The Fall Guy Read Free Page B

going to make any difference, and the sun was almost set. The last fingers of sunlight barely reached the rock. Soon I wouldn’t be able to see, and the mosquitoes would arrive for their evening feast.
    I tried to picture what had happened. What Mrs. Wilkins had been doing on the deck. Most days I was working, she’d stayed inside. It was hot out, and my sander and table saw were always running. They aren’t the newest, so there was lots of sawdust and noise. Sometimes I saw her through the glass, pouring herself a drink. Nothing heavy, just wine. As often as not she’d give me a little wave. I never saw her falling down drunk, but maybe that day she had more than most. Or maybe she didn’t care enough to be careful. I got the feeling she didn’t care about much.
    Most of the railing bits had been cleared away from the rocks, like someone was trying to get rid of the reminder. I picked up a short piece of two-by-two. Part of a spindle. One end was splintered, but the other was tapered where it would have been attached to the bottom rail. There was a hole for the screw, but it looked wrong. Too wide. I use decking screws. They’re three inches long and thin so they won’t split the wood as I drill them in. I’ve looked at a thousand holes made by decking screws. They were smaller and finer than this one.
    I set the piece of wood down on the rock, puzzled. Maybe the screw had worked itself loose. Maybe Mrs. Wilkins had leaned over the edge to look at the view. In her excitement she tugged at the rail until the screw widened the hole. I shook my head in disbelief. It didn’t make sense! The spindles were three inches apart. Even if one worked loose, fifteen others would hold.
    The last of the setting sun was shining on the granite, lighting up its black and pink streaks. Deep in the crack between two rocks, I saw a flash of silver. I reached in and pulled out the piece of metal. Not silver at all, but steel. A stubby screw that still had bits of cedar stuck to its threads. The decking screws I used were brass, rustresistant and three inches long. This one was a cheap alloy, half an inch too short and way too thick.
    Someone had changed the screws on my railing.

CHAPTER FIVE
    A s I stood there staring at the screw, my brain refused to understand. Why would someone change the screws? To get me in trouble? To get out of paying me the miserable few thousand I was owed? I thought about Wilkins’ lawsuit, slapped on me before the blood was even dry in his wife’s death. That guy had sure been fast off the mark.
    I should tell the police. I knew the screw was evidence, proof that I hadn’t been negligent and that someone else had caused the accident. Then I remembered Constable Swan’s expression as she’d looked around my farm. She thought I was an idiot. Or at best, a wing nut. She’d ordered me to stay away from Wilkins’ place. She might think I’d planted the screw. I should put it back where I found it and tell the police to take another look around.
    Tires growled on the gravel up above. I shoved the screw in my pocket and was heading for my bush again when I heard a car door slam.
    â€œO’Toole?” A raw roar.
    Wilkins. He steamed around the edge of the house like a bull on a charge, all six feet four inches and three hundred pounds of him. Most of that fat, but still…At one-fifty after a full platter of wings, I wouldn’t stand a chance. I hustled back up onto the deck and tried to look harmless. He skidded to a stop six inches from my face. The past couple of days hadn’t been good ones for him. His face was puffy and purple, like he’d gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson. His eyes were bloodshot, and a blast of booze breath rolled over me.
    â€œWhat the fuck do you think you’re doing!”
    â€œS-sorry about your wife, Mr. Wilkins,” I started. “I just came to see—”
    â€œSee what? See how she died?