October 2024 – The Pencil Driven Life

Novel Excerpts—The Boaz Safecracker, Chapter 44

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 the while, he falls in love with Connie Stewart, his one-date high school classmate who may conceal a secret or two herself.

Chapter 44

Sometimes disappointing news transforms into a blessing. Last Monday evening when I called Connie and invited her to Gulf Shores she was elated. Not so much that she had suggested we share a room at the nice but affordable Best Western. That cooled my imagination considerably from three times per day making love with the gorgeous Connie to simply a thriving lust while looking at her from the rear as we walked to and from the beach. With Connie sick, I realized the two rooms had been a gift to me after all.

Until Sunday morning, Connie stayed holed up in her room on the third floor. I still don’t know why the Western had put me on the first floor since I had emphatically demanded our rooms be side by side when I had made the reservations.

The imagined love fest quickly evolved into virtually an extended work session sitting under a hot umbrella, sipping lemonade, and intermittently staring across a blue ocean. If it hadn’t been for Angela’s 1972/Junior journal I would have gotten bored beyond belief.

Friday morning after the Continental Breakfast my three-day routine began. By 9:00, I had walked three flights of stairs to Connie’s room and talked with her through her door. Even though she profusely apologized for her sudden disability I couldn’t help but believe she was repelled by the thought of me. Maybe I was seeing proof why the lovely Connie had never been married. For a while things went well between her and a new suitor but after arriving at the ball, she couldn’t make herself dance. Oh, the simple pleasures of silly analogies.

By the fall of 1972, Angela’s parents had made the bold move of extending her some additional freedom. She had turned seventeen in late July and from the beginning of the school year was authorized to attend the twice per month meetings of the Brights, Ricky Miller’s humanist club. Nothing much happened at Boaz High School or in Angela’s life during the first month of her junior year. That is, nothing much but classes, cheerleader practice, homework, football games, and church on Wednesday nights and Sunday’s. It wasn’t until mid-September that she mentioned anybody but her best friend Rebecca Aldridge.

It was Friday, September 15th. There was no football game since Boaz had trounced Douglas the night before (Angela did mention that “JS was in perfect form ravaging the Eagles defense like I wish he would me.” I got a chuckle. I must give Ricky Miller credit for being so bold and confident. Angela shared how he had invited Elton Rawlins and Doug Barber to speak at the Safe House Friday night to the Bright’s full membership, along with prospective members and anyone else who wanted to attend.

Angela wrote that Elton and Doug did their best to make credible arguments for their faith. I still got a sick feeling every time I imagined these two hanging around young people. They were in their late twenties having been out of high school for over ten years, yet here they were working to influence. I tried to imagine Randy Miller giving an atheist or an agnostic the same opportunity to meet with his flock at the Lighthouse across the street. I was quickly reminded of how refreshing and thoroughly satisfying it was to be free from the enslavement of faith and to be able to know that I didn’t have to constantly try to contort facts into the odd sized holes the Bible offered as the truth.

After a Q & A session following Elton and Doug’s presentation, Angela noted that Doug had approached her when she was coming out of the girl’s bathroom. She had found it odd that he had commented on the coins and jewelry that her grandfather had donated to First Baptist Church of Christ back in 1969. Angela wrote, “Doug Barber’s question about the history and value of granddad’s gift was creepy enough, but when he asked me if I wanted to go riding around I thought I would throw up.” I agreed with Angela that Doug had been inappropriate but then I almost laughed out loud when I thought about her nearly half a century later marrying the pervert.

By late Saturday afternoon I had read the full two-hundred plus pages of her junior year journal. If I had to write a book report I would have included two things: Angela’s growing animosity toward Deidre and her infatuation with the multi-sport star Johnny Stewart, and the trouble Ricky Miller’s teachings and Safe House were presenting to his brother Randy and his youth group.

Sunday morning I had read three chapters in John Grisham’s Camino Island when I heard an unfamiliar voice behind me say, “hey good-looking, what you got cooking.” I turned and saw an angel. It was Connie, more beautiful than any angel. She was wearing a two-piece pink bathing suit. Not really a bikini because the lower part was not skimpy enough. That didn’t matter, her long and tanned legs were more than enough to trigger thoughts of legs, sand, sex, and sun.

“Nothing much, just reading a self-help book on the quickest and cheapest way to join a monastery.” I sometimes surprised myself at how funny I could be.

Connie joined me under the blue umbrella and sat in the empty chair beside me. “You wouldn’t make it three days.” I couldn’t tell if she had a specific purpose with her words, but I didn’t pass up the opportunity.

“I might not but, so far, I’ve made it well over two.” I looked over at her and tipped up the brim of the floppy white hat she was wearing. She looked like she was feeling better, maybe close to back to normal. And, she was smiling.

“Fred, I want to say I am so sorry about how things have turned out. Please don’t take my absence personally. I truly had looked forward to a long romantic weekend with the ever-handsome Fred Martin.” She remained focused on my eyes during her full confession.

“The most important thing is that you are feeling better. I can see it in your face. I too am sorry. That you’ve felt so bad.”

“No, the important thing is that I’m feeling better and you’re still here. The only problem is you haven’t yet showed me your room. I hear the rooms on the first floor are much bigger, much more comfortable.” I caught the redness flood her face just before she turned her head and pulled her hat a little lower.

Whatever game dear Connie was playing I was eager to not disappoint. “I could give you the tour right now. If you want.”

It hadn’t been at all like I had imagined. The sex, not the tour of my hotel room. Not that it was bad at all. It was just too fast. The kissing as we stood by my unmade bed felt lamely choreographed. During most of the drive down last Thursday I had imagined Connie inviting me to her room (I likely was delusional) and us sharing a bottle of wine sitting on the brown leather couch facing the ocean, then dancing our way to her bedroom. Today, the real thing, was wholly different. I would not have guessed that she would have pushed me so fast. I guess she had been lonely too long to enjoy the full show, desiring no doubt to skip to the final act instead.

As quickly as it had begun, it ended, and Connie said, “I need some beach time.” We had returned to the underside of my blue little umbrella and enjoyed three hours of ocean gazing along with a few infrequent strolls in ankle deep water as the waves inched their way higher on the sand. My favorite part was, while seated in the shade, Connie seemed to want and need to hold my left hand. Maybe that was her attempt to provide me with the post-play I had imagined during our drive down.

We departed Gulf Shores at 1:30 and didn’t make it back to Connie’s until nearly 9:30 p.m. We took our time, stopping in Montgomery to visit Dr. Martin Luther King’s church, Dexter Avenue Baptist Church, and at Peach Park in Clanton for Connie to purchase three baskets of locally grown peaches. This was the first time I was aware of her hobby of canning fresh fruits and vegetables.

By the time we pulled in her driveway we had already talked over an hour, beginning in Birmingham, about her text and email conversations with Rebecca and Angela while she recovered for two days on the third floor of the Best Western hotel. Connie was clearly disappointed the two widows were seriously contemplating moving away, possibly to Boulder, Colorado. “They keep saying, ‘we should have left after high school. It’s time we have a fresh start.’”

After leaving Connie’s and during my drive home I couldn’t help but think there were a host of unspoken reasons why Rebecca and Angela might be wanting to put miles between themselves and the City of Possibilities. But what gave me an unsatisfying tingle up my spine was pondering the news Connie had shared as I was toting her three suitcases inside the foyer. Pastor Caleb had discovered that an old Mosler safe in the basement had been cracked. This certainly hadn’t come as a surprise, but it did add to my growing fear that this public news, along with the theft of a certain Smith and Wesson pistol from the gun case at Noah’s parents, didn’t bode well for me and my best friend.

Novel Excerpts—The Boaz Safecracker, Chapter 43

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

Chapter 43

Connie seemed distracted during our drive to Gulf Shores. It might have had something to do with the five or six times she made me stop for her to go to the bathroom. She blamed her upset stomach on some salmon she grilled last night after coming home from Prayer Meeting.

The stops had become less frequent the further south we had ridden. I was glad she was ready to stretch her legs when we arrived in Foley. The Ann Taylor Women’s Store at the Tanger Outlet had her name written all over it. Her sudden interest in visiting the Mall was a big blessing to me, and perfect timing. I had something I had wanted to do for several weeks.

My excuse was a little deceptive, but only partly. From the look on Connie’s face, she believed that I had a client, Reggie Gilbert at Vulcan Aluminum Mills, and it would be beneficial for me to pay him a little visit. I think my story about how he was an attorney in Huntsville for a while before moving back home to take over his father’s company after he had a debilitating stroke, provided some credibility and urgency. The deceptive part was that Reggie, as far as I know, was still living and practicing law in Huntsville, and his father, hopefully, was fit as a fiddle.

After dropping Connie off at the Outlet Mall, I drove to 901 North McKenzie Street. Yesterday afternoon, Karen Ashton had promised me she would be at her desk creating first drafts of articles for the Saturday edition of The Foley Onlooker, the town’s largest newspaper. My own research had uncovered this seasoned reporter and her interest in the T-bone auto accident that had led to the death of Elton Rawlins.

“I’ll be right down, meet me in the small conference room. It’s to the left of the front waiting area, right down the hall with all the beach photos.” I had called her cell as soon as I had parked. I think she was as eager to talk to me as I was her.

I found the conference room without any trouble, although the sand and the brilliant blue beaches hanging on the wall made me question why I had risked Connie becoming suspicious and canceling our trip. Karen walked in just as I was pondering my stupid decision to leave Connie at the Mall, especially with her half sick.

“Hi Fred, nice to meet you.” Karen wasn’t anything like she sounded. On the phone, I had pictured her as older, closer to my age. If she was, she had aged well. She wasn’t what I call gorgeous, but she had that natural look of a Southern farm girl. No makeup, a no-frills haircut, and drab clothes. Her face looked as though she had just washed it with Dove soap. Her blouse and slacks were a little baggy, but I could tell she was built nearly as good as Connie. But, that could have just been my imagination.

“The pleasure is all mine.” I said. That was a little too forward.

“So, you know Rebecca Rawlins?” Karen asked without me bringing up the subject. The reason I was here was somewhat of a stretch, having piece-milled a story, at least a suspicion, that the car wreck that ultimately killed Elton Rawlins was something more than simply an accident.

“I do. I’ve known her since high school. That’s been about half a century ago.” I said.

“You and me both. I graduated from Foley High School in 1974. What about you?”

I shared the requested information and asked her why she had become interested in the late spring car wreck.

She flipped open a small black notepad, the type detectives carry. “It was the police report. I wasn’t sure, I thought it might have been the witness I interviewed from the Chick-fil-A parking lot. The man saw the whole thing.” Karen kept flipping back and forth between two pages in her little notebook. “Here it is, Randy Russell. I remember him from high school, fellows gained about a thousand pounds.” No doubt Karen was a real reporter, she thrived on details.

“You mentioned the police report.” As usual, like any good attorney, I was doing my best to guide the ship.

“Tommy Graben, young and solid officer just out of the academy, good-looking too. He wrote.” Karen returned to her notepad. “He wrote, ‘tire marks are at odd angle for a typical T-bone at this intersection.’”

“What do you think he meant?” I asked.

“I don’t have to guess, I’ve asked Tommy. He said it was like the Benson car went out of its way to hit the Rawlins’ car. It was like the t was more like an incomplete k. K-bone maybe.”

“Benson was the driver of the other car?”

“Yes, now that’s what got me really interested. Todd Benson, another guy from high school, a little older than me, he’s a piece of work. Always into something. Always trying to make a buck without working. Over the years, he’s been involved in several suspicious accidents, if that’s what you call them.”

“It’s sounding like you are leaning toward this not being a real accident, more like it was staged? Am I hearing you correctly?” I hope Karen didn’t think I was being condescending.

“Fred, I know you are a lawyer, so I expect you to be a little sharper.” I deserved that.

“I appreciate you checking up on me. And, forgive me for not saying it earlier. Thanks for taking the time to meet with me and for being so open. I’m serious, you are an impressive reporter.”

“Okay, I take that as a real compliment. Aren’t you going to ask me if I’ve learned anything else?” I really did like the eager Karen. No doubt, she was a bulldog reporter.

“Please.”

Karen opened the bottle of water she had brought with her. “Sorry, would you like a water?”

“No, I’m fine, but thanks.” She took a long draw while someway flipping pages with her right hand. “Here. By the way, don’t think I don’t know every one of these details by heart. I just like to verify. I write everything down.”

“I’ve already concluded you are a perfectionist, probably also a genius.” I could slather it on when I thought it could be beneficial.

“The DA is investigating the case. He’s interested in whether it’s an insurance fraud case. You know your Mr. Elton changed his will while the two were visiting Gulf Shores?” Karen asked.

“Actually, I do know that. But, I’m curious how you would have learned this fact.”

“Oh, simple man. Great reporters have many sources, we’re always developing contacts and connections. I’ve been doing this long enough to have many dots with lines between most all of them.”

“Anything else you’ve learned during your investigation?” I took Karen up on her earlier suggestion.

“I have a practice of checking video footage when my mind homes in on an interesting case. Luck or God would have it that my sister-in-law works at Whataburger, just south of Chick-fil-A and the intersection where the wreck happened. It seems Rebecca was driving when her and Elton stopped in for lunch. She pulled through the drive-through, ordered, and then parked on the north side while the two ate their burger. Then, she got out and came around to the passenger side. She had to help Elton walk back around to the driver’s side door. The man looked like he’d have trouble driving a wheelchair.”

“That fits with what I’ve heard. Apparently, Elton wasn’t supposed to be driving. From your report, it seems Rebecca made sure he was behind the wheel at just the right time.” I said.

“Right, just in time for Todd Benson to run him down at the next intersection.”

I think Karen would have talked until dark. Fortunately, I was wise enough to end our conversation and head back to Tanger Outlet. Connie was sitting outside the Ann Taylor store with six or seven shopping bags and a wet paper towel in her right hand intermittently wiping her forehead. When I finally got her and the bags inside the car, all she said was, “I’m glad you’re back. I’m not feeling well.”

It was nearly six-thirty before we arrived at the Best Western in Gulf Shores.

Novel Excerpts—The Boaz Safecracker, Chapter 42

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

Chapter 42

I spent all day Tuesday and Wednesday filling in for Nell. Her brother in Wetumpka, Alabama had died, and she had gone to the funeral to spend some extra time with her sister-in-law who herself was in bad health.

Today I was like a kid about to visit a candy store for the first time. Connie still couldn’t believe I had moved so quickly on her last week’s suggestion that we take a trip to the beach. Just as I opened the trunk of my car to load my suitcase my iPhone vibrated in my shirt pocket. Noah. I really didn’t want anything to change the mental picture my mind had been painting across my vision ever since I woke up. Connie, no doubt, was an easy ten in the pink bikini I had figuratively dressed her in.

“Morning but know I’m on a mission and it doesn’t involve you.” It was nice having a friend I could be so open with. And rude.

“The Smith and Wesson is missing.” That’s all Noah said, like he was heeding my command to make it fast.

I slammed my trunk lid and leaned back against the side of my car. “I assume you are referring to a certain pistol supposedly secure in a certain gun case at a certain old house.” I was half trying to be secretive thinking Noah might have omitted using his secure phone.

“Fred, this is serious shit. Get serious. I dropped by this morning just like we discussed, to get the two bags and move them to Execuplex Mini Storage in Huntsville. You sure you didn’t forget to return the pistol when you went by?” I knew Noah wasn’t accusing me of stealing. He knew me better than that. I almost laughed out loud at the thought that I was honest as old Abe. Heck, I was a thief.

“You know I’m more careful than that. How could the thing just disappear? Then, I remembered the old woman next door who saw me leaving. No way had she broken in and stolen the old pistol. Would she? “Come to think of it, the back-door lock gave me some trouble with the key you loaned me. They say that’s the easiest type to trip.”

“I could kick myself for not installing a security system. It’s like I’m the cobbler whose kids don’t have shoes.” Noah said.

“Don’t waste your time crying over spilled milk. Even if you had, you might not know much more. You know, the best burglars wear disguises.” The shiver that ran up my back made me break out in a sweat. What if the disguises I had used in my first three safe-cracking events were not good enough?

“You’re right, there’s more serious stuff to cry over. Say that pistol is pawned, and the Sheriff learns it was stolen from my house, my dear parents’ house, God rest their souls, then my ass is grass. Maybe yours too. I guess that depends on what they beat out of me.” Noah chuckled.

“Remember, this is serious. Maybe you are overreacting. Maybe the church doesn’t claim it, in other words, we know they are harboring secrets. They might not disclose their big Mosler had been cracked. Here’s a thought that should give you comfort. If the Sheriff comes knocking on your door, why not tell him you found the gun?”

“That’s a stupid thing for a former lawyer to say.”

“I still have my law license.”

“And, you’re still stupid. Like the police would believe me, that’s like telling my teacher my dog ate my homework.”

I was quickly pondering a better way to assure Noah we might not be in too much trouble when my iPhone pinged that I had received a text. “Waiting for my man. I hope I don’t have to call a cab.” Wow, that one word from the lovely Connie brought a flash across my eyes. There she was again, in the imaginary pink bikini. Those long and tanned legs impatient to wrap themselves around me. I had to get a grip.

“Fred, you there?” Noah asked, maybe more than once.

“Let’s talk about this when I get back from the beach.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You might be sweating if the coins or the jewelry had been stolen from your barn.” Noah was correct. Damn, I hope Colton can close our deal very soon.

“You’re right. In the meantime, let’s try to think of a good reason that old Smith & Wesson was at your parents’ house to begin with.”

“Okay, I’ll think long and hard. By the way, I hope you can handle the sexy Connie. I imagine she can get a little kinky.”

“Don’t go there my friend. Bye, talk later.”

“I’m getting worried.” Angela said just as Rebecca walked through the back door.

“You stay worried. What’s your favorite fear today?” Rebecca said laying her purse on a side table loaded down with several boxes. “These magazines still getting under your skin.” Rebecca pulled back the lid of the closest box exposing a thinly clad young boy under the title, Play Boys. She knew this wasn’t the popular version but one of several dark and sinister magazines Angela had found while going through Doug’s private study.

“Connie, that’s what I’m worried about. It was hard enough to convince her to play along to begin with, now, I think she’s smitten by the fabulous Fred.” Angela said, rising from her recliner and walking over to Rebecca. “I’m carrying all this trash to the City dump. I obviously knew Doug had a thing for younger women, but this shit makes me sick.”

“Men, you never know them. That might be our angle with Connie. Try to show her she’s better off staying single. We know there’s a side to Fred that Connie wouldn’t tolerate.” Rebecca said digging inside her purse.

“You know Connie would be madder than hell if she found out about our little camera.” Angela said.

“Here, I used a Walgreen’s in Anniston to develop these. I think Fred looks as good now as he did back in high school.” Rebecca said handing several 4 x 6-inch photos to Angela.

“Woo, who. No wonder Connie is smitten. Let’s ask her if we can borrow Fred and his junk for a night or two.” Angela said, flipping through the photos. “Here, so Connie does have a safe. No doubt Fred was looking for it given these shots.”

“I forgot to make you a thumb drive of the recording. I’m impressed with the little GoPro camera we stumbled on. Expensive but, you know, you get what you pay for.” Rebecca said walking to Angela’s kitchen and pulling down a bottle of Jack Daniels Honey Whiskey stored above the refrigerator.

“Maybe while Connie and Fred are in Gulf Shores we could visit her over-sized closet and find out what’s in that big Mosler.” Angela said.

“You want a drink?” Rebecca asked. “You can be such a dumb ass. How do you think we would look inside? Doesn’t her safe have a combination lock?”

“Yes, but what good did that do me? And, what good did it do with your old Mosler? I know it’s still a guess, but I’d say it’s an educated guess. Fred Martin is the Boaz safecracker. He has to be, given what we know about his grandfather and all those damn journals.” Angela said reaching out and taken a half-filled tumbler from Rebecca.

“That would be a lucky break. Kind of like how we stumbled onto Caleb and Carson.” Rebecca said, pouring her another shot of the sweet whiskey.

“The gods were favoring us that day, that’s for damn sure.” Angela said, walking back to her recliner.

“Oh, I nearly forgot. I saw Caleb and Tabitha at Walmart last night. He was in a talking mood and was asking what I thought about the wilderness gig Robert is organizing for the youth group. Apparently, Tabitha was more interested in a bargain bin full of CD’s. Caleb and I eased back into Children’s Clothing to keep from blocking traffic. It was a perfect opportunity, so I pressed him a little. I’m pretty sure he’s a player. He sure as hell doesn’t want it out that he and Carson Eubanks were playing blackjack for big money in Tunica shortly after he took the pastor job here in Boaz.”

“Speaking of Carson, I received an email this morning from Coy. Seems like his CML has taken a turn for the worse.” Angela said, walking over to the kitchen counter and returning with the half-empty bottle of Jack.

“The way you said it, it sounded like Coy has CML. Anyway, tell me again what that stands for.”

“Chronic myelogenous leukemia. According to our investigator, Carson’s condition is terminal. I hate to say it but, once again, the gods love us.” Angela said reaching over to Rebecca now seated on the couch and pouring her another shot.

“I’m still mad at Coy. He’s told me twice that his secretary is supposed to be sending me the same emails as you. The little bitch is too young to be working for such a seasoned investigator. Probably his daughter, or, she might be a little playmate.”

“There you go again. Not every young girl leans toward older men.”

“Like you and I did,” Rebecca said, propping her feet on a giant coffee table.

“For us, it sure wasn’t the attraction, definitely not the sex. Us girls had a plan.” Angela said, pushing Rebecca’s feet away.

“I sure as hell hope the gods speed things up. Any plan that takes fifty-plus years isn’t good. I’m getting too old for the shit we’ve got going.”

“Some things are worth waiting for. Becca girl, go fetch me that pack of photos. I know I’m not Mr. Fred’s type, but I can dream, can’t I?”

Novel Excerpts—The Boaz Safecracker, Chapter 41

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

Chapter 41

I had just warmed a Stouffer’s dinner, Lasagna Italiano, apparently still mentally rooted in Italy, when I heard my desktop computer ping with an email notification. I started to ignore it but then my iPhone did its thing telling me I’d just received a text.

It was from Luke. “I just sent you an email.” That’s kind of why I had decided to ignore it.

I got up with my dinner and walked to the converted front bedroom, logged on to Google, and clicked the email icon. Luke’s first words were, “I’m very sorry I caused such a firestorm yesterday at lunch. I wished you had come fishing with Tyler and me, instead of Papa and Ed (I didn’t know why Luke referred to his grandfather, Deidre’s husband, as Ed). They were in a nosy mood, especially Ed. Seems like he’s caught wind of the fact that Tyler and you are from the same village.”

I turned my attention to the lasagna sitting on the corner of my desk. For a long time, I had the crazy habit of reading part of a document and either closing my eyes or walking away. My goal was to imagine or anticipate what the writer said during the remaining portion of the document. Here, I was certain that what followed was another question from Luke about Christianity, a question that likely had been spawned by the curious Tyler. I would have continued eating my Stouffer’s if there had been twice the amount of ricotta cheese.

Luke surprised me. He said that after Papa and Ed left him and Tyler alone at Martin Pond, Tyler asked if he could live at Luke’s house if he ever needed a place to stay. Luke went on to reveal that his father had leukemia and might not make it. Again, I stopped, ate one final bite of the almost cheese-less lasagna, and, instead of forecasting Luke’s final paragraph, my heart went out to Tyler. A ninth grader, without father and mother (I didn’t know but suspected she was either dead or unfit since Tyler lived with his dad). I couldn’t imagine how I would have made it during my high school years without my wonderful parents.

I walked to the kitchen for a glass of milk and almost sat back down in my recliner in the den. Something drew me back to my desktop. In his final few sentences, Luke had said, “how do I comfort my friend? It seems all I know to say is the stuff I’ve grown up hearing and believing all my life. Things like, ‘God is in control,’ and ‘You can trust God, He will give you peace beyond understanding.’ I feel like such a hypocrite to now say this stuff, especially knowing what Tyler does and does not believe.”

Luke closed his email with, “Thanks Uncle Fred for being real.” I was surprised Luke launched into a long P.S. “I almost forgot, Tyler’s grandmother’s nickname is Mossie. She’s about dead too, so he can’t go live with her if something happens to his dad.”

I closed my desktop, returned my dirty dish to the kitchen, dipped a heaping bowl of Brier’s Black Walnut Ice Cream, and settled into my recliner. It was almost 2:45 a.m. when I awoke. It was like my mind had reached out its big hand and shook my shoulder. Apparently, while I had been in deep sleep, the big computer between my ears had been at work. The name Miss Mossie came to mind. I had read enough articles by neurologists and psychiatrists to know that the brain stores, as groups of neurons, all our long-term memories. These experts concluded that each memory is stored in the brain area that originally initiated it.

Someway my brain was telling me, as it had been regurgitating Luke’s letter while I was sleeping, that I had an earlier experience with, not Mossie, but Miss Mossie. Oh, the wonder of high tech computers. It was then I vividly recalled Mama Martin often speaking of a Miss Mossie every time I visited her and Papa Martin in Cincinnati when I was growing up. I guess my mind was also trying to determine if there was a connection between this half-century plus memory and the recent experience I had where I learned, from Noah, that Carson Eubanks, had known my grandparents.

For the next three hours I tried to regain sleep in my recliner. I may have dosed a few minutes. I knew what I wanted to do but had to wait until a more reasonable hour to make the call.

Bobby Sorrells was the best private detective I had ever worked with. He lived in Dothan, Alabama and was a former police investigator until he formed his own agency probably twenty years ago. I had used him several times in criminal cases over the second half of my legal career. I’m pretty sure Dalton still used him because there was no one more in demand for capital murder cases in Alabama than Bobby Sorrells.

I knew Bobby was an early riser. During one case, he had stayed in mine and Susan’s home for nearly two weeks as he tracked down leads. When I had gotten up at 6:00, Bobby was always out on the back porch drinking coffee and reading a biography.

He answered on the second ring. “Hello, Bobby Sorrells here.”

“Bobby, Fred Martin in Boaz, how are you doing?”

“Hey Fred, longtime no see. Good to hear from you. You’re up earlier than normal. It’s only 5:45 a.m. down here in Dothan.” I could visualize Bobby reading a thick tome about Thomas Jefferson or James Madison. The man loved history. I think how broadly read he was helped him be a better detective. Bobby knew as much about what psychologists referred to as ‘the human condition’ as anyone I had ever met.

We caught up on what was happening in each of our lives and he let me describe what I needed. I laid out everything I knew about Carson and Tyler Eubanks, including how my own sister was Carson’s biological mother. I relayed to him about Carson growing up in Cincinnati in the same neighborhood as my paternal grandparents, and that his mother and Tyler’s grandmother, was referred to as Miss Mossie. Bobby was excellent at tracking people and learning their innermost secrets. What I had always found intriguing was the extent of information he was able to learn online before he ever went out into the field, as he called it.

Before hanging up, Bobby said he would be passing through Boaz in a few days to meet with Dalton, my cousin. Bobby told me what he could about a case he was working. He said that just last week Dalton had mentioned engaging me to lend my insurance expertise to an estate case that seemed to involve a life insurance fraud claim. I wanted to pursue this subject in depth because I knew Dalton was working Elton Rawlins’ estate, but Bobby received another call. He promised to see me in a few days with at least a preliminary response to my question.

I showered, called Connie, and talked with her for nearly an hour before I drove to work.

Novel Excerpts—The Boaz Safecracker, Chapter 40

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

Chapter 40

I’m unsure, but I think it was the lovely Connie who gave me the final nudge to submit to a temptation that had been dangling before me ever since the rainy night I slipped inside 208 Thomas Avenue.

Yesterday afternoon, after politely declining Dad and Ed’s invitation to join Luke and Tyler at Martin Pond, I sat for almost two hours on the front porch of Martin Mansion with the three Martin mavens. Deidre and Gabby were no doubt experts in boy-girl relationships and were eager to respond to the endless questions of Miranda, my great-niece. It seemed the eighth-grader herself was well-read in Biology and Anatomy, and had a loose, but clearly defined, interpretation of the limits God allowed in teenage sexual exploration.

For some reason, right before I exited the audience of girl-talk, Deidre had taken the opportunity in one of her responses to take a dig at me. “Miranda, at some point, you have to know how to close the deal.” To me, her statement was wholly inappropriate, it was like Deidre was advising Miranda to use her female persuasive equipment to convince her boyfriend to give her what she wanted. Next, Deidre sat up in her rocking chair, looked over at me, and said, continuing her response to Miranda, “don’t be like Connie Stewart. She had all the beauty, nicely packaged I might add, but never could close the deal.”

So, indirectly, Connie, through Deidre, had sent me the message that I needed to close the deal. The timing had worked perfectly. Today, Monday, I had spent an hour with a new retirement plan prospect in Huntsville at the new industrial park. Afterwards, I had taken the first step towards tipping headfirst into the biggest temptation of my life.

Colton Mason was a former client of mine. He was, and remains, a criminal. Unlike most who disrespect the law, Colton had nine lives. Over the twenty years or so I had represented him, he had gone to prison only one time. He was sophisticated and slippery, as cunning and ruthless as the worst antagonist in the best of all novels.

Driving home from Huntsville I couldn’t help but recall the biggest courtroom victory of my career. My law practice had been equally split between civil and criminal matters, but it was the latter practice area that ignited my afterburners. The December 2012 not-guilty verdict sent shock waves throughout Madison County and all across North Alabama. The District Attorney seemingly had an ironclad case. Colton’s specialty was burglary and fencing. The State had him on camera breaking into and removing two backpacks loaded with valuables from homes of both the Huntsville Mayor, and the pastor of First Baptist Church in Madison.

It was the only time I could recall the Madison County District Attorney being over-confident. To his credit, he had been juggling two capital murder cases at the same time. The DA’s investigator had conducted only an elementary review of Colton’s family. They never discovered, until it was too late, that Colton and Dalton Mason were twins. By the time I presented clear evidence that it was Dalton who had committed the crimes, it was too late for the DA to marshal a respectable response. It didn’t hurt that Dalton was unavailable. He had died in a freak auto accident a few months before Colton’s trial.

Even though we won the big case, Colton lost his freedom. At the time of the trial, he had several misdemeanors pending, things like third-degree assault on a grocery clerk, and third-degree theft of property for allowing his sticky fingers to illegally transport a set of imitation gold cuff links from inside Belk’s Department store. The maximum jail time for any misdemeanor is one year. However, again to his credit, the DA persuaded Judge Tabor to stack Colton’s five convictions, making him serve them consecutively, one year at a time, one after the other. Colton, nor me, initially had believed the Judge would do such a thing

It was in late February 2014 that I had last seen Colton Mason. I had visited him in jail a few weeks before I resigned from King and Hart. There had always been a kind of favorable brother-brother relationship between us. I had almost felt a responsibility to see him one last time. I vividly recall the last statement he had made to me over four years ago as the jail guard came for me. Colton’s voice was low, virtually a whisper: “if you ever need to move some hot items keep me in mind, you know I’ve still got my Italian connections.”

Today, after my retirement plan presentation, I had dropped by to see Colton. I knew from the January 2018 Huntsville Times article that the infamous Colton Mason had been discharged from the Madison County Jail on New Year’s Day. Last night I had located that article through Google and noted the reporter had mentioned that Colton was looking forward to returning to his home in Harvest, Alabama.

I had found the nondescript home easily. It was the same house I had visited a couple of times over the twenty years I had represented him. One other thing the DA probably still doesn’t know. Colton Mason is Anthony Barolo, one of two heirs to Marchesi di Barolo, possibly the most renowned and best quality wine in Italy. The five-generation winery is in Barolo, the small southern Italian town named after Anthony’s long-dead multi-great, grandfather.

This locally unknown fact had been Colton Mason’s ace. This had given him a predictably safe environment to market (aka, fence) the high-priced coins, jewelry, and art, he had stolen from Madison County’s rich and famous for nearly thirty years.

As I crossed ‘the big-river bridge,’ as Guntersville and Marshall County locals liked to call it, I felt confident I could trust Colton’s handling of Elton and Rebecca Rawlins’ coins and jewelry. Unlike the Madison County District Attorney and Anthony Barolo, I was the only other person alive who knew what had happened to Dalton Mason. Heck, not even Dalton himself knew. I must blame Susan’s cancer for tipping me over the edge. It was the only time I flagrantly violated my role as an officer of the court. Not only was Anthony Barolo a master burglar, but he was also the master of disguise. I still cannot believe I went along with the grand scheme of creating Dalton Mason. Yes, I could trust my long-time friend. Of course, it was nice to have a little insurance.

It would take him only a few days to close the deal with his Italian cousin. Once the coins and jewelry arrived in Borolo, I would be richer than I ever imagined. I almost chuckled as I realized that the money wouldn’t make any difference for Noah; he was already filthy rich.

As I turned off Highway 168 onto my long driveway, I wondered how Benjamin Ericson would feel about some of his prize possessions winding up in Italy.

Novel Excerpts—The Boaz Safecracker, Chapter 39

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

Chapter 39

I was surprised by how cordial everyone was to me as I walked inside Martin Mansion. Even Gabby and Brad gave me a friendly nod. The meal itself was better than I had expected. Deidre and Gabby were someway pulling off the impossible. Their green beans brought a happy sadness to my mind. This Sunday, they hadn’t forgotten to add the bay leaves which gave them the Harriet Martin signature.

Not much was said during our meal. Ed and Brad’s sparring over whether Labron James or Stephen Curry was the better basketball player kept me huddled safely at my corner of the table. For some reason I kept looking across at Susan’s empty chair and missing both her and the lovely Connie. When I had talked to her earlier this morning she had been rather vague about what she was doing for her Aunt Julia, who wasn’t doing so well at the hospital.

As our Sunday lunch moved into dessert phase, Deidre started slicing everyone a piece of coconut cake. Then, all hell broke loose. It had started off less hot than where it ended. It surprised me that the bomb hadn’t come from either Gabby or Deidre. Just as I was taking my first bite of Gabby’s rather poor attempt at replicating Mother’s favorite cake, Luke shared his first words since I had arrived forty-minutes earlier. “Why in heck does anyone believe prayer healed Eugene Lackey?”

I had heard the recent Boaz High School basketball coach had received a glowing report from his doctors that his cancer was in full remission. For the second time. There was no doubt the membership of First Baptist Church of Christ and many, if not most, of the local community, had engaged in a giant wave of prayer for the highly respected coach. I had attended several Wednesday night prayer meetings where Eugene’s health received the most attention.

Deidre was the first to take Luke’s bait. “Coach Lackey is a faithful follower of Christ. He, his family and friends, and so many people, far and wide, have pleaded with God for His special touch. The doctors are not lying when they say he is in remission. Why on earth would you question what is as clear and simple as that?”

I didn’t say it, but I was proud of Luke. Especially, his response to his grandmother. “Okay, I’ll modify my question. Why in heck did God not heal Heather Mosher?”

Gabby then entered the fray. “Luke, who is Heather Mosher?”

“Lately I’ve been trying to better understand what you, Dad, and a church and community of folks have been pouring into my head ever since I was able to nurse. The one subject that I couldn’t avoid was prayer. It’s all the hype on Facebook if someone gets sick or loses their dog. The comments seem to be as natural as breathing. Folks respond to the bad news with, ‘praying,’ ‘God’s got this,’ or ‘God’s plan is always perfect.’ By the way, Heather Mosher was a thirty-one-year-old woman from Connecticut who died of breast cancer back in December. I was doing some research and found her story through Google. The article I read related that her boyfriend had asked her to marry him the day she was diagnosed with cancer. A year later, the two went ahead and married even though Heather was in the hospital and virtually at death’s door. Again, why didn’t God heal Heather Mosher? Do you think it was because no one at all had prayed for her?” I also liked Luke’s sarcasm. “Certainly, if she had been healed it would have been because of all the many prayers. Oh, I forgot to say. Heather died the day after her wedding.”

I could tell Deidre was about to explode. We already, from Luke’s first question, had exchanged looks. Her face hadn’t expressed too much brotherly love. “Luke, God isn’t bound to grant every request. He is God. He is sovereign. He is mysterious. His ways, thoughts, and plans are not ours, they are higher than ours.” What a crock of shit but I kept my mouth shut.

“Mama D, that kind of proves my point. Prayer doesn’t work. No doubt everyone who prayed for Eugene Lackey or Heather Mosher asked for healing. They asked specifically that the sick would be restored to good health. I think we can assume all prayers were sincere, yet, God said no to one and yes to another. Doesn’t the Bible say that if you abide in God you can ask what you will, and God will grant your request?”

I guess it was time for Gabby to show her Mama Bear nature. “Luke, I’ve been polite long enough. I know you can’t see it right now, but you are allowing your great uncle to brainwash you. Someday you’ll realize that you don’t learn about high and holy living by asking a criminal.”

“Oh, now I’m a criminal. I almost said something I would later regret. Instead, Luke came to my rescue. “Uncle Fred has done nothing but answer me honestly. I went to him. He is the only one who treats me like I have a brain. And, he is the only one who doesn’t claim to know things none of you can possibly know.”

“Like what?” Brad now joined in, probably to show Gabby he was with her defending their only son.

Luke will make a great lawyer someday. His logic and reasoning skills already revealed his prodigious mind. “Here’s a few things. God created the universe, but God himself was never created. God created Adam from the dust of the ground and Eve from his side around six thousand years ago. And, here’s what is starting to make me so damn mad.”

“Son, no cursing, please.” Gabby’s cautionary command was clearly on display.

“If God is so darn loving, why does he allow so much suffering? You would think God, the supernatural God, the one who is all knowing, all loving, and all powerful, could and would do something to save the suffering and starving children around the world. He is either incapable or He simply doesn’t give a, well, you know what.” I could see myself in Luke, always respectful of our mothers.

For the next fifteen minutes I was unsure whether I was going to be hauled out and burned at the stake or pushed down the cellar stairs and locked away forever. Even Dad seemed to align himself with the winning side, the majority who, no doubt, would say in the event Eugene Lackey ultimately died of cancer, that “God’s will is mysterious, praise God for loving Eugene so much He carried him home.”

I had never heard a more pleasing and welcoming sound. A few minutes after 1:00, a car horn blared beside Martin Mansion. Just as quick as Luke had stepped out into heresy lane, he was up and headed to the front door. “It’s Tyler. We’re going fishing.” Luke was clearly becoming defiant. He hadn’t even asked if he might be excused from lunch. Gabby and Brad certainly had a hell-raiser on their hands. Luke wasn’t the only one with a command of sarcasm.

In my own defiance, I stood up and asked Dad if I might be excused. He looked at me funny and finally gave me a nod. I walked to the front porch and found my favorite chair. Today, I was going to be the last to leave the afternoon discussion. Mother would be proud of me.

Novel Excerpts—The Boaz Safecracker, Chapter 38

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

Chapter 38

My fear of walking the dusty road around the edge of Dad’s garden to Martin Mansion pushed me to stay hidden behind the four walls of my cabin. Angela’s photo prompted me to pull out her 1973/Senior journal. I hadn’t read an entry yet in either it or her 1972/Junior journal. For some reason I wanted to read what, if anything, she had written during the time the photo had been taken. I knew the game was around the middle of October since I vividly recalled the Auburn vs. LSU game. Instead of driving home to Boaz, Susan and I had stayed in Auburn and on Saturday gone to Jordan-Hare Stadium to watch LSU trounce Auburn 20 to 6. What a lousy Saturday. I still regret not driving home to watch the sensational Johnny Stewart run roughshod over the Pennington Wildcats.

I started reading with Angela’s October 8th entry. It was Monday. Mostly, she wrote about school. In her last paragraph she mentioned how tired she was from the extra cheerleader practice over the weekend. Her final sentence was, “I can’t wait until Wednesday night to be happy again.”

My first thought was that Angela might have been depressed. Then, remembering what she had written on the back side of the library photo, I concluded she was sad, mad no doubt, about what appeared to be her loss of Johnny Stewart to my dear sister. I continued to read. There was nothing revealing on Tuesday, October 9.

Wednesday’s entry had been written Thursday morning by Angela’s own admission. Her first sentence was, “love the ludes.” At first my mind froze. I even took out my iPhone and Googled ‘ludes.’ The first result thawed my mind instantly. Angela had to be referring to Quaaludes. I started to pull down the box of bottles I had stolen from Doug’s safe but didn’t need to. I recalled exactly that two bottles contained, at least according to their labels, Quaalude-300’s.

According to Angela’s journal, for weeks now, after youth group, Elton Rawlins and Doug Barber had hosted a high/happy/session in the back room of the Lighthouse. I gathered from her writing, including Thursday’s entry, that the youth director Randy Miller had been instrumental in organizing the lab, again, Angela’s description.

Angela described how she was one of three Boaz High School cheerleaders, including Rebecca Aldridge and Randi Peterson, who had volunteered to take the drug and learn the effect upon their spiritual experiences. Angela wrote how mad she had gotten Wednesday night when, instead of Randi, Deidre Miller had shown up. Angela’s writing was convoluted and needlessly confusing, but I concluded that what had been going on in the ‘lab’ involved more than singing “Why Me” by Kris Kristofferson (for some reason this popular song represented the heart of what Angela referred to as ‘Ludes Lab’). To my shock, I learned that a little over an hour after their sessions began and the Ludes were ingested, the songs and the swaying had given way to sexual exploration. Angela never described it as a sexual orgy but that’s what vision my mind produced.

It was not clear at all to me why or how Deidre had shown up to replace the absent Randi. I got to counting and realized three girls and five guys wasn’t an even pairing, not that that was a requirement for the type orgy I imagined. The physical interactions became more apparent to me when Angela expressed what had made her so mad. Apparently, the Ludes or simply natural attraction, had isolated the magnetic Johnny Stewart with my dear Deidre. I may have read something untrue between Angela’s sentences, but it seemed clear to me that during the past ‘Ludes Labs,’ those where Deidre was absent, the Johnny hunk (Angela’s words) shared his high and happy touch with all three of the eager cheerleaders.

I knew I was running late but wanted to finish Angela’s writing through Friday. On Saturday morning she had written about last night’s game against J.B. Pennington and, for the first time, noted how mad she was at the football superstar. She wrote, “if I can’t have him, nobody can. Damn him and Deidre Martin. I’d send them both to hell right now if I could.”

If this language wasn’t shocking enough, she finished her entry by expressing the range of emotions she always experienced during what she referred to as ‘Faith’ time. This apparently took place after ‘Sex’ time (my label), after all present had experienced the highest of highs. Angela wrote how Elton and Doug had shown them a few weeks ago how to play Russian roulette. To them, this was how they showed their commitment to Jesus and His will for their lives. I had never in my life read something so sick and twisted.

I returned the journal to the top shelf of my pantry closet and headed out the door to Martin Mansion. All I could think about along the dusty trail was whether Deidre herself had played the game that could easily have taken her life.

Novel Excerpts—The Boaz Safecracker, Chapter 37

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

Chapter 37

I woke up Sunday morning with a dull headache and a nauseous stomach. Yesterday afternoon, while coolly dreaming under a hot shower, I had convinced myself I would wake up today, naked, with the lovely Connie similarly dressed in her king-size bed. Hopes and dreams, the earlier blessings from the gods, all had suddenly vanished.

Just as I had walked into the sun room to a smiling Connie sitting in her swing, her iPhone had rung once again. This time it was her mother announcing that Aunt Julia had suffered a stroke and was in the Emergency Room at Marshall Medical Center South. I learned quickly that Connie had a special relationship with the mother of the late Johnny Stewart. “My dear aunt, she’s suffered more than Job. Losing her only child when he was a senior in high school, and the sudden death of Uncle Bill last year, is more than she can take. I have to go be with her.”

That had ended mine and Connie’s wonderful day together. As we had been about to walk outside, her to her Camry headed to the hospital, and me to leave for home in my own car, she handed me an old photo and an equally old Alfa life insurance policy. “Angela said give these to you. She found them going through Doug’s jam-packed study. She thought you’d like the picture and could help her collect from Alfa.”

I had hardly looked at either item until I arrived home. The photo looked to have been taken at Boaz High School during the fall of 1973. What tipped me towards the correct time-frame was a large hand-lettered and painted banner along the wall behind the information desk inside the library where the photo was taken. It read: “Pirates Pound Pennington.” It was odd this brought back such a memory. Even though Susan and I were both sophomores at Auburn, I recalled how we had wanted to drive home to attend the game. It was the first time Boaz had played the Blount County School since I was in the ninth grade. The memories ran deep since I had been called on by Coach Hicks to fill in for the injured Ted Parker, or, it might have been Sidney Wheeler. How I had intercepted a pass and ran it all the way back for the winning touchdown was still my biggest mystery.

I easily recognized everyone in the photo. My dear sister sat on a leather couch between Angela Ericson and Rebecca Aldridge. Deidre was smiling but both Angela and Rebecca were wearing stern faces, maybe even scorn since their eyes were slanted toward the disliked person between them. Standing behind the couch was Johnny Stewart, Allan Floyd, and Tommy Jones. Johnny was directly behind Deidre and had his right hand on Deidre’s shoulder. I turned the photo over and read what I assumed was Angela’s printed note. The smudged ink read: “Last time I’ll ever sit beside the Deidre bitch, unless she’s on her deathbed.” Then, the writer had listed the names of everyone captured in the photo. At the bottom right hand corner was written, “photo taken by Doug Barber with Elton Rawlins’ new camera.”

I thought it impolite for the grieving Angela to have sent the photo to me. Was she trying to tell me something? It seemed that a normal, respectful person, would have kept the rude and vulgar picture to herself, and let bygones be bygones.

I was even more surprised with the Alfa life insurance policy. The contract listed Doug Barber as the insured and First Baptist Church of Christ as the policy’s owner. Another oddity. Why would this policy be in Doug’s possession? Usually, owners maintain their own property. I flipped the page and noticed that Rachel Roden was the primary beneficiary, and that Angela Ericson was the secondary beneficiary. The oddities continued. The policy was dated May 15th, 1974. Angela was at that time a senior, about to be a graduating senior, at Boaz High School. This was years before her and Doug married. Hadn’t he been married to Rachel Roden first, maybe for thirty or more years? I couldn’t keep my legal mind from activating. Why would First Baptist Church purchase a life insurance policy on Doug’s life?

I sat in my recliner most of the morning, sipping coke and nibbling on saltine crackers. A few minutes before noon, I couldn’t avoid the feelings any longer. My sickness wasn’t from yesterday’s disappointment in having to end mine and Connie’s day way too soon, or from the unsatisfying taste I had from Angela’s photo and policy. Clearly, it was caused by me dreading to walk up the road to Martin Mansion for Sunday lunch. No doubt, I was afraid to face my family, and what seemed a certain crucifixion for me brainwashing Luke.

Novel Excerpts—The Boaz Safecracker, Chapter 36

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

Chapter 36

I didn’t hesitate walking into Connie’s foyer. It was now established between us. When the front door was cracked open, that was my signal to come in.

“I’m in here. Waiting.” She must have a camera or sensor or something to tell her I’d arrived. The kitchen is half a house away, beyond the great room. When I walked through the archway into the breakfast nook I saw her slipping off a mitten and laying it on the counter beside the coffee-maker. “Good thing I delayed cooking the biscuits.”

“I’m sorry I’m late. Deidre called, and we had the worst argument we have ever had.” Connie poured me a cup of coffee and walked it to me. She almost handed it to me but set it down on the counter beside me.

“Here, let me make it all better.” She moved her body in close to mine and reached her hands and arms around my waist. “I’m glad you came, and I’m happy we have become friends. Let’s don’t talk about your argument for now, just hold me.” My mind switched gears faster than a lightning bolt.

“Thanks for inviting me and I hope you know I’m enjoying every second I get to spend with you.” Connie was nearly as tall as me. She raised her head and poured her mysterious blue eyes into mine. She smiled, and I pulled her even closer, feeling her breasts pressing against my chest. At the same instant we both moved for the other’s lips. The kiss was long and passionate.

“Wow, you are a good kisser.” She pulled back and reached over for my cup of coffee. “We better focus on breakfast for now. A few more kisses like that and we’ll never get to the yard.”

“Maybe that would be a good thing. I could come back Monday afternoon for the chores.” I took a sip of coffee, set it down, and again pulled Connie into me. This time as we kissed I let my right hand move down her back and onto her firm and shapely rear. I pressed firmly, and she didn’t resist positioning her body closer. She let out a soft moan when she felt how excited I had become. I slipped my left hand inside her pink top along her lower back and was surprised when she pulled my shirt outside the work shorts I had worn. I moved my left hand higher and noticed she didn’t have on a bra.

The pace and direction I hoped we were traveling quickly ended. “Okay Fido let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” About that time the oven timer went off. “Saved by the biscuits. They’re better when their hot.” I almost responded with a rather crude remark but didn’t. But, I had to question who had been saved.

“Thank goodness I’m saved. I was beginning to get nervous, the way you were beginning to take advantage of me.” I hoped Connie could take my joking.

“It’s a good thing both of us are not as slow as you. I have to say I’m thinking there is hope for you after all. Now, sit down and let’s eat. We have a mountain of work to do today.”

Breakfast consisted of biscuits and fresh honey from the bee hives I had no idea she had. And, bacon, eggs, and grits that were better than Mother’s.

For the next four hours I was reminded of how much I missed Susan. She, like Connie, was a yard’s person. During the summer, on Saturdays, Susan became a drill sergeant barking out order after order of what needed to be done. By 1:30, I had used Connie’s John Deere to mow and vacuum nearly three-quarters of an acre. And, I had edged both the front and rear sidewalks. I was about to crank up the Stilh blower when she motioned me to follow her to the pool where she had apparently been high-pressure washing for the past hour. She was carrying a tray of lemonade.

“Let’s rest. We’ve got time. We’re making great progress.” Connie said as I sat in a lounge chair lined with a soft, flowered cushion. She handed me a glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade.

“You have a beautiful place here. I hope I’m not out of line but maybe we could go swimming together sometime. Say right now?” I don’t know if it was the tartness of the lemonade or the gentle humming of the pool’s filter, but something spurred my boldness.

“Fred is a quick learner. I love it. Here’s an idea. Why don’t we finish up the yards, maybe take a nap to restore our energy, grill out some steaks late afternoon, and then see what happens. Who knows, a nighttime swim might make for a romantic evening.”

“I love a woman with a plan.” Heck, what was I to say. Connie’s ideas were perfect.

I wasn’t expecting her response. “Sometimes my plans are disastrous.”

“Care to share?” I asked.

“Fred, don’t you think it’s odd that we are together? I mean, I guess it’s okay for me to say this. Is it just a coincidence that we are seeing each other, or do you think it is God’s plan, His somewhat twisted way of showing He works in mysterious ways?” Connie’s words were bouncing off me like my mind was wearing heavy armor. I was fully confused.

“I hope you know I like the fact we are working on a wonderful relationship, but I don’t see what’s odd, weird, mysterious, whatever, about it.”

“I spent a year encouraging Angela and Rebecca to make their peace with Deidre. Your sister. Now, it’s kind of like I’m being rewarded with you.”

“For sure, you are one lucky lady, but what’s the deal over Deidre?” I asked, more confused than ever.

“Unlike you, after we graduated in 1972, I stayed in Boaz. For two years, attending Snead State. This was when your sister was away, supposedly in Europe as an exchange student. Surely, you know that Angela and Rebecca had the hots for Johnny Stewart. But, my darling cousin, fell for the sexy Deidre. While I was a sophomore at Snead, Angela and Rebecca were seniors at Boaz High. After Johnny was killed the two of them went berserk, blaming Deidre for his death. I think if she had been in town for much longer, you know she moved to Cincinnati at Christmas 1973, Angela and Rebecca would have killed her.”

“Wait. I thought you said Deidre went to Europe as an exchange student?”

“That’s what your mom wanted everybody to think, but don’t you know it’s rather difficult keeping a secret in a small southern town?”

Once again, I felt like the most stupid man in Boaz. It seemed everyone knew the very things that I should have known. I was about to respond to Connie’s question when her iPhone vibrated on the lemonade tray.

“Sorry. It’s Angela. I better take this. She’s still having a hard time with Doug’s death.” Connie answered the call and walked away and towards the pool house across from where we had been sitting. I laid my head back and pondered how Angela and Rebecca had found out the truth about where Deidre had moved. As I wondered whether they had also learned that she was pregnant with Johnny Stewart’s baby, Connie returned and sat back down beside me in a matching lounge chair.

“Are you okay with a little change of plans?” She asked.

“As long as it keeps me close by your side my lovely, I’m good.” I was sounding like a star-struck teenager.

“Angela wants me to run over for a few minutes. Let’s do this. While I’m gone why don’t you use the blower to clean off the front and rear sidewalks, then you take a shower and change clothes. By the time you’re all spiffy looking, I’ll be back.”

“Whatever your pleasure my madame.” No doubt the gorgeous Connie was leading me by a leash.

“Oh, use my shower. It’s bigger, and the one in the bath in the hallway doesn’t have much pressure.” Connie stood up and reached out her hands for me to stand. I complied. She gave me a quick kiss and walked away, towards her garage. Before she was out of eye shot she turned and said, “if you like big and thick towels, they are on the top shelf in the linen closet. Make yourself at home.”

As soon as I heard Connie’s Camry start and pull out, I went into racing mode and headed for the front sidewalk. In less than ten minutes every inch of concrete, including the driveway, was free from dirt and cut grass. I must be living right or something because the gods were raining down blessings on me. They had given me the perfect opportunity to itch a scratch I had ever since discovering the sensor at the bottom of Connie’s linen closet when she had sent me after her First Aid Kit.

I put the blower in the garage, fetched my pants and shirt from my car, and walked to the master suite. The only other time I was in Connie’s bathroom I hadn’t noticed the door across from the double vanity. I suspect I had been focused on walking through the first room of the bathroom into the showering area where the linen closet was. I stopped and opened the door and entered a large walk-in closet. On three sides were shelves and clothes racks. Connie sure had a lot of clothes and shoes. I walked over to an old cedar chest that sat along the left wall underneath a ton of cubby holes filled with shoes. I knew the wall behind the chest housed the linen closet in the showering room. That odd-placed sensor had my attention. I gently pulled the chest out away from the wall and saw a single slim white wire coming through the wall. I traced it towards the hallway that would be behind the back side of Connie’s walk-in closet. I roughly measured the depth of the closet and then walked outside into her bedroom. I walked off the same distant and noticed the extra space, maybe three feet, before I reached the doorway leading out into the hall. I returned to the walk-in closet and proceeded to gently move Connie’s clothes back and forth, so I could see the wall that normally would have backed up to the hallway. In the far-right corner I noticed another sensor. It too had a small white wire protruding out its side. I traced it back to the left side of the back wall and found the edge of a door, the type that opens by sliding inside a specially created wall. The door moved easily. I almost wasn’t surprised. The sensors had alerted me to the fact there was something Connie had hidden. Seeing the giant Mosler resting inside the hidden room was exhilarating. Until, I realized that given my recent track record of uncovering long held secrets, I almost became nauseous while thinking if I ever looked inside this safe, mine and Connie’s relationship might be ruined forever.

“You alright in there?” Damn, Connie was home. She hadn’t stayed at Angela’s the full hour. I rolled the door shut and straightened her clothes, trying to return them to an equal distance between hangers. It was as though the crooks on the hangers were eternal guards protecting the world’s secrets.

When I turned on the shower I yelled. “Come join me if you want.” Nice touch Fred, but it’s way too desperate. As I stripped down and stepped underneath the scalding water, I kept telling myself that I had to play this cool. I needed to act as though I would be just as satisfied if Connie and I didn’t spend any time the rest of today fooling around. Who on earth was I kidding?”

Novel Excerpts—The Boaz Safecracker, Chapter 35

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

Chapter 35

I hadn’t slept good at all last night. After I arrived home from Noah’s parents I had tried to relax and doze in my recliner. That hadn’t worked well, nor had laying for seven hours in my bed. I don’t think my insomnia had as much to do with what I had discovered in the two duffel bags as with Connie’s call a few minutes before midnight. She had invited me to her house today for what she described as a lawn party. When she mentioned her John Deere riding mower, an edger, and a blower, I realized she wanted me to help her groom her giant yard. Her final statement consumed my mind’s entire night: “after we finish, and you shower, we can see what happens.”

Connie had also invited me to breakfast. “Motivation for all the hard work you’ll be doing.” She had said. As I removed a change of clothes from my closet my iPhone rang. It was Deidre. I started to let the call go to voice mail but was worried it might have something to do with Dad.

“Good morning sis.” I always liked starting off with honey.

“Fred. I’m going to tell you one time and one time only. Stay away from Luke. He’s a good kid and doesn’t need to fall for your bullshit.” No doubt Deidre was mad. Her call wasn’t really a surprise. Someway I had known all along that my discussions with Luke wouldn’t remain secret. I laid my pants and shirt hangars across my bed and stood silent, knowing she couldn’t or wouldn’t. “Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”

“I agree. Luke is a great kid. And, a curious one. He has a right to ask questions about the world.” I knew I was right, but I also knew there was no way Deidre would listen to logic.

“The news you have been coaching Luke has so angered and upset Gabby and Brad they threatened to sue you for contributing to the delinquency of a minor.”

I almost laughed out loud. “That’s hilarious, that quasi-criminal charge relates to an adult action that allows or encourages a minor to engage in illegal behavior or exposes them to illegal behavior.”

“Well duh, convincing Luke there is no God will certainly lead him to all kinds of immoral behavior.”

“Sis, you’ve got it all wrong. I haven’t been trying to convince Luke of anything. But, I admit, I have encouraged him to use his brain and think. He came to me with questions. I tried to answer them the best I could.”

“You could have refused and reported the awful news to Gabby and Brad, or, at least, to me.” Deidre was so damn deluded.

“So, it’s awful for a bright, young mind to ask questions? That’s so par for the course, just what Christian fundamentalists want. You sound just like Mother.” I shouldn’t have brought Mother into this.

“I sure hope that Luke can be rescued and not hurt Gabby like you hurt Mother.” I don’t know what triggered my anger, but it was like, after half a century, I had reached the tipping point. I had enough of the old and tired accusation that I hurt Mother so bad by rejecting her religion.

“He certainly needs rescuing. Just like I did when I was about his age. Thank God for Ricky Miller.” I was ignoring all the red lights my legal training had drilled into me. I was leading myself to an eventual slaughter, or, at a minimum, a point I would regret.

“His coaching turned out well for him, didn’t it? There has never been anyone in the history of Boaz to cause so much sin and suffering as the heathen Miller.”

“What about his brother, Randy? Him spouting all the Bible nonsense led many a generation into believing the biggest myth ever told.”

I could hear Deidre’s heavy breathing. She and I shared one Martin characteristic that had gotten us both in trouble on many an occasion. Once provoked, we didn’t turn back or calm down. She was like a mama bear protecting her cubs. “Ricky Miller ruined my life. His little Safe House spawned a war that killed Johnny Stewart.”

The red flags were waving. “I figure you’re jumping to big conclusions, but I agree with one thing. Your life would have been different if your baby-making lover hadn’t been killed.” Damn, I needed to shut my mouth. I was already late for breakfast at Connie’s and here I was knee-deep in the worst argument my sister and I had ever had.

“What the fuck are you insinuating?” How on earth had this conversation devolved to this?

“Sweet sister, secrets have a way of crawling out into the sun. I hate to burst your bubble, but I know more than you think I know or you want me to know.” I seemed powerless to shut my mouth and to stop the destruction of Martin Mansion.

“Whatever you think you know you are wrong. Stay the fuck out of my life, and Luke’s.” I wasn’t the only one who was saying things they would later regret. At least, I hoped so.

“Sis don’t worry. I’ll never divulge your secret. I suspect dear Ed doesn’t know about the twins.” Someway, I had to end this hell-on-wheels call.

“Twins? There you go Fred, always talking bullshit, acting as though you know something is true. You should stick with hocking insurance policies to vulnerable women.”

“Don’t worry sweet pea, I’m not after a confession. You never have to tell me anything. Here’s for a truce. I keep my mouth shut about you and Johnny Stewart’s baby-making, and you let Luke follow his curiosity.” At least I was beginning to suppress the red flags.

“Don’t fucking try to tell me what to do. One bit of advice. Have a little respect for your dear and dead mother. She would turn over in her grave if she knew you were bringing up this dark chapter in her life.”

I didn’t respond to Deidre’s last statement. I ended the call, grabbed the two clothes hangers, and drove to Connie’s arriving nearly fifteen minutes late.