The Price of Candy (3 page)

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.

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 both 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.

In return for assisting Kagan in his law
office, she received a modest wage and plenty of time to study. She
had free access to Wi-Fi, his password to the
Lexis
legal
research site, as well as his own dusty, but extensive law library.
Occasionally, she would perform some investigative fieldwork for
him. With all that going for her and a law career ahead, she knew a
house and all that permanent possession crap could come later.

“Nice house,” Sandy stated honestly. She
didn’t want to waste the day talking to Abby. She took the
conversation back to their shared rehab experience, “Wasn’t it
clever the way they called their prisoners, clients?”

“Everyone knew who you were,” Abby said. “You
were famous around there. They’re no doubt still talking about you.
You’re the one who kicked that counselor in the nuts when he tried
to make you go down.”

“He never touched me after that. Of course,
from then on they gave me every shit detail in the place. I kept
telling myself that being on my knees cleaning up shit was more
dignified than being on my knees in front of him. It was sexual
assault the moment he unzipped.”

“Why didn’t you just go along to get along?
That’s my philosophy. What’s the big deal? Do it and move on. If
you’re such a goody two-shoes, why were you there in the first
place?”

“Acting out at the mall, doing some stolen
pills from Mom’s cabinet, nothing heavy, teen stuff. Mom freaked,
called a teen hotline and the social services ball started rolling.
Some sort of Save-The-Kids crusade was going on at the time, didn’t
take much to end up in rehab. Mom put me there and then forgot to
come get me out. Brother Raymond also knew I was there and never
visited me either. He could have signed me out as well, but didn’t
show up. Three extra miserable months he cost me.”

“Wow, really? Well, it’s all behind us now.
Iced tea or something?”

Sandy nodded. “Not completely behind. I know
where that former counselor now lives. The law firm I worked for in
Philly had me out running around the Delaware Valley interviewing
and researching legal stuff. When I was bored, waiting for some
papers in some law office, I’d use my laptop to track the bastard’s
whereabouts.”

“You talking about that tall sexy counselor
from rehab? He was hot.”

“Geez Abby, he’s a sleazebag and a criminal.
A sexual predator for God’s sake. He belongs behind bars for what
he forced the girls to do. I’d love to nail him to the wall just
for their sake.”

“I’d love to have him nail me to the mattress
one more time. The guy was insatiable. I got more action in there
than on the outside. Made the time fly by, plus I didn’t have to do
any work.”

That settled the question of whether Abby
felt the abuse had torn up her life. Her experience sounded like
one of the high points. Sandy hadn’t been aware Abby had spent the
duration there on her back. The other girls were required to
perform therapy, which was what the counselors called never-ending
cleanup duty and waiting on them. She and Abby may have been there
at the same time, but clearly their memories differed. Another
reason to question why she was even here talking to her. Yet, Sandy
resisted judging her. Perhaps cooperating with the counselor had
been Abby’s way of coping, her way of surviving. Sandy tried hard
to find something to like about this woman.