Never Forgive, Never Forget: A Frances Sanders / Marla Pearl Mystery

By Alan Cameron Roberts

Frances Sanders is a talented New York actress on vacation in Sarasota, Florida. After two fabulous weeks, she discovers her younger sister, Precious, whom she hasnt seen for 35 years, is in a Sarasota jail for a bloody murder. Precious swears she has been framed. Frances believes her and decides to stay and investigate. While you sign autographs? asks her husband, realizing her fame.

Frances has created many characters to play on the stage. Now she must create a character to play on the stage of real life.

Enter Marla Pearl: Blond Frances sits in front of a mirror and sees the opposite of herself: tough talking, black haired Marla who goes forth only to find herself topless in a red neck bar, locked in a sinking sailboat, and worse before the final scene.

Failure equals final curtain for Frances and for Precious, too.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781532005343

Alan Cameron Roberts

Alan Cameron Roberts lives in Sarasota, Florida, with his wife Laura. He has been an Army officer, condominium designer, antique auctioneer, and writer of stage and film. He wrote, produced, and appeared in the movie Armed and Deadly.

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Copyright © 2017 Alan Cameron Roberts.

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 author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Cover Photo by Laurie Porter.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-0533-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-0534-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016917735

iUniverse rev. date:    12/23/2016

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

About the Author

There is a tide in the affairs of men,

Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;

Omitted, all the voyage of their life

Is bound in shallows and in miseries.

                                William Shakespeare

                                    Julius Caesar, Act 4, Scene 3

Success in life is about making choices, the right choices.

                                Edna Bond

                                    Frances Sanders’ Fifth Grade Teacher

All the world’s a stage, and all the men

and women merely players.

They have their exits and their entrances,

and one man in his time plays many parts.

                                    William Shakespeare

                                        As You Like It, Act II, Scene VII

Actress FRANCES SANDERS has created many

roles on the stages of New York.

But now she faces her greatest challenge.

She must create a character, MARLA PEARL,

to play on the stage of real life if she is to save

her sister, PRECIOUS, from Old Sparky,

the electric chair.

                                    Alan Cameron Roberts

                                        Never Forgive, Never Forget

Dedicated to my good friends,

WAYNE AND SUSAN BARCOMB

for encouraging me to put my thoughts

and stories into writing.

also to

EDIE SMITH

Former Florida Teacher of the Year

for her masterful editing.

and to

LAURA ROBERTS

My wonderful wife. You make it all

happen. Editing, tying all the

business ends together.

Everything!!!

NEVER FORGIVE / Never Forget

By Alan Cameron Roberts

Above the line CAST

FRANCES SANDERS New York character actor who comes to Sarasota for vacation only to discover her sister she hasn’t seen for 35 years is accused of murder.

MARLA PEARL A character created by Frances to play on the stage of real life. Marla replaces Frances in order to investigate who has framed her sister.

ROSE PENDRICK Frances until she changed her name and major in college.

PRECIOUS PENDRICK Frances’ younger sister who has made all the wrong decisions. She wants Frances to go home. Why?

CHARLEY PENDRICK Frances younger brother who goes to Viet Nam as a young soldier and is never seen again.

BARRY Frances’ doctor husband. Frances’ tells him she is staying to help Precious. Sure, while you sign autographs. He’s right. Frances creates Marla Pearl.

DETECTIVE CASTILLO Sarasota Police Department. He is convinced Precious is guilty.

MRS. BOND Fifth grade teacher who turns Rose’s (Frances) life around. Life is about making choices. The right choices.

DETECTIVE TOBY DAVIS Sarasota Police Department. Good guy who becomes Frances friend.

MICKEY POTTER Precious no good boyfriend who disappears.

POLLY YODER Newspaper reporter who becomes one of Frances’ adult children.

UNICORN Mysterious caller at night who says Precious has been framed.

MOZAMBIQUE Thought to be Torrance’s friend and a drug dealer.

Below the line cast (characters with small parts)

AUNT OLLIE Rose’s rich aunt. Precious goes to live with her, age 7

MOMMIE Rose’s mother.

CHARLIE PENDRICK Rose’s brother who goes to Viet Nam and never returns.

MILLIE Invites Frances to Sarasota for charity benefit.

BRIAN FARQUAR Frances first New York director.

MR, HARTLEY Precious landlord on Siesta Key.

SAM HURT 80 year old owner of the bait stand on the Lido Causeway. Mickey Potter’s boss. Loves Marla.

GLENDA PAGE Director at the Golden Apple dinner theater.

ARTHUR POWELL Director at Asolo Theater.

MOBLEY Young manager of sleazy motel where murder occurred.

FENN Part of first group on the beach at O’Learys bar.

KEN

PUFF

LISA

JACK HODGES Attorney prosecuting Precious for murder.

UNCLE ARTIE Rose Pendrick’s (Frances) mothers boyfriend.

SCULL TORRANCE Puff’s boyfriend thought to be ex con and a drug dealer.

Cindy, Sam, Malcolm, New people who join beach group at O’Learys

Peter, Becky

SHARKY Owner Sharkey’s Bar, a bright place for shady people.

GUARD EMMA Prison guard.

CHAPTER 1

MY SISTER WAS A MURDERER. A VICIOUS KILLER! THE newspaper said.

So why did I feel guilty?

She was the one, not me, who was inside the gray, forbidding walls of the Sarasota County jail. How could that be? After a thirty-five year separation, could a blond, blue eyed, adorable seven year old have changed that much?

Barry and I were sitting in our car outside the Sarasota County jail. Memories of my childhood innocence surrounded me. Barry’s voice, filled with impatience, pierced my cloud of nostalgia. My husband was trying to force me back to the present. I resisted.

Frances? … Frances, don’t you want to go in?

My husband’s words were surreal. They had no place in the scene that was playing in my head. I could see two little girls standing in front of a north Florida shack dressed in rags, their sour faced younger brother was just behind them.

Frances, it’s late. Detective Castillo is waiting.

Detective Castillo? … I was so deep in thought that the detective and my reason for being outside the Sarasota police department had soared away like one of the graceful pelicans that passed overhead in the clear Florida sky.

Do you want me to go in with you?

Barry, please!

I didn’t try to conceal my irritation. My husband’s a sweetheart, but he’s a do it and be done sort of man. I tend to sit back and reflect before I act. He didn’t seem to understand that this was a decision that required thought. It also required honesty. Maybe it was the commitment that was making me hesitate. Whatever, I needed time to think. After all, what do you say to a sister you haven’t seen for thirty-five years? No, that’s the easy part. What do you say to a sister who is accused of a grisly murder with a butcher knife? Do you make small talk? Chit chat? … I don’t think so.

Who are you? she’ll ask.

She won’t know me. I’ve changed, both psychologically and physically. Even my name is different. She knew Rose Pendrick, daughter of a sharecropper living in poverty who only had two worn out dresses to wear. I’m Frances Sanders, actress. I have a closet full of designer clothing and I live in a brownstone in upper Manhattan. Best of all, I have a loving husband who is a doctor, a highly regarded surgeon. I am relatively well known on the stages of New York and, just recently, I had a supporting role in a television series. People are even beginning to recognize me in public.

Aren’t you Candice Bergen? they ask. It’s nice to be recognized, I think. I do resemble Candice Bergen a little. Hopefully, in time, they’ll connect my face with my name and ask, Aren’t you Frances Sanders?

Meanwhile, I’ve worked hard to get where I am and I’ve been a little lucky along the way. Life is good. The same can’t be said for my sister. Given she was raised with a silver spoon, her current situation could only be called tragic.

At age seven, Precious went to live a life of wealth and privilege with our Aunt Ollie. Because her stepfather was Senator William Campbell, I was able to keep up with her budding thespian career in the Tallahassee newspaper. Then, during her senior year at college, her stepfather was indicted for taking bribes. After a long and nasty bit of media coverage, Senator Campbell was sent to prison for arranging fraudulent bank charters.

The newspaper lost interest in Precious until her college graduation. Ex-Senator Campbell was released from prison for one last photo. I’d never realized until then that it was the infamous Senator Campbell that the press was interested in and not Precious’ thespian accomplishments.

In the photo, Precious looked embarrassed. She disappeared after that and the ex Senator had gone back to prison. I’d completely lost track of her, until the newspaper photo today. She seemed to have changed little other than having aged twenty years.

Frances, you’re thirty minutes late. There’s nothing you can do so why don’t we just go home? Barry had gone to the driving range that morning and was dressed in a pair of brown cargo shorts and a burgundy golf shirt. His full head of hair was still the same light brown as when we’d married. He was one handsome dude.

Maybe Barry was right. Get on the airplane tomorrow, fly home to New York and forget this ever happened. Rehearsals for a new play begin in two weeks. I’m cast in the lead. Isn’t that more important?

Let it go, Frances. They caught her with the murder weapon. Detective Castillo said so.

So did the newspaper.

I reached into my purse for a tissue and blew my nose. Barry understood that I was ignoring him. But he couldn’t know that my mind was flashing back thirty-five years to my teacher, Mrs. Bond. She was my friend and my mentor from time I was ten years old until I graduated from Florida University.

Life is about making choices, she had said, the right choices.

My sister must have made some very bad choices.

I’ve made choices, mostly good ones. But only a few of them translate into days that are etched into hard stone in my mind. Those days take precedence over all other events because they have dictated the direction of my life. They have brought me to this day and to who I am and what I’ve accomplished. I have six such dates. They spring forth with the simple push of an association button. They are always with me. If I enter that jail, today will be the seventh. I know this with a certainty that I cannot explain to Barry or to myself for that matter.

There is a saying in the theater, Timing is everything. It’s true in life as well. One day later and I would have been on an airplane to New York.

Barry squeezed my hand and waited for me to squeeze back, the signal that I agreed with his suggestion to go home. I didn’t squeeze back. I just held his hand in mine. I was remembering an etched in stone day. Playing through my mind was a scene from a fourth grade classroom in Micanopy, Florida. A paddle fan was making lazy circles over our heads. Our teacher, a scholarly looking man of about forty, was pushing against his suspenders with his thumbs and trying to make a point. The importance of arithmetic was his message for that day.

I was a gangly, ten year old trying to stay awake. An occasional fly would come through the open window and buzz past my head. I was more interested in the fly than I was in the teacher, which was probably why I’d failed a grade.

It was early afternoon, November 22, 1963. The principal burst into our room with the news. She was in tears and nearly hysterical. Within moments, the entire class had joined her. President John F. Kennedy had been shot dead in Dallas, Texas. A life had been wasted.

I resolved that day to replace the life that had been taken. I had no illusions about being president. I just wanted to be something more than a sharecropper’s daughter who had failed in school. But where would I start? Who would I ask? I knew better than to ask my mother.

Larnin’ is bull shit, Rose. When you’re ready, I’ll get you a good job down at the diner. Like mine.

Enter Mrs. Bond, a teacher who saw more in me than I could ever have guessed was there. Mrs. Bond was an attractive thirty-five year old. She was single and always dressed in stylish, inexpensive clothes.

I can help you. I can show you the way, Rose, but you have to do the work. It won’t be easy. Nothing worthwhile ever is. In the end, you’ll discover that life is about the choices you make. The smallest mistake can ruin your life or the briefest of opportunities can send you down a path of success.

I attacked my schoolwork with a new enthusiasm that surprised even me. I would succeed, I would! I’d show Mrs. Bond that her faith in me had not been wasted.

At times, when my resolve would start to falter, Mrs. Bond’s words would appear. Life is about making choices. The right choices. Those words guided me.

Seven years later I graduated valedictorian from high school and was awarded a full scholarship to the University of Florida. Mrs. Bond, my hero and my mentor, was there. My mother wasn’t. I owe Mrs. Bond a debt I can never repay. Upon my graduation from college I moved to New York and Mrs. Bond married and moved to California. Mrs. Bond had been with me all the way, and still is, in my heart.

Another etched in stone day was the only time Aunt Ollie ever came to visit. Feeding three children on a waitress salary was almost impossible for Mommie, so Aunt Ollie, who couldn’t have children, offered to take one of us to live with her in Tallahassee. Mommie jumped at the chance. I think she would have been happier if Aunt Ollie had taken all three of us.

The big day came and I spent most of my time on our dilapidated front porch waiting to see dust spirals down the dirt road. Dust spirals meant that a vehicle was coming to our shack. The spirals would catch the breeze and fill the air with a dull brown haze that would float until it landed on the green spiny leaves of the scrubby undergrowth.

Few vehicles ventured onto our deeply rutted road, unless they were bill collectors. They’d usually be disappointed. Mommie would shoo us under the house where we’d all wait until the bill collector went away.

Sometimes the dust plumes belonged to Uncle Artie. We kids all knew that Uncle Artie wasn’t our real uncle, but Mommie said we had to pretend because Uncle Artie was a very important man. He was a used car salesman. Uncle Artie always wore longsleeved striped shirts, kooky looking paisley bow ties in bright colors and a sweat stained straw hat. He would make promises like, Next week, I’m going to take you kids to the beach, or, There’s a circus in Tallahassee. I’ll take you.

He never kept one promise. He was a spindly little guy who wouldn’t have known the truth if it hit him on the top of the head. Often he’d try to curl his lip like Elvis Presley. He looked foolish when he tried and sometimes I’d laugh at him because the hairs of his mustache would stick into his nostrils. Mommie would smack me and then shoo us kids out into the yard. Dust plumes, no matter whose, always meant we kids were going to be shooed somewhere.

It wasn’t until my sixteenth birthday that I understood why we had to go into the yard when Mommie and Uncle Artie were alone in the house.

Mommie was working at the diner and Uncle Artie came out to bring me a present. The present he brought was shame and guilt once a week when Mommie was working. Uncle Artie said it was our secret and to never tell Mommie or anyone else.

I’ll kill you if you tell. Understand?

That I understood! And I knew he would. What I didn’t understand was why Mommie never asked about the bruises that appeared after Uncle Artie had visited. The miserable weasel would slap me until I gave in. Then he’d … he’d . . . !

. . . Frances! Frances!! You’re hurting my hand.

What? That surreal voice again. I looked at Barry, then down at his hand. I had dug my long fingernails deep into his skin and he was bleeding.

Oh, Barry, I’m sorry. I took a tissue from my purse and tried to slow the flow of blood from his hand. The thought of Uncle Artie …

. . . I’d better find a restroom.

Oh darling, I’m so sorry.

I’d sure like to know what was on your mind just then. Or maybe I wouldn’t. Next time, I might not live through it.

Barry had no way of knowing how close he had come to the truth. As meek and as mild as I am, if I could have found a gun, I would have shot Uncle Artie for what he did to me. I’ve never told Barry about Uncle Artie, or my childhood, my real childhood. Someday I would. Someday I would confess that my fictional childhood was based on Precious, daughter of a senator and living in a mansion in Tallahassee, Florida. The first play I appeared in in New York required a biography for the playbill. I couldn’t tell the audience that I had grown up on a sharecropper’s farm with a father who was wanted for murder.

Barry closed the car door and I watched him for a moment as he headed off in search of a place to wash his bleeding hand. Poor dear, there was blood on his brown cargo shorts.

Then I was back in Micanopy. It was Thanksgiving Day thirty-five years ago and Aunt Ollie was due any moment. The day was dull and overcast, probably ten degrees colder than usual, and the wind swept right through my thin, faded cotton dress. I didn’t own a coat. That day, I didn’t need one. I had anticipation to keep me warm.

Without warning, as if by magic, Aunt Ollie’s Packard lumbered through a pall of dust which mixed with the gray clouds and became one. Soon the large car was parked at our front steps like a royal carriage.

Aunt Ollie, dressed in a blue and yellow paisley dress, stepped out like a queen. To us she was royalty. She was married to Senator William Campbell. He was famous. Anybody whose picture was in the newspaper was famous. At least we thought so.

The Campbells lived in an impressive mansion on a lake bordered with moss-covered trees outside Tallahassee. Choose me, I thought. I’d seen pictures of the house and I wanted to live like Scarlet O’Hara in GONE WITH THE WIND.

I had no idea what it would be like to live with Aunt Ollie. This was the only time I’d ever seen her, but she seemed jolly enough. She was overweight, always laughing, and her hair was silver blue and lifeless. It was probably from too many permanent waves. She wore a pillbox hat with a long feather that jauntily waved about and bobbed up and down when she laughed. As I think back on that day, I can’t remember her features but I can still see that feather dancing its happy dance.

This was destined to be the only time I would ever see Aunt Ollie. She never removed her fur wrap or put down her glass of bourbon, unless it was for her chauffeur to re-fill. I also remember that she wore too much make-up. At least I thought so. She seemed to suffer from a case of indigestion. Her right hand continually moved a white tissue to her mouth to cover a belch.

Our afternoon together was tense, in spite of Aunt Ollie’s nervous laughter. It was obvious that Aunt Ollie and my mother were not friends. Sisters, yes, friends … no. Aunt Ollie was quite comfortable with her wealth; my mother was not and showed it with various little cutting remarks.

It’s nice to be rich but it’s nicer to be nice, Mommie would say. Ironic. Aunt Ollie was nice and my mother wasn’t.

To her credit, Aunt Ollie ignored my mother’s remarks. Living with Aunt Ollie would have been a challenge, I’m sure, but it was a chance I was willing to take. It would beat tomato surprise Mommie style. That was catsup, stolen from the diner, in heated water over stale bread.

When the catsup ran out, Mommie would send my brother, Charley, out to steal a chicken. Often he came home with a tail full of buckshot. He was clumsy and not a very good thief. My sister and I would laugh. We thought it was funny that Mommie had to pick the pellets out of Charley’s rear. Charley didn’t think it was funny at all. I can still see him scowling at us before painfully skulking off to the small room he shared with the garbage and a wringer type washing machine. The dryer? It was a line out back.

Charley’s rear was still tender the day we sat down to Thanksgiving turkey with Aunt Ollie. Don’t be bashful, she said. We weren’t. Aunt Ollie had brought more food than we’d ever seen.

Aunt Ollie watched us as we ate. Ostensibly, she was watching us and deciding which one to choose. Our names were Precious, age seven, Charley, age ten, and Rose, age twelve. It was with high anticipation that we all sat and waited to be chosen. It was all a sham. I knew which one she’d pick. So did she and it wasn’t me. It was the cute seven year old with blond hair and blue eyes.

After that day, life improved, if only marginally. Aunt Ollie sent boxes of food once a month and Charley didn’t have to steal chickens anymore, which did nothing for his sullen attitude. I honestly think he thought Aunt Ollie was going to pick him. Afterwards, he became more of a loner and an outcast than ever before. Occasionally, he would ask Mother when Father was coming home, as if that would solve all his problems.

Mommie would tell us that our father was coming home as soon as he found work. I knew the truth. He’d killed a man in a barroom fight and disappeared down the railroad tracks on a rainy November night. I knew we would never see him again.

Damn November! I said.

Barry opened the car door and brought me back to the present.

Must be a personal preference. Frankly, I’ve never had any real feelings about November one way or the other.

I had to laugh.

There’s a drugstore around the block. I’ll be right back.

Still bleeding?

Barry held up his hand. A blood soaked paper towel was wrapped around it.

Good thing I’m a doctor.

If I’m not here when you get back, I’ve gone in.

About time. It’s after four thirty. Let’s not forget to call Millie tonight. We need the limo Sunday at two.

I nodded and Barry took off for the drug store. I made a little note in my memo book about Millie and the limousine that would take us to the airport for our return flight