Tag Archives: mystery

The Pepper Tree Blitz

 

The Pepper Tree cover

 

Thriller, Mystery, Police Procedural

 

 

Publisher: Aakenbaaken & Kent

A Southern California landmark primarily known only to law enforcement earned a reputation for crime scenes of the most unspeakably vicious homicides. Infamous serial killers had chosen this location to discard and display their victims as trophies of their horrific deeds. Lieutenant Scott Hunter must lead a team of detectives to identify and capture a perpetrator who’s targeting young women, and has chosen this landmark to showcase his victims.

This story is a work of fiction, but the Orange County location is real. So notorious, in fact, that those officers working the graveyard shift need only radio their activity at a site bearing two words, and they are immediately dispatched a back-up officer to the “pepper tree.”

As a young patrol officer, Hunter had been introduced to the “terror at the tree” on an evening when he turned his police cruiser down that dusty road separating asparagus fields, and discovered a corpse hanging from a low-hanging limb. But now as the leader of the Robbery/Homicide team, he received that most dreaded call interrupting the stillness of the night, a body dump.

The Pepper Tree phone

 

Excerpt

 

 

Chapter 1

Like the mast of a majestic clipper ship rising vertically through the horizon, the trunk and its heavily leaved branches interrupted the monotonous plane of the two-lane roadway. Interstate 405 ran parallel to Barranca Road, giving motorists driving northbound from Sand Canyon to Jeffrey Road an expansive view of the tree and its surroundings. Bordered by asparagus fields, Barranca was seldom traveled, but the pepper tree announced its presence, and the density of its foliage shielded the most unspeakable of crimes.

By day the tree was odd; almost enigmatic. Why one, rather than a row? By night, it was an ominous adversary; in particular, to the officers of the graveyard shift. Most activities observed were cars with fogged windows, or simply the impromptu beer bust. But for the serial killer, it seemed to be a magnet that hypnotically drew the perpetrator toward the culminating acts of his horrific crime. It was the kind of place training officers, would admonish trainees to pay particular attention to possible ambush, proper illumination, and the avoidance of passing in front of spotlights, and backlighting you as a target.

This evening was going to prove to be the very thing about which Officer Jim Janowitz had been warned. When his flashlight revealed the woman’s leg, the history of this site flashed before him within a millisecond. Serial killer Randy Kraft had been convicted for the murder of a man whose body had been dumped at this very spot. The newspapers had sensationalized the crime by sharing that a four-foot twig had been stuffed into the victim’s body cavity. Two months prior to the discovery of Kraft’s crime, Gerald Shill had chosen this tree to dispose of a prostitute he had shot to death. Now this.

Janowitz hit the high beams and directed his driver side spotlight across the hood of his cruiser, while with shaking hands he radioed for back-up.

The spotlight illuminated her entire body from feet toward the crown of her head, as she lay prone, and nude from the waist down. Her dark hair, draped over the shoulders of a blue long-sleeved blouse, was matted with blood that sparkled from the beams of light projecting from the idling patrol car. With his flashlight in his left hand, he got out of the patrol car leaving the door ajar.

As he awaited the arrival of what would soon become a busy crime scene, Janowitz surveyed the open field leading from the tree to the freeway, straining to see any signs of human shadows that might have fled upon discovering the approaching sedan bearing an overhead light bar. He rounded the trunk and ducked below the flashing amber caution light, carefully stepping toward the body, scanning for threats, while trying to avoid trampling evidence. He swept the immediate perimeter ensuring there was no further danger, and checked the victim to confirm that she was, in fact, deceased.

The familiar roar of an accelerating V-8, signaled to him that help was on the way in the form of the Area 4 car, manned by Officer Karl Peterson.

As Peterson’s cruiser approached from the north, he could see the tree awash in the lights beaming from his partner’s patrol car. The scene appeared surreal – a pale, mannequin-like figure lying face down in the dirt, at the base of a huge tree, with a slender uniformed officer standing over the body.

You call a supervisor?”

I phoned Austin. I heard him radio that he was Code 7 (meal) at Denny’s and figured he didn’t hear my call; the reception’s so bad there,” Janowitz responded, gesturing with his cell phone.

Let’s get a unit to block Barranca at Sand Canyon, and another to block it off at Jeffrey. I’ll call it in, and you can start setting up a cone pattern for the crime scene.”

Roger, that.”

Austin can make the call for the homicide team.”

**********

Sergeant Richard Austin’s supervisor’s unit lumbered down the potholed, graveled asphalt of Barranca Road. The 20-year veteran was in a sour mood. Although he was the senior supervisor in Patrol, he was forced by policy to rotate onto graveyards for a three-month stint, and he had just sat down for dinner when this dead body call came out. He had a feeling that he would be standing a long time, and his back would be smarting from the weight of his Sam Browne gun belt. It was day three of his 4-day work week, and it looked as if his uniform wouldn’t make it to day four before needing dry cleaning. Austin slowly strode from his unit toward Janowitz after glancing at the body.

Are you sure she’s dead?”

I checked carotid, no pulse. I looked for lividity, and saw signs of blood pooling on the exposed extremities – knees, thighs…”

This is Irvine, Janowitz, America’s safest city; we generally frown on this type of activity.” Austin responded sarcastically.

The sergeant then began to approach the body, tracking across the dirt shoulder of the road.

Sarge, careful, there’re some footprints around her that aren’t mine.”

I’ve handled more dead bodies than you’ve taken petty theft reports Junior.”

Janowitz hoped Austin’s bluster was compensation for the sobering scene that lay before them. Viewing bodies was, unfortunately, part of the job, but what appeared to be a beautiful girl being discarded at the foot of this tree seemed, well, monstrous.

Austin reached over and separated several strands of the victim’s dark brown hair glued together with dried blood, revealing what appeared to be an entry wound.

Well, Janowitz, looks like this young lady has a bullet hole in her skull. I’ll call Homicide.”

**********

About the Author

Dave Freedland

Dave Freedland is a 34-year decorated law enforcement professional having served with the Irvine (California) Police Department. Following a competitive athletic career culminating with the award of “UCLA’s Most Valuable Gymnast,” he graduated 1st in his Sheriff’s academy class. As a SWAT team leader and commander for over 25 years, he supervised operations for numerous barricade and hostage incidents, and was the recipient of several awards including “Police Officer of the Year” and the “Meritorious Service Award.” He retired at the rank of Deputy Chief, and currently holds a 6th degree black belt in Japanese Shotokan karate. His first novel, Lincoln 9, was Oak Tree Press’ best-selling book on Amazon in 2015. His second novel, The Pepper Tree, published by Aakenbaaken & Kent, received a 2018 manuscript award from the Public Safety Writers’ Association.

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Anguished Blitz

 

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A JD Pickens Mystery, Book Four

Mystery

 

Published: June 2021

Publisher: Gatekeeper Press

Murder and mayhem hit close to home for Sheriff JD Pickens. Someone viciously attacked his father from behind, and his best friend, Leroy Jones, was shot in the back and left for dead. Several other attacks forced Pickens to seek outside help, not only for solving the crimes but for his peace of mind. Never before had Pickens and his deputies had to deal with so many harsh realities of life.

Other Book in the JD Pickens Mystery Series:

JD Pickens Mystery Series

 

Descent Into Hell

 

JD Pickens Mysteries, Book 1

Murder on Grange Road

JD Pickens Mysteries, Book 2

Murder Knows No Boundaries

JD Pickens Mysteries, Book 3

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About the Author

George Encizo

George Encizo is an award-winning author and has written seven novels. Encizo is a retired banker and lives in Tallahassee, Florida. When not writing, he enjoys a cup of coffee on the back porch with his wife communing with nature.

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Standing in My Shadow Blitz

 

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Mystery

 

Published: March 2021

Publisher:ReadersMagnet

There was a ‘presence’ in her bedroom that was always welcoming–she felt no terror.

Linda Grainer has been forced to live in boarding schools since she was five years old. Just before her college graduation, she was called home because her father, an archeology professor, was killed in an automobile accident. Her mother had died at her birth, so she was now alone in the world with questions and no one who had answers. The search for her past leads her to explore the western desert with Brett McAllister, her father’s graduate assistant. Linda disappears: and in Brett’s search for her, they discover secrets that they will never be able to reveal. The shadow figure in Linda’s troubling past steps into the light, bringing complications that may make Linda disappear forever. Brett’s love for Linda stands between the evil that wants to take control of her life and her escape to the real world with him.

Standing in My Shadow tablet


About the Author

C. S. Arnold

C. S. Arnold is the author of several children’s books and this is her first novel for young adults. She is married and has two sons, a daughter-in-law, a granddaughters, and twin grandsons. She lives on a farm in Tennessee with her husband, a few black cows, a Cavalier King Charles, and two cats.

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He Goes Out Weeping Blitz

 

He Goes Out Weeping cover

 

Mystery, Suspense

 

Published: May 2021

Publisher: New Harbor Press

Evil stalks John Book; violence tracks him. Can he escape his pursuer?

Someone has murdered the internationally famous professor of theology at Graf Divinity School. Who would want to kill a harmless, old theologian? Is it the same person that stalks one of the students and threatens harm to him and his fiancee? As layer after layer of mystery unfolds, as intriguing characters one after the other enter, and as more surprises rise up to frighten, readers confront evil–both in others and in themselves. He Goes Out Weeping is for mystery lovers who want a little theology with their chills.

He Goes Out Weeping tablet


About the Author

David A. Fiensy


David A. Fiensy taught religion for forty years in colleges and churches. He is now semi-retired and engaged in speaking for special events and in several writing projects.

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Death Opens a Window Tour

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Death Opens a Window cover

Mourning Dove Mysteries, Book 2

Mystery, Crime Fiction, LGBTQ

Publisher: Acorn Publishing

Date Published: Oct 19, 2019

 

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BEST eBOOK SUSPENSE/THRILLER – New Apple Book Awards

BEST COVER OVERALL – New Apple Book Awards

 

The Mourning Dove Mysteries series includes:

1. MURDER ON THE LAKE OF FIRE

2. DEATH OPENS A WINDOW

3. A LIGHT TO KILL BY (coming August 3)

 

Emory Rome is back in DEATH OPENS A WINDOW, Book 2 of the Mourning Dove
Mysteries and the follow-up to the international bestseller MURDER ON THE
LAKE OF FIRE.

 

As he struggles with the consequences of his last case, Emory must unravel
the inexplicable death of a federal employee in a Knoxville high-rise. But
while the reticent investigator is mired in a deep pool of suspects –
from an old mountain witch to the powerful Tennessee Valley Authority
– he misses a greater danger creeping from the shadows. The man in the
ski mask returns to reveal himself, and the shocking crime of someone close
is unearthed.

 

Death Opens a Window tablet

EXCERPT

Emory tapped the bell on the counter in the lobby of Willow Springs – senior living spaces converted from a nineteenth century Italianate house. Sounds of a mountain forest from overhead speakers pacified the air, and silk flowers sprung from every available surface. This place doesn’t seem so bad. It’s peaceful.

A scream rippled through the tranquility. Emory leapt over the counter and pounded through the door behind it. His eyes darted about in search of danger, but all he found was a fiftyish woman clutching her chest with a horrified look. Before her was an open drawer. Inside was a chicken-bone doll with a bird’s foot attached as if grabbing at the heart. The woman saw Emory and pointed frantically at the drawer. “Get it out of there! Get it out!”

That’s odd. It looks kind of like the one from Corey’s office. Emory threw the doll into a nearby wastebasket. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” The woman’s breathing ticked down from asthmatic. “Okay, I’m fine now. Thank you.” Her chest-clutching hand dropped to her side, revealing a company badge hanging from the collar of her purple polyester blouse. “Can I help you?”

Emory found himself staring at her swept-back, brittle hair – a patchwork of brown shades given a yellow luster from the fluorescent ceiling light. She must color it herself. He pulled his eyes away, glancing at the name on her badge before offering her a smile. “Hi Lucy. I’m here to see Mary Belle Hinter.”

“Ms… Ms. Mary Belle?” Her hand returned to her chest. “Are you a relation?”

“I’m Emory Rome. I’m investigating the death of someone she knew.”

“Oh, good heavens. How awful.” Lucy fanned herself with her hand. “She’s on the veranda. The door down the hall to your right. You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you.” Emory pointed toward the wastebasket. “By the way, how did that thing get in your drawer?”

The woman placed a hand over her heart. “I can’t rightfully say. I imagine someone confiscated it from… one of our residents. We’re a Christian establishment.” Emory started toward the door when the woman stopped him. “Em’ry, you don’t believe she had something to do with that death, do you?”

“No, I just need to talk to her.”

Lucy pursed her lips. “Are you sure?”

That’s an odd question. 

Lucy continued, “I don’t mean to speak ill of the misfortunate, but that woman is a hellion straight from the loins of the devil!”

“Thanks for the warning.” Emory left Lucy to her shudders. That’s twice I’ve been warned about Mary Belle Hinter. Who is she?

When Emory stepped onto the veranda, he was greeted by a stifling warmth, in spite of the weak winter sunlight slavering through the glass roof. I wonder which one is her. Among the tight scattering of more patio heaters than were necessary, he saw about two dozen elderly denizens – some sitting alone and others playing cards or board games. One small woman with wild silver hair, however, was kneeling in front of a tree and digging in the dirt with her hands, just beyond the veranda’s wood-slat flooring. Emory smirked. Lord, don’t let it be the crazy one.

A thin fortyish man in scrubs approached him. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Mary Belle Hinter.”

The man scanned the area before the tips of his mustache reached for his chin. “There she is digging at that tree again.”

Emory’s shoulders slumped. Of course, it’s her. 

The attendant hurried toward her. “Ms. Mary Belle, what have we said about messing with the foliage?”

Either she didn’t hear him or she ignored him altogether because she broke off a small offshoot of the horse chestnut tree’s root and pulled it from the ground.

“Don’t put that in your mouth!”

Before the attendant could grab it, she sure enough stuffed the piece of root into her mouth and sucked on it as if it were hard candy.

The attendant threw his hands up in the air and turned to Emory. “She’s all yours.”

Emory nodded and extended a hand to the old woman. “Ms. Mary Belle, could I help you to your feet?”

She looked up at him and rasped through cracked lips, “If I’d a wanted on m’ feet, I’d be on ’em.”

“Fair enough.” Emory crouched on the ground next to her. “Ms. Mary Belle, I need to talk to you about Corey Melton. Do you know who that is?”

“I know who he was.” She looked at him with jaundiced eyes and pointed an arthritic finger at his face. “Who’re you?”

“I’m Emory Rome.” He handed her a business card. “I’m an investigator. You said you knew who Mr. Melton was. Why did you say that?”

The old woman buried Emory’s card into one of the oversized pockets of her brown tattered cloak. “I ain’t ne’er forgit a name or face.”

“No, why did you use the past tense?”

Ms. Mary Belle’s lips curled toward her withered cheeks. “I know why you’re here.”

“And why’s that?”

“You’re askin’ ’bout a feller I knew but for one reason. The curse musta met its intention.”

Emory clenched his jaw. Here we go. “Curse?”

“The thief stole m’ prop’ty! So I hexed ’im. Hexed ’im good.”

Yep, she’s crazy. 

Ms. Mary Belle laughed so hard, the root fell from her mouth. “When God closes a door, Death opens a window.” 

“When did you last see him?”

“Ne’er did. Coward wrote me a letter! Sheriff done his dirty work. Cursed ’im too.” Her last statement added a proud glimmer to her eyes. “He still wit’ us?”

“As far as I know.”

“Well, give it time. Give it time. Oh me…” Without warning, a flash flood of tears washed away Ms. Mary Belle’s self-satisfaction. 

Emory placed a hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“That prop’ty’s been my family’s for gen’rations. From when I came ta ’wareness as a girl, I knowed I was gonna die there.” She looked over his shoulder as if she could see her erstwhile land from where she sat. “Summer’s always m’ fav’rite. Dancin’ ina black willer seeds that’re floatin’ ina wind. Cooling off ina crick. Course, ’tweren’t deep enough ta swim in, but it’s fun all a same. Ne’er did learn ta swim. And the taste o’ the sassafras trees.” Her tongue poked through her gummy smile to lick her crackled lips. “You e’er had a place like that?”

Emory shrugged. “I can’t say I have.”

Ms. Mary Belle wiped her eyes and focused them on Emory. “So you fixin’ ta ’rest me?”

“What? No, I’m not going to arrest you.”

“Takin’ pity ona ol’ woman.” She patted the back of his hand. “You’re a good young’un.”

“Thanks.”

“Can you he’p me get m’ prop’ty back?”

“Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do about that.”

“Sweet sassafras, you an inves’gator! Inves’gate how ta git back what’s mine.”

“I’m sorry.” Emory shook his head. “It’s not that simple.”

“I got money. I can pay.”

“It’s not that. It’s just too late to do anything about it now. It’s out of our hands.”

“Our?” The old woman’s pitiable fragility evaporated, leaving behind a desiccated grimace of anger. “You workin’ wit’ ’em! You all in cahoots!”

“No, I meant there’s nothing you or I could do.”

“Stealin’ what’s mine!” Ms. Mary Belle clawed at the back of his hand, drawing blood. As Emory recoiled from her, she sucked the tiny bits of his skin from her fingertips and then spit in his face. “I curse you! No moment’s peace ’til your reckonin’, whena cold handa death’ll come a beckonin’!”

Emory jumped to his feet and backed away, almost tripping. He wiped the spit from his face and glared at her in disbelief.

Ms. Mary Belle screamed, “Git out!” followed by incomprehensible words.

Emory could feel his arm hair shrieking to attention as he retreated to his car.

 

About the Author

Mikel J. Wilson

Award-winning mystery author Mikel J. Wilson draws on his Southern roots
for the international bestselling Mourning Dove Mysteries, a series of
novels featuring bizarre murders in the Smoky Mountains region of Tennessee.
Wilson adheres to a “no guns or knives” policy for the
instigating murders in the series.

 

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