Nymph: P.I. Frank Johnson Mystery Series, #19

By Ed Lynskey

For his next hardboiled outing, P.I. Frank Johnson takes up investigating the violent death of Lark Turnbull. A local prostitute, she has drowned in her motel room bathtub while inebriated. Her twin sister, Nola, has other ideas and suspects foul play is involved. She hires Frank to look into the matter and understand what actually happened to Lark. During August's hot and dry weather, Frank's investigation leads him to confront the seedy underbelly of his native small town of Pelham, Virginia.    
As Frank probes deeper into Lark Turnbull's death, he leans on his long-time friend and business partner, Gerald Peyton; his medical examiner wife, Dreema; and his brilliant but outspoken attorney, Robert Gatlin. Frank and Gerald soon battle the evil forces holed up inside of a dilapidated and remote farmhouse. Outnumbered and outgunned, they depend on their quick thinking, resourceful imagination, and steely nerves to even up the odds stacked against them.            
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 Award-winning author Megan Abbott writes the P.I. Frank Johnson mystery series, which "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. 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: Ed Lynskey
• Release date: Mar 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223282655

Book preview

Nymph

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 it to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Front cover credit: Woman in Black Bikini Standing on Waterfalls During Daytime by Jamie Fenn at Unsplash.com was published on February 27, 2020. The Unsplash License permits the free use of this photograph for commercial purposes. Downloaded on 12/15/22.

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

Blaze

Madge

Nymph

Chapter 1

I don’t care if Lark turned tricks, Nola Turnbull, her twin sister, said. She did not deserve to die the vicious way she did.

My nod was quick. Absolutely so, I said.

Have I convinced you that somebody murdered her?

You’ve piqued my suspicions that her death wasn’t a tragic accident, as the authorities claim.

Nola flicked her lank black hair out of her face. Once I got past her startling blue eyes, I put her age at 30, give or take. No diamond wedding ring, body piercings, or tattoos adorned her. Blue chinos, a beige knit top, and white Vans attired her. She wore a 14-karat gold scapular dedicated to St. Michael the Archangel on a gold neck chain. I admired her mango breasts, curvy waist, and tight ass, as any red-blooded heterosexual male private eye would do. The tension radiated from her wiry body like heat waves off an Alabama blacktop on July 4th.

Either you’re 100% committed to my case, Nola said. Or I have to find a private investigator who is.

PIs will tell you anything you want to hear. Are you more interested in learning the truth or listening to a glib bullshitter?

I take your point, Mr. Johnson.

Frank, please. Call me Frank. Mr. Johnson was my grandfather’s name.

Do you have a hangup with Lark’s unsavory profession, Frank?

Not in the least since I work in an unsavory industry. Your sister is hardly the first prostitute I’ve encountered. I make no judgments, and I respect all my clients the same way. Is that a solid enough assurance?

You said the right words.

Did you disapprove of Lark’s sex work?

What does that have to do with anything?

I’d like to know where you stand on it.

Her profession didn’t thrill me. I wanted so badly to help her find a more respectable vocation. She wasn’t a dummy in high school, and she was college material. However, it was her body and her choice. I didn’t chide, ridicule, or condemn her lifestyle. She used to brag that she was a tough cookie who knew how to take care of herself.

Lark wasn’t a tough enough cookie. Her killer made your worst fears come true.

Her story is a cruel, forlorn, and lurid one, isn’t it?

I let her rhetorical question hang fire. Let’s recap, I said. Lark checked into the Spotswood Motel about four weeks ago as a long-term guest. She paid her weekly rent on Friday afternoon, which is how she haggled for a reduced rate.

Lark had to pinch pennies.

On Monday morning, after breakfast, Lark drew a bath. Unfortunately, she also had more than a few drinks, to the tune of a 0.16 BAC, according to the autopsy report. It’s almost two times the legal alcohol limit of 0.08 to drive a motor vehicle. She fell asleep while soaking in the hot bubble bath. Within a few minutes, she slid down into the bathtub, sinking below the water’s surface, where she failed to awaken before she expired.

She didn’t just fall asleep. Her assassin entered her motel room, tiptoed into the bathroom, and plunged her head under the water until she choked. Her death wasn’t a tragic accident but a cold-blooded, premeditated murder.

The autopsy report doesn’t cite any defensive wounds or bruises on her. There are no signs of a physical struggle.

Perhaps the medical examiner, doing a fast and sloppy job, missed them.

My wife is the medical examiner.

Nola raised her eyebrows. Oh. I didn’t know that, she said. Pardon me while I extract my foot from my mouth.

I understand why you’re upset. However, I have to rely on the autopsy report’s findings if I agree to investigate on your behalf.

Did your wife rule Lark’s death an accident?

She could only go by the physical evidence in front of her. Did the sheriff close the case prematurely? Does more physical evidence exist to back up your contention?

You’ve laid out my position.

A third possibility comes to mind. Did Lark take her life?

Suicide is improbable. Lark didn’t act depressed. We had a close relationship, and we often texted. She never gave me the impression she wanted to end her life.

Getting back to your homicide theory, who had a plausible reason to kill your sister?

I’m baffled and want you to get me some answers. All I can tell you is I didn’t do it.

How did she get into her risqué line of work?

She never told me, and I never thought to ask. She was my twin sister who made her money as a sex worker.

Did she work for a street pimp?

I’m certain Lark worked only for Lark. Why did she need to give her money to a lazy, abusive pimp who couldn’t protect her any better than she could protect herself? Her vagina earned the money, and the pimp did nothing. She didn’t even mention she had a boyfriend, which I can understand after having sold herself to the horny male parasites.

We call them johns. Could one of them have had it in for her?

I never had any contact with them. She seldom brought up her job, and she didn’t let any names slip out during our conversations.

Did Lark cross one of her business rivals?

Unless your town is crawling with hookers, I don’t believe she had any business rivals.

Why did she move to Pelham? We’re nothing special or unique.

She was a free spirit who led her life as if each day were a lark. For reasons I didn’t fully understand, she had itchy feet, wandering from one town to the next and never remaining in one spot for very long.

Can you quantify how long she spent in one spot?

Oh, I guess she stuck around between three and six months.

How did she plug her carnal goodies?

You’ve got me. Highway billboards? Town criers? Carrier pigeons?

Did she entertain her johns at her motel crib? Or go to their places on outcalls?

I never asked her about the details.

Why didn’t you?

I was curious, naturally. Who wouldn’t be? But Lark was pigheaded, and she had a volatile temper. Things went smoother if we didn’t broach any part of her employment.

How did she get around?

When our mother died this spring, Lark inherited her used Volvo sedan. It’s not flashy, but it’s reliable and met her transportation needs.

Where is Lark’s Volvo now?

I parked it out front. The cops didn’t need it, so I picked it up from their lot.

Have you searched through it?

I’ve rooted through it several times. Lark threw everything away and left it spick-and-span.

Did you check in the glove compartment, door pockets, and spare tire well?

Nothing turned up there.

Did you pop the hood and inspect all around the engine with a flashlight?

I looked there with the same results.

When did you last see her?

This past Christmas Eve, we met for breakfast at a waffle house we like in Fredericksburg, my treat. It was a nice visit. We shared a few laughs, exchanged gifts, and caught up on the latest news. I gave her a Hermès scarf and Lancôme perfume. She gave me three costume jewelry pieces made with sparkly yellow rhinestones, which she bought from her favorite pawnshop. So, I can say I last got with her about eight months ago.

How did she look?

Like death eating a cracker, I thought. She’d gained 15 pounds, grown a lot more gray hairs, and had bags under her eyes.

Those physical attributes can be a liability in her vocation. The johns prefer the escorts with fresh-scrubbed looks, trim curves, and hard bodies.

Nola shrugged. Lark didn’t act too concerned, she said. The men paid her, and she fucked them. So, her life was good.

Her life was good until she got sloshed and died in her bathtub.

Touché, Frank.

Did Lark own or carry a muff gun or a switchblade?

Not to my knowledge. Do you have a handgun for your job?

I nodded. Each of us packs a Glock 9mm while going down Mr. Chandler’s mean streets, I replied.

Is Mr. Chandler a friend of yours?

He bit the dust in 1959, decades before I was born. Google him in your spare time if you fancy it.

We should get busy.

Let’s talk turkey. Your case intrigues me. However, I don’t know if I can prove your murder theory. I bill my clients for a five-hour minimum fee at my standard hourly rate plus expenses.

Fair enough. Is our handshake adequate to seal the deal?

Our signed business contract gets me started.

Where is your partner? Nola glanced at Gerald’s desk.

Gerald is out of the office. He’ll return tomorrow morning.

You hold Sunday office hours. The diligence and dedication you devote to your clients impress me.

It’s feast or famine. Right now, it’s the former, so we have to take advantage of it. Where are you staying?

I rented the same room as Lark did at the Spotswood Motel.

My double take came fast. Don’t you find it creepy and unnerving to stay where your sister died? I asked.

Nola shook her head. Nothing eerie has disturbed or frightened me, she replied. Lark in spirit appreciates how determined I am to see that her killer doesn’t get away with it.

The Spotswood Motel is one of the older local inns. Its lodgings are primitive when compared to the newer franchise hotels.

I bought a gaming laptop to amuse myself and a pair of stout shoes to take walks in town. Burning a scented travel candle reminds me of home. Playing cards will amuse me if the internet connection craps out. I brought a yoga mat and do bodyweight exercises and calisthenics in my room while I watch fitness shows on TV.

How long are you in town?

I’ll stick around through the week and leave no later than Friday morning.

Where are you employed?

I’m the office manager at a national insurance firm in Charlottesville. I worked on Saturday when Lark died.

Were you in town when the neo-Nazis marched through the streets and the UVA campus, brandishing their tiki torches, saluting each other, and chanting their pompous slogans?

I stayed with a friend in Roanoke to avoid them.

Adroit move.

Have you had any past dealings with them?

I couldn’t help but smirk. We’ve had our differences, I replied. If they return to my hometown, I’ll greet them in the same rough way as I did the first time they came.

You’re a violent man with a Glock. I can sense the brooding, dark forces churning inside you. My ex-boyfriend also had a brutal nature. He never felt at peace with himself or the world. It drove an insurmountable wedge between us, and I went no-contact with him.

We live in a violent society, Nola. I am merely a reflection of it.

No blood should be spilled while you’re on Lark’s case. It’s horrid enough that she died in such a gruesome manner.

All I can promise is I’ll try to avoid conflict, but I won’t be stupid about it. If an armed foe threatens my loved ones or my friends, I’ll gun them down.

You like to spout fiery rhetoric.

It’s not just talking. I mean every word. Ask around. You should know what you’re getting with me.

I did my homework.

We signed the contract I prepared. I made a copy for her to take. When Nola paid me, she removed the banknotes from the wallet in her purse.

Do you need a signed receipt?

No. I trust you. Thanks for asking.

Return to your motel room and hang loose. I’ll be in touch shortly.

Will Gerald also work on my case?

We collaborate on everything, so you can be sure we’ll give your case our most thorough attention. However, I should warn you that we may not get the results you desire.

If you conclude Lark’s death was accidental, I’ll accept it as truth.

You’ll receive a final written report, detailing what I did and discovered. I do it for each client. In return, I’ll ask you to pay your last installment. Can you manage that?

Nola smiled in mild amusement. You’ll get your money, Frank, she replied. Don’t lose sleep. I pay my bills on time, and I won’t leave you in the lurch.

Then we’ll have no trouble working together.

Private eyes never investigate homicides. We don’t. Ever. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard cops, judges, and attorneys preach the golden rule to me. I got it. Really. I did. They didn’t need to repeat themselves. Even the golden rules, however, ended up being broken. Somebody flouted and defied them.

For this latest alleged murder, that somebody was me. During my gumshoe tenure, I’d tracked down more than a few killers and brought them to justice. My track record spoke for itself. The overworked, put-upon cops didn’t have the time to zero in on one homicide case. However, I had the advantage of time since I only worked for one client.

Pelham, my hometown, was in the hill country, also known as the Piedmont, at the