Bicycle Shop Murder 17

Greg got dressed in record time, started to rush out the door, and froze—one hand on the doorknob, the other on the light switch. Every cell in his body was screaming rescue Cyn­thia. He wanted to run to her, take her in his arms, and hold her until the darkness passed.

But he must not get to her house before the police. He paced the floor, looking at his watch every twenty or thirty seconds, forcing himself to wait fifteen minutes.

It was a five-minute drive to Cynthia’s house. He stayed well below the speed limit, still not certain he had waited long enough. He barely knew her. Three meetings and a few short phone conversations. Why did he feel so drawn to her? Was she feeling it too?

As he turned the corner onto her street, he could see three patrol cars and a couple of black sedans in front of her house. Good. But maybe he shouldn’t be seen there at all. What was his connection to Cynthia Blockerman? Why had she called him? He decided to drive by her house and come back after the police were gone.

Headlights were coming toward him from the opposite end of the street. He could pull into someone’s driveway and turn around. No, that would be too obvious. Better to drive by. After all, he was just a Coreyville citizen out for an evening cruise. Yeah, at 3:15 in the morning.

The other car stopped in front Cynthia’s house. As Greg was approaching, a woman got out of the car. It was Angela Ham­merly—the District Attorney! She looked directly at Greg as he passed.

Greg panicked. He nearly jammed on the accelerator, but caught himself. What if the D.A. had recognized him? What if she thought Greg and Cynthia were having an affair? Motive. Why hadn’t he thought this through before driving to her house?

This could make quite a scandal. By day, two men serving on a jury, arguing angrily. By night, one man having an affair with the other man’s wife, conspiring to knock off the husband. Oh, what a mess. He could be charged in connection with the murder, and even if acquitted, he would lose his church job and probably all of his private music students.

**********

I was nearly 4:30 AM when Greg’s cell rang.

“Cynthia?”

“Greg, where are you?”

“I’m sorry. I’m at home. I drove to your house, but then I saw all the cars, and thought I’d better stay away.”

“I know. The policemen and a detective and a crime scene investigator and even the D.A. were all over the house. It’s good that you didn’t stop. I don’t know what I was thinking, asking you to come. And they’re still there. But, they let me leave. I’m on my way to the Holiday Inn. I couldn’t stay at the house. I may never be able to go back there again.”

“Cynthia, I’m afraid the D.A. saw me when I drove by.”

“You think she recognized you?”

“I don’t know, but she might have recognized my car. It’s the only one like it in town, you know. And if she suspects that we’re having an affair, she might figure we plotted to kill Troy.”

“An affair? Would she think that?”

“I don’t know, but it’s going to be hard to look her in the eye tomorrow if I pass her in the hallway.”

“I don’t think you’ll need to be at the courthouse tomorrow. I overheard her say she was planning to ask the judge to post­pone jury deliberations until this murder can be fully investi­gated. I guess she wants to make sure Troy wasn’t killed because he was a juror.”

“But, I thought that you…”

“What? You thought I killed Troy?”

“Well, you didn’t say, and I thought he was beating you, and you were just protecting yourself.”

“No. I got up at about 2:30 to get a drink of water and found him dead in the living room. Somebody cut his throat with his own knife. I was terrified when I found him—trying to compre­hend that he was really dead, and then realizing the killer could still be in the house.”

“Cynthia, I’m so sorry you had to go through this. I wish I could have helped you in some way.”

“You did. And you’re helping me right now. Just talking to you makes me feel better.”

“Good.”

“Okay, I’m pulling up to the hotel. I’m going to try to get some rest. Talk to you tomorrow, Greg. Bye.”

“Goodbye, Cynthia.”

**********

Mark Myers had investigated numerous murder cases throughout his career in Fort Worth. But by age 55, he was feeling the burnout. He took an early retirement and moved to Coreyville. His mother and his sister lived there, so it had been an easy decision. But after a year of trying to enjoy fishing and golfing, he heard there was an opening for a detective, and couldn’t resist. After all, he was still a relatively young man.

Angela Hammerly didn’t mind getting out of bed in the middle of the night to go to the scene of a murder. Two mur­ders in one year—wow. Coreyville averaged only one murder every five years.

“So, what do you think happened here, Mark?”

“There are no signs of forced entry. So, that makes the wife the prime suspect. And, although she didn’t strike me as some­one who would do this—look at that pile of beer cans—on a Wednesday night.

“So, you’ve got a husband who gets drunk every night. Then he starts cursing and beating up on the wife. She puts up with it night after night. Finally, she’s had enough. She waits until he’s passed out, grabs his knife, one quick slice, and her misery is over.”

“Okay, that makes sense,” said Angela.

“Or, she’s having an affair. She wants out of the marriage, but the husband says he’ll come after her if she tries to leave. He’ll track her down like a dog and cut her body into a hundred pieces after he tortures her. So, she waits until he’s good and drunk, lets the boyfriend in, and he does the deed. But if so, they blew it—they should have made it look like a home inva­sion.”

“Yeah. So, she probably did it herself.”

“That would be my guess—unless the CSI comes up with something. Should we pick her up?”

“No, not tonight. We’ll bring her in tomorrow. She’s not going anywhere.”