Month: November 2024

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 64

I didn’t leave the hospital until late Tuesday night.  That’s when Deidre showed up with Ed at the ICU Waiting Room.  She was lucky to be alive.  Her story was extraordinary in many ways, but one thing it wasn’t, to me it didn’t come as a surprise.

After Deidre’s brief visit with a near comatose Dad (nurse Greta shushed her out), we three sat with coffee I had poured from the adjoining refreshments room (thanks Marshall Medical Center South).

Deidre had used Rebecca’s cell phone to dial 911.  Luckily, the emergency system had the technology to determine the call location.  Sis, at that time, didn’t have a clue where she was.  An ambulance and two police cars from Anniston showed up within minutes.  

The stress, strain, and scratches of Deidre’s ordeal were obvious from her face: a fully blood-shot right eye with four claw marks traveling down the adjoining cheek.  Her left eye was hollow.  Her natural bright blue was like it had been painted black by a not-so-good painter.  The message her face communicated was: I’m in shock.  I nearly died.

At the hospital, the police had allowed Deidre to call Ed.  He had joined her and the two had spent all day at both the hospital and the police station dealing with every aspect of the whole ordeal.  What had pissed her more than anything was being treated as a criminal and not being allowed to come immediately to see, what very well could be, our dying father.

I finally left the hospital a little before ten.  As I stood to walk out of the waiting room, my cell phone vibrated.  It was Connie.  I walked outside into the hall and answered.  “Hey honey, how’s Tyler?”

“He has barely moved all day.  The kid can sleep without hardly even breathing.  He wouldn’t take off his shoes when he lay across the bed in my spare bedroom.”

I wasn’t coherent enough to chat, but I said: “He’s lucky to be alive.  I have a much higher opinion of Pastor Caleb now.  He could have taken the easy way out and killed Tyler.  I admire the man in a strange sort of way.” 

“Rebecca wasn’t so lucky.  She’s dead.  I just heard.”  I wanted to ask her for details, especially how she had learned the news.  But, I didn’t.  My mind and body were in Safe Mode, I think it’s a computer term.

After I politely declined Connie’s invitation to drive over to her house, I again said goodbye, to Deidre and Ed.

It was the most pleasurable shower I had ever taken.  And, a long one.  I stood under the semi-weak spray for nearly an hour, numb to my existence.  Except, my mind played a short video of what had been happening around me.  The title should have been “Look Who’s Dead,” or something involving the cessation of life for so many I knew.

It started with Elton, then Doug.  Next was Angela.  Now, Carson (as far as I knew, the only one who died of natural causes, but I wouldn’t bet on it).  Oh, I forgot Miss Mossie, but, I didn’t know her. Probably a natural death; heck she was ninety something.  No, Rebecca and Angela had stayed, after Carson left.  And finally, Caleb and Rebecca.  Jealousy and money, it seemed, was the root of nearly every one of these deaths.

When I finished my shower, I was drawn like a magnet to my bed.  But, there was something I had to do.  The thought had been niggling me all day.  I walked to the kitchen and opened the pantry door.  I knew Angela’s journals were safe.  I had already checked them once since the search warrant invasion.  They had been peacefully resting on the top shelf, hidden by the fake ceiling underneath that I had spent the better part of a day cutting and installing, and re-cutting and re-installing.

My goal was to reread from Angela’s third journal the account of her senior year at Boaz High School beginning in August 1973.  My focus was the Friday night Johnny Stewart and friends met their fate, and the following two weeks that ended when Biology teacher Ricky Miller was found dead at the Safe House.

I sat in my Lazy Boy and read ten pages.  I was disappointed I didn’t learn anything new.  I was forgetting I had read this section at least half-a dozen times over the past several weeks.  I lay the journal on the end table beside me and activated my iPhone.  It was after midnight.  I lay my phone on top of Angela’s journal intending to push back and take a multi-hour nap.

It was then I noticed the difference.  Angela’s third journal was the same color as her sophomore and junior year journals, but the spine and how it was stitched was noticeably different.  I almost chuckled.  Apparently, not too noticeable since I’d handled all three on several occasions.  I laid my iPhone on the table and lay all three journals in my lap, with the opening end against my gym shorts.  The thought flashed across my mind that I was losing it.  Why in the hell would I be doing this?  At this hour?  At this stage of pure exhaustion?

I returned the oldest two journals to the end table and opened Angela’s senior year journal.  What had prevented me from discovering the pouch in the back cover of the journal was Angela’s silly drawings.  After her last entry, which was May 24, 1974, there were several remaining pages.  She had, at some point, exercised her elementary-level drawing skills.  I had previously looked at a couple of them and had closed the journal.  Now, past the final page and drawing, I discovered the pouch, slim, lying flat against the back hard-cover of the journal.  The opening was nearly sealed.  I used a letter opener to lift it up enough for me to peer inside.

The hidden photo was a shot of several men sitting around a patio table.  The panes of a window were clearly shown, as was a thin curtain.  I surmised the photographer had snapped the picture from inside a house looking out onto an adjoining porch or patio.

I instantly recognized three of the men.  Their faces were facing the mostly hidden photographer.  Pastor Walter Tillman, Franklin Ericson (Angela’s father), and Doug Barber.  Franklin was seated next to Walter and Doug was standing directly behind them.  There was another man whose profile I believed was Elton Rawlins standing behind and to the left of Doug.  This man was holding a glass.  Probably liquor.  Finally, there were three other men sitting around the large table, but I couldn’t make out who they were.  I could see only the back side of their heads.

I turned the photo over and read: “early Saturday morning October 13, 1973, dumb asses think they are alone.  Looks like blood on Raymond’s shirt sleeve.  Love to know what they’re saying.”  It was then I concluded one of the three hidden faces must belong to Raymond Radford, the owner of Radford Hardware and Building Supply.  The attorney in me projected the remaining two had to be David Adams and Fitz Billingsley.  I had heard stories about these five men and their forebears, and even their sons.  Stories that made my skin crawl.

It was almost two-thirty before my mind stopped pushing curiosity.  Like Tyler, I figuratively died and didn’t move a muscle for hours.

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 63

Deidre didn’t know where she was.  She knew it was late, probably going on midnight.  The sun’s rays coming through the edges of the closed blinds had long faded.  A severe leg cramp had been a blessing, jostling her body, causing the chair to fall over, enabling her to free her hands from the rope tied behind her back.

When Rebecca had appeared beside her cubicle, there was no choice but to obey.  She had pulled up her oversized bright blue top and revealed a shiny little pistol tucked inside the waistband.  It was erect and ready, silently commanding Deidre to submit.

After walking beside Rebecca all the way down three flights of stairs, outside through the Purchasing Department’s loading dock, and across the employees’ parking lot to the far back side, Deidre was ordered into the trunk.  Directed to roll over.  Rebecca had tied her hands behind her back and driven for at least thirty, maybe forty minutes.

“You bitch.”  Rebecca said, walking into the den/kitchen combination from the back porch.  Deidre had just untied her feet and was still shaking, her left leg loosening her tight thigh muscles. 

Rebecca fumbled inside her purse and pulled out her 32 caliber, the one Elton had always carried while showing real estate to prospective buyers.  Just as she looked up and pointed, Deidre slammed her fifty-pound heavier body into Rebecca’s semi-anorexic frame.  She still managed to pull the trigger, launching the small but deadly bullet into the ceiling.  With both hands, Deidre grabbed Rebecca’s right hand and the pistol.  Rebecca was stronger than Deidre expected.  And quicker.  Excruciating pain shot through her right eye as Rebecca’s left hand and long nails clawed down her face.  Deidre used her body weight to roll her and Rebecca to the left.  As she did, the pistol turned upward into Rebecca’s gut and exploded.

After an hour back inside the ICU waiting area, I insisted Connie and Tyler go to her house to rest.  Their story was eerily like a scene from It’s Over, a novel I had recently read by Britney Banes, a local author I had hurriedly completed a life insurance application for at the office sometime last year ten days before she was flying to Paris, France.  She had given me a copy of her first book as a thank-you for me staying past Alfa’s closing time.

Earlier, after Connie had left the hospital, she had returned to Luke’s house but hadn’t stopped this time.  She had driven on towards Crossville and four miles later had met Tyler walking south.  Alone.  His condition was good, excepting heavy sweat from a long walk.

Tyler had shared how the pastor, at first had been angry and fidgety.  There was a fake-looking pistol lying on the van’s console.  The overweight pastor had continued driving and talking about how his life was over.  Tyler said Caleb alternated between shouting threats and confessing he was no murderer.  Fifteen minutes later the pastor had pulled down an old logging road several miles past Crossville.  Caleb ordered him out of the van and directed him to walk further away from the main road.  After they reached the top of a steep hillside, he was ordered to sit on a decaying log and look down into a valley. 

Over the next ten minutes, Tyler heard Caleb reveal how his life had devolved into a “hell of a mess.”  He shared how he had gotten addicted to gambling and how stupid he had been to be seen at Tunica, Mississippi by Rebecca and Angela.  Tyler said he had never heard anyone, much less a preacher, describe how he would love to tear the guts out of anything or anyone.  “The damn bitch will not tell me what to do.”  Tyler quoted the pastor, saying he had repeated this again the second before the fake gun blasted and the heavy man fell across the log knocking Tyler over.

It hadn’t taken the tall and skinny teenager long to skedaddle.  As Connie and Tyler stood to leave the waiting room, Tyler looked over at me and said, “as long as I live, I’ll never forget the look on what was left of my uncle’s face.”  My stomach didn’t have the nerve to ask Tyler what he meant.  I suspected I knew.

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 62

At noon, I was sitting in the Emergency Room lobby at Marshall-Medical, when Connie returned my call.  “Fred, I hate to be so blunt, but your dad, he’s in the hospital.”

“I know.  I’m here.  They’re working with him, cat scan, something.  The nurses made us wait in the lobby.”  After thirty minutes at the office I had tried the number I hadn’t recognized when my phone booted back up.  It was Ed, Deidre’s Ed, telling me my father had likely had a heart attack and was being taken by ambulance to the hospital.  Ed had still not been able to reach Deidre, thinking she must be in surgery, still dealing with the critical nurse shortage sweeping across the country.

“You know I would come be with you, but I’m torn.  I found Tyler.  Kind of.  He was at Luke’s.  I saw them outside earlier this morning.  I started to stop and talk, maybe warn Tyler, but I didn’t.  I just left.  I hate to tell you this.  It’s such a bad time for you.”

“What?  You have to tell me now.”  I hated when people brought up a subject and then reneged on providing details, relevant details.

Connie finally continued: “I rode back to Gabby and Brad’s, having decided to have a little visit with Luke and Tyler.  Just as I rounded the curve before your niece’s place, I saw Caleb’s puke-green van backing out of the driveway and heading the other way.  Luke got my attention, standing and waving on the front porch.”

“What did Luke say?”

“He was confused why Caleb turned and drove towards Crossville and not Boaz.  Luke said the pastor seemed anxious, distracted, but wanted to help Tyler through this difficult time.”

“I wished you had followed Caleb.”  I said.

“I know that now, but I didn’t know Tyler was with him and thought something was wrong with Luke.”  Connie seemed a little upset with me, raising her voice as to defend her actions.  “What the hell would you have done?”  Wow, what was going on with the normally calm Connie?

“Hey, don’t beat yourself up.  I probably would have done the same thing.  Now that I think about it, you did exactly what I would have done.”

At 12:30, Ed gave up on reaching Deidre and called the Nurse Supervisors office at the hospital.  After ending his call, he looked at me, wide-eyed and mouth-opened: “Kellie said when her and Kara returned from lunch they found a hand-written note from Deidre saying she had gotten sick and had to leave.  But, half an hour later, a nurse’s aide had said she had seen Deidre leave with a tall, gray-headed woman.”  My stomach did a backwards flip.  It was all I could do to keep from telling Ed the truth about Deidre.  I should have told him.  I don’t know what he could have done but he had a right to know, especially now, the near half-century secret Deidre had kept from him.

For an hour I battled over what to do.  My decision was made for me when Dr. Finlay appeared from ER and said we could see Dad in ICU but ordered us to visit one at a time and only stay a minute or so each.  “Try to keep him calm.”  By now, Gabby and Brad, and Luke and Miranda, were all present.  All five directed me to be the first to visit Dad.

When I walked in his room I had flashbacks to earlier days when I was a boy growing up and spending time with Dad at Martin Pond.  Now, Dad had tubes coming out his nose, and a series of electrical-looking wires burrowing under his hospital gown.  He looked gaunt and like he had lost twenty pounds, pounds he couldn’t afford to lose.  “Dad, how are you?”  What a dumb ass thing to say.

It took him a while to respond but I sensed he was trying to frame a thought.  “Fred, I’m dying.  I know it.  I can feel it in my bones.  In my heart too.”  Dad showed his yellow-stained teeth revealing his sense of humor.

“Don’t say that.  Doctor Finlay says you can recover.  You got to believe that and not give up.”  I wanted to be a source of encouragement for the man who had supported me all my life, no matter what I had chosen to do.

Dad’s words were only a whisper, but they packed the rumble of thunder.  “Son, there’s some things I need to get off my chest.  Things you have a right to know.”

“Not now Dad, you need to rest.  And, not worry about anything but staying calm.”

“Your mother and me (I almost corrected his grammar) did a horrible thing, nearly half a century ago.”

“Dad, please.  I can’t stay but a minute.  Doctor’s orders.  Don’t worry about what happened so long ago.  Focus on now, getting better.”  I felt certain whatever Dad was wanting to tell me wouldn’t come as much of a surprise.  I had always been a pretty good lawyer, able to project things, figure out what had really happened at a crime scene, or at a car accident.

“If I hadn’t helped her, she would have gone to jail.”

“Dad, I’ve got to go.”

“No.”  Dad’s whisper volume plunged.  “Harriet shot Johnny Stewart.  Had good reason too.  Two daughters pregnant by the same asshole.”  No doubt my dear father was hallucinating.  Deidre was his only daughter.

“Dad just relax.  Don’t talk.  You’re on some powerful medicine.”  Dr. Finlay had told us, and that Dad might not be fully coherent.

“Deidre.  And Susan.”  Dad’s voice heightened as he said Susan.  Our eyes met, and I saw a reflection of my young and strong father, with dark eyes just like Papa Martin’s.  My training and experience screamed that Dad had someway suppressed and secluded the effects of his medication and released a long-buried truth.

“Dad, Susan was never pregnant.  We’ll talk more after a while, maybe tomorrow.”  I said just as a burly nurse with a squeaky voice slipped in behind, ordering me out of Dad’s room.  Two younger and smaller nurses slid past me toward the opposite side of Dad’s bed.  The burly one followed me all the way to the waiting area where Ed and family all stood up as we entered. 

“No more visitors for now.  His blood pressure has spiked.  Again.”

 Almost three hours later, the same burly nurse, Greta Larson, returned and said that Dad was stable but heavily sedated.  There would be no more visits today. 

After I politely ordered everyone to go home, I rode the elevator to the first-floor gift shop to buy a book.  It was going to be a long night.  As I exited the elevator, Connie and Tyler rounded the corner, heading towards me.  I suddenly had a whole new appreciation of Connie’s investigative skills.  Maybe she did need to work part-time for Connor Ford.

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 61

Monday morning, I almost called-in sick.  I had woken up with the desire to visit Boaz High School and see if I could convince Mr. Harrison to talk about the past.  He had been principal for over fifty years and hadn’t liked me too much during my four years as a student during the late sixties and early seventies.  But, he and Dad were best friends.  I figured Harrison would possess insights about the Brights vs. The Believers controversy.  And, what exactly had triggered the 1973 anarchy and Bible burning.

My work ethic convinced me otherwise.  Nell had reminded me Friday that I was scheduled to fill Ted Eubanks’ spot at Goodyear Tire in Gadsden.  If memory serves, Ted (no relationship to Carson according to Nancy at the library) had developed a habit of avoiding his rubber company responsibilities. 

I dropped by the office to pick up a supply of new-hire forms.  Connie called just as I got back in my car.  “Good morning hot stuff.”  I liked how the tall and shapely brunette made me feel young.  “Bad news.  I can’t find Tyler anywhere.  I pulled an all-nighter.  He’s not been at home.  Neighbors say they haven’t seen him since his dad died yesterday morning. 

“You better get some rest.  Oh, after you do, would you keep an eye on Rebecca, maybe hang out with her, keep her occupied?”  I said feeling uneasy about Tyler’s well-being.

“Okay.  It’s kind of funny.  I’m not really that tired.  Maybe I should talk to that Connor Ford guy, he’s a local private eye, and see if he has a part time job for me.”

I loved talking with my dear Connie but sometimes she could ramble.  “Hey babe, I’ve got to take another call.”

“Later. Tonight?”  It was a question.  Connie’s aggressive side was becoming insatiable.”

“Okay.”

“Just call them back.  I forgot something.  I saw Pastor Caleb’s puke-green minivan turn around in the Eubanks’ driveway twice earlier this morning, right before sunup.  I have to say, he takes visitation to an all new level.”

Something wasn’t right.  Caleb’s visits, attempted visits, were out-of-place.  My training was screaming there was an elephant in the room.

My work morning wasn’t very productive.  After sitting for two hours in a small conference room beside the human resource director’s office, only one of the new-hires showed up.  At 10:30, I received a text from Regina, Alfa’s new secretary, that read: “a Nancy Frayzur called asking for you.  Wants you to her.”  I guessed good spelling wasn’t as important as it used to be.  Omitting words was also permissible.  Nell was slipping.

I was bored so I went ahead and called Nancy.  She answered the Library’s phone on the first ring.  Her voice was distinct, almost as deep as a man’s.  “This is Fred Martin.  I was told to call you.”

Without a good morning or a thank-you for calling, Nancy said, “The library in conjunction with the Sand Mountain Reporter is putting together a tribute to Clarence Bright, you know, the sixty-plus year reporter who recently retired.  We’re organizing all his articles where visitors can see in one place the volume of his work.  I was reading through a few of his 1970’s articles this morning and thought of you.”

“Okay.”  Nancy could be long-winded.

“I really don’t know why or how we had Clarence’s most interesting article.  It was never even published.  I vaguely recall a short-lived public controversy over the newspaper’s Saturday edition, in the fall of 1973, not being distributed.  Anyway, Clarence had a long, detailed interview with Ricky Miller.  I don’t think I’ve ever read it.”

“That seems odd, but what did it say?”  I’d love to know the full story why the article, heck, the entire newspaper, wasn’t published.

“Clarence had a way of pulling out the facts from even the most reluctant witness.  In this case, Ricky must have been in a talking mood.  I’d love to have a recording of how Clarence greased the wheels in Ricky’s mind and mouth.”  Nancy could be colorful.

“Give me a summary, I’m about to have another interview.  I‘m at Goodyear.

“Ricky must have learned that Pastor Walter Tillman was stroking the flames.”

“Of what?”

“The belief difference between Ricky and Randy.  Ricky said that it was all in fun, that he and his youth pastor brother had been in a friendly-brother battle since they were kids.  Ricky believed Tillman was doing things to keep local folks focused on the Brights and the Believers.  You remember the two clubs?”

“I do.  I also remember the two hangouts, the Lighthouse and the Safe House.”

“Ricky disclosed to Clarence that the real news should be what was being hidden by First Baptist Church of Christ and two sex perverts who knew too much.”

I asked Nancy to explain.

“In a nutshell, according to Ricky, Pastor Tillman and four other local guys operated like the mafia.  They, the five of them, were part of a group called Club Eden.  They exchanged favors for money.  I suspect Randy must have tipped Ricky off to this stuff.  Someway Randy became aware of money being skimmed from church member contributions, and about a sex ring.  Seems Elton Rawlins and Doug Barber became aware of these illegalities.  But, here’s the kicker.  The church, not really the church, but Walter and his gang, had their own leverage.  Mind you, Clarence wrote this article just a few days after the triple murder.  You know, after the bodies of Johnny Stewart, Allan Floyd, and Tommy Jones were discovered.  Ricky alleged that Rawlins and Barber were responsible for the deaths of the three boys.”

“This interview was obviously right before Ricky’s death.  Didn’t he die around Thanksgiving that year?”  I asked.

“Oh, you didn’t let me finish.  Clarence wrote that Randy had a different take on things.  Clarence admitted Randy’s position came from Ricky, which you know was hearsay.  Ricky said that Randy believed Johnny Stewart’s death was caused by a very disgruntled parent, one whose daughter had been seduced by the Casanova Stewart.”

I don’t know exactly how long Nancy kept on talking or what she said.  All my mind wanted to do was slide down a steep and slippery slope towards one and only one conclusion: that someway my otherwise sweet and adorable mother had shot and killed Johnny Stewart.

If Goodyear’s director of human resources hadn’t shook my shoulder, I don’t know when I would have escaped the fog.  “Fred, Fred, are you okay?”  I had never traveled to such a place.  When I awoke (it was like I had fallen asleep and was dreaming), I saw the tall and virtually anorexic man standing beside a short and wide man who reminded me of a bulldog.  The completed new-hire form proved I conducted an interview with the short guy.

When I walked in the front door of Alfa’s office, Nell handed me a pink phone message form.  “Call Connie, it’s urgent.”  I didn’t remember turning off my iPhone.  I walked to my office and delayed returning the call until I could tell if I had missed any messages.  I had.  There were two missed calls, one from Connie and one from a number I didn’t recognize.  I also had a text message waiting.  Connie: “call me, it’s urgent.  Bad.”

I dialed her cell number first.  Voicemail.  I had the same success trying her home phone.  She always answered one or the other.  Perfect timing, as if I needed more stress right now.

Where the hell was Caleb?  She thought, peeking through the supply closet door open just enough for her to see Deidre at the nurse’s station standing over a younger woman sitting in front of a computer.  It had been nearly three hours since he had answered his phone.  I need to forget Caleb right now.  He has no choice but to kill Tyler.

Two hours earlier, Rebecca had left home wearing a pair of surgical scrubs she lifted from the Gadsden Regional Medical Center during last week’s serendipitous visit.  Her real luck had come when the same dumpy little nurse’s aide sitting at the computer had left her name badge in her chair while she relieved herself in the next-door bathroom.

If Deidre followed last week’s routine, she would leave the nurses’ station at 11:05 a.m. and take the elevator to the first-floor cafeteria, where she would buy a grilled chicken salad and return to her office on the third floor.  The other two nurse supervisors, this time last week, had stayed in the cafeteria, leaving Deidre alone in her cubicle for almost twenty minutes.  Shit, this was a terrible idea, a rushed idea, not enough planning.  Rebecca said as a security guard strolled by flashing a flirt-intended wave at the dumpy aide.

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 60

When I pulled up in the front yard of Martin Mansion, I saw the entire family, other than Dad, walking towards me on the narrow trail that led to my cabin.  Luke was in the lead.  I reluctantly stepped out of my car.

“Uncle Fred why would the cops want to search your place?”  Oh hell.  Oh hell no.  So that’s where the three squad cars were headed nearly two hours ago?

I said what any innocent man, or one acting innocent, would say.  “What?  They searched my place?  Why?”

By now the darling Deidre was within shouting distance.  “Lucky for you, they didn’t find anything.  What are you hiding down there?”

By the end of three more exchanges, I learned the search warrant had been issued by Marshall County Circuit Judge Broadside.  The six officers had searched both the barn and my cabin.  I couldn’t believe they hadn’t found anything.  Damn good thing I had created a false bottom to the ceiling in the kitchen’s closet.  Otherwise, they would have found Angela’s journals, Dad or Mom’s Smith & Wesson, and a few other stolen items.  I was elated I hadn’t delayed transporting the Rawlins’ stolen coins and jewelry to Colton in Huntsville.

As everybody was walking toward Martin Mansion’s front porch, I pulled Deidre aside and gave her the short version of what I knew.  She seemed oblivious to all things pertaining to Miss Mossie’s trust.  I think I got her attention when I told her that if Tyler were to be out of the picture, Caleb Patterson (and Rebecca if she was his puppet master) would have strong motivation to kill her.

I visited with a tired and groggy Dad a few minutes after Gabby insisted he join the rest of the family on the front porch.  Less than three hours later I slipped into my bed, anxious to end a long Sunday.  I was exhausted.  Especially after a flying trip to Huntsville to meet Vanessa at Pints & Pixels and deliver my two other Smiths. 

What made my tiredness almost pleasurable was revisiting the long phone conversation I had with Bobby during my return drive.  He was the real deal, a true friend.  My confession didn’t faze him, nor did my request he call in a long-existing favor he was owed by the oldest member of the Alabama Department of Forensic Sciences Ballistic Division. 

Grayson Bolton was seemingly a man of impeccable character.  I had never met him in person but had a couple of phone conversations over the years concerning cases I was working.   I couldn’t imagine what Bobby had on him.  It didn’t matter.  Grayson had the ballistic reports for every cold case that hovered over Boaz like an eternal fog.  I lay back and realized that when I started repeating myself, the day must end.

At midnight, Rebecca slipped out the back door of the Hunt House.  She smiled as she imagined the satisfaction she would receive when the sign on the front lawn was changed to Aldridge Place.  She eased down the steps and across the wide back yard, through a neighbor’s flower garden and into the parking lot of First Baptist Church of Christ on Snellgrove Avenue.  She passed through a small grove of Blue Hollies and down the step stairs to the basement of the church’s parsonage.

Rebecca couldn’t help but reminisce the many times she had descended these stairs when Wade Tillman, the then teenage son of former pastor Walter Tillman, occupied this house.  Those trysts were a lifetime ago.  Oh, the tragedy of life in a small town, especially one with as many secrets as Boaz, Alabama.  Walter had died in a brutal shootout, Wade was in prison somewhere in Georgia for killing his wife, and poor, but young Warren Tillman was dead, killed just inside the basement, by violence spawned during a home invasion.

Caleb was waiting on the far side of the patio opposite the stairs, and the doorway into the man-cave he had inherited when he became pastor.  He never smoked.  He was smoking.

“Rebecca, I’ve changed my mind.  I can’t do it.  So, save your breath.”  Caleb said between coughs and gasps for air.

“Young man (Caleb was in his mid-forties), you will do exactly what I say, exactly what we agreed on last Thursday.  You’re obviously not very bright.  How in the hell do you think your million-dollar gambling debt will be resolved?  Surely, you don’t think because you’re a man of God, that a miracle will cause it to evaporate.”

“I don’t care.  I can’t and won’t be a part of murder.  Hell, two murders.  No way.  I don’t know what I was thinking the other day when I agreed.”  Rebecca walked over to Caleb, took the pack of Marlboro’s he was holding and lite one for herself. 

“Sit down.”  Rebecca knew she had the gun powder to persuade the two-sided pastor.  Caleb acquiesced and joined Rebecca in the other lawn chair sitting across from two old garbage cans not used since Warren’s death.

“Caleb, it’s high time you’re honest with me.  Angela, God rest her soul, and I know you have been using your sticky fingers with Sunday’s collection plates.  How long do you think you’ll survive when that’s discovered?  Much less, the fact you owe quite a sum up in Tunica?  Answer me truthfully, do you want to continue pastoring?  Anywhere?”

“You know the answer.  There is no more powerful feeling in the world than sharing the Gospel.”  Caleb said.

“Even if you know it isn’t true?”

“That’s a different issue.  It doesn’t matter that it’s a myth, people gain so much peace and comfort from simply believing it to be true.”  Caleb had it figured out.

“Enough of that.  We both have goals here.  You have no choice.  My plan is your ticket out of debt and the only way for you to retain your little hobby.  But, pastor, and a good one you are, let me put it to you even more bluntly.  If you don’t get on board, I will fucking kill you and your family.  You are not going to get in the way of me accomplishing a lifelong goal.  I can’t do this without you.  You and Deidre have a legal right to half the Mosler fortune.  You know Deidre is not motivated to share it with me.  Hell, I wouldn’t want to be partnered with her anyway.”

“You’re forgetting one important component.  Tyler Eubanks.”

“No, I’m not, but maybe you are.  He’s your responsibility.  And Deidre is mine.  This way, let’s just say, we both have a large insurance policy on each other.  A powerful reason to keep our mouths shut.”

“Okay, but leave my family out of it.  And hear me clearly.  After this is over, you stay the hell away from me.  Do you understand?”  Caleb sounded as though he wasn’t afraid of Rebecca.  Nothing could be further from the truth.

Without responding, Rebecca lit another cigarette and walked away, clearing the stairs two at a time, leaving Pastor Caleb holding the half-empty pack of Marlboros.  He read out loud:  “‘Warning: The Surgeon General Has Determined That Cigarette Smoking Is Dangerous to Your Health.’”  He stood and threw the pack towards the two old garbage cans.  “So is gambling.  So is murder.  Oh God, help me.”

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 59

I didn’t have time to mope about.  Connie had sent me a text as I was coming out the front door of Martin Mansion.  She was now at home.  She said that Rebecca had wanted some time alone.  I shoved my loot onto the top shelf of the kitchen pantry beside Angela’s three high school journals and showered.

I met two Boaz, and one Marshall County patrol cars as I topped the hill beyond Possum Holler on my way to Highway 431.  Exceeding the speed limit and with no sirens blasting, from my experience, usually meant they were headed to make an arrest or to conduct a search.

Connie was extraordinarily frisky.  She no doubt was a fast learner.  She met me at her front door in a see-through pink negligee that eleven times out of ten would normally have caught my complete attention.  Today, I was the one who manipulated the quickie.  As we lay back, exhausted for two sixty-plus geriatric-bound seniors, Connie became verbally inquisitive.  She had already learned a few of my moods.  “Fred, don’t you think we’re at the point in our relationship we should be completely honest with each other?  I know something major is going on and has you fully distracted.”

It was an opportunity I wasn’t expecting.  Good thing I was donning my attorney hat.  As always.  I insisted we leave our love nest, dress, and sit at the dining room table.  I needed to look directly at the lovely Connie.  Me, the expert on body language and voice tone.  I had to know, or at least make an educated guess, whether what I hoped to draw out of my girl was the truth.

Connie made us a pot of coffee while I sat silently, waiting and thinking in the dining room.  I knew if I confessed something private, even incriminating, she would have more motivation to be open and vulnerable.  That’s what I needed.  After burning my tongue on too hot coffee, I said, “I’ve got myself in a mess pursuing my little hobby.”  As expected, Connie asked for more information.

I set the stage admitting to cracking Rebecca, Angela’s, and the church’s Moslers.  I, for the time being, withheld having discovered Connie’s safe, hoping she would admit what she was hiding.  I almost didn’t tell her about my second trip to Debbie Street and the second Smith & Wesson pistol in my growing collection.  I didn’t get within a mile of the Martin Mansion safe.

Bingo, Connie possessed an honest set of genes mixed among those that had mutated at an early age.  “Fred, I need to be more open with you too.  I truly believe that a faithful and loyal relationship cannot long sustain itself without truth and openness.  I care for you and want us to make it.  I’m asking for us, now, to take the next step forward.  Vulnerability allowed, even required, but no judging.  Okay?”

I doubt if I would have agreed if Mother hadn’t gotten my attention.  I had no doubt how I felt about Connie Stewart.  I loved the woman and couldn’t see us being apart.  But, it was like another little demon had raised its head and was driving me to discover the full truth.  Had my mother killed Johnny Stewart, or someway been a contributing factor in his death going on fifty years ago?  “No judging.  Vulnerable.  Agreed.”

It took Connie a while to reach the top of the mountain.  I kept feeding her morsels to energize her journey.  After I confessed to having stolen the coins and jewelry from Elton and Rebecca’s safe, Connie said, “kind of serves her right.  She stole them from Uncle James.”

I blurted out, “I thought Elton and Doug were the key suspects?”  After I shared a little about how I had reached that conclusion, Connie seemed to relax.

“Fred, I have been a fool many times in my life but the worst thing, other than overstaying my welcome at First Baptist Church and stealing the coins and jewelry to start with, was aiding and abetting Rebecca and Angela in their lifelong quest to con Elton and Doug.”

“What do you mean?”  It was a naturally appropriate question.

“Oh, I forgot, and their real mission to square the corners with your sister.”  Connie added after my interruption.

“Again, what do you mean?”

“Before my handsome and athletic cousin discovered your little sister, Rebecca and Angela had the hots for him.  If anyone that knew them had to guess, they would say that Angela was a few yards ahead of Rebecca in her desire for Romeo.  But, that wouldn’t be true.  It was Rebecca.  Elton and Doug liked to play games with the younger girls.  They introduced Rebecca and Angela, girls ten years their junior, to Ludes, you know, Quaaludes.  They were popular at the time and Doug being a pharmacist had easy access.  The two idiots thought they were gods, manipulating the minds and bodies of their underlings.”

“Did the two perverts take advantage of Rebecca and Angela?”  I had to know.

“That would almost make the story more acceptable.  They preferred the boys.  They preferred my cousin.  But, we’re getting ahead of ourselves.”  Connie was setting the pace.  I kind of liked that.

“How did Elton and Doug pull this off?  It seems to me they had to have a near-perfect opportunity.  They couldn’t just show up at Rebecca’s or Angela’s houses and say, ‘let’s party.’”

“You’re right.  It was after Wednesday night Bible study, at the Lighthouse.  Pastor Randy had fell for Elton and Doug’s ‘love my Jesus’ line and trusted them fully.  After he presented the lesson he would skip out and leave the shop to the two perverts.  Seems like Rebecca and Angela fell under their spell.”

“I suspect you are going to tell me they invited a few others as time went on?  Right?”

“They did.  It was three football stars: my dear cousin Johnny, Allan Floyd, and Tommy Jones.  The party became Rebecca and Angela’s heaven on earth.  You can probably paint your own picture.”  Connie said, smiling with that curled up and sexy lip.  I thought she might pull me back under the sheets.

“Let me guess.  Then all hell broke loose.”  I was confident in my prediction skills.

“Yep, and don’t ask me how it happened.  Your little sister stayed past her bedtime one Wednesday night.  I suspect she had caught the eye of either Elton or Doug, maybe both.  They wanted to see her perform or be performed on.  You get it.  Oh, Johnny boy fell for sweet Deidre and the hate seeds sprouted.”

“So, what triggered a lifelong plan to square the corners as you say, was nothing but good old jealousy?”

“It’s one of the most powerful emotions yet discovered.”

“A while ago you mentioned Rebecca’s and Angela’s goal of conning Elton and Doug.”

“If the introduction of Deidre to the party wasn’t enough to sprout revenge, cancellation of their tickets was a guarantee.”  Connie said, still blowing coolness on her hot coffee.

“You’ve confused me.  Tickets?”  I wanted it framed in simple terms.

“Rebecca and Angela were no longer invited.  They weren’t allowed to stay for the party.  This was the point my two friends, God help me, drove a stake in the front lawns of both the older perverts, and committed they would die before they, here we go again, squared the corners.  Of course, as always, things have evolved over fifty years.”

“Can I guess?  The two marriages were both part of the con?”

“Oh, hell yes.  Elton and Doug had no choice.”

“Explain my dear, I’m lost.”

“I may have misled you just a little.  Elton and Doug were bisexual it seems.  When the stakes were driven, Rebecca and Angela started their snooping and spying.  It wasn’t long until they witnessed Elton and Doug kidnap a young Hispanic girl after a hometown football game.  I can’t think of her name.  Esmeralda, I think.  No, that’s another story.”

“So, many years after that, the two forced Elton and Doug to marry them.  Correct?” 

“Yes.  Don’t ask me why they waited so long.”  Connie said, refilling our coffee cups.

I finally confessed to discovering the three Smith & Wessons and divulged my desire to determine if either of them was a murder weapon.  We listed the five unsolved murder cases that hovered above Boaz like an eternal fog: Johnny Stewart, Allan Floyd, Tommy Jones, Ricky Miller, and Randy Miller.  The latter murder coming a good fifteen years after the cluster of the first four.

I interrupted Connie when she repeated something Rebecca had said this morning.  “That sounds like Rebecca blamed Angela for taking Johnny away.”

“I’ve never seen Rebecca so pissed.  What seemed so strange, it was only a few hours after Angela’s body had been discovered.”

Even though I knew quite a bit about Carson Eubanks and the intended flow of Miss Mossie’s money after her death, I let Connie tell me all she knew.  My mind wandered back to the times Noah and I had spent with Ricky Miller.  I loved the man because he was my hero, unafraid of facing the cold, harsh reality that Christianity was a myth.  When Connie said, “Their trip to Cincinnati changed everything.”

“Sorry, I missed that.  Who’s trip?”

“Fred, are you getting tired?  You want to take a break?”  Connie’s lip curled.  I was still exhausted from our last workout.  

“No, I’m fine.”

Connie then shared how the snooping and spying Rebecca and Angela had learned the truth about Deidre and her two babies.  Connie wasn’t sure when they learned how wealthy Miss Mossie really was.  Someway, Connie knew the exact language from Miss Mossie’s trust.  I’ve been shocked before, many times, but what Connie said next sent lightning up my spine. “Fred, here’s what I think is going on, but I don’t have any proof.  I believe Tyler and Deidre are in danger.  As we just discussed, Miss Mossie’s trust leaves everything to Carson.  Now, he’s dead.  That leaves Tyler.  He seems fine, but if you consider what would happen if he weren’t alive it could bode bad for Deidre if there is a snake in the oil.”

“The lightning had turned south and was now traveling down my spine.  But, I played it cool.  “I’m not sure what you mean, even though the canvas before me was all blue clouds and sunshine.

“What if Rebecca and Caleb or just Caleb for that matter, plotted to get their hands on the money.  Again, if Tyler is dead, Miss Mossie left all her millions to Caleb and Deidre.”

“There’s another possibility.  What if Caleb and Deidre knew how Miss Mossie’s trust worked?”

“You could be right but my best guess ties Rebecca and Caleb.  Gosh, you are the attorney.  What if I told you Pastor Caleb has a gambling problem?  Would that change your guess, especially now that you know the hatred Rebecca, and Angela for that matter, had for your sister?”

“That does seem to paint it differently.”  Right as the words left my lips my iPhone vibrated.  I had sat it on the table, face down.  I turned it over and looked.  It was Deidre.  “We’re home.  Dad is so tired.  I’m a little worried about him.”

I showed Connie the text and dismissed myself.  “I’ll call you later.  I wish I could stay but feel I need to warn my sister.  I also need to see Dad.”

“While you’re doing that, I’m going to try to find Tyler.  Something has me worried.”  Connie said, giving me a quick hug and telling me she loved me before I walked out her front door.

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 58

As I rolled the baby Mosler out of its little alcove, I pondered how Dad ever got it down those stairs.  Although it wasn’t the behemoth the T20s were, no man could come close to carrying it across a level and unobstructed surface, much less down a steep staircase.  I concluded it had most likely been deposited down here during the time of the second renovation of Martin Mansion.  The one-room cabin, which Dad used as a library, was part of the original structure.  Great-granddad Stonewall had added on not long after Granddad Fredrick moved to Cincinnati in 1919.  Then, in the early fifties, when Dad and Mom moved to Boaz to take care of Stonewall, another, more elaborate, addition and renovation took place.  The last is a U-shaped structure built around the existing rectangular dwelling.  It was odd, no doubt, Stonewall’s way, the cabin’s back wall remained exposed to the outside, leaving the original back door.  I reminded myself my conclusions were often wrong, and that I often possessed less than all the relevant facts.

It wasn’t a key Dad had hung on a tiny nail driven into the back side of a stair riser.  It looked like a piece of old cardboard.  The safe’s combination was scrawled in heavy pencil in large numbers on the card hung nearly a foot above my head.  I almost didn’t see it.  I guess Dad thought there was little chance anyone would find out about the hidden door to the cellar, much less see the card that was virtually the same color as the pine board it was attached to.

I reviewed and memorized the Mosler’s combination and bent down to turn the dial.  Just as I completed the third spin, my cell phone vibrated.  I stood and removed my iPhone from my left-hand pants pocket.  It was Bobby Sorrells.  My first choice was to ignore the call and lean over and pull open the old Mosler’s heavy door.  With the news of Angela’s death, one I was framing as mysterious, I chose to answer.

“Hey Bobby.”

“Can you talk?  In private?”  He asked.

“Yes, I’m alone.”

“I just returned from Dayton, Ohio.  I had to fly back up to meet with the defense attorneys I’m working for.  Once again, I had a lull in my schedule and decided to drive down to Cincinnati.”  Bobby paused.

“What prompted you to do that?”

“You know me.  When I’ve started a new painting, I can’t quit until the canvas is complete.  Every picture tells a story.”  I could hear something in the background.  Music.

“Did you learn anything interesting?”  I ignored the music.

“I’ll let you be the judge of that.  I just report what I discover.”  The music faded.  Bobby must have turned down his radio if that’s what it was.  I suspected he was driving.

“Okay.”

“You remember hundred-year-old Lessie Bouldin?”

“Wasn’t she Miss Mossie’s neighbor?  Lived across the street?” 

“Yep.  I spent the best part of yesterday morning with her.  The old woman has a mind like a steel trap.”

“What did she catch?  That’s relevant to me?  I was feeling the need to finish my exploration of the old Mosler and skedaddle back upstairs and out the back door of Martin Mansion.

“It’s a small world.  Your friends, Carson Eubanks, Rebecca Rawlins, and Caleb Patterson, all came for a visit Thursday afternoon.  Miss Lessie didn’t know them but seems she used an iPhone 10 to make some pretty good pictures.  I’ve confirmed it to be those three.”

“That’s really strange.  I could see why Carson would visit his mother, but what brought the other two along?”  I asked.

“Great question.  It gets stranger still.  Miss Lessie said around 4:00 that afternoon, Carson left in a taxi and the other two, she had to be referring to Rebecca and Caleb, stayed.  Keep in mind Miss Mossie was very sick.”

“Not any longer.  You didn’t know she died?”  The look on Tyler’s face at the pond when he shared the text he received from his father was still clearly impressed on my mind.

“No, I finished up about five yesterday afternoon.  I’ve been driving back ever since, except for the half-day I spent sleeping at the Day’s Inn south of Nashville.”

“I’m not sure when Miss Mossie died.  Tyler, Carson’s son, learned about it yesterday.  I don’t know when his father found out.  Now that you know this, does it strike you as just a little strange she died shortly after the three of them visited?”  I asked.

“I agree, but what makes it more suspicious to me is that Carson left Rebecca and Caleb at his mother’s alone.”  I heard a dinging sound.  “Hey, let’s talk later, I’ve got to unload some coffee.”

“Okay, I need to go too.  But quick.  You know Carson is very sick.  He could have gotten to feeling really bad and had to leave.”

“That sounds reasonable, but why wouldn’t all three of them leave at the same time?”  I heard Bobby’s car door slam.

“I didn’t think to ask Miss Lessie how the three of them got to Miss Mossie’s.  I just assumed they drove.  All together.

“Take care of your business and let me know if you think of anything else.  Thanks for calling.”

After ending the call, I bent back down and pulled on the Mosler’s heavy door.  I heard a fifty-year creak.  It was a term granddad Fredrick had taught me during my summer visit to Cincinnati in 1972 after I graduated high school.  He had said, “if a safe door hasn’t been opened in half a century, it will croak like a frog.”  I concluded this baby had been left to sleep quite a while.

Another shock.  This time bigger than when I had stumbled upon the old Mosler a few minutes ago.  Laying on top of a box with dimensions about the size of a sheet of letter paper, lay a pistol.  I removed it, using my handkerchief.  I already knew it was virtually identical to the other two Smith & Wesson’s I had recently discovered, both, also safely secured inside a beautiful Mosler.  My gut stood up and spoke, announcing this was my third time to step into a pile of you know what.  By now, I was down on one knee.  I laid the pistol on the floor to the side of the Mosler, careful to protect it with my handkerchief.

As I removed the rectangular box, I knew it contained, or originally contained, stationary.  Until now, I had failed to notice the box was a lightly-shaded mauve color.  The lid was tight, and I almost had to tear back the four corners to lift it off the underlying box.  Inside, given the weight, I had expected to see nearly a full box of unused paper, mauve-colored just like the letter Luke had shared with me at Martin pond yesterday morning.

Instead, I saw a typed letter addressed to Julia Stewart.  At the bottom, it was signed, “Harriet Martin.”  It seemed Mother had written at least two letters to Connie’s aunt, Johnny Stewart’s mother, and had refused to mail them both. 

For some reason, before reading, I removed the letter, laid it beside the pistol, and saw a photograph laying quietly in the mauve-colored box.  I couldn’t have been more surprised if Dad’s voice had suddenly shouted down to me from the top of the stairs.  I had no doubt the camera that had made the picture was once mine, a gift from Dad on my seventeenth birthday, August 13, 1971.  The camera was a Polaroid, it’s first generation of instant cameras.

The real shock came from what the camera had captured.  It was an X-rated photo.  I could make out Deidre, Rebecca, Angela, a Hispanic-looking girl, and Randy Miller.  They were all skimpily dressed, laid back on two couches that formed an L.  There was also an extra leg sticking out on the floor from behind the left side of the couches, and an extra arm and hand on the right side.  So strange.  Who were those two?

How on earth did Mother, if it were Mother, snap this photograph?  I could understand how the sound of the camera wouldn’t have alarmed any of the half-crazed bodies.  I tried to put myself in Mother’s shoes.  Not only would she have solid reason to dislike, even hate, the philandering Johnny Stewart (Deidre was laying in his lap.  I suspected she was naked under that old Army jacket spread across her midsection).  But, Mother would also have a strong reason to despise Randy Miller.  Seeing him in this scene must have shocked Mother.  She loved him and had full faith in his quest as youth pastor to guide her daughter and all the Church’s young people down the narrow pathway towards Heaven.

My memory pushed forward the word “Ludes.”  And, the closer I examined the photo, the clearer my memory became.  It was taken inside the Lighthouse.   If taken by Mother, how had she pulled this off?  An even closer look at the photo suggested that it wasn’t Randy Miller.  It was Ricky Miller.  The two brothers were virtual twins.

Things became crystal clear when I read the note scrawled across the back of the photo.  “Deidre’s world is a disaster.  She’s ruining her life.  I won’t have it.”  Mother had initialed the photo and dated it.  October 12, 1973.

I exchanged the photo for Mother’s letter.  I started to read and was quickly confused.  It was addressed to Julia Stewart, but the salutation was to Bill, Julia’s husband.  The letter was confusing at best, but one thing seemed obvious.  Mother and Bill Stewart had a plan to teach their children a lesson.  I remembered Mother had served on the Church’s finance committee during my senior year.  Bill had served as chairman for as many years as I could recall.  The two must have connected someway.

The letter was dated Wednesday, October 10, 1973.  The letter was written as though Mother was the leader.  She told Bill to meet Friday night behind the ice house alongside the railroad track.  Mother even emphasized that Bill wear dark clothing.    She said “the kids won’t see us, but we can see them as they come from the football stadium in Johnny’s old Bonneville.  After they pass, we’ll walk to the Safe House.”  It was then I started to sense I understood the context of what I was reading.  The letter was written two days before a football game.  My gut told me it was the Albertville/Boaz game, the very night Johnny and his two friends were murdered.  I became semi-nauseous when I read Mother’s final sentence: “I’ll bring a pistol, you bring the rope.”

My growing anticipation I was about to need a bathroom persuaded me to skip my usual pondering.  Yet, out of habit, I did turn the letter over.  On the back, printed in pencil along the bottom was, “Original, copy to Bill.  Things didn’t go as planned.” 

I quickly made the decision not to return the items to the safe.  I laid all items in the mauve-colored box, including the pistol, careful not to touch the old Smith.  I closed the Mosler, spun the dial, and raced upstairs to the closest bathroom.

Instead of throwing up, my bowels opened.  Strange how emotional shock can trigger such violent physical reactions.  As I sat on the toilet in Mother’s tiny bathroom right off the kitchen, I couldn’t help but ponder what I had just discovered.  I knew I was jumping to conclusions, but it certainly appeared Mother and Bill Stewart had something to do with the death of his son Johnny.  I knew it was a leap but, “I’ll bring a pistol, you bring the rope,” was more than mildly incriminating, especially since the word was, Johnny was both shot and hung.  Finally, Mother’s note that “Things didn’t go as planned” to me at least, was even more damning. 

Twenty minutes later walking towards my cabin uneasily toting the loot I had lifted from Martin Mansion, it began to rain at the same time my iPhone once again vibrated in my pocket.  I shifted the box from my left hand to my right and pulled out the little beast.  It was Noah.

“Yep.”  My greeting was short as I questioned why I had even answered.

“I’m fighting fires and don’t have any time for questions.  Just wanted you to know that Carson Eubanks is dead.”

Right as I was halfway through asking Noah when Carson had passed away, the call ended.  I tried calling him back but received his voicemail.

I walked up the two steps to my porch and felt like I was stepping off a cliff.  My world, things happening to me and around me, were more out of control than at any time in my life.

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 57

Sunday morning, I woke to an empty bed, not my own.  Sunlight was streaming along the edges of the closed, natural oak blinds.  Connie could never stay in bed this late, even for a repeat intimacy lesson.  Wow, Connie sure was a fast learner.

Just as I was pulling on a pair of running shorts, shame I wasn’t a runner, Connie came in her master bedroom looking like she had a different take on last night’s session.  “Angels a dad.”  I shook my head.  I was only half awake.  My ears must have been still asleep.  Connie saw my face, my confusion.

“Fred, listen.  Concentrate.  Angela is dead.”  

She walked closer.  “Did you understand?  Angela is dead.  Mr. Hayes across the street shared the news.  We both were outside fetching our newspapers.”

“How, what happened?  She looked healthy as a horse.”  That was a little disrespectful.

“Owen said he had heard it at McDonald’s.  You know, old men love coffee and gossip.”

“So, it might not be true?”  I was still a little mentally wobbly.

“Seems it is.  I’m calling Rebecca, she’ll know.” 

I walked to the kitchen and poured a large cup of black coffee.  After Connie motioned me away, I returned to Connie’s bathroom for a shower.  As I walked by her giant closet I almost entered to take another peak inside her old Mosler.  I changed my mind and ambled out to the sun room while she completed her call sitting in the den.

A few minutes later, Connie joined me in the sun room’s swing.  “Rebecca said she received a call from the Boaz Police Department this morning that Angela Barber had called 911 a little before 3:00 a.m. saying she was dying.  The police found a note saying she, Angela, couldn’t live with herself any longer, now that Doug’s gun had been stolen.  The note asked the police to call Rebecca and tell her she was sorry.”

I was having a hard time wrapping my head around the strange coincidences.  If someone wanted to kill themselves, why would she call the police and run the risk of them thwarting her plan?  Also, I was curious how, and when, Angela had discovered the gun was missing.  Doug’s gun.  Even that, saying the gun was Doug’s felt odd.  “Not to be too morbid, but did the police say how Angela died?  What killed her.”  I had to ask.

“Overdose.  When the police arrived, she was lying on her couch.  There was an empty bottle of Ludes.  I hadn’t heard that word in years.  The real term is Quaalude or Methaqualone.  It’s a drug, I don’t think it’s a barbiturate, but still, it depresses the central nervous system.  It was popular back in the late sixties and early seventies.  Doug must have kept a stash of them.”

As I was listening to Connie’s long description, my gut took a nose dive.  My conclusion wasn’t close to scientific but every time in the past this had happened, I knew I was on the right trail, the one that would lead to a truthful discovery.  Vanessa’s statement paraphrases her mother, “Elton Rawlins dies in that mysterious car wreck in Foley, and then Doug Barber is murdered.  There’s got to be a connection.”   My gut was telling me the deaths of the two bastards Noah and I learned to hate as high school football players, was somehow connected to Angela’s suicide.  Unsurprisingly, I felt my lawyer hat sit tighter on my head.  Suicide?  Who says Angela died by her own hand?

Connie wouldn’t have it any other way.  While I pondered her Birmingham News, Connie showered and dressed.  Ten minutes later, she stuck her head through the door and announced she was headed to Rebecca’s.  “We’ve lost our best friend.  Sorry, but we have to bear this burden side by side.  I’ll call you later.”

By six-thirty, I was inside Martin Mansion.  No security system to deal with.  Dad had given me a key when I moved to Boaz in 2014.  Even without it, Dad, and his dad, and probably his dad, had always kept a front door key hidden, hanging on a nail inside the old well-house.

It was the weekend of the family’s annual pilgrimage to Panama City Beach, Florida.  Ever since I had moved back to Boaz, I had joined Dad (mother when she was alive), Deidre and Ed, and their kids and grandkids for a long and relaxing four days and nights at the Beachside Resort.  But, this year was different.  There was simply too much family tension for me to endure.  Now, standing, pondering the same smells, silent sounds, and furniture arrangement in the grand living room, I’m reminded of Dad’s plea on Thursday for me to come along to Florida.  I felt so damned selfish.  A sinking feeling washed all over me; this could be his last trip to the Gulf, or, anywhere outside Boaz.  Mother’s death, and probably mine and Deidre’s ongoing rift, was wearing him down.

No doubt it was Luke’s discovery, that mauve-colored letter he had read to me during our last time fishing, that triggered the little demon’s prodding.  What else might I find inside Martin Mansion?

I walked out of the living room, through the kitchen, and down a long narrow hallway to Dad’s study, a converted little room in the center of Martin Mansion that was the front room of the original cabin great-granddad Stonewall had built in the late years of the nineteenth century. 

I sat at Dad’s old oak desk, a gift from his father before I was born.  The middle drawer was locked but that didn’t deter me.  Dad would never carry the key around with him.  He hung keys on nails.  I walked over to a closet with a rugged pine door oddly built.  With a eight to ten inch wide board across the top to give the door the needed height.  It was like the builder, Stonewall Martin, didn’t have long enough vertical boards.  Or this was just his way.

I opened the door and saw several of Dad’s old coats and pants, clothes he used working outside in the garden.  I felt along the inside of the door frame thinking this was a good place to hang a key.  I pushed Dad’s clothes back to the right.  No key on the left wall.  Then, pushed them back to the left.  No key.  But, there was another door.  Similar to the oddly built closet door.  Strange.

I stepped over several pairs of Dad’s boots and turned the white marble-looking door knob.  It easily turned but I had to put a little shoulder into forcing the door open.  I almost lost my balance when the door suddenly swung forward.  If the light from Dad’s westward facing windows hadn’t been at the right angle I would likely have stepped off into an open stairwell. 

I activated my iPhone’s flashlight, and eased down the stairs.  When I reached the bottom, I pulled a string attached to a simple, one-bulb socket.  It dawned on me I was standing in the original cellar of that first log cabin built when Stonewall, wife, and litter of kids arrived from Wadley, Alabama in the mid-1890’s.  I could recall only one time I had ever been down here.  In front of me was a set of shelves holding a few old jars of canned peaches.  On the lid was scrawled 1974.

I turned and walked toward the rear of the cellar, what would be the rear of Dad’s overhead library, around a giant hand-cut post holding up an equally giant hand-cut beam.  I couldn’t have been more shocked if I had seen a mountain lion.  She was nestled under the staircase and semi-hidden by a wall of horizontally nailed pine boards, probably from the same stack of wood Stonewall had used to build his oddly constructed doors.  The safe was the smallest version the Mosler Company had built until a few years ago.  A baby compared to all the Model T20’s that I knew were popular in at least three local residences and one church. 

I had been a member of the Martin family for almost sixty-four years.  How was it that I had never heard there was a Mosler buried in the bowels of Martin Mansion?

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 56

At 4:20, I shot up out of my recliner like I had been stung by a wasp.  Angela was at Rebecca’s.  It was a long shot but one I had to take.  For weeks now, my mind had been feeding me subtle urges to return to Debbie Street to determine whether the virtual twin to the pistol I had removed from the church’s basement was still resting in its original box.  I didn’t believe my uninvited visit would prove productive.  I knew the Sand Mountain Reporter had not printed anything about a burglary at the Doug and Angela Barber residence.  But, I also knew Angela couldn’t help but know.

I grabbed my burglar bag from the kitchen pantry and was out the door in less than a minute.  During the drive, I pondered how odd it was that my mind was always working behind the scenes.  I didn’t know where I was when the thought arrived that I needed to approach Angela’s house from a different direction.  Last time, walking up Debbie Street from a not-so-good parking spot along the edge of the golf course, was simply too risky.  At work last week, out of the blue, I had looked at Google Maps on my iPhone and saw that the gods had truly smiled on me.  Debbie Street backed up to a patch of woods.  Clear Creek and the railroad track cross these woods.  Further back is Fox Run Apartments.  The plan that mysteriously appeared last week, was to drive to Coosa Road and leave my car parked in the residents parking lot at Fox Run Apartments.  I would hike through the small patch of woods, cross the railroad tracks and Clear Creek, and appear in Angela’s back yard with hardly a chance anyone would see me.  Piece of cake.

Other than a heavy-set older man walking an equally heavy-set bulldog, I didn’t see anyone as I entered the Fox Run parking lot.  I passed the front two buildings and parked in one of two empty spots along the south side of the six-apartment building along the rear of the complex.  It was only fifty feet or so to the edge of the woods.  I pulled on my black toboggan after crossing the railroad track.  The creek was mostly dry, thus resolving the only issue I felt I might incur in the woods.

As always, burglars, criminals, fail to anticipate all relevant variables.  It shouldn’t have happened.  I had forgotten the tall wooden fence around the Barber’s pool.  I saw it when I reached the edge of their back yard.  The fence spanned almost the full length of the sprawling ranch house forcing me to tiptoe through a neighbor’s yard until I reached the front of a detached garage that I didn’t remember. 

Ignoring known facts was also a common career flaw for many burglars, including me.  Reason and logic would say I shouldn’t be here.  I already knew it was unlikely that Angela would still be using her old Mosler.  Heck, someone, yours truly, had burned a rectangular-shaped hole in the back of the safe.  I assumed it would still be in her garage but be empty.  I couldn’t recall exactly what my little demon had said during my drive over.  Something like, “I just talked with a still arrogant Doug.  He’s watching and daring you to return.”  I had always liked a challenge, and I had my own dare for the asshole Doug: “fly on down here.  I can still invade the world that rejected you.  I’ll be in and out before you arrive.”  I was becoming more delusional by the day.

I was a little surprised Angela hadn’t installed an alarm system, especially after my prior burglary.  But, I was glad I had brought Noah’s device, what he referred to as Eagle Eye.  Not only could it detect the presence of any security system, it now could discover gold and silver.  Bloodhound nose.  Noah’s term.  When I relayed my idea a few days ago of returning to Doug and Angela’s, he had confessed he had tweaked his little patented, but not-yet-promoted, toy.  He had said the best security systems used either gold or silver to cast the internal, most sensitive cogs and levers.  “All I had to do was install a nose.  The damn thing already had two eyes.”  I hadn’t asked any questions. 

Almost effortlessly, after an easy breach of Angela’s back door, I found the near-perfect pistol box on the top shelf of her bedroom closet.  Fortunately, the old Smith & Wesson was resting soundly on the soft velvet liner inside the original container.  I was almost back out in the hallway when Eagle Eye pinged.  It sounded more like a sniff.  I almost laughed out loud.  I removed the cell phone like device from my pocket.  Noah had asked me to bring him a souvenir, thinking Angela might have a solid gold or silver ring or watch.  The latter is what he hoped for—something else for him to dissect. 

The ping and sniff grew louder when I turned toward an old mahogany wardrobe, armoire, I think their called.  I pulled open the two tall doors and saw nothing but clothes hanging across a rack.  The pinging sniff grew even louder.  I laid Eagle Eye Bloodhound Nose down underneath the clothes and started feeling around behind several hat boxes according to the pictures.  Just as I started to remove my hand, my mind had sent a sensation of a giant rat trap tripping and slicing through my left hand’s middle finger, I felt something hard wrapped up in what seemed to be a silk scarf or handkerchief.  It was neither, maybe a cut out piece of an old dress.  The item was a silver locket.  Inside, was the smiling face of the woman I had lived with for nearly forty years.  The woman who, I guess like the rest of us, kept at least one secret.  I didn’t dare linger looking at her gorgeously sexy body. 

All I could think about as I turned left on Coosa Road exiting the apartment complex was how Angela (and probably Rebecca) had been able to access Connie’s house, which had a decently sophisticated alarm system, and remove the silver locket which seemed to be trying to tell me a story.  Crossing Highway 431, I kept wondering if Connie had left the locket sitting on her nightstand, or maybe the kitchen counter for anyone with sticky fingers to grab, or whether the two little witches had magical powers to open old, but reliably secure, Mosler safes.