“Hello?”
Cynthia was surprised that Greg sounded wide-awake. “I’m sorry for calling you at this hour, Greg.”
“Are you okay?”
“No—no, I’m not.”
“What did Troy do to you?” He could feel his anger building.
“He’s dead.”
Greg had never felt such fear and elation at the same time. Such thankfulness, yet such guilt. Troy was out of the way. Great. They both wanted that. But not by killing him. Had Troy finally pushed her too far?
He must have beaten her up, and she couldn’t take it anymore. She might have had a gun hidden away in case this day ever came. She probably waited until he was in bed and sound asleep. Greg could picture the blood and brains splattered all over the bed and walls. He could also picture Cynthia in a prison uniform. NO!
“I’ll get there as fast as I can—but, you need to call the police right now, Cynthia.” Everybody knows that it always looks suspicious when you wait to call the police. Surely she could plead self-defense, considering the way Troy abused her. But she never told the police about the abuse. She only told her mother…and Greg. That could be a big problem.
“Okay. I will.”
17 - THE POLICE
Greg got dressed in record time, started to rush out the door, and froze—one hand on the doorknob, the other on the light switch. Every cell in his body was screaming rescue Cynthia. He wanted to run to her, take her in his arms, and hold her until the darkness passed.
But he must not get to her house before the police. He paced the floor, looking at his watch every twenty or thirty seconds, forcing himself to wait fifteen minutes.
It was a five-minute drive to Cynthia’s house. He stayed well below the speed limit, still not certain he had waited long enough. He barely knew her. Three meetings and a few short phone conversations. Why did he feel so drawn to her? Was she feeling it too?
As he turned the corner onto her street, he could see three patrol cars and a couple of black sedans in front of her house. Good. But maybe he shouldn’t be seen there at all. What was his connection to Cynthia Blockerman? Why had she called him? He decided to drive by her house and come back after the police were gone.
Headlights were coming toward him from the opposite end of the street. He could pull into someone’s driveway and turn around. No, that would be too obvious. Better to drive by. After all, he was just a Coreyville citizen out for an evening cruise. Yeah, at 3:15 in the morning.
The other car stopped in front Cynthia’s house. As Greg was approaching, a woman got out of the car. It was Angela Hammerly—the District Attorney! She looked directly at Greg as he passed.
Greg panicked. He nearly jammed on the accelerator, but caught himself. What if the D.A. had recognized him? What if she thought Greg and Cynthia were having an affair? Motive. Why hadn’t he thought this through before driving to her house?
This could make quite a scandal. By day, two men serving on a jury, arguing angrily. By night, one man having an affair with the other man’s wife, conspiring to knock off the husband. Oh, what a mess. He could be charged in connection with the murder, and even if acquitted, he would lose his church job and probably all of his private music students.
**********
It was nearly 4:30 AM when Greg’s cell rang.
“Cynthia?”
“Greg, where are you?”
“I’m sorry. I’m at home. I drove to your house, but then I saw all the cars, and thought I’d better stay away.”
“I know. The policemen and a detective and a crime scene investigator and even the D.A. were all over the house. It’s good that you didn’t stop. I don’t know what I was thinking, asking you to come. And they’re still there. But, they let me leave. I’m on my way to the Holiday Inn. I couldn’t stay at the house. I may never be able to go back there again.”
“Cynthia, I’m afraid the D.A. saw me when I drove by.”
“You think she recognized you?”
“I don’t know, but she might have recognized my car. It’s the only one like it in town, you know. And if she suspects that we’re having an affair, she might figure we plotted to kill Troy.”
“An affair? Would she think that?”
“I don’t know, but it’s going to be hard to look her in the eye tomorrow if I pass her in the hallway.”
“I don’t think you’ll need to be at the courthouse tomorrow. I overheard her say she was planning to ask the judge to postpone jury deliberations until this murder can be fully investigated. I guess she wants to make sure Troy wasn’t killed because he was a juror.”
“But, I thought that you…”
“What? You thought I killed Troy?”
“Well, you didn’t say, and I thought he was beating you, and you were just protecting yourself.”
“No. I got up at about 2:30 to get a drink of water and found him dead in the living room. Somebody cut his throat with his own knife. I was terrified when I found him—trying to comprehend that he was really dead, and then realizing the killer could still be in the house.”
“Cynthia, I’m so sorry you had to go through this. I wish I could have helped you in some way.”
“You did. And you’re helping me right now. Just talking to you makes me feel better.”
“Good.”
“Okay, I’m pulling up to the hotel. I’m going to try to get some rest. Talk to you tomorrow, Greg. Bye.”
“Goodbye, Cynthia.”
**********
Mark Myers had investigated numerous murder cases throughout his career in Fort Worth. But by age 55, he was feeling the burnout. He took an early retirement and moved to Coreyville. His mother and his sister lived there, so it had been an easy decision. But after a year of trying to enjoy fishing and golfing, he heard there was an opening for a detective, and couldn’t resist. After all, he was still a relatively young man.
Angela Hammerly didn’t mind getting out of bed in the middle of the night to go to the scene of a murder. Two murders in one year—wow. Coreyville averaged only one murder every five years.
“So, what do you think happened here, Mark?”
“There are no signs of forced entry. So, that makes the wife the prime suspect. And, although she didn’t strike me as someone who would do this—look at that pile of beer cans—on a Wednesday night.
“So, you’ve got a husband who gets drunk every night. Then he starts cursing and beating up on the wife. She puts up with it night after night. Finally, she’s had enough. She waits until he’s passed out, grabs his knife, one quick slice, and her misery is over.”
“Okay, that makes sense,” said Angela.
“Or, she’s having an affair. She wants out of the marriage, but the husband says he’ll come after her if she tries to leave. He’ll track her down like a dog and cut her body into a hundred pieces after he tortures her. So, she waits until he’s good and drunk, lets the boyfriend in, and he does the deed. But if so, they blew it—they should have made it look like a home invasion.”
“Yeah. So, she probably did it herself.”
“That would be my guess—unless the CSI comes up with something. Should we pick her up?”
“No, not tonight. We’ll bring her in tomorrow. She’s not going anywhere.”
18 - DOROTHY SPOKANE
“I’m sorry—the D.A. is not available right now. I’m Assistant District Attorney, Andrea Newly. What can I do for you?”
“This is Dorothy Spokane. I have information regarding the trial. Could you please come to my house and take my statement?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“And I have an important document for you. I would come up there, but I don’t have anyone to drive me. And it’s hard taking a cab because of my wheelchair. You might want to bring the sheriff with you. It could be dangerous.”
“Of course. I have your address here: 207 Maple Street. We’ll get there as soon as we can. Thanks.”
Finally, Andrea would get to do something import
ant.
**********
It had been forty-five minutes since Dorothy Spokane had talked to the A.D.A. What was taking so long? The letter in her hand would explain everything. She had already heard about the murder of Troy Blockerman. Word traveled fast in Coreyville.
Although she didn’t want Sam’s reputation to be tarnished, she had no choice now. The truth had to be told. The killings must stop. In her gut, she knew Arabeth Albertson’s death had not been an accident. But she hadn’t said anything because she was protecting Sam.
The man walking toward her house was dressed in a gas company uniform, but Dorothy didn’t recognize him. It wasn’t Jimmy or Hoyt. What if her phone had been tapped? At least she was finally doing the right thing. But what good is that if the truth is lost?
She needed to tell someone—fast. She called the District Attorney’s office. No answer. She could call a friend. No. She needed someone who knew the details of the trial. Greg Tenorly. Her intuition told her he was honest and smart. She hoped she was right. Hurry, before it’s too late.
She grabbed the Coreyville phone book, found Greg’s home number and dialed as quickly as she could. She wished she had upgraded to a touch-tone phone. The old rotary dialer was dependable, but so slow. She had never needed to dial this fast before. It began to ring. But maybe he was at his studio…ring…or at the church…ring…or at the diner…ring …or riding around in his big red car!
“Hello?”
“Greg. This is Dorothy Spokane.”
Greg was not fully awake. He had gone back to sleep after getting the official call about postponing jury deliberations. “Oh, hi.”
“I need to tell you something important.” She sounded frantic.
“Wait—you know I’m not supposed to talk to you. It’s against—”
“—a man is about to kill me!”
Greg was now fully alert. “Who? What man?”
“Just let me say what I’ve got to say before it’s too late.”
“Okay.”
“It’s Buford. He’s the one behind all of the killings.”
“Buford?” Greg was confused. Buford who? What killings?
“Somebody’s at my back door trying to get in!”
“What?”
“Get out of my house, you murderer!”
Greg listened in disbelief, as the phone hit the hardwood floor. Then he heard someone walking toward the phone.
A gruff voice said, “Who is this?”
Greg slammed down the phone and was surprised it didn’t break. He had no idea who Buford was, but he was going to find out. He ran to his computer and googled ‘Buford Coreyville.’ There it was—right at the top. An article from the Coreyville Courier, the local paper. He clicked on it and scanned the article quickly.
Buford Bellowin, who grew up in Coreyville, is now a famous defense attorney practicing in Dallas. Insiders say he is positioning himself to run for governor in a few years. He attended Scarborough Elementary…blah, blah, blah…worked at Sam’s Bicycle Shop as a teenager. Whoa. That must be the connection. But how? Why would a big-shot Dallas attorney care about what’s going on in this little town?
**********
“Am I being charged?”
“No, no, Mrs. Blockerman. We’re still investigating. I just need to ask you a few questions.” Angela, like most district attorneys, and lawyers in general, had perfected her acting (lying) skills. Why should the good guys play fair? The bad guys don’t.
“Okay. I have nothing to hide.”
“We found no evidence of a break-in at your house, but we did find something curious. The doorknob on your back door had no fingerprints.”
“Okay,” Cynthia said, wondering what the D.A. was getting at.
“Don’t you think that’s a little odd?”
“I guess.”
“Did you wipe off that doorknob after the murder?”
“No. The last thing I was thinking about was cleaning.” What a weird question.
“I just thought you might have wiped it off after your boyfriend left.” Angela studied Cynthia’s eyes and face for a reaction. She saw confusion and anger—not the reaction she had hoped for.
“What? I don’t have a boyfriend. Is this why you called me in here—to try to trick me into making a confession? I won’t confess to something I didn’t do.”
Angela was visibly annoyed by the knock on the door. She yanked it open, frightening the young clerk.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Hammerly, but the A.D.A. said to interrupt you.”
The power is already going to Andrea’s head, thought Angela. I’ve got to set her straight about how’s in charge here.
“Dorothy Spokane has been murdered, and her house has been ransacked.”
Angela thanked the clerk and sent her away. She turned back to Cynthia and said, “Thanks for coming in. I will need to talk to you again soon, so don’t leave town.”
I’m not talking to you again without an attorney, thought Cynthia. She felt ill as she walked out of the building to her car. Her husband was dead. Sure, the marriage had died many months ago. She didn’t love Troy anymore, but she still cared about him. Now she was being accused of either killing him or getting a boyfriend to do it. The D.A. was shameless.
As she drove toward the Holiday Inn, her cell rang.
“Hello?”
“Cynthia, it’s Greg. How are you doing?”
“I’m okay, I guess, considering I just got dragged through the slime by our wonderful D.A.”
“What do you mean?”
“She accused me of having an affair, and getting my boyfriend to kill Troy. Can you believe it?”
“What makes her think you have a boyfriend?”
“She said the doorknob in the kitchen was wiped clean, and implied I wiped off my boyfriend’s fingerprints after he left.”
“I’m sorry. What a mess.” Apparently, the D.A. had not mentioned Greg’s name. Hopefully she had not recognized him last night.
“Yeah.”
“Cynthia, I’ve got to make a trip.”
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t want to say over the phone. But I’m afraid if I don’t do this, there will be more murders.”
“Speaking of murders—Dorothy Spokane is dead.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“Why?”
“Cynthia, you should go with me, and I’ll explain what I know.”
“I can’t. The D.A. told me not to leave town.”
“You could be the next one on the murderer’s list. Come with me.”
“You know what? I don’t care what the D.A. says. Come by and pick me up. Room 112.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes.”
19 - MARTY CRUMB
Marty’s king size bed, 27-inch color TV, private bathroom, and air conditioning made him feel like a millionaire. He didn’t miss prison at all.
Cynthia Blockerman’s room was just below his. With x-ray vision, he could have shot her through the floor from where he stood. He liked her. But he wouldn’t hesitate to cut her throat or choke her to death, if necessary. He just wanted to be finished with this job, finished with Buford.
Marty dialed one of Buford’s unlisted cell numbers. There was a different number to call every few days. Buford was taking special precautions. If Marty was caught, Buford didn’t want the police to have a phone record trail leading back to him.
“Yes?”
“It’s me. Troy Blockerman is no longer a problem.”
“What do you mean? What did you do?”
“He drank too much beer and passed out in his living room. Then somebody sliced his throat. He won’t be voting ‘Guilty’ anymore.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Hey—you told me to make sure the kid gets off. That’s what I’m trying to do. Troy Blockerman was determined to hang him, and he was convincing the rest of the jury to go along. I had to stop him.”
“But who are the police going to blame
for his murder? This could take us both down.”
“Nah. Right now, the D.A. believes the wife did it. Apparently, good ole boy Troy was knocking her around every night. The D.A. figures Cynthia just got tired of the abuse. And…there was another problem I had to take care of.”
“What?” Don’t tell me you’ve murdered the judge, thought Buford.
“Dorothy Spokane called the district attorney’s office this morning. Good thing I had her house bugged. She asked the A.D.A. to come over so she could give her information about the case. So, I got there first.”
“What did she tell you?”
“She didn’t tell me anything. She was on the phone and I heard her say ‘Buford,’ so I shot her.”
“You shot her! What else did she say?”
“Something about Buford being responsible for all of the killings.”
“Did she give a last name?”
“No. And whoever was on the other end of the line hung up. But I couldn’t look up their number because she had an old-fashioned rotary phone. I can get a copy of her phone records.”
“That’s okay. I can take care of that. What did you find in the house?”
“She had a letter that was written by her husband. It was sitting on the coffee table, so I think she planned to give it to the D.A. He had written on the envelope, ‘Open Upon My Death.’ So, apparently he suspected somebody might try to kill him.”
“What did you do with it? You didn’t open it, did you?”
“No. I’m holding it for you.”
“Burn it. Don’t open it, just burn it.”
“Okay.”
“Do it as soon as you hang up.”
“I understand.”
“But, Marty, you’re out of control.”
“Come on—you know I had no choice. She was going to tell them something, and I’m sure it was something you don’t want the D.A. to hear. Look, I don’t care what you did, or what’s in this letter. I’m just doing my job.”
“You know what, Marty? You’re done.”
“What do you mean? The trial’s not over. We have a deal. I’m not going back!”
Greg Tenorly Suspense Series Boxed Set Page 6