Death of a Jester

Deb Richardson-Moore

Description

The police cannot decide if the clown sightings reported around Grambling pose a threat or are just a hoax. That is, until a young homeless boy is lured away from his parents in the dead of night.Malachi has been dreaming of the little boy he could not save in Afghanistan. He is pulled between the deep need to drink and drown his past and his desire to try and help save the little boy who was snatched from Tent City, under his nose. Then a man dressed in a clown's outfit is found bludgeoned to death. Brangian reports and watches in horror as the crime is connected to her property and members of her own family are once again suspects.Can Branigan and Malachi help to bring the truth to light before the little boy is harmed, and before the wrong person is convicted of murder...

Informations

• Publié par: Lion Hudson
• Date de parution: 18 mai 2018
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781782642657
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Deb Richardson-Moore knows well the worlds she writes about: Upstate South Carolina, the newsroom, and the world inhabited by our homeless population. In this third novel in her series she once again weaves a suspenseful tale where these worlds intersect.
As we get to know the main characters in greater depth, our understanding of the human condition also deepens . Death of a Jester is not just a good mystery; it s a wonderful story that leaves you sad to say goodbye to these flesh and blood characters, but hopeful that book four in the series is just around the corner.
Sally Handley, president of the Upstate SC Chapter of Sisters in Crime and author of the Holly and Ivy Mystery series.
Deb Richardson-Moore pulls off what the best mystery novelists do, and manages way more than most ever could. Her seamless, energetic writing rings with verisimilitude and sings with compassion.
From the first page she pulls you into her story, introduces you to a raft of characters you absolutely have to know more about, makes you care about crucial issues like homelessness and the state of journalism, and compels you into a mystery you want to solve alongside her lovable people. This is Southern storytelling at its best, without the shopworn goofiness of Southern caricature. Those feats alone are the stuff of a bestselling mystery-writer rock star.
Beyond all that, Deb serves as pastor of a ministry that would sap even the most superhuman of writers. Together, these are the rare ingredients Richardson-Moore magically blends into her hearty Branigan Powers stews of delightful, delicious, and, yes, nutritious entertainment.
John Jeter, author of Rockin A Hard Place and The Plunder Room
Deb Richardson-Moore has done it again - given us a thrilling page-turner that will pull at your heartstrings. Not only did Death of a Jester make me bite off all my fingernails and feed my family cereal for dinner just so I could finish a couple more chapters, it also made me think about the homeless folks I sometimes encounter and consider the stories behind their stories. Thank you, Deb, for another mystery that lifts our hearts!
Rebecca S. Ramsey, author of The Holy clair: Signs and Wonders from an Accidental Pilgrimage
Deb Richardson-Moore is a former journalist and the current pastor of the Triune Mercy Center in Greenville, South Carolina. Her first book, The Weight of Mercy , is a memoir about her work as a minister among homeless people.
She and her husband Vince are the parents of three grown children. To find out more about Deb, go to her website: www.debrichardsonmoore.com.
Online reviews are always appreciated.
Also by Deb Richardson-Moore
The Weight of Mercy: A Novice Pastor on the City Streets
Branigan Powers Mysteries:
The Cantaloupe Thief
The Cover Story

Text copyright 2018 Deb Richardson-Moore
This edition copyright 2018 Lion Hudson IP Limited
The right of Deb Richardson-Moore to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Published by
Lion Hudson Limited
Wilkinson House, Jordan Hill Business Park
Banbury Road, Oxford OX2 8DR, England
www.lionhudson.com
ISBN 978 1 78264 264 0
e-ISBN 978 1 78264 265 7
First edition 2018
Cover illustration: Daniel Haskett
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
To Sippio,
who showed me what kindness looks like on the street
C ONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Discussion Questions
A CKNOWLEDGMENTS
There comes a point when you are reluctant to ask your friends to read another draft. Thanks to the following for jumping in and offering before I had to ask: Elaine Nocks, Madison Moore, Lynne Lucas, Lynn Cusick, Mary Jane Gorman, Michelle McClendon and Debbie Dawes.
Thanks to my writers group: Susan Clary Simmons, Wanda Owings, Allison Greene and Jeanne Brooks. I boast about their brutality, but could just as easily praise their thoughtfulness.
A special thank you to Lynne Lucas, Lynn Cusick, Wanda Meade and Carol Mueller for an unexpectedly generous launch party. And to Lori and Robert Bradley, Dustin Moore, Mary Beth McFadden, and Doris, Rick, Candace and Maggie Richardson for braving the heat to serve at another launch party.
I appreciate the people at Fiction Addiction, Mr. K s, The Caf at Williams Hardware and Joe s Place, who ve gone above and beyond to promote my books.
A big thank you to all the book clubs in Upstate South Carolina who have included my books on their reading lists. Who knew there were so many of you? It s always a pleasure to visit your meetings.
I am humbled that the worldwide United Methodist Women rekindled interest in The Weight of Mercy by placing it on their list of recommended reading. Thank you for that.
Thanks to the board and staff of Triune Mercy Center for a sabbatical to finish this book. I wouldn t be writing today without your gifts of time.
Thanks to my editor, Jessica Tinker, at Lion Hudson.
Thanks to my mom, Doris Richardson, for her unfailing support.
And as always, thanks to Vince, Dustin, Taylor and Madison. Let s try to keep the ending a secret this time.
C HAPTER O NE
M alachi Ezekiel Martin didn t know where he was. The dream placed him in the desert in Kuwait or Iraq - he had never known where he was over there either.
He tasted grit in his mouth and saw the canvas roof of a tent overhead. Yeah, that would be the desert.
The boy , he thought, looking around wildly. Where is the boy?
He groped for the tent flap, fully expecting to look onto a barren, forsaken landscape, where everything, everything, was the color of sand - the tents, the uniforms, the rations always liberally sanded, impossible to keep out of your teeth. His head pounded, whether from the dream or from the crumpled empties of King Cobra, it was hard to say. He counted five of the forty-ounce malt liquor cans beside his sleeping bag.
He peered outside now, squinting, anticipating rows of tents and buzz-cut men headed for chow; he braced for the impaling of the desert sun. Instead, he saw cool shadow and a single man, gray hair pulled into a ponytail, hunched over a fire pit with a teetering grill rack on top, coaxing a battered coffeepot to boil. Malachi shook his head, clearing the cobwebs, involuntarily looking around the campsite for the boy, though his brain was catching up, telling him there was no boy.
Slick turned. Coffee? he offered.
Soon s I pee. Malachi stumbled from his tent, past the picnic table that held two-liter Cokes and cereal bars, cans of ravioli and chicken noodle soup, all the sugars and starches those church do-gooders thought homeless people wanted to eat. He shuffled past the river birch, its lime-green leaves newly sprouted to provide lacy shade over the entrance to Tent City. It reminded him of his granny s doilies.
By the time he rezipped his camo pants - dark green and darker green, not the sand and khaki of his Desert Storm uniform - he was back to himself, back home in northeast Georgia where the red clay beneath his feet was as familiar as the honeysuckled air. He shook a clean Styrofoam cup from a package on the picnic table, and let Slick fill it with his thick bitter brew. He dragged a rusting lawn chair to sit across the fire pit from his neighbor.
Where Elise?
Aw, she in jail again.
Malachi knew better than to ask why. It could be drunk and disorderly or possession of crack or even assault, but most likely a prostitution charge was in there somewhere. He didn t want to rub Slick s nose in it.
Sixty days?
Slick shrugged. Dunno. Guess we see her when we see her.
Malachi changed the subject. Today Friday, right? He didn t wait for an answer. Farmers Market should be open soon. I m ready for me some maters and cantaloupes.
Slick grunted. Nah, too early. But Jericho Road be giving out that stuff, too. Pastor Liam said last Sunday.
Malachi thought of his grandparents farm, of the okra and beans and squash and tomatoes and corn and cantaloupes and watermelons and pecans and peaches it had produced so plentifully they d sold the bulk of it at a vegetable stand. That was his job, sitting on a stool at the end of the driveway, welcoming visitors, talking up the produce, collecting money, counting change. Between customers, he got to read, which was fine with his granny. She was quite a reader herself and they d swapped library books back and forth.
That s a job he d like, sitting on a stool at the Grambling Farmers Market, ringing up produce. But he guessed those folks were all family members of the farms they sold from. They looked it, anyway, those farm-fed ladies with their tight perms and sleeveless flowered-y blouses from the Walmart. Not much call for outside help.
He took a swallow of coffee and felt a grain of something on his tongue. He spit it out. Slick, you got grounds in there. Or dirt. He spit again. Th