Shear Murder

Chapter 2-1

2

Trudy followed the swaggering Bruce Carstairs across the parking lot. She watched his wide butt gyrate as he walked. Stealing a glance over her shoulder behind them, she saw there were people on the covered sidewalks staring them. A guy Bruce’s size clearly attracted attention.

His humming and his relaxed, causal gait said he didn’t give a s**t what they thought of him. He must be used to the attention.

Finally, a low-slung motorcycle came into view, parked behind a red Chevy pickup. The motorcycle had shiny chrome pipes running down the side, a large black seat, and the gas tank, which sat in front of the leather seat, was painted a royal purple. Painted on the tank was the image of a buxom, well-toned blonde in a red, barely-there bikini. The painted woman had a smile forever fixed to her face, and a twinkle fixed in the corner of both cobalt-blue eyes. Under the image, in heavily stylized yellow script, were the words “Bruce’s Gal.”

Bruce stopped next to the motorcycle and turned to Trudy.

“What do you think?” There was pride in his voice. She’d heard that bikers sometimes loved their bikes more than their women.

“It’s very nice.” Her voice sounded meek in her ears.

“Yup, she’s a beaut. The other guys think she’s s**t, but I love my Honda.”

“Why would anyone say that?”

Bruce shook his head and the smile vanished from his face. “The guys don’t like rice burners, but I’ve had this baby since I was a kid, and I love it.” Seeing Trudy’s puzzled expression Bruce explained rice burners were motorcycles manufactured in Japan. The real motorcycle men rode Harley Davidson's.

“Guys?” Trudy could imagine whom he was talking about, but she didn’t have the nerve to ask. This guy was big and scary. Still, he seemed kind of friendly, like a big teddy bear.

“You wanna a ride?” Bruce asked, ignoring her question.

“No. I have my car over there.” Trudy pointed toward her old, rusted-out red two-door Chevette. The irony of the color of original paint had never been lost on her, since rust was the only thing holding the car together these days. But at least it’s paid for, she thought. “Follow me. It’s easy to get lost on the back roads around here,” she said, offering him a thin-lipped smile.

“Yeah, okay. You know, you’re all right.” He grinned.

Stepping up next to his bike, he grabbed the helmet hanging off the passenger bar at the back of the seat. Slipping it over his head with the strap under his chin, he adjusted the helmet over his long, jet-black hair, which ran poker straight down his bull neck, then down his back. The trails of hair stuck from beneath the helmet’s brim like a river. She had never seen a man’s hair that long before. It was almost a work of art.

Trudy went to her car. Reaching into her purse, she grabbed the key with the GM logo. It slid easily into the lock and there was an audible click as she turned it. She tugged, and the door flew open, the hinges protesting loudly with an ear-splitting crunch of rusted metal. As she climbed in, she heard the roar of a motorcycle engine come to life and the deep throbbing rumble as it began to move. Looking down, she slipped the key into the ignition and turned it. The engine coughed and sputtered once, then began to run in its usual jumpy, misfiring way.

She called the car her red, rusted, piece of s**t, or POS for short. But then, it did get her around town, if not in the style she would have preferred.

The rumble of the motorcycle engine increased until Bruce, sitting astride the powerful purple monster, rolled up beside her. Grinning, he signaled with a thumbs-up for her to lead the way.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, she backed up, turned, and headed for the street behind the mall. Darkness had crept across the sky, leaving a dusting of stars, so she switched on the headlights. The twin beams cut through the gloom.

At the green light where the side street met Highway 101, she turned left and headed south. One quick glance back told her that Bruce was right behind her—at a safe distance, of course.

They passed the real estate office, the town’s small library, and Bill’s Independent Grocers as they drove along the two-lane highway.

Soon they arrived at Bard Street, where she made a right turn. Bruce stayed with her. They rounded the curve in the road and the ocean came into view. She could see that the white-capped waves were about six feet high today. Foam-topped walls of green water were rushing toward the pure, finely pounded sand of the long beach. The ocean would be very cold. No swimming.

They drove to the bottom of the hill until they came to the sign for Spirit Road. Sharon shared a rented house with a couple of other girls. Trudy had only been down here a couple of times, so it took her a few moments to find the correct house.

It was a three-bedroom beach house. Probably someone’s old summer place, back in the sixties, now a rental. Trudy and Rocky had stayed in a house like this when they first moved to town, until they found more permanent accommodation. The house they ended up buying was pretty much a fixer-upper, which Rocky had promised he would fix up before he snagged a full time job. That had been six months ago, and the house still remained more of a fixer than an upper. He'd been too busy he said to find work. Yeah right, drinking and ogling the female barfly’s was all he did.

The brakes squeaked when she stopped the car in front of the little gray house with the blue wooden weather shutters with little hearts carved in them. In front was a flower garden with a ceramic gnome wearing a green hat, red curl-toed shoes, a white open-necked shirt, and a green vest and cherry red pants. The flowers were mostly dead sticks. Trudy guessed the girls who lived here weren’t the gardening type.

Bruce pulled in behind her. She turned off the engine, and his motorcycle engine went silent immediately. Flipping the stand down with one booted foot, he eased the bike’s weight onto the kickstand.

After dismounting, he stood beside the bike. Slipping the helmet off his head, he flipped his hair over his shoulder as he strode to the driver’s side window of her car. The window squealed as she rolled it down.

“This it?” he asked.

“Yeah. She shares it.”

Bruce nodded, and with the helmet swinging from two thick, meaty fingers, started toward the pale peach front door.

Starting the car’s little engine again, Trudy looked behind her and backed up, when she suddenly stood on the brake pedal after spotting a familiar vehicle out of the corner of one eye. She swiveled in her seat to stare at the navy blue pickup truck parked down the street a couple of hundred yards away. It looked familiar. There didn’t appear to be anyone inside the cab, at least that she could see through the rear window. She studied the license plate. It wasn’t Rocky’s, but it sure looked like his truck. What the hell would he be doing here, anyway? She shrugged and rolled up the car’s window.

She stepped on the gas pedal. The little car sputtered its way to the corner, where she turned and headed back up the hill.

* * * *

After Trudy’s car disappeared over the crest of the hill, a lone figure sat up from behind the steering wheel of the blue truck. A reflection of stray light revealed two eyes that had been watching the little Chevette until it disappeared. After the echo of the sputtering engine died away, the shadowy figure started the engine of the pickup. It roared to life and the truck drove slowly toward the hill, its headlights off.