TODAY, WE ARE THRILLED TO WELCOME OUR GUEST AUTHOR, SANDY SEMERAD, WHO IS SHARING CHAPTERS 1 AND 2 OF HER NOVEL, 'DEATH OF A STAR' #RWRTeamBlog #ReadWriteRepeat
I expected to see a mess inside my old house, but not death. Not on a sunny Saturday in May with the azaleas and roses in bloom. Mom used to say this place reminded her of Tara in Gone with the Wind. Dad jokingly called it an antebellum monstrosity.
God, how I miss them.
An attractive dark-haired woman in grey scrubs stood next to a white van at the top of the circular drive.
She walked over to greet me as I got out of the Cadillac. “Hello, I’m Maria the cleaning lady.”
She spoke with a slight accent. Flawless olive complexion, which I used to envy before I learned to accept my fair, freckled face.
“Hi Maria. I’m Carrie.”
We shook hands. Strong grip.
“James Marcellus said you couldn’t find the key, Maria.”
She pointed to the flowerpot of roses. “Not there.”
I ran my hand inside the planter then tilted the pot to glance under it. “No worries. I brought a spare.” I held up my ring of keys and found the one designed for the tubular lock.
When the heavy wooden door creaked open, I smelled a foul odor. Empty bottles, cans, and trash scattered everywhere. A framed copy of War is Hell hung crooked in the foyer. Mom loved this painting, though it portrayed General Sherman burning Atlanta.
I straightened the picture. “Must have been a wild cast party, Maria. Let me help you. This is too much for one person.”
A successful film director like James Marcellus should have hired a cleaning crew, I thought, but didn’t say. I had a bad feeling when he asked me to make his horror movie here, but I ignored it and agreed to his terms.
“This is my job, Ms. Carrie. It is not too much for me. You go rest.” Her brown eyes held sympathy, as if she could see my exhaustion and thorn of grief.
“Okay, Maria. If you insist. I’ll be outside. Holler if you need my help.”
I toted a lounge chair to the backyard. The heady perfume of Jasmine and honeysuckle greeted me. Their vines snaked up the magnolias and pines. Bees buzzed around them, pollinating, drinking the nectar. Heart-shaped trails from a jet plane marred a clear, baby-blue sky.
Fatigue pushed on my eyelids. I didn’t rest well the night before. My mind kept rethinking all the mishaps at the Southern Journal. We almost missed our deadline for this edition.
I would have slept late, but James Marcellus called, asking me to help Maria find the key. Like it or not, this place was my responsibility.
I stretched out onto the lounge chair, closed my eyes and listened to the birds. At some point, I fell asleep.
Maria’s screams jolted me awake. She stood a few feet away, yelling and clasping her hands around her throat. “Ay, Dios Mio. Hay un cuerpo…un cuerpo muerto.”
“What the hell, Maria? What’s wrong?”
She motioned for me to follow her up to the attic. When my best friend Freemont and I were children, we’d sneak up here to prove we weren’t scaredy cats. Seems like yesterday.
Maria’s legs trembled as she climbed the steep stairs. I gripped the cypress banister and crept behind her. I had to cover my nose to endure the odor of death. At the landing,\Maria pointed inside the small, triangular room.
The star of Annie’s Ghost dangled from a bed sheet attached to the ceiling rafters. A lavender gown clung to her slender body. Golden sunrays from the semi-circle window created a halo over her long dark hair. Snow White in a deadly fairy tale.
“Oh my god. I can’t believe this.”
I touched her pink-polished toes. Stiff. I withdrew my cellphone from the pocket of my jeans then punched in 911.
“What’s your emergency?” the operator asked.
My voice quivered and stuttered. “I’m, I’m Carrie Handley. We found Katrina Kantrell hanging from the rafters in the attic of my old house.” I recited the address.
“Hi Carrie. I’m Mary Oppenheimer. Is Katrina dead?”
“Yes, she’s in rigor mortis.”
“Are you in danger?"
“No, I don’t think so, Mary.”
I clicked off as Maria sobbed. “Ella no haria esto.”
“What do you mean? Do you think Katrina didn’t kill herself?"
Maria and I sat on the overstuffed yellow sofa in the parlor and waited. The parlor smelled like Pine-Sol. Maria had cleaned the first and second floors before she went up to the attic, she said. She’d filled several trash bags.
Maria shivered though it was warm inside. “Ghost in this house,” she said.
“My dad used to say this place was too big for our family of three and two small for the spooks.”
Maria’s brown eyes widened. “Katrina was Catholic. It would be sin to kill herself.”
I decided not to tell Maria why James Marcellus filmed Annie’s Ghost here. The real Annie, one of my ancestors, hung herself. She was shamefully locked in the attic due to her mental illness, according to Granny’s journal.
“When I interviewed Katrina, she didn’t talk about her faith. She did say she and her mom moved to the United States from Cuba when she was a child. Were you a fan of Katrina’s, Maria?”
Maria nodded.
“This is an awful tragedy. A great loss.”
At the sound of sirens, I peered through the large windows in the foyer. A patrol car, with strobe lights flashing, drove up the circular drive.
Chief investigator Sean O’Connor and pathologist Winn Pooter stepped from the vehicle. Winn carried a white case--his tools of the trade. He reminded me of a stern college professor in horn-rimmed glasses.
I’ve known Winn for many years. He’s a medical doctor with forensic training. Winn decided to go into pathology after he suspected his stepfather killed his mother.
As for Sean O’Connor, he took an early retirement from the Boston Police Department and moved to Atlanta to care for his ailing parents. After his parents passed, he accepted the job as chief investigator for the College Station Sheriff’s Department, according to a press release.
I asked Lindsey Jernigan to write a feature article on O’Connor for the Southern Journal, but he declined her request for an interview. “He obviously doesn’t like publicity,” Lindsey said in explaining her inability to write the article. “I can’t imagine why. He has a stellar reputation in Boston, and he’s handsome with hypnotic blue eyes.”
As I walked outside to greet O’Connor and Winn, an EMT van pulled up behind the cop car. Paramedics Joan Mason and Rodney Cline jumped out carrying a stretcher.
I was leading them up to the attic when O’Connor directed his blue eyes at me. “Wait downstairs, please. I’ll talk to you both after we finish up here.”
As he instructed, Maria and I sat on the yellow-velvet sofa in the living room and waited for at least an hour for him to grace us with his presence.
He plopped in the gold wingback chair across from us. “I know this has been a tough day.” O’Connor placed a cell phone in record mode on the coffee table then withdrew a pad and pen from the inside pocket of his sear sucker jacket. I got a glimpse of his flat stomach and holstered firearm. No wedding band on his left hand.
He ran his right hand through his thick, steel-grey hair. “Can you describe the events leading up to discovering the deceased?”
Maria turned toward me. Obviously, she wanted me to talk.
“James Marcellus said he left the key in the flowerpot for Maria to get in and clean. When she couldn’t find the key, he asked me to drive out here to unlock the door and let her in.
He rented this house for three months to film Annie’s Ghost.
There was a party to celebrate the conclusion of the filming last night. When I arrived here, I looked for the key, but it wasn’t in the flowerpot.”
“No one should leave a house key in a flowerpot. It’s unwise and unsafe. Do you know where Mr. Marcellus is now, Ms. Handley?”
“Please call me Carrie. He said he was flying his Lear jet back to Los Angeles. When he called, he was getting ready to take off from the Atlanta airport. He’s probably still in the air.”
“We’ll need to speak with him. Do you have his number handy?”
I scrolled through my cell phone contacts and gave O’Connor the number. He wrote it in his pad. “Do you have a list of people who attended the cast party, Carrie?"
“No, and I didn't go, but I assigned a photographer to take photos for our newspaper. I’ll ask him to send you copies. If you’d like. The photographer’s name is Nathan Slacker.” I recited Nathan’s number.
O’Connor smiled. His front teeth overlapped slightly, which made his smile more interesting, I thought.
I considered my own front teeth. My dentist, Dr. Rensch, wanted to fill in the gap between them, but I said no and don’t regret that decision. Marcus used to say he loved my gap.
“Your photographer’s name is Nathan Slacker, Did I hear you, correctly, Carrie?” His blue eyes twinkled.
“Yes.” I spelled it.
“Slacker. Hmmm,” he said. “I wonder what the origin of that name is.”
A perfect opening to find out more about O’Connor, I thought. “I have no idea. Do you know the origin of your name? I assume it’s Irish.”
“You assume correctly.”
“Does your last name have a meaning?”
“My late dad said it means defender of warriors.”
I imagined him in knight’s armor holding a lance. “Interesting.”
He handed me his business card with his contact information. “Please send those photos to me or have your photographer e-mail them. Why didn’t you attend the party?”
“We were on deadline and swamped. Two Southern Journal staffers were out sick.”
“Do you know who attended, other than Marcellus and your photographer?” We found what we believe is her cell phone.”
“My friend and neighbor Freemont Jackson went. He lives about a mile from here. He and I grew up together. He’s a great guy. He’s like a brother to me.” I stopped short of saying he referred to himself as my black brother. My double great grandfather George probably sired Freemont’s great grandmother Georgia, according to Granny’s journal. “Nathan took a photo of Freemont talking to Katrina Kantrell. I’ll call Free and ask him to come over.”
When Freemont answered, I blurted out, “There’s been a tragedy at my old house, Free. The police are here now. Please come over.” I clicked off without waiting for his reply.
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Link to Death of a Star e-book: Amazon.com: Death of a Star eBook : Semerad, Sandy: Kindle
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Death of a Star Paperback link: Amazon.com: Death of a Star: 9798996285006: Semerad,
Sandy, Semerad, Sandy: Books
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AUTHOR BIO
Award-winning author Sandy Semerad has worked as a newspaper reporter, columnist, editor and model, mostly in Atlanta, where Death of a Star is set. This romantic thriller was a finalist in Killer Nashville’s Claymore Awards. It’s the third book in a series and sequel to Justice’s Journal and Carrie Sue’s Diary. Her other novels are Hurricane House and Sex, Love & Murder. Sandy earned a journalism degree from Georgia State University, but grew up in Geneva, Alabama. She now lives in north Florida with husband Larry and spoiled Shih Poo Elvis.
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Sandy Semerad | LinkedIn http://www.linkedin.com/in/sandy-semerad-2692ab15/
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COMING SOON: On Monday, 26th October, our team member, author Eva Bielby, is sharing
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