No Conscience, No Crime

By Deborah Crumption Barkley

Kathryn Patton is an energetic, strong-minded mother of three who is always up for a good mystery. While she barely feels part of her marriage and family, Kathryn earnestly strives to be a devoted young professional climbing toward partnership at her CPA firm. However, feelings of despair and ambivalence, over leaving her small children each day, prevent Kathryn from achieving the career success she desires. When a terrible coincidence traps her inside a whirling, real-life murder mystery, plans change and lives are rerouted to unforeseen destinations.

Years of reading whodunit novels and watching mystery movies has scarcely prepared Kathryn with the requisite skills to single-handedly solve the perplexing murderbefore she herself gets convicted of the crime. Apparently, the small town police chief and his crew are not interested in knowing what really happened to the young murder victim who happens to be a senators daughter. The chief seems content as he allows obviously inept employees to frighteningly further force Kathryn toward wrongful conviction.

Kathryn investigates seemingly endless layers of interconnections until she finally discovers unequivocal criminal corruption. In the search for truth, Kathryn never waivers; but the ultimate conclusion is far too evil for Kathryn to comprehend.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496904980

Deborah Crumption Barkley

Deborah Crumpton Barkley is the author of numerous works of fiction including mystery, fantasy, and children's books. Deborah has also begun writing songs in collaboration with a professional Nashville musician. Deborah resides in New Albany, Mississippi.

Book preview

ONE

I F YOU DO SOMETHING, DO IT RIGHT.

If you start something, finish it.

If you learn how to do something new, make sure you do it better than anyone else.

Always do more than what is expected.

Get there early; stay late.

Do not put off anything you can do today.

If you tryout, be sure you make the team.

It is not: If at first you don’t succeed… It is: You must succeed. Period.

Those were the adages Kathryn Patton lived by her entire life. Were they useful? Were they merely guidelines? Were they even doable? Were those maxims essentially stumbling blocks—that could blatantly trip Kathryn—leaving her to feel like a flattened failure if she could not perform at an exceptional level of achievement? Kathryn had to wonder.

Regardless of the answers to those resounding questions, Kathryn definitively grasped an all-encompassing and relatively vital realization; if it were not for the values she had been taught commencing in her very early, impressionable youth—yes, without her upbringing—Kathryn would not have been equipped to excel so tremendously. The principles Kathryn had learned were seasoned with guidance and ingrained by repetitive demonstration. Not only had her parents instilled those very ideals—they were living examples. Steadfastly, Kathryn sought to honor her dad and mom. In that respect, she had categorically done her best. With every undertaking, Kathryn’s utmost and often over-emphasized prowess had procured abundant success. Still, she worried that her best was not good enough. Kathryn feared she would surely fail to satisfy her parents’ expectations. Likewise, Kathryn had grown increasingly apprehensive regarding a colossal statistical probability; the odds were, she could potentially let herself down.

Pray tell, how many talents had Kathryn never honed because she was petrified of not triumphing supreme? But—back to the rules—did all those rigid axioms apply to marriage? Were they applicable to family? More specifically, did they relate to raising children? Did other people actually worry about not being perfect? Well, did they? Kathryn, who exhibited an acutely furrowed brow, stared intently into space as though the answers she desperately desired would somehow be unveiled before her ever searching eyes.

Undeniably, it was, and it always would be, impossible—on an imperfect Earth—for everyone to be the incomparable paramount—the greatest of the great—at every activity, sport, job, skill, or intellectual exercise they had ever attempted. Kathryn seriously wondered—how many slacking, mediocre inhabitants of the fallen world were perfectly happy? She was unsure about most everything.

However, Kathryn was certain of two things. First, there were profoundly numerous questions. And secondly, in correlation, there were far too many possible answers. The immeasurable implications were staggering. With vigor, she attempted to physically shake those epic quandaries of deliberation out of her brain.

Snap out of it! This is Monday morning, and you have got to get a move on—unless you want to feel more inferior, Kathryn said to herself. After she inhaled as much air as her lungs could comfortably hold, Kathryn shouted from the upper echelon of her weary voice, Zack, Laur-en, Lo-gan! Time to go-o-o! We’re going to be la-a-a-ate! As her voice trailed off, she sighed deeply and mumbled, Again.

As just prefaced, the dismally delineated pattern of thought and behavior had become a prevalently normal beginning to a day in Kathryn’s noticeably hectic life. Backpacks—check. Sneakers—check. Lunchboxes—check. Briefcase—check. Sunglasses—check. And, her thoughts began to wander.

Yes, Kathryn’s mind cyclically fumbled once more as she gathered the morning’s hodgepodge of necessities. Her daily ritual of packing and unpacking her family’s belongings had begun. What were the reasons again? Why was she putting herself and her children through the relentless turmoil?

It was not that Kathryn did not know the reasons. Kathryn irrefutably knew the reasons, all too well, for packing her two-year-old for the babysitter, sending her four-year-old to preschool, and placing her six-year-old at an exclusive private elementary school. But—she needed to tell herself one more time. Kathryn wanted vastly more for her children than she had as a child. She craved more for herself—for her existence. She had started a career, and she had to see it through. After all, to prepare for that career, Kathryn had gone to college for four years—as her father so often reminded her. And, without question, Kathryn would go crazy staying at home all the time. But—given all that—it was simply no easier.

The two-year-old, Logan, routinely cried—more like screamed, I dun wan go May-lyn’s hoss! In mommy-language, that meant, I don’t want to go to Marilyn’s house.

Once Logan arrived at Marilyn’s house and got settled, he was always perfectly fine. Miss Marilyn ordinarily bragged about him being the sweetest and best-natured child she cared for in her home. But, the-getting-there was terribly hard on dear old Mom.

Lauren, who was four, l-o-v-e-d preschool. Honestly, the largest problem with Lauren was that she stayed rundown and sickly most of the time. The primary reason for the weakened condition of Lauren’s health was she never rested sufficiently. Between going to school and dashing about from one place or activity to the next, there was just not enough time for rest. On Mondays, the poor little snip of a girl had tap class. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, both Zack and Lauren took a karate class that did not finish until 8:30 p.m.—their dad’s idea. On Wednesdays, there was choir practice for Mom while the kids attended children’s training at church which was over at 7:30. And, on Fridays, Lauren had just started taking ballet! The schedule was always adjusted—as in, it was further extended—for special events like school plays, ever-occurring birthday parties, seasonal sports like t-ball and soccer, and the list went on. Kathryn was exhausted, too, from providing the shuttle service for those indispensable learning experiences. Kathryn often deliberated about whether all of those activities were really necessary.

Zack was an average six-year-old boy, despising girls, school, and baths, and who did nothing to make Mom’s life easier. Most of the time, he did the exact opposite of what Kathryn told him—that was if he did anything at all. Zack could not do the most minor things without being reminded daily. At any moment, Kathryn was convinced the children’s bathroom would become the comical spoof of Sea World—which would be Pee World—if at least a dozen times a day she did not ask, Zack, did you flush?

Zack broke through Kathryn’s mental storm front with a singsong whine, I can’t find the book my teacher sent home with me.

Honestly, Zack! Kathryn said—cutting him off quite harshly. I told you to put that book back in your backpack when you were done, she begrudgingly added.

I know! I thought I did! Zack retorted just as sharply.

Obviously, it was not the first time Zack had misplaced something. And it assuredly would not be the last. Lately, he had lost everything from the shoestrings in his sneakers to the mouse for his computer; he had even lost his goldfish! Kathryn marveled—how could anyone lose a goldfish? One of Zack’s very few chores was to use the net to take his fish from the fishbowl, change the water, and replace the fish back into the fresh water. Somewhere, in the day-long process he had made of that chore, Zack had forgotten where he put the drinking glass that contained his displaced goldfish. Kathryn had finally found the scaly pet on the upper shelf of the entertainment center in the den. How Zack had even reached the shelf, at that height, was beyond Kathryn’s understanding.

So, in a last minute effort to find the book, off Kathryn dashed. As she ran, she yapped orders to her children, You guys get into the van. Zack, please, please help Lauren and Logan get buckled in, and I will look for that book.

Kathryn galloped upstairs overturning and searching through videos, shoes, and toys which, in essence, were heaped on the floor of the boys’ room. She ducked under the bunk bed—it was not there. Kathryn checked in the bathroom down the hall and then in Lauren’s room. Where’s that b-o-o-k?! she growled.

Kathryn virtually jumped back down the stairs and rounded the kitchen door. There it was—on the bar with a half-eaten doughnut stuck to it. Kathryn reached for the wet sponge at the sink, wiped the book clean, and literally ran out the door.

Logan, naturally, was doing his customary morning crying vigil. Lauren’s nose was running, and Zack was asking, Where’d ya find it?

It doesn’t matter! Kathryn grouchily muttered while she slammed the van door and started the engine simultaneously. She asked the children, Are you guys buckled? The babies all nodded. And, at last, they were off.

Disappearing from view, at the rear van window, was their peaceful, French country style home. Zack stared back at his refuge until it was completely out of sight. It was the only house Zack could remember, and he loved it so much.

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THE HOUSE HAD BEEN DESIGNED UNLIKE ANY other in Festavia—and perhaps in the entire state. Kathryn had helped Ron sketch the plans for its design when Lauren was just a prelude to life as a mass of cells growing in Kathryn’s womb. That would have been 1989.

Kathryn wanted something invariably unique, odd, and outstandingly unparalleled. With Ron being a building contractor, Kathryn had seemed infinitely favored; she had a husband who had the means to provide her with the home she had imagined. She had searched through magazines, blueprint books, and architectural literature. Nothing seemed quite right. So they had designed it from scratch, just she and Ron. Oh my, they had been immensely happy drawing, redrawing, and traversing over the fresh canvas that had withheld their ultimate dream home from the immediate scrutiny of Kathryn’s determined vision.

Those days, so long ago, had been blissful. Young Zack was the sweetest, most precious little boy. He would play for hours while his parents worked on the house plan. Basically, he tended to himself. Consequently, an unintentional benefit resulted from those many hours spent designing; Zack had become potty-trained very early. The tot had definitely grown weary of perpetual soggy seat.

Before the mini-mansion could be constructed, just the perfect building spot had to be acquired. Ron had managed to be quite fortunate in hearing about the demolition of an old, turn-of-the-century, ice house and storage facility that was still standing at a location practically downtown. The surrounding land, amounting to more than Ron expected, had already abridged a couple of residential areas.

Ron and a developer friend had snatched up the property to divide into a prestigious five-lot cul-de-sac. Ron spoke for the lot at the peak of the circle that stretched back deeply and somewhat narrowly. From there, the perfect plan for the landscaping was developed by Ron’s personal yard man and set into motion. Every aspect was carefully measured and no detail was left to chance. Ron sought St. Augustine sod to cover the yard, and Kathryn stepped in to approve all botanical selections.

The structure that evolved into Kathryn and Ron’s veritable sanctuary had ended up with English cobblestone on the facade which heralded a charming pinkish color. The guttering and overhangs were decidedly well chosen with burnished copper as their base. The roofing was textured and, with its weathered feel, had cost nearly as much as the astronomical cobblestone. The material used was a grayish green, unique color that seemed best described as a mimic of a foreign, heather-filled moor.

Exquisite shutters had been crafted by a nearby cabinetmaker with the assistance of Kathryn’s keen eye for design and finishing. She had personally hand-rubbed a pleasingly placid, provincial blue-green over the bleached white wood and applied a sealant. The process produced a gorgeous, never-seen-before, washed and scrubbed appearance. Those ingenious shutters had impeccably enhanced the stately arched windows scattered across the front of the ostensible oasis.

Ron had painstakingly coaxed English ivy to grow upward on the western wall of the abode. It spiraled and crept to attach itself beautifully—substantially covering the particularly conspicuous west side of the dwelling. Quite luckily, the ivy had camouflaged the much less expensive brick—most visibly observed when one faced the handsome haven.

The driveway circled around the front and had been textured masterfully to look like antique brick. Kathryn wanted the surface of the concrete to offer the illusion it had been beaten by swift winds and ocean sprays similar to the stony cliffs surrounding a treacherously placed lighthouse. Therefore, the brick-like surface that emerged was stained a grayish sea-green after the corners were worn with the action of a high-powered spray rig that charged a watery acid from its pipes.

An immaculate rock garden and statue stood alongside the eastern front. Small groomed cedars were spaced about and edged the entire perimeter of the house with two much larger ones cuffing the rear deck. Stepping stones, an arbor, a small gazebo, and various explosions of brightly beckoning flowers were mindfully placed around their one-and-a-half acre domain. Intermingled among the lush landscaping were a small number of miniature statues and clay collectibles—adding a whimsical perspective to the grass covered expanse. Such amenities, normally found around oversized estates, were only possible because of the Mr. and Mrs. Patton’s precise prior planning.

In some ways, the house was far too elegant to be inhabited or appreciated by children. Thankfully, the three small residents who prospered there had managed to claim and personalize their own little portion of the retreat. And most gratefully, the youngsters were given a wooden swing and a cedar play gym, with a molded plastic slide, that added a family-friendly atmosphere to the yard. Zack, Lauren, and Logan ultimately provided the splendid sounds and activity that had actually transformed the wood and stone creation into a home.

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WITH THE LINGERING OF THE MORNING’S snafu, Kathryn again began contemplating the circumstances of her life as she navigated her crew. The babysitter’s home was a good ten-mile trek out into the country on a bumpy rural highway.

Here I am, a grown woman—an accountant at that—with a phenomenal husband, perfectly normal children, and a superb house, she thought. Kathryn had a picture of a life, right? But, my God, what was the cost? She pondered her life’s contemptible counterbalance as she rubbed her pounding temples.

Kathryn Patton was not at all happy; she had not been happy in a long while. Being a perfectionist in an imperfect world was a real killer.

Her gripe list went something like the following:

•  No free time

•  Never see husband

•  Children always sick and seldom behave

•  House is ALWAYS a mess

•  Unable to put in extra time necessary at work

"Something has got to give!" Kathryn would say. She would complain to her friends, pray about the issues, and even vow not to let things bother her so much. But, she always ended up right back where she had begun—frustrated and too tired to give a hoot.

Out of thin air, Lauren said, Mommy, you look real pretty today.

Suddenly, a feeling of warmth spread over Kathryn—as well as a twinge of shame for all of her negative thoughts of the morning. Thank you, honey, Kathryn said, smiling in the rear view mirror at her daughter.

You smell good, too, Zack, wanting to score his points, chimed in.

Thanks, Zack, Kathryn