Murder on the Third Try Read online

  Murder on the Third Try

  K.P. Gresham

  Also by K.P.Gresham

  The Preacher’s First Murder

  “The Preacher’s First Murder offers dynamic plot development. Gresham enhances a classic murder mystery with dimension and character complexity.”

  —Publisher’s Weekly Booklife Prize Review

  Murder in the Second Pew

  “One of the best new mystery series on the market. K.P. Gresham injects powerful descriptive language into her characters, dialog and setting. The story offers

  many satisfying twists right up to the conclusion, which paves the way for more.”

  —D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer, Midwest Book Review

  Three Days at Wrigley Field

  “A fast-paced story that is a love letter to baseball and a powerful page-turner. The author does a fantastic job keeping readers on the edge of their seats, including those who may not be baseball fans.”

  —Publisher’s Weekly Booklife Prize Review

  All books available at www.kpgresham.com.

  Murder on the Third Try

  K.P. Gresham

  Epiphany’s Flame

  Austin, Texas

  Murder on the Third Try

  A Pastor Matt Hayden Mystery

  Copyright © 2019 Kathleen P. Gresham

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author or publisher except for the use of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to events, locales, organizations or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9967002-8-3

  E-book ISBN: 978-0-9967002-9-0

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Print Edition

  Epiphany’s Flame is a Limited Liability Corporation

  Austin, Texas

  “Love is patient, love is kind. It always protects…trusts…hopes…and perseveres.

  Love never fails.” I Corinthians 13:4-8

  To Bobbie. Your love will be with me always.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One - Where the Hell Am I?

  Chapter Two - A Hot Night in Texas

  Chapter Three - The Investigation Begins. Finally.

  Chapter Four - Bo Puts His Foot Down

  Chapter Five - Know Your Enemy? Yeah, Right.

  Chapter Six - Candid Camera

  Chapter Seven - Coming Home to Pearl

  Chapter Eight - The Trivia Team

  Chapter Nine - Where’s the Kid?

  Chapter Ten - A Death in the Family

  Chapter Eleven - Where’s My Matt?

  Chapter Twelve - The Best of Times, the Worst of Times

  Chapter Thirteen - He Isn’t Matt Anymore

  Chapter Fourteen - A Bad Night All Around

  Chapter Fifteen - Kodak Arrives

  Chapter Sixteen - Scouting Benedict County

  Chapter Seventeen - I Didn’t See That One Coming

  Chapter Eighteen - The Funeral

  Chapter Nineteen - Standing Watch Over Hell

  Chapter Twenty - Aftermath

  Chapter Twenty-One - Breaking News

  Chapter Twenty-Two - Bo Pays a Visit

  Chapter Twenty-Three - Sweetheart?

  Chapter Twenty-Four - Victory!

  Chapter Twenty-Five - Another Murder

  Chapter Twenty-Six - Bo Gets His Say

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - Too Many Visitors

  Chapter Twenty-Eight - Bloodied Brains

  Chapter Twenty-Nine - Missed It by That Much

  Chapter Thirty - Wanted: Mike Hogan, Dead or Alive

  Chapter Thirty-One - Pulitzer Lost

  Chapter Thirty-Two - The Plan Takes Shape

  Chapter Thirty-Three - The Escape

  Chapter Thirty-Four - Sowing Mistrust

  Chapter Thirty-Five - The Chase Begins

  Chapter Thirty-Six - The Body’s in the Bag

  Chapter Thirty-Seven - Shots Fired!

  Chapter Thirty-Eight - The Crime Board

  Chapter Thirty-Nine - Hell Breaks Loose

  Chapter Forty - Welcome to Texas

  Chapter Forty-One - The Choice

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Where the Hell Am I?

  Michael Hogan Jr. had returned to earth, that much was certain. He was pretty sure he was in a hospital bed. The buzzes and beeps around him suggested he was wired to some mighty expensive equipment, and when he tried to open his eyes he discovered a thick wrapping blocked his view. Which was fine with him. His head was spinning in waves of pain and fog, and he wanted only to go back to sleep. He had no idea what day it was, what time it was, heck, he didn’t even know how long he’d been out. He knew one thing for sure, however.

  Mike Hogan had been to heaven.

  Even now, he retained the feeling of being enveloped in a luminescent, pure, tangible love. A rushing fullness had encircled him, filling his eyes and ears and his mouth as if he was floating in a womb of love. He was lured to a bright light at the center of this euphoria. As he’d drawn closer he realized that the light was really a man exuding an almost blinding radiance. And then he’d seen his dad, Michael Hogan Sr., and his brother, Bryson. On earth, both were dead. Here, in this heaven, they were alive and smiling, and welcoming him to join them.

  He wanted to, but something had called him back—something unfinished.

  Had he told his father and brother that he loved them before turning from the light? He didn’t remember.

  Now sounds began to filter through the memory, and he was curious as to where he was. People were speaking in low voices. Then he felt a covering being pulled back from his feet.

  “Pastor Hayden? It’s nurse Becky,” a woman said. “Can you move your toes for me?”

  How odd. She seemed to be speaking to him, but why was she calling him Pastor Hayden? His name was Mike Hogan. He felt a light slap on his foot. He was too tired for this.

  The nurse spoke again, this time her voice a little louder. “Now, Pastor, I know you can hear me. Just give me a little ole wiggle and everything’ll be right as rain.”

  Mike flexed both big toes, just to shut her up.

  “Now that’s jes’ fine,” the woman said. “Here, let me get you bundled back up snug as a bug in a rug.”

  ‘Bug in a rug? Little ole wiggle?’ Who talked like that? As she pulled the covers back over his feet, Mike concentrated on the other voices in the room. Everyone seemed to be talking like her. Folks didn’t speak with drawls in Miami. Puerto Rican or Cuban accents maybe, and of course the nasal clip of a New England transplant. But southern drawls?

  Wasn’t he still in Miami?

  “Is it all right with y’all if I come back in?” This came from a different woman, But her drawl didn’t bother him. It soothed him.

  “Of course,” said the nurse. “I see you found the coffee machine.”

  “A little caffeine and I’ll be right as rain.” This new voice was husky and distinctly female. He remembered red hair, flowing around a beautiful, Irish face. What was her name?

  “The good Lord’s sure been good to your Pastor Hayden. He’s doin’ fine,” the first voice said.

  “The plate they inserted isn’t putting too much pressure on his brain, is it?”

  “Honey, these surgeons know exactly what they’re doing,” came the reply. “Your man here is in the best level one trauma center in central Texas. And he just moved his toes!”<
br />
  “Thank God.” There was a tremor in the husky voice.

  Texas? What was Mike doing in Texas?

  “He’s going to get better now.” The woman continued. Her voice still shook. “Right?”

  Mike heard a heavy sigh, then the nurse spoke again. “His brain might swell more, but that’s to be expected. The doctor explained that, remember?”

  “So, he’s gonna get worse before he gets better?”

  “It’s possible. But we’re watching him like hawks. We’ll know if something isn’t right. I’ll be at the desk if you need me.” Mike heard the swish of a curtain and several footsteps padded away. There was a pause, then someone took his hand. “Matt. It’s me, Angie.”

  Angie! Yes, that was it. Her voice was closer now.

  “I got some coffee, but I’m back now. Everyone says you’re a lucky man. The bullet took off the top of your skull, but never actually penetrated the brain. It’s a miracle you weren’t killed, Matt.”

  Why was she calling him Matt? Mike wondered. He was Michael Hogan Jr. It was all so confusing. But he knew Angie. And he knew he loved her.

  “I’m here beside you. You’re not alone,” she continued. “And you’re going to be okay.” Now he heard a sob behind her words. “You rest as long as you need to. I’ll be here.”

  He felt her hand on his. It was warm and soft. He wanted to move his fingers somehow to reassure her, but he was so very tired. He needed to go back to the sweet memories of heaven. Talking was too difficult; he wasn’t sure he remembered how. And the comfort of letting go was so beckoning. With great effort, he squeezed her hand, then finally gave in to the simplicity of fog that beckoned.

  ***

  I hope to hell Chief Rutledge doesn’t answer the encrypted satellite phone he gave me to use. This is one call I don’t want to make, but I have no choice. I must tell him Hogan is still alive.

  My first shot got by the pastor, but the second one—hell, if that stupid dog hadn’t started barking. That’s what made Hogan duck. I musta grazed him. But damn, there was so much blood!

  I want another shot of Jameson’s but decide against it. Gotta keep my story straight. If I play it right, I don’t need to let on that Hogan might know I’m the one who shot him. It was one in the morning, but that moon was full. Which was one reason I was sure I wouldn’t miss.

  Damn that dog.

  The Chief cuts me a lot of slack. And he should. But this is too big for him to let slide. One way or another I’m dead if Hogan saw me.

  Please God, let the man die in the hospital.

  Chapter Two

  A Hot Night in Texas

  Bo Peveto, the Fire and Ice House bartender, surveyed the Sunday night crowd, wondering why tonight of all nights they were slammed. Wilks was a small rural town a half-hour south of Austin, and it seemed most of its residents were in the bar—which indeed used to be the town’s fire station.

  They sure could’ve used Angie’s help tonight, but the bar owner was up in Austin seeing to the preacher. Well, she wouldn’t have had her mind on her work anyways. Hazmat had scrubbed and scrubbed on the church’s sidewalk, but the dark crimson stain from that gunshot wound couldn’t be erased.

  And what was the church trivia team doing here? Weren’t their competitions on Tuesdays? Making matters worse, Chelsea Schneider, the floor waitress, was in a piss poor mood over some argument with her lover—whoever that might be. Her drink orders were double-stacked, waiting to be delivered to the crowded tables.

  Bo secured his graying, two-foot-long pony tail with the black bandana he always wore hippie-style, then pulled another round of beer for two men at the bar. He served up the drinks, then checked the room. Looked like the trivia team’s drinks needed a refill. Where the heck was Chelsea?

  He grabbed up a pitcher and rounded the bar. Well, at least the game was only taking up a four-top tonight. He wondered where the rest of the group was.

  “I know the answer!” shouted the gas station owner, Aaron Rodriquez. Though always well groomed, the brick of a man still managed to smell like gasoline. “Ulysses S. Grant!”

  A cheer went up from the group, and Bo figured Aaron’s answer must’ve been the right one. The trivia team’s celebration was short lived, however. Silence reigned supreme when the next question appeared on the trivia consoles.

  “Motown Records!” Mandy Culver yelled out the next answer. She was the young blonde widow who ran Grace Lutheran’s Child Care Program and had suggested the church form a trivia team.

  Rounding out the table were Warren and Ben Yeck. The brothers might as well have been twins, both in their seventies, balding and wearing their ever-present jean overalls. Folks were known to wonder whether the brothers possessed any other form of clothing.

  Bo saw that the table was littered with dirty plates and empty drinks. Damn it, Chelsea. He grabbed a rectangular bus pan and headed for the table. “Refills, anyone?”

  No one acknowledged him, however. Hands flew swiftly over the touch pads. There was a moment of suspense, then an exhalation of cheers.

  “We got ‘em all!” Warren slapped a weathered hand on his older brother’s back.

  “Well done, everybody,” Mandy said. “One more round to go. We’ve got a five-minute break.”

  “Anybody need refills on your drinks?” Bo asked again.

  The group looked up in surprise. They’d been so focused on the game they didn’t even know he was there.

  “Sure,” Mandy said, shoving her iced tea glass his way. “Any word on how the preacher’s doing?”

  “Angie said he’s gonna get worse before he gets better. Now comes the swelling.” Bo ran a quick rag over the table’s wooden top. “How come y’all are playing tonight?”

  “Tournament week,” Ben answered. “We’ll be here every night ’til we lose.”

  “Who’s losing?” Warren elbowed his brother. “First we gotta win regionals, then state, then nationals. I’m planning on picking up that trophy in D.C. in October.”

  Ben smirked. “You ain’t ever been out of Texas, much less back East with all them foreigners.”

  Bo finished filling the iced tea glasses and turned to find Chelsea, the missing waitress, sneering at him. “You stealing my table?” Bo figured she must’ve been waiting tables outside because her skimpy tank top was streaked with sweat. He still couldn’t figure how in the hottest July on record, she was able to keep her Cleopatra eye makeup from running.

  “More like helping your sorry ass,” he said, then realized the church lady was listening intently. “Sorry, Mandy.”

  The blonde smiled and waved him off. Her attention turned to the flashing screen announcing the next round was about to start.

  “I suppose you’re gonna expect half of that tip,” Chelsea sniped.

  Ignoring her, he headed back to the bar. Chelsea followed in quick pursuit.

  “Try it and I’ll quit,” she said.

  He rounded on her. His eyes blazed, but he kept his voice low. “Look. I’m not happy Angie is gone either. And guess what? She’s not gonna be here until the preacher gets better.” Angie was like a sister to Bo, and he knew how deeply she cared for Matt Hayden. “So, get over your sorry attitude and get to work.”

  “You think I’m upset because we’re busy? Hell, that only means more tips. There’s more important things in my life than this stupid bar, you know.” She looked at the pass-through window and saw her last two food orders were still on the wire. “Damn.” She pushed through the swinging doors that led back to the kitchen. “Dorothy Jo, have you started my—” She stopped in mid-sentence. “Bo! Come here quick!”

  Bo ran into the kitchen. His beloved friend, the Ice House’s old cook, lay on the floor beside the fryer, passed out cold. “Call 911,” Bo ordered, but Chelsea was running out of the kitchen. “Where are you going?” he demanded.

  “Mandy Culver. She knows CPR!”

  Bo turned his attention back to Dorothy Jo. The short, gray-haired woman was the closest
thing he had to a mother. He choked back panic as he checked her pulse. It was weak but steady. Heartened, he looked her up and down for injury. No blood. No burns.

  Chelsea burst through the kitchen doors with Mandy in quick pursuit. “Call 911,” the church lady ordered, taking control. She checked Dorothy Jo’s breathing, then her pulse. “She’s not sweating,” she said and looked around the kitchen. “It’s hot as Hades in here.”

  ***

  Sheriff James W. Novak stood at the curtain delineating Matt’s area in ICU. The preacher looked the same as he had for the last three days—still out cold, still bruised beyond recognition and still hooked up to every machine known to man. James W.’s half-sister, Angie, slept in the chair next to the bed. Thank God. Angie had been by Matt’s side since he’d been shot last Wednesday night.

  Before James W. had learned Angie and he were related, he’d considered Angie a beautiful woman. Lots of curves and full, thick, red hair. Now that he’d discovered she was his sister, however, those thoughts were a thing of the past. He still considered her feisty, though, and still couldn’t figure how the town’s reputed “angel by day, devil by night” and the preacher had hooked up.

  She opened her eyes, causing him to think she’d only been dozing. “James W.,” she said. “What’re you doing here in Austin?”

  “Finished my meet with the Texas Rangers. Thought I’d stop by and see if there’s anything you need before I go back to Wilks.” He took off his sheriff’s hat and rubbed his hand through the stubble of his graying, burred hair. “You haven’t been home since Matt got shot.”