It's Murder at the Buy-Right

50

Taking his time to set up the timer in the old frame farm house had paid off. If everything went according to plans, there'd be little left for the fire crews to figure out.

An accident.

Old wiring.

A thousand and one things to blame it on.

And even if someone suspected arson, there'd be nothing but a pile of ash and rubble and the chaotic litter left a very hot burning fire.

He had studied and done his homework well.

He'd been surprised to learn that super glue and cotton balls could spontaneously combust, but it would take a train car full to get the effect he wanted.

He'd read the manifestos on the Internet. No need to buy a tent and set it up in the woods. He didn't need a 'clean' environment to execute his plan. He didn't bother with electrical timing devices, soldering guns, and wire.

Any kind of incendiary device like that would leave too much evidence. No, he would use a simple method he'd stumbled upon in his research: a wind-up alarm clock, woolen thread, a mouse trap, and matches.

Living in a rural area, it was easy to collect large five gallon plastic buckets. He'd found two lying by the side of the road.

He'd simply gone to several different country gas stations in the area over a period of several days, filling his red 'lawnmower' gas can repeatedly, and transferring the gas to the five gallon buckets he'd store at his home.

No one had batted an eye. He'd paid with cash and told the cashier, if the cashier even bothered to ask, that no receipt was necessary.

And he'd been careful at home, too. He made sure to scrub the buckets, wearing two pairs of latex gloves after he'd cleaned them, left everything in their packages until they were needed and cut tape and package contents with scissors.

He'd practiced setting up the timed device until he'd finally hit upon a setup that worked flawlessly every time.

He smiled.

All he had to do was wind up the clock and attach the string so that it tripped the trap which struck the match against the striking plate of the matchbox and blammo!

He'd snickered when he'd read that the arsonist who'd used this setup had forgotten to open a window. The fire died from lack of oxygen.

Stupid beyond words.

And although Deke's farm house had a few neighbors nearby, it wasn't like the houses were jammed up onto each other.

Deke bought the small white frame house and land when he'd retired from the military. He'd sold off tracts of land and a nice development had arisen with large lots and new houses dotting the place.

He'd left most of the large trees and shrubs near his house, keeping the charm and the look of the old homestead. Under the cover of nightfall, there'd be little chance of being noticed.

And there'd be no need to break into the house. The large recessed entryway would provide a perfect place to put his 'house-warming' package.

Everything was in place.

A flutter of doubt tickled the lining of his stomach.

Getting rid of that pesky nuisance behind the dumpster of the store had gone well enough. Maybe it had been beginner's luck.

Luck was on his side, though.

That night Daisy Ann had fallen from Foslo's plane like a rock had pretty much cemented Burnell's fate.

The fight outside of Albion's sandwich shop hadn't been much.

A nose-bleeder not a knockout.

But thanks to Niles, who was too high to watch what he was saying or how loud his voice was, he'd discovered that punk, Burnell, was a reporter nosing around and trying to discover if there was any truth to the rumors that the county sheriff's department was corrupt.

In later conversations where a little dope was traded for what Niles knew, the scum swore that Burnell had plenty of dirt on the department.

It only took patience and timing, but he knew one way or another he'd wrap up all the loose ends.

The second attempt to clean up things hadn't gone so well.

It was luck again.

This time all bad.

How could he have known Deke would come back to the store in the middle of the night and find him in rifling through papers in his office cubby?

The nasty bash on the head should have put an Angus bull out of his misery, but the old man was a survivor.

He was still recovering in the hospital, though thank the gods, he was still unconscious.

He'd searched the store but come up empty.

Burnell swore that notebook was in Deke's possession.

It had to be at the old man's house.

Deke had to go, but for now, he'd concentrate on destroying his house. He couldn't risk another search. Better to destroy the whole house and burn the notebook with it.

With that little notebook, Dewitt would ruin him. If only that little butt face Burnell hadn't handed it over to Dewitt, he would have solved his problems that night behind the dumpster.

It had gotten so complicated so quickly.

Incredible, if you thought about it.

A few guns, a few drugs, a lot of cash on the side.

Was it worth it?

You bet, he decided.