It's Murder at the Buy-Right

5

Deke was beginning to understand what a telephone pole felt like.

His head ached, and his feet felt worse. Not to mention the fact that standing around at the back of the store waiting for something to happen was about as exciting as watching your tooth's enamel decay.

If Tex or Grit was responsible for the pranks, he'd make them pay.

Dearly.

He backed into the shadows between the dumpster and the cinder block wall. He felt the cool uneven surface of the blocks bite through his tee shirt and scratch his back. 

He punched the button on his watch. The day-glo green dial told him it was late. It shouldn't be too long before the boys emptied the boxes in the recycle bin out back.

Having the boys stock the store from three to eleven three days a week had seemed like a good idea. It kept the aisles free of a lot of clutter. Sure, some boxes always found their way into an aisle, but for the most part, it had seemed to be a good system.

Until yesterday.

Deke looked up at the sky, wondering if it would rain. He'd have to abandon his post if it poured like the other night. There were no roof overhangs on the store. It was just a square brick box with a flat roof.

He shifted uneasily. Out in the distance, he could see the telltale flicker of heat lightning.

Heat lightning.

There was no such thing. A storm was rumbling too far away for him to hear its growling thunder.

Who wants to be standing near a metal dumpster in a puddle of water while lightning dances merrily overhead?

Not Deke Dewitt.

He'd rather wrestle snakes.

He yawned.

Maybe this was a dumb idea. If whoever left those stupid things in his store had moved on to bigger fish, Deke was wasting his time for nothing. It could have been a bunch of kids, out of school early, and looking for trouble.

Or it could be his stock boys.

Deke rubbed the stubble on his chin. Hard to say. 

If it was Tex or Grit, they'd be sure to show their hand. 

Daisy Ann was right. Those two weren't the brightest crayons in the box. But still, in his heart of hearts, he was more likely to agree with Daisy Ann. She did have a level head on her shoulders. Sometimes.

If he'd been pressed to the wall, like he was now, Deke knew he'd have to admit he wasn't convinced of those two boys' guilt.

There was too much gray in his dilemma, he decided, and not enough clearly marked black and white. He'd stake out his store tonight. Maybe a few more nights if the weather permitted. If nothing happened, then he'd forget about the whole matter.

Deke jumped as the back door rattled open. It was Tex. He had a load of cardboard.

"Hey," Tex said.

"Yeah."

"Did you see the game, last night?"

"Nah," Grit said. "I was in the shop working on my motorcycle."

"Why don't you trash that thing, and get a real bike? That thing stays in your shop a lot more than it runs on the road."

"Tell me about it. But, hey, I work here. Remember? At Dim Wit's."

"Me, too," Tex said. "That's why I'm still drivin' that heap I call a truck. I wish we'd get a raise. I'd love some new wheels."

"Like that 'ull never happen. Here. Gimme a hand."