Killerwatt by Sharon Woods Hopkins Read Free Book Online

was a naturally skilled sketch artist. He’d loved
drawing the characters that appeared before him in court. One day, on an
impulse, he sat in on an outdoor painting class and became hooked on painting
landscapes.
    After retiring, he’d thrown himself into his art.
His landscapes were selling briskly on the Internet. He and three fellow
artists had organized Rivers West Creative Group, a local co-operative art
gallery on Main Street in Old Town, on the banks of the Mississippi River.
    He set his drink down, wiped his hands with a
turpentine soaked rag, and picked up the phone book.
    Peter answered on the third ring. Even though
university classes had been out for several weeks, Randolph figured that Peter,
like most of the professors, would still be working in his campus office. Not
having Peter’s cell phone number, Randolph had called the office number listed
in the phone book.
    After initial pleasantries, Randolph dove in.
“Rhetta has a document that she thinks is in Arabic. Could you translate it for
her?”
    Peter chuckled. “My written Arabic isn’t the
greatest. But for you, I’ll be happy to take a stab.”
    After agreeing to meet at Rhetta’s office in an
hour, Randolph called his wife to give her the good news.
    Rhetta cheered. “That’s why I love you, Sweets. You
know everybody.” He heard her put her hand over the mouthpiece to shout to
Woody, “Randolph found somebody.”
    “I told Peter I’d meet him at your office. I’ve been
working in the studio. I’ll clean up and come over.” After he disconnected,
Randolph headed upstairs to shower. He could imagine her high-fiving Woody.
Peeling off his painting shirt and jeans, he emptied the rest of the whiskey
sour down the toilet. Before showering, he brushed his teeth vigorously and
gargled. He counted on the medicinal tasting mouthwash to cover up the two
drinks he’d had since lunch.
     
    *
* *
     
    Ten
minutes later, Randolph slipped a T-shirt over his damp, silver-streaked black
hair, pulled on a clean pair of faded jeans, and slipped into canvas deck
shoes. Glancing at the full-length mirror, he reflexively sucked in his
stomach. Although still trim, the six-foot tall Randolph knew he should be
exercising to keep fit, but always procrastinated. He was grateful for the
great genes he’d inherited from a family of thin people.
    The good genes, however, didn’t extend to eyesight.
He had to remember to grab his reading glasses. He found he needed his cheaters
more and more to read or paint with each passing year. He tucked them into his
shirt pocket and went off to find his keys.
    After searching the bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom,
Randolph finally located the keys to his pickup truck where they were supposed
to be—on a hook by the back door. With the keys jiggling in his hand, he jogged
to the three-car detached garage that Rhetta christened the Garage Mahal,
because it was built and finished out as nicely as the house.
    The 1999 Ford F-100 pickup fired right up. Normally,
it stayed hooked to an enclosed utility trailer filled with his paintings. The
truck had needed gas when they came home from the last art show. He’d unhooked
the truck from the trailer as a reminder to fill the tank the next time he went
to town.
    Thankfully, none of the three cats was asleep under
the truck. Rhetta’s cats were supposed to be barn cats, inhabit the Garage
Mahal, and catch mice. “Barn cats, indeed,” Randolph said, shaking his head. Of
course, since Rhetta regularly fed them canned cat food on the deck, he needn’t
have worried about them being anywhere near the truck.
    He smiled and waved at Mrs. Koblyk, their senior
citizen neighbor, as he pulled out of his driveway and turned on to the gravel
road. Mrs. Koblyk and her husband, a retired railroad engineer, watched all
their comings and goings, and were the epitome of nosy neighbors. However, Mrs.
Koblyk often redeemed herself by bringing him home-baked Hungarian poppy seed
bread.
    Life was idyllic