Framed for Murder

by Edward Kendrick

  I didn’t want to, but I did believe him. Not that it solved my problem; or his when it came down to it. Did Pender deserve what happened to him? That wasn’t for me to decide. All I knew was, I wouldn’t turn Wilson in—for his daughter’s sake if nothing else. That left me in a bind unless he was willing to do as I’d asked and use whatever influence he had to convince the cops to drop the charges against me. I was about to say all that to him when there was a terrified shriek of ‘Daddy!’ from a few yards away.

  We both turned and saw Abby had moved from the swings to the climbing bars meant for kids a lot older than she was. She’d made it to the top then must have lost her grip because she was dangling by one hand several feet above the ground.

  We were on our feet seconds later. I made it there first, just as her grip weakened and she fell. I caught her.

  “Thank God,” Wilson exclaimed as I handed her to him. He held her so tightly I wondered if she could breathe. He looked at me, fear and relief in his expression as he said, “Thank you! If you hadn’t…”

  “Daddy, you’re hurting me,” Abby said.

  “I’m sorry, but you scared me to death. What were you doing up there? You know you’re not supposed to climb without my permission and without me watching.”

  Typical parent, scolding his kid despite the fact she might have been badly hurt. Or because she might have been, I guess.

  “I wanted to surprise you,” she replied contritely.

  “Well you sure as he.. heck did that,” he replied, setting her down. “If you ever…”

  “I won’t. I promise,” she whispered. “Can we go home, Daddy? I’m tired.”

  “In a moment, dear. Why don’t you go sit on the bench while I finish my discussion with my friend?”

  We watched her walk over there and then he said, “I owe you for saving her. I’m going to do everything in my power to make certain you’re not arrested for Pender’s murder.” He had the honesty to add, “Although I’m not going to confess to it.”

  I chuckled, more from nerves and relief than anything else, replying, “You can always throw Seaver under the bus. After all, I wouldn’t have been there if it hadn’t been for him.”

  He smiled dryly. “Not happening. He is my friend and a damned good bodyguard as well. He was only doing what he thought was best for me, under the circumstances.”

  “I can understand that.” I thought about admitting everything we’d said had been recorded. I didn’t only because I needed an ace in the hole in case he reneged on his promise. He might be a decent man and a loving father who got trapped in an untenable situation and took things into his own hands, but he was still a politician. If there’s one thing they’re good at it’s saying black is white and up is down and convincing their constituents that’s the truth.

  “Again, thank you from the bottom of my heart,” Wilson said. “Is there some way I can get hold of you, to let you know what the police decide?”

  “Tell a reporter,” I replied with a crooked smile. “I’m sure they’ll have a field day with ‘Innocent man almost convicted for a crime he didn’t commit’.”

  He barked out a laugh. “I’m sure they will.” With that, he went to get Abby. I watched them leave, wondering if Seaver was somewhere around watching, too. If he was, he hadn’t shown himself when Abby fell. Or if he had, he’d stepped back into hiding when I saved her. That must have frosted his ass. It’s his job to keep them safe, not mine.

  I waited until they were out of sight before heading in the other direction to where Trent had set up to record everything. When I got there, he shook his head.

  “There are times when I think someone up there must be watching over you,” he said.

  “If so, he hasn’t been doing such a good job of it, until tonight,” I grumbled. “Let’s go.”

  He slung his arm around my shoulders as we walked to the car, asking, “What are we going to do with the recording? Destroy it?”

  I snorted. “As if. He meant what he said, when he said it. Who knows how he’ll feel in the morning. It has his confession on it. If he backs off on his promise, we send it to the cops.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” he replied. “It’s good to know you haven’t lost all your common sense.”

  I wasn’t certain I knew how he meant that, and for damned sure I wasn’t going to ask. Not now anyway. Maybe in the morning, which reminded me. “You don’t have to stay at the condo anymore.”

  “I’m not leaving until I know you’re not a wanted man.”

  “And if it turns out I still am?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  I think, no I knew, I was glad he wasn’t going to be leaving quite yet. Not that it would have made a difference when it came to our personal lives, but it was nice to know he did worry about me. It had been a long time since anyone had.

  Chapter 8

  I don’t know what Wilson said to the cops, but whatever it was, it worked. The result of being a politician with his thumbs in several pies, I guess. Anyway, two days after our meeting there was a story on the front page of the newspaper. In it, the detective in charge of the Pender case told the reporter that the fingerprints found at the scene did belong to one Charles English. “Charles Alan English, a petty thief and burglar who was recently released from prison, not Charles Thomas English, the man first accused of the murder, whose picture, unfortunately, appeared in the paper,” to quote the article.

  “Good way to get around it,” Trent said when he read the story. He said it again, or words to that effect, when the same story appeared on the TV newscasts.

  In the interim, while I waited to see if Wilson would stick to his promise, I kept the same low profile I had been before.

  When Trent and I got back from the park that night I was exhausted. Even Trent’s offer to make us coffee and something to eat while we talked about what would come next didn’t keep me from heading straight to bed. “We’ll figure that out when the time comes,” I said as I went up to the loft to change into the sweatpants I slept in and do a quick wash up, since I didn’t have the energy to shower. I crawled into bed, vaguely aware of his coming into the room before I fell asleep.

  When I woke the following morning, it was to the aroma of bacon and coffee. I took a fast shower, brushed my teeth and hair, got dressed, and went downstairs. Trent had plates and silverware set out on the eating counter and was flipping over two of the four eggs in the frying pan when I walked into the kitchen.

  “I remember you like them over easy,” he said with smile.

  I nodded, pouring coffee into the cups next to the plates. I wasn’t certain if it was a good thing or not that he remembered a small detail like that, but I was inordinately glad that he had.

  “As soon as we eat, I’ll get dressed,” he said as we sat down.

  “What? You’re not going to work in you sweats and T-shirt?” I joked.

  “I don’t think my clients would appreciate it if I did.”

  I might have argued the point. The T-shirt did a good job of emphasizing his fairly muscular chest and arms. For a man who would never see his thirties again, he was in very good shape. I suppose I was, too, if you don’t mind the lean and hungry look.

  “Do you want to come in with me?” Trent asked as we made inroads into our breakfast.

  “And do what? Hang around like I’ve been doing for the last few days? I’ll be safe enough here, if Wilson keeps his word. Hell, even if he doesn’t, no one knows where I am.”

  He seemed disappointed by my reply but didn’t argue. As soon as we finished eating, he went to get dressed for the day. On his way out, his laptop tucked under his arm, he told me he would put the recording he’d made of Wilson’s confession in the safe at his office, where he also had the one of my run-in with Seaver.

  “You be careful,” he said. “Don’t decide it’s safe for you to go outside now.”

  “I’m not stupid,” I replied sourly. Why I was feeling so testy I didn
’t know. Or maybe I did. If Wilson followed through, I would be free to go back to my old life, leaving Trent behind. Not an idea that sat well with me. “Do me a favor? Leave your laptop.”

  He looked surprised but nodded, setting it back on the coffee table before he left.

  I did the dishes, poured another cup of coffee, and went into the living room, settling down on the sofa. I had things I needed to figure out, beginning with whether I actually intended to go back to the streets. Or more to the point, whether I was going to stay there, because at the moment I had no other recourse about where to live once I vacated the condo.

  I’d found out from past experience that finding a job at my age, with no experience in anything other than plumbing, wasn’t happening. It’s how I’d ended up on the streets to begin with. Now, I wondered if I’d given up too easily. Between breaking up with Trent, and then losing my job, I’d been in bad shape. Had it shown when I applied for jobs? No one wants to hire a loser and I probably seemed like one at that point.

  “So what can I do,” I said under my breath. “Plumbing? Sure, though I’d be pretty rusty by now. Try, again, to get a job at a restaurant or fast-food place? Or as a janitor?”

  I opened the laptop, turned it on, and got online. A search gave me the names of some job sites. The first thing I found out as I went through them was, everyone wanted résumés. I could put one together, I supposed. I had worked for three plumbing companies after leaving high school, and strangely enough, I remembered the names of all my supervisors. The immediate problem would be the two-year gap after the last company closed down. I doubted a potential employer would look kindly on the fact I’d been homeless and living on the streets since then.

  I checked to see if the two other companies I’d worked for were still around. They were, and they weren’t hiring as far as I could tell. When I tried to get back with them, over two years ago, they’d hinted, without coming out and saying so, that if they had been hiring they’d be looking for younger men.

  I scrolled through the list of existing plumbing companies and saw something that gave me an idea. One I hadn’t considered, back when. It would take money. I wondered if I could get Trent to lend it to me. It would be a risk on his part because I might fall flat on my face, but if I didn’t, I could be on my way back to becoming a viable member of society.

  * * * *

  I didn’t broach my idea with Trent until after we found out that I was no longer a suspect in Pender’s murder. Until that happened, we danced around our renewed interest in each other. I had the feeling he was debating the chances that we could work out the differences which had caused us to break up in the first place. I know I was.

  Could I let down my barriers and become more social when he wanted us to do something other than sit at home night after night. My excuse had been the truth, as far as it went. I would come home from work worn out, ready to just relax with him when I was at his place—or he came by mine. That was fine during the week and he accepted it. After all, he had a stressful job too, although on a more cerebral level.

  It was the weekends that had been a problem. I remember one time when I’d tried to explain why I didn’t want to go to a party we’d been invited to.

  “They’re your friends, not mine,” I’d said.

  “Bull,” Trent had replied. “Yeah, I knew them first, but you’ve gotten to know them, too.”

  “Not really. They accept me because I’m with you, but they look at me like I’m not…worthy, I guess.”

  “Charlie, you’re reading things into it that aren’t there. If you’d be more social, if you’d hold a conversation with them, not say two words before fading into the woodwork.”

  “We have nothing in common,” I retorted. “I’m a guy who works with his hands and holds down a menial job. They’re college educated, like you, with good jobs. What the hell am I supposed to talk with them about? How to unplug a toilet or fix a leak in a furnace pipe? They’d be bored stiff and then they’d be the ones who walked away.”

  While Trent agreed I had a point, he never stopped pushing for me to go with him to parties or clubs. “It’s what couples do,” he’d said more than once.

  In the end, we’d called it quits with more than a trace of relief on both our parts.

  Now I, for one, was wondering if we could try again. From the glances he’d give me, and a few things he’d said, I thought he was, too.

  To even consider making it work, however, I had to get off the streets and regain my life.

  * * * *

  The evening of the day we found out I was free to live my normal life again I made supper and had it waiting when Trent got back to the condo. I went shopping for food that wasn’t stocked in the fridge or the cupboards, after I looked at some recipes first, online. After all, it had been a long time since I cooked anything from scratch.

  Because I still had most of the money Seaver had given me, I came back with salmon, which Trent loved, and fresh vegetables for a salad—and even had a few dollars left after paying for everything.

  The recipe was simple enough. Slice the fennel bulb, orange, lemon, and chili pepper very thin. While I waited for the oven to heat up, I put everything in a shallow baking dish, seasoned the veggies with salt and pepper, then lay the salmon over it and covered the results with olive oil. It needed to bake for thirty to forty minutes, or until done as the recipe put it, so while it was cooking, I made a mixed greens and tomato salad with a lemon and olive oil dressing.

  I heard the front door open just as I put the salad in the fridge to chill and froze momentarily until I realized no one but Trent knew I was here. Not that it mattered anymore, of course.

  “Something smells great,” he said as he came into the kitchen. “But then you always were a pretty good cook.”

  “Pretty good?” I huffed then laughed. “Yeah, I had my moments.”

  “Give me a few to change clothes,” he said. “Then I’ll set the counter.” He grinned. “That sounds weird.” I smiled in agreement.

  He did, I served up the salmon, put the bowl of salad on the counter, he filled the coffee cups, and we sat down to eat. I guess I must have been tenser than I thought because he finally asked me what was wrong.

  “Nothing. At least not the way you’re thinking.” I put down my fork, took a deep breath, and said, “I think I’ve come up with a way to back on my feet.”

  “Really? How?” He looked pleased at the idea, and interested.

  I rubbed my thumb over my unshaven jaw, noticing vaguely that it still ached. “With your help,” I blurted out. “I’ll have to borrow money to buy the tools I need, and I guess rent a truck until I can afford to buy one. Then I’ll have to advertise. I figure Craigslist to begin with because it’s cheap to list a service.”

  “By service, you mean as a plumber.” When I nodded, Trent said. “I think that’s a great idea. You know what it requires. All you have to do is get your name out there as an independent contractor.”

  “Yeah. I figure I’d have to be on-call for emergencies as well as regular jobs, which is why I need a truck. I don’t think hopping on a bus at midnight to get wherever would work.”

  Trent chuckled. “Not really. Do you know what tools you’ll need to start out, and where to get them at reasonable prices?”

  “Yes.” I took the list from my pocket I’d made earlier in the day, handing it to him. “It won’t be cheap.”

  “As my dad used to say, you get what you pay for, or his favorite, if it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.” Trent read through the list. “Not that I know what half this stuff is, but if you need it, I’ll front you, however…” He held up a finger. “When you’re on your feet and making enough to support yourself, you start paying me back. Deal?”

  “Hell, yes!” I breathed a sigh of relief. Impulsively, I leaned over to hug him, backing away seconds later.

  “It’s been a long while since you’ve done that,” Trent said. He sounded…wistful. As if he missed my hugs. I
felt the same, although I wasn’t sure it would be a good idea to admit it.

  He took my silence as his cue to get back to what we’d been talking about—sort of. “What you’re planning won’t work if you’re living rough, or in the truck when you get one.”

  He was right, of course, but I could hardly add to my debt to him by asking for more money to rent even a small studio apartment. There were limits.

  Trent stared off into space, rapping his knuckles on the counter, took a deep drink of his coffee, then turned back to me. “You could move into my place.”

  My pulse sped up until I thought about what the consequences could be. Strangely enough, we had never lived together, although we might as well have, with all the time we’d spent at his apartment, or mine. There had always been that one loophole which said that when we needed our space for whatever reason we had it—by going home. Something that had happened with a fair amount of frequency in the end.

  As if he’d been reading my thoughts, Trent said, “It could work, if we want it to. I’m not asking you to share my bed. You can have the guestroom.”

  I chortled. “We never had a problem sharing beds, it was everything else.”

  “Most of which was my fault. I wanted us to be a couple everywhere, not only at home.” He put his hand over mine. “I wanted to show off the wonderful man in my life, which wasn’t fair to you.”

  “It would have helped if I’d been less of a stubborn jackass,” I replied. “I set boundaries at the beginning and I wasn’t willing to cross them, even for you, which says something about me I’m not certain I like.”

  “I pushed, you pushed back. I got that. I just didn’t know how to fix it.”

  “Neither of us did.” I turned my hand, lacing my fingers with his. “I’m not sure we can, even now.”

  Trent nodded. “Stay at my place until you’re on your feet and then, if you still want to, find your own apartment. The most important thing is you getting off the streets.”

  I couldn’t argue with that—and didn’t.