Notorious in North Texas: Metroplex Mysteries, #3

By Sisters in Crime North Dallas

It is true that there is violent crime to be found all over the country. But a particular brand of "Texas Noir" has taken root and flourished within the canon of contemporary crime fiction. And the award-winning writers included in this anthology are some of the best illuminators of Lone Star mayhem—whether it be committed on a lonely and far-flung cattle ranch, or in the luxurious dressing rooms of Neiman Marcus—it has a unique flavor that is purely Texas. —from the Foreword by Kathleen H. Kent 
A Perfect Gift For Mystery Lovers!
Welcome to the third anthology by the chapter members of Sisters In Crime North Dallas. The cities of Dallas, Fort Worth, and surrounding locales offer great fodder for mystery writers—and readers. These  have inspired the stories contained in Notorious in North Texas: Metroplex Mysteries Volume III.

THE UNTITLED GUNFIGHTER BALLAD, by Mark Thielman

DON'T GET CAUGHT, by Karen Harrington

OLIVER KOWALSKI, by Terry Shepherd

AMARILLO BY MORNING, by Dänna Wilberg

GRAVE NEWS, by Cindy Martin

LONGSHOT AT LONE STAR PARK, by ML Condike

TRULY, MADLY, DEEPLY, by Pam McWilliams

A VAGUE THREAT, by Tiffany Seitz

WHATEVER HAPPENED TO…?, by Kevin R. Tipple

HIGH WINDOW, by Amber Royer

BITTER COLD, by Shannon Taft

CITIZENS ARRESTED, by Joseph S. Walker

MICHAEL BRACKEN, who edited this anthology, is the Edgar Award and Shamus Award nominated, Derringer Award winning author of more than twelve hundred short stories, including crime fiction published in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, The Best American Mystery Stories, The Best Mystery Stories of the Year, and many other publications. Additionally, Bracken is the editor of Black Cat Mystery Magazine, associate editor of Black Cat Weekly, and editor or co-editor of thirty-one published or forthcoming anthologies, including the Anthony Award-nominated The Eyes of Texas: Private Eyes from the Panhandle to the Piney Woods. In 2024, he was inducted into the Texas Institute of Letters for his contribution to Texas literature.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sisters in Crime North Dallas
• Release date: Apr 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224806164

Book preview

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Now that we’ve had two anthologies published, you’d think this third one wouldn’t seem as exciting—it still is!

These stories speak! Each one is special. They are all different. Some new and original voices, some familiar voices, each with intriguing new ideas. All the authors paid close attention to creating plots that engage and surprise with unexpected twists and characters that seem as if they are living, breathing human beings!

The stories make the book, but it took a group to bring it into a published work.

Thanks to each of you who played a part: Mark Thielman, who though not yet retired, agreed to be named 2023 Vice President and take on the role of President in his retirement year of 2024. I’ve had fun being President the past five years, growing our membership and taking a chance on an anthology, and I’m looking forward now to having more free time in 2024 as Immediate Past President. Our members have been encouraging all the way.

Thank you to board members Karen Harrington, who always got the word out on social media of happenings of interest; Tiffany Seitz, secretary who never missed a word putting into minutes while participating as well. Thank you to ML Condike, treasurer, who has had her book, The Hoboken Desk published this year, while still doing an outstanding job as treasurer and keeping records on the previous two anthologies.

And Lori Roberts Hearst, our former board secretary and member-at-large for updating the website as needed.

Judges Carolyn Kirk and Valerie Wigglesworth were indispensable in carefully following tight guidelines set forth as criteria based on plot, prose, characters, setting, and appeal—a difficult task indeed.

Thank you to Dänna Wilberg for designing the beautiful cover which hints at the suspense within. Thanks so much to BJ Condike for getting it into print through formatting it into the necessary size and criteria for the publishing site.

Much appreciation, and big thanks to Michael Bracken, editor extraordinaire, for reading, and rereading, suggesting updates and working with the authors to perfect the final stories.

And to our friend, Kathleen Kent, originally a Texas gal, for writing a foreword for the 2024 anthology, Notorious in North Texas!

—Barbara Spencer

President, 2023 SinC ND

FOREWORD

Growing up in Texas , I often heard my father telling his favorite joke to any newcomer who crossed his path: What’s the difference between Dallas and yogurt? Yogurt’s the one with the live culture. When I was a child in the early 1960s, a big night out was a trip to the A&W root beer stand after seeing a movie at the art deco Lakewood movie theater, then staying up late reading, flashlight under the covers, books by Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler; crime and mystery writers who were mostly male, and not from Texas.

Things have certainly changed since Dallas was basically a banking center surrounded by grazing pastures and farmland. In fact, a few years ago, USA Today voted the Dallas skyline as being the most beautiful in the US. A city of vast wealth, it has thousands of churches, dozens of cultural centers, and almost as many plastic surgeons as LA. But like all big cities, it has a dark underbelly: growing numbers of homeless, gang violence, sex trafficking and illicit drugs.

Who better to illuminate the Dallas shadowlands, then, than the writers, male and female, who have lived and worked in the Metroplex, or who have a strong affinity to Texas-themed crime. And, folks, do we have some sensational crimes. Besides the assassination of JFK in Dallas and the UT Tower Sniper in Austin, we had Dean Corll, aka The Candy Man, who brutally killed at least twenty-eight boys. He was followed by Carl Eugene Watts, aka The Sunday Morning Slasher, who murdered women all across Texas.

It is true that there is violent crime to be found all over the country. But a particular brand of Texas Noir has taken root and flourished within the canon of contemporary crime fiction. And the award-winning writers included in this anthology are some of the best illuminators of Lone Star mayhem—whether it be committed on a lonely and far-flung cattle ranch, or in the luxurious dressing rooms of Neiman Marcus—it has a unique flavor that is purely Texas. To quote J. Frank Dobie, Great literature transcends its native land, but none that I know ignores its soil.

—Kathleen H. Kent

January 2024

KATHLEEN KENT is a New York Times bestselling author and an Edgar Award Nominee for her contemporary crime trilogy, The Dime, The Burn and The Pledge. Ms. Kent is also the author of three award-winning historical novels, The Heretic’s Daughter, The Traitor’s Wife, and The Outcasts. Her newest novel, Black Wolf, an international spy thriller, was published February 2023 and has received glowing reviews in both the US and the UK. She has written short stories and essays for D Magazine, Texas Monthly, and LitHub, and has been published in the crime anthology Dallas Noir. In March 2020 she was inducted into the Texas Institute of Letters for her contribution to Texas literature.

THE UNTITLED GUNFIGHTER BALLAD

by Mark Thielman

T.D. Johnson was possibly the worst songwriter on Fort Worth’s north side. His lyrical gaffes were legendary. When he debuted Consuela at the Rodeo Lounge, the predominantly Hispanic audience laughed so hard at his line about her blue Latin eyes that they missed the poignant ending of the love ballad. He said later that he thought blue matched the spirit of the song better than the other colors, and he hadn’t really thought through the genetics.

Even though T.D. Johnson was possibly the worst songwriter on Fort Worth’s north side, he was also one of the most good-hearted members of the local artistic community. On this fact, everyone seemed to agree.

Everyone, that is, except the person who killed him.

Detective Alpert squatted and examined the crime scene. Alpert had played catcher on his high school baseball team and was comfortable in a crouch. He liked to look at things from close to the ground. Alpert believed he saw things overlooked by officers who only did the job standing. Holding a flip pad, he jotted a few notes and made a rough sketch. T.D.’s body lay on his side in the historic Oakwood Cemetery. He wore Tony Lama square-toed cowboy boots, faded Lee jeans, and a pearl snap shirt. He’d knotted a red silk scarf around his neck. A battered Stetson Lobo cowboy hat rested askew on his head, the crown pressed against a grave marker. A small bright red feather dotted the weathered straw hat, like a blood spot. Against the next headstone rested a scuffed Martin acoustic guitar.

A shadow passed over Alpert. He glanced up to see his partner, Detective Comey, standing above him.

One day, your knees are gonna lock up, and you’ll be stuck in that position. You ain’t in high school anymore, Comey said. His walrus mustache fluttered when he spoke.

Alpert ignored him. Thoughts?

Except for the gunshot hole in the middle of the shirt, the outfit looks perfect.

Your keen insights have this case practically solved.

Comey bobbed his head, ignoring the sarcasm. I’m here to protect and to serve.

Alpert’s gaze returned to the body. Notice the thumb?

Right hand nicked by a bullet, minimal bleeding.

That’s the one. What do you think?

I think his chest wound proved the bigger problem.

Alpert’s expression didn’t change. He knew it was best not to encourage Comey. Instead, he drew a small rectangle on his flip pad to show the cell phone’s location next to T.D.’s crossed leg. Maybe you should make yourself useful, Detective Comey. Why don’t you find us each a burger since I don’t hear you offering anything useful.

Do you notice where he is lying?

In the middle of a cemetery, Alpert said.

Comey’s mustache fluttered. You gotta admit there is a certain efficiency about it. Damn shame they have to cart his body down to the morgue for an autopsy before they haul it back here to Oakwood.

Detective Alpert’s finger shooed him along.

Comey, however, remained fixed. Did you grasp the historical significance of the deceased’s location?

Enlighten me, O Sage with the ’stache.

Comey’s fingers twisted the end of his white mustache. Did you note the headstone that the guitar is leaning against?

Alpert shook his head.

Detective, you are kneeling before the grave of Longhair Jim Courtright, one of the most famous gunslingers of the Old West.

Thanks, professor.

And, Comey said, interrupting Alpert, Courtright died in a one-on-one gunfight on the streets of Hell’s Half Acre.

This history lesson have a point or just local trivia?

Comey shrugged. I don’t know. But the man who bested Courtright was Luke Short. He’s buried at that end of the cemetery. He pointed down the row of grave markers.

The same direction our victim was facing.

Comey’s mustache bobbed in the affirmative. The surrounding grass appears undisturbed. Doesn’t look like our victim twisted and turned much.

Yet his legs got crossed.

The mustache bobbed again. That is a mystery... Good thing the Fort Worth police assigned this case a crack mystery-solving detective.

Alpert looked across the cemetery. So, the guy buried down there shot the fellow buried here.

Comey walked a wide arc, careful to avoid any potential evidence. He stopped in front of another headstone. He pointed. Luke Short’s remains rest here.

Alpert jotted a note in his flip pad out of respect for his partner. Then he returned his attention to the immediate shooting.

You ought to come see Short’s grave, Comey said.

I’ll take the haunted tour once the case is over.

You ought to come now.

Is there a security cam that will show what happened?

Comey shook his head. No, but there is a cartridge case lying on the ground. It’s bright and shiny. The thing hasn’t been laying here long.

That got Detective Alpert out of his crouch.

❁  ❁  ❁

A trio had gathered in a parking area behind the taped-off crime scene.

Anybody here know Tommy Dwayne Johnson? Alpert asked.

Hell, we all know T.D., said a woman with brown hair braided into two ponytails. We worked the circuit together.

The circuit?

Local bars and music venues, she said. We’re all singer-songwriters.

Alpert’s flip pad recorded her name as Debbie Bean.

I’m trying to be the next Taylor Swift. We all are.

Well, maybe Willie Nelson, a gray-haired man, who identified himself as Leon Goode, said.

Debbie pointed to the third member of the group, a tall skinny man with stringy black hair and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. That’s J.C.

Alpert nodded his direction.

The cigarette smoker said nothing.

You always this friendly? Comey asked.

You’ve got to forgive J.C., Debbie said. Playing the moody artiste has kinda become his signature. He has a little trouble turning it off.

What can you tell me about the victim? Alpert asked the group.

He saw Debbie shudder when he said the word, victim. After a moment, she recovered. He was, what I call, an immersive songwriter. T.D. would pull an idea out of his hook book—

What’s a hook book? Alpert asked.

Leon pointed to the detective’s flip pad. When you’re sitting at the Starbucks, and someone at the next table describes her ex in a way that hits you here. Leon tapped his heart. Well, before we forget, we scribble that thought down in our hook book. That may be the song that wins us the Grammy.

Alpert turned back to Debbie. And what would T.D. do?

He’d plop down and start writing. He might forget to eat or come out of the rain. He’d strum that old road guitar and compose lyrics. He’d stay with it until he had a song.

Alpert made a note. And was he any good?

J.C. snorted.

Leon’s eyes cut over to the other man. Don’t be an ass. T.D. is dead. He turned back to Detective Alpert. The boy could hear a hook. He could take the same notes we all have in our toolbox and build a melody like nobody else. His ballads would make you cry.

J.C. snorted again.

Something funny, J.C.? Comey asked.

The dark-haired man paused before answering. His eyes flicked between Comey and Alpert. Finally, they settled on Alpert. J.C. nodded. His songs would make you cry. But not for the reasons you think. He always said something wrong. His eyes moved to the other two songwriters. You remember that song about the four-count waltz?

It was Leon’s turn to laugh. And how about when he sang about the new moon shining down?

All three laughed.

You get it, don’t you? Debbie asked. New moons don’t shine. Full moons do. And a waltz has three counts. T.D. would get so caught up in his idea that he’d make these little gaffes. Happened every time. He could have been better than all of us. But when you audition, and your tender love ballad has the talent scout rolling in the aisle—

And how about, ‘Sitting Around Watching Corn’? J.C. said. He looked at Alpert. It’s about an adult film star who comes back to her home on the farm.

That’s different, Leon said as he pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger. That song was just a stinker. We’ve all got a few of those. But at least he got the lyrics right.

I think it had stupid lyrics plenty, Debbie said, and I told T.D. that.

Alpert didn’t need a lesson on writing country songs. Anybody tell me what he was doing in this cemetery?

Likely getting into the spirit, Leon said. We told you that T.D. was immersive. And I think he was writing a gunfighter ballad, a Marty Robbins ‘Big Iron’ tune. He’d get all cowboyed up and go sit there for inspiration. At least, that’s my guess. T.D. quit talking about the songs he was working on a while back. His eyes flicked between Debbie and J.C.

I think he got tired of us teasing him about his lyrics, Debbie said. As she spoke, she opened her purse and started pawing inside. When her hand surfaced, she held an apple. I hope you don’t mind. I need to eat a little something, blood sugar issues. She turned to J.C. You got your pencil sharpener with you?

J.C. patted his pockets and then cocked his head.

J.C. is one of those who writes his songs in pencil, Leon said. Uses graph paper and writes in this tiny script that’s too small for me to read. He carries a knife to keep his pencil sharp.

The group looked at J.C., who patted his pockets again and shrugged. Must have left it at home.

Debbie bit into her apple. Just means I can’t offer to share.

Anybody think of a reason why somebody might want to kill T.D.? Alpert asked.

Three heads shook in time.

Nicest man in the local music business, Leon said. Even J.C. liked him, and he don’t like nobody.

Before the detectives could leave, Debbie tugged at Alpert’s shirt sleeve. With her head, she beckoned him to join her away from the group. I have a confession, she said, her voice small.

Alpert waited.

T.D. and I used to be involved. It’s been over for a couple of years. We’re just friends. On TV, it’s always the former girlfriend, but I swear I didn’t kill him. Debbie started talking faster.

Alpert feared she might hyperventilate. He held up his hand for calm. I’ve got an ex-wife and a string of old girlfriends. They wouldn’t all kill me. So, we don’t automatically jump to conclusions. Although it is better that you told us. It’d look worse if we had to find it out on our own.

Debbie looked relieved. She walked away and then turned to look back at Detective Alpert. Smoldering eyes surveyed him. I’m not sure those exes have a whole brain divided among them. She gave him a broad smile and walked back to Leon and J.C.

❁  ❁  ❁

T.D. had lived in a small house on Fort Worth’s North Side. His front porch looked out on an auto mechanic shop. A sign advertised Vendemos llantas y refrescos.

I hope they don’t serve cold drinks in the tires, Comey said as he slipped on a pair of rubber gloves.

They let themselves inside using a key they found under a geranium pot. Debbie had told them where they’d find it. They left a copy of the search warrant on the dining room table alongside a paper calendar. A surge protector lay on the floor. A thin film of dust covered the table.

Comey scanned the calendar. Looks like he had one gig scheduled at the Round-Up Inn this month. And a dentist appointment next week.

Well, at least we know which chair he sat in when he ate, Alpert said. He traced a rectangle free of dust in front of one of the chairs. Proof of a placemat.

I don’t know why the lieutenant always says you ain’t a rip-snorting detective. Look at the things you’ve deduced.

The rest of the house revealed little. Although sparsely furnished, each room had its own guitar. The stereo had an impressive collection of country music albums. One shelf held a few books. The dust suggested that they hadn’t been touched in some time. Alpert saw three spiral notebooks. He opened one. It had notes for potential songs.

I think I found a hook book, he said, holding it up for Comey to see. He flipped to the last page. The latest entry was dated three years ago. He slid the spiral back onto the shelf and continued looking.

The mantle had a row of framed pictures, Debbie onstage, T.D. with Willie Nelson, T.D. and Debbie, and a group shot of T.D., Leon, J.C, and Debbie. In the last photo, J.C. wore the same scowl he’d displayed throughout his interview with the detectives.

Do you suppose he writes any happy songs? Detective Alpert asked.

Comey grunted.

Alpert walked back to the dining table. Then, he walked into the bedroom and re-opened the dresser drawers. He peered behind the albums.

You’re making that prune face again, Comey said. You must be thinking.

Alpert’s eyes swept the room. You know what I don’t see?

Comey said nothing.

I can’t find any evidence that T.D.’s written a song in three years.

❁  ❁  ❁

Back at the station, the two detectives settled into a conference room they used as the command center for the investigation. Two fast-food sacks and crime-scene photos littered the table. A laptop and speakers sat in the center. The crime-scene guys had downloaded the contents of T.D.’s phone. Despite what his friends said about T.D.’s good heart, he wasn’t nice enough to take a picture of his killer. Nor had he exchanged text messages or phone calls with anyone. This immersive songwriter really did withdraw while he worked.

They found the audio recorder app on his phone and played the last file. A man’s West Texas drawl introduced the song called Untitled Gunfighter Ballad. Alpert assumed the voice belonged to T.D. The detectives heard a guitar being picked. As T.D. worked through a melody, he paused occasionally as if jotting down the notes. Alpert thought he heard the faint scratching of pencil on paper. After a while, T.D. started playing the same notes again, a little faster this time. To the tune, the man sang tentative lyrics. Alpert heard a raspy voice, as if T.D. gargled with cigarettes and Clorox bleach. Some lines came out mumbled, while others were more confident. The detective caught most of the words. Alpert admitted that the gravelly voice suited a song about two gunfighters about to face one another. It sounded road weary and tough. He pressed pause and looked at Comey. Did he just say, ‘White Elephant Saloon’?

Comey nodded. That was Luke Short’s bar. The final gunfight between Jim Courtright and Short was about the saloon.

Alpert nodded and pressed play.

One spent round lay on the ground.

Alpert looked at his partner.

"At least our vic