The Parchman Preacher: A Christian Suspense Novel

By Michael Thompson

Martha, Mary Magdalene, John the Baptist, Satan, and Jesus are key figures in this 1950s good-versus-evil suspense allegory of Christ's beginning ministry. Twists, turns, and suspense make a preacher's murder mystery chilling. A tantalizing murder mystery filled with chilling explorations of hypocrisy, true faith, and small-town secrets. It's about sin and redemption. It's about the search for truth, in both the physical and spiritual realms. And it's all wrapped up in a puzzle that keeps even skeptics on their toes. Underneath it all is an allegory of Christ's ministry.

"I highly recommend The Parchman Preacher short in length, but deep in meaning, I could hardly put this book down." -Linda Lacour Hobar, author of The Mystery of History series.

"Michael Thompson has brought to life the Mississippi of my youth, complete with small town scandals, murders, prison, and the powerful southern female. Sit back, put your feet up, and enjoy a glass of sweet tea and a romping good tale." -Carolyn Haines, author of the on-going Sarah Booth Delaney mystery series.

"If you love southern gossips and party lines and communal mail, you'll feel right at home in Solo, Mississippi biblical in its proportions, with a revolving Episcopal pulpit, a moonshine-swilling postmaster and a murdering villain. Jesus, Martha, Mary, John the Baptist, Satan-what a place." -Rheta Grimsley Johnson, author of Enchanted Evening Barbie & the Second Coming, and other books.

"In The Parchman Preacher, Michael Thompson has written a true southern story of tragedy, darkness, and destiny with unpredictable twists and turns and genuine characters that provide comic relief in the midst of malevolent schemes a page turner we loved it." -Janet and Reverend John Sartelle, author of What Christian Parents Should Know About Infant Baptism.

"The Parchman Preacher penetrates the facades of southern cultural Christianity to take us to the true gospel There is no Savior but Jesus and no salvation from the judgment of God but faith in Christ alone." -Richard L. Pratt, Th.D. theologian, author of several books, including Designed For Dignity: What God Has Made It Possible For You To Be, and founder of Third Millennium Ministries, Orlando, FL.

Clarion Review
Twists, turns, and suspense make a preacher's murder mystery chilling. A tantalizing murder mystery filled with chilling explorations of hypocrisy, true faith, and small-town secrets. The Christian faith colors his work, which is an allegory inspired by the ministry of Christ. It's about sin and redemption. It's about the search for truth, in both the physical and spiritual realms. And it's all wrapped up in a puzzle that keeps even skeptics on their toes.(for the complete review, visit www.michaelthompsonauthor.com)
Diane Gardner
September 25, 2013
ForeWord Clarion Reviews

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Jul 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9781452577463

Michael Thompson

Michael Thompson is the cofounder—along with his wife, Robin—of Zoweh. Based in Durham, North Carolina, the organization serves as a guide for the hearts of men, women, and marriages as they experience the transforming love of God. Thompson is also the author of Search and Rescue, The Heart of a Warrior, and other books. He and his wife have three grown daughters and one “son-in-love.”

Book preview

Copyright © 2013 Michael Thompson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

ISBN: 978-1-4525-7745-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-7746-3 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date: 7/12/2013

CONTENTS

Prologue

PART I: Late 1954 Martha’s Memoirs

Chapter One: Martha’s Memoirs—The First Preacher

Chapter Two: After the Funeral

Chapter Three: The Second Preacher

PART II: The Letters

Chapter Four: Oneeda’s Infatuation

Chapter Five: JJ’s Honey

Chapter Six: The Postmaster

Chapter Seven: JJ’s News

Chapter Eight: The Gazette Story

Chapter Nine: Parchman Escape

Chapter Ten: The Third Preacher

Chapter Eleven: Revenge

Chapter Twelve: Media Swarm

PART III: Soul Searching

Chapter Thirteen: Souls With A Body

Chapter Fourteen: The Exhumation

Chapter Fifteen: Infamous Forever

Chapter Sixteen: Sunday Afternoons

Chapter Seventeen: Parchman Penitentiary

Chapter Eighteen: Death Row

Epilogue

About the Author

All scripture quotations are taken from the NIV Spirit of the Reformation Study Bible, Copyright © 2003 by Zondervan, Richard L. Pratt, Th.D., General Editor.

The characters, places, and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons, places, or events is coincidental.

Cover art by Disciple Design

To Tempe, who loves to read in the middle of the night.

With special thanks to my editor, Caitlin Alexander, who brought immeasurable value. To my initial and final readers who provided feedback: Kathy Adams, LaUna Brubaker, Emma Connolly, CJ Johnson, Kyser Thompson, and Susan Tyner; and to Disciple Design for an awesome cover.

Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness, who put bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter. ~~ Isaiah 5:20

Prologue

SOLO, MISSISSIPPI, had always been a speck of a town, too small for a stop sign, much less a stoplight. Our views were of corn and cotton fields, and roads that hadn’t been repaired in years. Living in Boston for the past three decades, I’d seen the world changing day by day. But not Solo. It hadn’t changed one iota, and probably never would.

I’d come back home for the funeral. As mourners drifted from the cemetery that chilly afternoon, I stood next to Mother’s grave, realizing how much I was going to miss her. I loved her like an only child should. Her name was Mary Grater. She was eighty-six when I laid her to rest.

A few minutes had passed when a distinguished-looking man approached. You must be Michael, he said.

I am.

Handing me a thick manila envelope, he said, I’m Judge Adams from over in Greenlee. I believe this belongs to you now.

The Memoirs of Martha McRae was scrawled across the envelope. Martha had died eighteen years ago. How was this possible? I looked up to ask the judge, but he was halfway to his car.

What’s this about? I shouted.

He stopped and turned. I have no idea. It’s never been opened in fifty-five years. He got in his car and drove off.

I sat on the grass next to Mother’s grave and opened the metal clasps. Scrap paper, a daily journal and notepads filled the envelope, along with one thick, rubber-banded stack of pages—all typed, double-spaced, on onionskin paper. I removed the banded pages. Handwriting—not my mother’s—covered the top sheet.

July 30, 1956

My Dearest Michael, I believe in my heart that you will understand why your mother and I did not want you to know about your father, or your mother’s past, until after we were both gone. Please forgive us if you think we were wrong.

—Martha McRae

Something thumped in my chest—curiosity? Warning? I’d never known my father; nor had I wondered much about him. Even down to my looks, it was as though I’d sprung from my mother alone—dark wavy hair, full lips, deep brown eyes, her tall cheekbones. She—and Martha, too—had cheered me on at Little League games, chaperoned school dances, embraced the girlfriend I knew would become my wife. Was it any wonder I thought she was perfect? That I had no need of another parent?

It took an anxious hour to read the 110 pages. Finished, I slid them back in the envelope, exhaled, and prayed. Thank you, God, for never letting me know this earthly father of mine. And may you hold my mother tightly in your loving arms.

Martha’s memoirs began in late 1954. She and my mother had been good friends even before I was born. A forty-year-old widow and publisher of the weekly Bethel County Gazette, Martha had also inherited a boarding house from her enterprising late husband, Shorty, which she continued to run for extra income.

My mother and I lived with her for eight years before moving into a shotgun house a block away. Martha’s tidy place offered the only two spare rooms in Solo. Her other renters were mostly state officials visiting Parchman Farm Penitentiary, ten miles south. I suppose Solo was best known for being the closest town to Parchman. Growing up, the older boys would taunt, Those bad men are gonna break out and come straight for you! A youngster can have nightmares over such thoughts, believe me.

While I never had nightmares about Martha’s stories, it took me time to come to grips with it all. Her memoirs had landed in my lap during a dark period. Not only had I lost my mother, but my wife, Sophie, and I had separated. Things hadn’t been quite right between us in a while—not since we’d entered the empty-nester stage. After our third and final had left for college we had nothing to talk about. I escaped into my routine, putting in long hours as a journalist at the Boston Globe. Love hadn’t left us; I’d pushed love out. It was my nature. It was, as I now knew, in my genes. But what I learned about the evil and the good that had taken hold in Solo, Mississippi, opened up a new avenue of self-reflection. Would it change me? Would this knowledge affect—for better or worse—my relationship with the only remaining woman in my life, my Sophie?

PART I

Late 1954

Martha’s Memoirs

If you confess with your mouth, Jesus is Lord, and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved. ~~ Romans 10:9

Chapter One

Martha’s Memoirs—The First Preacher

HE DIED of a massive heart attack, Miss Martha, the coroner said. My assistant was here during the autopsy. The little snit must have gone out and told the news to everybody he could find.

That’s how word in Solo spread that our rector, Father David Baddour, had died at the age of thirty-two. Mighty young to die of heart failure. But as Father Baddour would have said, the Lord determines our beginning and our end.

Being the only reporter in town, I’d assigned myself to write the obituary, so I needed to know if the street talk rang true or not. That’s why I had made this personal visit to Judd Insner, our part-time coroner.

Something didn’t sit right with me about a heart attack, so I made a mental note to confirm the findings with Judd’s assistant. I had heard rumors that Father Baddour had engaged in some less than stellar activities that might have brought about an unnatural cause of death. Seems he had been spotted in Greenlee by Betty Crain, driving into a motel parking lot with a woman. A woman who resembled someone we all knew. A married woman.

Two weeks after that, a restaurant owner in Greenlee found Father Baddour slumped over his food at the lunch counter. The owner told the police he had seen the preacher in his place a few times. None of the locals knew him or had a clue what he was doing in Greenlee that day.

My suspicions pricked up again the afternoon I returned from the coroner’s, thanks to Oneeda Mae Harpole, my friend, a divorcee, and the best gossip in town. She sat in my office pestering me while I composed Father Baddour’s obituary.

I hope you’re not writing a puff pastry story about the man, she said.

Like me, Oneeda possessed hearsay that implicated the preacher in scandalous circumstances.

What would you expect it to say? I asked. That he was sleeping with a married woman? We don’t have any facts, Oneeda. Just gossip.

Remember? Betty told us in Bible study. She saw them.

And you trust everything Betty says? Sometimes people see what they want to see.

Oneeda fussed with her beauty parlor hairdo and straightened her skirt as she stood to leave. "I believe she saw them."

I kept writing until I hit a snag. I couldn’t figure out what title to give the man.

Preacher, rector, priest, pastor, father…we used all of those. But being old-school Southern Episcopalians, we mostly called him Preacher; or the rector or the priest when referring to him in the second person; and Father when using his last name or in conversation with him. Pastor? That was reserved for when he came calling on one of his home pastoral visits.

For the obituary, I went with Father David Baddour.

Just before noon, still not finished with the obituary, I locked the Gazette’s doors, went home to change, and walked to Calvary Church.

I had expected to see a whole cadre of Bishops and Episcopal leaders from Salem, but there were no flowing vestments to be seen. I asked Oneeda if she had heard any talk about their absence. It seems they were all in New York attending a national meeting.

I suppose there were three dozen people at