An outtake from the sequel to A JOURNEY OF CHOICE

 

From the pen of CELLEY REDD, acting editor of The St. Luke (Missouri) Banner.

St. Luke’s sheriff Zeke Jasper had his hands full Saturday night when a party guest from Arkansas, disguised as a Frenchman, attempted to harm the hostess, Mrs. Liddy Grindle. He presented her with a Christmas gift “to open later—when you’re alone.”

         Back in September of last year, Mrs. Grindle, editor of The Banner, had ferreted out the shenanigans of St. Luke’s school superintendent and wife-secretary. They manipulated a school board election by publicizing the election of their own cadre of candidates, none of whom was nominated.
 
         Even though it had been over a year since the couple and their entourage of five adults abruptly left St. Luke after setting the school on fire, the Hoosers apparently had not forgiven The Banner for outing them.

          In September of this year, they made a trip to St. Luke. Leah Hooser endeared herself incognito with the owner of the Blue Plate Diner, who invited the new woman to the local book club meeting.

          This is where our source heard the gypsy-dressed lady bad-mouth both the school and the newspaper. Before leaving the meeting in a huff, the woman said they were headed north to "take care of some business," and then they’d be back to St. Luke for the same reason.

           Since the boardinghouse held wall-to-wall party guests last Saturday night, it is unlikely anyone noticed the French-looking couple who came in with Mrs. Queen. Anyone, that is, except Liddy and her closest friends. When the man presented her a gift, Liddy recognized the fragrance she’d smelled when he’d ordered her out of his office sixteen months ago.
          
           She surreptitiously summoned the sheriff––dressed in plain clothes––and told him her fears.  She asked him to check out the gift. He and his three deputies prepared a space on Depot Street far away from vehicles and dwellings in case it was an instrument of death. Or dismemberment.

           According to the sheriff, the Hoosers, still under the impression that no one knew their identity, left the party early, their mission partially accomplished.

          When the couple saw activity near their vehicle—also disguised with paper strips advertising “French Dance lessons”––they had nowhere to run. They were handcuffed together, but were asked to open their gift to Liddy.

          They refused, and Sheriff Jasper knew Liddy’s suspicions were correct. He shot his pistol through the container. It exploded, scattering debris throughout the area.

         The Hoosers, handcuffed together by their inner wrists, dug their predicament deeper. Using their cuffed arms, they gave the sheriff a terrific uppercut, knocking him backwards.

         Suddenly, from behind, Xann Price, with two quick motions to the necks, knocked them to the ground, unconscious.

          Before the two could recover, their cuffs were removed and refastened so that both suspects wore their own bracelets.

END OF OUTTAKE.

~~~~~~~

            Why not get your name on my “reserve-one-for-me” list? Her Face in the Glass will be formatted in softback and e-reader and should be published by the end of 2015.

c 2015 by PL

This 'n That: Random Thoughts in December

 

 

Fun stuff from the newspaper: Heloise answered a reader’s question about “cute postmarks for our Christmas cards.” And she answered:

                “Here’s a short list to pick from: Evergreen, LA 71333; Garland, NC 28441; Hope, MI 48628; Noel, MO 64854; North Pole, NY 12997; Rudolph, OH 43462; and Star, TX 76880.”

“After my long-in-progress novel manuscript is at the publisher, I’ll deal with the ceiling”.—from a Standard column in December of 2009.

Though A Journey of Choice went live in September of 2010, I immediately began—at the complimentary behest of quite a few readers––a sequel.

Here it is, four years and three months later, and that novel is finished. While it is being re-revised by one group, I have extra time to do something to the living room ceiling. As I mentioned in last week’s column, I’m “workin’ on it.”

The Hot Springs Novel Writers weekly critique sessions have been such fun. Bill White is writing a novel based on a true story. We have just finished re-revising Bud Kenney’s travelogue about walking from Arkansas to New England. HSNW is all business, except for anecdotes here and there about family “doings.”

On the other hand, The Central AR Writers (CAW), a group of three (ahem) mature women and one young sprout (she has two young-adult kiddos), meet monthly, each driving an hour to our complimentary meeting room at the Faulkner County Library. Complimentary, because none of us live in that county. The youngest one always showers us with gifts, so the rest of us have begun bringing little fun things—individual packages of crackers, nuts or candy, maybe a knick-knack. Of course, this month, as it’s December, the gift bags will likely be larger and more full. Goodies aren’t the reason we meet, of course. We continue meeting to critique each other’s current submission. All of us are working on another novel. Though my sequel is finished, this group—meeting monthly—hasn’t yet gotten to the end of it like the Hot Springs group has.

The sequel, Her Face in the Glass, will be edited and published by Alderson Press on a CreateSpace platform. It will not be available in hardback, just softback and as an e-book. We’re looking at sometime early in 2015 as the “live” date.

 A Journey of Choice is still available at Amazon and B&N and iUniverse. Oh, and (like John Grisham’s first book was) from the trunk of my Taurus.

Now, I must get to that ceiling. Where is my phone? I promised Dot that when I climbed the ladder, my phone would be in my pocket. Just in case. Oh, wait. I need more spray glue.

                Speaking of waiting, in liturgical churches, this season of Advent is one of waiting and preparation. A time to realign, if necessary—and it usually is--our priorities, our souls, to take stock of our spiritual health. Two of my writer friends have compiled two different booklets with daily Advent meditations. Those readings will be an aid toward the four-week season preceding Christmas.

May your Advent/Waiting/Preparation season be soulful and rejuvenating.

Thanksgiving, part I: from my novel

 

 

                                                                                                                   November 23, 1933

Dear Mother, Yvonne, Juliana and Mr. Ferrel,

                Thank goodness, Thanksgiving with the Courseys is over! And before I fall asleep and forget even one detail, I must tell you about it. You know from my last letter than the newest member of the Coursey family always hosts the next Thanksgiving meal.

                ‘Tradition,’ Frona Lee informed me in a visit shortly after the chivaree. ‘I did it. Alice and Caroline both did, though it won’t bear repeating how pathetic their meals were.’

                ‘But that doesn’t give me much time!’ I said.

                ‘Didn’t Editor Redd give you the rest of November off—as a wedding present? Use it wisely. You’ll manage somehow. Goodbye.’

                She didn’t mention anything else about the tradition, and I was too stunned by her lack of friendliness to ask. Do you suppose she was still smarting over not getting any say in our wedding?

                Heth had paid no attention, he told me, to earlier Thanksgiving preparations. Only that he appeared when and where he was told.

                ‘You don’t remember what you ate?’ I asked.

                ‘Dressing,’ he said, ‘and sometimes a hen from our backyard. But not always. Guess my brothers killed wild turkeys or bought them in Madison. Don’t expect me to cook whatever you get. I’ve never done that and I don’t intend to start now. You’ll have to ask the girls,’ he said, ‘or your mom.’

                Again, I didn’t ask why he never cooked, but I could imagine he was out with friends, or looking for work or on a drummer’s route. He was spoiled rotten. So I called Papa Quinn with my questions.

                ‘I hate for you to be saddled with hosting Thanksgiving so soon, but you might as well get it over with. The three other girls did all right, but they had Sula Mae for instructions. All I heard from her afterwards was how pitiful their knowledge of cookery and presentation was. But I imagine they have all learned enough by now.’

                Then he changed his tone. ‘How about I kill a couple of the biggest hens in the flock. I’ll pluck and cut them, and bring them for you to cook. One big dish of chicken and dressing will fill the bill. I’ll bring Sula Mae’s recipe, too. Do you have a large enough pan? Can you make giblet gravy?’

                ‘Yes,’ I said, and ‘yes.’ When I asked him about the other food, he couldn’t remember who brought what. ‘But even the men provide something. Ask them what they want to bring. Or make suggestions.’

                So I had to call the others. I’d almost rather have done everything myself, but I knew that wouldn’t do. Frona Lee harrumphed when I told her about the hens.

                ‘He didn’t offer to do that for me! My specialty is jam cake. Lloyd usually does something with his green tomatoes—a relish or a mush.’

                On to the next. ‘Alice, what do you usually bring to Thanksgiving?’

                ‘Oh, lord, honey, it’s your time to host, isn’t it? Some dish using sweet potatoes. We grow tons of ‘em. Ozell delights in bringing his mock pumpkin pie.’

                I asked Caroline last. ‘I can’t cook for a big crowd, sweetie, but I can make applesauce since our orchard produced so well. Mac makes a great corn light bread. He’ll bring enough for everyone. And butter. You poor dear, having to do this so soon after marrying. I’ll help you clean up.’

TO BE CONTINUED. Permission for this copy granted by the author—that would be me.