Whenever someone learns that I'm a writer, the first thing they ask is what I write. My common answer is mystery/thriller, which is correct. If I know them well enough, I even direct them to this blog to give them a better idea.
But there's a problem with that. Looking at this blog, you still don't know what I write? Right? Sure, there's that Free Fiction tab on the right, but those are stories. I write novels. And I figured it was time to give visitors here a glimpse of what I really write.
So there's now a new label: Excerpts. This will be the tiniest snippets of any upcoming works. Today's excerpt is from the first chapter of my forthcoming debut novel, DEATH NOTICE. Enjoy!
When Kat found the box, it was indeed sitting on the side of the road, resting on a patch of frozen snow. Although the truck driver who spotted it called it a coffin, Kat, in true police chief fashion, refused to speculate on the matter. Squinting against the sun’s reflection on the snow, she peered through the windshield at the box sitting a few yards away. Rectangular in shape, it looked to be made of untreated wood. Probably pine, if Kat cared to guess. Which she didn’t.
She climbed out of the car, her breath forming a brief ghost of vapor that floated away in the frigid breeze. It was too damn cold for March, which Kat thought was bad news in several ways. For one, the prolonged winter depressed her. Second, the cold had kept the tourists away for too long. And most folks in Perry Hollow depended on them for their livelihoods.
Finally, the cold seemed to Kat a shivery warning of impending danger. It was too sharp, too unnatural.
When she finally got around to taking that first sip of coffee, it was in a vain attempt to steel herself against the chill. But the java itself had already succumbed to the cold, not helping her one bit. Kat instead had to rely on her parka, which she zipped up to her chin.
When she reached the box, Kat understood why someone passing by could think it was a coffin. It certainly looked casket-like. More than six feet long, three feet wide and about two feet deep, it was definitely big enough to hold a body.
Kneeling next to it, she inspected the box for signs of where it had come from and, hopefully, where it was supposed to go. She looked for an invoice stapled to the side or a company’s logo branded into the wood. She found neither. Running a hand across the box’s top and along its sides, the rough wood scraped her palm. Whatever its intended use, the box was definitely homemade, most likely by an amateur. Any craftsman worth his salt would have subjected the wood to at least some form of sanding.
Leaning in close, Kat sniffed deeply, detecting a faint trace of pitch. Pine. Just as she had suspected.
She wanted to believe the box had simply landed there after falling off a truck, but instinct told her otherwise. It was in perfect condition. No scratches or scuffmarks. No signs of impact with the road. The way it sat — on its back, stretched tidily across the ditch — also raised suspicion. No box tumbling from a truck could have landed so perfectly without some assistance.
Its location was no accident. Someone placed it there. Someone wanted it to be found.
Finished with her examination, Kat saw no point in delaying the inevitable. Coffin or not, the box needed to be opened. Tugging on the lid, she noticed it was nailed shut at the corners and at two points along each side. She marched back to her patrol car and grabbed a crowbar from the trunk before returning to the box. With the crowbar’s help, the nails barely resisted when she pried the lid open and yanked it away.
The first thing she saw was a pair of wheat-colored work boots. Next was a pair of mud-streaked overalls that continued over a red flannel shirt. Finally, framed by the shirt’s collar, was the face of man in his late sixties.
The full picture sent Kat scrambling backwards. Standing halfway between the box and her car, she turned away and clamped one hand over her mouth to calm her gasping. She pressed the other hand against her right side, where a sudden fear jabbed at her ribs.
When a minute passed, Kat willed herself to look at the coffin again. The second glance was accompanied by the sad, stomach-sinking realization that she knew who the corpse belonged to.
His name was George Winnick, and until that morning, he had been a farmer who tended fifty acres on the outskirts of Perry Hollow. Kat didn’t know him well. Other than exchanging greetings at the Shop and Save or in passing on the street, they had barely spoken. But he was enough of a fixture in town for her to know he had been a decent man — hard-working and dependable. She also knew there was no reason he should be lying dead in a pine box on Old Mill Road.
“George,” she whispered as she unsteadily approached the body again. “What happened to you?”
