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Saturday, February 4, 2012

Extract from my novel Cassavora County

    Published by Waldport Press, Cassavora County is a novel set in the small town south.  Riotous humor, mystery, sex, and nefarious characters creep off every page.  Take a look on, where you'll find reviews and a synopsis.  Meanwhile, here's a taste of what you're in for.  Don't turn your back, and be careful whom you trust if you live in Cassavora County.
        .....   The door to the United States Post Office was locked. Sheriff Goddard rapped his knuckles on the glass. Wilma, her light, blue-gray uniform shirt bright and starched, dark blue slacks covering a middle-aged middle, walked over and gave him a pinch-faced stare through the thick pane. “Sheriff’s Department, open the door please.”
            “I’m not allowed to open the door until eight thirty. We open at eight thirty.” She said it as a closing statement.
            A deputy came over at a half jog and stood behind Goddard. “The Doc’s on his way, but he wasn’t too pleased about it.”  Goddard let the remark pass.
            “Ma’am, I’m conducting an investigation and I need to talk to you.” The Sheriff, like everyone else who has visited a Post Office, felt impatience creeping resolutely into his voice.
            “This is federal property.”
            “I know what the hell it is,” Goddard commented, “Now open up.” The deputy adjusted his wide brimmed hat and stared down at his black, highly polished shoes.
            “You’ll have to wait until the Post Office is open,” Wilma countered, obviously irritated. “These people all think they’re special,” she muttered and frowned. “This is a Post Office and we have regulations!” She said the last part out loud, then turned to walk away.
            Goddard’s face changed color. “If you don’t open this door, right now, I’m going to book you as an accessory.” Wilma kept on walking. She had things to finish and except for double-parking six years ago, she’d never done anything she could be arrested for. Anyway, it wasn’t as if she could just turn the key and start the day. Wilma lived her routine according to Postal Regulations. The clerks that worked for her did too. They’d better. She hadn’t spent twenty-seven years working hard just so she could jump around at every customer’s little whim. There was a procedure for everything and forms to sign and stamps and money that needed to be counted. The union rules made it clear she didn’t have to jump just because somebody yelled grasshopper. “Why is it people are always so thoughtless and demanding?”
            Goddard wanted to smash the door and slap cuffs on this irritating, jackass of a Postal worker, but instead he turned to his deputy. “Go back to the car. Call the Postmaster and tell him we found a body in his parking lot and one of his stupid, overpaid clerks.... did you get a look at her name tag?” He paused.
           “Okay, Cook. Tell him Emperor-in-charge Cook is interfering with our investigation and saying it’s on his orders.”
         Five minutes later, a peevish looking Wilma Cook opened the door and started answering questions. Other Postal clerks hovered in the background, going about their daily chores, all ears trained on Wilma, the sheriff, and the deputy.
            Did she see anything? Only the usual. What time did she get to work? Seven thirty, like always. Was there anybody else in the Post Office when she heard the shot? Just her fellow clerks. Anybody in the parking lot? Not that she saw. The questions came like a pack of angry yellow jackets, but she stuck to her story. Nobody was there. Everything was normal. She hadn’t seen anybody else outside or inside. By now, however, she was sure she had heard a shot. As her interrogators walked out the door, she overheard the deputy asked the Sheriff if a thirty-eight would make the same sound as a backfire.

Ok, you've had a taste; now belly up for the full meal:

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