Bicycle Shop Murder 41

It was 8:25 AM on Saturday morning, and Buford Bel­lowin’s cell phone was ringing. How he wished he had turned it off before going to sleep at 2:00 AM. The wife and the ser­vants would arrive by noon. He had hoped to sleep until 11:00. Through blurry vision, he could see it was Kyle Serpentine calling.

“Don’t you know it’s too early to be calling on a Saturday morning, Kyle?”

“Yes, Sir. Sorry about that. But I thought you would want to hear the news.”

You mean the terrible news about the death of Greg Tenorly and Cynthia Blockerman? he thought. “What news?”

“Kantrell Jamison is dead.”

“What? How’d that happened?”

“From what I understand, his cellmate pushed him, and he fell back and hit his head real hard. They took him to the emer­gency room. But he died during the night.”

Buford hoped Kyle couldn’t hear the smile in his voice. “That’s a shame.” Why couldn’t this have happened when the boy first went to jail?

“Yes, Sir, it is. I just found out about it a few minutes ago when his mother called me. And she asked me if Kantrell had said anything to me about the money.”

Buford cringed. “What money?”

“She said Kantrell had $30,000 hidden away somewhere. She’s desperate to find that money. I told her I didn’t know anything about it.”

“Were you telling her the truth?”

“Of course. I don’t know what she’s talking about. He didn’t tell me anything about any money. I hate to say it, Sir, but it sounds like somebody hired Kantrell to kill Sam Spo­kane. I guess he really was guilty after all.”

“That’s terrible. And here we were, trying save a poor young black man from the injustice of small-town discrimina­tion.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And it turns out he was a criminal.”

“But we tried to do something good, Sir.”

“Yes. We tried. Well, thanks for letting me know, Kyle. You did a good job with this trial. And I’ll remember you when I become governor. You can count on it.”

“Thank you, Sir.” That was all Kyle needed to hear. Look out, Austin, here I come, he thought.

Now Buford was wide-awake. Finally, all of the obstacles had been eliminated: Kantrell Jamison, Arabeth Albertson, Troy Blockerman, Dorothy Spokane, Marty Crumb, Greg Tenorly, Cynthia Blockerman, and, of course, Sam Spokane. Too bad so many people had to die. But, successful politicians are tough. They’re not afraid to do whatever it takes.

His troubles were over, and it was going to be a fantastic day. He would celebrate with a drink or two.

**********

“Dr. Huff? This is Greg. Sorry for calling you so early.”

He had not talked to the pastor since Wednesday. Dr. J. Marshall Huff was the pastor of First Baptist Church, and Greg’s part-time boss.

“Greg? What’s going on with you? We’ve been hearing a lot of stories. And then we saw on TV that you were wanted by the police.”

“I know. It’s been crazy. But I just wanted you to know that the things they’re saying are not true.”

“I didn’t think so.” There was not much certainty in Dr. Huff’s voice.

“The only thing I did wrong was to take Cynthia Blocker­man out of town. The D.A. had ordered her not to leave Corey­ville.”

“I see.”

“But there was a murderer on the loose, and she was in dan­ger. And so was I. The killer followed us, and yesterday he tried to kill us—twice.”

“Well, I heard that you shot a man.”

“I did. But it was self-defense. And he shot me in the arm. I was just trying to protect Cynthia.”

“I didn’t know you owned a gun, Greg.”

“I don’t. It wasn’t my gun.”

“And how did you get involved with this woman?”

Greg didn’t appreciate the pastor’s tone. “It’s kind of a long story. I’ll tell you all about it later. I just wanted to let you know I won’t be able to direct the music for tomorrow’s ser­vice.”

“I’ve already asked Henry to fill in.”

“And—one more thing. Do you know a good lawyer? I’m in jail, and this is my one phone call.”

**********

It was a lousy place to be, but at least Cynthia finally felt safe—in spite of the fact that two young hookers were staring at her from across the small cell.

“She’s getting a little old for this kind of work,” said Hooker #1.

“Nah. Some guys like ‘em older,” said Hooker #2.

“Or they’re too drunk to care.”

They both laughed.

“What do you think? She’s got to be at least 30.”

“But she still looks good. Check out the beautiful red hair.”

“Yeah. I guess guys would still want to do her.”

“Hey, I’d do her.”

They laughed even harder. One of them laughed until she went into a raging smoker’s cough.

Cynthia did feel safe. But her stomach was queasy. She nearly barfed on the floor—where someone else had apparently vomited a few hours earlier.

Just hang on, she thought. Surely, this will be over soon.

**********

As Buford walked to his study, he felt all-powerful. Nobody could stop him now. He poured himself a well-deserved shot of whiskey. Buford Bellowin, Governor of Texas. He loved the sound of it.

“Having a nice day, Buford?”

The familiar voice sent tremors throughout Buford’s body. The shot glass slipped through his fingers, and fell to the floor. He turned around to see Marty Crumb sitting in a chair, point­ing a pistol at Buford. “Marty?”

The pistol had a suppressor on it. Buford was ready for an adult diaper. And he knew that by the time Marty was finished with him, he’d be ready for a body bag.

“Yep, it’s me, Buford. What’s the matter? Didn’t expect to see me today? Or ever?”

“No, no. I just thought you’d be out fishing somewhere. You said it was all you dreamed of doing.”

“Yeah. Well, I had to put that off for a while. Had some unfinished business.”

“I see.”

“And, by the way, you’ll be happy to learn that Greg Tenorly and Cynthia Blockerman are alive and well—no thanks to you. And your young hit man is a doornail. Or, as dead as one, any­way.”

“I’m afraid I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Marty.”

Marty completely ignored Buford’s response. “Yeah, the stupid punk shot himself in the baby-maker. When I left him, he was bleeding to death.”

“Marty, I don’t even know who you’re talking about.”

“Right.” Marty stood. “Come over here, and sit down at your desk, Mr. Big Shot. I want you to be comfortable for this.”

You want me to be comfortable while you murder me? thought Buford. But wait—there’s a pistol in the top right drawer. Maybe if Marty looks away for a second…

“There you go. Just relax. I have something here you might be interested in.” Marty held up an envelope, and walked toward Buford. “Recognize the handwriting?” It read, ‘Open Upon My Death,’ and was signed by Sam Spokane.

“You were supposed to burn that letter.” Buford was both indignant and horrified.

“I almost did. But then I decided to wait—once I realized you were sending somebody to kill me.”

The career I’ve worked so hard to build, thought Buford, is crumbling before my eyes.

“And he nearly succeeded. He was a good shot, but a little too sure of himself. He put the bullet right in the center of my chest. But apparently he never considered I might be wearing a vest.”

Why did I try to save money? wondered Buford. I should have paid top dollar to get it done right.

“So, after I survived your Mr. John X, I decided it was time to read Sam Spokane’s letter. Then I knew why you wanted Kantrell Jamison to be acquitted. And now I know the biggest secret of all.”

Buford hung his head.

“That’s right. I know about the horrible thing you did back in 1988. It’s what you’ve been hiding all these years. But soon everybody in the world will know what a despicable human being you are.”

Buford’s anger was overtaking his fear. “So, what do you want from me?”

Marty pulled a chair to the side of Buford’s desk, and sat down. “I want you to tell me the entire story in your own words.”

“Why? So you can record it, and send it to the press?”

“No. I’m not gonna record it. I just want the satisfaction of hearing you admit what you did.”

“And if I refuse?”

Marty raised his gun, and held it within three feet of Buford’s head. “I don’t plan to kill you today, Buford. As long as you do what I say. Now, you will tell me what happened in 1988. And you will not leave out any of the gory details.”