Murder Is Revealing: Write Club Mysteries, #1

By Michelle Corbier

Aspiring author Dr. Myaisha Douglas joined the Greensboro Women of Color Writing Group hoping to publish her writing, and never expecting to play amateur sleuth in a real-life murder mystery.

 

When someone murders a friend and member of the group, Myaisha believes she can help the police solve the crime. An avid mystery fan, she relies on the skills she gained from those stories to catch the killer.

 

Though determined to get justice for her friend, the amateur detective soon regrets her involvement when the deceased's corruption and illegal dealings become public. The police warn Myaisha to stop investigating when their prime suspect is also murdered. Drawn back into the case after the police charge a member of the group with murder, Myaisha uses her medical knowledge—and years as an armchair detective—to solve the homicide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michelle Corbier
• Release date: May 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9781737525226

Michelle Corbier

Born in Illinois, Michelle Corbier attended undergraduate school at the University of California Santa Cruz, and medical school at Michigan State University. After over twenty-five years in clinical medicine, she accepted a position as a medical consultant. A member of Crime Writers of Color, Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association, and Sisters in Crime, her writing interests cover many genres—mystery, paranormal, thrillers and suspense. When not reading or writing, she can be found outside gardening or bicycling.

Book preview

Chapter 1

June 2007

Situated off Lawndale Drive, Dr. Myaisha Douglas’ office more resembled a craftsman’s tiny home than a medical building. She had purchased it years ago, after establishing her internal medicine pediatrics practice. This evening, three cars remained in the asphalt parking lot out front. She and the staff parked around back.

In exam room one, she read over the form again, completing every section and signing the document. Tyrese, this form requires a stamp.

He squirmed, clutching the cloth gown close. The exam table paper crinkled. His voice quivered. Do you think I should join the military, doc?

She cracked open the door and called for her medical assistant. After closing the door, Myaisha settled on the stool and regarded Tyrese’s somber face, with his mouth full of braces and cornrows dangling down his back. He shouldn’t have to make such an important decision right now. Adolescence should be a time of languid exploration, but his parents had pushed him toward a quick decision.

It’s your choice, but you can wait—give it more time.

She realized his expectations for a career in the military were still fluid. He’d been accepted to college, but worried about finances. With three younger children at home, his parents couldn’t help.

Consternation wrinkled his brow as he stared at the floor. That’s okay, Dr. Douglas. This is the right decision.

Dina entered the room wearing a surgical mask and face shield.

Myaisha explained what she required, making a mental note to speak with Dina later about the masks. She believed the medical assistant had obsessive compulsive disorder. A face mask and gloves were a daily part of the job, but Dina took things to the extreme—wearing masks even at the front desk or when answering phones. Setting those thoughts aside, Myaisha focused on Tyrese.

My father retired from the U.S. Navy. Four years doesn’t sound like a long time, but life in the military is hard—on you and your relationships.

She ambled over to the exam table. "Don’t let anyone force you into this decision. I’ll talk to your parents."

A smile dawned on Tyrese’s face. His posture straightened. Would you, doc?

Yes, if you promise to finish applying for those scholarships. There are many ways to pay for college. She grinned and squeezed his shoulder. And I’d be happy to help too.

Before the door closed, Tyrese bounded off the exam table and began dressing.

A whiff of disinfectant burned her nostrils. In the hallway, she saw the staff had cleaned the exam rooms. The lobby had emptied. Tyrese had been the last patient of the day. She retired to a modest office in the rear of the building.

Behind the desk, she slipped out of Birkenstocks, draped her lab coat over the chair, and reached over to a side table. She turned on an electric tea-kettle and started charting.

No reason to rush home. Josiah, her only child, had started college last fall. He probably wouldn’t come home for summer vacation. He’d barely made it back for spring break. During their last conversation, he’d mentioned a summer internship in Raleigh. Boomer, her black Labrador, didn’t need her home right away either, since she’d installed an automatic doggy door.

She stretched her back in mountain pose, easing a tense neck. In the middle of the pose, the corner of her eye glimpsed Josiah’s graduation photo. His father would’ve been so proud. She stopped in the middle of warrior one.

Beside Josiah’s photo stood a larger silver frame. In the photo, Sammy sported an enormous grin and an Afro, a basketball balanced on his hip. It had always been Myaisha’s favorite. Shoulders relaxed, she sank into the chair, swiveled around to face the computer, and charted.

Dina opened the door and poked her head inside, knocking on the adjoining wall.

Come in. Myaisha continued typing.

Everyone’s gone. I scheduled two new patient visits for tomorrow. Do you need anything else? Dina adjusted the mask on her face.

The tea-kettle whistled. Myaisha poured boiling water over the tea leaves, releasing a perfume of vanilla and honey. No, I’m good. Thank you. By the way, stop wearing those surgical face masks with the splash guard.

But, Dr.—

I know, you’re worried about infections, but you can wear the regular disposable masks. The others cost too much to wear every day.

Yes, Dr. Douglas. See yah tomorrow. Don’t forget to lock up.

Myaisha sipped the tea and organic honey coated her throat with a rainbow of flavors as diverse as the Appalachian Trail in autumn. The staff’s laughter drifted under the door. On the computer monitor, an appointment reminder popped up. A notification about her writing group meeting in two hours. Tonight would be the first time in the new location.

Their group never had a formal meeting place, gathering instead in libraries, parks, or each other’s homes. But her college friend Candace Knight had negotiated the donation of a permanent meeting place. Surprising given Candace had never mentioned an interest in writing. In college, Candace complained about a writing course requirement for economics majors. Before she’d heard about the donation, Myaisha had no idea her friend was aware of their writing group.

Myaisha found solace in writing. An avid reader, she dreamed of creating stories from her favorite genres, mysteries and thrillers. During college, she had entered writing contests but abandoned the hobby once medical school started. After Sammy died, writing helped with the loneliness. What had sparked Candace’s sudden attention?

She inhaled deeply and exhaled, rubbing away the tension knotted in her shoulders. With a quick glance at the clock, she considered the tasks folder. Patient calls. Medication refills. Disability forms. Everything competed for attention.

Tonight would be a turning point for their group. She set down the teacup and redoubled her efforts, determined to be on time and discover what prompted Candace’s new interest in writing.

Chapter 2

Around the corner of the window shade, Candace peeked down into the parking lot from her third-floor office. Because the robotic droning from the hoses had stopped, she checked on the men’s progress. They’d finished washing her Cadillac.

From the car, her gaze flowed toward the building’s entrance. An older man sporting a baseball cap hopped onto the sidewalk and entered. Something in his bearing stirred a memory. Oh, well. If she didn’t remember, he couldn’t be important.

The shade fluttered. She abandoned the window and brought up the computer’s calendar, reviewing the tasks list. Tonight’s meeting was important. She intended to look her best.

Her hand slammed down on the desk, disarranging papers and somersaulting a pen onto the floor. Under her breath, she cursed, remembering another appointment scheduled before the writers’ group meeting. Charles Marshall had called and insisted on speaking with her tonight. He could be a potential problem.

Raised voices from the front office distracted her. Before she could investigate the disturbance, her cell phone pinged. She answered the call, straining to hear above the background traffic noises.

A man bellowed, We’re finished, Mrs. Knight.

Thank you. Come up and get your money. I’ll leave it with LaDonna.

When the call ended, Candace noticed the front office had quieted, so she returned to the tasks list. Not a minute elapsed before her office assistant, LaDonna, loudly addressed someone.

Sir. Sir, you can’t go back there. Stop.

Candace left the office door cracked. Through the opening, she had a slim view of the area between her office and the waiting room, but not LaDonna’s cubicle on the right. With her neck craned toward the left, Candace glimpsed a sliver of the door leading into the waiting room.

The outer door trembled then splintered as a man shouldered his way through. Thick-set, he wore a ball cap and a jacket with a sports team’s logo. She recognized Kevin Washington, a former client to whom she’d recently sold a home, storming toward the door. Incredible she hadn’t recognized him from the parking lot. For the past month, he’d harassed the office with repeated phone calls.

On impulse, Candace picked up her cell phone, then reconsidered. Instead of dialing 911, she set the phone down and opened the desk drawer. Her left hand unzipped the purse. Her finger tips slid along the slick gun barrel. A tiny grin teased at the corner of her lips.

She didn’t need the cops. Because of his threatening conduct, she could kill Kevin and claim justification. The cops would require a long explanation about what had occurred, however, which would interfere with her evening appointments. She pouted, resting the gun on her lap.

His face stern and stride aggressive, Kevin outpaced LaDonna, whose voice faded into the background. He bounded forward and pushed aside Candace’s office door, smashing it against the opposite wall. His scowl-creased forehead glared down at her.

From the front desk, LaDonna yelled about calling the police.

Candace fingered the gun but kept it out of sight. Mr. Washington—

Don’t. Over the large wooden desk, he lurched forward, cutting her off and pointing a bent, hairy finger. You knew what you were doing when you sold me this house.

Her manicured hands smoothed down her suit jacket. She offered a contrite grin. Why don’t you have a seat. We can discuss this like adults.

His hands waved wildly in her face. There’s nothing to discuss. I want out of this loan. I told you what I could afford.

Kevin, if you cannot conduct yourself appropriately, then I’ll have to ask you to leave.

Spittle flew out of his mouth. His breath stank of stale coffee.

I’m not going anywhere ʼtil you get me out of this mess. I told you the type of mortgage I wanted. You sold me this house to collect a fat fee.

She buttoned her jacket and lifted her chin. You are a grown man. I didn’t make you do anything you didn’t want to do. If you neglected to read the contract you signed, then that is your problem.

I told you to get me a thirty-year VA loan, not an adjustable rate mortgage. In another year, I won’t be able to afford the payments.

We discussed this at the closing. Now, if you would like my help, I suggest you sit down and compose yourself. Otherwise—

He bounded across the desk and snatched up her arm, twisting it and knocking the gun off her lap and onto the seat.

Mouth hanging open, Candace seethed. His calloused hands felt like sandpaper. Musk from the outdoors radiated off him.

At the same moment, two cops entered the office with LaDonna in tow. Candace gazed beyond Kevin and observed the cop in front placing his right hand on a weapon while extending his left hand forward. The second cop stayed beside LaDonna at the door.

The first cop spoke low and slow, like a lazy summer afternoon. Sir, I’m gonna need you to step away from the lady.

Kevin’s head snapped toward the door.

Both cops had now entered the room, crowding the small interior.

Candace considered the likelihood of her client getting shot in the office. She considered how the publicity would impact her business, and whether there would be a stain on the floor.

Kevin gazed at where he’d grasped her arm and released it. Palms raised, he stepped away from the desk.

The first cop directed Kevin down on his knees. The second circled from behind and approached with handcuffs out. Once he was cuffed, they led Kevin away.

Candace massaged her arm and straightened the sleeve.

Are you all right? LaDonna asked, bolting to her side.

I’m fine.

LaDonna spoke in hurried sentences while retrieving the papers spilled onto the floor.

I can’t believe he pushed his way in here like that. He broke the door to the lobby. I—

Candace’s thoughts centered on Kevin. The disgruntled vet had become a nuisance. She needed him gone before someone seriously considered his allegations. Despite LaDonna’s comments, she waved the assistant away, rubbing lotion on her hands. The eucalyptus calmed her nerves and muted Kevin’s stench.

I’m fine. Go call maintenance to fix the door.

But—

Ma’am. The first cop returned, interrupting LaDonna’s protestations. I need to know what happened.

Over LaDonna’s objections, Candace refused to file a complaint. She explained to the officer that Kevin Washington had recently been a client. Retired military, he suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder. She simply wanted him removed from the premises.

After collecting their statements, the cop departed. LaDonna followed him out.

Settling back into her chair, Candace pulled out a small hand mirror and checked her appearance. She styled her short brown hair with blond highlighted bangs and touched up her lipstick. Blush powdered over high, sharp cheekbones, touching off green contacts. She blew herself a kiss and snapped the compact shut.

The alarm on her phone chimed. The writers’ meeting tonight would launch her next business venture. She spritzed the air with a few squirts of perfume—still smelling Kevin’s funk.

After powering down her computer, she removed her purse from the side drawer, loaded the gun, and dropped in an extra magazine. Perhaps she should hire a personal security service. Later.

She dashed out of the office to keep her appointment. No reason to keep Charles waiting.

Chapter 3

Posted on a rotting wooden pole, a rusted city placard indicated that the abandoned station was within city limits. Greensboro had been spelled Greensborough until 1895, and nicknamed the Gate City in 1891, when the railroad linked it in the south to Charlotte and north to Goldsboro. Candace figured the change was made to simplify the spelling, but she preferred the former.

She surveyed the area. The mud smelled rank, similar to cow manure. Spring weather retained its hold over North Carolina. Summer waited, if impatiently, for its time. She contemplated her leather boots, wary of the sludgy puddles.

She didn’t intend to show up late for the writers meeting tonight. Arms crossed over her chest, she reclined against the side of her cherry red Cadillac convertible, glancing at her watch.

Located half an hour outside Greensboro, the abandoned railway station served as a perfect place for an inconspicuous rendezvous. Ominous ash-gray clouds loomed above during a momentary break in the rain, but a downpour threatened at any moment. Moist air added a heaviness to the atmosphere.

Traffic noise from Highway 68 muffled the sound of Charles’ car engine. She watched his minivan leave the road and bump along the potholes. Breezes swayed the treetops. She shivered, wrapping her arms tighter around her chest.

He parked several yards away, exited the car, and sauntered in her direction.

She noticed how hard he looked. Short pepper-gray hair, balding on top, he’d become a middle-aged man with a protuberant abdomen hanging over his belt. Pathetic—nothing like she remembered. Once, she had admired his business acumen. His appetite for risk mirrored her own. At the time they’d met, Charles Marshall had been one of the most successful bankers in Charlotte, managing one of the largest banks in the country.

She’d sought his advice, and with his assistance she earned a realtor license and her first listings. For years, they’d mutually benefited from the collaboration. But now, looking at this practical stranger, she failed to see the man whose personal ambitions rivaled her own.

The air smelled of rain. Unfolding her arms, she pushed off the convertible with a boot, traversing the swampy expanse separating the cars. They met halfway.

She snarled and flicked mud off her boots with a kick. Why do you keep calling me? What do you want?

Charles stopped two feet away. Brows raised, he snickered. Not even a hello for an old friend?

We were never friends.

What were we?

Business partners.

A gust of wind blew leaves off the tall pines, rustling her bangs across her face. She pulled the knee-length leather jacket tight around her body.

He glanced up at the sky and grimaced. A large raindrop plopped in the center of his face, dribbling down his full, cracked brown lips. Nimbus clouds blocked the setting sun. He rubbed his stubbly chin.

Fine. Let's get down to business. You owe me, and it’s time to collect.

I don’t owe you a thing. You were too stupid to hedge your bets. How long did you think the housing market boom would last? I told you to unload those properties last year.

No one knew the market would collapse. Besides, this isn’t just me. He scratched his nose. If the bank gets audited, they’ll discover the loans we arranged for your clients.

We? I came to you as a customer. She pointed her chin at him. If you made bad loans, the bank will come after you.

His index finger flew in her direction, close enough to poke her. You knew exactly what we were doing.

A lopsided smile crept over her face. "People have been shorting the housing market for years. Smart people understood how to make money. I acted in the best interests of my clients. They were my responsibility. Your responsibility was to the bank."

His lips quivered. If I go down, I’m taking you with me.

Hands on hips, she strutted forward. I don’t think so. My name isn’t on any paperwork—just yours and the clients’. Besides, who would people believe? The big corrupt banker or the hardworking small business owner.

Hmm. Hardworking, maybe. But they’ll believe evidence.

What evidence? You’ve got nothing. The banks are going to take the blame. The government will bail them out just like they did Enron, and business will return to normal. If you’d sold the properties like I told you, then you’d be starting something new instead of freaking out.

Did you hear what I said? The bank is getting audited next week. If the authorities find out what we did—

What you did. She ambled away. After several steps, she turned and addressed him over the shoulder. Compared to the bank fraud you committed, I did nothing.

He spoke to her back. Don’t you understand? You’re destroying lives. Real people’s lives.

Like you care. Should’ve cashed out last year.

Before she reached the car, he ran up and seized her by the arm, spinning her around. His nose protruded into her face. He squinted and squeezed her arm tighter. Their eyes locked.

With her right hand, Candace thrust her purse at his body. Over the din of traffic noise, the weapon clicked. Her eyes narrowed and stayed fixed on his face. Should she shoot to kill or just maim him?

He relinquished her arm.

From inside the purse, her grip strengthened around the gun.

Hands raised, Charles slid backward into a puddle, soiling his shoes.

Jaw clenched, Candace brought the gun outside the purse and leveled it at his chest. Separately, she enunciated each word. Don’t. Ever. Touch. Me.

At the car, she transferred the gun to her left hand and entered the vehicle. Her tongue probed a gash where she’d bit her lip, tasting the salty blood.

He spoke through the window. You’re messing with the wrong people this time.

Go back home. Worry about yourself.

The sky unleashed a torrent of rain, opening with a rancorous anger. Drenched, Charles stood in the same spot where she left him.  

She drove away, observing him from the rearview mirror. The Cadillac skirted around puddles. His piercing black eyes followed. She watched him draw an index finger across his neck.

Chapter 4

Traffic on Lawndale Drive usually bustled at a decent pace, but today’s heavy downpour stalled transit. Impaired visibility forced Myaisha to slow down. Fortunately, the rain slackened as quickly as it started. She checked the clock, confident she would be on time for the meeting.

Her cell phone beeped—a text. At the stoplight, she glanced at her phone. Deniece wrote she’d be late.

Myaisha had heard about the Green Pastures Café, but hadn’t tried it yet. She rechecked the address. Three years ago, two of her church friends, Lottie and Mary, had started the Greensboro Women of Color Writing Group. The small group maintained a constant fragility. Meetings often included simply her, Mary, and Lottie. At its peak, the group had included ten members. Now, with a permanent meeting space, she hoped membership would increase. Maybe they could hold conferences and invite speakers, published authors.

She rolled down the car windows. Cool air refreshed her, invigorated her with the piney scent of wet trees. A ray of sunlight burst from behind the gray clouds. She brought down the visor and considered the evening ahead. A real writing group for women of color in Greensboro—about time. Excited about this new phase for their group, she drove faster.

After parking in the lot, she waited at the crosswalk. Sharp breezes caused her to zip up her jacket and secure the beret on her head. Around the corner stood the Woolworth building where, in 1960, four Black students from A&T State University had held the first lunch counter sit-in of the Civil Rights Movement. Efforts were underway by community leaders to establish a memorial to commemorate the event. She knew some members on the committee—maybe she could interest them in joining the writing group.

Conversations spilled out of Green Pastures Café and onto the sidewalk. People dawdled outside the establishment.

Inside, the café bustled with a cacophony of sounds. Jazz music floated around the room from a hidden entertainment system. Red brick walls gave the space a warm, welcoming ambiance, providing a neutral background for the décor. Black-and-white pictures of historic icons of the civil rights era adorned the walls, along with various multicolored cultural artifacts. Despite the many items, the décor didn’t clutter the space.

A diverse mixture of people circulated around the café—not everyone was there to attend the meeting, but the media blast had attracted a larger crowd than usual. Some people were professionally dressed; others wore business casual. Myaisha removed her jacket and readjusted the beret. Most of the women, like herself, were Black. Women wore Sunday hats, some kente cloth, hijabs, or saris. She reconsidered her attire—too informal. Well at least she hadn’t worn scrubs.

She wished Deniece would hurry. Myaisha wanted Deniece, whose interest in the group had been lax, to see the turnout. The large attendance was encouraging.

At the counter, she ordered tea. Aromas of fried chicken, barbeque, and—curry? Alluring spices emanated from the kitchen. Her stomach growled. The last thing she’d eaten had been a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch.

Unsure about the arrangements for the meeting, Myaisha decided not to order food, hoping Mary and Lottie had ordered complimentary snacks. As she strolled away from the counter, someone tapped her shoulder. She glanced over and smiled at Candace.

With a peck on her cheek, Candace grabbed her free hand. Myaisha, come with me. I want you to meet the café owner.

They snaked between the patrons as Candace escorted her up to an older woman.

Harriet, this is my good friend Dr. Myaisha Douglas.

Dark-skinned with a beaming smile, the older woman shook her hand. She was missing a front tooth and a canine, but her remaining teeth were all shiny white. Harriet’s face glowed with the sweat of labor.

Please, call me Myaisha.

Harriet gaped. Graying dreadlocks draped down her shoulders and chest. She leaned back on orthotic shoes.

Well, God bless you, sweetheart. Ain’t that somethin’. A beautiful young lady like you a doctor.

Myaisha accepted the compliment with grace. Many of her older patients made similar remarks, amazed to meet a Black female physician.

Your restaurant is very nice. How long have you been here?

Harriet’s jaw clicked. "I just moved here in January. I had a place off Wendover—been there forever. Then Candace here showed me how I could afford a