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Muffalettas and Murder--Small Town Girl Mysteries Book 1

By Jann Franklin

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How did it happen? My adorable kids, all grown up, think they know everything. Last I'd heard, I was in charge of my life. Me, Dr. Evangeline Louise Bergeron Delafose, PhD. Yet, I didn't know a thing.
My youngest, the one who understood me best, announced one day that Nate was right—I needed to pack it all up and move closer to family. Not her, of course.
"Mom, that would be weird. My mother living in the same town as me? I'm a freshman in college! It's my time to spread my wings." Ellie was actually referring to my brother and my father, still in the town I'd fled thirty years ago.
Matty agreed, of course. "Mom, Ellie's right. You should live closer to Uncle Nate and Aunt Bonnie. Grandpa too. You need to make some changes."
Traitors. If Doug was here…but he wasn't. So, I packed up my stuff and moved. Not like I moved anywhere crazy. When Doug and I married, I'd made a vow to love, honor, cherish, and never move back to Graisseville (pronounced, GRACE-vil) in Louisiana. To quote a James Bond film, Never Say Never.
The parents of a Graisseville mayor built my home in 1928, giving it a wide front and side porch and majestic columns. The last owner painted the entire house white with slate blue shutters. Not only had someone raised a mayor in my home, but village gossip claimed that Bonnie and Clyde laid low in my adjoining carriage house for a few days. It sat in the center of the Pecan Street block, just outside the Historic District and snugly within the bounds of my brother's watchful eye. As a sheriff's deputy in East Baton Rouge Parish, Nate had sworn to protect and serve. Hovering was not part of his oath, though. I had checked, just to make sure.
Back in my hometown for three months, I was adjusting to the exciting population of 298 intriguing people. The casserole brigade descended upon me like vultures on roadkill. In my small-town experience, these senior ladies ambushed all men qualifying as available.
They sniffed out every single man over sixty within the parish, plying them with King Ranch casserole and enchilada pie. Why had they set their sights on me? Maybe I kept a stash of single men, ages sixty and up, in a storage facility somewhere? The brigade eventually discovered I had no stash, didn't know how to play bridge, preferred not to gossip, and led a completely boring life. The newness wore off, and they left me to my own devices.
Today was Thursday, my weekly supper with my brother. The day of the week I had to account for all my activities, as Nate frowned and shook his head. Maybe I should have moved closer to Mad? My younger sister's given name was Madeline, but she had a short fuse. Nate dubbed her Mad when he was about four, and we all agreed it fit. Her quick temper convinced me to move closer to Dad and Nate. Mad wouldn't critique my social life, though. Someone remind me again… why had I moved back to Graisseville?
"Ev, you've lost more weight. Did you eat the gumbo Bonnie sent over?" Nate's mouth curled up in a smile, but his eyes exposed the concern.
Why was everyone so worried about me? Was I that pathetic? "Yes, Nate, I ate Bonnie's gumbo. Yes, I read the book she gave me. Yes, I'm coming to Jack's football game and Syd's piano recital this weekend. Yes, I'll be at church on Sunday." My eyes jerked in my brother's direction and softened. He was trying to take care of me, like Doug did before he passed away. Only when Doug asked me if I'd eaten, his words weren't nails on a chalkboard.
My brother was relentless. "So, changing the subject, have you given any thought to starting another book? Writing, I mean—not reading. The guys down at the station still talk about your character, Lou Bergeron, and how authentic he is." Nate stopped, realizing he'd stepped in a big hot mess of…dog poop.
My series of books, featuring New Orleans police detective Lou Bergeron, had been reasonably successful. Lou was no Alex Cross, by any standard. But the royalties from my books supplemented my professor's salary. Along with Doug's detective pay, our life had been pretty darn good. Only…
"Gosh, I'm so sorry, Ev! Geez, what a moron I am!"
Only…Lou Bergeron was Doug. Which was why police officers were my biggest fans. He was authentic because Doug made him so. My husband was always the first to read my books, making my character an authentic police officer. With Doug gone, I had no desire to visit Lou down at the police station, to flesh out his cases and celebrate his successes.
"It's okay Nate, I know what you're saying. But Lou is Doug, and Doug is gone. I can't write about Lou anymore. I'm not sure I ever want to write again." There! I'd spoken the thoughts crouching under the rug. My words freed them, and they'd sprung into the middle of the room.
Nate nodded, his brown eyes revealing just a hint of tears. "No pressure! I just wanted to double-check, because the guys always ask me. But I understand, Ev, I truly do. On another note, I had an idea…"
Reaching into his briefcase, my brother pulled out a medium-sized manila folder and placed it gingerly on the cleared table. An East Baton Rouge Parish sheriff's department folder, from the looks of the official seal.
"This case is technically inactive. It's been eighteen months, and we're stuck." Nate's eyes took on the familiar sad puppy dog look, the one he'd always used to get what he wanted. Those eyes always worked on Mother, and usually me, too. Never Mad or my father.
"Ev, I can't let it go! This was a good kid. We like his sister for his murder, but we just don't have enough evidence to prove it. The D.A. won't touch it. So, I talked to the sheriff, and explained how you write, or used to write, detective novels for a living. Turns out he's a fan." Nate's eyes lit up with pride.
Who would've guessed that writing stories about my husband would score such a fan base?
"Okay, Nate. So, the sheriff is a fan. What do you want from me? Should I autograph the file?" Glancing at the manila folder before me, I couldn't help but flip it open. Doug had brought home many files, so these pages stared at me like familiar friends. Where do I put my autograph? Should I use my go-to pink glitter pen, or should it be black ink? My eyes shifted to Nate for confirmation.
"No, Ev, the sheriff doesn't want an autograph." My brother paused, then walked it back. "Well, he doesn't want an autograph on this file. It's a copy of the original. Your copy. He'd…well, we'd…"
Spit it out, Nate, because I'm not following you.
"We'd like you to look at the case through fresh eyes—hopefully find something we missed. Would you do that for us? For Michael Cook, the deceased?"
Hmmm…this was intriguing. Doug had often shared his cases with me after the kids went to bed. But I functioned as a sounding board, to nod or shake my head as he ran through his theories and clues. To play detective, limited as it would be, seemed…well, it seemed much more fun than playing bridge and definitely more interesting than joining the church decorating committee.
"I'll do it! Umm…I mean, if the sheriff's department would like my help, of course." C'mon Ev, rein in your enthusiasm. And yet…this could be so much fun!
Nate smiled in relief—did he actually think I'd say no? He didn't know me that well, I guess. Wait! Had the rock in my stomach shrunk several inches? Relief washed over my body, and I felt my shoulders relax. After three years of surviving without my husband, trying to get our daughter graduated from high school and our son through most of college, my reward had been banishment back to Graisseville. Ellie relinquished her need of a mother, and Matty had long since outgrown me. But the sheriff's department found me useful. Had I found a reason to stop surviving and start living?

***

October evenings in Louisiana summoned eighty-degree heat, but I still enjoyed a cup of hot tea and a light blanket. Gazing at the stars, I breathed in the small-town peace while my feet rocked back and forth. The realtor sold me on my house because of the front porch and its swing.
"You'll find peace in this porch swing, Ev. Come sit and you'll see." She'd plopped down on the creaky wooden swing, then patted the cushion beside her. Gingerly I joined her, and we rocked quietly. "You can see the stars from this porch swing in the evening. And enjoy a cup of coffee early in the morning. The neighborhood is quiet, with lots of friendly people. You're only two minutes away from Nate and Bonnie." The woman had me at the words, porch swing.
Before I opened the file on Michael Cook, I grabbed my trusty purple highlighter and pink Sharpie from the side table. Purple to note clues, and pink to mark potential lies or inconsistencies. My situation confused me at first, because normally I created the murderer, the victim, and the suspects. But this file contained all the characters already created. My job? To figure out who was who. What have you gotten yourself into, girl? Maybe you should have put something stronger in the tea?
Suddenly, peace filled my soul. Was it Doug, or more probably, my Heavenly Father? I'd take either or both, whichever one helped solve Michael Cook's murder. Let's begin, Ev. You can do this!
Perusing the file, I scribbled a slew of notes. The victim was Michael Cook, the bright star of a working-class family. Diligent in his job at the bank in Zachary. Parents died a few years ago, leaving their home to Michael and his older sister, Stella. Nate's notes mentioned Michael supported Stella, financially and otherwise. I hoped Nate didn't relate to Michael, younger brother supporting older sister? I'd never asked for a dime! Sigh…Focus, Ev! Move on.
My brother's meticulous notes continued: Stella Cook—recovering from substance abuse. Seriously, Nate? Not a crime, really. Could she kill her brother? I certainly couldn't kill mine! What would her motive be?
Nate outlined it all for me. Witnesses stated that Stella was jealous of her brother because he was on the right track, a young man with a career and a future. Then, of course, we had the standard statement: once an addict, always an addict. What the heck? That was not a motive to kill.
Angrily, I plowed through Nate's notes. Why was he focusing on the drug addicted sister? Ah, here was suspect number two.
Josh Fairchild, a person of interest. Prominent member in the community and owner of Best Dry Cleaners, where Stella worked. Witnesses stated he was a dear friend of the victim's parents, committed to looking after the children upon their death. Solid alibi and no motive, but Nate felt there was more to his story. He'd written the question, Stella's drug supplier? in the margin.
Another person of interest, or who I dubbed Suspect Number Three: Sam Hughes—Michael's co-worker at the bank in Zachary. Employees saw Sam and Michael arguing about a missed promotion. Missed promotion? That seemed pretty important. Men identify most strongly with their careers, while women count family as most important. A missed promotion might be a reason to kill. Why weren't there more notes?
Ooh! Suspect Number Four: Faith Dixon, Michael's ex-girlfriend. Checking the file several times, I came up short. Really, Nate? Mother's stories of my brother's exes rushed through my mind, the stalking and the phone calls at all hours. Women scorned can be crazy! Side note: Thank You Lord Jesus for Bonnie! She was a blessing to both Nate and our family. Otherwise, we'd have Crazy Anna, her nickname in the Louisiana State Penitentiary. Nate dodged a bullet. Turning back to the folder, I envisioned a similar tale. This girl needed to be investigated.
Rounding out the manila folder was Rob Dugas—Michael's best friend from high school. My eyes squinted as I read the small print. Ugh! Did I need a stronger prescription already? It had been a couple of years. Sigh…just another sign I was not getting any younger.
Turning back to the file, I noted the sheriff's office had arrested Rob multiple times for dealing drugs. Yikes! Doug would guess this kid needed money fast. My heart turned to my kids with good hearts. Matty and Ellie would give money to friends in need. Rob was Michael's friend in need. Did he finally say no?

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