Bicycle Shop Murder - Robert Burton Robinson (good beach reads .txt) 📗
- Author: Robert Burton Robinson
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Book online «Bicycle Shop Murder - Robert Burton Robinson (good beach reads .txt) 📗». Author Robert Burton Robinson
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“And I have an important document for you. I would come up there, but I don’t have anyone to drive me. And it’s hard taking a cab because of my wheelchair. You might want to bring the sheriff with you. It could be dangerous.”
“Of course. I have your address here: 207 Maple Street. We’ll get there as soon as we can. Thanks.”
Finally, Andrea would get to do something important.
*
It had been forty-five minutes since Dorothy Spokane had talked to the A.D.A. What was taking so long? The letter in her hand would explain everything. She had already heard about the murder of Troy Blockerman. Word traveled fast in Coreyville.
Although she didn’t want Sam’s reputation to be tarnished, she had no choice now. The truth had to be told. The killings must stop. In her gut, she knew Arabeth Albertson’s death had not been an accident. But she hadn’t said anything because she was protecting Sam.
The man walking toward her house was dressed in a gas company uniform, but Dorothy didn’t recognize him. It wasn’t Jimmy or Hoyt. What if her phone had been tapped? At least she was finally doing the right thing. But what good is that if the truth is lost?
She needed to tell someone—fast. She called the District Attorney’s office. No answer. She could call a friend. No. She needed someone who knew the details of the trial. Greg Tenorly. Her intuition told her he was honest and smart. She hoped she was right. Hurry, before it’s too late.
She grabbed the Coreyville phone book, found Greg’s home number and dialed as quickly as she could. She wished she had upgraded to a touch-tone phone. The old rotary dialer was dependable, but so slow. She had never needed to dial this fast before. It began to ring. But maybe he was at his studio
ring
or at the church
ring
or at the diner
ring
or riding around in his big red car!
“Hello?”
“Greg. This is Dorothy Spokane.”
Greg was not fully awake. He had gone back to sleep after getting the official call about postponing jury deliberations. “Oh, Hi.”
“I need to tell you something important.” She sounded frantic.
“Wait—you know I’m not supposed to talk to you. It’s against—”
“—a man is about to kill me!”
Greg was now fully alert. “Who? What man?”
“Just let me say what I’ve got to say before it’s too late.”
“Okay.”
“It’s Buford. He’s the one behind all of the killings.”
“Buford?” Greg was confused. Buford who? What killings?
“Somebody’s at my back door trying to get in!”
“What?”
“Get out of my house, you murderer!”
Greg listened in disbelief, as the phone hit the hardwood floor. Then he heard someone walking toward the phone.
A gruff voice said, “Who is this?”
Greg slammed down the phone and was surprised it didn’t break. He had no idea who Buford was, but he was going to find out. He ran to his computer and googled ‘Buford Coreyville.’ There it was—right at the top. An article from the Coreyville Courier, the local paper. He clicked on it and scanned the article quickly.
_Buford Bellowin, who grew up in Coreyville, is now a famous defense attorney practicing in Dallas. Insiders say he is positioning himself to run for governor in a few years. He attended Scarborough Elementary
_blah, blah, blah_
worked at Sam’s Bicycle Shop as a teenager. _Whoa. That must be the connection. But how? Why would a big-shot Dallas attorney care about what’s going on in this little town?
*
“Am I being charged?”
“No, no, Mrs. Blockerman. We’re still investigating. I just need to ask you a few questions.” Angela, like most district attorneys, and lawyers in general, had perfected her acting (lying) skills. Why should the good guys play fair? The bad guys don’t.
“Okay. I have nothing to hide.”
“We found no evidence of a breakin at your house, but we did find something curious. The doorknob on your back door had no fingerprints.”
“Okay,” Cynthia said, wondering what the D.A. was getting at.
“Don’t you think that’s a little odd?”
“I guess.”
“Did you wipe off that doorknob after the murder?”
“No. The _last_ thing I was thinking about was cleaning.” What a weird question.
“I just thought you might have wiped it off after your boyfriend left.” Angela studied Cynthia’s eyes and face for a reaction. She saw confusion and anger—not the reaction she had hoped for.
“What? I don’t have a boyfriend. Is this why you called me in here—to try to trick me into making a confession? I won’t confess to something I didn’t do.”
Angela was visibly annoyed by the knock on the door. She yanked it open, frightening the young clerk.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Hammerly, but the A.D.A. said to interrupt you.”
The power is already going to Andrea’s head, thought Angela. I’ve got to set her straight about how’s in charge here.
“Dorothy Spokane has been murdered, and her house has been ransacked.”
Angela thanked the clerk and sent her away. She turned back to Cynthia and said, “Thanks for coming in. I will need to talk to you again soon, so don’t leave town.”
I’m not talking to you again without an attorney, thought Cynthia. She felt ill as she walked out of the building to her car. Her husband was dead. Sure, the marriage had died many months ago. She didn’t love Troy anymore, but she still cared about him. Now she was being accused of either killing him or getting a boyfriend to do it. The D.A. was shameless.
As she drove toward the Holiday Inn, her cell rang.
“Hello?”
“Cynthia, it’s Greg. How are you doing?”
“I’m okay, I guess, considering I just got dragged through the slime by our wonderful D.A.”
“What do you mean?”
“She accused me of having an affair, and getting my boyfriend to kill Troy. Can you believe it?”
“What makes her think you have a boyfriend?”
“She said the doorknob in the kitchen was wiped clean, and implied I wiped off my boyfriend’s fingerprints after he left.”
“I’m sorry. What a mess.” Apparently, the D.A. had not mentioned Greg’s name. Hopefully she had not recognized him last night.
“Yeah.”
“Cynthia, I’ve got to make a trip.”
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t want to say over the phone. But I’m afraid if I don’t do this, there will be more murders.”
“Speaking of murders—Dorothy Spokane is dead.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“Why?”
“Cynthia, you should go with me, and I’ll explain what I know.”
“I can’t. The D.A. told me not to leave town.”
“You could be the next one on the murderer’s list. Come with me.”
“You know what? I don’t care what the D.A. says. Come by and pick me up. Room 112.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes.”
Marty’s king size bed, 27-inch color TV, private bathroom, and air conditioning made him feel like a millionaire. He didn’t miss prison at all.
Cynthia Blockerman’s room was just below his. With x-ray vision, he could have shot her through the floor from where he stood. He liked her. But he wouldn’t hesitate to cut her throat or choke her to death, if necessary. He just wanted to be finished with this job, finished with Buford.
Marty dialed one of Buford’s unlisted cell numbers. There was a different number to call every few days. Buford was taking special precautions. If Marty was caught, Buford didn’t want the police to have a phone record trail leading back to him.
“Yes?”
“It’s me. Troy Blockerman is no longer a problem.”
“What do you mean? What did you do?”
“He drank too much beer and passed out in his living room. Then somebody sliced his throat. He won’t be voting ‘Guilty’ anymore.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Hey—you told me to make sure the kid gets off. That’s what I’m trying to do. Troy Blockerman was determined to hang him, and he was convincing the rest of the jury to go along. I had to stop him.”
“But who are the police going to blame for his murder? This could take us both down.”
“Nah. Right now, the D.A. believes the wife did it. Apparently, good ole boy Troy was knocking her around every night. The D.A. figures Cynthia just got tired of the abuse. And
there was another problem I had to take care of.”
“What?” Don’t tell me you’ve murdered the judge, thought Buford.
“Dorothy Spokane called the district attorney’s office this morning. Good thing I had her house bugged. She asked the A.D.A. to come over so she could give her information about the case. So, I got there first.”
“What did she tell you?”
“She didn’t tell me anything. She was on the phone and I heard her say ‘Buford,’ so I shot her.”
“You shot her! What else did she say?”
“Something about Buford being responsible for all of the killings.”
“Did she give a last name?”
“No. And whoever was on the other end of the line hung up. But I couldn’t look up their number because she had an old-fashioned rotary phone. I can get a copy of her phone records.”
“That’s okay. I can take care of that. What did you find in the house?”
“She had a letter that was written by her husband. It was sitting on the coffee table, so I think she planned to give it to the D.A. He had written on the envelope, Open Upon My Death. So, apparently he suspected somebody might try to kill him.”
“What did you do with it? You didn’t open it, did you?”
“No. I’m holding it for you.”
“Burn it. Don’t open it, just burn it.”
“Okay.”
“Do it as soon as you hang up.”
“I understand.”
“But, Marty, you’re out of control.”
“Come on—you know I had no choice. She was going to tell them something, and I’m sure it was something you don’t want the D.A. to hear. Look, I don’t care what you did, or what’s in this letter. I’m just doing my job.”
“You know what, Marty? You’re done.”
“What do you mean? The trial’s not over. We have a deal. I’m not going back!”
“It’s okay. I just don’t require your services anymore. Your debt is paid. So, slip out of town quietly and go your merry way. You’re free. But don’t forget to burn that letter. Do it now. Goodbye.”
Marty felt like he had just been fired, and he didn’t like it. He wanted nothing more than to be done with this job. But he wanted to finish the job. Marty Crumb might have been one of the lowest of the lowlifes—but he was not a quitter. And he could not allow himself to be fired.
As he walked into the bathroom with Sam Spokane’s unopened letter, he placed a Marlboro between his cracked lips and flicked his lighter. He lit his cigarette and took a long drag, studying the handwriting on the envelope. What was this horrible secret about Buford? He would burn the letter over the toilet and then flush the ashes.
*
Buford wanted to kick himself for getting involved with Marty. It had seemed like a good idea—a cheap way to get it done. But Marty had become a loose cannon. If Buford let this go on, everybody connected with the trial would end up dead. And eventually the police would be at his door. He had to take immediate action. He unlocked his lower right drawer and exchanged the cell phone in his hand for a different one.
“Yeah?”
“This is B.B.”
“Who’s the mark?”
“Hang on. What’s this going to cost
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