Grits: P.I. Frank Johnson Mystery Series, #16

By Ed Lynskey

For his next hardboiled outing, P.I. Frank Johnson accepts the cold case homicide of Grits Wigfall, a 55-year-old Black man, in his hometown of Pelham, Virginia. Grits works as the front counterman at the new auto parts store for his boss, who becomes a homicide suspect. His girlfriend and a local white extremist are also suspects. Frank sets out to solve the murder case in 24 hours. Of course, nothing is as it appears on the surface in his murky noirish crime world.

 

Simple things become complicated and messy affairs, where more violence and mayhem come into play. As Frank probes deeper into Grits' murder, he relies on his long-time friend and business partner Gerald Peyton, his medical examiner wife Dreema, and his brilliant but outspoken attorney Robert Gatlin. The harrowing climactic scene takes place on a seedy, smoky riverboat casino where Frank refuses to back off until he gets the answers he seeks.

 

Critically acclaimed crime novelist James Crumley endorsed the P.I. Frank Johnson Mystery Series. "With a plot as complex as your grandmother's crocheted doilies, Mr. Lynskey creates a portrait of the rural hill country that rings as true as the clank of a Copenhagen can on a PBR can, as does his handle on guns, love, and betrayal. This novel is well worth the read and makes me want more."

 

#1 New York Times bestselling author James Rollins states, "Ed Lynskey's P.I. Frank Johnson's books are as hard-bitten and hard-boiled as they come. The dialogue crackles with such sharpness that you'd swear sparks were jumping off the pages. And P.I. Frank Johnson is a character cut from the Tarantino mold: tough, wounded, conflicted, and badass."

 

New York Times bestselling author and Edgar-winner Megan Abbott writes the P.I. Frank Johnson mystery series "bears the richest nicotine and bourbon stains of the hardboiled genre, yet also bristles with vitality. The plot sings, the characters are twisty and textured, and the violence is brutal but inevitable. All of these elements would be more than enough, yet Ed Lynskey offers so much more in the form of a perfectly pitched prose style that swings effortlessly from back-country grit to Appalachian poetry and back again."

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: ECL Press
• Release date: Jul 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223797494

Book preview

Grits

A P.I. Frank Johnson Mystery

Ed Lynskey

LICENSE STATEMENT

Copyright © 2023 by Ed Lynskey and ECL Press. All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author. 

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-Book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Front cover credit: Blue Vintage Car on a Dirt Road by Cayton Heath at Unsplash.com was published on January 26, 2016. The Unsplash License permits the free use of this photograph for commercial purposes. Downloaded on 11/14/20.

Other Books by Ed Lynskey

Isabel and Alma Trumbo Cozy Mystery Series

Quiet Anchorage

The Cashmere Shroud

The Ladybug Song

The Amber Top Hat

Sweet Betsy

Murder in a One-Hearse Town

Vi’s Ring

Heirloom

A Big Dill

Eve’s Win

To Dye For

Fowl Play

Private Investigator Frank Johnson Mystery Series

Pelham Fell Here

The Dirt-Brown Derby

The Blue Cheer

Troglodytes

The Zinc Zoo

After the Big Noise

Death Car

Bent Halo

Clover

Fluke

Forge

Quarry

Lure

Pawn

Noel

Grits

Hope Jones Cozy Mystery Series (as Lyn Key)

Nozy Cat 1

Nozy Cat 2

Nozy Cat 3

Nozy Cat 4

Chapter 1

Slumped over the steering wheel of the vintage 1939 Chevy pickup truck, the dead man was Grits Wigfall. I’d never heard Grits called by his Christian name, though I’d later discover his birth certificate listed him as Nebuchadnezzar Percy Wigfall. His Bible-thumping mother picked it out, and we knew why he preferred to go by his nickname Grits. His regular breakfast fare was a bowl of grits, a Southern staple comprising ground cornmeal (white or yellow) typically seasoned with table salt and real butter. I also put King Syrup, raisins, and cinnamon in mine. Grits Wigfall was a Black man in America.

If the fact played a role in his murder, I knew what violent forces I’d soon clash with. Again. Too many Confederate flags hung in the white racists’ yards, and I knew their combative families by reputation. They knew me by reputation—somebody had labeled me a gun-toting liberal—as well. My native hamlet of Pelham, Virginia, had adopted its name from a Confederate war hero, Major John Pelham.

Reporting to Major General J. E. B. Stuart, the much-ballyhooed artillerist Pelham died under cannon fire on March 17, 1863, near Culpeper, Virginia. The equestrian bronze statue of Major Pelham in the town square had recently vanished, and I’m proud to say I’d had big a hand in it. My fervid hope was that Grits’ cold-blooded homicide didn’t entail a racial element, but I knew it was wishful thinking on my part.

I’d just finished mowing the grassy strip at our double-wide trailer and returned the lawn chairs when the phone call came in. I was sweaty, hungry, and crabby. I wasn’t in the mood to start a new investigation, particularly one for a homicide. The PI’s golden rule stated that we never touched a murder case. It was a pragmatic rule worth following, too, since we’d no legal authority or arrest powers.

My problem was I didn’t follow the PI’s golden rule as much as people said I should. If they called me a rogue PI or a maverick PI, I wouldn’t dispute their characterization. However, the murders seemed to find me rather than the other way around. If I had my druthers, I’d reject taking any future murder cases regardless of their circumstances. Gerald spoke to me on the other end of our phone connection.

Grits Wigfall was my godfather and a family friend, Gerald said. I feel obligated to get to the bottom of what happened to him.

Sorry for your loss. Can’t you take off a few days and square it away? In the meantime, I’ll hold things together at the office.

We’re business partners and homeboys, Frank. I need your help to solve Grits’ murder case before it goes cold.

Are you asking me for a favor?

Natch. We’ll clear it in no time if we combine our efforts.

Then deal me in.

Now you’re talking my kind of language.

Lay out the details.

Grits died in his restored 1939 Chevrolet pickup truck parked on Lovejoy Road, not too far from the old cider works. His killer put two slugs into the back of his head.

Jesus! Who made the squeal?

Two brothers riding their bicycles pedaled up, saw him dead in the cab seat, and called the sheriff.

I feel sorry for the two brothers. The gangland-style shots tell us his murder was personal.

Very personal, I’d say.

How old was Grits?

He’d just turned 55.

Was he married?

Divorced. His old lady, Sofia, moved back to live with her family in Puerto Rico. Her parents own a small coffee plantation outside of San Juan where she does the bookkeeping.

When did they split up?

I want to say it was 10 years ago.

Why did they get divorced?

Sofia told Grits that he couldn’t accommodate her champagne taste on his beer budget.

It sounds like she did him a big favor. Kids?

None that he laid claim to as the fruit of his loins.

Time of death?

Predawn this morning is the best I can tell you.

What lured him out to Lovejoy Road before the crack of dawn on a Sunday?

It beats me, Frank.

Did he lay pipe in the wife of a jealous husband?

Grits wasn’t that stupid.

Something brought him out there. Was it illicit dope?

I don’t see it, Frank. Grits wasn’t into that ugly racket.

Did you know him well?

We Peytons kept in touch with him regularly.

I know I never met him.

Believe it or not, I have a life apart from you and our private investigator agency.

I’m just asking my usual questions. You want me to lend you a hand. My first step is to gather all the facts I can.

How about if I meet you at the office in one hour?

But today is the Sabbath, the Lord’s and Frank’s day of rest and relaxation.

Thanks for the update but I already know it.

What I mean is Dreema has gone to visit her girlfriend, and I have the double-wide all to myself for a change.

It feels damn nice, doesn’t it?

And how. Now you want me to go into the office.

Would you prefer we talk at a titty bar? There’s no cover charge on Sundays and the drinks are half-priced.

Seriously?

Gerald chuckled. Hell no, he replied.

Have you told Sharona?

Not yet. I’ll tell her later. Right now, I want to get a jump on nailing the douchebag who did this to Grits.

I’ll grab a shower, put on a clean shirt, and see you at the bat cave in one hour, give or take.

Don’t forget to bring your fully loaded Glock 9mm.

I never leave home without it.

Getting a friendly reminder never hurts. Later, Frank.

I didn’t tell Gerald, but my Sunday had turned into a dull affair, so I was more than ready to take on something—yes, even a damn murder case—to stimulate my gray cells. We’d just completed closing out the one of Noel Fryer, an 18-year-old young woman from Pelham who’d dreamed of one day owning a jewelry store. I’d never met Noel, but by the time we wrapped up her mystery, I felt as if I knew her better than most folks who saw her daily did.

I waved back to my retired neighbor, up on a stepladder, painting the doorjamb of his double-wide. He and his wife were on vacation in Virginia Beach, flaking out on the sand to catch a tan when a sudden thunderstorm hit them. The gale-force wind snatched up the beach umbrellas, one of which, by its sharp pointy end, impaled her through her chest like harpooning a baby whale. She was a DOA, and I felt bad for him. My preference was to visit the mountains, and I loathed vacationing at the trashy public beaches.

Lo and behold, my hooptie cranked up on my first try. A hooptie is another street term for a clunker or jalopy. However, at least it wasn’t a maggoty piece of shit like my dad’s Ford Escort, designed and manufactured to blow out its engine by 75,000 miles. He hadn’t even gotten it paid off. I was one of the few men who didn’t give a fat rat’s ass about how sporty or luxurious my car looked as long as it conveyed me to my destination on time. My hooptie lacked airbags, and my mechanic pal installed the AM/FM radio.

Gerald was the polar opposite of me, proven by his driving a puce red 1984 Pontiac Trans Am, a boss muscle car from the golden heyday of muscle cars. He bought an unlimited subscription for monthly washes at his favorite car wash. One of my biggest thrills was riding shotgun when he drove it hell-bent anywhere. He urged me to upgrade my pile of iron, but to no avail. It was on my bucket list to buy a new car, but I wasn’t there yet.

I flipped on the overhead lights in our shadowy office, which felt as sterile as a penitentiary cell. Drip brewing the first pot of coffee was a PI cliché, but I did it anyway because it tasted as good as it smelled. Our headquarters was in a strip mall, offering lots of free parking. Our current next-door neighbors were a tanning spa run by an acid-tongued Taiwanese woman and a smartphone retail store.

We’d become the old-timers because of the high turnover rate of the tenants. Our landlord hadn’t jacked up the monthly rent in the past two years, so I’d stick with her until she did. Rather than pay a custodial service, I did our vacuuming, dusting, and other housekeeping tasks. A clean, tidy, and professional office was crucial since we met our clients here, and our picky female clients noticed the little details.

After catching up on filing the old contracts, I opened the Excel spreadsheets I kept for accounting. While reviewing the figures, I wondered if Gerald had forgotten our meeting time. He wasn’t the most punctual guy, but I’d never seen him run over more than 10 minutes. Grits Wigfall’s homicide case would be a freebie with no client to bill for our work hours. Then I mulled over how we’d run a shadow investigation while Sheriff Gonzalez conducted her official probe.

We’d collaborated in the past, but I didn’t like to push my luck with the local law enforcement. I scribbled a note to make a phone call and feel her out. We’d pool our resources again if she expressed a willingness to collaborate. My optimism soured when I discovered the office Wi-Fi had crapped out again, and I couldn’t google Grits Wigfall. Did I get to deduct a 10% Inconvenience Penalty Fee from our ISP’s next monthly bill? It only seemed fair and proper if there was any justice left in the world.

When Gerald strutted into the office, I’d consumed one pot of coffee and had the next one dripping away. The terms I’d heard to describe men of Gerald’s behemoth size were ripped and yoked. If you flipped his hot switch, I hoped you were fleet-footed, and I mean roadrunner fast. He lip-farted his greeting and I grinned at his cleverness. After he slumped down into his creaky chair, he swung it around to face me seated behind my desk.

What’s the word, Dr. Nerd? Gerald asked.

You tell me, Dr. Flea, I replied. It’s your dime.

I’m baffled. Who in the hell would kill a good brother like Grits Wigfall? It doesn’t make any damn sense.

Was he in the wrong place at the wrong time?

There’s nothing to speak of at the spot where he died.

Have you surveyed the murder scene?

I haven’t yet, but I know where it is.

Where is his Chevy pickup truck?

Sheriff Gonzalez had it towed to behind the GM dealership on the bypass.

The town council rents part of it for her impound yard.

I’m buying his 1939 Chevy pickup truck from his estate.

You’ll give it a good home. Coffee?

Is it Irish?

No. We’re on the clock.

It’s Sunday afternoon.

Even so, we just caught a new case, thanks to you.

Maybe we can bill his estate for our work hours.

Take his pickup truck in trade, and we’ll call it even.

We’ll see how it goes then. What’s our first move?

Grill his immediate family and friends to rule them out if we can.

We’ll eliminate them fairly quickly.

How are your folks doing?

Mom is coming undone, and Dad is his usual laconic self. She said he’s been listening to my grandfather’s old Redd Foxx comedy albums to take his mind off the grief.

He’s a laugh riot. How are you getting along?

Going after Grits’ killer will distract me until I can make it over the initial hump.

I like your positive approach, big guy.

Gerald shrugged his lumberjack shoulders. What else can I do? he asked. The man is dead.

Did his race play into his murder?

Grits was a Black man from MAGA-red rural Virginia. You tell me whether it did.

Yeah, I analyzed it the same way. The militia has been online recruiting the vilest of the white extremists.

They can go straight to hell. Do you feel me?

My track record speaks for itself as far as their ilk goes.

"Our going after Grits’ killer reminds me of the news