Bicycle Shop Murder 20

Greg checked his watch as he walked into the lobby of the Holiday Inn. Nearly 11:00 AM. He was afraid everyone would be watching him.

The desk clerk was talking to a couple who were checking out. A housekeeper was cleaning up the stale pastries and other remains of the breakfast bar. Three or four late risers were reading the paper and drinking coffee. Two men in suits were sitting at a small table, doing business over a laptop.

Nobody seemed to notice Greg. But he should have picked up Cynthia at the back door. They should be keeping a low pro­file. There was a killer somewhere in Coreyville.

The elevator doors opened as Greg was passing by. He instinctively took a quick glance, and saw a creepy little man standing alone in the elevator, staring at him. Greg repri­manded himself for judging the man by his appearance.

Then he had a chilling thought: what if it was the killer? Greg tried to calm himself. The man was probably a wonderful husband and grandfather, but he was the scariest looking person Greg had ever seen. He just wanted to get Cynthia and get out of town in a hurry.

He located Room 112 and knocked. The light showing through the peephole went dark and Greg knew Cynthia was looking at him. When she opened the door, he was surprised that she was dressed only in a slip.

“I’m sorry I’m not ready yet, but I just got here two min­utes ago.”

“That’s okay.” Greg tried to hide the fact that he was freak­ing out. He might have just passed the killer in the hall. “Why don’t you wear something casual? You know—clothes you wouldn’t normally wear on a workday. Maybe then nobody will recognize you.”

“Yeah, good idea.”

“‘Because if the police catch you leaving town they might arrest you.”

“That’s a happy thought.” Why was this happening to her? Cynthia’s life had been uncomplicated a week ago. Working at the bank by day, being abused at home by night. An uncompli­cated life, but certainly not a good life.

“Don’t worry—you won’t get caught. Here—this will help.” Greg had a Texas Rangers cap in his hand. He tossed it on the bed next to her suitcase.

“Good. I’ll put my hair up. Try to look like a guy.”

Her figure was slender, yet curvy in just the right places. “You could never look like a guy,” Greg said, smiling.

Cynthia returned the smile, slightly embarrassed.

How could she not know how beautiful she is? Her mod­esty made her even more beautiful.

She selected some items from her suitcase, picked up the baseball cap, and walked into the bathroom. “Give me five minutes.”

Was he helping Cynthia escape from danger or putting her life in greater jeopardy? He wasn’t sure. But if she was with him, he could do his best to protect her. But how would he protect her? He didn’t have a gun or any other weapon. And he was not much of a fighter.

She stepped out of the bathroom, wearing white walking shoes, pink shorts and a pink and white tank top. Greg was amazed at her long, lovely legs.

Cynthia seemed gratified by Greg’s reaction to her appear­ance. However, if he had kept his eyes on her legs for one more second, he would have gone from admirer to gawker. She had pulled her hair back into two small pigtails and topped it off with Greg’s baseball cap.

Her makeup was gone, revealing a face full of freckles. Greg wouldn’t have recognized her. She looked almost tom­boyish—except for those legs. She also looked much younger. Great, he thought—except that people might think he was a dirty old man, having a fling with an under-aged girl. Or they might think she was his daughter. He didn’t know which was worse. Ah, Thursday—a good day to feel old.

“Why don’t you wait for me at the back door, and I’ll drive around and pick you up. The fewer people who see us together, the better.”

“Okay.”

She walked down the hallway, toward the back of the hotel. He headed in the opposite direction.

Greg wanted to run through the lobby and out the door as fast as he could, but he forced himself to walk at a normal pace, so as not to draw any special attention. In fifteen minutes, he and Cynthia would be safely out of town. Once they were on the highway, Greg’s blood pressure might return to normal. There was nobody in the parking lot except a family, busy loading suitcases into their car.

He got into the Bonneville and drove around to the back of the hotel. But the car was just so big and so red. It was like driving a car with a huge billboard on top of it that said Look everybody, here’s Greg Tenorly leaving town with Cynthia Block­erman. It was the first time he wished he still had his old beige sedan. Cynthia walked out, get in the car, and they drove away.

Nobody was in the back parking lot. Nobody saw Greg and Cynthia drive off together—except the man standing at the end of the second floor hallway, looking out the window.

He dropped his cigarette butt on the floor and ground it deep into the carpet fibers with his dusty, black shoe. No civi­lized person would do that. But then, he was not civilized.

He walked to his room, picked up a cell phone and called Buford. “Looks like Greg and Cynthia are leaving town.”

“I told you that your job is done.” Buford was about to tell Marty not to ever call him again, but then he saw the opportu­nity. “I’m sorry. Thanks for the information, Marty. Hey, would you mind doing me a favor and wait there, and let me know when Cynthia returns to the hotel?”

“She may not be coming back.”

“That’s okay. Just wait there for a couple of days. Okay?”

“You’re the boss.”

“Thanks.”

Marty knew Buford was up to something. Buford was skilled in the art of deception, but Marty was a master. And he knew in his gut that the killer was about to become the target.