The Chimera: A NORTHERN NECK MYSTERY With George & Grace O'Bannion Book I

By Edgar Doleman

THE CHIMERA introduces a pair of amateur detectives, Grace and George O'Bannion. Grace is a retired Army Intelligence officer and George a retired history professor.  The story is set in eastern part of Virginia's Northern Neck, a largely rural economy of farming, fis

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edgar Doleman
• Release date: Jan 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9798892280129

Edgar Doleman

Child of a career soldier, Edgar Doleman grew up in two countries and eight states. On graduating from college, he followed his father onto the Army, serving in Berlin, Korea, Vietnam and various posts in the U.S. After retiring from a second career in information technology, he and his wife retired to the Northern Neck where she encouraged his writing and conceived the initial idea for "The Chimera." But the project was put on hold as she fought an ultimately losing battle with cancer. Finding it too painful to continue with "The Chimera," he focused on a work started some years earlier and "Arlen's Gun - A Novel of War in Vietnam - a Journey from Alienation to Brotherhood" became his first novel. "The Chimera" is now the second and has expanded into a series.

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The Chimera

A NORTHERN NECK MYSTERY

With George & Grace O'Bannion

Book I

Edgar Doleman

Copyright © 2023 by Edgar Doleman.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without a prior written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review, and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by the copyright law.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2023951828

ISBN:   979-8-89228-011-2   (Paperback)

ISBN:   979-8-89228-056-3   (Hardcover)

ISBN:   979-8-89228-012-9   (eBook)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Chimera

Dedication

Foreword

Chapter   1

Chapter   2

Chapter   3

Chapter   4

Chapter   5

Chapter   6

Chapter   7

Chapter   8

Chapter   9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chimera

1. A mythical fire breathing monster, commonly represented with a lion’s head, a goat’s body and a serpent’s tail.*

2. An absurd creation of the imagination; a groundless or impracticable conception or fancy; any horrible fancy.**

* Random House Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary, Random House, 1998.

** The New International Webster’s Comprehensive Dictionary, Typhoon International, 2004.

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Dedication

This book is dedicated to my late wife, Donna.

She conceived it

and we worked on it together

even after she was diagnosed with cancer

until battling the cancer

became the focus of our lives

until despite the best of care,

Donna lost the battle.

This story did not die with her

As our love began the story

It sparked the need to finish it for her.

Foreword

This story is set in the eastern end of Virginia’s Northern Neck - that part of the state bounded on the north by the Potomac River, on the south by the Rappahannock River, and on the east by the Chesapeake Bay. The western end is where the Rappahannock and Potomac rivers are barely five miles apart. There, the small town of King George acts like a cork in the bottle. A few miles west of that, the growing urban area of Fredericksburg dramatically changes the character and culture of the land.

Most geographical features, historic places, towns, and certain enterprises mentioned in this book are real, but most road names, homes and other places are fictional as are all the characters.

Two terms used in this area may not be familiar; born-heres and come-heres. Born-heres are the folks who were born in the Northern Neck, often to families that have lived in the area for generations, mostly involved in farming, crabbing, oystering, fishing, and the businesses that support a rural economy.

Many families trace back to colonial settlers of the 17th century, the landed, the indentured, and enslaved.

Come-heres are mostly folks who, after or during usually successful careers elsewhere, bought a vacation or retirement home in the area and eventually settled. The Northern Neck is rich in navigable creeks and small rivers, giving it hundreds of miles of waterfront ideally suited for both pleasure and working boats. Within the born-here and come-here demographics, there are, of course, multiple sub-cultures.

Chapter 1

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On a balmy Wednesday morning in early June, an aging white Ford Focus drove down a narrow country road, raising a faint rooster tail of dust. The narrow country road to Caroline Carter’s home was overdue for resurfacing and was more like hard packed gravel than pavement. The Ford braked hard to make a turn onto a long driveway splitting two fields of bright spring green corn. The drive forked at the edge of a cluster of stately trees to form a shaded, circular driveway in front of a white clapboard farmhouse with dark brown shutters. A pale blue Volkswagen Beetle convertible sat in the drive which told Della Turner that her client was home. She parked and walked up the steps to the high, broad veranda that stretched the width of the house and rang the doorbell. There was no answer.

She rang second and a third time. The house was silent except for a sound Della had never heard before - a soft whining. Mrs. Carter? she called and waited. She called again, more loudly, and again, more loudly still. The soft whining stopped, replaced by a low growl. Della stepped back, pulled her cell phone from a pocket, and rang Caroline Carter’s home phone. She heard it ring in the kitchen until went to voicemail. She rang Caroline’s cell phone but it too, went to voicemail. She shouted again, Mrs. Carter? Mrs. Carter?

Worry overcame caution and she tried the door. As usual, it was unlocked, and she pushed it open. The first thing she noticed was a smell of feces. The second was that the hall light was on. The third was McQueen, Caroline’s big black lab mix lying at the foot of the stairs. After recognizing Della and thumping the floor with her tail, McQueen turned her gaze back up the stairs. Della’s eyes followed and she screamed.

It was ten fifteen in the morning and Della had been hurrying because she was fifteen minutes late.

Della stumbled out to the porch rail and threw up onto the boxwoods below. Then she managed to dial 911. The smell followed her, and she felt ashamed. No house she cleaned should ever smell like that. Yes Ma’am, hello? I got to report a terrible accident! She’s dead! After a pause, Della asked in surprise, Where? In the house! On the stairs, oh dear sweet Lord, she must of fallen! After another pause, she began to look confused. Where am I? I’m on the porch. She’s inside. On the stairs. Oh, Lord, she’s dead! Another confused pause followed. Oh, dear sweet Lord, I’m sure! She’s gone! Della listened a second and spoke more loudly. Me? Turner, Ma’am. Mrs. Della Wagner Turner.

She listened another few seconds and said apologetically, Oh, oh. Just a moment. She dropped the phone, picked it up, fumbled in her purse and pulled out a calling card. Mrs. Caroline Carter, 1233 Dove Creek Road, Heathsville, Virginia, Ma’am.

No, Ma’am, I didn’t touch her. Oh no! I couldn’t. Her face! Oh, sweet Jesus! It looks dark as a turnip she was white as ever was, but all swollen! I wouldn’t of known it was her but her hair and her dress. Oh, poor woman! Her eyes are open.

Della was told to wait on the porch and not go inside again. McQueen remained camped at the bottom of the stairs. A fat fly flew up the steps into the house, following the smell. Della felt a strong urge to go clean, to do something. She began to cry for the loss of Caroline Carter. Her tears flowed until she heard a car coming. By the time it had parked just beyond Della’s car, she had dried her eyes and cheeks.

The Northumberland County police officer who unfolded himself from the car was the tallest, lankiest white man Della had ever seen. His uniform trousers were too short, exposing half the uppers of a pair of multi toned cowboy boots with pointed toes. He glanced at Della but didn’t speak until he was on the porch towering over her. His expression was bland. Ms. Della Turner?

Yes, Sir.

You made the 911 call?

Yes, Sir. She took a step backward.

Deputy Kincaid, he said, introducing himself. Deputy Jimmy Bo Kincaid stepped past her, stepped through the open door, and paused to mutter, Shit. He glanced right, then left and there his gaze stopped. He had been in Caroline’s house before. He recognized McQueen and recognized Caroline but only as Della had, by her hair. She was sprawled awkwardly near the bottom of the stairs, shoulders below her hips, one leg bent back up the stairs, the other knee jammed between two balusters, her head, in profile, at an odd angle to her shoulders, her eyes open. Because her head was the lowest part of her body, that was where her blood had pooled swelling and distorting her features and turning her skin purplish. He took out his cell phone and photographed the body and then a panorama of shots of the surroundings. Then he stepped back outside and confronted Della again.

So, have you been inside, Ma’am? He slowly scratched his rather hawk like nose. Touch anything?

Yes, Sir, sure I went inside, I found her. Touch her? Mercy, no! I just knew she was gone. She blinked away tears.

I mean, Ma’am, did you touch anything, like any objects? he asked.

Why no! Why yes, Sir. The door there. I opened it.

You had a key?

Oh, no, Sir. It’s not locked.

You walked in?

Yes sir. That’s how I got in. And saw.

Didn’t knock, ring the bell?

Yes sir! ‘Course I did. But Mrs. Carter, she didn’t answer. Even called her. And her car being here she was in and it’s my cleaning day and she’s usually here on my cleaning day. Makes coffee or iced tea. And after I’m done, she always tells me I got to sit and rest a bit and we talk; you know? I called her cell too. Nothin’ and I heard poor McQueen whining. Well, I went in. It’s my cleaning day. I was running late.

Deputy Kincaid cautioned Della to wait right where she was, returned to his car and reported. Then he walked slowly around the outside of the house looking for footprints, open or broken windows, other entrances, anything odd.

Chapter 2

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By the time Bo Kincaid reappeared at the bottom of the front steps the EMT - Emergency Medical Team - ambulance was turning into the driveway. As a slender young man and a chunky, handsome woman jumped out, he called to them. Marty, Anne, no rush.

Without slowing her pace, Anne Murdoch, the senior EMT said, Well, let’s see.

Inside the door, left, on the stairs. Bo remained on the porch to not crowd them.

A few moments later Anne called out, Hey, Bo! Any signs of break-in? Stuff missing?

None. Hey, you think not an accident?

Just asking. Bo knew Anne had a degree in criminology she had never pursued into a career, but she loved asking cop questions. Looks like she fell down the stairs and broke her neck. Marty nodded in agreement. Bo couldn’t remember if he’d ever heard Marty speak.

What I thought. No signs of forced entry. Back door is locked. Mrs. Turner here found the body. Said the front door was unlocked. Haven’t looked around inside yet, so you be careful, huh? he grinned.

That new detective, Goshdarnit’s coming. Anne looked the body over. Looks like she fell last night, probably more than twelve hours ago. The ME will pin it down.

Animal control, Sheriff Justin Keller, and Detective Matthew Goshdasitar arrived almost together, a white pickup with a cab top, a white Chevrolet with Sheriff in large gold letters, and a dirty blue Toyota Prius.

Sheriff Keller had the uniform, the belly, the white hair and mustache, the expressionless, penetrating gaze, and the deliberate, implacable walk of a man who had been sheriff for so long his first side arm might have been a flintlock. He greeted his deputy and solemnly tipped his hat at Della, Be with you in a moment, Ma’am, then the deputy led him and the detective inside. After a silent look at the scene, the sheriff turned to his deputy. Bo, anyone touch anything?

Not me or Murdoch. Lady outside said she only touched the door. The sheriff and his deputy returned to the fresher air outside, withdrawing to the far end of the porch to confer. As the deputy had taken a quick tour of the outside, the detective remained to take one inside, discovering back stairs that allowed access to the upstairs without risking disturbing the body. A few minutes later, he rejoined the sheriff and then the trio crossed the porch to halt in front of Della, now sitting in one of the porch chairs.

Mrs. Turner? the Sheriff asked. Della started to rise, but the sheriff motioned her to stay seated. I guess you’ve had a bad shock, Ma’am, but we need to ask a few more questions. You okay with that?

Yes sir. The sheriff then asked her questions she’d already answered for the deputy. He turned to the detective and asked, You got anything, Matt?

Mrs. Turner? My name is Matthew Goshdasitar. I’m a detective for the Sheriff’s Office. When did you last see Mrs. Carter before today?

Wednesday, Sir. Wednesday afore last. I clean for her every other Wednesday. The slender young man with straight black hair, a five o’clock shadow, unlined coffee and cream skin and the facial bone structure of a white man puzzled her. He didn’t seem to be one or the other race and didn’t talk like one or the other. He noted her answer down in his notebook.

How was she then?

Oh, she was out that morning. If she’s out, I just clean anyways, so it was two weeks before that. Last month. She was fine.

Was she usually home when you cleaned?

Yes sir. Most times.

Seem healthy to you? Steady when she walked? Out of breath climbing stairs?

Oh, no, Sir. Spry as they come. Plays golf a lot and got wheels on her golf bag. Says using golf carts is cheating.

Matthew nodded, smiled, closed his notebook, and left to find the EMT chief, Anne Murdoch, leaning against her vehicle. Hey Anne, pick your brain?

What there is of it, Detective. Just waiting for permission to move the body. By the way, what kind of name is that?

Indian.

Really? Doesn’t sound Indian, like Red Cloud or Tecumseh.

Matthew laughed. Native Americans were called Indians because Columbus thought he had reached the Indies, not an unknown continent. My family is from India.

So, what brought you way out here to the sticks?

Sticks? Opportunity. Figured it a good place to start learning the business.

Why not Richmond, or better, Baltimore? Lots more crime there to investigate.

Yes, a big city will have more crime, but also more resources, and I think new guys there will mostly fill out paperwork, be the gofers. Here, with few resources, I do the whole investigation deal. I learn more.

Anne chuckled wistfully. She glanced briefly away, then looked straight into his very dark eyes. That was my ambition, she chuckled, but a pregnancy and a marriage, a good one, I’ll add, made for a detour. She sighed. So, how do you read it Detective?

Matthew. Or Matt. I was going to ask you. Like anything not look right?

I don’t know. The body’s position, way the neck’s broken, can’t exactly visualize the fall. But a body can bounce a lot of ways. Matthew doesn’t sound Indian.

Matthew coughed a short laugh. What’s really foreign? Missionaries converted my great-grandparents, so we started getting first names from the Bible. Anyway, the fall. I found no medications that might affect balance or alertness. Nothing wrong with her shoes or the carpet. So, what made her fall?

Distraction? Hell, I’ve walked into my own door, my mind in the clouds.

Della and the three police stood on the porch and watched as first, poor McQueen was taken from his home and mistress and then as Caroline left her home for the last time. Della asked, Sheriff, can I clean, now?

I’m afraid not, Ma’am. Got to seal this place pending the medical examiner’s report. You have a key to this house?

No Sir. But Sheriff, poor McQueen’s been stuck in there. Likely had to do her business inside. House smells. It needs cleaning.

The sheriff shook his head. Sorry. You can go now, Ma’am. Been a rough morning for you.

Where they gonna take her?

Mrs. Carter? Currie’s in Kilmarnock. They’ll take good care of her, Mrs. Turner. Then, well, the next of kin decides the rest. Sheriff Keller looked briefly into Della’s eyes and gently guided her to the steps. Mrs. Turner, you go on home now, take a bath or a drink and thank God for what you’ve got and let Him deal with what you’ve lost, eh?

Della bit her lip. She didn’t want this man to see tears. Yes sir. She clapped a hand to her mouth, took a deep breath. She was such a nice lady. Had love in her heart, like you don’t see in most. The she brushed past the sheriff and his tall deputy and drove straight to Harmony Baptist Church near Heathsville.

Matthew found a house key attached to Caroline’s car keys. Matthew jiggled the key in his palm for a moment, looking up at Deputy Kincaid. Well, Bo, nothing looks wrong outside?

No signs of forced entry. Back door is locked. Maid says the front door was unlocked. Lots of folks ‘round here don’t lock up even when they go out. Wouldn’t need to break anything to do a B and E. Anything inside? Like clues? he grinned.

No. Very tidy except for a pile of dog poop in the kitchen. One closet door left open in the downstairs hall. An ornate jewelry chest in the bedroom with the doors open and some jewelry showing. Wonder why only those doors open?

Bo shrugged. Not dressed for going out. Maybe was putting stuff away? There was nothing else to see. They locked Caroline Carter’s home and left.

Chapter 3

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The door to the church office opened onto a short, dark hallway with the pastor’s office on the right and the secretary’s office on the left. The secretary’s door was open, revealing a small, cluttered office seemingly half filled with the form a large, dark woman with a broad, beautiful smile. Della, Honey! How are you!

Della just stood in the doorway. Oh, Maybeline, I just got to talk to God. Mrs. Carter done died! Fell down the stair! Oh my, she was such a nice lady!

Maybeline was already heaving herself away from her desk, rising in a cloud of purple and lavender flowers like a genie suddenly released from a lamp, for she had seen the distress on Della’s face even as she was throwing out her greeting. She had no idea who this Mrs. Carter was, but she knew distress. Oh, Honey, come on! She swept out of the office and led Della into the sanctuary, a lofty silence embraced by walls and ceiling beautifully paneled in warm, natural wood finishes and illuminated by light of many colors filtering through the stained-glass windows. Above the altar a much larger window held the figure of Jesus with arms outstretched to embrace all within.

Maybelline led Della to a pew, put a massive arm around her, sitting in the silence as Della prayed for Caroline Carter’s soul. After a while, though, it was time to get going to the MacCall home or she’d be late again. She didn’t want to go. But money was money and schedules were schedules. She said a final prayer for herself, that God would soon send her a replacement for the income she had just lost.

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It was a twenty-minute drive from Harmony Baptist to Victoria MacCall’s home, a drive consumed by visions of Caroline’s body, so like a broken doll dropped and forgotten, and it was a relief to finally turn onto the MacCall’s long, immaculately landscaped drive and park next to a three-car garage. She sat a moment to collect herself, got out, collected a bucket of cleaning supplies, and walked to the sally port connecting the main house and garage and rang the bell. She was still ten minutes late. A voice came from a speaker next to the door. Yes?

Della Turner, Mrs. MacCall.

Just a moment, my dear. A moment later, Della heard a click and pushed the door open, stepping into a large mud room that connected to the kitchen and a hallway. I’m in the library, Della.

Victoria MacCall stepped out of the library as Della entered the main hall, looking as elegant as if she were about to attend a board meeting. Her hair, black as a raven’s wing, was off the shoulder and done in a flattering style. She looked much younger than her fifty-eight years and her long, shapely legs barely registered signs of aging. Ah, Della. I think just the ground floor today and - my dear, you look terrible! Are you okay?

"Oh, Lord, no, Ma’am! Poor Mrs. Carter’s dead! Fell down her stairs! And I found