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 17
By the time I reached the hospital, Mother was already gone. Her death was, in a way, harder on me than Susan’s had been. Hers was a long process. Mother’s was a sudden event. With Susan, I had time to prepare, if that’s what you call it. After her second relapse, we knew she would likely die within six months. It was five. Mother’s death was like a bombshell that appeared out of nowhere and destroyed everything in its wake. I sat with Deidre and Dad in the chapel as the nurses prepared Mother’s body for our final viewing before she would be transported to the funeral home. All I could think about was how selfish I was to not have stayed with her out on her big front porch last Sunday afternoon. She had said as I was leaving, “Fred, I wish we could talk. Like we used to.”
By 11:30 a.m., Dad, Deidre, and I had returned to Martin Mansion. By 1:00, the whole family had arrived. We spent all afternoon reminiscing the life of Harriet Ann Parkland.
Her and Dad had met at Seven Hills School in Cincinnati. It was a private high school that prided itself on preparing its students for college. Although both Dad and Mom were in the top ten percent of their class and had every family-financial opportunity to advance their education, for some strange reason they had opted to ignore the world’s dictation, instead choosing to work menial jobs after graduating so they would have more time to focus on each other. I think they had some premonition they would end up in Boaz, working this magnificent hundred-acre farm. I never tired of hearing Mother talk about how much Dad shared with her his love for Papa Stonewall and Martin Mansion. Their opportunity came in February 1954 when Dad came home from his factory job and announced they were moving to Alabama and Martin Mansion to care for his aging grandfather.
At noon, Rebecca met Angela Barber at the Rock House Eatery in Guntersville.
After ordering lunch, Rebecca said, “I met with Fred Martin this morning. Connie’s idea about the long-term health care policy was a good one. I don’t think Fred suspects anything about Pastor Caleb.”
“That seems impossible. His own sister getting pregnant and having a baby without him knowing it.” Angela added.
“Remember, she was barely showing at graduation. I suspect he still believes that Deidre’s high school graduation present was a year of travel and study in Europe. I still remember what fun we had mailing him those silly cards from Florence, Italy.” Rebecca said, thanking the waitress for her baked salmon salad.
“Can you imagine the look on Fred’s face if he found out that Caleb Patterson was his nephew?” Angela asked.
“It would be one of surprise, but it would definitely turn to anger and disgust when he learned Deidre’s blood son came from the intimate work of Johnny Stewart.” Rebecca paused as the young waiter poured her another glass of white wine. “It will only get worse for all of us if your journals go public. I would nearly bet the two burglaries, your house and mine, are connected.”
Angela waved at an older man with a younger woman who were just being seated. Customers of the Neighborhood Pharmacy. “Here’s a thought that just beamed through my head. Do you think it possible that Fred knows more than we think? That he someway knows Johnny Stewart charmed the saintly Susan?”
“Continuing that dark thought. What if Fred is the one who took your journals?” Rebecca said, cutting a piece of salmon and laying it on Angela’s plate of Fettuccine.
“If he did, then he probably stole your jewels.” Angela said.
“And, don’t forget, my stolen coins.” Rebecca added, distracted by the odd couple Angela had waved at. “I wonder if Romeo over there knows his Juliet is after his money and hopes for his early demise?”
“He’s probably as dumb as Elton was. He never knew what hit him did he?” Angela asked.
“Literally. My persistent persuasion that he should drive that day could have been a give-away. In a way, my dear Elton was as dumb as dirt. Older men are greatly overconfident. I hope you can come up with as good a plan as I did.” Rebecca said.
“Caleb’s coming around, so that’ll make it easier. And, more interesting.” Angela said, reaching over and forking another piece of Rebecca’s salmon.
The Pencil-Driven Life 