The Fall Guy by Barbara Fradkin Page B

and more teasing, as the crowd worked its way through the cash. Finally I was face-to-face with Aunt Penny. All five feet, steel-gray eyes of her.
    â€œWhat have you done this time, Ricky?”
    â€œI got a summons from a law firm,” I said. “Something to do with the job I did for Jeff Wilkins.”
    She took the papers and figured out the legal mumbo jumbo for me in a flash. That’s why I go to her, even though she gives me grief.
    â€œJeff Wilkins is suing you for the shoddy job you did on his deck,” she said.
    I was outraged. I may cut corners with the tax guy, but only to give the customer and me a break. My work is never shoddy. If there’s one thing I know, it’s how to put things together so they work. Every inch of that fancy western-red-cedar deck had been perfect. Every screw, every cantilever, every support beam and rail.
    â€œCan he do that? Just ’cause he feels like it?”
    â€œHe can do anything he likes, Ricky.
    He’s got lots of money for lawyers. Has he paid you for the job?”
    I pretended to think about it, but I knew the answer. Wilkins had said he was expecting a big payment next week from a bakery that bought a new fleet of trucks, but right now he had a small cash flow problem. An unlikely story. Everybody knew Wilkins was the richest man in the county, but tight as a drum when it came to parting with his money.
    Aunt Penny read the answer in my red face. “Jumpin’ Jiminy, Rick. When are you going to learn?”
    I wasn’t great with words, but this didn’t make sense. “If he’s got the money for fancy lawyers, how come he had no money to pay me? I bet those guys charge ten times more an hour!”
    Aunt Penny was silent. That’s unusual for her. She didn’t look at me, also unusual. A customer came in and bought some milk, some fireworks and a lottery ticket. Aunt Penny never even exchanged the time of day. I started to get a sick feeling in my stomach.
    â€œWhat’s going on, Aunt Penny?” I asked once the customer left.
    â€œWell, the thing is, Ricky, there was a problem with that deck. Yesterday afternoon, Jeff Wilkins’ wife was out on it, and she leaned over the rail to reach something, and the rail gave way.”
    A jolt of panic shot through me. Impossible! “What! She must have been…,” I sputtered, looking for an explanation. Maybe she climbed up on it, or…“Was she drunk?”
    â€œI don’t know if she was drunk, Ricky. But I don’t think the courts will care. She’s dead.”

CHAPTER THREE
    I spotted the black and white suv just after I swung into my lane. There was no turning back. The plume of dust behind me gave me away even if I’d had any place else to go. I slowed the truck so I could take stock and figure out what to say.
    As far as I could see, there was just one cop. He looked small standing on the front stoop, his hat pulled low and his hands on his hips. He was looking out over my yard, watching the goat nibbling the daisies by the chicken coop. Chevie, my collie mix, was sitting at his feet, wagging her tail. Some watchdog.
    I pulled the old truck to a stop and was about to get out when the cop turned toward me. I froze. It was a woman, hardly older than me. Even with the vest, the gun belt and the huge wraparound sunglasses, there was no hiding those curves. Or the long blond ponytail hanging down her back. I thought I knew all the cops at the local detachment, but this was a new one.
    She stepped off the porch. “Cedric O’Toole?”
    Heat rushed up my neck. I knew I was bright red, and that didn’t help me find my tongue. I just nodded.
    â€œYou live here?” she asked. Heavy on the live .
    I looked around my yard. Weeds had grown up through the rusted-out Ford on blocks by the door. They were covered in bright purple flowers, but still…There were more weeds around the tractors and washing machines down by