The Girl in the Blue Toyota

By T. J. Robertson

When Gina Jansen is drugged and left to die in an idling car on a remote Cape Cod beach, Ed Gallagher, a jogger, stumbles upon it and saves her life. Together, they set out to find her would-be killer and, after a series of exciting and scary episodes, they succeed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: T. J. Robertson
• Release date: Jan 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466072428

T. J. Robertson

Although I’ve made my living as a teacher and guidance counselor, I’ve always had a passion for writing. Thomas Bouregy and Company published my novel, Return to Paradise Cove, under their Avalon imprint. Two of my one-act plays, A Different Kind of Death, and The Flirt, have been produced, respectively, in New Haven, Connecticut, and Sacramento, California. Short stories of mine have appeared in commercial magazines such as Action and True Romance as well as in certain literary and professional ones.

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The Girl in the Blue Toyota

by

T. J. Robertson

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 T. J. Robertson

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thanks for respecting the hard work of this author.

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There was only one other car in the parking lot of Papa's Doughnut Shop as the blue Toyota pulled to a stop by the front entrance. The young woman who stepped out from behind the steering wheel paused to stretch her tired limbs and savor the scent of the Cape Cod air. The brisk December breeze tousled wisps of her long, blond hair and snowflakes from a passing squall glistened on the lashes of her blue eyes. Overhead, clouds scurried across the darkening sky like fiddler crabs over the sand at ebb tide.

Suddenly the door of the doughnut shop swung open, interrupting her respite. Out strode a strapping policeman, carrying a carton, tightly packed with cups of hot coffee and waxed bags of pastries. She froze, meeting his friendly nod with a cold stare and his cheerful `Hi' with stony silence. Only when he had passed by her on the way back to his car did she relax and go inside.

For a long time she stood by the door, wistfully surveying the spotless Formica counter, shiny oaken booths, and pastel-colored walls with their native seascapes. The shop was empty but that didn't surprise her. Christmas Eve, after all, wasn't exactly the busiest night of the year for buying doughnuts. But she knew closing early would never have occurred to Mr. Pappas, its workaholic owner, whose bald head shone more brightly than the base of the stool he was so busily polishing.

At last he glanced up to catch her staring at him. Gina! he exclaimed with a trace of a Greek accent.

Ti kávete? she asked in his native tongue.

Well, he replied, rising and you?

She quickly returned to English, saying, I, too, am well but my Greek is very bad.

No, you speak excellent Greek. He arose, surveying her approvingly. And you get more beautiful every time I see you.

When her blush subsided, she said, It's nice to know I've graduated from being an ugly duckling to a beautiful swan.

Ah, but of course, he blurted out with a gentle slap to his forehead. It's Christmas Eve and you always return to the Cape then.

She nodded. As an ugly duckling the highlight of every long drive down to our summer place, the Sandcastle, was stopping here for a refreshing treat of orange juice and munchkins, she said with a pensive smile. Old habits die hard. So, of course, I couldn't pass by tonight without stopping in. As he wiped his hands on his apron and moved back behind the counter, she chided good-naturedly, I see you're still working as hard as ever--and on Christmas Eve no less.

With a candor she had long since come to respect he said, I'm afraid I wouldn't know what to do with myself if I didn't come to work. He placed a cup beneath the spout of the stainless steel cream dispenser and pumped the handle several times before filling the rest of it with hot coffee.

It's nice to know you haven't forgotten me. Feelings of nostalgia welled up within as she recalled the sensitivity and kindness he had shown in changing the name above the door of his shop. Because so many of his young customers pronounced his last name Papa--Gina foremost among them at the time, he took down the sign, Pappas’s, and replaced it with the current one, Papa’s. Over the years, she thought, he has more than lived up to the fatherly image of that new name.

A muffin with real Cape Cod cranberries and a coffee, light without sugar. His words were spoken with obvious pride in his ability to remember the preferences of his customers. As a chuckle rippled across his potbelly, he added, Of course, that's because you're sweet enough.

With a blush and a smile she paid him. Picking up the tray on which he put them, she made her way toward the rear of the shop. Just as she was about to take a seat at her favorite booth, a burly man, dressed in a Santa Claus suit and wearing whiskers, burst through the side door. With his moon face, missing teeth, and sinister smile she found a certain absurdity in his masquerading as Old Saint Nick. If he would wait until Halloween and pose as a Jack-O'-Lantern, she thought mischievously, he would be more convincing.

Her amusement was short-lived as he came lumbering down the narrow aisle like a rhinoceros on a rampage. Before she could reach the safety of the booth, he slammed into her with such force that she felt lucky to have remained standing. But, unfortunately, the tray went flying from her hand, spilling her coffee and sending the muffin rolling across the floor.

I'm awfully sorry, lady. He snickered.

The insincerity in both his tone and look annoyed her more than his clumsiness in bumping into her. Just as she was about to reprimand him, he spun around and snapped his fingers at Mr. Pappas. Another order for the lady! he shouted, stalking over to the counter.

No sooner had she finished wiping coffee stains off the hem of her dress than he was back again. With a thud he set a fresh cup of coffee and another muffin down onto the table of the booth. With that chore complete he lingered, looming above her with a malevolent grin. Ho, ho, he chortled, if Santa's ruined your dress, he'll be more than happy to get you a new one for Christmas.

His attempt at humor fell upon deaf ears; for, she had a sneaking suspicion that he had bumped into her on purpose. That won't be necessary, she replied frostily. I'm afraid I no longer believe in him.

To her relief he turned and went back to the counter. With a sigh she slumped down onto the bench and sipped at her coffee. Stifling a yawn, she put her cup down and leaned back against the booth. Her eyelids grew heavy and a feeling of exhaustion stole over her.

Hey, how about some service here! he hollered, all the while banging his fist down onto the bell atop the counter to emphasize his displeasure.

The outburst jarred her out of her lethargy and she shook her head in disgust at his rudeness. Meanwhile Mr. Pappas, who had come over to clean up the spill, put aside his mop and hurried back to wait on him. But if she was hoping that, like a bad dream, this poor excuse for a Santa would go away, she was mistaken. Brazenly, he retraced his steps back toward her and plunked himself down at the booth in front of her. Smirking across the back of it no less. All the while, like a ravenous beast, he was slurping at his coffee and devouring a pair of chocolate éclairs, pieces of their filling clinging to his whiskers. Finally, in revulsion, she turned her face away from his.

If his clumsiness in spilling the contents on her tray and the insincerity of his apology had angered her, now his boldness in parking himself in the next booth and ogling at her over its partition incensed her. Only out of respect for Mr. Pappas did she succeed in fighting off the urge to give him a piece of her mind. The last thing she wanted was to create an ugly scene in his shop on Christmas Eve. Too, who could tell how this unruly stranger might react to her unkind words?

Besides, she was feeling drowsy. Hardly able to keep her eyes open. The long drive down from the city had taken its toll, she thought. Fortunately the Sandcastle was only a few miles away. After a good night's sleep she would be fine.

She raised the cup and finished her coffee, leaving the muffin untouched. But getting up to go became a major undertaking. Only by grabbing onto the edge of the table was she able to lift herself to her feet. And her troubles did not end there; for, her legs were wobbly and her knees went weak.

For what seemed an eternity she stood by the side of the booth, swaying helplessly. How tired she was. So much so that all she wanted was to lie down and sleep. Objects around her were beginning to blur. Soon the only thing she could make out was the distorted face of Santa Claus, leering at her. Her ears started ringing and she could feel herself falling. Then, there was nothing but darkness. . . .

Chapter 2

As Ed Gallagher jogged along the beach at Inspiration Point there was a lone car, idling in the parking lot. On a warm evening of summer he was used to seeing a dozen or more. But on Christmas Eve it surprised him to see even one. Women, he muttered with a wry smile, you can't live with them and you can't live without them.

With his every step the outline of the car became dimmer, vanishing at last in the wake of the darkness behind him. Now the only sounds were the steady beat of his running shoes upon the sand, his rhythmic breathing, and the relentless advance of the incoming tide, lapping at the shoreline.

Looming up ahead was the jetty--an outcropping of huge boulders that reached out into the bay like a giant arm. Already his easy gait had taken him several miles from his cottage. Fortunately, there was no wind off the ocean but still the December air had a good bite to it and an occasional flake warned of the imminent arrival of the season's fir

st snowfall. Slowing down to a canter, he came to a stop in front of the jetty. Panting and holding onto his sides, he made his way out among its large rocks.

How many times, he thought, had his father taken him as a child to fish at this spot. Later, in his teens, he had come with friends. When his passion for fishing had waned, he went alone. To watch a solitary gull circling above or listen to the whispers of the waves washing against the rocks became reason enough.

Suddenly the crisp winter air sent a shiver through his lean frame, interrupting his reverie. He pulled the hood of his sweat suit over his tangle of black hair and turned to go back. But in the darkness he did not see the seaweed. His feet went from under him and his body splashed into the water.

Numbed by its bone-chilling coldness, he barely was able to stay afloat. Fortunately the current was carrying him parallel to the shore. If he could just hold on a little longer, he was sure it would take him over the sandbar by the Rocky Flats Spit. That spot might be his salvation. But the water temperature was unbearable, rapidly sapping his strength. Just as a feeling of despair seized him, his feet touched the sandy bottom. Exhausted, he staggered up onto shore and collapsed in a heap. Of all the dumb things to do, he scolded through chattering teeth.

Now the chill in the air became almost as intolerable as that of the water. He struggled to his feet and reached into his pocket for his cell phone, intending to call for help. Like himself, the water had made it, too, inoperable. Damn, he muttered, tossing it aside. His eyes darted up and down the dark shoreline and, for an instant, he thought about climbing over the dunes. On the other side were a few cottages. But he quickly dismissed the idea; for, he would freeze to death before he got to them. Besides, they would be boarded up and without heat.

He tried to shake off the water but already crystals of ice were forming on his clothes. Then he remembered the car back at Inspiration Point. Whirling around, he headed in that direction. He would just have to interrupt their fun and get them to drive him back to his cottage, he thought. Now he had his second wind and broke into a gallop. It's still there, he muttered, closing fast upon the parking lot.

The idling sound of its engine was music to his ears and already he was fantasizing about the warmth within. Showing extreme self-control, he tapped softly on the window of the driver's side. The last thing he wanted was to frighten them into thinking he was some kind of a nut. But there was no response. Soon his tapping grew louder; his expression, more desperate. Open up, I need your help! he hollered.

With his nose pressed against the glass of the windshield, he peered inside. In the dim moonlight the figure of a woman, slumped over the steering wheel, was barely visible. Only then did the full meaning of her plight hit him as starkly as did his splash into the icy water of the bay a few minutes earlier. She's trying to kill herself, he exclaimed, his voice rising in a crescendo of disbelief.

Tugging on the door proved futile; it was locked as were all the others. Racing around to the rear of the car, he grabbed for the exhaust pipe. His frost-bitten hands could barely feel anything. Suddenly they bumped against a piece of hose. Just my luck, he mumbled, pulling it out and throwing it aside, she'll suffocate and I'll freeze to death.

Instinctively he went down on all fours, crawling along the edge of the asphalt. At last he stumbled upon the object of his search--a large stone. His arms managed to pick it up. Hurrying back to the car, he hurled it against the window of the rear door and shattered the glass. Somehow his fingers maneuvered among the shards to release the lock on her door. No sooner had he opened it than his hand reached for her pulse.

She's still alive, he murmured.

He gently slid her limp form over onto the passenger seat and fastened the seat belt around her waist. Shivering, he settled down behind the steering