Bicycle Shop Murder 30

Greg and Cynthia had been on the road for about an hour. They had opted for a scenic route back to Coreyville. But not for the scenery—for the safety. Hopefully they could avoid the killer by taking Highway 80.

“Maybe we should switch to smaller roads,” said Greg.

“Fine with me.”

“We could get off Highway 80 at Wills Point, and go north on FM-47. Then we could travel east, through Emory, Quitman and Gilmer. It’ll take longer to get home, but I think it’s worth it.”

“Sounds good.”

Cynthia was so agreeable, Greg thought—especially to the eyes. He was trying to be a caring friend—and nothing more. But he was barely able to maintain the facade hiding his over­whelming urge to hold her in his arms. She had not even buried her husband yet. It was improper, and maybe even immoral to think of Cynthia in romantic terms. But he had no control over what his heart wanted. At best, he could control his actions. He could not control his feelings.

Greg didn’t believe in ‘love at first sight,’ but he knew that every time he had fallen in love, there had been a spark at first sight. Some magical attraction. It might go away after getting to know the woman. But if it wasn’t there at their first encoun­ter, he knew it never would be. There had definitely been a spark with Cynthia. More like a bonfire.

Cynthia said, “How can you teach piano without being a pianist?”

That question was out of the blue, Greg thought. Maybe she was trying to think about something besides the fact that they were running from a murderer. Seemed like a good idea.

“I was a vocal major in college, but I also took two years of secondary piano. So, I know how to play scales in all of the keys, the correct fingering, dynamics, pedaling, and so on.”

“And that’s enough to be able to teach piano?”

“Beginner and intermediate. I send advanced students else­where. Of course, I’m most comfortable teaching voice or music theory.”

“And you also teach guitar, don’t you?”

“Yeah. I started playing guitar when I was 13. Stayed up until after midnight every night.”

“How’d you have time for homework?”

“I didn’t. I nearly failed the eighth grade. But I got some great calluses.”

“On your hands?”

“Fingertips.” Greg showed her his left hand. “Feel them.”

Cynthia inspected his fingertips, rubbing one of them with her fingers. Then she tapped on one with a fingernail. It was hard and smooth, like the cap of an expensive ballpoint pen. “Weird.”

“Yeah. But you’ve got to have them if you want to play well. It’s like a trumpet player developing his lips.”

As soon as he had said the word ‘lips’, his eyes automati­cally zeroed in on hers. And in his mind, he held her in his arms and kissed her more passionately than she had ever been kissed.

**********

Andrea Newly didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news. Especially when it had to be delivered to Angela Hammerly. She had already made a couple of big mistakes since becoming Assistant District Attorney. This might be counted as strike three. “We’ve got a problem.”

“What is it, Andrea?” Angela’s mood was not good. And it was about to get worse.

“First thing this morning I called the sheriff and expressed my concern that Cynthia Blockerman might try to leave town.”

“Good.”

“And that if she did, she might be traveling with Greg Tenorly. I asked him to have his men be on the lookout.”

“Good idea.”

“Thanks. But thirty minutes later he called me back to tell me that one of his officers stopped Greg yesterday for an expired inspection sticker. He was on his way out of town.”

“Was Cynthia with him?” Angela’s eyes were firing up.

“He told the officer that the young lady traveling with him was his niece. And that he was taking her to Kilgore College. The officer didn’t get a close look at her, but he said she had red hair and a lot of freckles. He described her as ‘Cute.’”

“Have you tried calling Cynthia Blockerman?”

“Several times. She didn’t answer at her hotel room, her house, or her cell.”

“Did you send the police to look for her?”

“Yes. They checked her house and the hotel.”

“What about Greg Tenorly?”

“They couldn’t find him either.”

“Did they go to his music studio? The church?”

“Yes. And the police are asking everyone around town if they’ve seen either of them today. But so far, nobody has.”

“This is getting out of control. We’ve got two, maybe three, unsolved murders. And now our prime suspects in one of the cases have gone—who knows where. Let’s put out an APB on those two. And contact the local TV stations. If the police don’t spot them, maybe a citizen will.”

**********

As organist for First Baptist Church, Margery Allen should have kept the information to herself. But it was burning a hole in her gossip pocket. She stopped by Jane’s Diner, and could hardly wait for Jane to bring her coffee. When business was light, as it was now, Jane would often sit down and chat with Margery for a while.

“Did you hear about Greg Tenorly?”

Jane looked concerned as she sat down in the booth with Margery. “What happened?”

“He ran off with Cynthia Blockerman. She’s a vice presi­dent at the bank. You know—the redhead. The one who’s sus­pected of slashing her husband’s throat.”

“That doesn’t sound like Greg.”

“Well, have you seen him today?”

“Uh, no. But he doesn’t come in for breakfast every day.”

“Really? When’s the last time he didn’t?”

“Okay. Yeah, he comes by just about every morning.”

“Well, Wednesday night, she was at choir practice. And I overheard her tell Greg that she wished her husband was dead.”

“Oh, no.”

“Yeah. Of course, at the time I didn’t think she was serious. But now the police are looking for both of them. They think he might be involved in the murder.”

“I can’t believe that about Greg. He would never do any­thing like that.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so either. But then, I couldn’t have pictured him running off with that redhead either.”

**********

John X was following Greg and Cynthia on Highway 80, staying a couple of miles behind them. The tracking device was working perfectly, so there was no reason to get any closer until he was ready to strike. It would take at least another hour-and-a-half to get to Coreyville, whatever route they took. But if they stayed on Highway 80 all the way, it would be trickier to make it look like an accident. He was still hoping they would get off 80 and take a smaller road. A two-lane road, with no divider, and few witnesses.

He couldn’t believe his luck when he saw Greg exit High­way 80, and take FM-47. It was a smaller road, probably two-lane, he thought. It was time to move in. He increased his speed enough to close the gap, but not enough to attract a state trooper. As he turned onto FM-47, he passed a Wal-Mart truck going the opposite direction. This will be perfect, he thought.

He would gradually get closer to Greg and Cynthia. Then he would watch for an 18-wheeler coming toward them. If his timing was just right, he could pull up on their right side and force their car into the path of the oncoming truck. They would be dead. He would be $35,000 richer.

Then he could collect his cash from Buford, and go home to his fancy townhouse, his Jaguar, and his video games. There was no wife, no girlfriend waiting for him. He didn’t trust any­body enough to let them get that close. Hookers were always an option. He could certainly afford them. He had tried it a couple of times, but didn’t enjoy it because even that was too intimate for him.

But he didn’t really need sex anyway. He got off on killing people. A warm gun was his greatest aphrodisiac.

He popped the glove box and stored his PDA. He no longer needed it for this job. He was close enough to see the big, red Bonneville. He eased in gradually, until he was fifty yards behind them. There were no other vehicles in sight. He would hold his position, and wait for an 18-wheeler of death.

If he was extra lucky, it might even be a tanker truck, filled with something combustible. With a direct hit, the car might get pushed down the road for a while. Then maybe the truck would jackknife and explode. That would eliminate his two marks, as well as the truck driver/witness.