Fiona and I’d been busy all morning pulling together a special dinner to celebrate everyone being home, safe and sound—and Conor’s ninth birthday coming up in a day or two. The day before, I’d made Mama’s apple cake, the one I always wanted for my birthdays when I was a kid. (It tasted better the second day.) That morning I fixed my squash-and-tomato dish. Fiona made the rest.
While we were finishing up making dinner, the phone rang. My hands were free, so I answered. I was on so long, not saying a word, Fiona came over, asking me what was wrong.
“Thank you. Yes. I will tell her.” I put the receiver down and turned to Fiona, but when I opened my mouth, the words wouldn’t come. It took a minute or two before I could tell her the news.
We went out on the porch, where Della and Alex were still sitting; the boys had gone off to play out back. I looked round to make sure they were outta earshot.
“What?” Della asked. “You’re acting all funny.”
“Well, it seems Airhorn and the family services folks have completed their check into Vern. One of the things they needed to know was whether Vern was Marshall’s boy. Turns out ...”
I wasn’t trying to hold back, but I was still having trouble finding my words. Finally, Fiona blurted out, “His mam got pregnant by somebody else while Marshall was in the nick the first time. That plus some blood tests mean we now know Vern’s blood isn’t tainted by Marshall’s.”
I let out a big sigh and managed to add: “We’d’ve loved him no matter what, but now we don’t have to wonder about Conor’s new brother.”
I saw Della’s face change. I thought she was fixing to cry, but then she smiled.
“That’s not everything,” Fiona said. “As you know, after Vern’s mother left him, Marshall didn’t abandon him. That seems to count for something in his favor. His public defender told the courts that Marshall, during one of his saner moments, asked that we care for Vern. We don’t know how much weight the wishes of a serial killer have on the courts, especially now that we know Marshall has no claim as a blood relative, but we can hope.”
“The only thing we do know is that it will take months of waiting,” I said. “In the meantime, it’s back to one day at a time, like you’re always saying, Della.”
I called the boys in from play, and we all sat round our curly maple dining table. Fiona was grinning from ear to ear when she brought in a cottage pie, only this one looked different. Instead of just taters on top, she’d made three sections—a fat stripe of creamed spinach, then a stripe of mashed taters, then one of mashed carrots. The Irish flag. I knew she’d been homesick since she got back, but I didn’t realize how much.
As we tucked in, she stood up. “I hope you boys like this meal because you’ll get a lot of this in Ireland.” Then she laughed. “My da is paying for the four of us to come stay with him in Ireland next year. It will be good having a summer Rabbit won’t be getting into trouble.”
We’d see about that.
GLOSSARY
Blighter: Unlikeable, contemptible person
Blighty: Affectionate term for England, originally used by soldiers from World War I and World War II
Bloke: Man
Bottle and stopper: Cockney rhyming slang for copper, police
Break: Musical term for a solo within a song
Christmas crackers: Table decorations that usually have a tissue paper crown, corny jokes, and a trinket tucked inside. When the two ends are pulled apart, they make a snapping/cracking sound.
Cottage pie: Savory dish of ground beef and vegetables topped by mashed potatoes
Dicky bird: Cockney rhyming slang for word
Eejit: Idiot (Irish)
Elevenses: A break for refreshments around eleven o’clock in the morning
Git: Someone who is silly, annoying, or incompetent.
Guts for garters: Slang for being in big trouble
Hit and miss: Cockney rhyming slang for kiss
Mum and dad: Cockney rhyming slang for mad
Nick: Prison or jail, especially at a police station
Nipper: A child, especially a small boy
Pears: Shortened from “apples and pears,” which is Cockney rhyming slang for stairs
Peelers: Irish and later English police officers, originally from Sir Robert Peel, who started the first peacekeeping force in Ireland in 1814
Pillock: Stupid person
Plonker: Fool
Porkie: Shortened from “pork pie,” which is Cockney rhyming slang for lie
Raindrops: Charming plinky sounds a banjo player makes to back up a vocal
RICO: The Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act, a U.S. law fighting organized crime
Rosie: Shortened from Rosie Lee, which is Cockney rhyming slang for tea
Smalls: Underpants
The Troubles: The violent sectarian conflict in Northern Ireland spanning four decades in the mid- to late 20th century
Your free book is “Waiting for You.”
Want to spend more time with Abit Bradshaw and Della Kincaid? Get your free copy of my novelette, Waiting for You.
I’ve pulled back the curtain on their lives before they met in Laurel Falls—between 1981 and 1984. You’ll discover how Abit lost hope of ever having a meaningful life and why Della had to leave Washington, D.C.
Haven’t started the series yet? Waiting for You will get you started in style.
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Dear Readers ...
I hope you’ve enjoyed Book 4 in my Appalachian Mountain Mysteries series. I sure enjoy writing them!
I’ve been a professional writer for several decades now, and it still thrills me when readers write to me. Sometimes they have questions about the stories and the characters. Other times they leave reviews and, well, make my day!
“Reminds me of To Kill a Mockingbird ... finding your books is like finding a rare jewel.” — J.M. Grayson
Before I started writing fiction 10 years ago, I wrote more than 1,200 articles for major magazines and newspapers and 15 nonfiction books, including several books on the craft of writing. I’m now working on my fifth Appalachian Mountain Mysteries novel.
Book Reviews ...
I’m touched whenever people post reviews on Amazon, Goodreads, book blogs, etc.
“FIVE STARS! Lynda McDaniel has that wonderfully appealing way of weaving a story ...” — Deb, Amazon Hall of Fame Top 100 Reviewer
I’d really appreciate it if you’d take a minute or two to leave a review. (It’s easy—just a sentence or two is enough.) Often readers don’t realize how much these reviews mean to the success of an author. In today’s online world, reviews can make a huge difference—so thanks in advance for posting a few sentences.
And Free Book Club Talks ...
I’d love to drop by your book club and answer your questions—whether about my books, what inspired them, or even how to write your own books. We can easily meet through Zoom. To keep things lively, I’ve created an all-in-one Book Club Discussion Guides to download free right here.
I get a kick out of hearing from readers, so don’t be a stranger! You can contact me directly at [email protected] or through my website www.LyndaMcDanielBooks.com.
Lynda McDaniel
P.S. I thought you might enjoy an excerpt from the first book in the series (following the book club questions.)
Murder Ballad Blues
Book Discussion Guide
1. What do you think the book’s title is referring to? How does it relate to the book’s theme?
2. What was the author’s purpose in writing this book? What ideas was she trying to get across?
3. What was unique about the setting of the book and how did it enhance or take away from the story? How did the setting impact th
e story?
4. What did you already know about the Southern Appalachians? What did you learn? Did you have any misperceptions?
5. Did the characters seem believable to you? Did they remind you of anyone you know—even if they’re from a different part of the country?
6. Abit Bradshaw has come into his own through music and woodworking. What skills in your life helped you feel creative and productive?
7. Why was Della Kincaid so determined to respond to the whistleblower’s mailings? What in her personality and professional life motivated her?
8. What are the major conflicts in the story?
9. What feelings did this book evoke for you?
10. At the end of Chapter 26, Della Kincaid says:
“When it finally sank in that Nigel was safe, I sat on the bench and cried in front of God and everyone. My customers were well acquainted with life’s troubles, so anyone passing by took it in stride. Two women gently laid their hands on my downturned head before walking on.”
Have you ever been comforted by strangers? Helped by people you didn’t know?
11. Were you surprised by any cultural differences you read about? Have you been to any of the places mentioned in the story?
12. In Chapter 53, Abit Bradshaw says: “I walked to the store (Coburn’s), opened the front door, and for the first time ever, felt I might not be welcome.
“Okay if I come in?”
“Of course it is, Abit.” Della frowned at me. “Why are you asking permission? Don’t tell me you’re sorry about speaking up. That negates what you accomplished.”
How do you feel after you’ve been angry at someone or spoken out about what you believe in?
13. Can you relate to the characters’ predicaments? Have you experienced anything similar?
14. What did you think when Della Kincaid was attracted to FBI Agent Stoltz? Have you ever had feelings for someone you knew could never advance? What were those reasons?
15. How do characters change, grow, or evolve throughout the course of the story? What events trigger these changes?
16. Are there any characters you’d like to deliver a message to? If so, who? What would you say?
Excerpt from Book 1
Appalachian Mountain Mysteries Series
“A Life for a Life”
Prologue: Abit
September 2004
My life was saved by a murder. At the time, of course, I didn’t understand that. I just knew I was having the best year of my life. Given all the terrible things that happened, I should be ashamed to say it, but that year was a blessing for me.
I’d just turned 15 when Della Kincaid bought Daddy’s store. At first nothing much changed. Daddy was still round a lot, getting odd jobs as a handyman and farming enough to sell what Mama couldn’t put by. And we still lived in the house next door, though Mama banned me from going inside the store. She said she didn’t want me to be a nuisance, but I think she was jealous of “that woman from Washington, D.C.”
So I just sat out front like I always did when Daddy owned it, killing time, chatting with a few friendly customers or other bench-sitters like me. I never wanted to go inside while Daddy had the store, not because he might have asked me to help, but because he thought I couldn’t help. Oh sure, I’d go in for a Coca-Cola or Dr. Pepper, but for the most part, I just sat there, reared back with my chair resting against the outside wall, my legs dangling. Just like my life.
I’ve never forgotten how crazy it all played out. I had forgotten about the two diaries I’d kept that year. I discovered them while cleaning out our home after Mama died in April. (Daddy had passed two years earlier, to the day.) They weren’t like a girl’s diary (at least that’s what I told myself, when I worried about such things). They were notes I’d imagined a reporter like Della or her ex-husband would make, capturing the times.
I’d already cleaned out most of the house, saving my room for last. I boxed up my hubcaps, picking out my favorites from the ones still hanging on my bedroom walls. (We’d long ago sold the collection in the barn.) I tackled the shelves with all my odd keepsakes: a deer jaw, two dusty geodes, other rocks I’d found that caught my eye, like the heart-shaped reddish one—too good not to keep. When I gathered a shelf full of books in my arms, I saw the battered shoebox where I’d stashed those diaries behind the books. I sat on my old bed, the plaid spread dusty and faded, and started to read. The pages had yellowed, but they stirred up fresh memories, all the same. That’s when I called Della (I still looked for any excuse to talk with her), and we arranged a couple of afternoons to go over the diaries together.
We sat at her kitchen table and talked. And talked. After a time or two recollecting over the diaries, I told Della I wanted to write a book about that year. She agreed. We were both a little surprised that, even after all these years, we didn’t have any trouble recalling that spring.
Chapter 1: Della
April 1985
I heard my dog, Jake, whimpering as I sank into the couch. I’d closed him in the bedroom while the sheriff and his gang of four were in my apartment. Jake kept bringing toys over for them to throw, and I could see how irritated they were getting. I didn’t want to give them reason to be even more unpleasant about what had happened earlier in the day.
“Hi there, boy,” I said as I opened the door. “Sorry about that, buddy.” He sprang from the room and grabbed his stuffed rabbit. I scratched his ears and threw the toy, then reclaimed the couch. “Why didn’t we stay in today, like I wanted?”
That morning, I’d thought about skipping our usual hike. It was my only day off, and I wanted to read last Sunday’s Washington Post. (I was always a week behind since I had to have the papers mailed to me.) But Jake sat by the door and whined softly, and I sensed how cooped up he’d been with all the early spring rains.
Besides, those walks did me more good than Jake. When I first moved to Laurel Falls, the natural world frightened me. Growing up in Washington, D.C. hadn’t prepared me for that kind of wild. But gradually, I got more comfortable and started to recognize some of the birds and trees. And wildflowers. Something about their delicate beauty made the woods more welcoming. Trilliums, pink lady’s slippers, and fringed phacelia beckoned, encouraging me to venture deeper.
Of course, it didn’t help that my neighbors and customers carried on about the perils of taking long hikes by myself. “You could be murdered,” they cried. “At the very least you could be raped,” warned Mildred Bradshaw, normally a quiet, prim woman. “And what about perverts?” she’d add, exasperated that I wasn’t listening to her.
Sometimes Mildred’s chant “You’re so alone out there” nagged at me in a reactive loop as Jake and I walked in the woods. But that was one of the reasons I moved to North Carolina. I wanted to be alone. I longed to get away from deadlines and noise and people. And memories. Besides, I’d argue with myself, hadn’t I lived safely in D.C. for years? I’d walked dark streets, sat face-to-face with felons, been robbed at gunpoint, but I still went out whenever I wanted, at least before midnight. You couldn’t live there and worry too much about crime, be it violent, white-collar, or political; that city would grind to a halt if people thought that way.
As Jake and I wound our way, the bright green tree buds and wildflowers soothed my dark thoughts. I breathed in that intoxicating smell of spring: not one thing in particular, but a mix of fragrances floating on soft breezes, signaling winter’s retreat. The birds were louder too, chittering and chattering in the warmer temperatures. I was lost in my reverie when Jake stopped so fast I almost tripped over him. He stood still, ears alert.
“What is it, boy?” He looked up at me, then resumed his exploration of rotten squirrels and decaying stumps.
I didn’t just love that dog, I admired him. He was unafraid of his surroundings, plowing through tall fields of hay or dense forests without any idea where he was headed, not the least bit perturbed by bugs flying into his eyes or seeds up his nose. He’d just sneeze and keep going.
We walked a while longer and came to a favorite lunch spot. I nestled against a broad beech tree, its smooth bark gentler against my back than the alligator bark of red oak or locust. Jake fixated on a line of ants carrying off remnants from a picnic earlier that day, rooting under leaves and exploring new smells since his last visit. But mostly he slept. He found a sunspot and made a nest thick with leaves, turning round and round until everything was just right.
Jake came to live with me a year and a half ago when a neighbor committed suicide, a few months before I moved south. We both struggled at first, but when we settled here, the past for him seemed forgotten. Sure, he still ran in circles when I brushed against his old leash hanging in the coat closet, but otherwise, he was officially a mountain dog. I was the one still working on leaving the past behind.
I’d bought the store on a whim after a week’s stay in a log cabin in the Black Mountains. To prolong the trip, I took backroads home. As I drove through Laurel Falls, I spotted the boarded-up store sporting a For Sale sign. I stopped, jotted down the listed phone number, and called. Within a week, I owned it. The store was in shambles, both physically and financially, but something about its bones had appealed to me. And I could afford the extensive remodeling it needed because the asking price was so low.
Back in my D.C. condo, I realized how much I wanted a change in my life. I had no family to miss. I was an only child, and my parents had died in an alcoholic daze, their car wrapped around a tree, not long after I left for college. And all those editors and deadlines, big city hassles, and a failed marriage? I was eager to trade them in for a tiny town and a dilapidated store called Coburn’s General Store. (Nobody knew who Coburn was—that was just what it had always been called, though most of the time it was simply Coburn’s. Even if I’d renamed it, no one would’ve used that name.)
Murder Ballad Blues Page 21