Bicycle Shop Murder 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 date whoever she wanted, surely it would not be Greg. She could get a younger, smarter, more handsome guy, with more money and…more everything.

But reality could not quell his imagination. If he tried hard enough, he could almost see Cynthia’s shadow kissing his. He could almost taste her sweet lips.

**********

Cynthia was so shaken by her dream that she was having trouble falling back to sleep. Nightmares occurred nearly every night—but none this intense. Her mind started wandering to Greg. She was surprised by her attraction to him. He was bald­ing, out of shape, and a few years older than her.

In spite of all that, an image formed clearly in her mind—the two of them in a loving embrace. She felt warm and safe in his arms. But how would she ever break free from her maniac husband?

Besides, how could Greg ever forgive her for what she had done? She sensed that his capacity for forgiveness was much greater than that of most people, but still…

She got out of bed and walked into the kitchen to get a glass of cold water from the fridge. It was refreshing. But then she realized that cool liquid flowing down into her body might only serve to exacerbate the insomnia. She needed to settle down and get to sleep soon in order to have any hopes of func­tioning normally the next day.

Business customers would not be impressed with a baggy-eyed banker. That woman looked like she was out partying all night, they might say. Is she a heavy drinker? Maybe I should take my business elsewhere.

She could not afford to jeopardize her career.

Cynthia decided to check on Troy. She would turn off the TV if he had already passed out. But she would go into the liv­ing room very quietly, in case he was just sleeping. She had made the mistake of waking him one time. He had called her every vile name known to man. The only thing worse than a drunken Troy was a prematurely-awakened drunken Troy.

It was rather dark in the living room, with the TV providing limited, uneven illumination. As she approached the back of his recliner, she noticed something lying on the floor. An object, next to his chair. She couldn’t quite make it out. As she inched her way closer, she could not take her eyes off the object. Maybe an apple slice or a crushed beer can or…the Bowie knife?

As she stepped to the side of his chair, she redirected her attention from the floor to Troy. The erratic lighting from a Law and Order episode revealed something streaming down Troy’s shirt. And his head was resting awkwardly on his chest.

Forgetting about her fear of waking him, Cynthia reached for the nearby light switch. She turned, and was horrified to see that the object on the floor was the Bowie knife—the bloody Bowie knife. Troy’s shirt looked as though someone had opened a can of red paint and thrown it at him. The thick, crim­son liq­uid flowed down his shirt, onto his pants, and into the fabric of the chair.

She called his name several times. But he didn’t move, and didn’t appear to be breathing. She pressed two fingers against the inside of his wrist. His skin felt cool. She could not feel a pulse. Who did this?

Then she realized the killer could still be in the house. She checked the kitchen door. It was locked. The front door was locked. But what about the windows? There was no sign that anything had been stolen or even disturbed. Why did someone want Troy dead? And did that same person want to kill her?

Cynthia ran to the bedroom, without considering that the killer might be waiting there. She grabbed her phone from the nightstand, flipped it open and started to call 911—then stopped. She called Greg instead.

“Hello?”

Cynthia was surprised that Greg sounded wide-awake. “I’m sorry for calling you at this hour, Greg.”

“Are you okay?”

“No—no, I’m not.”

“What did Troy do to you?” He could feel his anger build­ing.

“He’s dead.”

Greg had never felt such fear and elation at the same time. Such thankfulness, yet such guilt. Troy was out of the way. Great. They both wanted that. But not by killing him. Had Troy finally pushed her too far?

He must have beaten her up, and she couldn’t take it any­more. She might have had a gun hidden away in case this day ever came. She probably waited until he was in bed and sound asleep. Greg could picture the blood and brains splattered all over the bed and walls. He could also picture Cynthia in a prison uniform. NO!

“I’ll get there as fast as I can—but, you need to call the police right now, Cynthia.” Everybody knows that it always looks suspicious when you wait to call the police. Surely she could plead self-defense, considering the way Troy abused her. But she never told the police about the abuse. She only told her mother…and Greg. That could be a big problem.

“Okay. I will.”