How White People Die

By Ernie Lindsey

Murder. Lies. Betrayal. Family.

According to small town Detective Billy Showalter, the death of a local resident, Ellen Hardy, is obviously a homicide. From the noose, to the way her wrists are tightly bound, to the voodoo doll hanging in a nearby tree, all signs point to a dreadful murder.

But Del Prince, his longtime partner and family friend of forty years has a different idea.

When Billy wakes up in the hospital, confused and alive, what follows is his most confounding investigation to date. It's a case full of lies, corruption, and family secrets that have been buried for decades. Just what does any of this have to do with events from twenty-five years ago, and why didn't Del shoot to kill?
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ernie Lindsey
• Release date: Aug 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781501415647

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HOW WHITE PEOPLE DIE

Ernie Lindsey

Copyright © 2014 by Ernie Lindsey.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

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How White People Die / Ernie Lindsey.—1st ed.

THE DAY OF

I found it down by the trout pond, right smack in the middle of a murder investigation. It was small, barely noticeable from a distance, but up close where it hung from the limb of a weeping willow, you could say it was ominous. Maybe even threatening if I was reading too far into the situation.

This thing, it was made out of twigs and red twine. Looked like the figure of a woman with what felt like soft, golden corn tassel for hair. Around its neck was the tiniest little noose I’d ever seen, and I figured the person who done it must’ve had nimble fingers.

Had I been more perceptive at the time, I would’ve realized that was my first clue.

Anyway, it was hot that afternoon. Late July in the Appalachians, right after a passing thunderstorm when the earth itself seemed to be cooking in steam with humidity so thick, a man needed gills to take a walk outside. It was a fine day for an investigation even though my sweaty shirt clung to my skin like I’d put it on fresh out of the washer instead of the dryer.

I stood there taking stock of the little—well, I guess you’d call it a voodoo doll, for lack of a better phrase. It was strange to see such a thing, because around here, people believe in God, the Devil, and Dale Earnhardt, Jr.

I watched it swing in the wind, trying to figure out just what in the heck I was looking at. My partner, Del Prince, strolled over with his hands on his hips, head angled backward, eyeballing my current conundrum through the bottom half of his bifocals. When he turned to the side, the way the setting sun glinted off his revolver’s grip gave it a burnt orange glow.

And wouldn’t you know it, Del asked me, Billy, just what in the heck are you looking at?

Del was ancient. I’m talking, like, he went to kindergarten with Methuselah. Being in the December of his lifetime had little effect on his skills, however, because Del had a bloodhound’s nose and was often able to solve cases before the ink dried on a police report. He had dark brown skin and a white mess of puffy hair like a dandelion gone to seed, plus a few scars he’d gotten trying to defend MLK, Jr. back in the sixties.

He was the smartest man I ever met. And, it was a damn shame what happened to him while I was in the midst of solving the crime of the century in our town.

I said, I’m not sure what it is, Del. Some kid’s toy, maybe. The Millers have a little girl, don’t they? I knew it wasn’t a toy, and I knew the answer to that question, but Del liked to puzzle through things no matter what was being asked.

"Uh-huh. Mabel’s her