“So, the kid went off on Sam, and grabbed a bicycle chain, and strangled him with it. He’s going to prison. So, those of you who voted ‘Not Guilty’ might as well save us all a lot of time, and switch your vote right now.”
“I disagree.” Greg could see the fire in Troy’s eyes as Troy realized that he was one of the ‘bleeding-heart liberals’ who voted the wrong way. “Even if Mrs. Albertson did see Kantrell Jamison outside Sam’s shop that night, it still doesn’t prove he did it.”
“Yeah, right. He just happened to be out in front right after the murder.” Troy was ready to rumble. If he had a beer bottle in his hand, he would have cracked it across the edge of the table and…
“And that might not have even been him. We don’t know how well she could see at night,” said Greg.
“Are you telling me you believe that story about him being at home with his momma and his sister?” Troy had a talent for sarcasm. “They’re a wonderful little family, and they were just watching a heart-warming family film together. And, oh yeah —the DVD had not yet been released, so, no problem—they just got a friend to illegally download it off the internet. And, oh, by the way, they can’t remember the name of that friend. And they just don’t know what happened to that DVD. Yeah. That’s believable.”
“Okay, I’ll admit: that story about the DVD did sound fishy. But that could just be a mother trying to protect her son. It doesn’t prove he killed Sam.”
“It does kinda make you wonder why she’s lying for him, though.” Gail Silestone was reconsidering her ‘Not Guilty’ vote. At 30, she was still single, and had not dated in years. Gail was considered by most to be a tomboy. Some thought she was gay. The truth was she liked being alone. Besides, she wasn’t really alone. Hundreds of people came to see her every day at the Post Office. She had worked for the U.S. Postal Service since she was 19, and had extensive knowledge of postal regulations, as well as eleven year’s worth of daily dirt from people who couldn’t keep secrets.
Mary McJohnson spoke up for the mothers of the world. “A mother’s most important job is to protect her children. Of course his mother lied. You can’t fault her for that.”
By the end of the day, after a considerable amount of discussion, everyone was eager to go home. The final vote for the day came in at: nine – ‘Guilty,’ three – ‘Not Guilty.’
But the day was not over for Greg. He hoped he could find enough energy to make it through choir rehearsal.
14 - NEW CHOIR MEMBER
Choir rehearsal would begin in a few minutes. Greg’s office at the church was small, but well positioned, right off the choir room. There was an annoying rattle coming from his old computer; but he really loved the new 17-inch flat panel monitor on his desk. One of his choir members had donated it.
His Kimball upright piano was at least fifty years old, but still sounded great. There was a bookcase of solo music and textbooks behind him. In the corner were several boxes of sample choral pieces, which he had not yet reviewed.
Greg rushed to prepare the Order of Service for Sunday morning. Each week, Dr. Huff gave him the topic for the sermon, and Greg selected hymns, choruses, and choral music that would support the message.
Sometimes matching the choral music to the sermon was difficult, since he liked to rehearse a piece for at least three weeks before performing it on Sunday. Normally, the choir would rehearse six to seven pieces per week, since some of them were of greater difficulty.
Margery Allen knocked and poked her head in. “We have a visitor tonight.” Margery was the church organist and the official choir rehearsal greeter for the month.
It was so unusual to have visitors at choir rehearsal. Greg constantly sought recruits, but rarely found any. “Great.” Immediately, his attention went back to the screen. He wanted to finish up, so he could go home right after rehearsal. He was worn out from a day of arguing with fellow jurors.
“Her name is Cynthia.”
It took a couple of seconds to sink in. Greg looked up, but Margery was already gone. No. It couldn’t be her. But what if it was? Why would she come to choir rehearsal? He was usually relaxed at rehearsals. It was his favorite time of the week. But now he felt tense, and he wondered if it would show. It had to be some other Cynthia.
As he walked into the choir room, he pretended to be organizing his music and paperwork. He stepped up to his music stand, and said, “Let’s have a word of prayer, and then we’ll get started.
Lord, we thank you for this time to come together to sing your praises. Please help us as we prepare for Sunday, that our singing will bring glory and honor to you. Amen.”
He looked up, and his eyes were immediately drawn to the middle of the alto section. By her gorgeous red hair.
“Uh, everyone, I would like to introduce—”, Margery read it from a card, “Cynthia Blockerman. Cynthia visited our services a couple of times, and says she was impressed with the choir, and wanted to give us a try.”
They were all so pleased, talking among themselves. Some of them, no doubt, were commenting on her beauty.
Margery continued. “So, Cynthia—we hope you enjoy singing with us and will consider joining the choir. No pressure, though.”
Everybody laughed. It was exhilarating to feel that the choir might be growing for a change.
Greg hoped his smile didn’t look the way it felt: nervous. “Yes, we’re so glad you came tonight, Cynthia. And we hope we won’t scare you off.”
One of the men quipped, “Well, Harry might scare her off.”
Greg usually joked around with the choir a good bit, so tonight should not be any different. “Yeah, Harry—don’t tell any of your corny jokes tonight, okay?” Before the laughter and talking died down, he said, “Alright. Enough goofing off. Take your “When I Survey” and open to page three, the pickup to bar 24. Margery—lead us in, beginning at bar 22.”
The rehearsal went surprisingly well. Greg could hear Cynthia singing. She did have a very nice alto voice. But what a weird day.
Several choir members stayed for a while to visit with Cynthia. Greg had stepped into his office to make some final edits to the Order of Service. Margery offered to walk Cynthia out to her car, but Cynthia wanted to stay and talk to Greg. So, Margery said goodbye. Everybody else had already gone home.
“Greg, could I talk to you for a minute?”
“Sure, come on in.” He stood and offered Cynthia the same chair she sat in on Monday. Was that really just two days ago?
“Troy’s getting worse.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I hope I didn’t upset you—showing up here tonight without warning.”
“No, not at all. I was a little surprised.”
“I loved singing in high school choir and then for a few semesters in college. I was curious to see whether I still had it. I used to be good.”
“I heard you tonight. You sounded very good. And you were learning your part quickly.”
“Thanks. But I have to admit that one of the reasons I came was to get out of the house. Troy thought I was joking when I told him where I was going. But at least he didn’t try to stop me. Maybe by the time I get home he will have already passed out.”
“He drinks until he’s unconscious?”
“Yeah. A lot of nights, he doesn’t even come to bed. When I get up the next morning I find him slumped over in his chair. I don’t know how he manages to go to work. But I’ve got to figure out a way to leave him.”
“So, you’ve made up your mind?”
“I have to. I just can’t take it anymore. Sometimes I wish he would just die. That when I find him in the morning, he’d be dead.”
Neither one of them had noticed Margery walking through the choir room to Greg’s open door. “Sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to let y’all know that the street light is out. So, if you have a flashlight, you’d better use it to get to your car. I tripped and nearly fell.”
“Are you okay, Margery?” Greg was concerned about Margery’s
health. But of greater concern: how much did she hear?
15 - THE BOWIE KNIFE
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 shower head 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.
16 - CALL FOR HELP
Greg had forgotten to close his bedroom window blinds. And after a couple of hours of sleeplessness, his mind began to play tricks on him. The streetlight projected its beams through tree branches, leaves and power lines, forming interesting shapes on the wall across from the window. The longer he studied them, the more fascinating they became.
How could he go to sleep and miss the rest of the show? One shadow looked like Cynthia. The tall, slim body. And there he was, standing in front of her, complete with protruding belly. He must go on a diet. It looked like they were talking. He tried to imagine what they were saying. He had been starring at that wall for way too long.
Cynthia was a beautiful, sexy, intelligent, caring woman. And she seemed to really like him. But, Number 1: she was married. Unhappily married, for sure. But still—married. Number 2: If she ever divorced her husband and was free to date whoever she wanted, surely it would not be Greg. She could get a younger, smarter, more handsome guy, with more money and…more everything.
But reality could not quell his imagination. If he tried hard enough, he could almost see Cynthia’s shadow kissing his. He could almost taste her sweet lips.
**********
Cynthia was so shaken by her dream that she was having trouble falling back to sleep. Nightmares occurred nearly every night—but none this intense. Her mind started wandering to Greg. She was surprised by her attraction to him. He was balding, out of shape, and a few years older than her.
In spite of all that, an image formed clearly in her mind—the two of them in a loving embrace. She felt warm and safe in his arms. But how would she ever break free from her maniac husband?
Besides, how could Greg ever forgive her for what she had done? She sensed that his capacity for forgiveness was much greater than that of most people, but still…
She got out of bed and walked into the kitchen to get a glass of cold water from the fridge. It was refreshing. But then she realized that cool liquid flowing down into her body might only serve to exacerbate the insomnia. She needed to settle down and get to sleep soon in order to have any hopes of functioning normally the next day.
Business customers would not be impressed with a baggy-eyed banker. That woman looked like she was out partying all night, they might say. Is she a heavy drinker? Maybe I should take my business elsewhere.
She could not afford to jeopardize her career.
Cynthia decided to check on Troy. She would turn off the TV if he had already passed out. But she would go into the living room very quietly, in c
ase he was just sleeping. She had made the mistake of waking him one time. He had called her every vile name known to man. The only thing worse than a drunken Troy was a prematurely-awakened drunken Troy.
It was rather dark in the living room, with the TV providing limited, uneven illumination. As she approached the back of his recliner, she noticed something lying on the floor. An object, next to his chair. She couldn’t quite make it out. As she inched her way closer, she could not take her eyes off the object. Maybe an apple slice or a crushed beer can or…the Bowie knife?
As she stepped to the side of his chair, she redirected her attention from the floor to Troy. The erratic lighting from a Law and Order episode revealed something streaming down Troy’s shirt. And his head was resting awkwardly on his chest.
Forgetting about her fear of waking him, Cynthia reached for the nearby light switch. She turned, and was horrified to see that the object on the floor was the Bowie knife—the bloody Bowie knife. Troy’s shirt looked as though someone had opened a can of red paint and thrown it at him. The thick, crimson liquid flowed down his shirt, onto his pants, and into the fabric of the chair.
She called his name several times. But he didn’t move, and didn’t appear to be breathing. She pressed two fingers against the inside of his wrist. His skin felt cool. She could not feel a pulse. Who did this?
Then she realized the killer could still be in the house. She checked the kitchen door. It was locked. The front door was locked. But what about the windows? There was no sign that anything had been stolen or even disturbed. Why did someone want Troy dead? And did that same person want to kill her?
Cynthia ran to the bedroom, without considering that the killer might be waiting there. She grabbed her phone from the nightstand, flipped it open and started to call 911—then stopped. She called Greg instead.
Greg Tenorly Suspense Series Boxed Set Page 5