A Time Gone By

By L.J Magwood

In the winter of 1955 Barbara Jourdan, a high fashion New York model, is found brutally murdered in her Texas mansion and all clues point to her mobster husband Danny. Everyone suspects Danny committed the murder, everyone except her younger sister Lora-Lee, who proudly accepts the role as the master sleuth of the family. Lora-Lee loves writing mysteries and solving clues. She follows her gut feelings and is certain there is more to her sister’s murder than meets the eye, so she sets out on a mission of her own which leads her down a path of mystery, intrigue and lies that, in the end, will thrust her into a mystic world she never ever knew existed. Frightened and even more so, amazed by what she’s found out about their family’s “mysterious” and unbelievable secrets dating back to the early 1800’s, Lora-Lee flies out to the family ranch and shares with her grandmother an unbelievable secret that can shake the core of their family. With her voice trembling and hands shaking she says, “Grandmother, what I’ve found out will shake the core of our family”. Suddenly, grandmother turns to Lora-Lee and says, "Nothing you can tell me about the family will surprise me. Lora-Lee asks her grandmother for a piece of worldly advice. Grandmother bulks her eyes and says, “If all the luck you have is bad luck—you’d better check inside your closet for skeletons, for you may discover you’ve been cursed!”

• Language: English
• Publisher: L.J Magwood
• Release date: May 7, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311229762

L.J Magwood

About the Author: Lynetta Jordan was born and raised in California's South Central Los Angeles. She is a member of the National Organization; Sisters In Crime as well as the local Los Angeles Chapter. She is also an affiliate member of Mystery Writers of America.Lynetta Jordan's family historical novel entitled, "From the Memoirs of Lora: A Time Gone By" is her first full length fictional novel is set in 1956. It centers on Barbara Jourdan, a high fashion New York model, heir to the Cartier fortune, who is found slaughtered in her Texas mansion. In search of answers to "whodunit", her sister Lora-Lee, a famous mystery writer becomes entwined in a web of family secrets. This enchanting story about her family dates back to the Civil War in the Old South.In 2002 Lynetta released her first book of poems entitled "Who Am I?" Lynetta is an International Poet, with active membership in both the International Society of Poets as well as an active member of Academy of American Poets. Lynetta is the recipient of the 2001, 2003, 2004 and 2005 Poet of Merit Award, and also the recipient of the 2001 and 2006 Editor's Choice Award.Lynetta has been featured in several anthologies; her latest venture is with Noble House Publisher's Poetry Division in London, England.Her inspirational piece, "Youthful Reunion" is featured on the first page in their international book of poetry entitled "Theatre of The Mind". Lynetta was honored to have her poetry featured in the "International Who's Who in Poetry" 2004 and 2005 edition. She was chosen out of thousands of poets that had appeared on the Internet and in various anthology editions released by other poetry publishers in America and Europe. The International Society of Poets honored her once again by acknowledging her poetic work in this historic project.Lynetta is now hard at work on her latest novel full of romance and lust. If you've ever loved and lost, then "The Scent of Her Man" is a must read. She has recently completed a screenplay adapted from her novel.

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A Time Gone By

L. J. Magwood

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this story are purely fictional and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

© 2004 L. J. Magwood

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published 06/09/04

Library of Congress Control Number: 2004092839

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contact Information

lmagwood.blogspot.com

[e-mail]

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

PROLOGUE

It is no secret—the family virtually disowned me after Grandmother died. The bottom line is that they resented me because Grandmother and I were so close, and that closeness we shared eventually led to my becoming heir to her millions. But the thing that gets under my craw is the fact that they didn't want to spend any of their precious time alone with her, and in the end they expected her to give them what I had so rightfully earned. Sure, if they wanted a check endorsed or needed her signature to lock in some big deal, then they'd be all over her. But when it came down to who would take her to her doctor visits, to her little church functions, or her weekly Daughters of Southern Belles meetings, none of them wanted to take time out of their hectic day, as they put it, for dear old Mother Dear—especially once she started to become fretful and go on and on about some evil curse on the family.

I must admit, she did seem a little senile toward the end of her life, but who wouldn't start forgetting things? My goodness, Mother Dear was well over eighty years old when she passed away in all her glory. Although she was quite wealthy, she was a very down-to-earth sorta woman. It was no secret that in Grandmother's heyday she could drink and cuss a sailor under the table, not to mention the fact that she chain-smoked those dreadful Lucky Strike cigarettes.

Grandmother was born before the turn of the century and was full of fascinating stories. When she entered a room, she was like a breath of fresh air. Her smile would light up the room, and her witty conversations would dominate it as well. And Lord, don't let her start talking about the family. She'd go on and on about how we weren't like everyone else. I remember when she once said to me, child, we're different than most folks, that's why I want you to write a story about our family. First of all, who is going to believe your great grandfather was some African High Priest—not to mention the family curse. I explained to her that I was somewhat hesitant about helping her write her memoirs for I feared people would start thinking I was loony. She teasingly mocked Mae West's smirk, look, and mannerism, then laughed in a raspy tone and replied. We may be crazy, but we some crazy rich folks and people will listen. If not, hell, we'll buy up all the darn books ourselves.

I'll never forget the night she passed away. It was exactly seven months after Babs was murdered. That night it was raining cats and dogs, and the lightning bolts were so fierce they lit up the barren skies—as the old-timers would say, the devil was whipping his wife. But we on the other hand were miserable, for our dynasty was crumbling right in front of our eyes. This is the way it all happened. I was out at the ranch helping Grandmother write the last few chapters of her memoirs about our family. She asked me to get her a cup of tea to warm her bones, as she'd say, but when I returned from the kitchen she was gone just that fast. At first I thought she had drifted off to sleep, as she so often did, yet when I attempted to wake her, she wouldn't budge. I cried, cried, and cried.

I recall hearing people say that when someone passes away in their sleep, a peaceful look appears stretched across their face. Well, now I know that serene look, and it will

forever stay embedded in my mind as long as I live. I remember quite well, that on the day we buried Grandmother, Park Street was flooded with reporters, friends, and well-wishers from miles around. You'd swear royalty had died. The Governor and all of the who's who in the tobacco industry were there. I'm certain she would have been flattered 'cause she loved being the center of attention. When we buried her in the brass-encrusted casket, she looked so tiny and petite—not at all like the statuesque woman I had grown up calling Mother Dear. I was at a place in my life where no one could help me—no doctor, nobody. That's when I went berserk!

CHAPTER 1

I left Paris's Our Lady of Shepherds convalescent home in a relatively good mood. But the moment I entered the airport in Paris, very bizarre events started to take place. The first one was when this odd-looking beggar ran up to me in the terminal, stuck his tongue out, and started screaming obscenities. Then he suddenly fell out right in front of my feet with an apparent epileptic seizure. He caused such a ruckus I nearly missed boarding my plane. That's not all - to top it all off, the stewardess was serving drinks and spilled red wine all over my white dress. I thought to myself, I'd better buckle up 'cause something tells me this may very well be a rocky road all the way to the states.

It was one of those strange, cold, stormy, June nights. The rain was coming down like cats and dogs, making it virtually impossible to see out the tiny airplane window. I could barely see the buildings below getting larger and larger as we neared the airport runway. In the back of my mind, I couldn't help remembering that it too was a rainy night when Buddy Holly's plane went down, and his entire entourage perished along with him. He was one of my favorite singers back then, and all of a sudden, at the snap of a finger, he was gone—just that fast. After he died, I became terrified of planes, and a wet, slippery runway didn't help my nerves one bit.

After living in such seclusion at the convalescent home, with only an occasional visit from Ronny, the thought of once again joining the hustle and bustle of big city life terrified the hell out of me. Besides all the bull, I was finally home, and, hopefully, I was landing on solid ground. I could faintly hear the airline stewardess over the speaker instructing us to buckle up our seat belts to prepare to land. She softly announced, Thank you for flying Global Airlines. It's 55 degrees and raining. In Houston, it's Wednesday, June 5th. The time is 8:30 P.M.

Houston Airport, 1959

As I walked through the terminal, I noticed a few weird-looking fans parading around with Welcome Home Lora-Lee posters. The fans were the least of my problems; the reporters, on the other hand, were my worst nightmare. They knew there was a story to be told. I, a famous mystery writer, had my very own whodunit scoop about my freakin' life. As I approached the end of the terminal gate, I was mobbed by about a dozen horrid reporters, shoving and pushing their way toward me like a pack of wild wolves out for rare meat  mine.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, this really tall, lanky reporter extended his pale, bony arm, nearly poking me in the face. He asked, Miss Cunnings, what is the name of the convalescent home you stayed at in Europe?

I immediately retaliated.

Why do you ask? Do you plan on checkin' in? At this point, I was anything but subtle—especially when dealing with pesky reporters who had no sympathy for other folks. Back then, putting someone in their place was not a hard thing for me to do. Please let me pass. I pushed him out my way and continued walking, but not quickly enough. The first reporter had barely gotten his question out before a not-so-nice, middle- aged lady reporter with long, stringy, over-tinted red hair jumped in front of him and kindly remarked, Sorry to hear about your sister's murder. I thought to myself that maybe, just maybe, she'd be a little compassionate. Certainly she must have realized what I'd been going through. But she was even more revolting than the other reporter. I couldn't believe that I once ate, slept, and dreamt of becoming a famous reporter for The New York Times. Now, in my mind's eye, these people would kill their own mothers for a story. They were treacherous, rude, and most of all, obnoxious little human beings who would stop at nothing to get a scoop like this one. It would mean another notch in some asshole's belt.

She yelled out, "In your book you wrote something about an evil curse that

was placed on the Cartier family. She walked briskly alongside me as I scurried down the terminal isle, trying to dodge her probing questions. She raised her brow and tauntingly chucked a question at me, Come now Miss Cunnings, do you honestly expect us to believe that some one-hundred-year-old curse had something to do with your sister's murder? She looked at me with a smirk stretched across her silly little face as if to say, you're nuts lady, if you honestly believe we buy into this wild voodoo crap."

All of a sudden I heard Ronny's voice. Ronny was the best mate any woman could ask for. He was considerate, passionate, good-looking, and the perfect lover who thrilled my soul from the top of my head to the tip of my toes. He was confident that he knew every sensual spot on my entire body. He hollered out, Over here, My vision was somewhat blurred by the camera's flashing lights, which made it virtually impossible to see two feet in front of me. I followed his voice until I caught glimpse of him waving wildly, trying to get my attention. Right in front of you, He shouted.

Although I was barely twenty-five years old at the time, everyone thought I looked at least five years my senior. Maybe it was my black bob-cut hairdo with those blonde streaks that gave me the mature look. Or maybe it was simply because I hung out with the semi-gray-haired Mr. Ronny Merritt, who was ten years my senior. I felt a strong hand reach out from behind me and grasp my arm. I turned and there he was. It's about time you showed up. What the hell took you so long?

It seemed kind of corny, but when I first saw him I envisioned Sir Lancelot riding in on a white horse to rescue me from the mob. Ronny was like a divine vision as he gallantly shielded me from the vicious pack of reporters. Let's get the hell outta here, He whisked me down the long corridors and through the large, double, glass swinging doors, exiting the Houston airport. I was disappointed to see that no one from the family showed up to meet my plane. Fortunately, Ronny was there, and he was all I really needed.

He was the answer to my prayers. After Mother Dear passed away, I went searching for a publisher, and that's when I met Ronny. His publishing company, the New York Gazette, bought the rights to Mother Dear's memoirs about the infamous blue- blooded Cartier family. I'll never forget the first time we met. It was a very snowy day, and I had to catch an old, rickety elevator all the way up to his little, crammed office on the thirty-fifth floor of the Empire State Building in the center of New York's publishing row.

Ronny looked so handsome to me when he opened the door; I thought he was God's gift to woman—tall, dark, and fine, with intense brown eyes hidden behind large black-rimmed glasses. When I walked in his office, he had just stuffed a doughnut in his mouth and could barely say hello. The room was full of smoke, and papers were scattered over his entire desk. I nearly tripped over a trashcan that was overflowing with balled up paper, which indicated to me that he was either a sloppy man or one who couldn't make up his mind easily. I could see his cute little buttock cheeks flexing, as he strutted toward the little meeting table to clear a spot for me to sit. He had the cutest little dimples that overtook his face when he smiled and said, Miss Cunnings, I presume? I must admit I held back a fit of giggles when I saw him standing there in a tacky, ice blue, three-piece, pinstriped suit that fit his butt so tightly you could see the imprint of his private parts playing peek-a-boo with the stripes on his pants. But what caught my attention was his sexy baritone voice, and when he extended his hand and said, I'm Ronny Merritt, pleased to meet you, I almost fainted, or better yet, peed in my underpants. For some strange reason, I felt a sudden attraction to him, even though he was different from the usual guys I dated. We were an unlikely pair; he was a southern boy from

Alabama, who was reared under traditional black family values. I on the other hand, was from an affluent white southern family from Texas. Not to mention that I had never dated a black man. But for some odd reason, I was attracted to Ronny from day one.

The first year Ronny and I met, we painstakingly worked on Grandmother's book from the crack of dawn to sundown. And when we did take time out to eat, Ronny made sure we went to restaurants around New York's upper and lower Manhattan, where the movers and shakers in the literary scene hung out. Somewhere in-between Chapter one and fifteen we fell in love. I thought to myself, 'boy, I've hit the jackpot! I had finally met someone who was fun, outgoing, and intelligent, all rolled up in one. Most of all, he loved me for who I was, and not because I was heir to the Cartier fortune'.

Finally, we made it through the crowd of reporters and fans in one piece. Ronny's best friend, George, was parked right dab in the front of the airport; he was standing there patiently waiting for us in an embarrassingly extra long, candied- apple red Cadillac sedan.

George quickly jumped out of the car and opened the trunk for us to put my luggage in. George was Ronny's best friend; he was always right there by his side whenever he needed him. I thought he was a clown at times, but today topped it all. He looked like his own sideshow standing at nearly 6'7" in a red-and-white pin-striped suit, with red matching hat and boots.

He loved practical jokes, so he found this to be really hilarious to see this herd of reporters hot on our tails. George opened the door and yelled, Jump in quick. Here comes two more of those son- of-a-bitches, He laughed as we literally leaped into the backseat. But the biggest surprise was when I looked up and saw my sister Jackie, the eldest of us Cunnings girls, in the front seat laughing her head off as she watched us scramble to close

the door.

My dear Jackie was always there when I needed her, and tonight was one of those times. I was happy to see Jackie and her big, luscious boobs bouncing up and down as she laughed at all the commotion. She was different from Barbara and me in a lot of ways—especially in the figure department. Jackie was pleasantly plump with huge tits, little