Southern Fried Murder - a short story

I grew up in a small town in northwest Louisiana, about seven miles from the Arkansas and Texas state lines, the area known as the Ark-La-Tex. During the fifties, Louisiana was open to drinking, while you had to be twenty-one in Arkansas and Texas. Because of the drinking age, or lack thereof, honkytonks lined the highway on the Louisiana side near where I lived.

The honkytonks were usually one-room saloons with wooden walls and floors. The clientele was oilfield roughnecks, loggers, and cowboys. As the saying goes, "If you didn't have a weapon on you when you arrived, you'd be issued one at the door." To say the honkytonks were dangerous is an understatement.

My hometown of Vivian had a sheriff and a deputy. The Vivian sheriff was a man named Harmon Idom, a veteran of the Korean War, whom I modeled Sheriff Antley in the story Southern Fried Murder after. Like Antley, Sheriff Idom was a no-nonsense individual who had the monumental task of keeping the peace in a region soaked in alcohol and out-of-control testosterone.

The story is a fictionalized depiction of an actual murder at a pond near the Texas border. Hope you love it. And, oh yes, there really was a Mrs. Bea.

Southern Fried Murder

Morning haze, the last remnant of a two-day rain, hung over the bayou. Summer had returned with a vengeance. Eight in the morning, it was already ninety in the shade. Sheriff Harmon Antley wiped the back of his neck with a blue bandanna.

Beyond ferns and cypress trees fringing, the bayou floated an object, face down and half submerged in dark water—a body. Antley stared at it until a squawk from the radio in the nearby police car broke the morning silence.

"Velma, we got a body out here on Black Bayou, just south of Spillway Road."

Another squawk from the radio and Deputy Sam Tate responded to Velma's unheard question.

"Don't know yet. Can you get Doc Branson out here?"

Satisfied with Velma's answer, Tate signed off. and slammed the door of the black and tan ’56 Pontiac. Before joining Sheriff Antley, he wiped an invisible smudge from the roof-mounted red lights. Antley grinned when he thought about the thick horn-rims goggling the younger man's eyes. They seemed out of place with his starched khakis and matching ten-gallon hat.

"See who it is, Sheriff?"

"Hell no, but she hasn't been in there long. Body's floating too low in the water."

Sam Tate spoke in a sing-song drawl, more reminiscent of east Texas than South Louisiana. To Sheriff Antley, it sounded like a twangy country riff played on a steel guitar. Antley himself had no regional accent. Lost in Korea while serving in the Marines. Lost also was a large chunk of his right ear, taken by a North Korean sniper's bullet. He kept the narrow brim of his Humphrey Bogart hat cocked in that direction.

A distant siren heralded the approach of a black Cadillac ambulance, which slid to a halt beside their car. Doc Branson and his assistant joined them as a flock of white cattle egrets flew by on their way to Jeems Bayou near the Texas border.

"Somebody drown?" Doc Branson asked, shielding his eyes as he leaned over the water.

"You're supposed to tell me," Antley said.

The little doctor with wispy white hair shook off Sheriff Antley's brusque reply.

"Tank, wade out there and pull the corpse to shore."

Six-four and almost two-fifty, Tank Slade's name fit. After school and during summer break, he worked for Doc Branson. His blithe smirk expressed his liking for the job. Not bothering to roll up his pant legs, he waded into shallow water, not even recoiling when he grabbed the turgid body. As he pulled it to shore, a school of silver shiners danced around his feet. He dropped the lifeless body in front of the awaiting trio.

"Recognize her, Harmon?" Doc Branson asked.

"Leola Jones. Harvey Jones's wife," Antley said.

"Harvey Jones, the welder?"

"One in the same."

"Sheriff and me had to cart Leola home more than once," Sam said. "Spent most every night out at the Red Hen."

Doc Branson prodded the body with his toe. "Barfly, huh? Maybe she got drunk, stumbled into the bayou, and drowned."

Sheriff Antley squatted beside the body, probing beneath her long hair with his fingers. "It's five miles to the Red Hen from here. Don't see no car. And there's blood in her hair."

Doc Branson bent down to join him. "Maybe she bumped her head when she fell," he said, using his index finger to push his wire-rims up on the bridge of his nose.

"Don't think so," Antley said. "Unless she hit something real heavy shaped like a half dollar." Sheriff Antley pulled back the dead woman's hair, exposing a circular dent in her skull. "I'm betting you won't find water in her lungs either. Can you check it out?"

"Do the best I can, but with a Republican in the White House, our budget is pretty well cut."

Antley frowned and said, "You have enough money to do one little autopsy."

"Do the best I can," Doc Branson said. Then he added, "At least I voted for Stevenson and Kefauver."

Sheriff Antley ignored his sarcasm and glanced at the sun now high in the sky. Then he tilted his hat back and mopped his neck with the blue bandanna.

"Sam, take a good look around."

Sam patted the big .44 in his side holster, nodded a silent okay, and started in the opposite direction of the bayou.

"What do you expect he'll find, Harmon?"

"Murder weapon, maybe."

At the mention of murder, Tank's piggish eyes grew wider. Folding his big arms, he glanced over his shoulder as if the murderer might still be out there somewhere, lurking behind a tree. Antley brushed his hands and started for the cruiser. Doc Branson and Tank followed.

"Could be one of them bucks from darky town raped and killed her," Tank said.

Sheriff Antley frowned but kept walking.

"Maybe we should run up there tonight with some of the boys and find out," Tank persisted. "I wouldn't mind frying one of them bucks myself."

This time, Sheriff Antley halted. After exchanging a glance with Doc Branson, he grabbed Tank's collar and slammed him against the ambulance. With his acne-scarred face inches from Tank's nose, he riveted his coal-black eyes on the frightened lad. Grizzled forearms pinned Tank to the side of the vehicle.

"Boy, what you saw here is police business. I don't care what you think might have happened, you keep it to yourself. Understand me?"

"Yes," Tank said.

"Yes, what?" Antley said, banging the boy's head against the ambulance's roof.

"Yes, sir, Sheriff Antley."

"That's better," Antley said, releasing his grip, backing away, and brushing his hands again. “If I hear of anything happening to anyone on the other side of the tracks, you’re the first person I’ll come looking for. You got me on that?”

Tank looked at Doc Branson for support but got none. Instead, the old doctor said, "You heard the Sheriff. Now, hustle up that body and pitch it in the back of the ambulance. We got work to do."

A shout over the hill diverted everyone's attention from Tank's red face.

"Sheriff, over here. I found something."

Antley patted Tank's cheek and started toward Sam Tate's shout. "Check her lungs, Doc. At least do that."

Despite disliking his political leanings, Antley knew Doc Branson would do a complete autopsy. He hurried away as he reached the brush line, upsetting a covey of quail. They scattered in a flurry of noise and beating wings. When he crested the hill and came out of the brush, he found Sam beside a red and white ’57 Chevy. It was empty, and both doors open.

"Keys are in the ignition," Sam said.

Broken glass from the smashed windshield littered the car's hood. Something white protruded from the open glove box. Reddish-brown blood clotted the blue front seat covers. Antley grabbed the white object and held it to the light.

"What is it, Sheriff?

"Looks like Leola's girdle. And someone broke the windshield from the inside out."

Oil oozed from the holding tank of a nearby well, burnishing brown loam piled in a berm around it black. The walking beam moved up and down, screeching as it lifted metal rods in and out of the hole. There were also three sets of tire tracks in the dirt.

"Two trucks and a car," Sam said. "One of the trucks had wider tires and dug a deeper rut than the other."

"Carrying a heavy load," Sheriff Antley said.

Three turkey buzzards circled overhead in slow, lazy loops. Harmon Antley watched them as he mopped his forehead with his bandanna. Then he started back down the hill to the cruiser, and Sam Tate followed. Antley said when they reached the car, "Call Velma, Sam. Have her get this place roped off and photographed, and a diver out here to check where we found the body.

The radio squawked as Deputy Tate called Velma. He scratched his big, hooked nose after replacing the receiver in its cradle.

"Taking a break, Sam?" Antley finally said.

"No sir," Sam said. "Where to?"

"The Red Hen."

***

When they reached the blacktop, Sam cranked open the wind wing, gunning the engine to get cool air flowing through the hot car. Ten o'clock and one-oh-one. It made them both wish the Parish had opted for a swamp cooler instead of the fancy radio they provided it with.

The vegetation changed from cypress trees with waves of Spanish moss to pines nudging the road. Sheriff Antley saw a snowy crane as the sleepy bayou disappeared in the rearview mirror. Sam continued along the winding hilly road to Bixley.

Bixley lay nestled in the crook formed by northeast Texas and southwest Arkansas. Three thousand farmers, roughnecks, and businessmen. And retirees. A dozen honkytonks dominated the west side of town, just beyond the city limits. Texans and Arkansans surged across the border on Saturdays, drawn by wild times and no liquor restrictions. Most wore faded jeans, cowboy hats, and pointy-toed shit kickers, though few were real cowboys. In the tri-state region of Arkansas, Louisiana, and Texas, many of the cattle were of the dairy variety. Miles of cotton, making the fields look like snow in July, grew instead of wheat.

Still, the area had more than a passing resemblance to the Old West. Antley and Tate usually ended up on the strip, arresting drunks, breaking up fights, or escorting someone home. The Red Hen was the most popular honkytonk of all. Finding its graveled parking lot vacant except for the owner's white Caddy, they entered the front door.

Three slow-moving overhead fans did little to stir the humid air, stagnant with the stale reek of beer. Their boots echoed like tap dancers as they crossed the faded dance floor to the wall-long bar padded with red vinyl. There, Mrs. Bea Hopkins, the Red Hen's owner, sat alone, a tall, straight scotch in one hand and a half-empty bottle of Chivas in the other. Sam and Sheriff Antley waited for the old lady to acknowledge their presence. When she finally looked up and saw them standing there, she grinned, her false teeth on the bar beside the bottle of Scotch.

"Little early, aren't you, Sheriff? No drunks in here for another eight hours."

"Didn't come for drunks, Mrs. Bea," he said.

"Well, I know you tee-total, so you didn't come for a morning toddy."

"We found Leola Jones floating face down in the bayou this morning. Answers are what we need, Mrs. Bea."

Antley's announcement of Leola Jones's demise didn't faze the old woman. "Hell, Sheriff, I got many answers, but they might not be what you want."

"You knew Leola?"

"Sure, who didn't? Quite a looker."

"How often did she frequent the Hen?"

Mrs. Bea glanced at her watch. "Bout every night. Steady as clockwork."

"Mr. Jones, come with her?"

The old lady shook her head, causing the chicken skin on her neck to wriggle like an earthworm on a hook. "Works for hisself during the day and at the glass factory at night. Only seen him in here once or twice."

"Lately?"

"Last week, maybe."

"They have two kids. Who cares for them when the parents are away?" Antley asked.

"Boy's thirteen. Looks after hisself and his little sister."

Mrs. Bea poured another shot of scotch into her glass. Before it reached her mouth, her scrawny neck began to bend, and her head drooped forward. Then her hand, still clutching the glass, sagged against the bar. For a moment, Sam and Sheriff Antley thought she had passed out. When Sam cleared his throat, the sound echoed against the sizeable open room's bare walls, and Mrs. Bea opened one eye and grinned again.

"Gonna swallow my teeth one of these days doing that."

Sheriff Antley ignored her flippancy and said, "Was Leola seeing anyone special?"

“What do you mean?”

“I think you know what I mean. Did she have a boyfriend?”

"Bobby Hartley."

"He from around here?"

"From up the road in Texas. Been sweet on Leola for a couple of months now."

"Was he in here last night?"

Mrs. Bea didn't have to think about her answer. "He's in here every night."

"Did he leave with Leola?" Antley asked.

"No, but he weren't five minutes behind her after she did."

"What does Bobby Hartley drive?"

"Pretty little red Ford pickup."

Sheriff Antley edged closer to Mrs. Bea and rested his elbows on the bar. "Mrs. Bea, where did they go when they left here? You know, don't you?"

The old lady's green eyes flashed, and her facial skin wrinkled into her patented grin. "Sure. So does everyone else that comes in here. They go parking out on one of them oil well leases. Over by Spillway Road."

Antley pulled away from the bar. "Her husband know?"

"Sure, he knew, but that didn't stop her."

"Ever notice any bruises on her arms or legs? A black eye, maybe?"

Mrs. Bea cackled. "No, but now and then, she'd get some mean dents in her car. That Chevy was her favorite possession. When Harvey got mad, he'd take it out on the car. Would make her real mad, too, and she'd give him the where-with-all. Have him crying like a baby. Forgetting why he'd done it in the first place."

Sheriff Antley pointed toward the door, and Sam nodded. Mrs. Bea's head was lying on the bar in a pool of scotch, and they didn't bother saying goodbye. The radio was squawking when they reached the squad car, and Velma was on the line.

"Sheriff, the divers found something in the bayou."

"Like what?"

"A hammer."

"Claw hammer?"

"Ball peen. No rust, but there's traces of blood on the handle."

"Good work, Velma," Sheriff Antley said, signing off.

Sam cranked down the windows and said, "Gonna look up Bobby Hartley?"

"Nope," Sheriff Antley said. "He didn't do it."

Sam pulled off his hat, combing the strands of damp hair off his forehead. Then he sat there, rubbing the tip of his nose and looking confused.

"Pardon me, Sheriff, but how do you know that?"

"You have a television, don't you, Sam?"

"Sure. Almost a year now."

"Ever watch the Lone Ranger?"

"You bet I do."

Sheriff Antley paused as he scratched his chin. "Did you see the one where the Lone Ranger and Tonto were hot on the trail of three bank robbers?"

"Sure did. They was running from the posse and only had two horses."

"That's the one. How do you think the Lone Ranger knew there were three robbers on the two horses instead of only two?"

"Easy, Sheriff. Tonto got down in the dirt and studied the hoof prints. One set was deeper than the other."

"Exactly. Now let's go see Harvey Jones."

***

Sam was still digesting Sheriff Antley's story as he spun the car's tires in loose gravel. Leola and Harvey lived in a wood-framed house where Harvey ran a welding shop out of his garage. When Sam saw Jones' truck, heavy equipment weighing down its rear end, he understood the story's meaning. On the ramshackle porch, sitting in a swing, was Harvey

Jones and his daughter Lila. Harvey Jr. peered out at them from behind the screen door. Harvey was a big man with thin blond hair bleached almost white by constant exposure to the sun. He was shirtless beneath his faded overalls. Antithetic to the rest of his body, his face was round and cherubic. It made him look about ten. As Sam and Sheriff Antley approached the porch, Harvey put his big face into his hands and began to cry. Lila tossed back her long brown hair, her mother's hair, and joined her father in his tears.

Sam and Sheriff Antley waited until Harvey Jones kissed his daughter's forehead and pulled away from her grasp. Harvey Jr. watched his father get out of the swing, holding his wrists, waiting for Sam to cuff him.

"I'm ready, Sheriff."

"You okay, Harvey?" Sheriff Antley asked.

"My head hurts, but I'm making it." Harvey Jr. had come outside, hugging the pine tree in the front yard.

"We need to see you downtown," Antley said.

"What about the kids?"

"Drive them to your sister's and drop them off. We'll wait for you at the station."

Harvey Jones hugged his daughter, who had joined him in the front yard.

"Thanks, Sheriff," he said.

Without waiting, Sheriff Antley retraced his steps to the squad car. Sam followed, still confused. The Pontiac started on the first crank, and they headed toward town. Halfway there, a knowing grin spread over Sam's face.

"Now I know why he did it—jealous rage, pure and simple. Everyone knew Leola was fooling around and where she went when she left the bar. It wasn't hard for Harvey to find out, even though he didn't believe it at first. He followed Leola and Bobby to the lease road, grabbing his hammer from the truck when he saw the car."

"You're on the right track," Sheriff Antley said. "What else?"

"Velma was drunk but wrestled off her girdle before passing out against the steering wheel. When they finished what they was doing, Bobby left her there and drove home. Harvey saw the girdle in the front seat, and Leola's skirt hiked up to her navel, and must have lost it. That's when he killed her in a jealous rage."

"You got it about half right," Antley said.

Sam took his eyes off the road, giving Sheriff Antley an appraising once-over. He returned his attention to the front of the Pontiac when a rabbit scurried in front of their path.

When he recovered his composure, he said, "If Harvey didn't kill her, who did?"

"Oh, Harvey killed her all right, but if he'd done it on purpose, he wouldn't have knocked out the windshield and busted the dash. He just lost his temper and started swinging the hammer, but it wasn't Leola he intended to take his rage out on. It was her car. My bet is the poor slob nailed her by accident."

Sheriff Antley paused for Sam to digest his hypothesis.

"When Harvey realized he'd killed Leola, he likely bawled like a baby. When he thought of the kids, he carted her body down the hill to the bayou and tossed her in, hoping we'd think she fell in and drowned. After sleeping on it, I guess he'd already decided to go ahead and confess."

After a moment, Sam said, "You think he'll come in alone, Sheriff?"

"He'll come. He may be a killer, but he's not a liar."

As always, the sheriff's words rang true. After scratching the hook of his big nose, Sam gunned the engine and finished the short drive to Bixley in silence.

###

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the Oyster Bay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You might also like checking out his Facebook page.

Big Easy, the first book in Eric Wilder's French Quarter Mystery series, is now available on your Nook or Kindle for 99 cents. Clarion Review said, "Wilder's fiction is like an icy cold Hurricane slush on a hot Louisiana day." Read it now for only 99 cents and take a trip to the Big Easy.

Eric'sWeb

Eric Wilder Pens Third Novel in French Quarter Mystery Series

When hired by a movie producer, New Orleans detective Wyatt Thomas travels to a remote, south Louisiana monastery to investigate the death of a popular actor. Was the killing the result of a magic spell, a voodoo curse, or was the victim torn apart by a rougarou—a Cajun werewolf? As a major hurricane looms just offshore, Wyatt races to solve the mystery while trying to avoid the same fate as the actor. Primal Creatures is the third novel in the Wyatt Thomas French Quarter Mystery series that includes Big Easyand City of Spirits. Read it in December.

Eric'sWeb

Ghost of a Chance Revisited - a trip to Caddo Lake

  I grew up in the sleepy little northwest Louisiana town of Vivian, a few miles from Caddo Lake. Caddo, as many of you may know, is the largest natural lake in Texas. It also crosses the state line into Louisiana. The lake is, quite simply, one of the most mysterious spots on Earth. Giant cypress trees with bloated trunks and branches draped with Spanish moss, grow in dark water, and the place is alive with garfish, gators and colorful waterfowl. Caddo stretches for miles, through endless canebrakes and hidden pools, so large and winding that even the United States doesn't have an accurate map.
The first offshore oil well was drilled from a wooden platform in Caddo Lake. These tiny structures still dot the water, some converted to duck blinds, while slow moving pumping units occupy others, sipping oil from a subsurface anticline called the Sabine Uplift.

Caddo Indians once occupied the area. Legend has it the lake was formed by a monster earthquake. When the Tribe's powerful chief had a dream, he awoke his people up in the middle of the night, moving them to safety. Next morning, as the story goes, Caddo Lake had formed following the earthquake, possibly the New Madrid Earthquake, the most powerful ever felt in the United States - so powerful, the Mississippi River flowed backwards for two days. I don't know if the old Chief's prophesy was true, but it's a fact that the area is littered with shards of broken pottery, arrowheads and other artifacts.

Caddo Indian's aren't the only history makers at Caddo Lake. Potter's Point was the home of Robert Potter, a Texas hero, along with Sam Houston, and the primary influence for the historical novel Love is a Wild Assault (wonderful! Out of print. Grab a copy if you can find one). Nearby Uncertain, Texas is a great place to visit. The model for my fictional town Deception, Uncertain was an overnight stop for riverboats on their way up from New Orleans.

One of the riverboats that plied the waterways from New Orleans to Jefferson, Texas was the Mittie Stephens. It caught fire and sank one night, reportedly loaded with a fortune in gold to pay Confederate troops stationed in Jefferson. Neither the boat nor the gold has ever been found.

Buck McDivit, my cowboy gumshoe from Oklahoma, comes to east Texas to meet his only known relative. His Aunt Emma is murdered before he gets there. He soon learns he has inherited an island in Caddo Lake, along with a marina and fishing lodge. This is when his troubles begin.

Many things haven't changed in the Old South. Racism still abounds in Deception, led by racist judge Jefferson Travis, and his two skinhead reprobates Humpback and Deacon John. Buck also meets beautiful Lila Richardson and is instantly enamored. Oh, and he gets drunk and sees a ghost his first night in town.

Ghost of a Chance is now available for the first time in ebook form. It's available, complete with new cover and newly edited 71,000 words, at Amazon.com (Kindle version) and Smashwords.com (Nook, Sony Reader, Kindle, etc.) for the ridiculously low price of $1.29.

If you have an e-reader, please check out Ghost of a Chance. If you don't, loosen up and buy one. If you're an avid reader, you'll be glad you did.
Eric'sWeb

Mama Mulate's Creole Zucchini Casserole - a weekend recipe

Mama Mulate is a character in my French Quarter murder mystery Big Easy. When she’s not mixing voodoo potions, or teaching English at Tulane University, she’s likely in her kitchen, whipping up a meal fit for a Mardi Gras king. She has a garden behind her house near the river in New Orleans, where she grows her own herbs and vegetables. Check out her recipe for Creole zucchini.

Ingredients

• 2 zucchini squashes, ¼ inch slices

• 1 onion, chopped

• 2 cloves garlic

• 3 tomatoes, chopped

• 1 green bell pepper, seeded and chopped

• 3 Tbsp butter

• 2 Tbsps flour

• 1 Tbsp brown sugar

• ¼ tsp oregano

• ¼ tsp basil

• 1 bay leaf

• ¼ tsp salt

• ½ cup Parmesan cheese, freshly grated

• ½ cup bread crumbs

Directions

Cook zucchini (about 5 minutes) until tender, but firm. Drain and arrange in greased 2 quart casserole dish. Melt butter over medium heat in medium saucepan, and add flour. Stir until smooth and bubbly.

Add tomatoes, onion, and cloves of garlic, green bell pepper, brown sugar, salt, bay leaf, oregano and basil. Cook for 5 or 6 minutes. Remove bay leaf and cloves of garlic. Pour mixture over zucchini. Top with bread crumbs and cheese. Bake, uncovered, at 350° for 30 minutes.

Eric'sWeb

What the Readers are Saying About Morning Mist of Blood

Here's what some of the readers have said about Morning Mist of Blood:

“A riveting read that blends mystery, suspense, and just the right amount of supernatural occurrences to keep pages turning.”

“Not like I thought it was going to be, it was better.”

“A quick, quirky, interesting read . . . Really enjoyed it.

“A fast-paced, action-filled mystery.”

“A mix of mystery and romance.”

“I just loved this one. what a true and gritty mystery/suspense/thriller/who done it/kinda sexy book! I could not put it down.”

“Great detail and I loved how the story had min stories inside of it.”

“Enjoyed this book very much.”

Eric'sWeb

Silkwood Story

In 1974, Marilyn and her two kids, Shane and Shannon, lived in a small apartment near the Edmond college that is now the University of Central Oklahoma (UCO). Living in an apartment directly across from Marilyn was Karen Silkwood and her roommate Sherri Ellis.

Karen Silkwood was the subject of the 1983 movie Silkwood that starred Meryl Streep, Kurt Russell and Cher. Silkwood worked in the Cimarron plant that processed plutonium for Kerr-McGee. Mysteriously contaminated with plutonium, she died shortly after in a single car accident while on her way to give an interview to a New York Times investigative reporter.

Karen, according to Marilyn, had discovered that a large number of the workers at the plant had developed cancer, as had she. She, along with many others, believed it was because the plant had lax procedures for handling the deadly plutonium. The plant had de-unionized and she was one of the few remaining members. As such, she felt it was her responsibility to expose the plant’s dangers.

As a union spark plug, Silkwood became a target, either by workers fearful of losing their high paying jobs, or by Kerr-McGee itself. More than once, Marilyn observed Silkwood in intense arguments with some man driving a blue pickup, the last argument occurring the day before her death.

Before her death, Kerr-McGee personnel conducted a search of her apartment, finding high degrees of contamination. They even found an object, clearly marked as radioactive, in Shane’s toys. The Company maintained that Silkwood had contrived to contaminate herself, and thus implicate Kerr-McGee.

Karen Silkwood swerved off the road on her way to meet the investigative reporter. The car, when searched after the accident, contained no contaminated evidence, but had blue paint on a rear fender from an accident with another vehicle.

Did Kerr-McGee plant radioactive material in her apartment? Did Kerr-McGee have Silkwood killed? Did she have illegal drugs in her body at the time of the crash? I do not know, but I do know that the resultant lawsuit filed by her family settled out of court for more than a million dollars.

As a geologist, I also know that Kerr-McGee had another plant in Gore, Oklahoma - a place that insiders now consider one of the most contaminated places in the United States. Carroll, a friend and fellow geologist, once worked for Kerr-McGee Minerals and told me that they would calibrate their helicopter-borne Geiger counters by flying over Gore.

The plant near Crescent still exists, manned daily by a dry watch staff, but hasn’t processed plutonium in decades.

Eric'sWeb

Big Easy Summer

I’ve chronicled my summer job in New Orleans many times. I worked for a now defunct geophysical company named GTS Corp. They had an office on St. Charles Avenue, near Jackson Circle.

The seedy front door opened into a modern office that employed at least a hundred professionals and technicians. I developed many of the characters in my French Quarter mystery Big Easy during that summer in New Orleans.

I lived in a broken down wood framed building in Arabi, a little town located between the Lower Ninth Ward and Chalmette - all three areas decimated by Hurricane Katrina. My rent was only seventy-five bucks a month but there was no air conditioning and someone should have paid me to stay there.

I lived across the street from a convent of cloistered Catholic nuns and the entire time I never saw a single occupant of the large building. I generally walked the half mile, or so, to St. Bernard Avenue, the road leading to downtown New Orleans, and took the bus to work. I usually slept all the way there and all the way home. This practice got me into trouble on more than one occasion.

The worst situation occurred at the Arabi Station. I awoke to find the bus deserted except for me, the woman sitting next to me, and a desperate-looking man brandishing a pistol. I grabbed the woman’s shoulders and pulled her down behind the seat, the crazy man’s pistol pointed right at us. We held our breaths, hoping that he didn’t shoot in our direction, even though I knew that the ricochet of a single bullet would probably get both of us more than once.

Instead of shooting us, the loony fellow ran out of the bus where police officers quickly apprehended him. Cops are often hard asses but considering the service they perform for the public and the constant danger they are in, I can only commend them for their almost daily acts of bravery that rarely earns them an atta boy.

I didn’t make much money at GTS, even in those days, but I spent what I earned having fun in the Big Easy. All the fun and work left little time for sleep and I –like I said – spent lots of time sleeping on the bus. One way from the bus stop on Canal, next to the old Saenger Theatre, took about forty minutes. More than once, I awoke about two hours after boarding the bus and finding myself in the same spot where I had started. When this happened, I usually felt newly invigorated and simply headed for an evening on Bourbon Street.

Growing up in the little town of Vivian, I was familiar with many poor people but I had never seen the masses of derelict winos such as those that populated St. Charles Avenue. I’ve since seen many others since in Boston, New York, Oklahoma City and even Amarillo but that summer in New Orleans was my first day end, day out experience with humans little more alive than voodoo zombies were. Hmmm! Sounds like the makings of a suspenseful murder mystery novel.

Gondwana

Voodoo Crossroads

My book Big Easy appeared in print in 2007 and I recently finished adapting it into a screenplay. The screenplay, like the book, occurs mostly in the French Quarter of post-Katrina New Orleans and deals with murder, lust and the practice of voodoo.

Perhaps the notion of the crossroads is the most powerful concept in the observance of voodoo. Vodoun practitioners believe there are two worlds - the one we inhabitant and the spirit world. These worlds meet at the crossroads, and literally, every voodoo act is an attempt to reach this destination.

To reach the crossroads in Vodoun is the ability to communicate with, and to convince the various spirits and deities to intercede for the living with respect to healing, casting spells, or any other outcome desired by a practicing mambo or houngan.

The practice of voodoo is a dominant element in my murder mystery Big Easy. The murderer practices voodoo, his every action motivated by it. Mama Mulate, a voodoo mambo, uses her considerable powers to fight the murderer’s evil at every juncture.

Both characters are seeking the crossroads, and both, in their own ways, find it, as does Wyatt Thomas, the book’s primary character, and Lieutenant Nicosia, a pivotal personality in the plot that takes a definite twist near its conclusion.

Gondwana

Mama's Gumbo

Those that have read any of my New Orleans short stories know that Bertram Picou is the owner of an eclectic little bar on Chartres Street, in the French Quarter. He cooks some of the world’s best gumbo and always has a pot simmering in back for his regular customers.

Everyone in New Orleans makes gumbo, some tasting better than others. The best gumbo is like ambrosia, a gift from heaven itself. It’s now made all over the world but one thing is sure. You’ll never find better gumbo anywhere in the world that tastes as good as the worst gumbo from New Orleans.

Some say that Bertram’s gumbo is the best in the Big Easy. Don’t believe me? Next time you’re in the French Quarter, stop by his place and give it a try. The bar’s a little hard to find, but keep looking. Below is Bertram’s recipe, told in his own words.

Mama's Gumbo
"First thing is make the roux. Pour some oil in your big cast iron skillet and put it on the fire, medium heat. Add some flour and start stirring. Whatever you do, don’t leave the stove, even to chase Ol’ Shep, until the roux cooks to a pleasing shade of brown, maybe a little darker if you’re taste buds are more Cajun than most. Be careful now. Don’t burn that roux cause it’s the most important part of the gumbo! If it starts to smoke and curdle up, you done screwed up! Throw it out and start over.

Once you got the roux done, its time to make the gumbo. My Mama throws in crawfish, shrimp, chicken, sausage, squirrel, deer, or even fish. "Whatever floats your boat," she used to say.
Fill up your big stock pot with water and set it on the stove. Get it to boiling then add the roux. Mama always uses four tablespoons, more or less, depending on the weather, how dark she had let it cook, and how she feels that particular day. Good cooks don’t read recipes. They just sense how something ought to taste. However many tablespoons she used, her gumbo always tasted damn good!

Keep stirring until the roux and water are mixed, then add a couple of chopped onions, a chopped bell pepper, six minced garlic cloves and your chicken, seafood, or whatever. This is where it gets tricky. You need to add salt, cayenne and black pepper and this must be done to taste. Using too much, or not enough, can make or break the gumbo and, unfortunately, practice is the only way to learn how. You’ll have to do this yourself cause Mama can’t go to everyone’s house.

Cook the gumbo on a medium hot flame and keep stirring until everything starts getting tender. Don’t put a lid on the pot.

Finally, boil up your rice to perfection (just about the hardest thing in the world to get right, but that’s another story). Add parsley and scallions to the gumbo, and, if you like, a little file, then ladle it on the rice and enjoy!"

Fiction South

Caddo Lake Pics

My novel Ghost of a Chance takes place on a mythical island in Caddo Lake. Fitzgerald Island isn't far from the town of Deception (also mythical). Caddo Lake is very real, mystical, but not mythical. Here are two pics of the scenic lake and a map of Fitzgerald Island.

Gondwana

Hoodooed in Edmond, Oklahoma

I came home early this afternoon because Marilyn had left for Ardmore earlier today to pick up our daughter Kate. My new pup Princess had been alone inside the house for a while and I wanted to give her a potty break. When I opened the back door I got a big surprise. A large snake dropped down from somewhere above me and landed directly at my feet.

The snake was as startled as I was. It started into the house but turned away when I emitted a yelp. I know what you’re thinking but no, it wasn’t a scream, just a mild yelp. It was enough however to cause Mr. or Mrs. Snake, whichever the case might be, to think better of joining me inside.

The reptile was about three feet long and had a maximum diameter of about two inches. It had no rattler and looked to me like a garden variety snake, maybe a king snake. It was black and had several red stripes the length of its back and sides. Whatever kind of snake it was, I watched from a distance as it crawled away into the grass and disappeared.

I’ve been wondering ever since Mr. or Mrs. Reptile dropped by for a visit (yes, I know, bad pun) what it was doing above my door. I inspected the area carefully but found no evidence that someone had played a prank on me. It didn’t come from the roof because the patio on the back of our house is covered.

The snake and I both had quite a start and the incident made me think of voodoo priestess Mama Mulate from my French Quarter mystery Big Easy. Mama wouldn’t hoodoo me. I created her for heavens sake! Still, maybe I crossed somebody out there and they hired a local mambo or houngan to teach me a lesson.

Nah! No one practices voodoo in Edmond America. Or do they?

Fiction South

Murder in OKC

When I moved to Oklahoma City in 1973, the downtown area was a victim of urban sprawl. Many stores and businesses had moved out of the City’s original area for the more affluent outlying neighborhoods. Downtown OKC had long since fallen into disarray and disrepair. There was no new construction, no new businesses and little sentiment to revive this crumbling portion of Oklahoma City.

Like other cities, OKC had its skid row. In the seventies, and to a large extent today, beggars, panhandlers, winos, prostitutes and runaways congregated in an area near the downtown bus station. Hotels, many built shortly after the beginning of the city, remained along the Reno Avenue corridor. Most were run down, shabby, and homes for gamblers and prostitutes. One of these hotels was the Tivoli Inn on W. Sheridan Avenue.

The Tivoli was built in 1922 as a grand hotel. It went through several transformations but in October of 1972 it had degenerated into little more than a flophouse for transients taking a detour off I-40, one of the interstate highways that bisect the city. On October 13, 1972, the desk clerk of the hotel met her untimely death.

I hadn’t yet moved to Oklahoma in 1972 but I remember hearing about the murder of Phyllis Jean Daves. Daves, age 49, was the desk clerk at the Tivoli Inn the night of her death. According to accounts in the Daily Oklahoman, she was beaten, robbed and strangled to death.

On October 13, 1972 (yes, it was Friday) she was dragged into the elevator and apparently still fighting for her life when she and her attacker reached the sixth floor. Her nude body was found under a bed in room 607 and rape was likely attempted but never consummated. Two former employees of the Tivoli Inn were suspected but later cleared of the crime when they failed to provide a match to bloody hand prints held as evidence.

I remember hearing stories of blood covering the lobby walls from the horrific struggle that ensued. The crime remains cold, never solved. Urban renewal of downtown Oklahoma City began in earnest during the latter seventies, the Tivoli Inn razed in 1979 to make room for the Myriad Gardens.

Nothing remains today of the old Tivoli Inn but memories and some old photographs. Most Oklahomans don’t even remember it, nor does anyone remember Phyllis Jean Daves, or worry much about who killed her, or why.

Eric's Website

Buck McDivit Revisited

The protagonist of my first novel, Ghost of a Chance, was Oklahoma cowboy detective Buck McDivit. A mysterious lake in east Texas was the backdrop for the novel that highlighted lost Confederate gold, Indian artifacts, the ghost of a girl, and murder. I’m presently working on a sequel to Ghost of a Chance, this time with the action occurring in Oklahoma.

The working title of my new book is Panther Stalking and the story involves modern-day cattle rustling, a compound populated by female pagans, and of course, murder. I’m about twenty thousand words into the novel.

Before starting on Panther Stalking I wrote a Buck McDivit short story to reintroduce myself to a character that I haven’t visited in almost three years. Prairie Thunder plants McDivit back in his home turf of central Oklahoma. Moonlighting as an assistant medical examiner, McDivit helps investigate the death of an American Indian artist. The story leads him to Oklahoma City’s historic Paseo District.

Anyone who read Ghost of a Chance and is interested in reconnecting with Buck McDivit is invited to visit my website http://www.ericwilder.com/. Sign my list and I will email you the short story in PDF format.