Below is an excerpt from my novel False River, a 98,000-word upmarket mystery set in Louisiana and West Virginia during the 1990s. I'm currently seeking representation and am working on the second book in the series.
Chapter 1
The morning of July 11, 1995 started out all right. By God’s grace, I’d actually made it home and into my bed, despite the impromptu scotch tasting at the Chimes and a greasy Louie’s special the night before. My keys hung in the deadbolt, I could see my wallet and purse dumped out on the yellow linoleum floor of the kitchen, and I could hear Mr. Lewis yelling for Winnie across the lawn at the big house. The day wasn’t even hot yet—a miracle for eight a.m. in Baton Rouge. Everything seemed perfect—that is, except for the dead man lying next to me.
***
I’m not sure if everyone in the neighborhood heard me scream; after all, a few people could afford central air. Most of them lived in the hermetically sealed, flagstone condos on the west side of East State Street. However, the denizens of the grad student ghetto soon gathered in the yard, attracted by the blue lights and familiar white hulk of the coroner’s van. To say that the Chimes Street area was afflicted with crime would be generous. The broken sidewalks and sagging Victorians may be populated by the book rich and cash poor, but the crumbling streets—named for a gaggle of past presidents—a few blocks back were home to simply the poor.
The police had arrived. First, the patrol unit, then the detectives, and then an endless stream of crime scene techs. I never knew so many people could fit into a two-room studio. In fact, based on hours of Court TV and Law & Order (watched while avoiding the thick stack of freshman essays that needed grading on my desk), I was pretty sure that this wasn’t strictly normal crime scene protocol.
“What’s your name again, Chere?” The fat man in the slick suit was chewing on his pencil, a thin notebook dangling from his knuckles. He was a conundrum; drenched in cheap cologne and cigarette smoke, but dressed up like a high-end defense attorney. I’d thought you could only afford the necessities on a policeman’s salary. Clearly, I was wrong.
“Genevieve Breedlove. Most people call me Gabby.” Everyone, except Duncan, that is. It was the third time I’d told the detective, along with my age—yes, I really am 27, officer, sir. Was this the moment when he tried to trip me up, get me to change my story by changing my name?
“Breedlove.” He rolled my name around in his mouth like a gumball. “Breedlove. You the gal that got a DUI on your bike last month?”
Figures. I had wondered when this would come up. “That was harassment. Who gets a DUI on a bike. And that car came out of nowhere.”
Detective Bergeron’s eyes narrowed. “You’re lucky you only ended up on the patrol car’s hood. And not underneath it.”
This wasn’t going well. “Look, do you wanna know what happened or not?”
“Start from the beginning,” he said, pointing the stubby end of the pencil in my direction.
“I got home late, must have been one or two a.m. I’d been to Louie’s and the Chimes before that,” I said, thinking hard, as it was a haze, the night before coated in a thick fog of multiple varieties of single malt scotch—with glimpses of Draper, delicious, lovely, dangerous Draper.
“Late night out for a school night,” Bergeron smirked.
“My first class isn’t until eleven. Though it looks like I won’t make it to work today.”
It was already ten a.m. and there was no sign that I’d be able to get ready anytime soon as I watched the crime scene techs lurk around the apartment. I leaned to the right, looking through the kitchen door to the main room. I could just see a hairy arm threaded through the tangled sheets beneath the bank of paned windows. Despite the live oak in the front yard, the studio was still flooded with light, the morning sun laddered across the wooden floor. The good light was one of the reasons I’d signed the lease, but now it was a spotlight on a nightmare—the sun’s rays revealing a six-foot-tall stranger, sprawled like a Daddy Long Legs—legs all akimbo—across my bed.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to forget rolling over in bed, my hands colliding with the cold flesh of his chest, his blank eyes staring at me as I backed, screaming across the room. I shook myself, took a deep breath. I had to focus.
“I need to cancel my classes. Is there any chance I could go next door and call the department?”
“We’ll take care of it.” Bergeron motioned for me to go on.
There wasn’t much to tell. “I dropped my purse on the floor, got a drink of water, and crawled into bed … alone.”
“You’re sure about that?”
I wasn’t. I couldn’t remember much after I’d sat down at bar across from Draper, and I didn’t recognize the bearded man in my bed.
“Look, I know it sounds crazy, but I don’t know that man. I must have gone straight to bed. I’d had more scotch than anyone should on a Monday night.”
“So you’re saying you don’t remember bringing the man home?” Bergeron stuck the stubby pencil back between his yellow teeth and waited on an answer.
“How come your questions sound like statements?” I sighed, dragging my hand through my hair. “If I brought a man home, I would know him. And I don’t know him.”
The man in my bed didn’t look a bit familiar. Tall, almost rail-thin, wearing jeans and a short-sleeve shirt unbuttoned to the waist. The pale inside of his arms seemed to be almost the only part of him that was hair-free—a thick black beard on his face and longish hair. His startlingly pale body was folded, all angles and sharp edges in the sheets. Knees and elbows bent, head resting on my pillow—a pillow smeared with a ragged stain of dried blood. There were books all over the floor, a heavy vase on its side, my high school quiz bowl trophy. In the numb, panicked moments before the cops had arrived, I’d begun straightening up, lining up the fallen books on the shelves, picking up clothes, until my mind began to process the completely fucked-up situation I was in. My apartment was a crime scene, and I shouldn’t have touched anything. Christ. What had happened last night?
Bergeron just sat, chewing on the end of his pencil, waiting for me to trip myself up, reveal some tidbit of information that I’d regret.
“Look, I woke up about eight, I think, rolled over in bed and there he was.”
“And then?” The pencil was at least out of his mouth now.
“I started screaming.”
Bergeron leaned forward. “Did you touch him? Move anything?”
“Touch him? That’s why I started screaming.” I shuddered. “As for moving anything, just me across the room. I didn’t want to be anywhere near him.”
“Did you go through his clothes?”
I shook my head. I’d been fully dressed, thank god, when I woke, but I’d still rushed to the bathroom, carefully avoiding touching the stranger again. Had we? Had he? I’d skimmed my hands over my body as I stared into the mirror. There was a shadow of a bruise on my upper arm—had that been there before?—but no other signs of physical trauma. The blood definitely wasn’t mine.
“You didn’t see a wallet?” Bergeron asked. “An ID?”
Was he slow? I’d told him repeatedly that I didn’t know the man, and hadn’t done anything but call the police once I found him, well, except for those few frantic moments of cleaning. “No, no, I didn’t. You know as much about the dead man as I do.”
Bergeron’s face was blank as he put the pencil back between his teeth. “Let’s finish this downtown, Chere. The crime scene guys are gonna need us to vamoose.”
“I almost hate to ask, since it sounds a little like Hill Street Blues, but am I under arrest?”
He rolled his eyes. “No, you’re not. But we need to get out of the way, and I want to make sure we have an accurate statement.”
“I’ll need to change.” My t-shirt smelled like an ashtray, as did my jeans. All in all, I felt as fresh as a dirty three-dollar bill. Jeez. I was starting to channel my grandmother’s aphorisms. A sure sign of distress.
“We’ll need those clothes if they’re yesterday’s.”
“Am I a suspect?”
“Everyone’s a suspect until otherwise.” Bergeron paused. “Let’s go.”
“When will I be able to come back home?” I asked, dreading the answer. I could go back to Duncan’s house I suppose, but that wasn’t an option I looked forward to. Duncan and I hadn’t ended well. Some couples just unraveled at the seams, like a threadbare sweater coming apart after years of wear; we had imploded like the death of a star.
“I can’t rightly say yet,” Bergeron answered, wiping his brow and standing up. “But it will be a while before they’re finished here anyway.”
False River. Copyright 2024 Tami Carter. All Rights Reserved.
***
I’m not sure if everyone in the neighborhood heard me scream; after all, a few people could afford central air. Most of them lived in the hermetically sealed, flagstone condos on the west side of East State Street. However, the denizens of the grad student ghetto soon gathered in the yard, attracted by the blue lights and familiar white hulk of the coroner’s van. To say that the Chimes Street area was afflicted with crime would be generous. The broken sidewalks and sagging Victorians may be populated by the book rich and cash poor, but the crumbling streets—named for a gaggle of past presidents—a few blocks back were home to simply the poor.
The police had arrived. First, the patrol unit, then the detectives, and then an endless stream of crime scene techs. I never knew so many people could fit into a two-room studio. In fact, based on hours of Court TV and Law & Order (watched while avoiding the thick stack of freshman essays that needed grading on my desk), I was pretty sure that this wasn’t strictly normal crime scene protocol.
“What’s your name again, Chere?” The fat man in the slick suit was chewing on his pencil, a thin notebook dangling from his knuckles. He was a conundrum; drenched in cheap cologne and cigarette smoke, but dressed up like a high-end defense attorney. I’d thought you could only afford the necessities on a policeman’s salary. Clearly, I was wrong.
“Genevieve Breedlove. Most people call me Gabby.” Everyone, except Duncan, that is. It was the third time I’d told the detective, along with my age—yes, I really am 27, officer, sir. Was this the moment when he tried to trip me up, get me to change my story by changing my name?
“Breedlove.” He rolled my name around in his mouth like a gumball. “Breedlove. You the gal that got a DUI on your bike last month?”
Figures. I had wondered when this would come up. “That was harassment. Who gets a DUI on a bike. And that car came out of nowhere.”
Detective Bergeron’s eyes narrowed. “You’re lucky you only ended up on the patrol car’s hood. And not underneath it.”
This wasn’t going well. “Look, do you wanna know what happened or not?”
“Start from the beginning,” he said, pointing the stubby end of the pencil in my direction.
“I got home late, must have been one or two a.m. I’d been to Louie’s and the Chimes before that,” I said, thinking hard, as it was a haze, the night before coated in a thick fog of multiple varieties of single malt scotch—with glimpses of Draper, delicious, lovely, dangerous Draper.
“Late night out for a school night,” Bergeron smirked.
“My first class isn’t until eleven. Though it looks like I won’t make it to work today.”
It was already ten a.m. and there was no sign that I’d be able to get ready anytime soon as I watched the crime scene techs lurk around the apartment. I leaned to the right, looking through the kitchen door to the main room. I could just see a hairy arm threaded through the tangled sheets beneath the bank of paned windows. Despite the live oak in the front yard, the studio was still flooded with light, the morning sun laddered across the wooden floor. The good light was one of the reasons I’d signed the lease, but now it was a spotlight on a nightmare—the sun’s rays revealing a six-foot-tall stranger, sprawled like a Daddy Long Legs—legs all akimbo—across my bed.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to forget rolling over in bed, my hands colliding with the cold flesh of his chest, his blank eyes staring at me as I backed, screaming across the room. I shook myself, took a deep breath. I had to focus.
“I need to cancel my classes. Is there any chance I could go next door and call the department?”
“We’ll take care of it.” Bergeron motioned for me to go on.
There wasn’t much to tell. “I dropped my purse on the floor, got a drink of water, and crawled into bed … alone.”
“You’re sure about that?”
I wasn’t. I couldn’t remember much after I’d sat down at bar across from Draper, and I didn’t recognize the bearded man in my bed.
“Look, I know it sounds crazy, but I don’t know that man. I must have gone straight to bed. I’d had more scotch than anyone should on a Monday night.”
“So you’re saying you don’t remember bringing the man home?” Bergeron stuck the stubby pencil back between his yellow teeth and waited on an answer.
“How come your questions sound like statements?” I sighed, dragging my hand through my hair. “If I brought a man home, I would know him. And I don’t know him.”
The man in my bed didn’t look a bit familiar. Tall, almost rail-thin, wearing jeans and a short-sleeve shirt unbuttoned to the waist. The pale inside of his arms seemed to be almost the only part of him that was hair-free—a thick black beard on his face and longish hair. His startlingly pale body was folded, all angles and sharp edges in the sheets. Knees and elbows bent, head resting on my pillow—a pillow smeared with a ragged stain of dried blood. There were books all over the floor, a heavy vase on its side, my high school quiz bowl trophy. In the numb, panicked moments before the cops had arrived, I’d begun straightening up, lining up the fallen books on the shelves, picking up clothes, until my mind began to process the completely fucked-up situation I was in. My apartment was a crime scene, and I shouldn’t have touched anything. Christ. What had happened last night?
Bergeron just sat, chewing on the end of his pencil, waiting for me to trip myself up, reveal some tidbit of information that I’d regret.
“Look, I woke up about eight, I think, rolled over in bed and there he was.”
“And then?” The pencil was at least out of his mouth now.
“I started screaming.”
Bergeron leaned forward. “Did you touch him? Move anything?”
“Touch him? That’s why I started screaming.” I shuddered. “As for moving anything, just me across the room. I didn’t want to be anywhere near him.”
“Did you go through his clothes?”
I shook my head. I’d been fully dressed, thank god, when I woke, but I’d still rushed to the bathroom, carefully avoiding touching the stranger again. Had we? Had he? I’d skimmed my hands over my body as I stared into the mirror. There was a shadow of a bruise on my upper arm—had that been there before?—but no other signs of physical trauma. The blood definitely wasn’t mine.
“You didn’t see a wallet?” Bergeron asked. “An ID?”
Was he slow? I’d told him repeatedly that I didn’t know the man, and hadn’t done anything but call the police once I found him, well, except for those few frantic moments of cleaning. “No, no, I didn’t. You know as much about the dead man as I do.”
Bergeron’s face was blank as he put the pencil back between his teeth. “Let’s finish this downtown, Chere. The crime scene guys are gonna need us to vamoose.”
“I almost hate to ask, since it sounds a little like Hill Street Blues, but am I under arrest?”
He rolled his eyes. “No, you’re not. But we need to get out of the way, and I want to make sure we have an accurate statement.”
“I’ll need to change.” My t-shirt smelled like an ashtray, as did my jeans. All in all, I felt as fresh as a dirty three-dollar bill. Jeez. I was starting to channel my grandmother’s aphorisms. A sure sign of distress.
“We’ll need those clothes if they’re yesterday’s.”
“Am I a suspect?”
“Everyone’s a suspect until otherwise.” Bergeron paused. “Let’s go.”
“When will I be able to come back home?” I asked, dreading the answer. I could go back to Duncan’s house I suppose, but that wasn’t an option I looked forward to. Duncan and I hadn’t ended well. Some couples just unraveled at the seams, like a threadbare sweater coming apart after years of wear; we had imploded like the death of a star.
“I can’t rightly say yet,” Bergeron answered, wiping his brow and standing up. “But it will be a while before they’re finished here anyway.”
False River. Copyright 2024 Tami Carter. All Rights Reserved.
