by K. A. Ware
Front Porches and Funerals
The Swamp Bottom Series
K.A. Ware
Cora Kenborn
Twisted Publishing
Contents
Foreword
A Letter From The Authors
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Epilogue
Voodoo and Vodka
Acknowledgments
About the authors
Stalk Us Online
ALSO BY K.A. WARE AND CORA KENBORN
Copyright © 2017 by Twisted Publishing
e-book Edition
All Rights Reserved
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Editing by R.R. Carlos
Cover Design by Bite Me Graphic Design
https://facebook.com/bitemegraphicdesign
Created with Vellum
The internet made us best friends by chance.
We made ourselves sisters by choice.
What the universe messes up, the pen corrects.
#duckflu4lyfe
Foreword
The Birth of Swamp Bottom
It was a dark and stormy night... no it wasn't.
It was a clear January day when I met my person. Only I didn't know she was my person, I actually thought she might be a nutcase.
A newbie to the writing world with a pathetic social media following and a hack job of a website, I was taking a vacation day from my real job and working like a crazy person on my third novel, having just released my first book three months prior.
I was on my phone, avoiding writing when I noticed I had a new follower on Twitter, super cool since I had no idea how it even worked or how anyone even found me under the million and one posts that seemed to clog up my feed. Then, I saw I had a new Instagram follower, in fact it was the same chick! Her bio described her as a sassy Southern mama who loved to read. I thought to myself 'that's cool! She's from all the way on the other side of the country!' Then the bubble appeared showing I had a new like on my author page, and you guessed it, the same shock of platinum hair in her profile picture greeted me when I opened the notification. This chick was following me everywhere!
Then shit got weird. My email pinged with a new message directed from my website... it was her. She told me how much she loved Omertà and how it was one of her top 5 favorite books. She gushed about Mia and basically told me that right from the dedication she knew I was her kind of people. I was floored. At this point I was getting a few messages a day from readers telling me they enjoyed my book and loving every minute of it, but the way she talked about my characters was different. It was the same way I talked about them; like they were living, breathing, people with minds of their own.
Usually I'd thank the reader, answer their questions and move on, but something about this chick made me trust her. She was honest and brash, and exactly like me. So I did something I'd never done before, I asked her what she wanted to see in the next installment. Well, she didn't disappoint. I came back from picking up my daughter at school to a--I shit you not-- five page email detailing everything she wanted to see from a reader's perspective. I was like a pig in shit, it was exactly what I needed to kick my ass into gear.
We talked about personal stuff as well as books and she mentioned that she'd always loved writing but was too afraid to put herself out there so she had dozens of half finished stories just sitting on her computer. At this point I knew I could be myself and really, I had nothing to lose, so I was brutally honest. I told her to stop being a pussy and just do it. Life is too short to not go after what you want so raise a middle finger to everyone who doesn't like it and go for it. She laughed it off and politely said she'd think about it. I didn't push just yet, but I knew I would eventually if we continued talking.
I started to ask her about plot bunnies and problems I was having in my manuscript. A few emails later and I knew I'd found someone special. We switched to Facebook messenger and our conversations turned from books to life to the secret meanings of emojis. We would message each other at all hours of the night and day, completely forgetting those pesky time zones.
I remember when she gave me her actual phone number for the first time. I was like a virgin on prom night, I was so nervous. I'd never made an online friend that had become a real life one, it was a surreal experience. We continued to chat about everything and eventually I convinced her to take the leap into publishing (it wasn't that hard, she was already at the edge). She started writing that rockstar suspense that had been brewing in the back of her mind and never stopped.
The first time we met in person was in Atlanta where we were attending a writers conference together. When I knocked on the door to our hotel room she swung it open and we screamed so loud the maids thought something was wrong. That visit was where Front Porches and Funerals was born.
It's been over a year since that first email and there hasn't been a single day that we haven't texted, commented, emailed, or talked on the phone since. We now run our own blog, are in two author reader groups together, and just took the first steps to start our own indie publishing company.
We've laughed, cried, and confided in each other. She is my critique/writing/business partner, cohort, and best friend. There is no one on this planet that I have more trust, confidence, and faith in than her, she is my person.
We are living proof that internet friends are REAL friends. And with your person beside you, you can conquer anything.
A Letter From The Authors
Hello beautiful readers!
We wanted to start off by thanking you for your interest in our brain child. This series is a labor of love for us, and we are beyond excited to share it with you. First of all, a warning. This is a series of novellas and each book ends in a cliffhanger... *pause for dramatic effect* However, a new installment will be released about every six weeks, so you won’t have to wait long for your next fix of these wacky Southern sisters.
We hope you enjoy hitting swamp bottom.
Love,
K.A. and Cora
One
There’s Bats In The Bayou
Adelaide
Shreveport, LA
The maximum sentence for first degree murder in the state of Louisiana was either the death penalty, or life imprisonment without the opportunity for parole.
Trust me, I’d done the resear
ch.
Standing over the refreshment table in the parlor of Sugarbirch Plantation, I pondered the consequences of either sentence while listening to the incessant chatter of the Caddo Parish Ladies’ Auxiliary Club. To make matters worse, I was also sweating like a whore in church.
“I swear, Ashley, I almost had a come to Jesus moment with the store manager when I realized they’d discontinued my china pattern.”
Left eye twitch.
“Hush your mouth!” Ashley fanned her eyes as if Courtney just announced she had two weeks to live.
Right eye twitch.
Courtney shook her head and eyed the room. “When I asked to see the manager, the sales girl acted like she didn’t know me.” She threw her head back and laughed. “As if everyone in Caddo Parish doesn’t know the Carrington family.” She stopped to take a sip of her lemonade as I glanced longingly at the locked liquor cabinet.
If only.
Normally, I allowed myself the occasional glass of wine with dinner. Today, I’d gladly slug moonshine right out of a canning jar covered in Saran Wrap to get through lunch with Shreveport’s elite.
Ashley widened her perfectly lined eyes and leaned in for more gossip. “What did you say?”
“Well,” Courtney continued, dabbing her cotillion-pink painted lips. “Honey, what could I say? The poor girl was so backwoods, when she talked, sticks fell out.”
First degree murder is the killing of a human being.
Maybe there was a loophole in Louisiana legislature? Technically, those bitches weren’t human beings. Maybe a jury would be sympathetic and give me a medal instead of the chair for slipping rat poison into their sweet tea?
There couldn’t be a law against murdering the prophesized antichrists, right?
Redirecting her attention, a smile curled Courtney’s mouth. “Adelaide, I love the remodeling you’ve done.” She licked her lips and stared into the hallway with the look of a starved wildebeest. “The detail work is just so…exquisite.”
I moved behind her and gripped the silver serving tray with both hands to keep from beating her with it. Forcing a smile, I shoved it under her sculptured nose. “Petit four?”
Or maybe you’d prefer my husband’s dick?
She wrinkled her nose. Or tried to, at least. Who knew with Courtney? After the last round under the knife, it looked like the blunt end of a pencil eraser. “Ugh, I can’t eat those. I’m on a diet.” She nodded toward the hallway again. “We all can’t be as fit and trim as Roland.”
The way she drew out the R in his name made me want to cram every petit four, five, eight, and twelve down her throat until she choked. However, as appealing as homicide sounded, I’d last about ten minutes behind bars before having a stroke. Plus, I’d never been in trouble in my life. My best bet was to keep them focused and Courtney away from Roland long enough to finish the meeting.
Grabbing a notepad, I settled on a wingback chair, and smoothed my yellow dress with one hand, while tapping a pen against my thigh with the other. “On the agenda, we have the annual golf tournament. We need to pick this year’s charity to receive the proceeds.” I had one in mind already and bit my tongue, waiting for the right time to slip it in the conversation.
“We could always re-sod the yacht club,” Ashley offered, examining her nails with a bored face. “It’s embarrassing to walk across spray painted peasant grass to get to the docks.”
My head throbbed. These women weren’t my friends. They weren’t even my enemies. They were nothing. I didn’t care about them, and they didn’t care about me. I wouldn’t even serve on the stupid committee if Roland didn’t insist that a Bordeaux female had sat on the executive board for generations.
Lucky me.
Plus, my options included either diving into charity work, or spending every day aerobicizing my ass and making small talk with the gardener.
His name was Gerald.
He was forty-nine and had three kids and one grandchild. He loved NASCAR, cheeseburgers, and the monthly Victoria’s Secret catalog. Way more than I knew about the man I’d been married to for ten years.
“I was thinking more like supporting the Boys and Girls Club in Highland.”
The room went silent as every threaded brow raised and waxed chins tilted my way in pity. Of course, Queen Bee had to have her say.
“Oh, Adelaide, bless your heart.”
I may not have been born in Shreveport, but I had Cajun blood and was no idiot. Bless your heart meant fuck you in Southern.
Life without parole started to sound pretty tempting.
“What’s wrong with the Boys and Girls Club in Highland?” Rarely did I push issues, but kids were important to me. Not that I’d ever have any of my own.
“It’s in Highland, sweetie,” she drawled with a tone that had me sitting on my hands. “We want to help, but we also have standards.”
As she rapidly blinked her mascara-caked tarantula eyes, all the pretentiousness and affluent crap in the room smothered me. “Why don’t we give the proceeds to Affluenza Awareness?” I smirked, shoving my hand in to my long reddish-brown hair.
I’d catch shit for that.
Grimacing hard, as if she’d just tried to smell the number nine, Courtney gasped. “Oh my god, that Affluenza disease is deadly. I didn’t have my shot this year and had to wear a face mask the whole time at the mall.”
Somewhere, I was convinced Courtney’s family tree didn’t fork.
I was just about to correct her when a buzzing on the side table diverted my attention. I’d planned to ignore it; my goal was to get this meeting over with as soon as possible. Then, my eye caught the area code on the caller ID.
985, Terrebonne Parish.
Blocking out Courtney’s dolphin squeals about her new Jaguar, I dove for the phone. “Mama?”
“Addie?” A nervous twitch pooled in my stomach.
“Daddy, what’s wrong?” He hesitated. Daddy never hesitated. At least he never used to. Not that I’d know what was normal for him these days.
Background noise from the bitch brigade and elevated voices competing for dominance on the other end of the line had me shoving one finger in my ear and charging out of the room just to clear my head.
Something was very wrong.
Pacing the marble hallway of the massive mansion I’d called home for the better part of a decade, I strained to decipher the voices shouting simultaneously in my ear. My father yelled in a tense voice for someone to put out the fire, while a string of garbled Russian and English interrupted him with alternating laughter, tears, and what sounded like plates crashing.
“Daddy!”
“Addie,” he repeated in a tired voice. “It’s your grandfather.”
I grabbed the banister for support. “What’s wrong with Pappy?”
“He passed away last night.” The sadness in his voice squeezed my chest with worry. “It was his heart. I told him all those cigars and Russian vodka would kill him. The old man thought he knew everything.” He paused, clearing his throat and wiping the faded memory away from his voice. “The funeral is Saturday.”
“Oh, Dad...” Tears gathered in the corners of my eyes and blurred my vision. Scrubbing my palm down my face, I glanced over my shoulder to make sure no one was within earshot. “I…”
“Look, Addie, I know you can’t come.” I swallowed hard as his words tore me apart. He didn’t mean them rudely, but I heard the bitterness creep into his tone.
Not that I could blame him. Why would he expect me to come? I hadn’t been back to Terrebonne Parish in five years, and that visit ended with Roland being chased with a shotgun and Babs being charged with aggravated assault.
“Dad, it’s not that I don’t want to come, it’s just that—”
“Addie, you don’t have to, okay? Let’s not…” His voice trailed off as another crash diverted his attention. “Mama! Put the dishes down. No, Mama…what the hell are you doing?”
More garbled words filled the line as heavy breathing and an
older, much less accommodating voice commanded my attention. “This time you spend with this bull’s ass is over,” my grandmother declared in a deep Russian accent.
“Babs…” Sighing, I fisted my hands by my side while what was left of my nails dug into my palms. “He’s my husband.” My grandmother had a stubborn streak a mile wide and didn’t take shit from anyone. I envied that about her.
My grandfather had met my grandmother during World War II while he was stationed in Poland. No one thought she’d adapt as well as she had to life in Terrebonne Parish, Louisiana, but somehow she managed to embrace her new home. No one was like my Babs. She was a mix of Southern swamp lady and hard-nosed Russian from the old country.
A rattling noise filled the line followed by a long slurp. Babushka—or Babs as we called her—had just taken out her teeth and spit on the floor…her favorite expression of displeasure.
“He’s no man, Addie. No man keep girl from her family. He’s dog. He’s flea on dog.” I heard her spit on the floor again and shove her teeth back in her mouth.
There was no use arguing with her. Babs had never approved of Roland. No one in my family did. Besides, we’d lost our grandfather, but Babs had just lost her soulmate. “Babs, are you all right? I’m so sorry about Pappy.”
She sighed. “Adelaide Rose, sometimes we wear hat, sometimes hat wear us.”
“What the hell does that even mean?”
“I see you soon. Get in car.”
“Babs! I just can’t… Babs?” I pulled the phone away to make sure she hadn’t hung up.
With my stomach twisting at the plan brewing in my head, my father’s voice took over the line again. “Mother, sit down and give me the vodka. Addie?”
“I’m here.”