Murder Spells Trouble with a Capital M: A Detective Kingly Novella

By Rory Joe Heynemann

In a world of technological advancement, political correctness to the point of absurdity and bright vibrant colours. One man dares to live in sepia.

Detective Joseph Quincy Kingly is back. And he’s back with inadvertence.

When a dastardly murder is committed, Detective Kingly is the only person in the immediate area who can possibly solve the case. Of course, it won’t be that easy for the man who should be everyone’s favourite private eye. This time he must answer to the local police inspector Mary McCaskill, a no-nonsense, by-the-book cop with whom Kingly shares a sordid past. This will the biggest test of Detective Joseph Quincy Kingly’s abilities yet.

Can he solve the case without being pulled into a predictable romantic sub-plot? Or is he in well over his hat once again?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Aug 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781035815258

Rory Joe Heynemann

Rory Joe Heynemann is an infant of the 1980s, child of the 1990s and an adult of the 21st century who should have been born in the 1950s. He was born and raised in Western Australia, where he attended Curtin University studying Creative Writing. In his mid-20s, he moved to the Gold Coast, Queensland, where he resides to this day. At least upon the writing of this bio.

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About the Author

Rory Joe Heynemann is an infant of the 1980s, child of the 1990s and an adult of the 21st century who should have been born in the 1950s. He was born and raised in Western Australia, where he attended Curtin University studying Creative Writing. In his mid-20s, he moved to the Gold Coast, Queensland, where he resides to this day. At least upon the writing of this bio.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my mum.

This counts as your Mother’s Day, birthday and Christmas present for the next couple of years.

Copyright Information ©

Rory Joe Heynemann 2023

The right of Rory Joe Heynemann to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035815241 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035815258 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

Thank you to all the trainers and my fellow members at F45 SURFERS PARADISE for helping me regain my self-confidence and writing mojo.

Special thanks to my good friend Maria Trujillo for some character inspiration and sharing some of her wonderful Colombian phrases.

Prologue

(Aka Previously in My life)

My name is Joseph Quincy Kingly. Worry not if you forget, you’ll hear it again, and few more times after that. I was a detective. More accurately I was a private investigator. A private eye. A gumshoe. I solved mysteries and found those that did not want to be found. And I did it all with style and panache. Not to mention my trademark trench coat and hat. Some said I was a mediocre detective, I say they were morons.

Why am I no longer investigating privately you may ask? OK, pay attention. A few years ago, a sexy woman named Elaine (Kiki) Caroline-Priest came to my office. After working her femme fatale wiles on me, she asked me to kill her husband, with the promise she and I would walk off into the sunset together. I immediately said no, for two reasons. The first reason being I am not a killer. The second reason, her husband was the infamous and feared racketeer Vincent Priest. Kiki then crushed my testicles in her hand and walked out of my life. Or so I thought.

Sometime later I was kidnapped by Vincent Priest, he accused me of impregnating his wife. Turned out it was Vincent’s own son Vincent Jr. who did the sickly deed. It’s not so disgusting, as he was Kiki’s stepson. Anyway, it all ended with Priest shooting me in the shoulder and dumping me outside a hospital.

Why didn’t Priest kill me? The reason I was told was my ditzy receptionist Valerie contacted my sister Makenzie, herself a detective, to help find me. They discovered I had been kidnapped by Priest thanks to intel from Mac’s hitman/ex-boyfriend Alex Magnet, an Austrian who in no way resembles anyone famous. After learning of my predicament Mac called in a favour from a high-level mob boss known as The Fat Man. Mac knew The Fat Man and Priest were friends and thus could possibly convince him to let me go unharmed. The Fat Man agreed to this only because Mac promised I would be in his debt. Not her, me. This led to my downfall.

A costumed crime fighter named Solar-Man began interfering in The Fat Man’s business. He used that debt to have me discover Solar-Man’s secret identity. Long story slightly shorter, I failed to do this and told The Fat Man to screw himself. I took my anger out on Valerie, causing her to quit. A regretful action on my part. All these things made me lose my zeal for being a detective. So I walked away from my office for the last time and was immediately hit by a rubbish truck.

It’s nearly three years later and you’re all caught up. For the most part…

And now our feature presentation.

Chapter I

Welcome to my new home. After something of a problematic couple of years, I decided I needed a change of scenery. I needed a change of living quarters. My life needed a reboot. At that moment in time reboots were all the fury. These changes were not made because of the fact all my possessions were either stolen or sold off and my home was rented out to someone with no sense of smell. No. I chose to make these changes of my own accord. I chose to reboot my life. I wanted to face these challenges and hardships. Truly.

To move my life forward I felt the best solution was to go back. Back to my hometown, my second hometown. The same old place that I laughed about. I was sure they would tease me a lot when I arrived on the spot, instead of welcoming me back. Sadly, this was how it had to be. Mostly because it was small and cost effective.

City Town was a pleasant enough place. Founded way back in the 1940s, City Town was the result of lazy planners who couldn’t be bothered anymore. The town only consists of streets. Main Street, South Street, North Street, Left Street, Right Street, Upper Left Street, Lower Right Street etc. Every business or establishment is simply called what it is. The hospital is The Hospital. The local bakery is The Bakery. The police station is called, surprise alert, The Police Station. The only places to have any sort of creative sounding name are motels and cafes. The owners obviously believe themselves to be witty. That’s up to you to decide. In my opinion they should have continued with the lazy names for symmetry.

I moved into an apartment complex for single men called The Lonesome Loser. The sign outside stated, Spend Your Nights Reminiscing of Better Days. Insert very heavy sigh. The flat itself was not too different from my old place. Ground floor, one room, balcony, roof over head, floor under feet, furnished and air-conditioned. Frankly, as long as the air conditioning was functional, and electricity was included in the rent I was happy. I never had an air con growing up, and I refuse to go without as an adult.

After I settled into my new dwelling, I took the time to reminisce about better days. Damn sign. My career as a private eye was still front and centre of my cortex. The romance of a career lost in days long past. The delicate dance between detective and his prey. The stylish trench coat and hat were sorely missed. No matter what I did or where I went, I couldn’t help seeing all the details everyone else over looks. A man keeping his left hand in his pocket while talking to a beautiful woman, obviously hiding his wedding ring. A woman down the shopping isle looking at the ceiling, obviously attempting to shoplift. I don’t want to see these things. I can’t help it. It is my gift and my curse.

To distract my mind, I would go for nighttime constitutionals around my new/old neighbourhood. The cool breeze and clean air of a small town was one thing I always appreciated. It had the power to clear the sinuses and calm the mind. If it weren’t the magpies constantly swooping at me as soon as I left the driveway, it would be the perfect cleanser. To this day I have never seen anyone else swooped at by these feathered beasts. It would be nice to know I wasn’t the only one, that’s all.

Anyway, on one such walk I strolled along North South Street and passed by The Bakery; the smell of baking bread was my favourite scent. Naturally they weren’t doing any baking at night so there was no sweet aroma of bread, making this part of my walk utterly pointless. Or was it?

Further up the road I could see two police officers enter the local deli imaginatively named The Deli. How I love this town. Anyway, my curiosity was peaked so I decided to see what the hubbub was. As I walked inside, police were taking the proprietor’s statement. Obviously, this was the scene of a robbery.

‘Any idea who the perp was?’ asked the officer. I guess he had to ask the question even though it is a stupid question to ask. You don’t rob someone when they know who you are. Or if they have a passing familiarity with you.

‘No idea. The guy was wearing a motorcycle helmet,’ responded the elderly deli-man.

‘What was taken?’

‘The money from the