Murder in the Classic City

by Sheila S Hudson

  Murder

  in the

  Classic City

  By

  Sheila S. Hudson

  Copyright © 2019 Sheila Hudson

  Take Me Away Books, a division of Winged Publications

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the authors.

  Scripture taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version (NIV), Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the authors’ imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Partners in Crime

  Book 1

  1

  The knife blade glittered in the afternoon sun; she closed her eyes and prayed. She’d heard that in the last moments, your life passed before your eyes. With blood pounding in her temples, Louisa opened her heavily lidded eyes and forced herself to stare into the face of the man who had raped her and murdered her mother!

  “I’m home.”

  The back door slammed; reality kicked in. Giles was home. It was always jarring when I had to switch gears, remove my alter ego, and become the little woman of the household.

  Stella Holmes was not the name given to me at Crawford Long Hospital in Atlanta, but a moniker that I had chosen. Since I devoted much of my adolescent and teen years reading everything Arthur Conan Doyle had ever written, I made the last name of my nom de plume Holmes as an homage to the great man. Stella means star and that’s what I aim for -- a star writer of cozy mysteries. At the time I didn’t think anyone would ever see what I had written. I never dreamed it would be the launch of a writing career.

  It may have been my pen name that prompted me to write mysteries or maybe it was to collect on a bet from an old college roommate. In any case, once a publisher offered me a three-book deal the name stuck. I engaged an agent and the rest took off. My only doubt was: Could I manage to keep up the charade and shield my ultra-conservative husband from the truth?

  I was told my books were good reads. They flew off the shelves even in a competitive market. My novels contained the formula that sold discreet love scenes, action and adventure, plot-thickening twists by likeably flawed characters sprinkled with humor. The local book reviewer described my style as “Jan Karon meets Mary Higgins Clark” which pleased me to no end.

  I closed my laptop and saved my latest manuscript on a USB which I plopped into my pocket. Giles deposited his briefcase in the study and headed upstairs to change from his suit to more casual clothes. I often wished that I could share my success with the person I loved most, but I’m afraid my scribblings might embarrass him. I told myself that when the time was right, I would reveal all including a chunk of my royalties deposited in a local bank under Stella’s name. I was saving for a retirement cottage either in the mountains or by the seashore.

  “How was your day, dear?”

  Giles shook his head.

  “Not good. The department chair wants to make radical cuts in the budget while the faculty is screaming for lab equipment, ergonomic desk chairs, and new computers. Same old. Same old. Let’s not talk about it anymore, it gives me indigestion.”

  I nodded in agreement and plated roast beef, mashed potatoes, and gravy. I could hear our veins clotting with cholesterol. Fortunately, I didn’t serve this very often.

  “What did you do today?” he asked helping himself to biscuits and extra gravy.

  “Oh, nothing unusual. Went to Barnes and Nobel, browsed, and had a quick lunch downtown.”

  I knew he wasn’t listening closely, so I was careful not to be too specific. I suspect he skipped lunch by the portions on his plate. A long walk after dinner would ease stress levels.

  In real life, I am Stephanie Hart, wife to Professor Hart of Rutherford Community College. We enjoy our little corner of the world nestled in the heart of northeast Georgia. Giles teaches English and Comparative Literature, but he has specialties in cults and the occult. We met in graduate school and have been married more than 30 years. For a short time, I taught a few classes, but now I play housewife and write.

  For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to write. My head is full of stories but growing up I was reluctant to write them down because my mother warned that men do not want girls who were smarter than they are. I quickly learned that was mostly true, so I didn’t date much until my college days. I filled numerous journals and diaries with ideas that my ‘little gray cells’ provided in the way of story material plus scandals only available in a community not even large enough to be a “hick” town. I devoured every mystery that Agatha Christie and Arthur Conan Doyle cranked out.

  “How about that walk now?” I asked after mentally reworking the last chapter.

  “Good idea. I need your perspective on some of the items we discussed during the faculty meeting.”

  We grabbed jackets to fend off the autumn breeze and exited the front door. No need to lock up. Nothing ever happened here. This was the most honest town in the world.

  Life here was far from challenging. I suppose that’s what charged my writing battery. When we married, I imagined a quiet academic lifestyle with 2.5 children, a house with a picket fence, a wood-paneled station wagon and a cocker spaniel. There we would live happily ever after. Some of that came true. Giles was good at his job, maybe too good.

  “Dr. Mills wants me to take the offer of becoming a part-time consultant with the police department. The package comes with a salary supplement. That will help us personally and the positive public relations will be good for the college. With my research and background on occult studies, the chief feels that I could be of great use to them. Dr. Mills has already announced that there will be no cost of living raises this year and this means . . .”

  “. . this means the police furnish your pay raise and the university gets free publicity” I interrupted.

  “That’s about it,” he laughed and took my hand.

  We turned the corner. Living here was convenient. We could walk downtown – if you could call a drug store, bank, newspaper office, and a five-and-dime downtown. The church was within walking distance and so was the grocery if you only needed a couple of items.

  The Golden Agers met at the Pancake House next to the grocery. It was from my time with the senior citizens, especially Doris and Carol, that I got the idea for my first Diva book. They took me into their confidences and taught me how to cheat at cards, talk like a pirate, and in general have serious fun.

  Whatever it was, the synapses started firing again. With my silver haired buddies, I got the low down on the weekly Bible study, the annual church bazaar, and the monthly ladies’ social and service society. I learned how to embellish and exaggerate. I began to write down some of this stuff, mix in a few ‘who dun its’ for my own amusement, and on a whim, I sent a manuscript into a publisher and voila a career was born.

  “Hey what planet are you on?” Giles asked.

  “Sorry. I’ve got a lot of things on my mind right now. What were you saying?”

  “Ice cream. Do you want some?”

  “Yes, sweetie of course,” I answered somewhat chagrinned that my husband caught me in a world filled with protagonists, antagonists, and wondering how I could write Louisa away from her attacker. I imagined a few plot points to get my heroine out of a tight spot, but I wasn’t pleased with any of them. Before he came home, I managed to jot down a few possibilities on the USB in my pocket. I‘d run them by Carol and Doris. They had become my first readers and biggest fans. Of cou
rse, they were sworn to secrecy, a bargain they had kept for three years.

  Who knew that my very first book, The Diva Code, would be so popular? So far, I managed to keep personal information off the book jackets and out of the news. I worked hard to keep my worlds separated. When I wasn’t involved with the seniors, writing, or accompanying Giles to university functions, I volunteered for various community functions. My double life was perfect. By day, I was ordinary but by night, I wrote of murder, crime, adventure, life, and love in a small town.

  2

  Labor Day, my favorite weekend of the year, was fast approaching. The entire town pitched in to help with the City-Wide Barbecue. The entire community came together for the grand event.

  Traditionally the men stayed up all Friday night cooking Boston butt pork shoulders in City Park and listening to Bluegrass music. From what I could tell, they spun a few yarns of their own. Oh, to be able to tape record some of them!

  Saturday was the big dinner where barbecue sauce flowed like wine. The women provided the cakes and pies for dessert along with Cole slaw, bread, and pickles. Every year the City-Wide Barbecue was a huge success with the proceeds going to the local homeless shelters.

  This year Giles was commissioned with preparing the meat using his secret sauce. With my hubby’s mind occupied, it was easy to make quick work of dinner tomorrow night and send him off to gather ingredients.

  I rinsed and placed the dishes in the dishwasher. I stretched out in my leather chair with a glass of wine to watch the 10 p.m. news. It was exhausting to envision every kitchen in town bustling with preparations for Saturday. There would be events for children including relays, races, eating contests, and the coup de gras – the parade. For our burg, it was bigger than the Fourth of July.

  I thought over my conversation about Giles being a consultant for the police department. He had worked with the local authorities on several crimes involving the occult. But this last offer was a more lucrative partnership from what I understood. Since aiding in the Matamoras murders, Giles had become a hot commodity. He taught summer courses at the college in symbology, the occult, and cultic sects. Each time he taught the seminar, the classes grew. Either it was his superb instruction, or the interest was growing. In either case, I was proud of my husband who was the genius behind bringing several criminals to justice.

  On the other hand, I reserved concern for his well-being. In the back of my mind I feared retribution from those who were prosecuted. The media freely listed his name and occupation as part of the breaking stories, but the police chief assured me of their protection.

  I sipped my Chardonnay and smiled with pride. We were very happy doing what we loved. I didn’t mind that my fame was a secret. Just knowing my motive behind my secret career was enough. I knew that Giles would be happy for me. I just wanted his career to be priority.

  As for me, I had big plans for Stella. She would make our retirement comfortable and take the burden off my husband to provide. Giles needed a relaxing hobby when he wasn’t teaching or being a consultant. A cottage would be just the ticket. And as a writer, I could perform my tasks anywhere there was an internet connection.

  3

  Every man in town who was between diapers and Depends© was at City Park helping with the barbecue. Giles left class early on Friday and went straight to the park, so I didn’t need to make dinner. He had stashed everything he needed in the car before class. I knew he was in his element once he donned his apron and began preparations for the secret pork rub and barbeque sauce.

  Giles returned home around 2 a.m. and slept for a few hours but was up and gone Saturday before breakfast. I slept late and skipped breakfast. I wanted to leave room for the spread at noon. I finished cleaning up in the kitchen and heard a car in the driveway. I assumed Giles had forgotten something. I went to open the front door, but no one was there. ‘Someone must have turned around’ I told myself.

  By the time I got to City Park with my contribution to the barbecue, the crowd was checking in for their barbecue plates. I helped distribute the food and we watched the parade. Giles went home exhausted. I stayed behind since I was part of the clean-up crew.

  The entire time we were cleaning my editor’s voice boomed through my head: ‘You’ve got to have a little more sexual tension.’ Now how was I to manage that? I had to think of my readership. What if my family read my books? What if the faculty at the college where Giles taught was a fan of my novels?

  Still I had to give the editor and the public what they wanted, keep it entertaining but at the same time wholesome and above all tell a good story. That is a tall order for any writer. I went to bed with all of this on my mind and dreamed of an old boyfriend, a baby out of wedlock, and a murder. But wait. Who said anything about murder?

  I awoke with a start. Someone was banging at our glass sliding doors. Police cars and sirens with swirling red and blue lights lit up our driveway. Astronauts could locate our house from the moon. My phone began to ring. I ignored it and opened the door to an insistent detective who asked a lot of questions. I put up my hand and tried to remain calm.

  “Wait a second. I need coffee,” I said to the officer who flashed credentials at me.

  “What’s going on?” Giles asked as he stumbled into the kitchen. After the barbeque we were both exhausted but managed to talk into the night about what this business of being part-time as a police consultant meant – both to his career and to our personal life.

  While we waited on the slowest Mr. Coffee in the world, the detective, now identified as Sgt. Grimes, explained that a dead body was discovered in the car parked in front of our house. The victim was a man. The deceased still had his credit cards and wallet so robbery as a motive was ruled out. Edmund Tolbert, as the identification revealed, apparently died by asphyxiation. It seems the old Pontiac emitted carbon monoxide fumes. The driver must have fallen asleep while it was idling. But why was he parked in front of our house? The name Tolbert didn’t ring a bell, yet here he is dead practically on our doorstep.

  The sergeant asked us a slew of questions about our activities while his team began a search of the house and grounds. A uniform presented the Sarge with a bulging file folder that he found underneath our king size bed.

  “What’s this?” Grimes asked as he plopped the folder in front of me. It was the galleys for my latest novel, Diva’s Revenge, about a murderer who gets even with an old boyfriend after being jilted.

  “It’s mine,” I admitted. Giles’s eyebrows went up, but he played it cool.

  “But the title page says it was written by Stella Holmes.”

  “I’m Stella Holmes,” I said averting my husband’s glances. I took a large gulp of coffee and explained about the nom de plume and my writing career.

  The detective shook his head. “I’m sorry but I’m going to have to take this for now.”

  “I don’t see why. It has nothing to do with this homicide.”

  “Really. Did I mention that the victim died while holding a book autographed by Stella Holmes?”

  Giles gave me a look that I’d never seen before. He couldn’t believe that a bestselling author, namely me, had kept this secret from him. I feared that he would be angry at my secretiveness. If he was angry, he didn’t show it publicly instead he pushed out his chest and almost crowed.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Giles asked when we were finally alone.

  “At first, it was just a hobby. When the first one got published, it was a fluke. Then things took off and it seemed better to leave things as they were. Are you mad?”

  “Mad? No but I’m a little hurt but all in all I’m ecstatic. And so proud I could burst. But the good detective said that the victim had a book of yours in his hand. So, do you know him?”

  “Not by the name Edmund Tolbert. But anyone could buy that book either at the bookstore or online. That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “But it was signed, so you had to have met him somewhere.”

  “That’s true,” I
mused.

  “Do you think he was trying to contact you?” my husband asked.

  “I suppose. I am so sorry that you had to find out this way, but truthfully, I am relieved that you know. I don’t like keeping secrets. More coffee?”

  We talked for hours after the police left. I told him the details of the last three years regarding my writing profession. The only book signings I had done were at least two hours away. I hadn’t let them post a photograph or give any details as to our address so how did this fellow find me?

  As they normally do in small towns, rumors flew. Was Stephanie Hart, wife of the local professor, a best-selling novelist? The congregation where we worshipped held an emergency meeting. So did the college where Giles taught. Our conservative southern berg had definite ideas about the “woman who wrote trashy novels.”

  Doris and Carol were excited that I was in their words, famous. But best of all they were credited as my inspiration. A few of our acquaintances held their opinions to themselves. The few who withdrew from us were the usual snobs. As usual the ‘bodice ripper’ accusations were raised by the ones who hadn’t bothered to read The Diva Code, Southern Diva, or Divine Diva.

  Giles used his oratory expertise to quiet the misgivings of his colleagues. He encouraged everyone to take the long view and reserve judgment. Besides there was something more important at stake than who wrote what – namely a death that had occurred in front of a professor’s home. Was it a coincidence that the same professor was also a police consultant? Giles was wonderful at debate and now showing his vulnerabilities. But I noticed in every spare moment, he devoured all my books so that he could more properly defend my writing prowess.

  The autopsy came back on the dead reverend or pseudo-reverend. He was indeed none other than an old acquaintance of mine. The deceased, Edmund Tolbert, was in reality Ed Lawson. We attended the same college and even worked on a few projects together years ago. Media was touting him as an “old flame” which was a stretch. Ed had changed his name and recently moved to our community under the guise of joining the staff of the local Catholic church.