Bicycle Shop Murder 9

It was 10:30 pm and Arabeth Albertson was sitting in her favorite chair, watching the local news. More road construction in Longview. She instinctively glanced over at Arty to see his reaction to the story. But Arty wasn’t in his chair, and had not been for some six years. Still, she couldn’t break the habit, and didn’t really want to. She liked to pretend he was still there, grimacing over some political candidate’s remarks or com­plaining about taxes or the weather.

Arty and Arabeth had only one child, which had been their plan. Arty had wanted that child to be a boy. His heart was set on having a son named Andy. So, when Arabeth found out she was having a girl, she suggested they go with the name Andie. One look at little Andie erased all of Arty’s disappointment. The fact that Andie turned out to be somewhat of a tomboy came as no surprise to anyone, considering all the fishing and athletics Arty had thrust upon her. She always wanted please her daddy, and she always did.

By the time Andie went off to college, she had grown into a very attractive young lady. Arty could not have been prouder. They had tried to hide their devastation when, soon after col­lege, Andie moved to Seattle with her new husband. It was always the highlight of their year when Andie and John and the kids visited at Christmas or during summer vacation. She prayed she would never get Alzheimer’s and lose her wonder­ful memories. There wouldn’t be much left to live for without them.

If the weatherman was right, tomorrow was going to be a sunny day. A nice day for a drive to the courthouse. A perfect day to make that smart-aleck lawyer look like a fool. She might have been old, but she knew what she had seen that night. And the killer was not going to get away with it!

Sam and Dorothy had been longtime friends to Arty and Arabeth. Andie had a ball working for Sam one summer, learn­ing how to fix bikes. She was 14 years old, and didn’t mind get­ting her hands greasy.

Arabeth was a member of the Neighborhood Watch group on her street. It was an older neighborhood and most of the citizens were over 65. But if a criminal thought he could take advantage of them just because of their age—he would be sadly mistaken. Most of their homes were equipped with alarm sys­tems. Many carried pepper spray and some even owned a gun. They had a slogan: If you’re not quite ready your Maker to meet, Then don’t come messing ’round Mulberry Street.

Jay Leno started his monologue. She clicked the remote to turn off the TV. Jay Leno and David Letterman were both humorous occasionally, but she preferred reading a book after the news. She was near the end of a good Mary Higgins Clark. Couldn’t wait to find out what was going to happen to the hero.

But, where was Marie? She should have been back at Ara­beth’s feet by now. Her old feline friend had a little passage­way at the bottom of the kitchen door, so she could go in and out as she pleased. But the cat never stayed out for very long. Arabeth realized that Marie had gone out just as the news was starting at 10:00. Then she heard a faint ‘meow’, which seemed to be coming from the back yard.

Arabeth grabbed her cane and walked through the kitchen to the back door. She could hear Marie clearly now. She turned on the back light and looked out the kitchen door window. She couldn’t see anything but the steps and part of the sidewalk. Maybe she should consider replacing that 40-watt bulb with something brighter. And the window needed to be washed.

She opened the door and could barely see Marie in the dis­tance, near a tree. The cat seemed to be trying to come to Ara­beth, but for some reason, she couldn’t. Maybe she had gotten herself tangled in a fallen branch. Arabeth rarely ventured into the back yard at night—but this was an emergency.

She began to make her way very carefully down the stairs with her cane. But when she lifted her left foot to take the sec­ond step down, it tripped on something. What was she tripping on—she had studied the stairs for any obstructions before starting down. She tried to catch herself, but it was too late. Down, down she went, as in slow motion. She held her breath, knowing that the impact of the sidewalk below would be bone-crushing. It was.

She felt something pop in her lower back. Her right knee­cap disintegrated into the concrete. Somehow, her head had avoided the pavement. A second later, she understood how. Her head had landed on her left arm, which felt like it was bro­ken in several places.

Now what would she do? There was nobody to help her. The neighbors were likely already asleep.

She saw a shadow. Then there was a dark figure leaning over her. The lone source of light, the 40-watt bulb, was at his back. An angel of mercy. She attempted to reach out to him, as though she would have been able to stand up if she just had a helping hand.

But instead of taking her hand, he placed his hands on the sides of her head. What was he doing? Then he pulled her head up off the sidewalk—higher and higher, until she thought her neck would break. He slowly turned her head to the side and then slammed it down on the concrete as hard as he could.

She felt excruciating pain, and then…nothing.