The Price of Candy sr-2

by Rod Hoisington

  Her murder scheme all started back on the night they returned from their first date. They had nestled in her living room talking and drinking until she felt sufficiently buzzed. Then she was ready. She started unbuttoning her blouse while leading him to the bedroom.

  It was nice to be wanted, but he was overly excited. For more than an hour, he had sat on the couch watching her bare legs moving around carefree under her short denim skirt. At last in the bedroom, he popped before she could get her shoes off. Her jaw dropped. With her shoulders hunched and palms turned up, she gave him the classic what-the-hell-was-that look. She was pissed. What did she expect, almost thirty years old and still living with his mother? She hurried him out of the house that night and demanded he never call her again. Never! Got it, Toby? Never!

  The next day he phoned.

  “I think I’ll be okay next time,” he pleaded. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot. So, I’m kind of used to you now.”

  “I’m glad you’ve been practicing, but no thanks.” Even considering her lousy sex life, one must have standards. No point in giving him a second chance, she thought. With his evident level of experience, he probably didn’t know what-went-where. Men can have their virgins, women prefer someone who knows what they’re doing.

  He showed up uninvited at her door anyway. There’s no pest like a horny pest. Fortunately for her she decided to let him in. He babbled about some money, big money. She wasn’t buying any male bullshit to get her back in bed. While sitting there wondering how to get him out of the house, he reached in his pocket and came out with some bills to show her. It didn’t look like much...at first.

  “Fan them out for me, Toby.”

  Just ten bills but all hundreds. Where’d he get the money? He wasn’t certain he should tell her. He did say he had a lot more. Flashing that money was his first mistake.

  She couldn’t hide the grin. “Do you have more down in your pants? Maybe I should look.”

  For some reason, she believed him when he announced he had more at home and that presented a problem. With a couple hundred she could say, let’s go out and blow it. On the way back, she’d invent a headache and brush him off. Even a thousand wouldn’t be much of a challenge for her. If he did have serious money, she needed a plan. Like a get-all-of-it plan.

  She fixed him a drink and sat him down in the living room. “Toby, we need to talk.” Meaning: shut up Toby, here’s what you’re going to do.

  “You’re mad at me because of last night, aren’t you Abby? I want you to have this thousand. It’s okay—I’ve got more.”

  “More, Toby?” she asked as casually as possible.

  “Don’t know if I should talk about it.” He squirmed. “We going in your bedroom later?”

  “You’re not suggesting I’d screw for money, are you?”

  “Not unless you wanted to.”

  “What?”

  “No, what I meant was...the thousand’s yours...whatever.”

  “Well, I should think so.” She had no idea why she should think so. “I’d love to go to bed with you, but I’m too tired. Anyway, my daughter Jamie is home tonight. She’s in her bedroom now. So keep your voice down.” In truth, her daughter was down the block sleeping over with a friend.

  “I could come over tomorrow night and show you some more of the money, but it’s like...I’m all ready tonight, you know?”

  “I’m eager as well, Toby. Let’s do this. Go home now and think hard about me. And I’ll think hard about you at the same time. That would be the proper way to handle your problem. Then bring the money over tomorrow night.”

  She spent most of the thousand easily the following day. That night she opened the door to an eager and slicked up Toby. He appeared so nice that for an instant she regretted telling Jamie to stay home. After they settled together on the couch, he took out a handful of new hundred dollar bills and placed it on the coffee table in front of her. The bills were so fresh and crisp they fell in line like a new deck of cards. He slid the stack toward her and announced it was her half.

  Huh?

  Her half of what, she was afraid to ask. She couldn’t resist touching the bills. She evened them up, placed her hand on top of the stack, and flicked the sides of the beautiful bills with her thumb. She picked them up and shifted them from hand to hand, as though weighing gold. Unreal. For chrissake, there must be a hundred bills in that stack. She did a quick mental calculation. One hundred, hundred-dollar bills would be a thousand dollars. No! That’s not right. It’d be ten thousand dollars. “Yes, it’d be ten grand,” she thought aloud unintentionally.

  There it was. The most cash she’d ever seen in one pile. An amount some people would kill for, including her. He’d just set it there, pretty as you please and declared it was her half. Now that it rested on her table, no way was that money leaving her house while she was alive. It was there; it was hers.

  She gathered up the money and hesitated a second, waiting for his protest. None came. So, she smiled nicely at him and walked alone to her bedroom. She closed the door, leaned back against it, and let out a deep breath. Life is good. She held the money high in the air and shook it. She loved touching it. She could smell it. She could taste it. She could hear it speaking to her. She turned on her bedside lamp and examined a couple of the bills closely. Unbelievably gorgeous. She stuffed the money in a closet shoebox. She replaced the lid and patted the box gently. Ten thousand waiting to be spent. With ten grand, she could fly to some exotic resort and let some attractive men do their best to seduce this naïve American woman.

  If that was half, it meant he had the other half. Another ten grand. It made no sense. Toby didn’t look dumb, he just did dumb. Like handing her a bunch of money. Of course, he’s looking to get laid, but he didn’t need ten thousand for that. She smiled remembering that half a candy bar had worked once, however that was a long time ago. Toby didn’t know it yet, but he’d get zilch for his money.

  She listened for him. He was still in the living room mumbling something about what might be on TV. She quietly took the small Smithy .38 from the nightstand just in case. She removed the trigger lock and pushed the gun down into the pocket of her slacks. Would she use it if necessary? For ten thousand? She laughed out loud.

  In the kitchen, she found a bottle of Jim Beam and two glasses, and hurried back to the living room. “Drink up, Toby, celebration time. Sorry I couldn’t get a babysitter so I’m afraid Jamie will be here again tonight. But at least we can have a drink.” She laughed. He looked like a disinherited relative after reading the will.

  Where’d he get it, she wanted to know? Was it hot? Was a Mexican drug lord going to bust through the wall wielding a machete? She explained she was sorry, but simply couldn’t accept any more money unless he explained how he got it.

  That led to another nail in Toby’s coffin. As fatal mistakes go, this one was definitely worth getting killed over. He proceeded to give her all the details: what had happened, where the money came from, and how he could get more. His story was good and his plan simple. Amazing, she thought, that Toby Towalski had put it together all by himself.

  Why had he cut her in? Why was he willing to split with her? She wondered why but wasn’t about to ask him. She didn’t want him to rethink any of it. Maybe he’s thinking about a million-buck jackpot. That must be the answer. So what’s a measly ten grand for the girlfriend who is going to spread wide the gateway to paradise? What would it take, she wondered, to get her hands on all of it?

  Toby made another mistake the next day. He came back and asked for all the money back.

  Of all the nerve, she thought. He said he needed car repairs, his mother was behind on her mortgage or dying or something. He just had to have the money back. Forget about it.

  His mistake in sharing with her had finally sunk down through his scalp, she guessed. He might also have realized, since Abby was not putting out as expected, ten grand could buy him a fantastic amount of sex around town. A fool and his money are some party. Of
course, the first bimbo he connected with wouldn’t leave his side until she had it all. Like the lion that lies down beside the zebra for days until all the bones are picked clean.

  Abby thanked him for the gift of money, said she’d given it a lot of thought, was sorry, but she’d decided to keep it. She didn’t mention she’d also decided to eliminate his future. Abby had all the information she needed to continue Toby’s scheme on her own. She didn’t need him. He was in the way. He threatened her. She didn’t care. She had the gun.

  “Settle down, Toby. You need me. We can go ahead with this money deal together. I want to start spending a lot of time with you. I want you to come over some night next week. I’ve got something very special in mind for you. Wait for my call.”

  She knew his death must appear accidental. That’s why she had phoned Sandra Reid to get her involved in the plot.

  Abby recalled a newspaper item about a woman who testified her husband was clowning around with his shotgun and in fact put the damn barrel in his mouth. She took the blame for it going off. Perhaps she shouldn’t have screamed so loud. At least that was her story.

  Abby could prance around and get Toby to suck on the end of a shotgun, but she knew the police were unlikely to buy such a story a second time.

  She couldn’t just invite Toby over to her house and shoot him accidentally because that indicates she knows him. Even a junior Sherlock would then start looking for a possible motive. Why did you want him dead, lady?

  No, Toby needs to remain outside her house as though she doesn’t know him, as if he’s a stranger, like a prowler. When he shows up, she’ll tell him to wait out back. I heard a noise your honor, got my gun, and went outside. I was so frightened. I’ve a young daughter to protect, you know. Had no choice, I was terrified.

  Sounded like justifiable homicide to her. In most states if you shoot a prowler outside it’s best to drag them inside before phoning the police; there’s a lot less bother. Abby heard in Florida you could shoot them most anywhere.

  Toby Towalski wasn’t a prowler, but he wanted that money back, and he stood in the way of her getting the rest. With him out of the way, she’d go see that man he talked about and get more money.

  She realized before asking Toby over she must lay the groundwork for her plan. She must first establish for the authorities that she was indeed in real danger. I told people, someone had been prowling around my house. She could ask her ten-year-old daughter to lie for her. She knew Jamie wouldn’t hesitate to lie, but the smartass kid was liable to come out with anything.

  Abby needed someone to back up her story of being afraid, someone the police would believe, and someone credible. Sandra Reid had assisted the police in the past and most authorities regarded her favorably. She’d be ideal.

  Chapter Four

  Sandy had decided to meet with Abby out of curiosity rather than for “old times’ sake” as their phone call suggested. Sandy could recall nothing personal between them to relive. She doubted they had anything in common other than dreaming of the day that the stupid system would release them from rehab. Definitely not buddies, so there could be no fond remembrance of how they had comforted each another. None of that. She had landed in that teenage program by mistake or at most by her overzealous mother. At least that’s what she believed. She couldn’t speak for Abby.

  She had bad vibes about this reunion. All the memories would be unhappy and there’s no fun in recalling those. Abby must have something else on her mind.

  She located Abby’s house out in the western part of the county and parked her Miata MX5 at the curb. The small lipstick-red convertible was sharp, bright and lively, a good match with the driver. The house was modest, white stucco, in an older neighborhood. Attractive roof overhangs covered small front and back porches. A gravel driveway ran back to a detached garage with matching roof. Abundant mature palms and oaks adorned the entire neighborhood, which contained mostly so-sensible-white stucco houses each striving to be distinctive by different colored shutters and roofs.

  Abby waved cheerfully and held the front door open. “Remember me, Abigail Olin? You’re prettier than I remember. Short hair looks good on you, perfect for breezing around with the top down, huh. Come on inside, Sandra.”

  “Make it Sandy.” She didn’t remember Abby at all and sensed no comfortable old-acquaintance aura about her. “Funny we both ended up living in Florida.” She hadn’t intended to live permanently in Florida when she sacrificed her dream job in Philly to help her brother down her in Park Beach.

  Somewhere along the way, Florida had touched her. Perhaps touched to discover she could drive her cherished MX-5 with the top down all year, see green every month, and go to the beach on Christmas Day. A pleasant barefooted walk along the beach catching the ocean breeze finished her off. She decided to stay and finish law school at Florida Atlantic University. It wasn’t the University of Pennsylvania, but she would graduate at the top of her class. She was confident about that.

  “Looks as if you’re far ahead of me, Abby. You’ve a house and I guess a family. I saw a girl’s bike in the driveway.”

  “Was ahead, for awhile, before the divorces. Just two. The first a disaster. He was a hunk, but he was more interested in bars, beer, and buddies than sex. Go figure. A girl should stay active, you know. He expected me to clean up after him and his dog. He wasn’t even house broken. The dog that is. You don’t really know someone until you’ve smelled his socks. Next, I overcompensated and ended up trapped with a shy one. This second guy owned this nice house. That made all the difference. So we got married and I moved in. After he remodeled it, he liked it so much he didn’t want to leave. Why go anywhere? Like there’s so much excitement and adventure at home. It doesn't take much to light my fire, but it was like living with your brother. He loved the kid, so let him stay home with her. The only time he took me out was to the marriage counselor. I’d lost interest in sex according to him. He told me we could try something new in bed if that’s what I wanted. Christ, is that pitiful or what. I hadn’t lost interest. I told him he just didn’t measure up to what was out there waiting. Been there, done him.”

  “So you got the house. He got the child.” Sandy wondered what that said about her.

  “We began talking divorce and his answer to everything was, ‘whatever’, just so he got custody of our daughter. Well, Mr. Whatever ended up with neither. How about you? You got a guy?”

  Sandy wanted out of there. She had better things to do. Although she didn’t owe this woman any politeness, she decided to stick with it for a few more minutes. “I broke off with a significant other in Philly when I left. We weren’t on the same page anyway. I’m seeing a nice man down here. However, he’s not yet significant.” She saw no point in mentioning he was a detective with the city police. “I guess I remember you, Abby,” she lied. “It’s been what, fifteen years?”

  She thought the woman appeared pleasant enough, but somehow rumpled looking with gobs of too-long brassy hair. They both happened to be wearing sweatshirts and jeans, Sandy’s were a couple of sizes smaller. Abby appeared older, but must be about the same age if they were in rehab together. “So you were also a juvie victim? Geez, what a terrible place.”

  “Yeah, no barbed-wire, no strait-jackets, no padded cells, just a horny counselor who couldn’t believe his luck in charge of a couple dozen nubiles in need of obedience training.”

  Sandy said, “Some psych grad student got a grant to set up that pathetic operation. Someone should have investigated and closed the place. No therapy was going on there.”

  They walked through to the kitchen and sat at the table. A wide chrome-edged retro affair with matching chairs featuring chrome legs and red-vinyl seats. The kitchen wasn’t large and lacked counter space. Perfect size, Sandy thought, given she didn’t cook. She could see herself standing at that sink. Not washing dishes, heaven forbid, maybe just rinsing out wine glasses. In fact, she liked the entire house. Thought it seemed cozy. Considering it featured bot
h back and front porches, she guessed the house was early-fifties. She’d take it. Beat the hell out of the tiny studio apartment she was crammed into at present.

  She should stop thinking about kitchens and houses though. She shouldn’t question her current life choices even though she had just passed thirty. It still made sense to her to spend what little money she had for student loans, textbooks, and car payments. She had to have that sporty car, for commuting to campus as well as for her psychological well-being. That little red convertible was her big love affair. If she died in a car crash, they’d need to pry her cold dead fingers from it. Better yet, just bury her in it. In an emergency, it would be her last possession to go.

  A house would be nice, but she felt on track for her goal of a law degree. In that regard, eighty-plus Jerry Kagan and his law office was a lifesaver for her. Kagan was a genial and courtly man with old school manners. They had met back when he was struggling to defend her brother against the murder charge. She showed up, and with tough fieldwork, a skill well honed at her job in Philadelphia. She got enough cooperation from unlikely sources to hand Kagan a solid defense of reasonable doubt. With his case against her brother in shambles, State Attorney Lawrence Moran, the state’s prosecutor, capitulated and moved on to a more likely suspect. Blew Moran out of the water, was the way she once phrased it. He would never forget. As a result, Jerry Kagan came out looking quite contemporary and was able to rejuvenate his moribund law practice.

  At his insistence, she now spent her days studying in his law office at the ancient front desk with an ancient dark oak chair. The one with a huge squeaky spring contraption underneath and a wooden seat that fit no one’s bottom, certainly not hers. She had haunted the thrift shops until she discovered the ideal cushion on an old wicker poolside chair. The blue and white striped canvas cushion had one good side; the other was stained from too many spilled Piña Coladas. The oversized cushion fit the seat of the squeaky chair perfectly thereby boosting her body and her sprits. She was sitting pretty.