The Price of Candy

them from hand to hand, as though weighing gold. Unreal. For chrissake, there must be a hundred bills in that stack. She did a quick mental calculation. One hundred, hundred-dollar bills would be a thousand dollars. No! That’s not right. It’d be ten thousand dollars. “Yes, it’d be ten grand,” she thought aloud unintentionally.

There it was. The most cash she’d ever seen in one pile. An amount some people would kill for, including her. He’d just set it there, pretty as you please and declared it was her half. Now that it rested on her table, no way was that money leaving her house while she was alive. It was there; it was hers.

She gathered up the money and hesitated a second, waiting for his protest. None came. So, she smiled nicely at him and walked alone to her bedroom. She closed the door, leaned back against it, and let out a deep breath. Life is good. She held the money high in the air and shook it. She loved touching it. She could smell it. She could taste it. She could hear it speaking to her. She turned on her bedside lamp and examined a couple of the bills closely. Unbelievably gorgeous. She stuffed the money in a closet shoebox. She replaced the lid and patted the box gently. Ten thousand waiting to be spent. With ten grand, she could fly to some exotic resort and let some attractive men do their best to seduce this naive American woman.

If that was half, it meant he had the other half. Another ten grand. It made no sense. Toby didn’t look dumb, he just did dumb. Like handing her a bunch of money. Of course, he’s looking to get laid, but he didn’t need ten thousand for that. She smiled remembering that half a candy bar had worked once, however that was a long time ago. Toby didn’t know it yet, but he’d get zilch for his money.

She listened for him. He was still in the living room mumbling something about what might be on TV. She quietly took the small Smithy .38 from the nightstand just in case. She removed the trigger lock and pushed the gun down into the pocket of her slacks. Would she use it if necessary? For ten thousand? She laughed out loud.

In the kitchen, she found a bottle of Jim Beam and two glasses, and hurried back to the living room. “Drink up, Toby, celebration time. Sorry I couldn’t get a babysitter so I’m afraid Jamie will be here again tonight. But at least we can have a drink.” She laughed. He looked like a disinherited relative after reading the will.

Where’d he get it, she wanted to know? Was it hot? Was a Mexican drug lord going to bust through the wall wielding a machete? She explained she was sorry, but simply couldn’t accept any more money unless he explained how he got it.

That led to another nail in Toby’s coffin. As fatal mistakes go, this one was definitely worth getting killed over. He proceeded to give her all the details: what had happened, where the money came from, and how he could get more. His story was good and his plan simple. Amazing, she thought, that Toby Towalski had put it together all by himself.

Why had he cut her in? Why was he willing to split with her? She wondered why but wasn’t about to ask him. She didn’t want him to rethink any of it. Maybe he’s thinking about a million-buck jackpot. That must be the answer. So what’s a measly ten grand for the girlfriend who is going to spread wide the gateway to paradise? What would it take, she wondered, to get her hands on all of it?

Toby made another mistake the next day. He came back and asked for all the money back.

Of all the nerve, she thought. He said he needed car repairs, his mother was behind on her mortgage or dying or something. He just had to have the money back. Forget about it.

His mistake in sharing with her had finally sunk down through his scalp, she guessed. He might also have realized, since Abby was not putting out as expected, ten grand could buy him a fantastic amount of sex around town. A fool and his money are some party. Of course, the first bimbo he connected with wouldn’t leave his side until she had it all. Like the lion that lies down beside the zebra for days until all the bones are picked clean.

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.

Chapter Four

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