Bicycle Shop Murder by Robert Burton Robinson (fiction novels to read .TXT) 📖

At 5:10 PM, Channel 7 News gave their report about the two fugitives from Coreyville. Greg and Cynthia had been sleeping for nearly two hours. When the reporter said Greg’s name, he woke up. Cynthia was still asleep on her bed.

“Cynthia? We’re on the news.”

Cynthia’s eyes opened wide, and immediately sat up to watch the report.

The authorities believe that the fugitives are somewhere between Coreyville and Dallas, and that they are traveling in a red 1965 Pontiac Bonneville. If you see them, please call the police. Do not approach them. They are considered armed and dangerous.

“Armed and Dangerous? You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Cynthia.

“This is the first time I’ve ever wished I had a silver minivan instead the Bonneville.”

“You wanna steal one?”

Greg looked over at Cynthia to make sure she was kidding. “Why not? What’s carjacking, compared to murder?”

“Well, at least they’re not offering a reward.”

“Yet.”

Greg sat up on the side of his bed. “But what are we going to eat, if we can’t go out in the car?”

“Guess we’ll have to walk. They had some groceries at the office.”

“Wonder if they have any clothes—maybe some shorts and T-shirts.”

“Yeah, I’d sure like to change into something clean. And we need to try to look different than the pictures they’re showing on TV. You’re probably okay. Just brush out the hairspray and you’ll be good.”

“Then my hair will fall down in my face. I hate that.”

“No—that’s good.”

Greg frowned. He had always taken pride in keeping every hair in place—what little hair he had left. But he knew she was right.

“I’ll put my hair in pigtails, take off my makeup, and wear your baseball cap.”

“Yeah—that was good enough to fool the cop. He believed it when I told him you were my niece. But I’m not too sure I like that.”

“Well, with your hair down, you don’t have to be my uncle. You can be my boyfriend.”

That’s more like it, Greg thought. Maybe he’d like to really be her boyfriend.

*

Kantrell Jamison was tired of sitting in jail. Kyle Serpentine, his pro bono lawyer, had promised he would get off. But now the trial had been suspended until the police could investigate the murder of a juror. Why couldn’t they just go ahead with an alternate juror? All he could think about was how he would spend his money. He had stashed the envelope containing the $30,000 in a place nobody would ever look: in a metal file box, buried under the house.

The Jamison’s 1946 home sat on concrete blocks that suspended the floor two-and-a-half feet above the ground. He and his sister, Jolee, had often played games under the house when they were children. It felt great on a breezy summer day. Kind of a poor man’s playhouse—with a low ceiling and a dirt floor.

And their mother could easily call them for dinner from any room in the house, since you could hear everything under there. If they didn’t come right away, a couple of stomps on the floor always did the trick. But you learned to stay out from under the bathroom.

Kantrell didn’t know much about the law. But he had seen the movie, Double Jeopardy. So, he knew the police wouldn’t be able to touch him after he was found ‘Not Guilty’—even if they caught him with all that cash.

A deputy escorted a very big black man to Kantrell’s cell. He looked like an NFL player, at 6′5″, 295 pounds. “You’ve got company, Kantrell,” said the deputy, as he unlocked the door. “This is Ben Jones.”

“They call me Big Ben.”

As the deputy closed the cell door, and locked it, Kantrell said, “No use in locking it, deputy—I think Big Ben could rip it off the hinges if he wanted to.” Kantrell’s smart mouth was always getting him into trouble.

*

According to the sign on the door, the office would be closing at 6:00 PM—in fifteen minutes. A younger woman named Jennifer was now sitting at the desk. Greg and Cynthia said hello, and began to pick out groceries. Bread, milk, peanut butter, two kinds of cereal, mustard, hot dogs, chips, a variety of soft drinks, plastic utensils, ice, a Styrofoam ice chest, two Dallas Cowboys T-shirts and two pairs of one-size-fits-all stretchy shorts.

Cynthia whispered to Greg, “How are we going to carry all of this stuff?”

He shrugged. “We’ll manage somehow.”

Jennifer bagged their purchases, while Cynthia made small talk. They paid in cash, and walked out—loaded down like pack mules for the long trek back to Cabin 17.

As soon as the door had closed behind them, Jennifer flipped open her cell phone, and entered the number she had written on the pad. Her thumb hovered over the ‘Send’ button. She wondered whether those two were really the fugitives she had seen on the news. They looked a lot like them. But what if she was wrong? That would be embarrassing. And the police weren’t offering a reward. So, why take a chance? They seemed like nice people. She closed her phone.

Greg and Cynthia walked down the dusty road with their groceries hanging from their bodies in plastic bags. Thankfully, the trees shielded them from the blazing sun. But the humidity was so high they might as well have been walking through a steam room.

“You think the killer’s still alive?”

Cynthia looked around for eavesdroppers, and then said softly, “Maybe we’d better talk about something else while we’re outside.”

She was right. They needed to look and sound like they were on a fishing vacation. Greg couldn’t remember the last time he’d been fishing. Maybe when he was a young teenager.

“I really like Johnny Depp—especially in those Pirates of the Caribbean movies,” said Cynthia.

“Yeah, he was good in those. I think he was funnier in the first one, though. But why does he have to wear so much eye makeup?”

They talked about movies and TV shows until they got back to their cabin. And nobody seemed to pay much attention to them as they walked by.

Greg started laughing. “Why did we buy hotdogs? We don’t have any way to cook them.”

“Yeah, that was dumb.”

“Of course, they’re actually pre-cooked. So, if you don’t mind eating them cold

“

“How about peanut butter and jelly for dinner tonight?”

“Sounds delicious. May I be your chef for the evening, Mademoiselle?”

“Why, yes, that would be delightful.”

“Very well. And may I also act as your maitre d’? I have a very special table for you.”

“Oh, really? I’m intrigued.”

Greg pulled one of the chairs out from under the little rickety table, and offered it to Cynthia. “Mademoiselle?”

Greg filled the ice chest with ice, drinks and the hotdogs. Then he used the plastic utensils to make their sandwiches. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Ruffles, and warm diet Coke. They were both so hungry from skipping lunch and taking a long walk that it tasted as good as filet mignon.

*

John X had been chasing Greg and Cynthia all day. And his old friends, caffeine and adrenalin, were beginning to fail him. Even a 25-year-old has to rest sometime. But he continued to push himself. He knew he was getting closer. By the time he found them, they would be sleeping. Then maybe he would take a brief nap himself. But he knew better. Finding them would re-energize him immediately. Just the thought of it made him feel stronger.

They would be so sorry they had caused his truck to wreck. They would wish they’d died in a car crash, as he had intended. That would have been an easier way to go. But now he would torture them. He wouldn’t get the extra $10,000 for making it an accident. But he didn’t care. This would be more fun.

He stopped at another convenience store. The old man behind the counter remembered seeing the Bonneville. John X jumped into the Mustang, and drove away. He could hardly wait to see the look on their faces when he whipped out his .44 Magnum.

The man in the black Camry gave John X plenty of lead time. It was more difficult at night, but there was less traffic now. And John X should have noticed that he was being trailed. But he was just too cocky. The man lit another cigarette and pulled onto the road.