Killing Dreams ~An American Victorian Steampunk Murder Mystery

Chapter 1 Part 1

CHAPTER 1 Part 1

The carriage pulled to a stop in front of the three story townhouse they lived in ever since they had come to Denver. Bill paid the driver and hurried up the stairs. The door opened before he could even reach for the knob.

"Welcome home darlin'!" Patches threw her arms around his neck and gifted him with a kiss. "I missed you!"

Bill smiled as he picked her up and stepped into the house. She was always so glad to see him. "I've missed you too! How was your day?"

"Positively wonderful," she beamed. "How was yours?" He hung up his coat and donned his smoking jacket. Together they entered the parlor.

"Well," Bill said his voice tinged with a bit of humor. "No one blew up the lab."

Patches laughed, poured a whiskey for him, coffee for herself, took her seat next to him and listened as he told her how he was currently working on a project to replicate George Eastman's new photographic film with several of his more creative students in the chemistry lab. He described the process in great detail, pausing only to light a cigar and answer her questions. Since Bill had taught her how to use the standard dry plate cameras in Tucson and she had developed some talent for it, discussions such as this never failed to excite her. As always, Bill enjoyed her interest, and didn't mind the interruptions.

When he was finished he asked what had made her so happy earlier. Patches told him she had introduced the children to Shakespeare and she was surprised they seemed to actually enjoy it more when they could read it aloud. She was in the process of describing a rather humorous moment when her head cocked to the side and she stopped speaking in mid-sentence.

"Are you expecting company?" she asked. Bill rose to look out the window. All these years with her and he was still amazed at the acuity of her hearing; she had heard the man's approach despite the dampening effect heavy snow has on sounds. The chime rang just as they reached the door.

"Doctor McDowell?" the man queried as soon as Bill pulled the door open. "Doctor William Curtis McDowell?"

The man outside was a stranger to both of them. He carried himself with an air of authority that spilled over into his gruff voice. He was of average height, wore a brown frock and sported a bristly salt-and-pepper mustache. Deep lines etched the corners of his eyes and between his eyebrows.

"Yes," Bill responded, curious. "And you are...?"

The man extended his hand. "Captain Ellis Weston of the Denver Police Department."

TO BE CONTINUED

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