A Sea Oak Mystery Boxed Set - Books 1-4
Adele M Cooper
Copyright © 2017 by Adele M Cooper
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Tilted Justice
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Witness in the Park
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Murder at Woodruff Mansion
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
The Silent Santa (A Sea Oak Mystery - Book Four)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Afterword
About the Author
Also from Lirios Publishing
1
“The most awkward, embarrassing moment of my life involved bourbon, seven irons and chandeliers,” April Longmont admitted.
Private detective Clay Augustine choked with laughter and spit out some of the coke he was drinking. Drops splattered on the green Mazda dashboard. “Being an avid golfer, I am particularly curious about the seven irons,” he said. A second stream of soda dripped from his chin onto his yellow shirt.
“I’m not going to say anything more about it.”
“Wait, you can’t leave me hanging.”
“Oh, yes I can,” April said
“I want to know what happened. You can’t just say something like that and clam up.”
The Mazda sped down State Road 81 in Green Cove County, tires bumping on the uneven asphalt between the potholes. Although it was late October, the two wore sunglasses to block the fierce rays of the two o’clock sun. The hum of the air conditioner sent cool breezes toward the driver and passenger. This was one region of the state where elms, oaks, and pines had not been bulldozed and replaced by ugly condos of steel, plastic, and glass. Forests full of bright green and shiny brown wood sentries guarded both sides of the road. Squirrels leaped from tree to tree. A raccoon peeked around a bush, a rare sight in sunlight for the nocturnal creature.
The red speedometer needle sailed past seventy-five as April pressed the pedal.
“That has to be an interesting tale,” Clay said. “I promise I won’t tell anybody.”
“You won’t because I’m not telling you. It’s not really as flamboyant as it sounds. I will say it involved a sorority bet that a friend of mine, Tamala, and I lost. Fortunately, we extricated ourselves from the situation with our clothes on, no harm done, and our dignity almost intact.”
“Obviously you had a great time in college.”
“True but I’m glad I’m out. You can only stay in college for so long. Besides I want to go independent. Open a business maybe. If the book on Judge Trulock sells well, maybe I can move into being a freelance writer. Those are just a few of the options I’m considering. I’m leaning toward the business. I’d like to be my own boss.”
Clay smiled. “I hope you succeed. You’ve certainly helped my business. The paper is paying my expenses, and I get a free ride with pay."
“The Daily News isn’t really that generous. Your fees are tax deductible. A business expense,” she said while swerving around a curve.
“It’s a great job,” Clay said. “I ride over and back with you and bill the newspaper for a day’s pay.”
“I’m just happy the paper wanted a long feature on the now-retired Judge Trulock. It gave me the idea for the book. Who knows? This might launch a new career for me,” April said.
“So, had any more experiences with bourbon and chandeliers?”
Her laughter bounced off the roof of the car.
“Hey, watch the road, honey.”
“I missed that by a mile, sweetie. Relax. Actually, the day of the seven irons, I didn’t have all that much bourbon.”
“I doubt even Judge Trulock would have a better story than the chandelier tale, and I thought his stories couldn’t be surpassed.”
April laughed. “I really liked the story about him conking a defendant on the head.”
Clay nodded. “No defendant should charge the bench with Judge Trulock behind it. The guy didn’t know the judge carried a pistol under his robes. When he tried to leap up, Trulock whipped out his gun and bopped the guy on the head.”
She reached over and slapped Clay’s arm. “Oh, speaking of seven irons, I’ve got a golf joke for you.”
“OK.”
“A true story. Bing Crosby and his friend, Phil Harris, are driving home after a round of golf in Scotland. It’s evening. Harris is known as a two-fisted drinker. They pass a whisky plant and the night shift is coming in. Bing says, ‘Phil, they’re making it faster than you can drink it.’ Harris replies, ‘Yes, but I’ve got ’em working nights.’
Clay chuckled. He cast an admiring glaze at his friend April. He reflected that she shared similar personality traits with the man she was writing about. Both retired Judge Arthur “Art” Trulock and April Longmont were Type-A, vibrant and vivacious people, optimistic, and friendly. They never seemed to have the blues. In fact, when they walked into a room, the blues ran out the back door.
His fiancée was perfect to write the judge’s biography, he thought.
Judge Trulock had begun his law enforcement career sixty years before. Hard-driving, with a brilliant mind and a restless intellect, he put on a Sea Oak police uniform when he was twenty-one. He served three years as a patrolman, then was promoted to detective. While a detective, he studied law, passed the bar exam, and became an assistant district attorney. Trulock served as an ADA for six years and then became district attorney for the 11th district, covering five counties in east North Carolina.
As district attorney, he prosecuted Richard Narthen, the son of a former governor, who had an extremely short temper. During one of his tantrums, he shot a girlfriend who also happened to be part of a prominent regional family. Narthen’s family hired Charles Sully, an excellent defense attorney from Mondo Bay. Sully was skillful in the law but devoid of ethics, a trait that did not handicap his work as a defense attorney. At that time, Trulock was in his first year as state attorney. While he had established a shining reputation during his assistant state attorney days, Sully was confident he could chew up the neophyte prosecutor and spit him out. But when the trial was over, it was Sully who walked out of the courtroom dazed and confused. The defense attorney looked like he’d whizzed through a chopping blender. Few prosecutors could best Sully, but by the time his career was over, Trulock had defeated the defense attorney five times in court. It was rumored that during the last few years of Trulock’s DA tenure, Sully refused to take any case whe
n Trulock was the prosecutor.
After fifteen years as a state attorney, and when an elderly judge passed away, the governor appointed him to the bench. Trulock was ready for another challenge and stayed on the bench for three decades, handling some of the most notorious cases in the Tar Heel State. Retired, he remained a legend in the legal community. Never shy about publicity, the judge agreed to have a feature story published in the Sea Oak Daily News. After the first interview, April thought Trulock’s life should be told in a biography. A small regional publishing company agreed and gave April a small advance to write it.
“It was so nice of him to let us do the interviews. We must have thirty-five hours of tape by now. And did you notice on the last visit he was flirting with me?” April asked.
“Watch the road, honey!”
“Oh, you’re fine. Stop being a baby.”
“April, the speed limit is sixty-five.”
“Clay, you are a trusted and dear friend, and the best boyfriend I’ve ever had.” She dropped her tone, but gaiety remained in her voice. “So don’t make me slap you.”
“April, you’re too shy and reserved. Let people know how you feel. Be a little more assertive in life.”
“That’s what people often tell me. I’ll work on it.”
Clay smiled. “Yes, I did notice the judge was flirting with you. That’s just like Trulock. Plus a great deal of the time his gaze was directed at your legs.”
“I wondered if I imagined that.”
“You didn’t.”
“And my rear end also. Wasn’t he looking at my rear end too?” April said.
“No, that was me,” Clay said.
April laughed so much her hands slipped, and the car rolled over the two yellow center lines. Thankfully, there were no other cars in sight.
“He was always flamboyant,” Clay said. “He liked publicity while on the bench. He didn’t seek it, but he was happy when it came his way. I’m sure he’s getting a big kick from the proposed biography. Have you noticed how happy he is when we drop over?”
“I have. What is he? Eighty-two, eighty-three? When he talks to us, he sounds like a kid in a candy store. His bio will be full of his wild tales. He spent all of his professional career in this region. I know editors on most coastal newspapers, and I’m betting they will do a nice little story when the book is published and another nice little story when we have book signings. Plus do reviews.”
“You have any chapters finished yet?”
“Sure do. Five are polished and complete.”
“You don’t waste time,” Clay said.
“No, I don’t. When listening to Judge Trulock, the book almost writes itself. How many people come up with lines like ‘When I die I want to have a whisky glass in my hand.’ That’s Trulock. Not another judge like him.”
Clay nodded. “He was one of the best prosecutors the state ever had. He was not like some state attorneys who give the tough cases to assistants. He took the most difficult cases and posted a 99 percent success rate. I think he only lost one case--and that was when a wife shot her husband. The husband was such a jerk, I think all the jurors felt like they would have shot him too, so they gave the defendant a break.”
April laughed. “Yes. I read the transcript of that trial when I was doing research for the book. I had a hard time quarreling with the verdict.”
The car whizzed by a large cypress with Spanish moss that looked like beards hanging down from the tree. A large hawk or falcon flew lazily above. Five miles down the road, April turned left. Judge Trulock lived on twenty-five acres of land. His lawn was so carefully landscaped and watered that even the hot North Carolina sun didn’t wither the green grass. He always left the gate open when he knew his interviewers were coming over. A barn beyond the house held four horses. One belonged to the judge, and the three others to local friends who were also equestrians.
“I see the judge isn’t on the porch waiting to greet us today,” she said as the car headed toward the house.
“Yes, that’s odd,” said Clay. “He’s probably hoping you’ll wear very short shorts since we’re having a warm spell.” He glanced at her blue skirt, which stopped about two inches above the tan knees. “Won’t be too disappointed.”
April parked in front of the garage. They walked up the three steps to the front door and rang the doorbell.
“After this session, I think I may have all the material I need. I may have to call him from time to time to clarify a point, but I have ample notes for the biography.”
“The judge will be disappointed not seeing us,” Clay said. “Or at least he’ll miss not seeing your legs.”
“I’ll send him an Internet photo. That should keep him happy.”
“That’s another thing about Trulock. When he grew up, there was no Internet. I think when he was a child there was no television. But he has adapted very well to our high-tech society. As we found out doing the interviews, his body may not be as quick as it was, but his mind is as sharp as ever.”
April rang the bell again. “Odd. If he’s not on the porch, usually he hops to the door about two seconds after we ring.”
“He is old. When you get to that age, you never know when a nap will overtake you.”
April grabbed the doorknob and turned.
“It’s not locked,” she said.
She pushed the door and walked into the empty house. Silence greeted them. April turned and walked toward the study. Clay followed her. She gasped when she entered the doorway. Judge Trulock lay slumped on his desk, his head on the walnut surface.
They ran toward him. Their hands grabbed his shoulders and lifted him from his desk.
Three blood smears marked his green sports shirt. The killer must have been standing close to his target, for one red hole was close to the heart. The liquor from an overturned glass darkened a desk calendar. Clay picked the glass up. It smelled of whisky.
He placed it back on the table, gently squeezing the glass back into the judge’s hand.
2
“That was a very sentimental gesture, but it was also very stupid. As a private detective, you know not to touch anything at a crime scene, especially when it’s murder.”
Captain Phillip Hardin of the Green Cove County Sheriff’s Department was a tall man with day-old black beard stubble dotting his granite face. His eyes blazed with anger.
“It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I didn’t think the glass was a clue.”
“What you think doesn’t matter. It might be. Now the crime scene is contaminated. I oughta charge you.”
Clay gave a diffident smile. He couldn’t really argue. The captain had a legitimate complaint. “My apologies, Captain. You’re right. I don’t want to do anything to hinder the investigation. I knew the judge and respected him. I want his killer found and executed.”
The angry dark eyes dimmed a bit. Hardin fingered a personal computer. He still wore a scowl, but it wasn’t as dark as a few seconds before. “Did you two touch anything else?”
The sulphur tone of the words made it clear that Hardin wanted to insert the word "morons" between "two" and "touch." But he controlled himself.
“When we came in, Judge Trulock was slumped on his desk. We thought he might have had a heart attack. We touched his shoulders to lift him up. It was then that we saw the bullet holes. I moved the glass, and that's the only object I touched.”
Hardin grunted and punched a few more buttons on his computer.
“All right, what were you doing here?”
“My fiancée is a reporter for the Sea Oak Daily News and is writing a biography of the judge. Ms Longmont has been interviewing him for about four weeks. There have been about fifty interviews in all. We had another one scheduled this afternoon.”
Hardin narrowed his eyes. “I was thinking you two just stumbled onto a dead body. You didn’t just stumble, did you?” He gave Clay another hard look. “You told me why she was here. You didn’t tell me why you accompanied her.”
&
nbsp; “A few days after April began talking with the judge, she received an email informing her that the world didn’t need a book about a corrupt judge. April ignored it. Social media is full of threats nowadays. But that was followed up a couple of days later by another email telling her she was in dangerous territory, that nobody wanted to read her book. April didn’t put much stock in the first email, but the second one made her uneasy. So she asked me to accompany her over here. April is a friend. I would have traveled with her for free, but her newspaper agreed to hire me to accompany her.”
“Did the threat come to her personal account?
“No, to her newspaper email. It’s listed in all her stories.”
“You report the threat to the police in Sea Oak?” Hardin said.
“Yes. It’s in a police report. But the email was untraceable.”
“Most of the time they are.”
“I didn’t really know what to make of it. I thought the most probable explanation was that the judge had made some enemies in his long career, and maybe one miscreant was making trouble. Frankly, I didn’t think it was a serious threat. But I didn't mind driving here with April. During the times I’ve been with her, there’s been no trouble at all.”
Hardin looked around to the sofa where April sat. She was almost dead still. A policewoman sat in a chair next to her. The two talked quietly with one another.
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