Muffalettas and Murder: Small Town Girl Mysteries, #1
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About this ebook
Evangeline Delafose is finding Graisseville, Louisiana just as she remembered—boring and uneventful. Until her brother Nate asks her to help solve a murder.
Follow Ev as she navigates clues, dead bodies, and quirky small-town residents to solve a mystery. And of course, show her little brother that she's still got it.
You'll laugh, cry and roll your eyes at the antics of this charming small-town Southern sleuth and her exasperating private investigator.
This book is the first of the Small-Town Girl Mystery Series.
Jann Franklin
Jann Franklin lives in the small town of Grand Cane, Louisiana. Over three hundred other people also live in Grand Cane, and many of Jann’s chapters came from her weekly visits at the downtown coffee shop. She would like it on the record that Grand Cane’s current mayor and aldermen are nothing like the characters in her book. They are definitely larger than life, but in a good way. She and her husband John enjoy Sundays at Grand Cane Baptist Church, dinner with family and friends, and watching the lightning bugs in their backyard. Their kids come to visit, when they aren’t too busy living their big-city lives. She graduated from high school in Russellville, another small town in Arkansas. She obtained her accounting degree from Baylor University in Waco, Texas and moved to Dallas in 1989. She still dabbles in accounting but has taken up writing to satisfy her creative side. Like Jen Guidry, she never appreciated her small-town upbringing until she was encouraged to move back to one. Now she cannot imagine living any other way. If you ever make it to Grand Cane, stop by 4C Coffee Shop and say “hi.” Rhonda Cox and her employees make amazing coffee, and they will save a seat and a smile for you.
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Titles in the series (7)
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Muffalettas and Murder - Jann Franklin
Chapter 1
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?
image-placeholderOctober 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?
Chapter 2
Refilling my cup gave me time to think. The coroner reported the cause of death as a gunshot wound to the torso. Ballistics confirmed Michael Cook Sr. owned the gun. The perpetrator wiped the weapon clean but left it in the kitchen. Detectives spoke with friends and neighbors. No one could confirm or deny who had the gun. No one had seen it recently, including Stella. Or so she said. Some people insisted that Michael Sr. got rid of the gun because he didn’t want Stella to have access. Other people stood firm that Michael Jr. kept the gun as protection from Stella’s questionable friends. So much for the weapon.
As I drifted to the porch, I remembered chasing after Nate when we were kids. He was ten years younger, and Mother tagged me as a babysitter more times than I could count. I spent my teenage years running after Nate, second-guessing his every move, and trying to predict his next steps. Pretty much what I was doing with his file. Nate had already interviewed, investigated, and concluded. His big sister was just coming along after him, trying to unravel the events. Hmmm…but what if?
Placing my cup on the side table, I focused my attention on maneuvering the blanket back into cocoon mode. What had I been thinking about? Oh yes! What if?
What if I could interview everyone myself? Ask my own questions and draw my own conclusions. If Nate didn’t shut down my idea, the sheriff certainly would.
Unless they didn’t know. Nate would kill me if he found out.
So, he couldn’t find out. I recognized only twenty-five percent of the people interviewed. Being the new girl in town, why couldn’t I ask questions? Just satisfying my curiosity, nothing more. It could work.
Tomorrow I could run to town, start at Maggie’s Coffee Shop. Maggie knew practically everyone and probably knew a lot about them, too. The coffee shop was a good place to begin. Wait a minute! Shorty Cormier promised to come by tomorrow and fix my washing machine.
Shorty was Graisseville’s resident handyman, a mechanical genius. If he couldn’t fix it, then you might as well throw it away and buy a newer model. He’d come back from the Gulf War with a purple heart and a prosthetic leg. Working under machinery, the man hopped up and down off the ground like a pogo stick. Comical to watch, but he could make anything with a motor purr. Which meant Shorty was in great demand. Unfortunately, the best mechanic in the parish didn’t have the strongest work ethic. Shorty only took on jobs if he needed money. If I rescheduled, who knew when he’d need money again? No, Maggie would have to wait, because I had a date with my handyman.
image-placeholderHey Shorty, it’s Ev. How are you this morning?
Can’t forget the traditional Southern small talk, before getting down to business.
"Oh, can’t complain. How are you this mornin’, Doc?
Fine, thanks.
Shorty had called me Doc ever since my graduation from LSU with a Ph.D. in English Literature. My parents bragged to everyone, including the entire village of Graisseville, that their daughter was a doctor! The word spread, a normal occurrence in small towns, and soon the story transformed. Skeeter and Muriel Bergeron’s daughter, Evangeline, graduated from LSU medical school! Doug and I visited my parents after graduation and puzzled over people greeting me as Doc. My parents corrected no one, but eventually people figured it out. The first clue came when I returned for Christmas the next year, and Abe Taylor asked me to check on his pregnant wife to see how far she was dilated. We laughed over that for years. Shorty’s family continued calling me Doc because they were incredibly proud of me. Why no one called my father, the veterinarian, Doc was still a mystery.
Hey, how’s your daddy doin’? I heard he was feelin’ under the weather?
Would this small talk never end? Sigh…hopefully I could steer this conversation back to my burning question: what time will my repairman arrive?
Oh no, he’s great. He’s wondering when you’re coming over this morning to fix my washing machine.
Actually, Dad didn’t know about my washing machine. Otherwise, my eighty-year-old father would be at my house on his knees trying to fix it himself.
Doc, we’ve had this conversation before. First, I have my coffee and scrambled eggs, then I check my email and phone messages. Next, I feed the cows and the hogs. If I don’t have any more farm chores, I pull out my list.
Oh yes, the magical list! Getting on Shorty’s list was the simple part. It lived on the first seven pages, front and back, of a spiral-bound notebook. Getting to the top of the list was the trick. To achieve that feat, bribery came into play. Fortunately for me, Shorty loved my mom’s cold oven pound cake.
Okay, where am I on the list, Shorty?
Holding the phone with one hand, I rummaged through my pantry and refrigerator. Did I have the ingredients to make another pound cake? Shorty had already scored one baked good to put me in the top five. Another one might be in order to move me up the ranks.
You’re in luck! I don’t have no more chores, and you are third on the list.
He paused, waiting for my counteroffer.
You know, I’m making a cold oven pound cake for Nate and his family this morning. I’d let you take it with you if you came to my house first. I can make another one for Nate this afternoon.
Lies, all lies. Nate and Bonnie were on a low carb diet, and I knew better than to bring them a pound cake. Pulling out the recipe, I double checked the ingredients. Yes! Just enough eggs for one cake. Better start mixing up the ingredients.
Yeah, that’d work. I’ll be over in an hour.
The man was shrewd. I’d give him that. Incredibly athletic too, since he regularly scored a pound cake a month from me with no extra weight to show for it. My baking wasn’t his only bribe each month, either. Some families prepared entire meals to get Shorty on their doorstep, so I considered myself fortunate. Of course, Shorty’s dad and my dad had been the best of friends. My dad, when he was the town veterinarian, spent many afternoons at the Cormier farm. My mother suspected most of those trips were to shoot the breeze, but it kept Dad and Mr. Cormier out of trouble. My widow status probably gave me an automatic jump up Shorty’s list, too. He’d never say it to me, but Shorty had a soft spot for single moms and widows.
Shorty knocked on my front door, and I glanced at the timer. About thirty minutes left. The beauty of the cold oven pound cake was the baker didn’t have to