Angela Hammerly dedicated her life to becoming District Attorney. At 42, she had never been married, or even seriously dated. All she could think about, night and day, was her ulti­mate goal. And her dream finally came true, thanks to the death of 74-year-old Porter Strickley.

She could not deny that she had learned the job well, working for that old pain-in-the-butt. He was 57 when she interviewed for the position of Assistant District Attorney. At the time, she thought he was 70.

Two months ago, she had become the District Attorney. She loved seeing her name on the door. And she felt a rush of adre­naline every time a judge referred to her as ‘The District Attor­ney’ in open court. The D.A.’s office would be better than ever—now that she was running the show.

There was a soft knock, and Andrea Newly opened the door just enough to peek in.

“Come in, Andrea.” Angela sometimes wondered if she had made a mistake two weeks ago when she hired this timid young lady as her assistant. Angela had been impressed with her resume. But in person, Andrea was quiet, and seemed to be rather intimidated by Angela.

But Andrea was enthralled with every word Angela spoke. And the new D.A. couldn’t resist the prospect of being god to her assistant. She had hired her on the spot, even though she knew Andrea would stress her patience.

But Angela was confident the 25-year-old could be molded into her mentor’s image. And thereby, become a powerful force for justice in the D.A.’s office.

Andrea took a chair across from the D.A. The furniture in the District Attorney’s office was similar to that found in most old government offices—largely unchanged since the 1950s. Yet the hardwood chairs and desks were of such good quality that an exact replacement would be cost prohibitive in today’s mar­ket. Angela planned to upsize her diminutive desk as soon as possible, even if the money came out of her own pocket.

“I talked to a couple of old friends in Longview this morn­ing,” said Angela. “One works in the D.A.’s office, and the other is an ambulance chaser. We went to law school together. Nei­ther of them had any idea why Kyle Serpentine would take Kantrell Jamison’s case pro bono.

“Usually when he does a freebee, he’s hoping to boost his reputation. I don’t see that happening with this case. Especially if he loses. And he will surely lose. So, what’s his motivation?” She was talking to herself more than to Andrea.

“Maybe he just wants to help this poor black family. That’s what pro bono is supposed to be for. To help people who can’t afford an attorney.”

“Oh, Andrea…you’re so naive. With a scummy lawyer like Serpentine, it’s always about helping himself.”

The phone on her desk rang three times before Angela bothered to pick up.

“Yes? …Hi, Sheriff…oh, really…” Angela’s cold face slowly melted into a smile—an evil smile. Continue reading Bicycle Shop Murder 5

Greg said goodbye to his last student at 8:15 PM, locked up the studio, and got into his car. He always looked forward to his evening rendezvous with Bonnie—his nickname for the Bonne­ville. He liked to put her top down, and drive her around town in the moonlight. Their route varied from night to night, but the ultimate destination was never in question.

“May I help you?”

The worn-out speaker was crackly, but he still recognized the particularly twangy East Texas voice of Fontana Fry.

Over his six years of vocal training, he had become acutely aware of accents. This is true of all classically trained singers. Great emphasis is placed on precise pronunciation and enun­ciation. It is mandatory that the singer’s repertoire include works written in English, Latin, Italian, German, and French.

So, by the time Greg finished his graduate degree, his accent had been all but eliminated. He sounded somewhat like a net­work news anchor instead of an East Texan.

“I would like a large—”

“—a large dipped cone, the usual. Right?”

The Dairy Queen drive-thru ordering station was located out in front of the restaurant, on the right side. He looked up, and saw the 19 year-old waving at him. She looked so cute in her little Dairy Queen outfit. Fontana was in her first year at Kilgore College. She planned to be an elementary teacher. He knew she would be a good one.

Greg had met Fontana a few months earlier when she brought her 13-year-old brother to the studio to enroll for guitar lessons. The boy was holding a U.S. made, 1968 Harmony acoustic guitar his uncle gave him. The body and the frets were badly worn, but the instrument still played beautifully. It looked somewhat like a large violin, with arched top and f-holes. That shape produces a more mellow sound than flattops. And the guitar’s age contributed additional warmth to the tone.

Hi, I’m Fontana, and this is my brother, Montana. Greg had almost snickered. As it turned out, Montana was musically gifted. He learned faster than Greg could teach him.

Fontana probably wondered why he never came inside to eat. He always opted for the drive-thru, and then parked behind the building, in the back corner of the parking lot.

She gave Greg a tall stack of napkins before he could ask. He parked, and began his nightly ritual—spreading out the napkins meticulously in layers across his lap. Drips would be contained. A chocolate stain on his shirt or pants would, of course, be up­setting. But the slightest drip or crumb on Bon­nie’s pristine interior would be tantamount to desecration.

Just as he bit off the tip of the chocolate covered mountain, his cell phone rang.

Unknown Name. Unknown Number.

Greg figured it was some misdialing drunk. It could be han­dled quickly. His ice cream was already beginning to melt. He made no attempt to hide his irritation. “Hello?”

It was a woman whispering frantically. The sound was so distorted he couldn’t understand her at first, and was about to hang up.

“He’s doing it again.” She sounded terrified. Continue reading Bicycle Shop Murder 3

Book One of the Greg Tenorly Suspense Series
(Six-chapter excerpt)

A beautiful, sexy redhead sat across from Greg Tenorly. He was nervous about the closed door, but she had insisted. The slightest hint of impropriety would spark a blaze of rumors.

Greg tried to concentrate on her story. But his mind wan­dered to his 34-year-old receding hairline and bulging stom­ach. The part-time music minister had been feeling good about him­self ten minutes ago. Time to start exer­cising again.

“I grew up in Marshall. Graduated from East Texas State, and got a job at a bank in Greenville. Three years ago, I moved here so I could be closer to Mom. She still lives in Marshall. I met Troy at a high school football game. He was fun, down-to-earth. We’ve been married for two years.”

Cynthia Blockerman was a vice president at First State Bank, yet only in her late 20’s. She certainly looked the part, dressed in an expensive brown business suit, match­ing shoes and tasteful jewelry. And her shoulder-length hair was the kind you only see in shampoo commercials. Greg felt underdressed in his faded golf shirt, baggy slacks, and generic running shoes.

“Everything was fine for the first six months or so. But I guess he was just playing the part of a good husband. Then I started to see his real personality. As soon as he gets home from work, he goes straight for the beer. By nine, there’s a pile of cans next to his recliner, and he’s calling me names, and throwing things.

“Sometimes he hits me. He did it one time before we got married, but he said he was so sorry. And even broke down and cried. He promised he’d never do it again.”

“Is there anything in particular you say or do that seems to set him off?” It was a dumb question, but the only one he could think of.

“No. It doesn’t matter. I can be extra sweet, or mean, or just ignore him. He still gets mad and crazy. I don’t know what to do. I want to leave him, but I’m afraid he’ll come after me.”

Greg could already hear the voice of Daniel Duretsky, Channel 7 Eyewitness News.

A friend says that the husband had threatened to kill her if she called the police. So, she moved out of the house while he was at work. But he found her apart­ment, kicked down the door and brutally stabbed her 57 times. His family says he’s a hard worker and a good husband. They can’t believe he would do something like this.

Greg had no business acting as a marriage counselor. His own marriage had failed five years ago. And he shouldn’t have even been at the church—it was Monday, his day off. But he couldn’t just turn her away.

“Could you give me a couple of days to think about this, and try to come up with some ideas for you? I know it’s tough when you’re dealing with this every day, but…”

“Sure. That’s fine. I’d really appreciate any help you could give me.”

“But don’t you want to talk to the pastor about this? He’s had a lot more experience—”

“—okay, please don’t take this the wrong way.” She leaned in, and spoke more softly. “But Dr. Huff seems a little too judg­mental. I like him. His messages are very good. But I thought you’d be more understanding. And not make me feel like it was all my fault.

“A lot of times, men, and even women, treat me diffe­rently because of my looks and my job. They think: What could she possibly have to complain about? Anyway, I was right. You are a compassionate, understanding man.”

Greg felt his face starting to turn red. “Thank you.”

She checked her watch. ”I’ve got to get back to the bank.”

Greg was walking her to the door, when she turned, and moved toward him. Surely she hadn’t intended to get quite that close. She would step back a little. Wouldn’t she? But as he stood paralyzed, she leaned in even closer. Their lips were nearly touching. Her eyes were a shade of blue he’d never seen before. Continue reading Bicycle Shop Murder 1