Free Wilmington, NC 10 - Much Ado About Murder by Ellen Elizabeth Hunter Page A

possession while Jon babysits.”
    “I’m sorry I can’t stay so Jon can go with you but I’ve got this DAR luncheon. And Binkie is deeply engrossed with a research project on the early Thalians for the anniversary next year. But I’ll come back later this afternoon and then the two of you can tour your new house together.”
    “Thank you again,” I called as she stepped off the front porch.
    Melanie pulled up then, parked on the street, and came in for a glass of iced tea. “That closing went off like a snap,” she said, and snapped her fingers for emphasis.
    “Melanie, we appreciate your help,” Jon said.
    She grinned. “If I can’t be good to my family, who can I be good to?”
    Jon gave her a hug. “You’re the best.”
    “Want to walk over?” I asked. “It’s gorgeous outside. And you know what’s coming? Cooler weather. Might as well enjoy this mild weather while we can.”
    Melanie and I strolled along Nun Street with me babbling on about all the improvements we were going to make to the house.
    As we stepped up onto the porch, I was surprised to see the front door standing open. I thought Dalton would be gone and the house locked up. Instead, only the glass storm door remained shut. And something appeared to be lodged against it. I cupped my hands around my eyes to block out the sunlight and stared down. Dalton Montjoy lay prostrate on the floor.
    I gasped just as Melanie cried, “I smell gas.”
    “I smell it too. We’ve got to get him out of there.”
    “I’m calling 911.” She pawed frantically in her large purse for her cell phone.
    “No,” I cried. “Not here. Take that down to the street. Get far away.” I waved my arm toward Front Street, unable to take my eyes off Dalton.
    She stared at me, uncomprehending.
    “A spark from the phone could cause an explosion! Now go!” I yelled. “I’ll get him out.”
    With the cell phone in her hand, Melanie clattered down the porch stairs in her way too high high-heels. Scrambled down the sidewalk, and out through the gate to the sidewalk on Front Street.
    I tried the glass storm door. It was not locked. Gulping a large intake of air, I pulled the door open. The smell of gas was intense, making me want to cough. Pulling my tee-shirt up over my mouth and nose, I tried not to breathe.
    Bending and grabbing Dalton by the ankles, I dragged him toward the open door, toward the fresh air he needed so badly.
    He wasn’t heavy. He was old and frail, and light as a child. Plus, I’d built up some muscles from hefting two little boys off the floor.
    I used my butt to hold the door open, held my breath a second longer, and yanked on Dalton Montjoy’s stick-like legs. His body glided across the bare floor and over the threshold like a threadbare rug. As his face banged the porch floor, I felt a shiver of guilt. But it couldn’t be helped. I had to get him away from the toxic gas fumes – and fast, if he was going to survive.
    A wound on the back of his head was bleeding. A good sign, I thought. That meant he was not dead; his heart was still pumping blood.
    The door banged shut behind us, closing the poisonous fumes inside. I opened my mouth and swallowed a large intake of fresh, good-old Wilmington humid air. And then slowly exhaled.
    Gently, I rolled Dalton onto his back and tried to evaluate his condition. He seemed to be unconscious. Was he breathing? I’d do CPR on him anyway. Seemed like a good precaution. I’d taken a class after my children were born. Just in case. Just in case I had to rescue an old man from gas asphyxiation? Well, no. But now the training came in handy.
    I squeezed his nostrils closed with my thumb and forefinger and tilted his head back. His mouth fell open automatically. He was mumbling, trying to say something. So he really was alive. And maybe conscious.
    “Don’t talk, Dalton,” I commanded. I puffed into his mouth. Then doubled my hands together over his chest and pressed down. Puffed into his mouth. Pressed on