Hard Case Crime: The Vengeful Virgin by Brewer Gil

Author:Brewer, Gil [Brewer, Gil]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hard Case Crime
Published: 2011-03-29T04:00:00+00:00

Nine

Somehow, I did what I had to do.

I carried a casting rod and a couple of plugs in the truck. Sometimes, driving around town on calls, I stopped by different lakes, and had a few tries for bass. It would have to be my alibi now. I drove the truck six blocks from the Spondell house. There was a lake I knew of. I parked the truck, shielding it as best I could in a copse of cedar. It was one of the chances I’d have to take. My explanation, if it ever came to that, would be that Miss Angela had called for TV service. After I left her place, I drove to the lake and made a few casts for fish along the shore. Because the truck might be spotted. It could easily have been seen at Shirley’s. Grace had seen it. It was weak business, but maybe it was weak enough to be believable.

I dogged it back to Shirley’s. She was in the bedroom with Victor. She got me a blanket. I cleaned the kitchen floor, and the carving knife. I scrubbed the knife with a brush and kitchen cleanser, and did the same with the floor after I had wrapped the body in the blanket.

I was so worried I couldn’t see straight, and I knew I had to keep calm.

Mayda Lamphier was still warm. I knew pretty well what I would do.

“She’ll be found,” Shirley said. “They’ll suspect something.”

“Nobody’s going to suspect anything. They may never find her.”

“Victor’s dying.”

I didn’t say anything. I hardly knew what I was doing. “Go back in there with him. Do whatever you feel you should do.” I looked at her. “Only don’t give him any air. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

She avoided looking at the blanket-wrapped body.

“I’m scared, Jack.”

“I know.”

I waited till she went in there with him. I could hear him again. I hoisted what was left of Mayda Lamphier on my shoulder and went out back. The yard was dark. I took her across the lawn, and through the hedge into her driveway where her convertible was parked, and laid her across the seat. Lights were on in her living room.

I got under the wheel, backed the convertible out of the drive, and left that place.

Somebody had to see her car; somebody who knew the car. I drove around the blocks nearby, trying to think.

I recalled a gas station on the corner of the main highway leading south, not far from this residential section. In all probability, Mayda Lamphier had used it at some time or other. Possibly regularly. It was close enough to her home.

I went that way. Neons glowed brightly over the station. An attendant was out front under the marquee, taking care of a customer.

With the gas pedal to the floor, I swerved the car wildly in toward the station, then back onto the highway, and wailed the horn. The attendant couldn’t possibly make out who was driving the car. He turned sharply, then waved and shouted something.

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