Bicycle Shop Murder by Robert Burton Robinson (parable of the sower read online .TXT) 📕
Greg heard a man shouting in the background, then a commotion. The phone went dead. He felt sick and helpless, like a kid who had just been spun on a merry-go-round at breakneck speed until he flew off. And the dizziness would not soon go away.
Greg wanted to call the police, but what would he tell them? And why did she call him instead of 911? He would call her back. No, he couldn't--he didn't have her number.
Then he felt something on his leg. The ice cream was melting beneath the chocolate shell, and it had collapsed under its own weight, and fallen onto the bed of napkins in his lap.
Still dazed, he sat for a full minute studying the ice cream as it dripped down the sides of the cone onto his hand and arm. Gradually the streams of white turned to pink, then to red-- running down Cynthia's face! A cold chill ripped through his body, and jolted him back to reality. He dropped the cone onto t
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As long as the men were not ogling her, he could try to ignore them. Cynthia had apparently already learned to do just that. Through years of practice, no doubt.
They sipped coffee, and inhaled the aroma of bacon and pancakes, while waiting for their breakfast. There were four police officers devouring a full table of food, just three booths away. They had watched Cynthia as she passed by—but not in such a way that they thought she might be a fugitive. Just another group of beauty beholders, Greg thought.
“Buford was not the only one acting funny,” Cynthia said softly. “When his secretary took us into his office, he was understandably surprised that we were not old friends. But she seemed confused by his reaction.”
“Really? I didn’t see that.”
“You were looking at Buford.”
“So, what do you think that meant?”
“I didn’t know at the time, but now I’m wondering if it meant he had already told her he knew who we were.”
“But why would it matter?”
“Think about it. We said we were from Coreyville, so he knew that much. But why would he think it was us? Unless he really is involved in the murders.”
“Yeah. If he knows about everything that’s been happening in Coreyville, then he would know about us. But why would we be coming to see him?”
Cynthia said, “Let’s just assume for now that he’s responsible for all of the murders. I doubt he personally murdered anybody. So, he must have hired someone to do it.”
“A hit man.”
“I guess. But we still don’t know why he would have wanted those people dead.”
“True. But let’s skip that part for now and assume he has some reason. One thing we know is that all of the victims were involved in the murder trial. Troy was a juror. Dorothy was Sam’s widow. And Arabeth Albertson was the sole witness. I believe she was also murdered. The police said it was an accident—that she was old and weak, and just fell down the stairs. But I think somebody tripped her.”
“Well, it does seem like Buford wanted the defendant to go free. Troy was pushing the jury toward a guilty verdict—”
“—and I was trying to stop him—without much luck. Now I realize that I was just a pawn. Buford was playing me.”
“Me too. And Mrs. Albertson was testifying against the defendant.”
“And Dorothy Spokane called to tell me that Buford was the cause of it all. Although—I don’t know how he knew she was about to tell somebody. But now Buford knows that the person she called was me. Or maybe he already knew.”
“Either way, you and I will probably be his next targets.”
“I’m afraid you’re right. Maybe going to see Buford wasn’t such a good idea.”
“No—you were just trying to do the right thing, Greg. But we probably are in danger. Maybe we should go to the D.A. and get police protection.”
“Only thing is—I’m not sure the Coreyville police can really protect us. But maybe that’s our only option.”
“The killer might be following us right now.” They both looked around the restaurant, studying each customer, wondering what a hit man might look like.
“We should go home a different way. Most people traveling from Dallas to Coreyville would take I-20 to Longview, and then go up FM-2208. But it would just be too easy to spot my big red convertible on the interstate. So, let’s take Highway 80 instead, and then maybe we’ll even take a smaller highway after we’re on 80 for a while. We don’t want to make it easy for the killer to find us.”
Greg heard something buzzing. Cynthia noticed it too. She reached into her purse, and retrieved her vibrating phone. She flipped it open, but didn’t answer it. “This is not good. I recognize the number. It’s the district attorney’s office.
*
Stealing the Silverado had been a piece of cake. But John X knew he was taking a chance. His new ride might be reported stolen before he could even get out of Dallas. But taking chances was what made the game fun.
He knew the exact location of his prey. They were currently stationary. So, he pulled into a McDonalds, got a #4 breakfast meal with a two large coffees—one to go with breakfast, one for the chase. Ah, adrenaline and coffee—what a combo. He parked to eat his meal and wait for them to start moving again.
John X really wanted the extra $10,000 Buford would pay for accidental deaths. But even more than the money, he liked the challenge. He had never done an accident. Most of his hits had been with a gun. He had murdered a family via arson one time. But his employer had not stipulated that it look like an accident.
So, what were the possibilities? If he raced up behind Greg’s car and clipped the left end of his bumper at just the right speed and angle, maybe he could cause the Bonneville to turn sideways and then flip. Greg and Cynthia would be in big trouble if that convertible started rolling down the highway. Seatbelts would be of little help when their heads hit the pavement. But the Bonneville weighed over 4,000 pounds, and had a low center of gravity. He wasn’t sure he could make it flip.
He could wait until they were on a two-lane highway, drive up beside them on the shoulder, and force their car into the oncoming traffic—preferably an 18-wheeler. That would probably do it.
But if they took Interstate 20, he wouldn’t have a chance to do that until they were close to home. He didn’t want to do it that late into the trip. Once they got back home, they would probably separate. That would mean two more hits in Coreyville. And considering that the local police were already on the lookout for a killer, he thought it wise to stay away from there if possible.
He decided to follow them for a while and wait for an opportunity.
Greg and Cynthia had been on the road for about an hour. They had opted for a scenic route back to Coreyville. But not for the scenery—for the safety. Hopefully they could avoid the killer by taking Highway 80.
“Maybe we should switch to smaller roads,” said Greg.
“Fine with me.”
“We could get off Highway 80 at Wills Point, and go north on FM-47. Then we could travel east, through Emory, Quitman and Gilmer. It’ll take longer to get home, but I think it’s worth it.”
“Sounds good.”
Cynthia was so agreeable, Greg thought—especially to the eyes. He was trying to be a caring friend—and nothing more. But he was barely able to maintain the facade hiding his overwhelming urge to hold her in his arms. She had not even buried her husband yet. It was improper, and maybe even immoral to think of Cynthia in romantic terms. But he had no control over what his heart wanted. At best, he could control his actions. He could not control his feelings.
Greg didn’t believe in ‘love at first sight,’ but he knew that every time he had fallen in love, there had been a spark at first sight. Some magical attraction. It might go away after getting to know the woman. But if it wasn’t there at their first encounter, he knew it never would be. There had definitely been a spark with Cynthia. More like a bonfire.
Cynthia said, “How can you teach piano without being a pianist?”
That question was out of the blue, Greg thought. Maybe she was trying to think about something besides the fact that they were running from a murderer. Seemed like a good idea.
“I was a vocal major in college, but I also took two years of secondary piano. So, I know how to play scales in all of the keys, the correct fingering, dynamics, pedaling, and so on.”
“And that’s enough to be able to teach piano?”
“Beginner and intermediate. I send advanced students elsewhere. Of course, I’m most comfortable teaching voice or music theory.”
“And you also teach guitar, don’t you?”
“Yeah. I started playing guitar when I was 13. Stayed up until after midnight every night.”
“How’d you have time for homework?”
“I didn’t. I nearly failed the eighth grade. But I got some great calluses.”
“On your hands?”
“Fingertips.” Greg showed her his left hand. “Feel them.”
Cynthia inspected his fingertips, rubbing one of them with her fingers. Then she tapped on one with a fingernail. It was hard and smooth, like the cap of an expensive ballpoint pen. “Weird.”
“Yeah. But you’ve got to have them if you want to play well. It’s like a trumpet player developing his lips.”
As soon as he had said the word ‘lips’, his eyes automatically zeroed in on hers. And in his mind, he held her in his arms and kissed her more passionately than she had ever been kissed.
*
Andrea Newly didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news. Especially when it had to be delivered to Angela Hammerly. She had already made a couple of big mistakes since becoming Assistant District Attorney. This might be counted as strike three. “We’ve got a problem.”
“What is it, Andrea?” Angela’s mood was not good. And it was about to get worse.
“First thing this morning I called the sheriff and expressed my concern that Cynthia Blockerman might try to leave town.”
“Good.”
“And that if she did, she might be traveling with Greg Tenorly. I asked him to have his men be on the lookout.”
“Good idea.”
“Thanks. But thirty minutes later he called me back to tell me that one of his officers stopped Greg yesterday for an expired inspection sticker. He was on his way out of town.”
“Was Cynthia with him?” Angela’s eyes were firing up.
“He told the officer that the young lady traveling with him was his niece. And that he was taking her to Kilgore College. The officer didn’t get a close look at her, but he said she had red hair and a lot of freckles. He described her as ‘Cute.’”
“Have you tried calling Cynthia Blockerman?”
“Several times. She didn’t answer at her hotel room, her house, or her cell.”
“Did you send the police to look for her?”
“Yes. They checked her house and the hotel.”
“What about Greg Tenorly?”
“They couldn’t find him either.”
“Did they go to his music studio? The church?”
“Yes. And the police are asking everyone around town if they’ve seen either of them today. But so far, nobody has.”
“This is getting out of control. We’ve got two, maybe three, unsolved murders. And now our prime suspects in one of the cases have gone—who knows where. Let’s put out an APB on those two. And contact the local TV stations. If the police don’t spot them, maybe a citizen will.”
*
As organist for First Baptist Church, Margery Allen should have kept the information to herself. But it was burning a hole in her gossip pocket. She stopped by Jane’s Diner, and could hardly wait for Jane to bring her coffee. When business was light, as it was now, Jane would often sit down and chat with Margery for a while.
“Did you hear about Greg Tenorly?”
Jane looked concerned as she sat down in the booth with Margery. “What happened?”
“He ran off with Cynthia Blockerman. She’s a vice president at the bank. You know—the redhead. The one who’s suspected of slashing her husband’s throat.”
“That doesn’t sound like Greg.”
“Well, have you seen him today?”
“Uh, no. But he doesn’t come in
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