A Murder Among Friends

By Jennifer Lewis Williams

A Murder Among Friends is a crime novel about betrayal, jealousy, murder, and revenge.

Everyone is shocked when Catherine, a pregnant surrogate, goes missing—from the gay couple whose child she was carrying, to her estranged sister Eva-Sue, to her college friend Marcus Agaston, now a Dallas reporter. When Catherine’s body appears on the shoreline of Lake Ray Hubbard seven days later, Marcus vows to find the killer. However, Marcus has a dark past—one that his husband Sam, a successful lawyer, knows nothing about. And the more clues Marcus uncovers about the killer’s identity, the more connections he discovers between a history he’d rather forget and Catherine’s mysterious murder. Someone will stop at nothing to keep their secrets buried, and as Marcus gets closer to finding the killer, a shocking revelation proves you can’t trust anyone...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennifer Lewis Williams
• Release date: Jul 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9780989144148

Jennifer Lewis Williams

Jennifer Lewis Williams, a recently retired lawyer, spent the last twenty years handling criminal cases, and believes she has insight about why criminals do what they do and why some individuals betray those closest to them. A Kansas native, she resides in a Dallas suburb with her furry friends: a cantankerous and moody Chihuahua and a rescued Siamese cat. She is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Southwest Chapter, Sisters in Crime (national), and Sisters in Crime North Dallas. She loves reading science fiction, mysteries, and tales about the Old West.

Book preview

~ CHAPTER 1 ~

A Lamb, a Lion, and a Fox

Summers in Texas are usually hot and humid, with unrelenting drought cracking both earth and concrete. The summer of 2005 was no different. A full month before Hurricane Katrina claimed over 1800 souls, Catherine Nance Newberry was about to weather a different storm. On Monday, July 18, 2005, she awoke at seven o’clock, as she did most mornings since her first trimester had passed. After taking a quick sponge bath and putting on a bright orange sundress, Catherine waddled into her kitchen rubbing her protruding stomach. As she sat down in a bright yellow wooden chair, she said, I know you’re hot sweetheart, but you’ll get used to the Texas heat. She blew out a slow breath and placed both hands around her stomach. I hope you have freckles like me, she laughed. Two wrens squabbled over a tiny speck of something outside the lone kitchen window. Catherine watched them, imagining her and her sister Eva-Sue as the warring birds. When the battle ended and the birds flew away, Catherine struggled to the refrigerator, snatched a carton of orange juice from the top shelf, and took three tiny sips. The wall phone rang.

Hellooooo.

It’s Stephen, how are my girls feeling today?

Fine, Stephen. I was just having some orange juice. Catherine smiled. She patted her stomach, recalling Stephen’s excitement when the doctor said she was carrying a baby girl. Stephen’s partner Thomas had not seemed as joyous.

Great. Are you craving anything today?

Not at this very moment, said Catherine. I’m gonna rest today…I’m gonna stay in today. Catherine moved a tuft of curly brown hair from her forehead and smoothed it into the lax bun she wore most days.

Eat lots and lots of carrots…for your eyes, you know…or little Stephanie’s eyes, I should say.

Catherine laughed. Uh, you mean Thomasina, don’t you? Thomas might be firm on that.

Uh uh, she’s Stephanie, trust me…Thomas will let me have what I want, he usually does.

Catherine sneezed, then coughed. Well, hopefully she’ll have your baby blues.

Bless you…are you taking your allergy pills?

Yes Stephen, you know I am.

Good…I hope our Stephanie gets your green eyes…and thick hair like yours.

Catherine coughed again. Uh no, I wouldn’t wish that on any child…besides, you guys wouldn’t know what to do with hair like mine!

Sure we do… we have you to tell us, right?

Catherine heard Stephen’s muffled laughter and knew he had put his hand over his mouth, which was what he usually did.

Do you have enough of everything to last a few days? Doctor Addleton said he didn’t want you driving by yourself, remember?

I’ve got salad, that broccoli and cabbage you brought over yesterday, and the freezer’s full…got a pork roast, a brisket, and salmon steaks ready to go. I’m fine, trust me.

And the driving? You’re not to go anywhere without me or Thomas, right?

I said I’m gonna stay in today, didn’t you hear me? Catherine cleared her throat, hoping the sound softened her irritation. She knew Stephen was a worrier. Thomas, on the other hand, was eternally optimistic. She adored them both, but her mood changed often as the child within her grew stronger. Catherine recalled the day she had decided to volunteer at the Skinner Foundation as a surrogate for a childless couple; several couples had talked with Catherine. Stephen and Thomas had interviewed her three times before they asked her to be their surrogate. Later, they told Catherine they had decided to select the surrogate first and then decide which one of them would donate the sperm. If the chosen surrogate were Caucasian, Thomas would be the donor; if the chosen surrogate were a woman of color, then Stephen would be the donor. They had said they wanted a biracial child to grow up in their biracial household.

Catherine shook her head to clear the daydream. What’d you say?

Just making sure you don’t need anything, okay? Thomas and I will be in Austin for the Alliance thing—I reminded you about it yesterday, remember? Anyway…let’s see, today’s the eighteenth and we’ll be back late Thursday…that’s the twenty-first I think. If you need anything call….

Yes, yes…I have the numbers already. Catherine leaned her back against the counter. Little whatever-her-name-will-be won’t come out for at least another three weeks or so…don’t worry. I haven’t had any twinges or nothing. Catherine saw no point in telling Stephen about the stab-like spikes she felt whenever the baby changed position.

You know we worry…what about little Mimi? Does she….

Catherine cut him off. Nope…my mother’s keeping her until after everything’s over. Mimi loves being out there, you know. She frowned and shook her head, commanding her mind not to recall her mother’s words when Catherine had announced she had volunteered as a surrogate at the Skinner Foundation.

Yeah, peace and quiet out there…she’ll miss you lots, you know.

Catherine’s stomach muscles tightened. She had never told Stephen or Thomas what her mother had said about them and the Skinner Foundation. And she had never told them her mother had demanded Catherine allow three-year-old Mimi to stay at the ranch during the last three months of Catherine’s pregnancy. Catherine blew out a slow breath. I know, I know, and that’s what I love about you…you always know the right thing to say. Tears materialized at the corner of her eyes.

After almost a full minute of silence, Stephen said, So, be sure to call Marcus and Sam about anything, right? You need me to give you their numbers?

You forget, my dear Stephen, I knew Marcus waaaaay before you did. Catherine wiped her eyes with a yellow kitchen towel.

You can still call me if…you know, if you need to….

I won’t need to call you all the way in Austin. I promise, if anything comes up, I’ll call Marcus.

Okay, I feel better already then.

I’m glad you do. Catherine closed her eyes.

Okay, I gotta go…we’re leaving from Love Field and the traffic, you know.

I remember…go, I don’t need anything. And if I do, I’ll call Marcus.

Or Sam, right? If you can’t get one don’t wait around, call the other okay?

Catherine rubbed her forehead. Yes I know, Stephen…now quit worrying. Nothing will happen and you’re only gone for a few days. I’m a grown-up, remember!

Okay, okay…we’ll call you tonight, then.

That’s not necessary, but if you must.

Okay, we’ll call you tomorrow, then.

That’s fine, Stephen. Have a fun trip. Catherine hung up the telephone. She suddenly craved peanut butter. She turned on a small television mounted beneath a white microwave oven as she spread chunky peanut butter on a slice of whole-wheat bread. When she tuned in the noon news, a gray-haired man with black glasses came into view, reciting information about a gruesome murder.

Newsman: The body of a woman found in a wooded area near The Colony back on June thirteenth has been identified as Leticia Irene Edsele, age thirty-one. Miss Edsele was eight months pregnant at the time of her death.

Catherine froze.

Newsman: No signs of the child were found in the area.

Catherine stared at the small screen. An aerial view of where the body had been found filled the right side of the screen while a young woman holding a huge microphone chimed in on the left side of the screen.

Woman: That’s right Dave, a source who doesn’t want to be identified confirmed that police are investigating the group Revelation Thirteen, a so-called Christian denomination that preaches the end times are near. Police were seen at the group’s twenty-acre compound near Nacogdoches.

Catherine gaped at a photograph of the victim in happier times that filled the screen for fifteen seconds.

Woman: If you recall, members of Revelation Thirteen protested Staff Sergeant Edwin Toussant’s funeral two weeks ago in Waco due to allegations the Army wanted him out because he was gay. Sergeant Toussant was one of four men killed when their helicopter unexpectedly crashed during training exercises in Iraq. Sergeant Toussant also served on the board of the Skinner Foundation, an organization that matches surrogates to gay couples wanting children.

Catherine shivered. She clicked the station selector until she found a cooking show. As images of lettuce, tomatoes, sweet peppers, and red onions filled the screen, the doorbell chimed. Catherine staggered to the front door and stood near its left edge. Who is it?

Delivery, Ma’am.

For who…or what?

Delivery for Catherine Nance Newberry, Ma’am…not sure what’s in the box.

Catherine turned the deadbolt and opened the door. A tall, middle-aged man with khaki-colored skin and large, drooping eyes looked down on her. The black stubble on his lower cheeks and chin made his flaring nostrils look larger than their reality. The man wore a black short-sleeved shirt with the name Walter affixed on a patch over the left pocket.

Are you Catherine Nance Newberry, Ma’am?

Yes. Catherine eyed a large box in the man’s arms. She mentally noted that the man had not blinked.

Says to deliver July 18th…you need to sign, Ma’am…I can tote it in.

Is it heavy? Catherine stared at the droopy eyes.

Weight here says twenty pounds, Ma’am.

If you don’t mind, could you put it on the coffee table for me…please.

Glad to, Ma’am.

The man took two steps and was almost in the center of the room. He looked around the room before setting down the package.

Where do I need to sign? Catherine smiled.

The bottom, Ma’am.

Catherine accepted the clipboard and scanned the page on top, focusing on the return address. Gucci? I never ordered anything from there. She looked up, expecting to meet the man’s eyes, but the man was scanning the room. His gaze lingered on the short hallway that led from the living room to the bedroom on the right and the kitchen on the left. The hairs on the back of Catherine’s neck flexed. She scribbled her name on the form and held out the clipboard. Thank you so much for bringing it in…as you can see, normal things sometimes get rough for me. Catherine gently rubbed her abdomen.

I understand, got two kids myself.

Catherine tried to smile under the man’s unblinking stare. She moved toward the front door. Thanks, again.

Catherine watched the man’s long legs as he took two steps that put him outside on the front steps.

Looks like you ready to pop.

Catherine looked away from the man’s steady stare. I’ve only got a month to go. She stroked her stomach and looked down. The man wore faded, dilapidated jogging shoes.

Good luck, Ma’am.

Catherine closed the door, locked it, then peered out a window to the right of the door. She did not see the man, or a delivery truck, or any other vehicle on the street.

#

Marcus fingered a gunmetal nameplate while he stared at a blank computer screen. He looked around his dust-free cubicle as he considered several clever opening lines to the article he needed to write about the child-sex ring discovered at a truck stop north of Denton. Marcus swiveled his chair toward a window that normally faced his back and stared out at a blue, cloudless sky hovering over the downtown Dallas skyline.

So, you have interviewed someone, no?

Marcus spun around and flashed a sincere smile at his boss. He fixed his eyes on the large, unlit cigar pressed between the man's teeth. Marcus said, Not yet, but I will today…or tomorrow. Marcus's smile usually disarmed everyone, but the boss seemed immune.

That story ran in the Dallas Morning News yesterday, so we need something on the air by tomorrow, at latest!

Marcus almost laughed when he saw the boss roll his eyes. Every time the boss stood in the doorway of Marcus's cubicle and saw Sam's picture sitting on the computer's hard drive, he rolled his aging eyes and bit down harder on the cigar between his pointed teeth. Marcus made certain Sam's picture was always angled toward his cubicle's doorway.

I'm seeing one of the waitresses at two o'clock today, and one of the victims has agreed to talk with me. He's in foster care now, but they said it's okay with them if he wanted to talk to me.

Excellent. Get to it then, and give the newsroom the copy by tomorrow.

Marcus watched the man’s short legs move swiftly away. The cell phone clipped to Marcus's belt vibrated.

Marcus here.

Hey there handsome…it's Catherine.

Anything wrong? Are you feeling any…

No, no, nothing like that silly…I swear, you men are so…I still have a month to go.

Marcus grinned, enjoying the lilting sound of Catherine's laugh. So, what can I do for you today, Miss Newberry?

Reporting in as instructed, Sir. Catherine laughed, then sucked in a breath. Stephen and Thomas are going to Austin and you know how he gets.

Believe it or not, Stephen called me this morning, early, and told me that. Marcus laughed.

I should've known. Well…just wanted to make sure you knew…just in case.

Do I hear worry in always-confident Miss Catherine? Marcus leaned back in his chair.

Naw, I'm just bored, I guess…and since you're not busy, then….

I beg your pardon Missy, but we at WJNX-FM are busy… all us 'ens stays continually busy.

That's no way for a journalism major to talk!

Oh, yeah…a psychology major would definitely know that, right? And point it out often, too. Marcus swiveled around toward the window again.

Okay…alright… don't make me laugh because I'll wet myself.

Marcus howled. Hey, I have to remember that…you want to come home with me for dinner? Sam would like it, too.

Uh huh, sure he would. Sam wants you all to himself! Thanks but I'm just gonna rest and stay in today…I promised Stephen I would.

And we certainly don't want to give Stephen anything else to fret over, laughed Marcus.

Certainly not on my end…besides, it'll probably take me all day to figure out who sent this Gucci bag.

What Gucci bag? Marcus sat up straighter. And even though I should’ve thought of that, don't look at me. He laughed.

Some creepy delivery guy brought it over earlier this morning. I had him bring it inside because he said it weighed twenty pounds.

You didn't lift it did you? Come on Catherine, you know the doctor said….

Don't go there Marcus, I mean it. I just said the guy brought it inside and put it on the coffee table.

Marcus did not say anything; he knew Catherine's moods were not always her own.

Anyway, the slip had my name and address on it, but nothing that shows who it's from…I mean who sent it.

So, maybe your mom sent it as a peace offering of sorts.

You know better than that! Anyway, this beautiful leather bag was inside and then a pair of gold-plated baby shoes was inside the bag.

Wow, someone's very nice, don't you think?

I suppose so…well, I'm gonna fix me a huge salad for lunch and take a nap.

Sounds good to me. I'll call you later on tonight.

That's not necessary, Marcus. Besides, if I'm asleep then you'll wake me and you know how I am about my sleep.

Say no more, my girl…you call me later if you feel up to it, okay?

I'll do that, kind Sir. Thanks, Marcus…talk to you later.

Marcus clipped the cell phone to his belt. When he realized it was almost one-thirty, he grabbed a brown linen jacket from the back of his chair and headed for the elevator. After five minutes, the elevator finally jerked its way to the seventeenth floor. No one else got on as he descended to the lobby of the building that sat wedged between two towering office complexes in the western sector of downtown. A veil of humidity smacked Marcus in the face as he left the coolness of the old brick building. A digital sign across the street announced the heat index at ninety-eight degrees. By evening, Marcus thought, it would surely be well over one-hundred-five.

Marcus walked north to a parking lot stuffed between the downtown public library and an urban market. A humid breeze curled his brown hair at the very tips. As he passed by the courthouse, he thought about his partner Sam, a successful attorney and giver of tips about some of the goings-on at the courthouse. His partner for five years now, Sam started out as the person who helped Marcus navigate the terms of Alton Ira Ross's will. Alton had been Marcus's most generous customer back when Marcus worked at Tricky's. Alton's only son had died from a heroin overdose exactly four months after Alton's wife died from esophageal cancer. Alton began visiting Tricky's regularly to ease his loneliness. Eventually, Alton paid for private time in Room Number Four, Marcus's room. After Alton's death from congestive heart failure, Marcus learned Alton had bequeathed him a $5 million trust with the stipulation that Marcus graduate from the University of North Texas at Denton with a journalism degree. Marcus had been shocked; he had not understood the generous gift until Sam helped him see his role in easing Alton back into the land of the living.

Wailing sirens interrupted Marcus's mental reflections. A fire truck and an ambulance whizzed by, going in the same direction as Marcus. Clouds of black smoke rose above the area near where Marcus parked his truck; someone's vehicle in an adjacent parking garage was on fire. A few people who had gathered on the sidewalk across the street whispered that someone set off a bomb, while others said an old car's battery blew up. A few of the men standing there said someone owed Dewey Littlejohn money and he was sending a message. Marcus recalled writing a short news piece about Littlejohn, who had served several years in prison for arson.

Marcus waited on the sidewalk for nearly one hour before police officers allowed him to get to his vehicle, although he was parked in a surface lot next to the garage. He immediately engaged the air conditioning in his truck, dissipating any hint of smoke aroma inside. He skillfully maneuvered the truck through downtown traffic and took the northbound access road to the highway. After he moved into the center lane, he pressed his back against the cool leather seat. Without warning, a rusty Lincoln Town Car pulled into the center lane, sending Marcus abruptly to the left. A small car had slowed quickly, avoiding a seemingly inevitable collision with the rear of Marcus's truck. Marcus cursed at the occupant of the Town Car; a light-skinned black man with droopy eyes stared back at him.

#

Blue-gray smoke fingers circled Nicholas's head while he pecked at a computer keyboard. He cursed when nothing happened. He banged a slender cigar against an ash-filled cup, and then pressed his thin lips together while he concentrated. He dabbed at the keyboard again. The screen came alive, displaying a green and white spreadsheet. Nicholas studied the numbers, scrolling down to view the last line. It said he had exactly $1000 in the bank. The mortgage on the bar alone was $1850 every month. His scowl deepened when someone knocked on the door.

Yeah?

A woman's muffled voice bounced against the closed door.

Nicholas looked at the door. Open the god-damn door and say what you gotta say!

A young woman opened the door and stood in the hall, the dim lighting making the pink streaks in her short brown hair look like running mud. She wore a white tee-shirt with the words Nicky's Bar and Grill stretched tight across newly-inflated breasts. I said Sammy Davis, Jr. just came in, you wanted to know—’member? Came in with eight in all. She smacked pink gum as she talked.

Nicholas glared at the woman. Yeah, have Jackie get 'em whatever they need…I'll be out in a minute.

Right. The woman rolled her eyes and turned to walk away.

Hey, ya betta say it without that muthafuckin' attitude, okay?

The woman raised her middle finger as she strolled down the hall.

Nicholas snorted. The girl wanted him, that was her problem. He overheard her talking to two waiters who had warned her that Nicholas seduced every woman he hired. A chill snaked up Nicholas's spine as he thought about the near fatal consequences from the last time he had sexed one of his employees.

Nicholas closed the spreadsheet and shut off the computer. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling for a few minutes. Then, he put on a white silk tie and black linen jacket and walked out into the hall. He looked in both directions before he closed the office door, locked it, and then jiggled the handle to make sure it was locked. He walked through the small kitchen on his way into the main part of the bar.

Hey, fellas, how's everybody tonight?

Three men standing over a hot griddle and stove greeted him with Hi, ya boss and lookin' sharp tonight, man.

Nicholas entered the main portion of the bar and looked to the VIP section, which was a small area near the bartender's station. It was roped off for special guests so they could be waited on quickly and other patrons could get a glimpse of who was in that space. Nicholas saw Dewey Littlejohn sitting in the VIP section with three women and four men. He knew about Dewey's time in prison for arson, but Dewey was his kind of people. And, as an up-and-coming rap music producer, Dewey freely spread his money around. Dewey looked exactly like pictures of Sammy Davis, Jr., hence the nickname. The women around him did not seem to mind his short stature and artificially straightened hair. But, unlike the original Sammy, Dewey had the use of both of his eyes, although he needed thick eyeglasses to make them work.

Hey, my man…how's it keepin', Nicholas said as he greeted Dewey.

Cain't complain, cain't complain. Dewey blew cigar smoke across the table. Where's Cappy tonight?

Nicholas cocked his head. He's in the back, you know…taking care of his missus. Nicholas touched his nose and gave Dewey a knowing nod toward the men's room. He knew Dewey loved hearing Cyprian Roberts's alto saxophone wail until sweat oozed from its tip.

Alright, alright…that's good, cuz he gotta be right for that horn, you know. Dewey smiled, exposing gold fronts on his upper teeth.

I heard that. Nicholas snapped his finger at Claude behind the bar. Set him with some Dom on the house, Junior.

Claude nodded and went about preparing the champagne.

'Preciate that, you know…really 'preciate it…you one classy fucker, Nicky. Dewey extended his fist for a bump.

I need you to say that around my employees, my man. Nicholas grinned, But, you know…anything for the real star, you know. Nicholas inclined his head, then discretely stepped away as Dewey turned his attention to the returning Cyprian strapping on a golden saxophone.

Nicholas walked to the farthest end of the bar and sat down. When Claude had finished giving the champagne to a petite waitress, Nicholas tapped the counter twice.

Yeah, boss?

Seven and seven tonight.

Feeling light-hearted, hey? Claude grinned as he prepared the drink.

I'm feeling light-hearted every night, you muthafuckin' bum! Nicholas grinned. The old man gonna be here for the back rooms tomorrow? Nicholas accepted the drink from Claude and took three gulps.

Both…me and him together 'cause you said you needed the heat.