A Honky Tonk Night and Murder: Parker Bell Humorous Mystery, #2

By Sharon E. Buck

I'm tone deaf, I have no sense of rhythm, and yet I'm allowed to sing karaoke, occasionally, while solving murders in Po'thole aka Pothole to anyone north of the Florida Georgia state line. Locals call it Po Ho.

My childhood friend and local politician is found murdered. In her living room where her family couch still has plastic covers on it as an homage to her late mother. She died back in the 60's.

I'm Parker Bell and I thought crazy only existed in large cities. I was wrong. Crazy oozed out of every pore of my old hometown. Why I thought I and the Lady Gatorettes, diehard University of Florida football fans who are hormonally challenged every day the sun comes up, could solve a murder or two is beyond me.

Did the Mafia come to town or was it just plain bad luck a politician or two is murdered or threatened? We need to figure it out quick before we meet our untimely demise.

 

PRAISE FOR A HONKY TONK NIGHT

 

 A must read! Caution: read where you can LOL and it won't disturb others.

 

Parker and the Lady Gatorettes are at it again. Parker left {"escaped"} her small southern home town and has a successful security business in Atlanta, Ga. in addition to being a successful crime writer. She likes it in big city Atlanta and is not interested in going back to her old small southern hometown, but when a friend is found dead there, she is drawn back. Of course, even though she vows not to, she gets involved with the investigation. Per usual, right off the bat things get crazy. The Lady Gatorettes get involved and things really get interesting.

I loved the first book in this series and this one matches it. I laughed so much, my dog started laughing along with me {wagging her tail and prancing around}. Parker's senior {hard of hearing} next door neighbors are hilarious. There is one scene {I'm sure you'll know which one when you read it} that cracked me up...I was laughing so hard I dropped my kindle which hit my glass knocking it over, splashing pepsi all over the couch.. Didn't spill any on my laptop key board and cause it to fry/die though {you'll "get it" when you read the book}. - Beverly Smoak

 

Just Plain Fun to Read!

 

Parker Bell is a fantastic character. You can't help liking her or laughing along with her escapades. The next door neighbors are a hoot as are the rest of the supporting cast of characters. A plot you won't easily untwist and a setting that is as real as the people. - Skye-Writer, author

• Language: English
• Publisher: Southern Chick Lit
• Release date: Aug 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201898182

Sharon E. Buck

True confession time. I have a wicked sense of humor in case you hadn’t noticed. My true desire and hope is that I made you laugh while reading this book. My mission is to change the world with laughter one book at a time.   I write the Florida Parker Bell humorous mystery series featuring the Lady Gatorettes. Florida crazy isn't just for tourists, the natives are unique in their own special way. Those zany folks who who live in northeast Florida can't quite make up their minds if they belong in Florida or south Georgia. They do believe in having a good time along with some mayhem, mischief, murder, and wackiness thrown in there. My laugh-out-loud books are clean with no cursing or graphic sex. Read them today!   I grew up in Palatka, Florida, traveled the Southeast extensively for a number of years, and currently reside in Jacksonville, Florida. I decided for my health and well-being it was better to live elsewhere once people in my hometown realized the Parker Bell Cozy Mystery series is loosely (very loosely, according to my attorney) based on them.   When I’m not doing my favorite thing…writing…I enjoy walking her little rescue dog, traveling, reading books, and cracking my friends up with funny stories and my sense of humor.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Is there really anything such as a honky tonk night anymore, I mused, or is it just karaoke gone bad?

This is what happens when my brain engages with caffeine first thing in the morning. Random thoughts emerge with no apparent connection to anything going on in my life. Then the universe decides to play a cruel joke on me by dragging up something from the deep morasses of my mind and it suddenly appears in a weird life form in front of me. I love music.

My cell phone rang interrupting a perfectly good train of thought going nowhere. Reaching for it on my kitchen’s Ooba Tuba granite countertop, I chuckled to myself. The real reason why I had purchased this granite countertop was because I just flat out liked the name. I mean, come on, who couldn’t like a name like Ooba Tuba?

Pink’s So What was still merrily playing when I picked up the cell phone. I groaned as I recognized the number on caller I.D.. I seriously debated about whether or not to answer the phone but I knew the caller would just call me every fifteen minutes if I didn’t answer.

Hello, Dewitt. I chugged some of my freshly brewed nectar of the gods better known as the latest offering from the coffee-of-the-month club, Moroccan Heaven. It was delicious.

Parker, Parker! How are you, girl? Dewitt Munster, yes, that really is his name, is the local sheriff in River County, Florida. He wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box and had barely skated through on his last election. He won by one vote over the local drug dealer who had run against him...twice. The drug dealer demanded a recount, and it showed the drug dealer winning by two votes. Ballot box counting was not at its finest in River County, especially when it showed two different results two different times.

The case zoomed up all the way to the Florida Supreme Court where the great and almighty justices decided it was probably better to have the bumbling incumbent sheriff in office versus a known drug dealer who had twenty-seven pages of arrests. There might have been, allegedly, some fairly hefty campaign contributions made to a couple of the justices.

This, of course, made national news and the drug dealer was on every major daytime television show. Screaming he was being discriminated against, here he was now trying to go on the straight and narrow road of the great American Dream and mainstream America did not want him and others like him succeeding.

It made for great television. Unfortunately, he was arrested twice more for alleged threats of intimidation on female hosts. Still, it did put River County back in the national news.

I answered cautiously, I’m good, Dewitt.

So, when are you coming back to Po’thole?

And there it was. The dreaded question of going back to my hometown. I live in Atlanta and I love Atlanta but Po’thole—technically pronounced Poat Hole, called Po Ho by the natives and Pot Hole by anyone north of the Georgia border—seemed to have an umbilical cord attached to me during the past however many months and I couldn’t seem to get loose of it.

Carefully drinking some more of the delicious dark aromatic brew in front of me, I replied, Well, I hadn’t really planned on going down there, Dewitt.

Parker, he cleared his throat, ah, you know we’ve had a little problem down here and...

I snorted, A little problem, Dewitt? Let’s see, you had three murders back in May. Still unresolved. You have a major disappearance of a well-known CPA. Your election went all the way to the Florida Supreme Court because of voter count issues. They determined you only won by two votes, and that was against a known drug dealer. Problems, Dewitt? You’ve got a boatload of them.

He became defensive. Well, we know who murdered them people.

I interrupted him, You have no, I repeat, no evidence against Misty Dawn. It was circumstantial and you still haven’t found her. All you’re doing is speculating.

I sighed, Cut to the chase, Dewitt. What do you want?

Long silence. I drank some more coffee.

There’s been another murder.

I really wasn’t surprised. Small towns out in the middle of God’s green acres in Northeast Florida were ripe for all sorts of craziness. People disappeared all the time. Usually the story line was someone fell out of a boat or off the bank fishing and a gator ate them. River County must have some really fat gators out in the St. Johns River then.

I didn’t say anything.

Parker? You still there?

Yes, Dewitt, I’m here. I sighed, I know I’m going to regret this but who was murdered and why does it have anything to do with me?

Well, it was Scooter Travis and he was found dead at The Last Drop Saloon. And, I thought that maybe, um, you might come down and, um, see what was going on.

I started to laugh. After being a New York Times bestseller on my last book A Dose of Nice, I knew it was just a matter of time before Dewitt called me.

No.

What do you mean no?

No, Dewitt, I am not coming back down to Po’thole. I don’t like Po’thole and, besides which, you arrested me over nothing. Nope, I am NOT coming back down to Po’thole.

You mean you’re not going to help Gracie Blanche with the Harvest Full Moon Festival?

Po’thole had more full moon festivals than pagans did from the Middle Ages. Sad to say, many of the full moon festivals were not held on full moon nights.

Dewitt, I have absolutely no, I repeat, no desire to come back to Po’thole. Have a great day. Besides, what the heck is a county sheriff doing calling a bestselling author for advice?! That’s just crazy! I pushed End on my cell phone.

Thank goodness for Moroccan Heaven, otherwise, I would have thrown my coffee cup across the room. Also, since I had just paid an exorbitant amount of money to make my condo look like something out of Architectural Digest, throwing a cup of coffee against my newly painted wall would be foolish at best, stupid at the worst.

I’m Parker Bell, owner of a computer security consulting firm and national bestselling crime author. After escaping from the confines of a rural, economically depressed, and limited thinking little town located on the beautiful St. Johns River in Northeast Florida, I had created a very successful computer security consulting company in Atlanta. Believing that both sides of my brain needed to be balanced, I started writing true crime novels. No one was more surprised than I was when my first and second books became New York Times bestsellers.

My third book, A Dose of Nice, had been written about the three murders in Po’thole. It had all the makings of a good movie: a young beer tycoon also the youngest mayor of Po’thole had been found all trussed up like a turkey roasting on a spit at his men only hunting camp, then the local delicatessen owner had been found dead in his riverfront home, and the local used car salesman – everyone’s friend, it said so right on his business card – was found dead at his desk with a car purchase application under his hand. The only thing the murders had in common was they all had eaten barbeque dinners.

Well, there was one other thing they had in common and that was the Lady Gatorettes. It was highly rumored and speculated that the five hormonal, sugar-and-caffeine-infused women had murdered the afore-mentioned community leaders. Specifically, it had all the appearances that Misty Dawn, during one of her out-of-control menopausal moments, might have been the one who created the untimely death of them all.

The evidence, at best, against her was circumstantial and Dewitt had never been able to find or arrest her.

There was also the disappearance of my former first love boyfriend Joe D. Savannah, owner of We Make Money, CPAs. No one had seen hide nor hair of him since ground had been broken for the Florida Fishing Resort and that had opened on time, unlike anything else in River County.

The Middle Eastern owners had been interviewed extensively by the FBI, Homeland Security, and the afore-mentioned Sheriff Dewitt Munster regarding the murders and the disappearance of Joe D. The owners were making money hand over fist, the local economy was booming with all of the new folks coming into River County and Po’thole. Things had settled back down into a dull roar, according to my best friend since fourth grade Gracie Blanche.

I blamed Gracie Blanche for turning my life upside down earlier in the year. My life had been calm until she called me to come help her out for the Florida Full Moon Crappy Festival held every Memorial Day weekend since World War II for the Old Fashion Antique Show and Sale. Little did I know I was going to be embroiled with Homeland Security, the FBI, a Middle Eastern real estate development group, three murders, and the disappearance of a well-known thrice married CPA. Oh, yeah, did I mention the Lady Gatorettes who terrorized anyone who got within one hundred yards of them?

Still, I mused, why would Scooter Travis be murdered? Even though I wasn’t wild about Po’thole I did keep up with their latest news on the internet. It had been heavily rumored for years that Scooter had murdered his first two wives and had gotten away with it. He had also been mayor at one point and his personal net worth had grown exponentially while he was in office. But, of course, that was because he was such a good businessman although he had filed bankruptcy in his first three businesses. No one talked about that out loud anymore either.

He was just a good ole boy and had played on the only high school football team that had won a state title back in 1971. To say the guys that played on that team were tighter than super glue was an understatement.

I wondered if some of the team were covering up the local mayor’s murder and it was really something else. Taking another sip of Moroccan Heaven, I said, Not my circus, not my monkey. Little did I know.

Chapter 2

I didn’t do it, a whispered voice said after I had mumbled a very sleepy hello on my cell phone at three a.m.

Yeah, okay. You didn’t do what? My brain, normally clicking along at two hundred miles per hour, wasn’t functioning in the middle of the night and I didn’t have any real reason to get up and fix coffee. I was all snuggled up in my newly purchased, very expensive 800-thread count sheets and was sleeping the dreams of angels until this strange phone call.

It’s me and I didn’t have anything to do with Scooter’s murder. They’re going to try to frame me on this one too.

I snapped wide awake. Misty Dawn, is that you? Why would anyone think you did it? My warm snuggly sheets were thrown back as I struggled to sit up on the edge of the bed. Being a couple of pounds overweight and having that fat chunky monkey wrapped around my waistline did not make for a smooth transition out of the bed. I ended up on the floor unintentionally.

Silence.

Hello! Misty Dawn, are you still there?

More silence. I silently cursed. The line was still live.

Misty Dawn, what the heck is going on?

A mumbled, I didn’t do it, and I didn’t do them other ones either.

Total silence for about five seconds, then she had hung up.

Since it was three a.m. and I was barely awake, sleep called my name and I succumbed to my heavy eyelids closing once again.

My landline phone jarred me out of a very sexy dream with Mark Wahlberg around eight a.m. This was not starting off to be a promising good day.

Hello, I mumbled.

Parker, darling! How are you?

My day just took a major turn south. It was Saffron Woo, my New York book agent.  Saffron claims to be first-generation American of Chinese immigrant parents. I have it on good authority her real name is Delilah Brooke, she’s Jewish, and she’s from Greenville, South Carolina. Whatever, I didn’t care if she was purple and hung upside down. She’s a book agent extraordinaire, fashion diva, and has made me a ton of money. I love her but just not first thing in the morning. She makes the Energizer Bunny look like he’s on Valium.

What, Saffron? I groaned.

"Parker, girl, A Dose of Nice is selling very, very well and the new editor Keegan Valarr is interested in another book from you."

Why?

Why what, Parker?

Why does this Keegan guy want a new book from me? I haven’t even looked at any other crimes or murders. What would I write on?

Have you had coffee yet? Saffron’s voice purred through the line.

No! I was never going to be voted Miss Congeniality without my coffee.

Call me after you have had your first cup.

Wait! I interrupted her as an unwanted thought exploded in my brain but it was too late. She had already hung up.

I dragged my unwilling body into the kitchen where the only thing of any real value or substance was my coffee maker. I pushed all other thoughts out of my mind.

In less than twenty-four hours I received two calls before I had my first cup of coffee. This is never a good sign and I vaguely wondered if I needed to visit a voodoo store to get some type of magic potion to wave over me, my condo, and my phone to get rid of the obviously nasty, evil, and wicked spirits that attacked me at the crack of dawn. I don’t give a rat’s pa-tootie what time the weatherman says is dawn, anything before nine a.m. and my precious first cup of coffee is the crack of dawn to me.

Slurping down the hot, dark brown nectar, I was standing at the kitchen’s countertop ledge checking my email when I remembered why I was trying to interrupt Saffron. In the excitement of my remembering, I inadvertently sloshed some of my coffee on my keyboard. It blinked twice and then the screen went black.

No!!!! I screamed. Flipping a! Are you flipping kidding me?! No, no, noooo!!!!!

The phone rang. I hate the phone.

What? I snarled into the receiver. I didn’t even look at caller I.D., it could have been the president for all I cared and my response would be the same.

Parker? Are you okay? It was Missy, my office manager. She sounded slightly worried.

Yeah, well, I, um, had a little accident and, um...

She started to laugh, not the we’re all in this together laugh. No, it was the more humiliating laugh of I can’t believe you did it again to your laptop type.

"If you’re coming into the office, I’ll have a new laptop for you. If you’re not coming into the office, then I’ll have someone run it over to you.

You know, she coughed slightly, you’re averaging a new laptop every month now, don’t you?

Whatever, Missy, I had planned on working from home today anyway. So, just send it over.

Okay. Parker, what’s going on down in Po’thole? Dwight called at seven thirty this morning looking for you. I told him you never come in before ten and he snorted.

I hung up the phone on him.

Yes, he said so, she paused. Does he want you to do another book?

I guess. Actually, I think he’s looking for more publicity. Ever since Rob got that cushy job at CNN for doing those murder stories through the eyes of a cop, Dewitt calls me periodically. I never take his calls and I haven’t returned any of them up to now. He thinks I got Rob that job. Rob got it all on his own.

Parker, you helped by getting him dressed up nice and all.

Saffron did that. I ignored her. Anyway, I think Dewitt wants a job like that and I think he thinks if another book was written on what’s happening in Po’thole, he might get a cushy job at a major network.

Missy snickered. I guess he doesn’t realize he doesn’t fit the profile, does he?

No.

Saffron called here this morning also.

What’s up with everyone calling the office? Yeah, she called me too and told me that the new editor – Keegan somebody or other – wanted me to write a new book. She said to call her after I’ve had a cup of coffee.

Parker, do I need to make plane reservations?

No, I’m not going anywhere. My eyes narrowed, my head started pounding, I poured another cup of coffee. Then it dawned on me.

Did that weasel call Saffron?! I yelled.

Um.

Taking a deep breath, I said, "I’m guessing Dewitt called Saffron to see if she could get me to go to that godforsaken place. Plus, I don’t have a house anymore since it was blown up. I AM