The Silver Lake Murder Gregg Matthews (i can read book club TXT) 📖

Refocusing on rowing, he rows all the way back to land. The small wooden rowboat is tied off to the old wooden dock. The three of them step out of the boat one at a time. Walking back to the tattoo shop, none of them are ready to start their day. Opening the front door of the tattoo shop, he flips the Closed sign to Open. He turns to Lester.

“I will go talk to Pete tomorrow night,” Blake says, staring Lester in the eyes.

“Okay, Blake,” Lester says, walking down Shady Lane towards the barn.

“Billy, get in here. We have a lot of work to do today.”

“Okay, Blake.”

The morning goes by fast. There is a small cloud of people in front of the shop. They have all called ahead and made appointments, he needs to stay focused and get through them today. He needs to do a quality job on each customer. He needs to grow his customer base here in Silver Lake if he wants to stay in business. Looking back, he sees Billy in the back of the shop, continuing to paint the walls and ceiling. Blake works on the customers one at a time. With the cash flow improving and the shop up and running, he thinks about calling in another tattoo artist. The buzzing sound of the tattoo needle stops. Wiping the blood and ink off the shoulder of the young woman he is tattooing.

“You are all done, my friend,” Blake says.

“Two hours goes by fast when you are having fun,” the woman being tattooed says, winking to the woman holding her hand.

“Check your new tattoo in the mirror. I will be over by the register,” Blake says.

After processing his customer, he watches the two friends giggle as they walk out the front door. Some time passes and he is relieved he made it through the day and all of his appointments.

He shuts the shop down for the night. He reaches into the refilled Styrofoam cooler and pulls out an ice-cold can of beer. He moves to the back of the shop and steps outside into the alley. He sits on an old crate relaxing his mind and body for a few minutes, drinking his beer. The sounds of the summer night are relaxing to him.

The heat and humidity cause his eyelids to become heavy. He makes his way back into the shop to the makeshift bed. Quickly he falls asleep, knowing tomorrow he mustfind Pete for the details of the rest of the story. The makeshift bed in the back of the shop is where he will rest tonight. He tries to process everything Kelly told him. What Cindy must have gone through that night. He falls fast asleep.

CHAPTER 14

The next day. The buzzing sound of the tattoo needle stops. Looking at the clock on the wall tells Blake it is 9:00 p.m. The workday is over, the last customer is complete. He needs to get everyone out of the shop and lock the doors. He prepares himself as best he can, for the drive to the Worthey Tavern in Lowell.

Walking across the crushed stone parking lot to his car, he gets in and starts the engine. He pulls out of the parking lot and turns left onto Route 38. He drives in the direction of Lowell, MA.

A couple of lefts and a right, he can see the sign, Worthen House Cafe hanging on the old multifamily house turned commercial real estate years ago. Pulling into the parking lot, he has to look a couple of times but sees an old beat-up brown pickup truck matching the description Kelly gave him. The pickup truck is parked off to the side next to the dumpster in the back of the parking lot. Parking his car, he walks over to the truck. He feels the dent in the hood. He wonders if this is where Cindy’s head made contact.

Walking into the Worthen, he can see the patrons have been there for a while. Everyone at the bar area is drunk. Off to the side in a quiet corner, an older man with gray hair and a gray beard sits talking to himself, drinking a beer and what looks like whiskey. Pete.

Blake stands over Pete with a controlled stormy rage in his eyes.

“Are you Pete?”

“I killed that girl,” Pete says, lowering his head and crying.

“Come with me,” Blake says while grabbing the back of Pete’s T-shirt.

“Okay, I am so sorry,” Pete begs.

Some of the patrons and people who work there turn and look at what is going on. But most of them could care less. He and Pete walk outside to the parking lot. He walks to Pete’s truck.

“This your truck?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me what happened the night of July 4th?”

“Yes.”

He and Pete unhitch the back gate, and both hop up to sit on it. Pete has a disheveled look in his eyes. The odor of alcohol from him is prevalent. He listens while Pete begins to unravel the story of what happened July 4th.

“Isat back in to my old pickup truck after a brief shouting match with the man I was working for. I was told to leave the job site because I was a danger to myself and my co-workers. Using the power tools when you are drunk was a safety issue, and I knew better. The lunch I had that day consisted of a six-pack of beer and a flat bottle of whiskey. I sat in my truck and drank my lunch by myself. The boss didn’t like my behavior after lunch, so he paid me in cash and told me to go home for the day. The workday was over anyways. It was July 4th,” Pete says with slurred speech.

“Keep talking,” Blake says with trouble in his eyes.

“As I sat in the driver’s seat, I looked at myself in the mirror and saw I am not a young man anymore. My hair was long,