Bicycle Shop Murder
1 - THE REDHEAD
A beautiful, sexy redhead sat across from Greg Tenorly. He was nervous about the closed door, but she had insisted. The slightest hint of impropriety would spark a blaze of rumors.
Greg tried to concentrate on her story. But his mind wandered to his 34-year-old receding hairline and bulging stomach. The part-time music minister had been feeling good about himself ten minutes ago. Time to start exercising again.
“I grew up in Marshall. Graduated from East Texas State, and got a job at a bank in Greenville. Three years ago, I moved here so I could be closer to Mom. She still lives in Marshall. I met Troy at a high school football game. He was fun, down-to-earth. We’ve been married for two years.”
Cynthia Blockerman was a vice president at First State Bank, yet only in her late 20’s. She certainly looked the part, dressed in an expensive brown business suit, matching shoes and tasteful jewelry. And her shoulder-length hair was the kind you only see in shampoo commercials. Greg felt underdressed in his faded golf shirt, baggy slacks, and generic running shoes.
“Everything was fine for the first six months or so. But I guess he was just playing the part of a good husband. Then I started to see his real personality. As soon as he gets home from work, he goes straight for the beer. By nine, there’s a pile of cans next to his recliner, and he’s calling me names, and throwing things.
“Sometimes he hits me. He did it one time before we got married, but he said he was so sorry. And even broke down and cried. He promised he’d never do it again.”
“Is there anything in particular you say or do that seems to set him off?” It was a dumb question, but the only one he could think of.
“No. It doesn’t matter. I can be extra sweet, or mean, or just ignore him. He still gets mad and crazy. I don’t know what to do. I want to leave him, but I’m afraid he’ll come after me.”
Greg could already hear the voice of Daniel Duretsky, Channel 7 Eyewitness News.
A friend says that the husband had threatened to kill her if she called the police. So, she moved out of the house while he was at work. But he found her apartment, kicked down the door and brutally stabbed her 57 times. His family says he’s a hard worker and a good husband. They can’t believe he would do something like this.
Greg had no business acting as a marriage counselor. His own marriage had failed five years ago. And he shouldn’t have even been at the church—it was Monday, his day off. But he couldn’t just turn her away.
“Could you give me a couple of days to think about this, and try to come up with some ideas for you? I know it’s tough when you’re dealing with this every day, but…”
“Sure. That’s fine. I’d really appreciate any help you could give me.”
“But don’t you want to talk to the pastor about this? He’s had a lot more experience—”
“—okay, please don’t take this the wrong way.” She leaned in, and spoke more softly. “But Dr. Huff seems a little too judgmental. I like him. His messages are very good. But I thought you’d be more understanding. And not make me feel like it was all my fault.
“A lot of times, men, and even women, treat me differently because of my looks and my job. They think: What could she possibly have to complain about? Anyway, I was right. You are a compassionate, understanding man.”
Greg felt his face starting to turn red. “Thank you.”
She checked her watch. ”I’ve got to get back to the bank.”
Greg was walking her to the door, when she turned, and moved toward him. Surely she hadn’t intended to get quite that close. She would step back a little. Wouldn’t she? But as he stood paralyzed, she leaned in even closer. Their lips were nearly touching. Her eyes were a shade of blue he’d never seen before.
“Thank you so much, Greg. You don’t know how much it helps, just to have someone like you to talk to.”
“You haven’t told anybody else?”
He needed to move back, yet he didn’t want to offend her. But if one of the church members could see the two of them standing that close in his office, with the door closed—what would they think? God could see. But he could also see Greg’s pure heart. At least he hoped it still looked pure.
“The only other person who knows is my mother. I don’t have any brothers or sisters. And I wouldn’t dare tell anyone at the bank.”
As he felt her warm, sweet breath passing through his nostrils, and deep into his lungs, his pulse began to race. He was not doing anything wrong. Yet he was about to have a heart attack, and fall dead right there on the church carpet. He stumbled back a bit, and reached awkwardly for the doorknob.
Even after she was gone, her fragrance lingered all over his body. How does that happen? He never even touched her. She was gone, yet she was still with him. And would be for some time.
Now he would slip out of the building, covered in sweet-smelling guilt. He just hoped the church secretary wouldn’t get a whiff.
2 - CIVIC DUTY
Greg Tenorly drove the familiar route from the church to his music studio, studying the homes along the way. He wondered about the families who lived in each one. Like that two-story brick on the corner. What secrets were they hiding? Was the husband abusive? Did a teenager use drugs? Was the family nearly bankrupt? How could anyone know? It was better not to know. The mind can only handle so many problems at one time. He wondered where Troy and Cynthia Blockerman lived.
Greg had appeared at the courthouse that morning as part of a jury pool, only to be released. He and the rest of his group would have to return the next morning. He hoped they would not need him. The church would pay his regular part-time salary while he was serving on a jury, but any private lessons he missed would be money lost.
Greg’s red 1965 Pontiac Bonneville convertible always turned heads as he drove through the small town. He had purchased it two months earlier from a career Navy man down in Longview who had babied the thing for years. It spent most of its life in the man’s garage, coming out only when he was on leave. Most trips were to the car wash or the Pontiac dealer for scheduled maintenance.
Greg gladly paid $4,000 for it. The sailor called him the very next day and tried to buy it back. He said it was like losing a member of the family. Greg felt bad, but not bad enough to give up the car. How could a 40-year-old car have only 93,000 miles on it? It was dazzling.
His little studio was near the town square, nestled between Coreyville Hardware and Susie’s Sewing Box. Occasionally he and a student could hear a pipe wrench or hammer hitting the floor on the hardware side. But things were always quiet from Susie’s side. At least the soundproofing he had installed kept his neighbors from hearing his students. You can’t teach music without hearing both beautiful sounds and sour notes.
Parking the mammoth red beauty behind the building always made him a little nervous. The two pickups next door were in and out constantly. It was only a matter of time before one of those trucks drove out of the alley with red paint across the fender.
He walked through the back door, and into the odor of yesterday’s Folgers and aging music scores and textbooks. A welcome aroma.
The message machine was flashing.
Message 1: Hello Greg, this is Penelope Ragsdale. I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to make my lesson today. Thanks.
That’s $12 down the drain, he thought.
Message 2: Mr. Tenorly, this is Patty Hansel. Hugh fell out of a tree and broke his collar bone, so he’s going to miss his piano lessons for a while. I’ll let you know when he can come back. Thanks.
Why did they name the kid Hugh? Maybe he was named after Hugh Grant or Hugh Jackma
n. Surely not Hugh Hefner.
Greg had twenty-nine students. Many of them took two lessons per week. He taught piano, voice, guitar, and music theory. His teaching hours were from 1:00-8:00 PM, although there were plenty of open time slots. On an average week, seven or eight students cancelled lessons. He dreaded phone calls, since they were nearly always cancellations.
The phone rang, and Greg reluctantly picked up.
“Hey, man, how’s it going?”
It was David Beachton, owner of BeachTone Tanning Salon and a bass in Greg’s choir. Greg didn’t think tanning was healthy, even in the sun—much less under artificial light. He tried not to think about it too much because David was a good friend.
“I’m fine. How about you?”
“I just wanted to let you know you are not off the hook for the big trial.”
“How did you find out?”
“Greg, I’m always one of the first to know what’s going on in this town. You know that. They only got eight jurors out of today’s group. So, they’ll have a shot at you tomorrow.”
“Hope I don’t get picked.”
“Oh, you will. No doubt.”
“But I can’t make a living while I’m spending time on a jury.”
“I hate to tell you, Buddy, but they don’t care. Besides, you want to do your civic duty, right?” David laughed. He would hate taking time for jury duty.
“Yeah, right. But what makes you so sure I’ll be picked?”
“Think about it, Greg. They’ll ask if you can be fair—even though the defendant is black and the victim was white. You will say ‘Yes.’ They’ll want to know if you have any relatives or friends directly connected to the case. You will say ‘No.’ You’ll answer each question correctly just by being honest. So, if you don’t want to serve, you’ll have to lie. But you won’t.”
“Oh, man.”
Greg was overdue for some lunch. His first lesson was an hour away, so he locked up, and walked down the sidewalk to Jane’s Diner. He heard the usual ring of the bell and a ’Hi’ from Jane as he walked in. He sat down in his favorite booth at the front window. He liked to watch the people come and go, around town square.
Things were so different here than in Longview, where he had lived for many years. Like stepping into the mid-1960s in many ways. It only seemed fitting that his car was a 1965 model.
As was often the case, Jane herself waited on him.
“Do you need a menu today, Greg?” She always asked, but he never needed one. He had only lived in Coreyville for about a year, but he ate at Jane’s nearly every day.
“No thanks, Jane. Just give me the turkey on wheat and a Diet Coke.” It was a delicious sandwich, piled high with extra thin turkey slices, fresh lettuce, dark red tomato from a local gardener, and mayo on toasted whole wheat bread. It came with a huge dill spear and potato chips on the side.
While Greg was waiting for his lunch, he overheard some men talking in the back of the restaurant.
“There’s no doubt he’s guilty. I don’t know why they’re wasting taxpayer money to try that piece of trash!”
Greg was beginning to realize how difficult it would be to find twelve impartial jurors for the trial. Then he heard the 1:30 train barreling through the outskirts of town. It felt like he was tied across those tracks. The murder trial was coming toward him like a locomotive.
Resistance was futile.
His appetite was gone.
3 - ABUSIVE HUSBAND
Greg said goodbye to his last student at 8:15 PM, locked up the studio, and got into his car. He always looked forward to his evening rendezvous with Bonnie—his nickname for the Bonneville. He liked to put her top down, and drive her around town in the moonlight. Their route varied from night to night, but the ultimate destination was never in question.
“May I help you?”
The worn-out speaker was crackly, but he still recognized the particularly twangy East Texas voice of Fontana Fry.
Over his six years of vocal training, he had become acutely aware of accents. This is true of all classically trained singers. Great emphasis is placed on precise pronunciation and enunciation. It is mandatory that the singer’s repertoire include works written in English, Latin, Italian, German, and French.
So, by the time Greg finished his graduate degree, his accent had been all but eliminated. He sounded somewhat like a network news anchor instead of an East Texan.
“I would like a large—”
“—a large dipped cone, the usual. Right?”
The Dairy Queen drive-thru ordering station was located out in front of the restaurant, on the right side. He looked up, and saw the 19 year-old waving at him. She looked so cute in her little Dairy Queen outfit. Fontana was in her first year at Kilgore College. She planned to be an elementary teacher. He knew she would be a good one.
Greg had met Fontana a few months earlier when she brought her 13-year-old brother to the studio to enroll for guitar lessons. The boy was holding a U.S. made, 1968 Harmony acoustic guitar his uncle gave him. The body and the frets were badly worn, but the instrument still played beautifully. It looked somewhat like a large violin, with arched top and f-holes. That shape produces a more mellow sound than flattops. And the guitar’s age contributed additional warmth to the tone.
Hi, I’m Fontana, and this is my brother, Montana. Greg had almost snickered. As it turned out, Montana was musically gifted. He learned faster than Greg could teach him.
Fontana probably wondered why he never came inside to eat. He always opted for the drive-thru, and then parked behind the building, in the back corner of the parking lot.
She gave Greg a tall stack of napkins before he could ask. He parked, and began his nightly ritual—spreading out the napkins meticulously in layers across his lap. Drips would be contained. A chocolate stain on his shirt or pants would, of course, be upsetting. But the slightest drip or crumb on Bonnie’s pristine interior would be tantamount to desecration.
Just as he bit off the tip of the chocolate covered mountain, his cell phone rang.
Unknown Name. Unknown Number.
Greg figured it was some misdialing drunk. It could be handled quickly. His ice cream was already beginning to melt. He made no attempt to hide his irritation. “Hello?”
It was a woman whispering frantically. The sound was so distorted he couldn’t understand her at first, and was about to hang up.
“He’s doing it again.” She sounded terrified. “He hit me and threw me into the wall. I’m sorry, Greg, I shouldn’t be calling you, but—”
Greg heard a man shouting in the background, then a commotion. The phone went dead. He felt sick and helpless, like a kid who had just been spun on a merry-go-round at breakneck speed until he flew off. And the dizziness would not soon go away.
Greg wanted to call the police, but what would he tell them? And why did she call him instead of 911? He would call her back. No, he couldn’t—he didn’t have her number.
Then he felt something on his leg. The ice cream was melting beneath the chocolate shell, and it had collapsed under its own weight, and fallen onto the bed of napkins in his lap.
Still dazed, he sat for a full minute studying the ice cream as it dripped down the sides of the cone onto his hand and arm. Gradually the streams of white turned to pink, then to red— running down Cynthia’s face! A cold chill ripped through his body, and jolted him back to reality. He dropped the cone onto the gooey pile, bundled the entire mess, and threw it out of the car, as though it was toxic.
Suddenly Greg felt exposed sitting alone in the convertible, in the dark. He put the top up, locked it in place, and drove home as quickly as he could without attracting local law enforcement. There was nothing to tell the police.
Why had she come to him? He wished he had never met her. Yet he wanted to help her.
It was quiet on his street. Most of the neighbors were retirees, and were already in bed. He turned into his driveway, parked, and hurried toward his back porch. Just before he reac
hed the door, his cell phone rang.
“Cynthia?”
A drunken man yelled back at him. “Who is this?”
Greg snapped the phone shut, and started to throw it into the woods behind his house. But throwing the phone away wouldn’t help. Fear began to flush through his veins, from head to toe.
Greg looked all around, and saw nothing but darkness. Then he thought he sensed movement in the distance. He fumbled with the keys. Why wasn’t the porch light on? Office keys, church keys, car keys. Where was the house key?
Finally, he got it opened, and darted in. He slammed the door, and double-locked it. The light switch was on. What a time for the bulb to burn out.
He moved quickly throughout the house, turning on every light, and all three TVs.
The electric bill was the least of his worries.
4 - BUFORD BELLOWIN
“So, Jenny tells me jury selection is going well,” said Buford, puffing small billows of Cuban cigar smoke into the phone with each syllable.
“Yes, I think so too.”
Kyle was speeding down FM-2208 in his new Lexus SC 430, headed toward Coreyville. He could barely make his lease payments, but he had to have that car. It screamed success— especially with the top down. His wavy head of hair would be easily restored to perfection with a few brush strokes.
“Well, you be sure to take her advice. She knows how to pick a jury.”
Buford figured some of Kyle’s attention would be focused on getting Jenny into bed, but he didn’t think it would jeopardize the case.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Bellowin, I will.”
At only 27, Kyle Serpentine had already developed a successful practice in Longview, defending every kind of crook. Some of them paid handsomely. He idolized Buford Bellowin. Buford had grown up in Coreyville and earned his Bachelor’s and Law degree at University of Texas, graduating near the top of his class.
Now he was a high-priced, infamous defense attorney headquartered in Dallas. Nicknamed ‘The Bell’, he had never lost a case. Even in law school, his mock trial team always won.
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