“Get the hell out of here! And quit harassing Sara!” he yelled, giving me a stiff push. I fell backward and down the concrete steps. “Stay away, fat old man!” He emphasized the last three words, pointing his finger after saying each one. Then he slammed the door.
My pants were tom, and my scraped knee began to bleed. I had broken the fall with my hand, and my wrist throbbed and started to swell. I could hear the dog barking and then saw him jumping at the side gate.
I hobbled back to my car and lit a cigarette with trembling hands. He was at the window watching me. I couldn’t believe how things went from bad to worse.
After my third drink at the Hob Nob, I finally stopped trembling. At least I’m safe here, I thought. Keep smiling, I told myself. I must have gone crazy. What I’ll do is go back to work and forget that this whole thing happened. “Stupid old man,” I mumbled. Fixed assets don’t push or threaten. You can’t change what you are. In six years you’ll have a pension. Have it made. Give up. Give it up...
When I woke up the next morning, I knew that I wasn’t going to work. I was bruised and ached all over, but I didn’t feel sorry for myself. My job wasn’t finished. Lauren was counting on me. I called in sick again.
After a steak-and-egg special at the Waffle House, I drove to Southern Gun World. I was surprised how easy it was to buy a gun. They were running a 25-percent-off sale on handguns in stock. If I had told them that I wanted to buy a gun to shoot my son-in-law, they probably would have suggested a higher-caliber (and higher-priced) model to make sure I got the job done. I left with a .38 police special and a box of bullets.
I debated whether or not to load the weapon and finally decided to do it and then placed it in the glove compartment. I drove to Stone’s house, took the gun out and put it behind my belt and walked slowly to his door. Not even the light falling rain could dampen my spirits. I rang the bell and soon heard his footsteps on the stairs.
“You again!” he said as he opened the door. He started toward me.
“Think about it,” I said as I held the gun on him. He stopped dead in his tracks. I started to sweat. “Mr. Stone, I think we need to have a little talk. Upstairs.” I pointed the gun. My hand was shaking. He turned and walked up. I followed three steps behind.
Then it happened. Two steps from the top, I tripped. I tried to break my fall and my wrist surged with pain. The gun went sliding across the kitchen floor. Stone stomped on my hand — I screamed so loud the sound scared me.
“Get up, you sack of shit!” he ordered. I looked at him standing over me, gun in hand.
It wasn’t easy getting up; my knee felt like it was sprained, and my wrist was too tender to take any pressure.
“Sit down,” he motioned with the gun to the living room. I hobbled over to the couch.
“I ought to call the cops on you, you meddling old fool!”
I took the crumpled note out of my pocket and threw it toward him. “What did Lauren need to see you about?”
“You asshole!” he yelled. “I don’t believe this!” He took a few steps toward me, turned, and then walked toward the window. He rubbed his brow with the hand not holding the gun.
“I got to find out who killed Lauren. I don’t care if it kills me.” I couldn’t believe I was saying that.
“You pathetic old piece of shit.” He shook his head, no longer holding the gun on me. He held it loosely at his side as he paced.
“Look,” he finally said. “Nobody killed Lauren; she killed herself. You got that.” He looked at me, unsure of what to say next. He started unloading the gun; the bullets fell on the floor.
“Something happened that she couldn’t handle. That’s all. She couldn’t handle it. She killed herself.” He shook his head again rubbing his eyebrows.
“I loved her,” he said, taking me completely by surprise. “I know I shouldn’t have, especially after being practically married to Sara...” He stopped abruptly. I squirmed in my seat. It seemed like years passed in his pause.
“Get out!” he yelled and threw the empty gun at me. It hit me in the stomach and bounced on the floor. He came over to me in a rage, grabbing me by my coat, trying to lift me from the couch. “Get out! Get out!” He yelled, “and leave me alone!”
Realizing that he couldn’t lift me, he shook me instead but then suddenly stopped. I slipped off the couch. He walked back to the window. I picked up the gun and, with greater effort, myself. He kept staring out the window. I walked out.
Once I was on the street, it all made sense to me. I locked the gun in the glove compartment and drove directly to Sara’s house. This time I parked in the driveway, blocking the garage. I didn’t think that I would need the gun. Besides, it certainly didn’t do me any good at Stone’s house.
When she opened the door and saw me, she began to slam it. This time, instead of jamming my foot, I pushed my way in.
“Get out!” she screamed. “Oh, brother, I’ve had it! This time I am going to call the police!” She walked to the phone.
“Go right ahead,” I said. “I’m sure they’d be interested in knowing where you were when Lauren died.”
“What! You’re crazy!”
“I know you did it, Sara, and I know why. You were always jealous of her, weren’t you? And when she stole Stone away from you, right under your nose, you couldn’t take it!”
“You can’t prove...” She blurted out and then stopped herself. She stared at me.
I was sure now. She was guilty. I knew it, and she knew I knew it. Her eyes flashed for a moment, and I was scared. She opened a drawer of the telephone stand and pulled out a small, silver revolver. She pointed it at me. It went pop! And my stomach felt hot. I slid to the floor. I heard her talking on the phone before I passed out. She sounded hysterical and was talking to the police about a man who broke into her house. I drifted in and out of consciousness.
The police came, and shortly afterward, an ambulance. I only caught snatches of her explanation; she seemed to be giving an academy-award performance.
When I fully regained consciousness, I was in a hospital room with a tube up my nose. My head felt like it had been kicked by a Clydesdale. The objects in the room seemed to be floating.
Some time later, a man came in and introduced himself as Sergeant Ed Lewis.
“Mr. Wilcox,” he said, “I’d like to ask you a few questions but before I do, I must remind you that you have the right to remain silent...”
I was so stunned, I almost passed out. The objects in the room — the lamp, the chair, the dresser, seemed like they were moving. “But, but, but...” I stammered, “she killed her sister!”
“Take it easy, Mr. Wilcox. Officer Kugler’s report of you loitering near the Wright residence could be construed as confirming your intent to break and enter. Would you care to explain why you, a bookkeeper close to retirement and financially secure, would want to burgle? You thought no one was home, and she surprised you, didn’t she?”
“She killed her sister!” I screamed and felt my head pound so loudly that I had to put my hands to it to try to keep it from exploding.
“Look, friend,” he said. “I checked your record. You never even got a traffic ticket. The woman feels so bad about shooting you, she probably won’t even testify. Now, what were you doing there?”
The room started to spin.
“Looking for my daughter...”
Murder in Store
Peter Lovesey
“Murder in Store,” the second story by Mr. Lovesey in NBM, appeared in the special Christmas issue of the British magazine Women’s Own; it has not been previously published in the United States. Mr. Lovesey’s new novel. Rough Cider, is scheduled for publication in May 1987 by the Mysterious Press.