Redletter

By Maria Sigle

Late fall has descended on Greenbriar. This sleepy northern Illinois town has seen violence, vicious attacks, even ghostly apparitions. Now, someone is reenacting gruesome urban legends on the unwitting townsfolk. For Marley Parker, a brilliant coed determined to become a broadcast journalist, it’s just another day on the job. When Marley’s younger sister is identified as the next target, it will take more than a quick wit and the perfect pair of high heels to solve this mystery. Is Marley finally in over her head? Redletter is the third and final installment of the Marley Parker series, best read anywhere but home alone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maria Sigle
• Release date: May 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370715657

Maria Sigle

A former model and TV spokesperson with a degree in psychology, Maria Sigle drew from a wealth of personal experience to craft this fiery tale. Her characters are well-fleshed out and full of ambiguity. The reader cannot help empathizing with the young protagonist, since she is very human and her motivation is deeply personal. It is easy to see how the loss of her mother at a young ages drives her to help others, even at great risk to herself. It is a story that young women will especially enjoy. Maria Sigle resides in her hometown of Springfield, Illinois with her husband and their 2 children. When she is not busy writing, she enjoys teaching aerobics, running, snow-skiing, pilates and cooking for her family.

Book preview

Redletter

Book three in the Marley Parker series

By

Maria Sigle

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright ©魋 2017 Maria Sigle

Author photo by Chad Mitchell Photography

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used factiously, and any resemblance to any persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is coincidental.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews.

First Edition Spring 2017

Mystery Girl Publishing

Also by Maria Sigle

Marley Parker

Marley Parker and a Rumor of Ghosts

Praise for Marley Parker

Move over Nancy Drew. There’s another attractive young gal sleuthing on the block- Marley Parker, courtesy of an exciting new author, Maria Sigle. Marley, a county sheriff’s daughter dead set on becoming an investigative journalist, is on the trail of the murderer of a wealthy college dean. Like Nancy, Marley’s got it all, but it almost comes to naught in a spine-tingling wind-up to a well-crafted mystery.

-Taylor Pensoneau, Author of Brothers Notorious &

The Summer of ’50

"Marley Parker keeps the reader guessing from one chapter to the next, and delivers a surprise ending that neatly ties everything together in an unexpected way. One of the most interesting aspects of the main character is her devotion to her family. Marley Parker is no lone sleuth—she is frequently helped by her father, Sheriff Parker, and her sister Jade. In one chapter, Marley takes a break from the main mystery to help discover who is stealing personal items from the girls’ locker room in her sister’s private high school, putting herself in harm’s way in the process.

-Michael Kleen, Author of Haunting Illinois &

Ghostlore of Illinois Colleges and Universities

Marley Parker and a Rumor of Ghosts won first place in young adult fiction at the Midwest Book Festival held in Chicago. Visit www.marleyparker.com for latest author updates and photos.

Acknowledgements

My books would not be possible without the help of some very important people. My husband John, my son Johnny, and my daughters, Jordan & Sophie Faith.

A special shout out to my little Johnny for all your ideas. You have so many amazing things in store for you and I have the privilege of watching them all unfold.

Thank you to my Mom, in heaven, (Donna Libri), Part of you pours out of me in these lines from time to time.-Joni Mitchell

Michael Kleen: editor, pal, and author extraordinaire. Thank you for taking this book to the next level.

Tom Gaskins/Gaskins Designs, for your artistic talents and abilities. You’ve conjured up yet another awesome book cover.

Nick Zummo, thank you for taking the time to explain fire departments, codes, and all the ins and outs of its responsibilities. You’re such a good friend.

Jessica McGee, one of my favorite girlfriends and television personalities, thank you for your help with the newsroom lingo.

Mary Schackmann, my fellow author friend. Thank you for all you have done to make Marley a reality.

Dr. Ron Havens, thank you for your input on the psychological aspects of this series and for letting me slide by in college.

For Tony Libri. This one’s for you, Daddy

‘Lonely days are long

Twilight sings a song

All the happiness that used to be

Soon my eyes will close

Soon I’ll find repose

And in dreams

You’re always near to me

I’ll see you in my dreams,

Hold you in my dreams

Someone took you right out of my arms

Still I feel the thrill of your charms

Lips that once were mine,

Tender eyes that shine

They will light my lonely way tonight

I’ll see you in my dreams’

I’ll See You In My Dreams by Isham Jones & Gus Kahn, 1924

Prologue

Louder! Michael Bates hollered from behind his cheap, mass-produced Halloween mask at a passing convertible blaring the classic rock ballad Don’t Fear the Reaper as it cruised down Pine Avenue. That song never gets old. His plastic skull mask’s fluorescent glow reflected in the windshield. With a beer in his left hand, he played air guitar with his right as he mockingly sang along, butchering the lyrics. A loud belch escaped his lips, the after effect of chugging his beer too fast.

His friends and he were all dressed in jeans, Converse sneakers, and mismatched hoodies or jackets, paired with their variegated Halloween masks. They were far too old to be trick or treating, knocking on strangers’ doors, wearing costumes, and asking for candy on this child’s holiday.

Michael Bates, Rich Buchanan, Lee Lowell, and Ace McMannis had a reputation. Seniors at St. Mary’s High School, they were restless spirits. Some teachers described them as every parent’s worst nightmare. Ill-mannered, lazy, unambitious, party-seeking losers. An underlying angst, a wanton disregard for authority, and recklessness was their common bond. Estranged from any organized sports or scholastic activities, they spent their time getting high and coming up with clever ways to illegally obtain liquor, like garage hopping and shoulder tapping.

Sister Mary Francis, St. Mary’s draconian principal, ran a tight ship and watched her students with an unceasing eye. It was only a matter of time before Michael, Lee, and Rich were either arrested or expelled, like their friend Ace. At only 17, he served five months in juvie for causing a fatal car crash while stoned and drunk.

The cold night breeze wildly blew Lee’s shaggy blonde hair as he violently pounded his fist against the cracked wood door at 215 Pine Avenue.

A slightly balding man peaked through the window before hesitantly opening the door, just far enough to poke his pinched face through its opening. Aren’t you a little old to be trick or treating? he asked suspiciously, lowering his gaze so he could see above the rim of his spectacles. The crotchety old man looked like he’d rather be reading a book in silence than conversing with miscreants. He lingered awkwardly behind his front door, nervously waiting for a response.

The boys smiled and exchanged glances. Their smiles broke into laughter, not so much at this strange little man’s question but at him specifically.

Aw, come on. We’re still kids. My friend Rich over here still pisses the bed every chance he gets, Ace said sarcastically as he thrust his thumb in Rich’s direction and flicked his cigarette but with the other hand.

Rich’s laughter turned into a coughing fit, which produced an obnoxious crackling sound from his throat. He raised his devil mask and spit a thick phlegm wad. The old man studied Rich with a look of blatant disgust, while Lee made a drunken howling sound. His buddies laughed even louder, presumably at some unspoken, inside joke.

Of course. Where are my manners? Perhaps out of fear, the man mysteriously changed his tune. He opened the door wider as he reached over to an antiqued table for an orange, ceramic, pumpkin-shaped candy bowl. Please, take as much as you want. He extended the bowl to Rich.

The boys emptied the bowl and charged off with a frenzy of hollers and screams. Hey, thanks a lot, ya freakin’ creep! Ace yelled from behind the safe, anonymous confines of his distorted Barack Obama mask as the boys made their way back into the street.

Lee Lowell was arguably the most popular guy in their senior class. Aside from being genetically blessed with an Adonis-like physique, he was Quarterback of St. Mary’s undefeated football team, the Wildcats. A harem of gorgeous girls followed him everywhere.

Just then, a black Ford pick-up truck with lifted wheels pulled up, honking its horn unnecessarily and in an annoying sequence. Hey! You dirt-bags wanna lift to Blakemore Estates? A young man with dark hair hollered out the passenger window, where a token, bleach-blonde girl resembling Malibu Barbie sat with her bare legs propped up on the dash board. Blakemore Estates was an abandoned insane asylum where both high school and college kids alike were gathering to throw a loud, unabashed rager.

Jenkins! Michael yelled. What the hell took you so long, man?

We had to pick up the keg first, Jenkins hollered back, motioning to the large metal keg in the truck bed like a trophy.

KEG? Lee squealed in surprise, Nice, bro! We’re coming with you.

Would you idiots hurry up and hop in the back? The blonde yelled to them before she flicked the smoking bud of her Camel Light into the road. She quickly checked her hair in the rearview mirror. The others began laughing while Michael scooped up a handful of decorative rocks from the shrub bed, laughing as he violently hurled them at the house’s aluminum siding.

The high schoolers made a spectacle as they jumped into the back of their friend’s pick up. Random onlookers stopped in their tracks to get an eyeful of the scene before them. A mother draped a protective arm around her three tiny trick or treaters as she waited for the formidable-looking truck to leave. Others watched suspiciously from their porches or safely peeked from behind their window dressings as the truck sped off, deliberately squealing its tires. After all, it was Halloween night in Greenbriar, Illinois, and residents had come to expect this behavior. Although this quaint town was best known for celebrating Halloween seven days in a row, it didn’t make it alright for some.

The old man at 215 Pine Street double bolted his front door and moved into his living room to watch from his window. He shook his head in blatant distaste, sighed, and removed his glasses to rub his tired eyes. What is the world coming to? he asked himself as he settled back into his favorite armchair and flipped on the presidential debate.

It’s a shame their fun will be spoiled the second their mouths begin to ooze with white froth and their eyeballs roll back into their brains … just as soon as they eat their cyanide-laced Halloween candy.

Moments later, the boys arrived at the old insane asylum. The decrepit, moss covered gothic-style building made the perfect location for a party on Halloween night. Juvenile delinquents, guzzling copious amounts of alcohol and thumping music loud enough to shatter nearby windowpanes, overflowed the tree-lined, grassy inlet.

Lee Lowell had just dominated his fourth keg stand and finished off the remnants of a potent joint. His hunger pangs, better known as munchies, began to get the best of him. There wasn’t anything substantial to eat laying around, but he remembered the Halloween candy he had filled his pockets with earlier. He pulled out a pink Pixy Stix among the Tootsie Rolls, Smarties, suckers, and mini chocolate bars. Those were always his favorite as a child. Without a second thought, he ripped off the top and poured the pink sugar down his throat in one fluid motion.

As he reveled in the nostalgic taste of berry flavored sweetness, he felt an odd tightening sensation in his chest. He began coughing. At first, he thought it was the aftereffects of the weed, but it quickly worsened. He had experienced bad trips before, but this was different. As coughs became chokes, his face reddened and his eyeballs bulged. Laughter from the onlookers turned into piercing screams as white foam erupted from his mouth and his body began to violently convulse.

.1.

Beware of happy days, for they are sure to be followed by dreadful ones. My great-grandfather’s macabre warning resounded in my head. I never understood what it meant. My guess is that when you’re happy, you get overly confident. You let your guard down. You make rash decisions and say yes to things when you should have said no. I thought about that warning on days when everything in my world seemed perfect. There were no clouds in my sky. Everything was even better than I could have possibly imagined. I was happy.

At the young age of 21, I’d received multiple offers for positions with major news networks across the country. I’d solved my mother’s murder from all those years ago, the physical equivalent of removing a butcher knife from my chest. My grades in college were exceptional and I would be graduating within a year, free to roam. Not to mention, I had the hottest boyfriend imaginable. Rob Cummings, my on-again-off-again love, made no secret of the fact he was crazy about me. We couldn’t get enough of each other. Just thinking about him caused my lips to turn into a shameless smile.

My mind kept wondering back to last night. We did nothing but lay on my bedroom floor and talk all night. We’d kiss in between stories, then laugh, then talk some more. I remembered how the tips of his fingers felt as he slowly ran them over my leg, then up my arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps. They were soft and manicured, not like Joe’s, my sort-of boyfriend from last summer who landscaped, whose fingertips were always callused. Then, Rob would sweetly kiss the bridge of my nose, my forehead, my eyelids, the beauty mark on the underside of my chin … and oh could that boy kiss. I had never been kissed like that before.

Marley—look alive! Chet, my overweight camera man, hollered, rudely yanking me from my reverie. Ready, in three, two, one! He excitedly rolled and pointed his index finger.

I was seated on top of a Madison County firetruck, dressed in a skimpy red sundress and black suede thigh high boots. Fuchsia Darling, my friend and favorite Nordstrom employee, had carefully selected the outfit for my first on-air television appearance. Ever so racy, yes, but it was the look station management wanted. Sexy, young, and fun-loving. Eye candy, was the term they used in the boardroom that morning. This was, of course, an effort to raise the station’s ratings during sweeps and engage younger viewers. For me, it was hands on experience for my post-college resume. I was still fiddling with the heavy firehose draped around my neck, when I noticed Chet dramatically waving his chubby little hands at me as he jumped up and down and pointed to the camera.

Oh, we’re … we’re rolling? Umm … I quickly stopped fidgeting and flashed my brightest smile. The words began spilling from my mouth before my brain could even process what I wanted to say. Here goes nothing.

"This is Marley Parker reporting live for WKLP news. Tonight, I’m at Firehouse 13