyes were red and full of despair. Overwhelmed with empathy, I knelt and gently touched her shoulder. “Steph? Listen to me. You’re in shock. Stop cleaning. I’ll call the—”

  She jerked away and karate-chopped my hand. “I most certainly am not in shock. Just help me get the rest of this…” She let her voice drift away, then resumed her cleaning. “It’s bad enough having my husband get killed. I don’t want to lose my carpeting, too. This will cost a fortune if I have to have it replaced.”

  Something was out of whack. Not even Stephanie was that heartless. Her downturned face looked grim and determined. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was deliberately trying to make it look as though she’d killed her husband. “Why are you doing this, Stephanie?”

  No answer. She continued to rub hard enough to give her hands rug burns.

  “Did you move him into the kitchen?”

  “My husband,” she said quietly, as if speaking to herself. “The father of my baby. How am I supposed to cope with this?”

  I rose and looked at Preston. He was on his back. His shirt was drenched in blood. How could this be happening? Was Stephanie crazy? I wasn’t a therapist. I was a cartoonist. I created greeting cards. All I should do now was get out of there. Maybe write her a truly touching condolence card from the safety of my own home.

  But she was pregnant, her husband’s dead body was lying there a few feet away, and she’d asked me for help. I couldn’t leave her like this. I put my foot on her wash rag, only just now realizing I still had on my moccasins.

  “Molly!” she cried, once again sounding not even remotely sorrowful. “You’re grinding the stain in by doing that!”

  With the calm, careful enunciation I sometimes used to talk to my children, I told her, “I know you don’t think you’re in shock, but you are. That’s the only possible explanation for this behavior. Unless you killed him. That’s the other explanation. Did you? Did you kill Preston?”

  She relinquished her grasp on the wash rag and sat up. She opened her mouth to answer, then hesitated and studied my face. “No,” she finally said, her voice quiet and sad. “I thought he’d gone to work, just after Tiffany left for school. I went upstairs to take a bath. I had the radio on. Suddenly I heard two gunshots. It scared me half to death. I put my robe on, came down, and…and…he was lying right where you’re standing. I dragged him into the kitchen to get him off the rug, then I called you.”

  Uneasy at the concept of my feet now occupying the spot where Preston had perhaps taken his last breath, I stepped back toward the wall. “The police need to see everything. This is all evidence. Why did you call me? Why didn’t you call the police?”

  “Just as soon as I get a moment, I will call the police. Preston wouldn’t want anyone to see him like this…bleeding all over our white wool carpet.”

  I stared at her. I repeated incredulously, “Preston wouldn’t want… This is nuts! And illegal. Do you want to go to jail?”

  Stephanie merely pursed her lips.

  I’d seen that determined look on her face. She did want to go to jail! “You’re doing this to protect Tiffany! Did you witness—”

  “No!” she cried. “I’m—” She broke off and groaned, doubling over in pain.

  “Damn it!” she panted. “Now we’re in trouble. That was a labor pain.”

  Please, God. Not now. Not till I’m out of here.

  “Maybe it was just a Braxton-Hicks. In any case, we’ve got a long time till—”

  She groaned again. “You’ve got to get me to the hospital, fast. I was only in labor with Tiffany for forty minutes. It takes twenty-five just to get to the hospital where my obstetrician is located. My Mercedes has leather seats. We’ll have to take your car in case my water breaks.”

  I gritted my teeth and silently launched into a string of curse words at my stupidity. I should never have moved into my parents’ northern home. When I returned to Carlton and learned Stephanie was still in town, I should have insisted we move to a fort. I marched to the phone and dialed 911.

  A woman dispatcher answered. “There’s a dead man here,” I told her. “He’s been shot. His name’s Preston Saunders. His wife’s just gone into labor. Send an ambulance.”

  The dispatcher confirmed the address, then asked, “There’s been a shooting?”

  “Yes, and a pregnancy.” I looked at Stephanie. She moaned again, in obvious pain.

  While I gave the dispatcher my name, Stephanie yelled, “Crap!” repeatedly and pounded the soggy floor with her fists. That reminded me. I glanced at my watch. The dog feces was still on my coffee table and the kindergarten bus would arrive in an hour.

  “Just get the police and ambulance here right away.” I hung up and dialed my husband’s office. I cut off the receptionist and told her, “This is Molly Masters. I’ve got to speak to Jim Masters immediately. It’s an emergency.”

  Moments later Jim greeted me with “What’s wrong?”

  “Preston’s been killed. I’m at Stephanie’s house. She’s in labor. I’m going to the hospital with her. Nathan’s bus arrives at noon. You have to get there first. There’s a smutty magazine, a check for a thousand dollars, and a box of dog poop on the coffee table. Put those where the kids won’t see them, but don’t throw anything out. It’s all evidence.”

  “Wait. What? Start over. I could’ve sworn you said—”

  Stephanie groaned again.

  “I’ve got to go. I’ll explain later. Bye.” I hung up and rushed to Stephanie’s side. “Let me help you to a chair. Can you stand up if steady you?”

  “I’ll have to.” She groaned, her face red and her forehead beaded with perspiration. “I’m sure as hell not going to give birth on my carpet.”

  Since she now outweighed me by a good fifty pounds, getting her and the baby to her feet was no easy matter. She demanded I help her toward the “sitting room” and started shuffling toward the foyer. Good. Every step I took toward an exit made me feel a bit better.

  Mid-waddle, she glanced back at the kitchen and said, “Damn you, Preston. I’ll never forgive you.”

  Two steps away from the entrance to the sitting room, she had another strong contraction and grabbed me for support. Her prenatal vitamins had done their job. She and her nails were so strong she dug into the flesh on my forearm and drew blood.

  By now sirens wailed outside, growing louder as they neared. As soon as the contraction passed, I pulled down the sleeves of my sweatshirt to protect my skin. “Let’s just go out to the porch and wait for the ambulance there, shall we?”

  She nodded, tight-lipped. We made our way outside. The air was chilly, and I shivered uncontrollably. An ambulan
ce pulled into the circular drive, followed by two police cars. “I forgot to get my keys,” Stephanie said, lurching toward the door. “I have to lock up.”

  I grabbed her arms. “You don’t need to lock your house. The police are here. They’ll have to get inside.”

  Stephanie started weeping as two paramedics, both young and male, rushed toward us. Just at the appropriate moment, she pushed me away and half fell, half twirled, in some sort of romance-heroine’s swoon. The men caught her, one on each side.

  “Thank God you’re here,” she wailed. “I need drugs.” She gestured at me. “Molly. Go back in and get my bag. It’s all packed for the hospital. It’s right inside the front coat closet.”

  While the paramedics helped Stephanie into the ambulance, I rushed back into the house, threw open the first door that appeared to be closet-like, shoved aside a batch of long coats, and scanned the floor. Amid boots and shoes was a leather carry-on suitcase. I slung its strap over my shoulder, then froze as a box that had been near the suitcase tumbled toward my feet.

  The box landed upside down. It’s dimensions were identical to the one I’d just received. I knelt and shook the box. Empty. I chewed on my lower lip as I turned the box over. Fastened to the lid was a typed note on pink paper that read:

  Mike Masters:

  We are watching you. We will not rest until we have rid the world of scum like you.

  Sisters Totally Opposed to Pornography

  Chapter 3

  This Might Be Tougher Than It Looks

  “Drop that! Now!” a deep voice shouted from Stephanie’s open doorway behind me.

  I dropped the box, then cautiously turned. A young, uniformed police officer glared at me, his hand a millimeter above his holstered gun.

  “It’s just an empty box,” I said, my voice a cracked whisper.

  An instant later, Sergeant Tommy Newton stepped alongside the armed officer. Tommy looked at me, then at the officer, and shook his head. “It’s okay, Yates. She’s not dangerous, just nosy.”

  My relief at seeing Tommy, who’d been in my classes from kindergarten through Senior high, was so strong I could have hugged him. Nonetheless, I rose and said, “That’s not fair, Tommy. This is the last place in the world I wanted to be, but Stephanie called me and—”

  “So you took it on yourself to plant your fingerprints all over the scene.” Tommy stepped inside, his green eyes scanning the room.

  “This wasn’t my fault.” I glared at him. He was in full uniform except for his cap, which, as usual, had left a tell-tale band-shaped dent in his thick red hair. “I came over here because—”

  He brushed past me. “Take her statement, Yates.” The other officer pulled out a notepad as Tommy mumbled, “So I take it the body’s back here, somewhere.”

  “Preston’s in the kitchen,” I called after him. “Unfortunately, by the time I got here, Stephanie was—”

  “Aw, jeez!” Tommy cried. “Did you move the body, Molly?”

  “No.” I started to follow him into the kitchen. “That was—”

  He met me halfway down the front hall and interrupted, “Somebody sure did. You ‘spect me to believe Stephanie was more concerned about cleaning up than calling for help?”

  “Yes, I expect you to believe that,” I snapped back at him. “You know me, and you’ve known Stephanie for more than twenty years. Which of us do you think would be worried about a carpet stain, me or Stephanie?”

  He raised an eyebrow at me, then gestured at his fellow officer. “Better get her statement outside. Let’s secure the scene. The crime-scene tape’s in my car.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “Molly, you gotta go wait—”

  A third uniformed officer rushed into the house. “Excuse me, sir,” he said to Sergeant Newton. Then he said to me, “Are you Molly Masters?”

  “Yes.”

  “That woman in the ambulance. Seems her labor’s too far along for drugs. She’s grabbed one of the paramedics by the …er… she says she’s not leaving till you come with her.”

  “Go ahead,” Tommy instructed me.

  Still carrying the suitcase, I dashed out to the ambulance and climbed through the back doors. Inside the air bore a slight ammonia odor. Stephanie had already released her grip on the paramedic and was now lying on a cot and screaming her head off. She managed to stop long enough to glare at me and yell, “Where have you been?”

  “Having a spot of tea with the Queen.”

  It was easy to tell which of the two men Stephanie had assaulted. One of them merely sneered at her, then got out and shut the doors. The other was as far away from Stephanie as possible in the tight quarters, rocking himself slightly. “Are you all right?” I asked him as I sat down beside him.

  He grimaced and muttered, “I hate this job.”

  The other paramedic got behind the wheel, flipped on the siren, and pulled onto the road. My eyes adjusted to the muted lighting from the small one-way glass window behind me. Every available nook and cranny were neatly packed with blankets, medical equipment, and supplies. I was about to compliment the paramedic on the clever use of space when a curse word spewed from Stephanie’s lips with the intensity of a volcanic eruption. Then she cried, “For God’s sake! Somebody help me!”

  Stephanie’s victim scoffed and shook his head. It was up to me to comfort Stephanie. Trying to ignore my queasy stomach, I knelt beside Stephanie and let her grab my hand with her talons.

  After the contraction passed and Stephanie was merely whining and panting, I told her, “You cannot treat people like this and expect them to help you.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “You can do this, Steph. You’ve given birth before. You know it’s both painful and joyful, but that the pain part goes away.”

  “I had a husband last time.”

  That shook me. I didn’t know how to respond.

  She grabbed me by the front of my sweatshirt and shouted into my face, “I promised myself I would have morphine this time! I want to be unconscious!”

  As I reclaimed my seat, my eyes met the paramedic’s. He growled, “Tell her I’ll make her unconscious, just as soon as I find a baseball bat.”

  By then Stephanie was yelling and all but frothing at the mouth from another contraction, so she couldn’t have overheard.

  “Oh, God,” Stephanie cried. “The baby’s coming!”

  “Drive faster!” I hollered at the man up front.

  The paramedic with me sprang into action. “Baby’s coming, Dave. Pull over and get back here.”

  We came to a screeching stop and, moments later, the paramedic who’d been driving joined us. He instructed me to help support Stephanie’s upper body as she pushed.

  For several minutes, the three of us shouted out words of encouragement over the earsplitting noise of Stephanie panting and crying and screaming and uttering more profanities than were in a year’s worth of action-adventure movies. All I could think was, if this child understands English, he or she is going to have an unparalleled vocabulary of four-letter words.

  And then, in the midst of this mayhem, a baby boy was born. A perfect, beautiful baby boy. Though I had witnessed my daughter’s and my son’s births, my vantage point had been considerably different. Without experiencing firsthand the labor pains, this newborn’s birth felt like nothing short of a miracle. My eyes misted, and my smile was so wide my face hurt.

  The paramedics let me help swaddle the baby in one of their many red blankets. I cuddled him and tried in vain to avoid seeing Stephanie deliver the placenta—a sight that brought to mind one of my daughter’s favorite sayings; “Eww! Sick!” Then I placed the baby in Stephanie’s arms. Her tears of pain and physical effort changed to tears of joy as she took him from me, and I found myself weeping with joy, too, and hugging her.

  In the male equivalent of hugs, the men gave one another high-fives and slapped each other’s backs. Stephanie tearfully apologized to us. The same paramedic who, not fifteen minutes ago, had told me he hated his job now
told her how much he admired her and that this was a day he would never forget as long as he lived.

  His words, though, brought the reality of the full situation back home to me. The rest of the way to the hospital, I forced a smile each time Stephanie met my eyes. I agreed every time Stephanie asked me, “Isn’t my baby beautiful?” But my thoughts were in turmoil.

  Suddenly I’d been sucked into a matter of both death and life. I’d been minding my own business, literally, trying to complete a cartoon eCard for a home-security company. Ironically, that cartoon showed a woman in an even more precarious predicament than mine: A solitary man shields her from a huge battalion of armed men on the nearby shore. All the while, their boat is sinking and is surrounded by both alligators and sharks; overhead is a helicopter where a dozen men with rifles aim at them. The man is scratching his chin thoughtfully and says to the woman, “Hmmm. This might be a little tougher than it looks.”

  My head was filled with unanswered questions. Who killed Preston? Who put that box in his closet? Was the bullet that killed him meant for me, the creator of the cartoon?

  We pulled into the emergency entrance to the hospital, an ugly, brown, boxy building in downtown Schenectady. I got out of the way and watched the men unload Stephanie with baby. I called to her that I’d catch up with her soon, then stayed outside for a few minutes to clear my head. The chilly air felt good on my face but reeked with car fumes from the busy street nearby.

  Eventually I went inside the stark emergency room, where a thick antiseptic smell masked even less desirable odors. Along with four or five would-be patients and one of the uniformed officers I’d seen at Stephanie’s, my friend the police sergeant was already seated in the waiting room.

  The damp leather of my moccasins scuffed against the linoleum as I walked over to him.