I smiled, as politely as possible. "I have work to do."
"Work, work, work!" My mother shook her head. The feather in her cap wagged at me, like a finger. "That's all you do, Raleigh. Work. Why can't you be more like your sister, live a little?"
Wally stood up. My friend for life. “I can’t go either,” he said. “But, hey, thanks for the invitation.”
I fully expected my sister to suddenly back out. Helen never liked to bear her own responsibilities.
But instead she began making a big production of getting the Dutch mistress out the door. Five minutes of insisting this meal was going to be the best of our mother's life.
When they finally left, the red clogs hammering across the slate courtyard, Wally went to his darkroom and I went to the carriage house, taking Madame with me. Heat lightning flashed in the sky and in the distance, thunder gave its muted grumble.
In the carriage house, I gave Madame some cookies and stood at the windows waiting for rain. It began slowly, a simple little dance of water. But quickly it built to a roaring crescendo, the water sluicing down the brick walls and spilling across the hallowed cobblestones, rushing like a flash flood.
Lost in thought, I must have stood there a long time. Helen and my mother returned from their meal, both of them shrieking like girls through the downpour, leaping into the kitchen.
I turned and walked to my bedroom.
From under the bed, I removed the shoe box containing my father’s broken Timex. Holding it in my hand, I thought of Janine Falcon. She would be receiving her husband’s watch. And I remembered that night when Detective Greene handed me his partner’s file. “Mike’s ghost.” And I recalled his words, that if I didn’t have a ghost yet, I would someday.
I didn’t have the strength to tell him. Maybe I never would.
But I had a ghost: My dad’s case.
From another box under the bed, I took out the legal papers and notes. Things I collected from his desk the day after he died. The day after somebody murdered him. I stared at his blue-ink notations in the margins of the legal pads. His handwriting looked fresh.
In the living room, I spread the paperwork across the floor, making a whispery quilt. Then I settled down in the low lamplight, and began.
I began my work.
The End
Thank you for taking the time to read The Stones Cry Out. Please feel free to leave an honest review at Amazon or Goodreads.
Acknowledgments
No book, particularly one written by a mother with young children, is a solo effort. Without the help of people endowed with generous spirits, this book would not exist. Here are some of the good souls:
The G-men (and women) in the FBI's Richmond field office, who graciously answered my questions. Interviewing these people was nothing short of an honor. In particular, Special Agent Wayne Smith deserves a medal for his tireless support of this project. And Special Agent Katie Land, for her wit. In the Bureau's Materials Analysis Lab, thanks go to Special Agent Bruce Hall, soil specialist extraordinaire, and the hardworking crew in the mineralogy lab.
Richmond is a city full of southern characters who don't realize they're characters—the best kind—and many are playing within this book. Thanks to all who told me their stories. And the late Nelson Hyde, the character who first opened the door to Richmond.
Detectives Tom Leonard and Boo Quick with the Richmond Police Department let me hang around their shop while they quietly cracked ice-cold cases. Rick Berquist, geologist with the Virginia Division of Mineral Resources, carried soil to my house in a Ziploc bag, then patiently explained why it was special. Amy Brichta, with the Richmond Medical Examiner's office, offered knowledge and scary science books. My agent, Brian Peterson, gave unwavering enthusiasm; my editor at Revell, Lonnie Hull DuPont, graced every step with her poetic spirit. Amy Lathrop, the genius behind LitFuse publicity, and Christy Anderson for making sure every “i” was dotted, and every “t” crossed, without losing the story. (By the way, when Christy read that last clause, she pointed out that the individual letters should be italicized. But I’m leaving them, ensuring her job security).
And finally, Rev. Charles "Where's my rock?" Reynolds who took me through the book of Micah with piercing intelligence—then said the greatest sentence in the Bible might be "Jesus wept," but a close second would be "Jesus laughed."
On a personal note, the wagons gathered many times over the eight years it took to finish this project, allowing me time for interviews and writing. Thanks go to Sherry Clements, who makes kids feel like kings; Pam Hill and her fun house; Claudia Cronin, Crys Gaston, and Robin O'Leaiy, for friendship beyond measure; Phyllis Theroux, my mentor, my friend; and Debbie Kendrick, who tapped my shoulder one evening many years ago and proceeded to electrify my spirit.
Thanks to my parents, who always encouraged adventure but never forgot what was home. And to all my family in Seattle, especially my brother Roger.
My deepest thanks, however, go to the Three Wise Guys: Joe, Daniel, and Nico. Without your love, laughter, and unending support, this book would not be possible. I am forever grateful.
===============
About the Author
Sibella Giorello was a features reporter for the Richmond Times-Dispatch for more than ten years. Her stories won many state and national awards, including two nominations for the Pulitzer Prize. She now lives in Washington State with her husband and sons. This is her first novel in the Raleigh Harmon series. For more information, go to HYPERLINK "http://www.sibellagiorello.com" www.SibellaGiorello.com.
Copyright
Cool Gus Publishing
http://coolgus.com
Copyright 2007, Revell Copyright 2010, Sibella Giorello, updated 2014
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Giorello, Sibella.
The stones cry out : a novel / Sibella Giorello.
Table of Contents
The Stones Cry Out
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
grayscale(100%); -ms-filter: grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share
The Stones Cry Out Page 25