Bicycle Shop Murder, Robert Burton Robinson [early reader books .TXT] 📗

Cynthia had braced herself for what was coming. It was 10:00 PM, and what did she think she was doing staying out so late? Had she been whoring around? But she didn’t care what Troy said tonight. It was worth it. And she discovered that she could still sing, and it was so much fun.

He would throw a fit if she told him she wanted to go every Wednesday night and every Sunday morning. But he was going to yell about something. Might as well be something she cared about.

Sports Center was just starting, and Troy seemed more interested in watching baseball highlights than in hassling her. Maybe he just didn’t have the energy to abuse his wife tonight.

She decided to say as little as possible. “Hi.”

“Yeah, whatever. Hope you had fun,” Troy said in his typical sarcastic tone. “From now on, you need to get your butt home at a decent time. I’m not gonna put up with you running all over town for half the night!” He already had a stack of empties mounting beside his recliner. Now he was eating some crackers, cheese and an apple—a fairly healthy snack, except for the beer he was washing it down with.

He liked to use his Bowie knife while sitting in front of the TV. The eight-inch blade was so sharp that cutting an apple was like slicing through warm Jell-O. But the most fun he had with the knife was pointing it at Cynthia while screaming obscenities. That really freaked her out. He loved it. So, he kept it on his TV tray throughout the night, ready to go.

Cynthia walked through the hallway and into the bedroom. She closed the door and hoped it would remain closed until morning. If she were lucky this would be a night spent alone. He seemed well on the way to passing out in his chair.

She preferred showering at night. Although, if Troy decided it was a good night for sex, she would shower again. She couldn’t wait to get his smell off of her. The love she once had for him was gone.

The bathroom was one place she had been able to maintain a sense of privacy. And the shower was her favorite place to think. It was nice-sized, complete with massage showerhead and built-in bench. She would sometimes sit and relax in her steamy refuge for thirty minutes or more. As she rubbed the soapy bar of Caress onto her wet, smooth body, she imagined how it would feel to be touched by the hands of a loving man—someone the exact opposite of Troy. She longed for a relationship of mutual respect, honesty, and love. She deserved a better life.

*

The man in the black pickup checked his watch: 10:25 PM. His truck was similar to the many Fords and Chevy’s parked in driveways and along the street. His cell rang.

“Yeah?”

“Marty, where have you been? I’ve been calling you for hours.”

“My phone died. I had to recharge it.”

“So, what’s happening with the trial?”

“By the end of the day, the vote was 9 to 3, ‘Guilty.’”

“What? You’re in charge of this thing, Marty. You’ve got to get this kid off. Put more pressure on Cynthia Blockerman. That redheaded bombshell can turn Greg Tenorly into a superman in that jury room if she tries hard enough! Make her sleep with him!”

“Don’t worry, Boss—I’ve got it under control,” Marty said with calm confidence.

“I’m warning you. If you don’t get this done for me, you’ll be sorry.” Buford hung up.

Marty raised his binoculars. Troy would be ready in a couple of hours.

*

Cynthia had somehow learned to sleep with a drunk, knife-wielding lunatic in the house. But it was not a good sleep. She often had terrible nightmares.

Something woke her at 2:27 AM. The TV was still on in the living room. More than likely, Troy had passed out by now. She stepped into the hallway and walked to the kitchen for a drink of cold water from the fridge. She could hear what sounded like an infomercial. Troy must be out cold. He hated infomercials.

Walking into the living room as quietly as she could, she slipped up behind his chair. He was definitely out—leaning back, head falling to one side, drooling and snoring. There was an empty Ritz cracker sleeve, an apple core

and the knife, lying on his TV tray in front of him.

Cynthia reached slowly, carefully for the knife. Had he really passed out, or was he merely sleeping? It took a large volume of alcohol to knock out this hulking guy. Her pulse was pounding in her head. Could a woman her age have a stroke?

How she hated the knife she was holding in her hand. But he would never again threaten her with it. She positioned the razor-sharp edge just millimeters from his exposed neck. One quick stroke across the jugular would end her nightmares. He would never curse at her again. Never push her down or hit her.

Her brain fast-forwarded. She looked down. Her hands were dripping red onto the beige carpet. The knife in her hand was covered with blood. Had she cut herself?

Then she looked at Troy. He began to convulse in his chair as blood pumped out of the gash in his neck. The blood from his brain was flowing down his chest instead of back to his heart.

She stood in shock for what could have been minutes or just seconds, as the gushing of blood began to diminish. He quit bleeding. Yes, because he’s dead! Your husband is dead—and YOU KILLED HIM! She dropped the knife on the floor. An ice-cold chill shot through her body, making her shiver violently.

The nightmares were getting too real. She rolled over in bed and tried to go back to sleep.