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Book online «Bicycle Shop Murder by Robert Burton Robinson (fiction novels to read .TXT) đŸ“–Â». Author Robert Burton Robinson



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head in. “We have a visitor tonight.” Margery was the church organist and the official choir rehearsal greeter for the month.

It was so unusual to have visitors at choir rehearsal. Greg constantly sought recruits, but rarely found any. “Great.” Immediately, his attention went back to the screen. He wanted to finish up, so he could go home right after rehearsal. He was worn out from a day of arguing with fellow jurors.

“Her name is Cynthia.”

It took a couple of seconds to sink in. Greg looked up, but Margery was already gone. No. It couldn’t be her. But what if it was? Why would she come to choir rehearsal? He was usually relaxed at rehearsals. It was his favorite time of the week. But now he felt tense, and he wondered if it would show. It had to be some other Cynthia.

As he walked into the choir room, he pretended to be organizing his music and paperwork. He stepped up to his music stand, and said, “Let’s have a word of prayer, and then we’ll get started.

Lord, we thank you for this time to come together to sing your praises. Please help us as we prepare for Sunday, that our singing will bring glory and honor to you. Amen.”

He looked up, and his eyes were immediately drawn to the middle of the alto section. By her gorgeous red hair.

“Uh, everyone, I would like to introduce—”, Margery read it from a card, “Cynthia Blockerman. Cynthia visited our services a couple of times, and says she was impressed with the choir, and wanted to give us a try.”

They were all so pleased, talking among themselves. Some of them, no doubt, were commenting on her beauty.

Margery continued. “So, Cynthia—we hope you enjoy singing with us and will consider joining the choir. No pressure, though.”

Everybody laughed. It was exhilarating to feel that the choir might be growing for a change.

Greg hoped his smile didn’t look the way it felt: nervous. “Yes, we’re so glad you came tonight, Cynthia. And we hope we won’t scare you off.”

One of the men quipped, “Well, Harry might scare her off.”

Greg usually joked around with the choir a good bit, so tonight should not be any different. “Yeah, Harry—don’t tell any of your corny jokes tonight, okay?” Before the laughter and talking died down, he said, “Alright. Enough goofing off. Take your “When I Survey” and open to page three, the pickup to bar 24. Margery—lead us in, beginning at bar 22.”

The rehearsal went surprisingly well. Greg could hear Cynthia singing. She did have a very nice alto voice. But what a weird day.

Several choir members stayed for a while to visit with Cynthia. Greg had stepped into his office to make some final edits to the Order of Service. Margery offered to walk Cynthia out to her car, but Cynthia wanted to stay and talk to Greg. So, Margery said goodbye. Everybody else had already gone home.

“Greg, could I talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure, come on in.” He stood and offered Cynthia the same chair she sat in on Monday. Was that really just two days ago?

“Troy’s getting worse.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I hope I didn’t upset you—showing up here tonight without warning.”

“No, not at all. I was a little surprised.”

“I loved singing in high school choir and then for a few semesters in college. I was curious to see whether I still had it. I used to be good.”

“I heard you tonight. You sounded very good. And you were learning your part quickly.”

“Thanks. But I have to admit that one of the reasons I came was to get out of the house. Troy thought I was joking when I told him where I was going. But at least he didn’t try to stop me. Maybe by the time I get home he will have already passed out.”

“He drinks until he’s unconscious?”

“Yeah. A lot of nights, he doesn’t even come to bed. When I get up the next morning I find him slumped over in his chair. I don’t know how he manages to go to work. But I’ve got to figure out a way to leave him.”

“So, you’ve made up your mind?”

“I have to. I just can’t take it anymore. Sometimes I wish he would just die. That when I find him in the morning, he’d be dead.”

Neither one of them had noticed Margery walking through the choir room to Greg’s open door. “Sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to let y’all know that the street light is out. So, if you have a flashlight, you’d better use it to get to your car. I tripped and nearly fell.”

“Are you okay, Margery?” Greg was concerned about Margery’s health. But of greater concern: how much did she hear?

Chapter 15

Cynthia had braced herself for what was coming. It was 10:00 PM, and what did she think she was doing staying out so late? Had she been whoring around? But she didn’t care what Troy said tonight. It was worth it. And she discovered that she could still sing, and it was so much fun.

He would throw a fit if she told him she wanted to go every Wednesday night and every Sunday morning. But he was going to yell about something. Might as well be something she cared about.

Sports Center was just starting, and Troy seemed more interested in watching baseball highlights than in hassling her. Maybe he just didn’t have the energy to abuse his wife tonight.

She decided to say as little as possible. “Hi.”

“Yeah, whatever. Hope you had fun,” Troy said in his typical sarcastic tone. “From now on, you need to get your butt home at a decent time. I’m not gonna put up with you running all over town for half the night!” He already had a stack of empties mounting beside his recliner. Now he was eating some crackers, cheese and an apple—a fairly healthy snack, except for the beer he was washing it down with.

He liked to use his Bowie knife while sitting in front of the TV. The eight-inch blade was so sharp that cutting an apple was like slicing through warm Jell-O. But the most fun he had with the knife was pointing it at Cynthia while screaming obscenities. That really freaked her out. He loved it. So, he kept it on his TV tray throughout the night, ready to go.

Cynthia walked through the hallway and into the bedroom. She closed the door and hoped it would remain closed until morning. If she were lucky this would be a night spent alone. He seemed well on the way to passing out in his chair.

She preferred showering at night. Although, if Troy decided it was a good night for sex, she would shower again. She couldn’t wait to get his smell off of her. The love she once had for him was gone.

The bathroom was one place she had been able to maintain a sense of privacy. And the shower was her favorite place to think. It was nice-sized, complete with massage showerhead and built-in bench. She would sometimes sit and relax in her steamy refuge for thirty minutes or more. As she rubbed the soapy bar of Caress onto her wet, smooth body, she imagined how it would feel to be touched by the hands of a loving man—someone the exact opposite of Troy. She longed for a relationship of mutual respect, honesty, and love. She deserved a better life.

*

The man in the black pickup checked his watch: 10:25 PM. His truck was similar to the many Fords and Chevy’s parked in driveways and along the street. His cell rang.

“Yeah?”

“Marty, where have you been? I’ve been calling you for hours.”

“My phone died. I had to recharge it.”

“So, what’s happening with the trial?”

“By the end of the day, the vote was 9 to 3, ‘Guilty.’”

“What? You’re in charge of this thing, Marty. You’ve got to get this kid off. Put more pressure on Cynthia Blockerman. That redheaded bombshell can turn Greg Tenorly into a superman in that jury room if she tries hard enough! Make her sleep with him!”

“Don’t worry, Boss—I’ve got it under control,” Marty said with calm confidence.

“I’m warning you. If you don’t get this done for me, you’ll be sorry.” Buford hung up.

Marty raised his binoculars. Troy would be ready in a couple of hours.

*

Cynthia had somehow learned to sleep with a drunk, knife-wielding lunatic in the house. But it was not a good sleep. She often had terrible nightmares.

Something woke her at 2:27 AM. The TV was still on in the living room. More than likely, Troy had passed out by now. She stepped into the hallway and walked to the kitchen for a drink of cold water from the fridge. She could hear what sounded like an infomercial. Troy must be out cold. He hated infomercials.

Walking into the living room as quietly as she could, she slipped up behind his chair. He was definitely out—leaning back, head falling to one side, drooling and snoring. There was an empty Ritz cracker sleeve, an apple core

and the knife, lying on his TV tray in front of him.

Cynthia reached slowly, carefully for the knife. Had he really passed out, or was he merely sleeping? It took a large volume of alcohol to knock out this hulking guy. Her pulse was pounding in her head. Could a woman her age have a stroke?

How she hated the knife she was holding in her hand. But he would never again threaten her with it. She positioned the razor-sharp edge just millimeters from his exposed neck. One quick stroke across the jugular would end her nightmares. He would never curse at her again. Never push her down or hit her.

Her brain fast-forwarded. She looked down. Her hands were dripping red onto the beige carpet. The knife in her hand was covered with blood. Had she cut herself?

Then she looked at Troy. He began to convulse in his chair as blood pumped out of the gash in his neck. The blood from his brain was flowing down his chest instead of back to his heart.

She stood in shock for what could have been minutes or just seconds, as the gushing of blood began to diminish. He quit bleeding. Yes, because he’s dead! Your husband is dead—and YOU KILLED HIM! She dropped the knife on the floor. An ice-cold chill shot through her body, making her shiver violently.

The nightmares were getting too real. She rolled over in bed and tried to go back to sleep.

Chapter 16

Greg had forgotten to close his bedroom window blinds. And after a couple of hours of sleeplessness, his mind began to play tricks on him. The streetlight projected its beams through tree branches, leaves and power lines, forming interesting shapes on the wall across from the window. The longer he studied them, the more fascinating they became.

How could he go to sleep and miss the rest of the show? One shadow looked like Cynthia. The tall, slim body. And there he was, standing in front of her, complete with protruding belly. He must go on a diet. It looked like they were talking. He tried to imagine what they were saying. He had been starring at that wall for way too long.

Cynthia was a beautiful, sexy, intelligent, caring woman. And she seemed to really like him. But, Number 1: she was married. Unhappily married, for sure. But still—married. Number 2: If she ever divorced her husband and was free to

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