Free Something for Nothing by David Anthony Page B

Hal Weavers of the world wasn’t a moral dilemma as far as Martin was concerned. In fact, the brutal but mysterious murder of Hal Weaver might present advantages to Martin. He could become the caring friend and neighbor to Miriam, the one person to whom she could confide her secret fears and fantasies, the things she hadn’t been able to communicate to Hal because in fact their marriage had been over years before the murder. And maybe—inevitably—Martin and Miriam would have sex right here in this bedroom, in the very bed separating him from Miriam.
    Martin heard a ringing sound, and suddenly time resumed its normal speed. Was it a home alarm, he wondered, finally kicking into gear and warning Miriam there was an intruder in her home? The bell sounded again, and he heard Miriam mutter, “All right, all right already.” And then he heard her walk out of the room and down the hall.
    Someone was at the door. In fact, he realized, this was probably why she was home: she’d come to meet someone here. Seconds later, as she opened the door and greeted the person, he was able to glean that it was a repair guy of some sort. Something about the dishwasher or the garbage disposal, he thought he heard them say. Something in the kitchen, anyway. But at that point he wasn’t really listening. By that time he was on his feet. He felt for the .22 in his pants pocket, then scanned the top of Miriam’s bureau for something—anything—to grab.
    And then he was pushing open the French doors that led out onto the back patio. He slipped out of the house and onto the crunchy-sounding brick, and then as quickly as possible down to the lawn and along the fence. Finally, and without looking back (in case he’d been spotted from the house, which he doubted: the kitchen didn’t look onto the backyard), he pushed himself through the gap in the fenceand out to the orchard and then to his car, stumbling again through the big, frustrating chunks of dirt.
    He was soaked with sweat. His heart was beating so furiously that it actually hurt. He caught his faint reflection in the driver’s-side window, but he ignored it. Instead, he opened the car door and sat down. He pulled the door shut and scanned the orchard. He didn’t see anyone. No one was chasing after him, apparently. After another couple of seconds he realized that he was giving off a sickly odor of fear—any cop stopping him now would drag him in on that basis alone.
    Another minute or so later, still feeling the heavy beating of his heart, he looked down at his left hand, and saw that he was carrying a small jewelry box. A tiny jewelry box: it was about six inches long and maybe three inches wide, he guessed. He must have grabbed it from Miriam’s bureau. He didn’t even remember reaching out and taking hold of it, but he must have, because here it was, in his hand. It looked old, like a keepsake of some sort, he thought. It was pewter or silver or something like that, and it had intricate, swirling designs on the lid. The metal was black and oxidized in the crevices of the swirls.
    He sat there for a second, looking down at it, and then he opened the lid. Inside, it was lined with a reddish felt, and nestled into the material were several small items, each of them probably important to Miriam in some way, and valuable looking. There was a pair of diamond earrings, a silver locket on a silver chain, and two rings. One of the rings had a large stone that looked like an emerald, and the other one had a lot of tiny diamonds set into it. The one with the diamonds looked like an old engagement ring; Martin figured it was her mother’s, or maybe her grandmother’s. She was probably planning to give it to her daughter someday—had been planning, that is, because it wasn’t going to happen now. There was no picture in the locket, which he found disappointing. He’d been hoping to see one of those old photos of