Gayle Roper - Caught In A Bind

Edie sat straight up. “Tom?” The hope in her voice broke my heart.

Randy stalked by the living room without so much as a glance in our direction. He continued down the hall to the back of the house. In a moment I heard him opening the refrigerator.

Edie checked her watch. “It’s 1:05. No kid his age should be out this late, but tonight I’m just not up to the confrontation. All I can think about is Tom.”

I nodded, thinking that Randy had been counting on just that and was taking advantage of her preoccupation. The kid was clever, a master strategist and champion manipulator. Usually that meant a keen intelligence. What a waste, I thought, to use your mind to wound and distress.

“I just hope he hasn’t been with that adorable little Sherrie all this time. Too cute. Too many hormones.” Edie shivered.

Randy appeared in the doorway, a can of Mountain Dew in one hand and a bag of Chips Ahoy in the other. He had enough caffeine and sugar there to keep a small town awake for hours. He’d probably wolf it all down and fall immediately into a deep slumber.

“No word from Tom-boy?” he asked his mother.

She shook her head.

He smirked. “Aliens, Mom. Or else he’s deserted you.”

“Randy!” I couldn’t help it. He was being so unkind.

He ignored me. “Just like you did Dad.” His smirk deepened. “I guess you’re finally getting what you deserve.”

Edie sighed. “I’m not going to discuss why I left your father, Randy. You know that. He’s your father, and I won’t talk against him.”

I watched Randy absorb his mother’s comments without any perceptible change of expression or posture. I concluded that Edie’s comments on this subject were as familiar and frequent as were his barbs. He turned to me without a blink.

“That your car in the drive?” he asked.

I nodded.

“I’m getting a car in a couple of months.” He looked back at his mother and said, “My father is giving it to me.”

Obviously he meant Randolph, not Tom.

He laughed. “It’s a good thing because Tom wouldn’t get me a car if I was the last person on earth.”

“And neither would I.” Edie’s eyes were unflinching as she looked at her son. “Things like cars and the trust to let you have one have to be earned.”

Randy shrugged. “I guess I’m lucky that Dad doesn’t agree.” He turned to me. “Want to see my car?”

I glanced at Edie, who raised her hand in a be-my-guest motion. I turned to Randy. “Okay.”

He put his Mountain Dew on the glorious occasional table in the hall, and I could see Edie bite her lip to keep from reprimanding him about it.

Randy opened the blue bag of cookies. He pulled out a handful to fortify himself while he showed me his dream car.

I expected him to pull out a picture, but he didn’t.

“Come on,” he said. “It’s in the garage.”

I glanced again at Edie.

“Randolph can never remember Randy’s birth date,” she said. “He thought it was sometime in the spring, so he sent the car ahead so he wouldn’t be late.”

Randy turned on his mother. “He knows my birthday! He wants me to have the fun of anticipation.”

Edie shrugged. “If you say so.”

“When is your birthday?” I asked.

“July 13.” Randy scowled at me, daring me to make something of the midsummer date.

I merely nodded. “Well, show me.”

Still scowling, Randy led me down a level, through the family room, to the connecting door to the garage. He went through first and flicked on the lights. I followed and blinked at what I saw. I knew then that Edie and Tom didn’t have a chance.

There, gleaming softly under the harsh overhead light, sat a silver, ragtop Porsche convertible.

“It came three days ago.” Randy ran his hand lovingly over the sleek curve of one fender. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“That it is.” I began to circle the car. All I could think of was how inappropriate this expensive, classy, powerful car was for a novice driver. The potential for tragedy was incredible!

I bent down to peer inside. I might as well study the upholstery before it was drenched with Randy’s blood.

Someone had beaten Randy to it.

Blood stained the passenger seat and floor, great quantities of blood, overwhelming quantities of blood. I knew there had to be very little if any left in the very dead man who slumped against the gray leather interior.

I made a noise halfway between a scream and a burp at the sight of the body. My first thought was that Tom had finally come home.

“What’s the matter with you?” Randy demanded, ever sympathetic to a woman in distress.

I couldn’t find my voice, so I pointed. He bent and peered in. Next thing I knew he was retching in the corner. So much for perpetual cool.

I made myself look in the car again. I had to know if the corpse was indeed Tom.

It wasn’t. First, the body looked too tall, even slumped. Tom was slight all over, and this man had wide shoulders and a paunch. Also, Tom wore his hair closely cropped, and this man had straggly hair that should have been cut weeks ago. And of course, this man had the wrong face, with strong, broad features instead of the narrow, almost delicate ones that typified Tom.

I straightened from my quick second glance with a deep sigh of relief and turned to Randy, who by now was leaning weakly against the side of the car.

“Get off the car! It’s a crime scene!”

Randy, green around the gills, jumped and obeyed.

“We don’t want to touch it and contaminate any evidence.” Randy nodded as he swayed.

I gave him a push. “Back into the house. We need to call 911.”

Edie took one look at Randy as we stumbled inside and surged to her feet. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s a dead guy in my car!” Disbelief was Randy’s dominant emotion now that he was away from the scene. Feelings of outrage and violation would follow shortly. “And there’s blood all over!”

Edie looked wide-eyed at me, seeking confirmation—or denial—of Randy’s comments.

I nodded. “Where’s the phone?”

They both pointed to the kitchen.

I called 911 and returned to the family room just as Edie and Randy walked back in from the garage.

Edie was white-faced as she looked back toward the garage. “I never saw him before in my life.”

The police didn’t recognize the corpse either.

“How’d he get here?” Randy demanded of anyone who’d listen, and that was usually me. “And why in my car?”

Like I knew.

“How long’s he been dead?” he demanded of the police. “How did he die? And why in my car?”

“Speaking of your car, son,” William Poole said quietly, “when was the last time you looked into it?”

“Ah.” Randy looked very wise. “You want to know when the body got there.”

William nodded. “That’s the idea.”

“Well, I sat in it just before I left for dinner. I met Mom at Ferretti’s, not that she invited me.”

“And there was nothing unusual about the car or the garage when you last saw it at what? About 5:30?”

Randy thought for a minute. “Yeah, about 5:30. And if by unusual you mean there was a dead body lying around bleeding all over the place, no, there was nothing at all unusual. I just sat behind the wheel making believe I was driving.” Randy’s hands were in front of him, steering.

William adjusted his gun on his hip. “One piece of advice, son. Don’t even think about taking that car onto the road before you have your license.”

Randy blinked and flushed. “I’d never do something like that.”

I could almost hear William’s mental Right.

“Besides,” Randy continued, “Mom has the keys.”