Dead Man For Murder

By Richard A. Rodgers

For all I knew, Roger Nunnaly could have been either a corpse making like the living, or alive man masquerading as a stiff... But what really bothered me was this: How can you execute a dead man for murder?
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rodgers Mystery Publishing
• Release date: Sep 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223021070

Book preview

All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means - graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or information storage and retrieval systems - without the prior permission in writing of the publishers

The storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

For all I knew, Roger Nunnaly could have been either a corpse making like the living, or alive man masquerading as a stiff... But what really bothered me was this: How can you execute a dead man for murder?

CHAPTER ONE

If a Body Meets a Body

––––––––

IF YOU'LL pardon the unladylike expression, Arthur Beeker was the damndest guy I’ve ever met for hanging crepe. He could make a meadowlark sound like a mourning dove. I suppose, Art being what he was, thinking in terms of shrouds was the trademark of his profession. Even his temperament had that certain dark quality which can be found in 2 well-filled grave. He had a funeral voice, and could talk a 4-H Club health winner into thinking he was about to do business with a mortician. He was Indianapolis’ prize purveyor of peace and prosperity, post mortem. A life insurance salesman, in other words. Art Beeker had a propensity for black serge

suits and anxious-about-thee expressions. He had long features and small sad eyes. He was tall as a rail and thin as an author campaigning for a raise from his publisher.

But he was my man. He charged me only twenty-five dollars to make him my temporary husband. Art was factual proof that the woman always pays, although his fee could hardly be called a compliment to my sex appeal. But then, ours was strictly a wedding of convenience, a marriage that I could put on and take off at will like an old coat. As long as I had the required twenty-five bucks, of course.

Art Beeker could recite statistical evidence as to the uncertainty of life, but it was Roger Nunnaly who showed me how easy it is to die and how difficult it sometimes is to stay dead.

This Nunnaly affair began with what had promised to be just another idle day in the life of Thelma Mathews. That’s me—Thelma Mathews—single, sweatered and svelte. I was at my desk, and across the room the frosted window of the office door proclaimed in black letters to a disinterested world that this was the office of the Shadow Arts Investigation Agency. Nobody seemed to care; they stayed away in droves.

I had inherited the business from my father but none of his ability to stir up business. I had leafed through the latest issue of Fashion, and picked out a luscious gabardine number that I could never afford to buy. When I wore myself out with the wish book, I swiveled my chair to the window overlooking the street. Art Beeker was seated across the office behind me, reading an insurance pamphlet and no doubt wondering how many of the people due to die in the next minute carried adequate insurance. I ignored him.

It was a particularly beautiful day for Indianapolis, warm and breezy; the sun was even shining. I opened the window and borrowed a lungful of air from the unappreciative citizens passing beneath my window.

I watched a coupe swing out of the traffic and pull in at the curb just below my window. The coupe wasn’t quite as