The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.
The Boaz Safecracker, written in 2019, is my seventh novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.
Book Blurb
Fred Martin, a 1972 graduate of Boaz High School, returns to his hometown after practicing law and living in Huntsville for over thirty-five years with two goals in mind. First, to distance himself from the loss of Susan, his wife of thirty-seven years who died in 2013 of cancer. And second, to partner with his lifelong friend, Noah Waters, to crack the safes of Elton Rawlins and Doug Barber, two men who got under their skin as high school football players.
Little did Fred and Noah realize the secrets the two old Mosler safes protected. Who murdered three Boaz High School seniors in the fall of 1973? Is a near-half-century-old plan to destroy Fred’s sister and steal the inheritance from a set of 44-year-old illegitimate twins still alive and well? How far would Fred’s mother go to protect her family?
What starts out as an almost innocent prank, turns life-threateningly serious the more Fred learns and the more safes he cracks. All, while he falls in love with Connie Stewart, his one-date high school classmate who may conceal a secret or two herself.
Chapter 3
At 1:00 p.m., I met with Darryl Nelson, the assistant manager of Lowe’s in Guntersville. It was our third meeting and he finally pulled the trigger on a five hundred-thousand-dollar life insurance policy he was placing in a newly created trust for his wife.
After we finished, I started driving back to Boaz but turned around and headed north. I called Noah and caught him just returning from Huntsville. “Good timing. Meet me at Winzel’s.”
I suggested his office instead. I thought it best to keep our public appearances to a minimum. In the grand scheme of things, it probably didn’t matter. Noah and I had been best friends for over fifty years. We had played sports together starting in junior high and continued throughout high school, playing every sport during our senior year. Although we went our separate ways after high school we kept in touch several times per year. Ever since I moved back to Boaz in 2014, we had renewed our friendship with a vengeance.
“I was hoping you would call.” Noah said removing a large briefcase from the trunk of his car as I pulled beside him. Noah, much more than me, didn’t have one financial reason to be involved in our safe-cracking venture. It seemed everything he did turned to gold. He had started Sand Mountain Security Systems over ten years ago in Boaz. At the time Susan and I were dealing with her sickness, Noah was moving his business to Guntersville. He had purchased the corner lot across from the Hampton Inn on Highway 431. While we were growing up, Reid’s Restaurant did a booming business on this location. Noah had sold the highway frontage to Art Moss. It’s now, Chili’s of Guntersville. Noah’s office and warehouse are housed in a new building behind Chili’s. Noah said he made enough from selling the real estate frontage to pay for his move and his new facility.
“I was at Lowe’s.” He motioned me inside, through a small waiting room, down a hallway, and into his office.
“I bet those St. Gaudens are worth a fortune.” Noah didn’t waste any time. I knew we could talk openly. If there was anyone who was conscious of security issues it was Noah.
“All thirty-three of the coins are insured for half a million. Rawlins wanted a million on them. Alfa wouldn’t do it.”
“It’s silly we even care. The market could be anything by the time we unload them.” Noah said. Our idea had sprouted after Granddad had died in 1998. I sometimes think it was my fault he died. Even though he was nearly ninety-nine years old, he was in relatively good health when Susan and I went for our final visit Easter weekend. Again, it was his heart. After suffering the attack in 1972 he had recovered and continued to work for Mosler until 1980. Some way, over that Easter weekend, my grandfather must have known his time was short. He had insisted that Susan and I take home with us those boxes of black journals he had given me during the summer of 1972. Even though they were mine at that time, I had left them in the closet of the front bedroom I always slept in right next to the left-side turret on his and Mama Martin’s grand Victorian home.
“Whatever their value, I want them out of the country just like we’ve talked about.” I said.
“Mine and Lorie’s trip isn’t until October. They’ll be fine. Stop worrying. Oh, by the way, and not that I don’t trust you my brother, I assume you cleaned out the big bad Mosler?”
“Other than some deeds and a secret letter. I was hoping there might be an antique pistol or an original Bible manuscript. You know, something rare.”
“That would be a find. It’s my understanding the Bible doesn’t exist, I mean in its original form.” Noah said.
“Actually, it doesn’t exist in any form, other than its fictional model, but let’s not go there.”
“What about that letter? You said secret letter.”
I pulled my iPhone out of my coat pocket and opened my Photos. “Here, look, I snapped a picture.” I handed my phone across Noah’s desk.
Noah used his right thumb and index finger to expand the photo, so he could read it. Aloud. “‘Dear Rebecca: Go forth and live your life for God. Your sins are forgiven, and your secret is safe with me.’ Who’s Pastor Randy?”
“I’m not sure but my guess is it’s Randy Miller. He was the youth pastor at First Baptist Church of Christ when I was growing up. You should remember him.” I said.
“Don’t forget, I didn’t go to your church. I was a Second Baptist conscription.”
“Funny. Randy Miller is Robert Miller’s grandfather.”
“Who is Robert Miller?”
“He’s the youth pastor now. Kind of funny or weird, something, that he’s trying to fill his grandfather’s shoes. From what I see and hear, especially from Gabby and Brad, he’s doing a great job. Assuming, you ignore the subject matter.” I said.
“Was Rebecca in Susan’s class?”
“No. She graduated in 1974, a year behind Susan.” I said.
“What’s the secret?” Noah asked.
“I don’t have a clue. But it must be pretty important for Rebecca to keep the letter all these years.” Noah handed me my phone and I looked again at the photo. I scrolled over the entire picture and saw it for the first time. In the lower right corner of the letter was hand-written, May 27, 1974. “Forty-three years. She’s kept this letter nearly half a century.”
Noah’s cell phone rang. “Yep. Oh shit. I forgot. See you in five minutes.”
“I take it you’re in trouble.” I said.
“That was Lorie. I’ve got to go. I’m late for our photo appointment. Church directory. Talk later.” Noah said, grabbing a necktie and a sports coat from a hall tree in the corner of his office. Noah was like so many men. Faithful to his church. Mostly, because it’s good for business, but also to please his wife.
I drove back to Boaz, dropped Darryl’s file off at the insurance office, and drove home. It was always good to see Dad working in his garden right across from my small front yard. It was a trade-off living in the original home my great-grandfather had built in 1896 when he and my great-grandmother had moved here from Lee County. I gave up quite a bit of privacy—which I dearly loved—in exchange for almost daily time with the best parents in the world. As I walked across the recently tilled soil to talk with Dad, I was thankful he and Mom lived halfway across the hundred-acre farm in what had, since my youth, been referred to as the main house.
The Pencil-Driven Life 