Tag: The Boaz Safecracker

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 20

What I had learned from Dad in the gazebo had triggered a rush of adrenaline.  Instead of using the excuse of Mother’s death as a good reason not to attend Doug’s Training Union class, I arrived early.  But, I wasn’t the first person. 

Connie was already there, sitting on the first row right in front of Doug’s podium.  Just like last week.  I smiled at her and said hello as I walked toward the back row.

“You can sit with me.  I don’t bite.”  Connie said, returning my smile.  No doubt it was silly, but it seemed like her invitation was like the midpoint of a novel, and our relationship up to this point in time.  I felt a monumental shift, like a long row of dominoes had just tripped over the first of another similar row that was headed in a whole other direction.  I turned and walked toward the most beautiful woman I had ever seen (sorry, Susan).  I hoped Connie didn’t detect I was fully delusional.

“What time is it?”  I asked as I sat down in the second seat from Connie.  “I didn’t realize I was so early.”  My delusion continued.

“Sit next to me.  I’m cold.”  It was the weirdest place on earth for sexual desire to rush over me like an ocean’s wave.  Even though it was hot and humid outside, the small basement classroom was cold.  And, Connie had on a sleeveless blouse.  “You can keep me warm.”  Did this woman, sixty-two’ish but easily disguised as a thirty-six-year-old former model, not know what she was doing to me?  For the first time ever, I was thankful for the old and uncomfortable chairs along the front row of the classroom.  They were the type that, for some reason, were all tied together.  They were fitted close together and you had no control over one chair’s distance from its next-door neighbor.  Praise God for all blessings.  I sat down, and my left shoulder and upper arm had no choice but to be near-firmly pressed against Connie’s.

“It’s like a refrigerator down here.  Where’s the thermostat?”  Always helpful me.  Why didn’t I say something like, ‘how warm do you want to be?’ but thought the better of it.

“How’s your Dad?”  Easily, quickly, Connie changed the subject.  I had seen her briefly at Mom’s funeral.  Then, all she said was, “I am so sorry.  I know how close you two were.”   I recall being thankful she hadn’t said, “she’s in a better place.”

“He’s taking it pretty hard.  But, that’s no surprise.  I stayed last night with him.  Surprisingly, he’s been a chatter box all day, reliving almost every second he and Mom spent together.”  An older couple came in.  I didn’t recognize them.  They hadn’t been here last week.  They said hello and sat in my back-row spot.

“I can’t imagine how I’m going to feel when my parents die.”  I knew Connie’s parents were still almost the picture of health, even though they too were well into their eighties.  Before I could comment, she said, “changing the subject but do you know anything about John Deere lawn mowers?”

“Not really.  Why?”  Man, Connie could throw a curve ball.

“Mine just died late yesterday afternoon.  The dealer at Snead was closing when I called.  He said for me to either bring it in on Monday, tomorrow, or he could send a truck and driver to pick it up.  I just thought you might remember some of the stuff you learned in high school.”

“Gosh, you have a good memory.  I did take shop with Mr. Jackson.  I learned a lot about two-stroke engines, winning a second-place ribbon in the eleventh-grade county competition.”  This ten minutes before class was like riding a roller coaster.  Sexual urges (mine) and a flashback to our youth (hers).

“I hate to ask you, but would you mind coming over and taking a look.  I don’t have any way to get the darn thing down to Snead and I really would rather not pay the dealer a fee to come get it.”

“No.  I mean I don’t mind, but don’t be disappointed if I’m not much help.  Technology is a little different now than nearly half a century ago.”  Connie gave a low verbal nod.

Doug, and what seemed the remainder of the class, walked in before either of us could continue.  He placed a folder on the podium and scanned the room while everyone took a seat.  “Thanks to everyone for coming.  It’s a minute or two after six so let’s get started.”

Doug spent the next thirty minutes lecturing us on what the Old Testament said about death, more particularly, what happened to a person after he died.  Doug clearly believed the OT promised an afterlife with God.  He cited two verses.  One, in Job 19:27, where the suffering old man said, “I myself will see him with my own eyes. … How my heart yearns within me!”   The second one from 2 Samuel 12:23, speaking of King David when his infant son was taken from him by death.  To Doug, King David affirmed his conviction that someday he and his dead son would be reunited. 

Connie added her own understanding to the class when she said, “David’s words in Psalm 23 have brought comfort to me and countless generations of believers: ‘Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. … And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’  That’s from Psalm 23:4 and 6.”  I shouldn’t have been surprised that the lovely Connie was fully familiar with the Bible.

The new couple on the back row asked Doug if the Old Testament taught of a literal Hell.  He answered, I think correctly, that the OT was rather vague on the idea.  Doug spent several minutes assuring the class that the New Testament clearly taught the doctrine of a literal Hell.  Doug cited a ton of scriptures including, Matthew 3:7, 3:12, 5:29-30, 18:9-12, 13:38-42, 13:49-50, and 25:46.  And, these were just the Matthew scriptures.  Doug then argued the OT indirectly argued for a literal Hell.  He said that the OT contained many references to God’s wrath, and that He gets angry at wickedness and those who perpetrate such wickedness.  Doug also said the OT prophets repeatedly spoke of a time when the Holy One would have His ‘day,’ which was a day of justice in which He would express His anger toward sin and visit judgment on sinners. 

I raised the question about Sheol.  Doug, no doubt, was familiar with this term and the Bible in general.  He said Sheol referred to the grave or the abode of the dead, and that during the OT period, it was believed that all (humans and animals) went to one place when they died, Sheol.  It didn’t matter whether the humans were righteous or wicked, no one avoided Sheol.  It was a place thought to be in the lowest parts of the earth. 

After several questions from the class that ate up a lot of time, Doug was speaking of the absence in Sheol of love, hate, envy, work, thought, knowledge, and wisdom, when the bell rang. 

For some reason, after Doug led the class in a closing prayer, he made a remark about wickedness, referring to our earlier discussion.  Then, he announced as everyone stood and was starting to move toward the exit, “please continue to pray that the wicked man, woman, one and all, will be captured.  Angela would love to have her journals back.”  I thought it was an odd statement, coming when it did.  My mind, odd how it worked at times, thought it strange the three journals were safe and secure on the top shelf in my kitchen closet that doubled as a small pantry.

As it happened, Connie and I walked into the hallway together.  If things for ten minutes before six couldn’t get any better, Connie turned to me and said, “you can sit with me during preaching.”  She must have thought, no, she would have certainly known, I was bat-shit crazy about her.  All I could mumble was, “yea.”  It was like I was casting a vote for something in Congress.  She looked at me a little strange and smiled.

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 19

I spent the night with Dad.  It was nearly 9:30 p.m. when Deidre called.  I was asleep in my recliner and was silently pissed she asked me to come.  She didn’t say it directly, but I took it to mean she had family responsibilities at home and I didn’t.  By the time I arrived, Dad was already asleep, thanks to Dr. Luther who had prescribed something guaranteed to knock out a horse.

Sunday morning Dad slept until nearly ten.  When he walked into the den his face revealed the perfect illustration of a man who had lost the love of his life after nearly sixty-nine years of marriage.  I made him a bowl of oatmeal.  Surprisingly, he wanted to talk.  It was like something was compelling him to speak aloud the chronology of their lives.  Long after he had pushed back the half-empty bowl, I heard the story of how he and Mom had met, married, and endured five years floundering in Cincinnati as he worked as a flunky (his word) at a NAPA auto parts store.  Their move to Martin Mansion outside Boaz was the best decision of their lives.

After pouring us both a cup of coffee, we moved outside to the front porch.  I don’t think I said a thing for the next hour.  Nearly every other word out of his mouth was Harriet, baby, your mom, or queen bee.  This was true even as he described the death of Papa Stonewall shortly after Dad and Mom moved to Alabama, and as he talked about his struggle to both farm and work at Goodyear Tire and Rubber in Gadsden.

While he was sharing experiences during mine and Deidre’s high school years, he wanted to walk the garden.  After he had me return to the old wash-house for a five-gallon bucket to use in gathering some tomatoes, Dad said, “there were only two fights me and your mother ever had.  The first one was more a heated discussion.  She didn’t want you to play football, thought you would get hurt for life.”  I asked Dad if that was why she wouldn’t come to watch the games.  “Partially, she also wanted to spend that time in prayer, praying for your safety.”

I made another trip to the wash-house for another bucket.  We gathered tomatoes, squash, and green beans.  My mind wanted to share with Dad what Rebecca Rawlins had said to me last Thursday in Connie’s dining room.  My face must have looked as sad as Dad’s had earlier since he said, “you’re taking it pretty hard too, aren’t you?”

“I am.  Mom’s death has been such a shock.  I was totally unprepared.  Now, I’m torn apart with regret.  Just last Sunday, only one week ago, she asked me to stay with her on the front porch and talk.  She said something like, ‘Fred, I wished we could talk like we used to.’”  I followed Dad onto the screened-in back porch and obeyed his motioning to place the tomato-filled bucket on a table beside a big sink.

“Fred, I have to be honest with you.  It broke your mother’s heart when you abandoned your faith.  She never got over that.  She always believed it was her fault.”

I always did what was natural.  Talk like a lawyer, give a sound and logical rebuttal argument.  But, I didn’t.  Instead, I became vulnerable.  “I think if I could, I would go back and try my best to be exactly what Mother wanted me to be, even if it wasn’t what I truly believed.  Anything to relieve her suffering.”

Dad motioned for us to go back outside.  We walked to the little gazebo he and mother had finished building when I was in high school.  I had started the darn thing as a project for shop class.  Formally, it was called Vocational Agriculture.  For some reason I had changed my mind and rebuilt an old lawn mower engine instead.  Mom and Dad hated unfinished projects, so they completed the now old and decaying gazebo themselves.

We sat in two metal chairs in great need of sanding and painting opposite a well-worn swing.  “That’s where she sat when we had that second big argument I mentioned.”

“What was that about?”  For whatever reason, I figured Dad was about to tell me another incident where Mother was disappointed with me.  Maybe, when Noah and I took a job driving some of George Everette Cox’s used cars to Huntsville during the summer before our senior year.  Mother’s problem with that was the hitchhiking.  Noah and I had to find our own way back.  Again, to Mother, I took too many risks.  Couple that with my near-heretical beliefs, and she had every reason to fear and worry her head off.

“It’s a real touchy subject.  If your mom was still here, sitting over there in that swing, she would be demanding I keep my mouth shut.  But, it’s time you know.  I’m tired of keeping secrets.”  Dad was glancing at me but mostly looking towards the empty swing.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.  Whatever it is.”  I said.  I wanted to let Dad know I wasn’t trying to pull anything out of him.

“I would appreciate you keeping this between us.”  Dad laughed out loud.  “I guess I’m not fully free from a secret life.”  Dad pulled his pocket knife out of his right pocket and a piece of wood from his left.  He had always used whittling as a stress reliever.

“I promise, if that’s what you want.”  What else could I say?

“This subject almost broke through the darkness at lunch last Sunday.  You recall us talking about the Safe House, Johnny Stewart, and how your mother forbade Deidre from seeing him.”

“I remember some of the conversation.”

“Well, it seems your sister didn’t fully heed Harriet’s order.  The two of them, your sister and Johnny, kept seeing each other.  I’m sure it involved a lot of sneaking around, probably a conspiracy of sorts.  The bottom line is Deidre got pregnant and your mom made her move away for the remainder of her senior year.”

“I can’t believe I’ve never heard this.”

“That was the plan.  That was the big argument.  Might as well call it a fight, except there were no punches thrown.  Your mom wanted to do everything she could to protect your sister’s reputation and future.”  Dad said, looking intently at a piece of wood that had the faint look of a horse’s head.

“Deidre moved to Italy, as an exchange student.  I remember not seeing her at Christmas when Susan and I came home from Auburn.”

“That was a lie.  Deidre was in Cincinnati with your aunt Hazel.”

“So, Deidre went into hiding, and me and I suppose the rest of the local world was told she was across the big pond?”  I asked.

“Pretty much right.”

“I’m assuming Deidre carried the baby to full term and then put it up for adoption.  Is that close to correct?” 

“Dead on.  Except there is a little twist.”  Dad said.

“Why do I feel this is where the plot thickens?”  I asked.

“Your mother could be a little cunning.  It’s kind of like she tried to do the impossible, like having her cake and eating it too.”

“What exactly did Mother do?”

“She choreographed a private adoption.  Here’s where you need to be very careful with what you say.  I’m glad you’re sitting down because otherwise you might fall over.”

“Dad, you’re a master storyteller. I’m literally sitting on the edge of my chair.”

“The baby was adopted by a dear friend of your mom’s right here in Boaz.”

“Who was the friend?”

Dad was carefully eyeing the miniature horse, no doubt avoiding looking at me.  “Helen Patterson.  Her husband was Joshua Patterson, long dead.”

“And the baby’s name is?”  My gut was already telling me the answer.

“Caleb Patterson, the current pastor of First Baptist Church of Christ.”

“What a story.  I think I feel a little of what an outsider feels.”

“As you might expect, this was all terribly hard on Deidre.  Having to move away and live with an old maid in a big city.”

“Question, did Deidre go to school while she was up north?”

“She did, she went to Seven Hills High School just like me and your mom did.  She was able to go the full year.  From January through May.  We had moved her up there shortly before Christmas.”

“When was the baby born?”  I asked.

“July 12th, 1974.  Here’s what also was so hard on your sister.  She shared this a long time ago with your mom and she shared it, eventually with me.  Deidre is certain she became pregnant the night before Johnny was killed.  You know, we talked about the horrible incident after the Boaz-Albertville football game.”  Dad said, now standing up and moving over to sit in the swing.

“The football game more likely was on a Friday night.  So, Deidre and Johnny someway secretly met on Thursday night.”  I did some quick math in my head.  “A full-term baby born in July would have been conceived in October.  Do you know when Johnny and his two buddies were killed?”  I asked.

“It’s not known exactly but for sure it was after the football game.  That’s a no-brainer.  They played in the game that night.  The three were the heart of the Boaz team.”  Dad said.

“Again, this is amazing in a terrible sort of way.  It would be hard for a novelist to create such a sad story.  A baby is conceived just a day or so before the father is murdered, and shortly later the pregnant mother is whisked away to a foreign world to carry and care for a baby she was powerless to keep.” 

“Like I said, please keep this to yourself.”  Dad said.

I couldn’t respond.  Deidre and Ed drove up just as I started to speak.  The two of them saw us as they got out of their car.  Deidre joined us, taking a seat beside Dad in the now-to-me, infamous swing.  Within a couple of minutes, I had politely excused myself and walked back to my cabin.

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 18

Mother’s funeral was Saturday morning.  Late Thursday afternoon, shortly after her body arrived from the hospital, McRae’s Funeral Home called and said that Mom had called less than two weeks earlier and added a note to her long-made arrangements.  She had requested her funeral be no later than the second day after she died. 

If there was anything I hated more than a Southern funeral, I couldn’t think of it, unless it was a root canal.  Apparently, Deidre and Mother had spent quite a bit of time planning her final goodbye.  As the service waned on I got the feeling the planning was more of Deidre’s idea than Mother’s.  Gabby sang two songs, and Jacob read a poem that supposedly Mother had asked him to read.  Pastor Caleb eulogized Mother as though he had personally known her all his life.  As is customary, even required, he finished his time with a literal altar call encouraging all those present who were not yet in the fold to surrender today to the mighty Christ and be saved.  Both before and after the funeral, I bet I heard at least two dozen well-intended friends say, “I know you’re going to miss your mom but she’s so much better off, she’s in such a better place.”  Unsurprisingly, this popular Southern Baptist statement, had an opposite affect from what was intended.  It didn’t give me comfort.  It just made me mad that otherwise intelligent people could truly believe such malarkey.

After enduring the unnecessary stress of the funeral and after being cooped up all day yesterday at Martin Mansion greeting and meeting with friends and long-absent family members, I was ready for a break.  I had to find a way to absent myself without seeming cold and insensitive.  We all retired to Martin Mansion after the funeral and graveside service, where we found a mountain of food prepared by the Keenagers, the church group Mother had spent years enjoying and supporting.  If there was one person, there was at least a hundred: including distant family and friends.  As I ambled down the long buffet line set up in the side yard, Deidre came up and softly whispered, “can you go fishing with Luke?  He’s having a very difficult time and asked me if I would ask you.”  I almost hugged her neck.

Fifteen minutes later, after downing my plate of food and rushing to change clothes at my cabin, Luke and I were sitting under the shade of the old oak Papa Stonewall had set-out in 1899, the year he built the pond and Papa Fredrick was born.  Luke was rewashing his hands at the water’s edge after having dug a mound of bait from Dad’s fifty-year-old worm farm nestled underneath the overhang of the old barn behind my cabin.

“Don’t you think you’ve got them clean?”  I asked as it seemed Luke was taking extra-long to wash off the rich and foamy dirt.

“Granddad always digs the worms when we go fishing.  It was fine at first, the top layer, but when I got down to the wriggly things, the soil got slimy.  If that wasn’t enough, the goo made me think about myself and how disappointed Nanny would be if she knew what I had been thinking.”  All the kids, grand and great-grand, called my dear mother, the family’s matriarch, Nanny.  I’m not sure how that came about. 

“I assume you are speaking of your doubts, maybe the things the three of us, Tyler, me and you, have been talking about.  I suspect Mother would think two things.  She would agree with you that it is natural to have questions.  But, unfortunately, she would disagree with you if you concluded anything other than what the Bible says.  No doubt, she would try her best to keep you focused and dedicated to her God.”

“I was talking to Tyler at the cemetery, after the graveside service.  He said that Nanny was better off as everyone was saying but it was because she wasn’t suffering, not because she was sitting with Jesus or strolling streets of gold.”  Luke finally was satisfied with his hands but didn’t seem to want to fish with the slimy creatures.  He started attaching an artificial worm to the end of his line.

“I suppose you are asking yourself the age-old question: ‘what happens to a person when she dies?’  Am I close to correct?” 

“That’s pretty much dead-on.”  Luke said, moving closer to me. 

I was hesitant to head down the track it appeared mine and Luke’s conversation was headed.  Maybe I should pull out Dad’s trick and spend my time walking around the pond, casting my line for a hungry bass.  Sometimes, my love for truth came at a price.  “In a sense, funerals are no different than everyday life around a Southern Baptist Church.  To an outsider, it’s like visiting a foreign country.  I bet you’ve recognized that your world, youth group at church and probably your home life regarding things of God and church, includes a heavy dose of a particularized language.”  After I said this I remembered I was talking to my ninth-grade grand-nephew.

“Tyler has said something similar.  He’s always asking me things like, ‘what do you need saved from?’  And, ‘do you think virgins can really have a baby?’”

“Like I’ve said, it took me years to break free from the clan.”

“More like a club or a gang, according to Tyler.”  Luke said adding another weight to his line.

“You and Tyler are pretty close I gather?”  I meant it as both a statement and a question.  I really didn’t know much about him and certainly didn’t want Luke to be led into drugs or alcohol, or something even worse.

“He’s now my best friend.”

“How did that come about?”  I thought this might lead us away from a slimy discussion of some sort.

“I met him this past summer.  He and his family had just moved here from Seattle, Washington.  We both tried out for football.  We both were cut.  Coach Sullivan said we needed another year of conditioning and for us to try out again next year.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask, is the coach kin to your dad?”

“No, different branch of the tree I guess.  Anyway, I guess you could say, mine and Tyler’s friendship was born out of failure.”

“I’d encourage you not to look at it that way, the football failure as you call it.  Give yourself credit, you gave it a try.  That took some real gumption.” 

“Tyler’s dad said the same thing.”

“What’s he like?”

“Mr. Larson?”

“Tyler’s father.”  I said.

“He’s kind of a nerd.  Tyler calls him Mr. Brain.”

“What does he do?  For a living?”  I was full of questions, again thankful the elephant in the room had wandered off.

“He’s a scientist with Boeing.  In Huntsville.”

“I’m curious.  Why did they move to Boaz?  Why not live in Huntsville?”

“I’m not really sure.  I think there are a lot of people around here that work in Huntsville.”

“Right, but I bet most of them have roots in Boaz.  That’s why they make that long drive every day.”

“Uncle Fred, can I ask you something?”  Luke had cast his line a few times but didn’t seem too interested in fishing.

“Again, you don’t have to ask me that.  You can always ask me a question.”

“Do you believe Nanny is in Heaven?”  No doubt, this was the heart of Luke’s motivation when he asked his mother to ask me if I would go fishing with him.

“No.”  I sat down in one of the two lawn chairs Dad always kept under the giant oak.  I pulled the tackle box closer looking for Dad’s green frog.

“Is that all you’re going to say?  Just, ‘no’?”

“Sorry, I was kind of hoping you didn’t want to know why I feel this way.”

“Sorry, but I do.”  For a moment, I saw Luke as a peer.  I don’t remember me being so bright when I was in the ninth grade.

“Let me back up just a little.  You know we were talking about the unique language that goes with being a Southern Baptist Christian?  Until you are free from that culture you don’t really realize how foolish you sound.  Here’s an example, one really close at hand.  You heard Pastor Caleb say today at Mother’s graveside service, ‘Harriet wouldn’t want any of us to be sad.  She’s finally home and in the presence of her precious Jesus, praising him.  She’s happy and no longer suffering.’”

Luke couldn’t stay quiet.  “I think I see why Tyler pokes fun at me.  He’s always saying, ‘Luke boy, think a minute.  How do you think that sounds to me?’

“He’s right.  Think rationally for a minute.  Mother was eighty-nine years old.  She died of a stroke.  At the hospital, the doctors explained what happened to her.  They said a stroke was like a brain attack, it’s when blood-flow to an area in the brain is cut off.  They said Mother had a hemorrhagic stroke.  This occurs when a blood vessel in the brain breaks or ruptures.  The result is blood seeping into the brain tissue, causing damage to brain cells.  A lot of research has been performed that clearly reveals that when a person’s brain is damaged there are predictable results.  For example, if a stroke occurs in the left side of the brain, the right side of the body will be affected, often producing paralysis.”

“I think I already know where you are going with this.  A person’s brain can be damaged and there are predictable results.  The more damaged a brain, the less the person is like a real person.  I mean a normally healthy person.”  Again, I was impressed with Luke.

“Right.  And, continuing with your illustration, when a person dies, their brain simply stops functioning.  Yet, Christians, at least the Southern Baptist breed, believe that even though the brain has died, the conscious soul simply flies off in perfect condition and easily capable of seeing love ones long gone and recognizing Jesus.”  I said, recalling one of my favorite statements by Sam Harris, a world-famous neuro-scientist and atheist.

“That’s another thing I simply don’t understand.  Souls and new bodies.  Don’t we believe, Christians, my family and church, don’t they believe that humans consist of body, mind, and soul, and that when Jesus returns all believers, including those already in Heaven, will get a new body?”  Luke was asking some age-old questions.  Of course, Southern Baptists have known the answers for years.  At least, they think they have.

“We’re in murky waters now, if you ask me.  Research that I’ve read holds that a person’s mind is like software running on the person’s brain.  Although there is much scientists do know, there is no evidence that a person’s mind or consciousness, or soul if you want to call it that, survives death.  You asked a while ago, whether I believe Mother is in Heaven.  I answered no.  It is my full belief that when someone dies they die.  That’s it.”

“That sure makes me wonder why on earth anyone could believe Nanny is still alive, just missing her earthly body.”  Luke said, reeling in one of the smallest bass I had ever seen.

“That’s easy.  Because they believe the Bible says so, and they’ve been taught this from the cradle.  In short, it’s called indoctrination.”  My stomach almost turned sick as my words flowed off my tongue.  If Deidre, Dad, Pastor Caleb, Youth Pastor Robert Miller, or any one of them, could hear me, they would be calling for my expulsion from the church.

“And, you believe the Bible is just another man-made book.”  I wondered whether Luke was making a statement or asking a question.

“Yes.”

For the next hour, Luke and I walked around the pond, sometimes together, sometimes separately, casting our lines.  Close to 4:00, he snagged a big bass and wanted to go show his father.  I decided to let Ed help Luke clean the ten-pounder.  I gathered up our fishing gear and walked the long trail back to my cabin, wondering if, beyond all odds, Mother was looking down on me and frowning.

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 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 16

The next ten days drug by.  With the growing routine of work, church, suppers and dinners at Mom’s, and a couple more email exchanges with Luke, it was finally the day I had been looking forward to.  Late yesterday afternoon Connie’s policy had arrived by courier.  I had called her immediately after verifying the home office had gotten everything right.  Once again, she had wanted me to come early, before she headed out to her yard.  And, once again, she instructed me to come in through her unlocked front door and back to the sun room.

As promised, I arrived at 8:00 a.m.  The Thursday edition of the Sand Mountain Reporter was laying on her front porch, so I picked it up and eased inside.  A faint creaking of the door or a silent alarm must have aroused the tall and shapely Connie.  I was halfway through the giant den when she appeared.  With the sun’s assistance, she looked like an angel.  There was something about how the incoming rays engulfed her shoulders creating the look of white and fluffy wings.  But, it was the shorts, rather the tanned legs coming out of the shorts, that got the most attention.  I still was shocked how this 62-year-old creature could still look so good.  Of course, I knew that a man’s eye for beauty evolves as he grows older, but I couldn’t help but believe that if I were a sixteen-year-old kid (heck, a thirty-year-old man) standing here, I would be hard pressed not to fantasize how this lovely creature would look naked.

“Come on back.  Mollie and I made us some coffee.  She’s already had hers.”  I complied fully, sitting in the same seat beside her swing noticing a small card table had been added to the room’s arrangement.  I wondered if the less gorgeous Mollie drank coffee.

“Thanks, I could use another cup.  It’s been one of those mornings.”  I said, needing to say something that had little meaning.

“Cream and sugar, or Sweet-n-Low?”

“Black is fine.”

As she handed me my cup I think she caught me staring at her hair.  It was a cross between brown and brunette.  It was silky and just long enough for her to pull it up in a short pony tail to the back of her head.  This accentuated her neck, but I dared not go there.  She smiled as she turned her attention to the card table, pulling it up to us.  I laid my notebook and Connie’s policy folder on top.  “I hope you don’t mind but I’ve taken the liberty to provide you with a new prospect.”

Any insurance sales person would have known exactly what Connie meant.  For some reason (my involuntary reaction to the sexy Connie might have something to do with it) her words didn’t register.  I must have looked bewildered, so she repeated herself, adding a little explanation. “Rebecca Rawlins should be here in a few minutes.  You know I shared with you that she was interested in this same type policy.”

“Oh yea.  Thanks.”  My mind had finally caught up.

“Go ahead and give me your spill.  I’ll sign the receipt you mentioned.”  She was in full control of our agenda.  I didn’t mind.  I was happy just sitting here, sipping my coffee, and trying to figure out the faint smell of perfume.  I think it was one Susan had worn.

I sat up straighter and pulled out Connie’s long-term health care policy.  “Your policy was issued just like you wanted, the requested amounts agree fully with your application.  To start with, if you needed home health care services, the policy will pay a maximum of two hundred dollars per day.  For assisted living or nursing home care it will pay four hundred.  Each day, maximum.  The automatic benefit rider will increase these daily benefits each year by the amount of the change in the consumer price index, but never less than two percent.”

Connie, as always, was among the brightest bulbs in the drawer.  She asked a couple of questions and prodded me to produce the paperwork she needed to sign.  She had just thanked me for making the entire insurance buying process less painful than a trip to the dentist.  We shared a laugh.  I was about to pop the question I had been pondering ever since my initial visit, but the front doorbell rang.  My idea of asking Connie out for a cup of coffee would have to wait.

“Oh, that must be Rebecca.  Perfect timing.  Mollie, you stay here with Mr. Fred.”  Connie got up and pushed the coffee table away, towards the solid glass wall looking out onto her gorgeous back yard.  Susan would have loved all the red roses.

Mollie jumped up in my lap when Connie headed for the front door, as though the black Yorkie had received a subliminal order from her master.  Once again, those loving eyes prompted my thoughts back to the Golden Retrievers Susan and I had and loved so dearly.

I hadn’t seen Rebecca in over forty years.  As she came in and we exchanged the normal pleasantries, I was silently, hopefully non-visibly, disappointed.  She had not aged near as well as Connie.  Although I would have recognized her most anywhere, she wasn’t the pretty and athletic cheerleader I remembered.  She still wasn’t ugly by any means.  I think it was simply the shifting of body parts.  Forty-four years ago, the tight-bodied and busty teenager was a head turner.  I hated the aging process.

“If you two don’t mind I’ve got some work to do out here.  I think the dining room would be better for your discussion anyway, and its cooler in there.”  Once again, Connie choreographed the scene including its characters. 

After Rebecca and I sat the large mahogany table, she looked at me with a faint smile.  “Thank you for seeing me.  I know I look like a wreck.  It’s been a difficult couple of weeks.”

“No apology needed.  I’m honored to meet with you.  I hope you know I take my responsibilities seriously and will do everything I can to earn your trust.”  My standard spill.  I meant every word of it.

“Connie’s reference is all I needed.  Of course, it’s not like we’re meeting for the first time.  Even though it’s been a lifetime, I recall you being a nice guy back in high school.”

“Thanks.  Maybe I’ve matured for the better.”

For thirty minutes I made my standard presentation, the same one that had persuaded Connie to make her insurance purchase.  Rebecca had similar questions that I believe I answered to her satisfaction.  An additional thirty minutes later I had completed my second long-term health care application in as many weeks.

It seemed our meeting was over.  I organized all the paperwork laid across our end of the table and placed them back inside my notebook.  I pushed back my chair and was about to again thank Rebecca for meeting with me when she said, “can we talk, personal?”

The first thing I thought of was someway she had identified me as the criminal who was being sought by both local and state law enforcement.  Quickly, it dawned on me that wasn’t likely.  If so, why would she have trusted me with such a big financial decision?  “Sure, what’s on your mind?”  I hoped my internal worry hadn’t oozed on to my face.

“I want to apologize for what happened back in high school.”  Rebecca was growing more mysterious by the second.

“Okay, but I don’t have a clue why you would want or need to apologize to me.”  I’d never been more truthful.

“The things I said about Deidre.”  Rebecca pushed back her chair and crossed her legs.  I knew that arm-crossing was a defensive position.  Leg action was subtler.

“Rebecca, I sense you are troubled about something and believe me, if you had ever offended me I would let you know.  I’m completely in the dark here.”

“I guess I have to believe you, but it seems odd.  I was the one who told your mother about Deidre and Johnny.”

I searched my memory for a clue about what she might mean.  The only thing that surfaced was what had been discussed last Sunday around Mom’s dining table.  I couldn’t remember if it was Deidre or Mother who had said why she had banned Deidre from the Safe House because of Johnny Stewart.  “Stimulate my memory.  What exactly did you tell my mother?”  I finally asked.

“I’m beginning to feel I’ve opened a can of worms.”  Rebecca said, fingering a locket around her neck I hadn’t noticed before.

“Since the lid’s been removed why not go ahead.”  I hated when someone started to tell me something and then became mute.

“Okay, I will.  Again, it’s very surprising you didn’t know.  I was mad at Deidre.  She had stolen Johnny from me.  I wanted to hurt her and the best way I knew was to tell your mother than Deidre was pregnant.”

“Pregnant?  That’s news to me.  How could I not know this?”  I recognized, once again, as I had with Dad by the pond, that I had missed out on a lot happening around Boaz while Susan and I stayed secluded in Auburn.

“I doubt it’s unusual for a brother to not know his sister is banging a star football player.  Sometimes, family is the last to know.”  I had mixed feelings about what Rebecca was telling me.  On the one hand, I was growing angry.  Why cast such a negative light upon my sister?  Or, was Rebecca truly sorry, which fed the other side of my mind that wanted to be sympathetic?

“Fred, by the look on your face I realize I shouldn’t have said a thing.  I assumed wrong, apparently totally wrong.  I have always thought that you, along with your mother, and family as far as that goes, hated me for pointing the finger at Deidre.  Now, I must apologize for bringing all this up.”

“No, I don’t think that’s necessary.  If what you are saying is true, then let bygones be bygones.”  I said.

“Please know I would not make up something like this.  Oh, what a mess I can make.  Please forgive me.”  I had no doubt Rebecca was sincere.  She was starting to cry.

“I have a question.  If Deidre was pregnant, what happened to the baby?”  I would betray every thing about being a lawyer if I didn’t ask this question.

“All I know is from rumors and I’m not going to share gossip.”

“That’s not helpful.  Often, gossip is the gospel.  I wish you would tell me what you’ve heard and let me determine what to do with it.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.  All I can say is, if you really want to know, talk to your mother.”

I don’t know if it was good or not but at that moment Connie stuck her head in and asked if we wanted something to drink or a slice of the key-lime pie she had made the night before.  I declined and made the best attempt I could to exit without appearing too shocked.

I was thankful to be in my car heading back to the office.  I hadn’t reached Highway 205 when my iPhone vibrated in my jacket pocket.  It was Deidre.

“Fred, you need to come quickly.  Mom has had a stroke.  She’s at the hospital.  In the emergency room.”

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 15

I had trouble following Pastor Caleb’s sermon Sunday morning.  It was one of two things.  He seemed to be focused on several of Jesus’ miracles starting with the turning of water into wine.  My mind was distracted but I didn’t hear his transition to Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead.  Apparently, Caleb was trying to convey that we serve the same supernatural being that performed all these miracles.  I had always thought it odd that Christians didn’t seemed to ask why Jesus stopped, why the suspension of the natural order didn’t appear to take place now.

The second reason I had difficulty focusing on the Pastor’s sermon, was what Noah and I had done early this morning.  With the police discovery of the hidden camera at the Rawlins’, we had decided to alter our plans.  Originally, we had intended for Noah to transport the coins and the jewelry outside the country when he and Lorie flew to Italy in late summer.  That was still weeks away.  We concluded that since I had continued to wear my carefully crafted disguise when I hid my share of the loot at Paradise Storage in Guntersville, there was more than just a possibility that I might have been caught on camera there.  Such a discovery would no doubt connect the dots and Noah and I, especially me, would be closer to being discovered.  We realized it was a long shot because we both had used alias’ in renting each of our storage units.  The loot from the Rawlins’ safe was now hidden in the loft of the old barn that was less than a hundred feet behind my cabin.

At the conclusion of the service, after the choir sang all three verses of “Amazing Grace” during altar call, my mind became much less distracted.  It had everything to do with Pastor Caleb’s call for a special prayer for, as he put it, “all three members of our church family who have recently experienced Satan’s handiwork up close.”  He went on to name Doug and Angela Barber, and Rebecca Rawlins. 

After a long moment of silent prayer and a short-verbalized ending of praise for God’s infinite blessings, I walked down the balcony stairs with Ed, Deidre’s husband.  I asked him, “I must have missed the news, what’s happened with the Barbers?”

He stopped halfway down and stood just staring at me.  “It was all over Facebook yesterday afternoon.”

“Dad and I were fishing.”  I said, not wanting to share my disdain for the most popular social media site.  Although I had an account, I rarely looked at it.  To me, it was mostly a waste of time to see the ugly faces of aging women who, in their youth, were quite attractive.  Facebook was simply too predictable.  My so-called Friends loved posting photos of things they were doing, whether it was gardening, hiking, beach walking, or watching their favorite cat and dog videos.

Ed continued down the stairs and I tagged along.  “Another burglary.  Angela discovered it when she returned from Montgomery.  As she pulled into the garage she saw their old safe.  Someone had taken a torch to it.”

As Ed turned for the front exit I kept walking to the rear of the building next to where I had parked.  All the way I tried to figure out why and how Doug hadn’t discovered the pilfered safe sometime earlier in the week.  The only thing I could conclude was that he didn’t use the garage.  I recalled a carport attached to the back of the house.  Probably, Doug drove in there and used the back door to come and go. 

Mom’s lunch was extraordinarily good.  If that was possible.  Her bacon-wrapped pork loin was the first product from the cooker-smoker Dad had finished building for her last Friday.  It had been a two-month long process.  Mom said it had taken her two attempts to get it right.  Apparently, she had done a trial run yesterday and wasn’t satisfied.  After another trip to Walmart during the middle of the night for a thicker bacon, Miss Perfectionist was satisfied, albeit six hours later.

After Dad sliced the loin he said, “Deidre, what do you remember about the Safe House and Ricky Miller?  Seems your older brother stumbled onto an old Sand Mountain Reporter article and is eager for some forty-four-year-old history.”

Deidre must have been in deep thought because she didn’t respond.  Sometimes salads took a lot of thought.

“Earth to Mama D, Papa just asked you a question.”  Miranda said, uncharacteristic for her.  Deidre’s oldest granddaughter normally didn’t say much during our family meals.

Deidre finally asked Dad to repeat his question.  After he did, she said, “gosh, I haven’t thought about that place in a long time.  I loved Mr. Miller.  He was the kindest and most respectful teacher I ever had.  Intelligent to an extreme.  Fred, you might ask your mother why she forbade me from going to the Safe House.”

I took the bait and looked over at Mother, who was staring down at her half-filled plate.  “Well Mom, are you going to share?”  I asked.

Finally, she looked up and said, “Johnny Stewart.  That’s why.  He was a bad influence on your little sister.  Ricky Miller wasn’t much better if you ask me, but his was a different type of influence.”

For the next several minutes I learned that Johnny Stewart hung out at the Safe House with Ricky Miller.  Mom believed that Johnny was bad news for Deidre since he had already gotten a ninth grader pregnant the prior year.  As to Ricky, Mom was convinced he was a heretic and would be the cause of sending many a young boy or girl to the pits of Hell.

After a fifteen-minute Alabama and Auburn football update conversation between Dad and Ed, Mom left for the kitchen and brought back her famous coconut cake.  Gabby apparently had been pondering her grandmother’s disdain for Johnny Stewart, and said, “why was Elton Rawlins and Doug Barber never investigated for Johnny Stewart’s death?”

Deidre looked surprised.  “What brings that up?  Where did you hear those two names associated with Johnny’s death?”

“Alabama Public Television, a couple of weeks ago, did a special on Alabama cold cases.  Brad was watching it while I was listening to my iPod.  It got my attention when I saw pictures of old downtown Boaz on the TV screen.”  I think Gabby, Deidre’s daughter, loved Mom’s cake as much as I did, based on how she was woofing it down.

“I’m curious.  What did APT have to say?”  The whole case was new to me, but I was interested in why Gabby had mentioned Elton Rawlins and Doug Barber.

“I suspect I know.”  Deidre interjected even though my question was to Gabby.  “Did the program mention the scene at the Safe House where Elton and Doug came in and literally pulled Johnny out and across the street to the Lighthouse?”

Gabby responded. “Actually, they did.  The program raised the question whether there might have been some connection.  It seems what happened to Johnny riled him up pretty good.  Later that night, he and his two friends, Allan Floyd and Tommy Jones, found Elton and Doug hanging out at the Dairy Queen.  APT seemed to know about a big fight that broke out with Elton and Doug getting the worst end of things.  The program asked whether revenge was the motive for the deaths of Johnny and his two friends two days later.  I guess we’ll never know unless Doug spills the beans. Elton won’t be talking.” I declined an afternoon of conversation on Mom’s huge front porch, opting instead to go to my cabin and my recliner.  I slept for three hours, making up for the time I had lost early morning during my and Noah’s little adventure.  Between long naps and intermittent dozing, all I could think about were long-buried secrets that had lain just under the surface in what I had always believed to be a sleepy and innocent little town.

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 14

Thursday afternoon and Friday, I spent in Birmingham at an insurance sales conference.  Saturday was a day I would cherish forever.  Dad and I worked in his garden for a couple of hours before retiring to the pond for an afternoon of fishing and talking.  I didn’t catch many fish but was encouraged to learn how sharp Dad’s mind was, especially concerning the history of Boaz.

After we settled in at our usual spot, just at the outside edge of a long-lasting shadow cast by the giant oak on the west side of the pond, I asked Dad, “What do you remember about Ricky Miller and his place?  I think it was called the Safe House.”

“You should remember Ricky.  He was your Biology teacher, what, in the tenth grade?”  Dad asked.

“Of course, I remember that, and how much I liked his attitude toward life.”

“Yea, right.  That’s what got you all whop-sided with Christianity.”  Dad could have said a lot more here.  Ricky Miller, that year in Biology class, had opened mine and Noah’s eyes.  He was so unlike every other teacher at Boaz High.  They all were cut from the same cloth, openly sharing their faith, a few even voicing prayers during class time.  I was always amazed at how good they were at compartmentalization; they could think critically about everything but religion.  Looking back, my sophomore year was my best year in high school.  Ricky Miller changed the direction of my life.

“I don’t remember anything about the Safe House.”  I said.

“What’s got you thinking about that if you don’t remember?  Seems odd to me.”  Dad said as he reeled in his line, removed his float and hook, and attached a fat green frog for bait.  Dad was the best bass fisherman in the family.

“I saw an old Sand Mountain Reporter article the other day.  From 1973, I believe.  It talked about a controversy between the Safe House and the Lighthouse.  That place, I do remember.”

“Ricky and Randy were twins.  They were virtually identical from a physical perspective but couldn’t have been more different from a mental state.  Randy was on fire for God.  I’m not sure what drove Ricky.  But, it wasn’t God.  The opposite I guess.”  Dad was standing and snagged a small bass.  He seemed deep in thought.

“It seems to me the names, the Safe House and the Lighthouse, were symbolic.  I get why Randy and First Baptist of Christ named their youth hangout and ministry the Lighthouse.  What do you think Ricky intended with the Safe House?”  I asked.

“Come to think of it, you and Susan were in Auburn.  You didn’t come home very often, did you?”  Dad said removing a half-pound largemouth bass from the end of his line.

“I guess not.  School.  Study.”

“Yea, right.” Dad liked that phrase.  “Ricky was a fish out of water, especially here in Boaz.  He believed his brother was brainwashing the young people.  He felt they needed an alternative place to hangout, a place, according to Ricky, that young minds could be protected.  Thus born, the Safe House.”  I knew Dad would remember.

“Let me see if I’m hearing you correctly.  Ricky believed his students, the local young people, should be exposed to both sides of the issues, all sides.  I do recall him in tenth grade making statements, more so after class to a group of us who hung around, that the natural world directly conflicted with the Bible.”  I said, setting my fishing rod aside.

“I suspect that’s how the trouble began.  A couple of years after you were gone, and the Safe House was up and running, five kids became the center of attention all over Boaz.”  Dad said.

“Over what?”  I asked, thinking that I knew what he was going to say.  Rebecca and her Bible burning ‘crime’ had to have won the popularity award.

“Angela Collins and Rebecca Aldridge both alleged that Randy Miller had, let’s just say, been inappropriate with them.”

“Are you saying they accused the youth pastor of sexual assault?”  I asked.

“That’s one way to put it.  No one believed them.  Well, except Ricky.  Those two girls, both friends of Deidre’s, I can’t help but still feel sorry for them.  I guess the stars kind of aligned and they found shelter at The Safe House.”  Dad was now reeling in a much bigger bass.  The green frog seemed to be working.  I had lost all interest in fishing for the time being.

“You mentioned that five kids became popular, as you said, ‘the center of attention.’  Who were the other three?  Did they make the same accusations?”  I asked Dad almost regretting giving up the practice of law.

“Johnny Stewart, Allan Floyd, and Tommy Jones.  The group, I think they called themselves the Misfits or something like that.  No, the Aliens.  That was their nickname.”  Dad placed the big bass on a stringer and threw it back into the water, along the pond’s edge.

“What did these three guys do?  By the way, was Johnny Stewart any kin to Connie?”  I asked.

“Cousin, I’m pretty sure.  Those three, all classmates of Angela and Rebecca, and your sister, got caught burglarizing the church, First Baptist Church of Christ.  Seems like they stayed past closing time after a Sunday night service.  Surprisingly.  To them, during the night, the pastor, Brother Walter, returned to his office and found the three pilfering through his files.  Kids got arrested and, like Angela and Rebecca, became the scourge of Boaz.”

“I would suspect the court system treated them as Youthful Offenders and sealed their files for privacy purposes since they were so young.  And, I suspect the three kids as you call them went on to put all that behind them as they grew up.”  I was forecasting but I had seen it often enough.  Fairly minor offenses committed during one’s youth, rarely led to jail time, or any significant deflection of a normal life.

“That is how the court system dealt with them, but fate or God or whatever had something more painful in mind.”  Dad had sat back down beside me in his lawn chair and was pouring a paper cup full of tea from the thermos Mom had insisted we bring.

“What do you mean?  What happened to the three?”  I asked.

“Beaten and hung.  They were found on a Saturday morning, in the grove of trees behind the football stadium.  You know, next to the practice field.  Case was never solved.  Most folks believed it had something to do with the game.  It was Fall, mid-season, and Albertville had come to town the night before.  Boaz won but it wasn’t easy.  There had been a big brawl right after the start of the second half.  Johnny, Allan, Tommy, the three Aliens, were ring-leaders and were tossed from the game.  One of the Albertville players, a big black kid, I forget his name, had to be taken to the Emergency Room.  Again, word on the street was that the Albertville football team got their revenge.”

“Now that you mention this I seem to remember.  Didn’t you send me a couple of newspaper articles about it when I was in Auburn?”

“I’m sure I did.  I wasn’t good at writing letters.  Sending things I had cut out of the Sand Mountain Reporter was intended to be my way of telling you I loved and missed you.”

Dad and I continued to fish for another two hours.  He must have had enough talking since he wandered around the pond, casting throw after throw.  We ended up with a nice stringer of fish.  Ten by Dad’s skill.  One by my luck.  I drank more tea as I watched Dad fillet our catch while Mom fussed over the mess he was making on the back porch.  Oh, how wonderful life was at 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 13

I decided against attending Elton Rawlins’ funeral.  I hated them with a passion.  I hadn’t been to one since Susan’s death and dreaded the thought of how I would deal with the morbid thing when either Mom or Dad died, or they both did.  Anyway, Noah had promised to attend.  Instead, I occupied my complete afternoon with finalizing Connie’s paperwork and overnighting it to Alfa’s main office in Montgomery and watching several training videos the Company had developed to educate its agents on the intricacies of the long-term health care market.

At 5:30 p.m., I drove home dropping by Mother’s to pick up a plate of food she had prepared for me.  It was now pretty much a well-formed habit.  Either I ate with her and Dad or she called mid-afternoon and said, “your plate will be waiting on you when you want it.”  I seemed to always want more of the best food on the planet.  Mom was the world’s best cook, always had been.

I ate without changing clothes.  Another habit led me to boot up my desktop computer in the converted front bedroom.  Following my routine, I checked my office email, even though it had only been a little over an hour since I had left work and responded to a question from Darryl Nelson about whether Alfa had a savings product Lowe’s employees could use to supplement their main retirement plan.  I then checked my private email.

There seemed to be a chorus of routines resounding all around me.  Luke had emailed me early this morning at 6:10 a.m.  This reinforced my position that I only checked my personal email once per day, at the end of the day.  Checking it in the mornings was too potentially distracting.  Further, if someone badly needed me, the people that mattered knew how to reach me at work or on my cell.

I quickly glanced through Luke’s long first paragraph.  He was telling me about his and Tyler’s fishing venture last Sunday afternoon at Dad’s pond.  The two appeared to have gotten into a pretty heated argument.  Tyler had made fun of several local folks, including Deidre, and how they responded to other people’s Facebook posts when they shared some hardship they were experiencing.  Luke gave one example.  In part, Luke had written that there had been several folks post about Eugene Lackey.  He was the thirty-five-year-old Boaz High School basketball coach who had a virulent form of cancer.  Tyler had made fun of how Deidre and about fifty others had responded with short statements such as, “praying,” or “praying now,” and a dozen other similar comments.

At the beginning of Luke’s second paragraph he had asked me, “is Tyler correct?  Prayer doesn’t work.”  Luke had gone on to say that he had never heard such a thing, that he had believed God always answered prayer, every one of them.  Luke ended his email in what looked like a state of total confusion because he wrote, “I might have my doubts about whether there is a God, but I still believe in the power of prayer.  Too many miracles have occurred at church.”

Before I responded, I once again virtually kicked myself for getting in this predicament.  I couldn’t fathom a way for this rocky and winding road Luke and I were traveling to end up in a safe and secure destination.  I could almost feel and see the horrible confrontational scene on the horizon.  It involved my entire family.  I might be literally shunned when Diedre and company learned what I had been telling the young and easily swayed Luke.

After contemplating my last thought, particularly the last two words, I emboldened myself.  The audacity of Diedre and Ed, Mom and Dad, an entire community of peers and wise old authoritarians.  All of them were involved, many virtually unaware, of constantly running a full-court press with one goal in mind: fully manipulating Luke (and everyone similarly situated) into believing the greatest myth of all time.

I clicked on the REPLY button and wrote.  “Luke, based on nearly a lifetime of reading, research, and contemplation, I have to agree with Tyler.  Prayer doesn’t work.  Our dialog on the God subject will likely take quite a while.  Recall I’ve mentioned that my experience of walking away from the Christian faith took years.  I suspect yours will too.  I encourage you to read an article.  Here is the link: http://www.nytimes.com/2006/03/31/health/31pray.html.  I’m not saying that the Templeton research project is absolute proof that prayer doesn’t work.  It certainly isn’t proof there isn’t some form of supernatural being out there somewhere.  However, I believe it cannot be dismissed as a fluke.  It was a double-blind, statistically-sound, study that indicated praying for sick folks simply had no effect (it appears to have made folks sicker).  I encourage you to read it carefully. 

As to your reference to ‘many miracles have occurred in church,’ I respectfully disagree.  If you could recall and focus on any one of them microscopically, you would conclude that the result you refer to as a miracle is explainable in total by natural means.  As an example, what I’m trying to say is that just because two years ago the church family and community had prayed for Eugene Lackey and his cancer had gone into remission, certainly didn’t mean such health improvement was caused by the prayers.  If you had the time to explore, you would find that this type thing happens all the time.  Even to people who are not believers and who have not been prayed for.  For the love of God (sorry!), please don’t ever discount the power of humanity here, especially the intelligence, skills, and experience of the many doctors and other health care workers who were involved.

It is rather easy to ‘want’ to conclude that good results come from God.  But, what about bad results?  Consider, what will Pastor Caleb, Deidre, and all the others praying for Eugene say if Mr. Lackey dies from cancer?  I must warn you, but you already know this since you’ve been in a fundamentalist Southern Baptist Church all your life.  Upon his death they will say, ‘God knows best.  He is mysterious.  His thoughts and ways are high above us.  Praise God.’  Only to someone knee-deep in faith would such thinking be reasonable.  To unbelievers like me their conclusions are fully deluded.”

I ended my email with a strong exhortation for Luke to remain fully committed to keeping our conversations totally private.

The news buzzing around the Fellowship Hall Wednesday night didn’t come as a complete surprise.  For whatever reason, yesterday after Elton’s funeral, Rebecca had discovered her home had been burglarized while her and Elton had been away at Gulf Shores. 

During Prayer Meeting, the news shared was more focused and fully surprising.  So much that it scared me to death.  A hidden motion-sensitive camera in Elton’s library had captured a tall man wearing a black toboggan easily accessing the hidden safe and removing several boxes of valuable contents.  Prayers from three different people pleaded with God to guide police and detectives in their search for the brazen burglar, and to give peace and comfort to the grieving Rebecca.

I could hardly sit still during the remainder of the service.  As I walked out of the auditorium I felt the long stare by Doug Barber revealed his knowledge I was the sought-after criminal.  As I drove home I pushed my emotions aside and restored my confidence by reviewing the steps I had taken to keep my identity concealed: the black toboggan, the long black wig protruding from underneath the toboggan, the black beard, the fake Roman nose, the skin-colored gloves that included a large scar along the top side of my left hand, and a set of false teeth that distorted the shape of my mouth, even my face.  My long sleeve black tee-shirt and black jeans were common.  The black poncho I had removed after entering the house was easily available.  Not to forget, the dark, thick glasses (thankfully without magnification) would also greatly detour even the best detective. 

After arriving home, I almost sat in my recliner.  This would only have made matters worse.  Right now, I didn’t need to ponder what I had just learned.  This would not be productive.  Instead, I pulled down the bag used in the Doug Barber burglary and placed the contents on the kitchen table.

I first looked at the pill bottles.  There were at least twenty.  Several of them contained some type liquid.  Others contained five to ten pills of all shapes and colors.   None of these bottles included any type of label or other form of description.  The remaining two bottles contained ten pills each and were marked, “Quaalude-300.”  I had a vague memory of having heard the word ‘Quaalude,’ but had no idea what ailment it had been used to treat.

Goggle quickly came to the rescue.  One website revealed that Quaalude-300 was a brand name for methaqualone, a drug first patented in the US in 1962. It was prescribed as a sedative, a muscle relaxant and as treatment for insomnia. Although Quaalude-300 was a non-barbiturate, the drug did have barbiturate-like effects.  It depressed the central nervous system, reduced heart and respiration rates, and numbed the fingers and toes. 

Another website stated, “frequent users of Quaalude-300 could have developed a tolerance to the drug, and methaqualone overdoses could result in death.”  A third website described the process of how in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s, people increasingly used the drug recreationally, and it had been off the market in the US since 1982.

I walked to my closet and returned with a shoe box and placed all the pill bottles inside.  The cheap jewelry, including two pocket watches, several pairs of earrings, and the two gold necklaces from the King Edward Cigar box, didn’t interest me.  Neither did the locket, even though the old photograph of the young woman registered with my mind that I had seen her before.

I set aside the rare looking coins for now.  I turned my attention to the old Smith & Wesson.  Again, with the help of Google, I learned that it was a 38 caliber.  It had been initially introduced in 1950 at the International Association of Chiefs of Police (IACP) convention in 1950.  A vote was held there to name the new revolver.  It was forever dubbed the “Chiefs Special.”  The old box the pistol lay in looked to be original.  I guessed that Doug or maybe his father had purchased the pistol, maybe as a collector’s item, making sure to hold on to the box for posterity purposes.

I fingered through the contents of the two accordion file folders.  They seemed to be typed notes from Bible studies, each referencing The Shepherd, the long-standing Sunday School quarterly published by the Southern Baptist Convention for many decades.  I recalled Doug had taught an adult Sunday School class for years.  The two folders were used to keep separate his studies from the Old and New Testaments.  Each of the two to four-page documents was stapled and contained a title, scripture references, and the date they were apparently used to teach a Sunday morning class.

The five or six standard manila folders all contained copies of Sand Mountain Reporter articles, ranging in subject matter from Boaz High School football, to news about area churches, and local crimes.  One folder was marked, “Safe House.”  The file name intrigued me, so I opened it seeing it contained several articles spanning the 1970’s starting in 1973.  I flipped to the back of the file and unfolded the oldest article.  The title was, “Lighthouse vs. Safehouse.”  I had heard of both.  The latter came about after I graduated from high school in 1972.  The Lighthouse, a First Baptist Church of Christ ministry, was started when I was in the tenth grade.  It was located on South Main Street next door to First State Bank of Boaz.  It was a weekend hangout for young people of all ages.

The article described the different worldviews of Randy and Ricky Miller.  Randy was the youth pastor at First Baptist Church of Christ and was instrumental in forming the Lighthouse ministry.  Ricky was his brother, who moved to Boaz during my freshman year to teach Biology at Boaz High School.  The article writer did her best to contrast the brothers.  Ricky was a secular humanist and believed his brother was deluded, working tirelessly to capture the minds and hearts of all the local young people.  The article shared how six local churches, led by First Baptist Church of Christ, had attempted to persuade the Boaz City Council not to issue a business license to Ricky Miller to operate what he dubbed the Safehouse (located directly across Main Street from the Lighthouse).  The churches had been unsuccessful.

The other articles in the file labeled Safe House, painted a rather sad picture.  The most recent article, dated November 29, 1973, was titled, “Safe House, Not so Safe.”  It revealed the story of Ricky Miller’s death by gunshot wound two days after thanksgiving.  At press time, there were no suspects.

I sat aside the two accordion file folders and opened one of the three black journals.  Inside the front hardback cover was printed in big, bold print, “1971/Sophomore.”  Underneath was a preprinted sentence with a long blank line where Angela had printed in pencil, “Angela Ericson.”  I checked the other two journals.  They followed suit: “1972/Junior,” and “1973/Senior.”  After scanning the first few pages of each of the three journals, I concluded Angela had kept a detailed record of her last three years at Boaz High School. 

It was nearly 9:30 p.m., and I was sleepy.  Normally, I’m wide awake until midnight.  I decided to stop my inspection and retire to my recliner, figuring a thirty-minute nap would give me a final burst of energy to return to the kitchen table.  For some reason I was inspired to read Angela’s words.  I clumsily stood up and knocked two of the black journals off onto the floor.  A folded sheet of paper, mauve-colored, slipped halfway out of one of the journals.  I leaned over and picked both up and opened the “1973/Senior” to the last page.  This is where Angela (or someone) had slid the sheet of stationary that clearly matched the one I had discovered in the Elton and Rebecca Rawlins’s safe.  Not only was the paper the same, so was the message and the author.  Randy Miller had once again written: ““Dear Angela: Go forth and live your life for God.  Your sins are forgiven, and your secret is safe with me.”  The letter was signed, “Pastor Randy.” 

I was now even more intrigued but was more overcome by sleep.  I walked to my recliner and didn’t wake until I heard Dad’s tiller humming away at the edge of the garden right next to my front yard.  I looked at my iPhone.  It was 7:30 a.m., thirty minutes before my first appointment.  So much for a quick nap.

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 12

I had just walked into the Alfa office Tuesday morning when Nell, the eccentric secretary and the only carry-over from the time the company was known as Farm Bureau, said, “a Connie Stewart just called you.  I left you a message on your desk.”

It wasn’t 8:00 a.m. and the tall and lovely Connie was good to her promise. I walked inside my office and laid my briefcase on the edge of my desk and sat down.  The pink phone message said, “Call her back within the next hour or late afternoon.  She will be working in her yards most all day.”  I couldn’t quite see the naturally tanned Connie setting out flowers and shoveling mulch.  She seemed the type to have a yardman do the hard and dirty work while she lay out beside the pool.  If she had a pool.

Before I dialed her number, I took a side trip.  I pulled out my Marshall County phone book and scoured all three columns of S’s.  There she was, Connie Stewart, 468 Sandor Drive.  I didn’t recognize the street name.  Within a few seconds Google Maps revealed it as a connecting street between Ross and Lindo Drive in the Boaz Country Club area, the section developed in the early seventies.  My mind spun up an image formed just a couple of weeks ago.  I had conducted a home visit with an older couple who lived on the corner of Ross Drive.  After the interview, one producing a $150,000 annuity sale, I had driven in the opposite direction from where I had arrived.  I now knew I had driven Sandor Drive and had noticed a beautiful white-brick, ranch style home.  The home’s neatness and beauty were certainly accentuated by the lovely landscaping.  To me, it now seemed the sixty-plus year-old Connie invested a considerable amount of time in her home and yard.  I guess that was reasonable since she didn’t have a man around to distract her.

“Connie, it’s Fred.  I’m sorry I missed your call.”

“No problem.  I just figured you were an early riser, being a farm boy.”  She no doubt remembered my growing up years out in the country because of her friendship with Deidre.

“Don’t mention it, that brings back some backbreaking memories.  Is now a good time to talk?” 

“It is.  I’m ready to decide on that long-term health care policy we talked about Sunday night.  That issue is consuming my thinking.  I want to know if I can afford a good policy.  If not, then I need to forget it.  I have other things to deal with.”  Connie said.

“We can move on it at your convenience.  The process involves Alfa’s underwriting department reviewing your medical history.  Of course, this assumes you submit an application for coverage.”  I wanted Connie to know I was ready when she was.

“Would you mind coming here?  I would prefer a private meeting instead of meeting in your office.  No offense intended of course, I’m just a little weird that way.”  Connie said.  I thought I heard her whispering something in the background.  Maybe I was wrong about her, maybe she had a boyfriend or something.  Gosh, I never considered that she might be lesbian.  Maybe that’s why she never married.  Traditionally, that is.

“Whatever works best for you.”

“This might be asking too much but could you come now?  I really want to deal with this as soon as possible.”

“I’m flexible this morning.  No appointments and just a pile of paperwork.  The latter can wait.  What is your address?”  I didn’t want her to think I could just jump in my car and drive straight to her.  I needed to play this on the cool side.  Sixty-four years old and I was concerned about being cool.  What an idiot I could be.

“Four sixty-eight Sandor Drive.  That’s in Boaz Country Club.”

“I think I know where that is.  I was in that neighborhood a few weeks ago.  Should I drive over?  Now?”

“Please.  Just come on in the front door, I’ll leave it unlocked.  Molly and I will be straight back in the sun room.”

I had Nell pull Alfa’s long-term health packet from a row of filing cabinets along the back wall.  The packet included a colorful brochure reflecting people of all ages, intending to softly influence someone into protecting their families hard-earned assets from decimation due to the high cost of living too long.  The packet also included the application, a HIPPA form (medical information release authorization), and all related forms to submit to underwriting.

At 8:15, I was gently pushing open Connie’s front door that she had left just barely cracked.  I walked in a large foyer and could see sunlight streaming into a large den from the room Connie had mentioned.  I announced my appearance and started walking across the den noticing a room full of expensive antiques.

“Come on back.”  It was the soft but commanding voice of the woman who had always intimidated me.  What in heck was I doing here?  Now, I was thoroughly confounded by the woman who was such a mystery back in high school.

As soon as I entered the sun room I saw Molly.  Laying across Connie’s lap, as she sat in a swing along the back wall.  Molly too was gorgeous, but in a different sort of way. 

“Fred, meet Molly.  Pet her head and let her smell your hand for just a few seconds.  She’ll warm to you easily since I’m giving her permission.”  I learned Molly was a black Yorkie.”  I complied with Connie’s instructions and then sat down in a love seat perpendicular to the swing.

“She’s beautiful.  How long have you had her?”  I asked, wanting to be polite but also not wanting to do anything to offend Connie.  I rarely walked on egg shells around anyone, but again, Connie was intimidating. 

“Thirteen years.  She’s getting old.  She constantly battles bronchitis and has had cataract surgery on both eyes.  It’s going to kill me when she’s gone.”

“Pets, especially dogs, change your life.  Susan and I had Golden Retrievers for over thirty years.  They, like Yorkies, make wonderful companions.”

“I was so sorry to hear about Susan.  You two were a beautiful couple.  I know it still must be difficult though it’s been, what, five years?”  Connie asked.

“It will be this September.  Moving home to Boaz has helped a lot.  I had to get away from Huntsville.  Everywhere I went I saw Susan.  We had lived there since a few months after I graduated from law school.”

Connie and I continued to reminisce out in the sun room for nearly thirty minutes.  Finally, she suggested we move to the dining room where we could talk business.  She was quick to absorb the key features of Alfa’s health policy and by 9:00 she was ready to complete the application.  I was a little surprised she hadn’t balked when I told her the premium was nearly $5,000 per year.  Clearly, she had done her research and had already decided to make the investment if she could find a policy that offered continually increasing benefits set to match the rise in the consumer price index.  I was thankful Alfa had pioneered such a feature.

We were finalizing the application when Connie said that Rebecca Rawlins was also interested in this type policy.  Apparently, Connie had called Rebecca right after we had gotten off the phone.  I thought it was strange, given the timing.  I knew Elton’s funeral was this afternoon.  I think Connie saw in my face that I was puzzled.

“I think I mentioned to you how close Rebecca and I are and have been since high school.  We talk about everything.  And, I don’t think it is a secret around town that Rebecca and Elton were not that close.  To put it bluntly, she’s ready to get on with her life.  That sounds cold doesn’t it, especially since the woman hasn’t yet buried her husband.” 

I continued to think this turn in conversation was odd, maybe even disrespectful, but wanted to know more.  “I was surprised when I heard Elton died.  From what I knew he was improving.  The heart attack, and when it happened, certainly was tragic.”

“To me, the car wreck was where the real tragedy was avoided.  But I am partial to Rebecca.  Elton wasn’t supposed to be driving.  He had passed out back two or three months ago and by law was not allowed to drive for at least six months.  If Rebecca had been driving, she would have certainly been the one being buried.”  Connie said.

“I haven’t heard anything about the accident.  What exactly happened?”  I asked.

“They were returning from Gulf Shores and got t-boned in Foley, right on the main drag.  You know where Lambert’s Restaurant is?  That intersection between it and the Hampton Inn.”

“Sounds like Elton might have run that red light.”

“That’s what I thought to begin with, but seems like several witnesses saw it happen.  They say he clearly had the right of way.  Since I watch many crime shows on TV and Netflix I think it was intentional.  Crazy thought uh?”

“Connie’s statement perked my ears and my mind.  For whatever reason, one I think might have been what Dad had said during Sunday’s lunch, something like, “she’s already murdered three husbands,” speaking of Rebecca, my mind wanted to agree with Connie’s declaration.

In less than five minutes all the paperwork was complete, and Connie had encouraged me to call Rebecca, tomorrow if I could.  I loaded my briefcase with the brochure and all the forms and stood up.  Connie walked me to the front door and called for Molly to come.  She had, by orders, remained in the sun room as Connie and I had transferred to the dining room.

“Tell Mr. Fred bye.”  Connie said reaching down for an eager Molly.

“It was very nice meeting you Molly.  I hope to see you again soon.”  I wanted to crawl in a hole.  Quickly.  Why I had phrased my statement that way I will never know.  It was like a less-than-subtle hint to Connie that I would like to come back.  I just as quickly added.  “I’ll see you when I bring Miss Connie’s policy.”  A lawyer must be quick on his feet.

I glanced at Connie and there was that perpetual smile.   This time she had added a slight rise of an eyebrow.  I tried to ignore it.  “Let me know if you need more information.  Also, I assume you will call me when the policy is issued?”

“I will.  We will need to meet again.  It won’t take long.  I like to review the final policy with you and Alfa requires you sign a receipt.”  I said, feeling more confident.

“Just call me when it arrives.”

“I will.  And, thanks for putting your confidence in Alfa Insurance Company.”  It was a line I always used.  It was a statement I truly meant.  Connie, and all my other clients, didn’t have to choose Alfa.  There were a dozen other strong insurance companies they could choose just as easily.

“And in you.”  Connie said.  “I’m confident you wouldn’t mislead me, that you are a man of your word.  That’s very important to me.” 

Awkwardly, I shook Connie’s hand and again thanked her.  I walked out on her front porch and was turning to walk down the steps onto her sidewalk when she said.  “Be sure and call me.”  I looked towards her and saw that sly smile, more sly than usual.  Somehow her smile and something about how she was leaning against the frame of her front door emboldened me.

“I won’t make that mistake again.”  I was kind of glad I said it, but then I didn’t know what to do.  Our eyes locked for just a few seconds, and I turned and walked back to my car.

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 11

Last week when I met with Pastor Caleb and he mentioned the church’s Mosler safe, I was glad I hadn’t revealed my connection to the oldest safe manufacturing company in America.  At the end of that meeting I had made a mental note to review Papa Martin’s journals on the specifics of what he had recorded about the Mosler safe sold to First Baptist Church of Christ.

The sale had taken place in 1899, June.  I thought it an odd, even a rare, coincidence that the transaction had taken place the same month in which Papa Martin was born.  Not only had he, starting in 1919 when he first went to work for the Mosler Company, began recording the make and model of every safe sold since its inception in 1874, but also the name and address of the buyer.  Sometimes, if he knew, he would write out a narrative, placing the buyer in a sort of story frame. 

When I arrived home from the Fishermen concert last night, I had found Papa’s 1899 to 1904 journal and the June 23rd entry that listed the Model T20 Mosler safe the church had purchased.  It was the same model Mr. Whitman had purchased for his Thomas Avenue home in 1924.  Papa had written, “this was the first safe purchased by anyone from the area in which I grew up.”  Papa had told me over the years that he would sometimes go back through his journals, after he learned new information and add a little to the original entry.  He must have done this with the church’s original narrative because running vertically along the edge of the page he had written on October 28, 1979, less than a year before he retired, “Mosler has now sold six safes to the Boaz area.  They were purchased by: First Baptist Church of Christ, Edward Fenns Whitman, City of Boaz, Radford Hardware, Doug Barber, and Boaz High School.”

I was surprised I had never read this entry.  For whatever reason, when I had originally discovered the First Baptist Church of Christ entry, I had ignored the vertically aligned add-on.  I reread Papa’s last entry and noted he had not said there were no other Mosler safes in and around the Boaz area.  He would have no way of knowing that.  There was always the possibility, maybe even likely possibility, of someone moving into the area with their own Mosler purchased when they lived in Scranton, New Jersey, or Boise, Idaho, etc.  And, it could just as likely be that someone, a long resident of the Boaz area, bought a Mosler, used, via Ebay, Craigslist, or through some other used equipment venue.

I was glad I had discovered Papa Martin’s listing of local Mosler purchasers.  But, the only one I was interested in, right now at least, was the one I had known about for nearly eighteen years, the one owned since the early seventies by Doug Barber.  It too was a Model T20 (was there any other kind?).  The thing I hadn’t known was where Barber’s safe was located.  It was just as likely located at his home or his pharmacy.  It was a stroke of luck that in 2015 Doug had engaged the highly capable firm of Water’s Security to upgrade his outdated system at Good Neighbor Pharmacy.  Noah had finished up the installation himself and, late one night, being all alone, had thoroughly inspected every inch of the sprawling drug store.  There was no Mosler safe to be found.  That meant only one thing, the Model T20 was somewhere in Doug and Angela’s house on Debbie Street.  It was there, I would be paying a little visit in less than six hours.

This adventure was much riskier than my visit to the Rawlins on Thomas Avenue.  Doug was still in town, working.  However, I was thankful he had mentioned last night that he would be a bachelor for nearly a week, since Angela had left mid-afternoon for a multi-day visit with her sister in Montgomery.  This news had accelerated mine and Noah’s plans by at least a couple of months.  I had called him last night and we had carefully crafted a plan.  He would stakeout Doug as he worked at the pharmacy and if he chose to head out during our target times Noah would confront Doug with the excuse his alarm system was pinging, anything to delay Doug from encroaching upon my private time.

Heaven itself was the real reason Noah and I decided late afternoon that it was a go.  Yesterday, the weather forecast was mixed, there was a thirty percent chance of rain.  Today, Heaven blessed the righteous and the burglars alike with an easily modified forecast, racing the probabilities all the way to a hundred percent.  By the time I arrived at Willard Avenue and tucked a borrowed car behind a thick hedgerow next to the Boaz Golf Club, I realized our plan had flaws.  It was quite a walk to Doug’s house on the far end of Debbie Street.  I wished I had arranged for Noah to drop me off at the corner of Eugene and Debbie, but that would have created its own set of issues.  As I walked along the edge of Debbie in pouring rain I prayed no one would see me.  Surely, mine and Noah’s cause was somewhat righteous.

I was thankful Doug and Angela liked their privacy.  They had a six-foot wooden fence around the enclosed pool at the back of their house.  I was also thankful Noah had loaned me his scanner.  It wasn’t the typical police scanner.  This was a device Noah had created and for which he had obtained a patent.  He, at my request, had declined to market it.  It was touch and go whether it was legal.  Before using the device, I had conducted a quick inspection attempting to determine whether the house had a burglar alarm.  I hadn’t seen any signs. 

In less than a minute I had tripped the back-door lock and was inside the kitchen.  The small scanner looked like an iPhone.  It was indicating there was no active alarm systems in the house.  Some relief was in order but only a real burglar would know the feeling of dread, trepidation, and outright fear that came close to disabling the most determined man or woman once he or she was illegally inside another’s home.

After searching the master bedroom and bath, and a large study, my stomach turned nauseous.  I concluded the safe was either not here or was hidden behind a wall.  The latter would kill the chances of success since I didn’t have the combination and was going to have to cut a hole in the back of the safe.  That would take nearly an hour.  I quickly scoured the other two bedrooms, another bathroom, and the den.  I turned towards the back-door entrance to call it a day when I saw the door beside the pantry.  No way would someone put a Mosler masterpiece out in their garage.  I hesitated to look but was drawn by curiosity.  I walked over and opened the door.  I didn’t have to walk inside and look around.  I saw it along the outside wall, across from the entrance to the breakfast nook as you entered the house.

Within two minutes I had removed about twenty boxes from around the safe and had rolled it away from the wall enough for me to access its back side.  I had thirteen hundred degrees piercing the thick metal of the outside wall for ten minutes when I heard a car driving by.  Doug’s garage doors were closed.  For the first time, it dawned on me the doors had windows and my torch would be lighting up the entire garage.  Burglars are so dumb, especially this one.  I lucked out when the car rolled on down the street as the rain continued to pour.  I locked the handle on my high-priced torch and propped it temporarily.  I walked over and used my duct tape to seal cardboard over the three narrow windows. 

The thick plate steel fell outside the safe at 5:45, fifteen minutes before Doug was scheduled to close the Good Neighbor Pharmacy.  I had to hurry.  It didn’t take long for me to peer with flashlight inside the safe.  It was loaded down.  This was a problem.  I had to someway reach through with a short flat-headed screwdriver all the way to the front door and trip the plate that held the combination locking system in place.  After another three minutes of trying to squeeze my hand between boxes that were stacked beside and on top of each other, I finally felt the safe’s front wall.  After a small miracle occurred, I looked at my watch: 5:55.  I hadn’t figured on the two layers of thick duct tape Doug had used to keep the locking mechanism in place.  The contrary thought quickly raced through my head that maybe Doug had read enough to know that the back-door method was the only feasible way for a burglar to gain access via the safe’s front door. 

Whatever.  I rolled the safe, using all my strength, to a better access position and pulled open the front door.  I started opening and discarding box after box.  Most of them contained old pill bottles, filled with multi-colored and multi-shaped pills.  A few boxes had an assortment of jewelry, pocket watches, and earrings, all looking cheap, almost common.  I found two flatter type boxes containing some rare looking coins each inside its own plastic sleeve.  I tossed them into an extra bag I had brought along, maybe subliminally believing Doug’s safe wouldn’t be as tidy as Elton’s.

The time was 6:03.  Doug was now talking with Noah.  Our agreement had been if I hadn’t called his burner phone from my burner phone by 6:00 p.m., that he would walk inside the pharmacy if the front door wasn’t locked.  If it was, then he would wait on Noah to come out.  I had already determined there wasn’t a usable rear door on the backside of the old building.  I couldn’t see Doug walking down the narrow alleyway dodging old and unused dumpsters, and two disabled Volkswagen bugs.

I reverted to plan B.  I would grab everything I thought might contain something valuable and zip them up in my extra bag.  There were two accordion file folders, several regular manila folders, three black journals that reminded me of Papa Martin’s, and a heavy box that I quickly opened to find a Smith & Wesson 38 caliber pistol.  It too was old.  For good measure, I grabbed an old King Edward Cigar box that contained an assortment of coins, rings, gold necklaces, and a locket I didn’t take time to open. 

At 6:09, I was back in my borrowed Malibu and turning left on Pleasant Hill Road.  I dialed Noah’s burner phone, but he didn’t answer.  I concluded he was still talking with Doug, maybe inspecting the security system’s control panel in a storage room next to the rear door.  At 6:15, I made my second attempt to reach my best friend, hoping he hadn’t run into any clichés.  “I’m leaving, walking across the parking lot.  Doug’s still inside.  Is everything a high-five?”  I was glad Noah could stay on our agreed-upon script, at least with the last statement.

“Yep, no real issues.  But, change of plans.  The train car’s full of junk and needs sorting.  I’m returning to base and will forward an update when the tracks are clear.”  I knew there was nothing really to gain by meeting Noah and dividing up the haul.  I felt it was safe for me to exchange my Malibu for my truck at Tyson’s crowded parking lot and drive home with the loot.  If there was anything worth keeping Noah and I could decide how to divide and conquer later.

At 7:04, I pulled under my prefab carport beside my hundred-plus-year-old home.  It was still pouring, but not as bad.  When inside, I shoved my tool bag onto the top shelf in a closet next to the kitchen.  I laid the extra bag on the oak-planked table, another piece of ancient furniture built by the long-gone, but never forgotten, Stonewall Martin.