Dear Readers, I hope you're doing well. Please know you're in my prayers.
This week's author writes cozy mysteries--a genre that I'm only recently learning to enjoy. How about you--any types of books you're coming to love later in life? Wait, did I just say later in life, I meant recently.
Introduce yourself—name, where you’re from, and something people notice when they meet you?
I’m Jann Franklin from Grand Cane, Louisiana. It’s a small village near Shreveport, less than 250 people. But we have a community theatre, a park with a splash pad, a recording studio, and lots of heart.
I’ve lived in the South for fifty-two years, raised by parents from the Midwest. Therefore, my accent (or lack of one) is always up for debate. People from above the Mason-Dixon line adore my Southern drawl. And people born and raised in the South point out that I’m “definitely not from around here.” No matter their opinion, it always makes for good conversation.
Tell us about your book—title and back cover blurb?
In “Sweet Tea and Suspects”, the community theater is putting on “Death of a Salesman”. But someone has turned the play into reality! Who killed Daniel Sullivan, star of the show and all-around jerk? Hometown heroine Jen Guidry was arrested, but did she really do it? Maybe it was the director, or the understudy? It could have been the producer, or the naïve ingenue. There are more suspects than cups of sugar in a pitcher of sweet tea. Can Ev and Shorty solve their fifth case and bring the killer to justice? Regardless, the show must go on! This book is the fifth of the Small-Town Girl Mysteries, a clean faith-based series of books with no profanity, sex, or graphic violence.
Share an excerpt. (wasn’t sure how long an excerpt, so here’s Chapter 1):
“Hey, Doc! Did ya’ file the Augie Fontenot case like I told ya’ to?” Shorty’s voice echoed against the walls of our new office.
“Yes, Shorty I did. And for the hundredth time, we really should go paperless. We’d save a lot of money on file cabinets and pens and, well, paper.”
My supervisor wadded up an 8 ½ x 11 inch, white as snow piece of printer paper and dunked it into our twelve dollar wire trash basket. “Now, Doc, we’ve gone over this already. I’ve got pine timber on my land, an’ so do a buncha other people in this community. With all these newspapers an’ magazines goin’ outta business, the price o’ timber’s in the toilet. We’ve gotta do our part, an’ use as much paper as we can. The economy’s countin’ on us.” He crumpled another perfectly good piece of paper, squinting as he aimed for a second shot. But all I saw were dollar signs hitting the rim.
We’d been in our space exactly three weeks, and I’d spent a quarter of that time regretting my decision. Which had been my worst idea? Was it passing my private investigator’s test? No, that was a good one—and a free one too. Dad lent me his credit card and I’d signed up for my courses, blowing through them and passing my exam with a ninety-seven. Actually, that had been my first poor decision, scoring higher than Shorty. My grade had sucker punched his eighty-two percent, leaving him gasping.
The second not-so-brilliant decision had to be apprenticing under Shorty. In Louisiana, an investigator must complete forty hours of training courses, pass the exam, and work for a private investigation agency as an apprentice for two years. Shorty had worked for Howie Robichaud out of Baton Rouge, with little supervision. Everyone insisted I apprentice with Shorty. After all, we worked well together, so he’d continue to solve cases with me side by side. In the beginning it made sense, until his bruised ego took over my training.
“Doc, yer two minutes late! Did ya’ stop by the coffee shop an’ chat it up with Maggie? We don’t got time for sharin’ recipes or catchin’ up on all the soap operas. This is a business, an’ ya’ gotta act as such.”
“Hey, I asked ya’ t’call the sheriff an’ see if he’s got any cases for us. Have ya’ done that yet? We don’t got time for ya’ t’file yore nails or order off the inner net. This is a business, an’ ya’ gotta act as such.”
If I heard the words as such one more time, blank pieces of paper wouldn’t be the only items flying towards the trash can.
“Did ya’ start the Bubba Reeves file? I told ya’ t’do that yesterday. Did ya’ do it? We don’t got time for sailin’ on the inner net or textin’ yore friends. This is a business, an’ ya’ gotta act as such.” More echoes of Shorty’s voice bounced off the drywall, reminding me that we still needed furniture.
“That’s surfing the internet, not sailing.” I said, finally. “And yes, I did. Oh, before I forget…how much do you weigh?”
Pop! Or was it a piff? I’d calculated our cost of paper at one cent per sheet, which meant three cents rested at the bottom of Shorty’s trash can. “Whatta I weigh? Oh, about one eighty-five. Annabelle’s too good a cook, or I’d weigh one seventy-seven. Why do ya’ ask?”
“Oh, no reason.” No, I couldn’t lift a hundred and eighty-five pounds, much less heave it into the trash can. I’d have to find another way to channel my irritation.
Swoosh! Shorty had now thrown four cents worth of paper into our trash can, and it was only eight-thirty. We needed a distraction, preferably the felonious kind. And hopefully one not involving either my supervisor or myself.
“Say, Doc, did ya’ hear about the sheriff’s Wheel o’ Fugitives show on You Toot?”
Hello randomness—it was about time you entered the conversation. “Uh, I think you mean YouTube. And, well, I guess not. But then, Mitch and I try to keep our careers out of our conversations. We focus mainly on sharing recipes, catching up on all the soap operas, and ordering stuff off the internet.”
Shorty squinted one eye in my direction, gauging whether I’d doled out sarcasm or secrets about the sheriff. His other eye set up the next shot. “Uh, well, it ain’t none o’ my business what ya’ll do in yore free time.”
Since when? “Tell me about this Wheel of Fugitives. I’m intrigued.” Was intrigued the right word? Maybe ready to change the subject was the better choice.
“I can’t believe yore boyfriend never told ya’! It jus’ started last week, an’ they already caught one. There’s a sheriff down in Florida that started it, an’ ol’ Mitch called him up t’get the details. He got permission t’do the same thing here, an’ it’s a big success!”
Our first week in the office I’d perched my feet on top of my desk, then crossed my ankles and leaned back. I popped up pretty fast when the back of my chair continued its journey towards the floor. From then on, I tipped my chair back just an inch or two and planted the soles of my feet firmly on our blue gray rug. It was an almost new, professional looking rug, courtesy of Shorty’s sister, Dottie.
I was in that position during our wheel discussion. “Start from the beginning, please. Assume I know nothing, which will be extremely helpful. Because I don’t.”
My supervisor, on the other hand, had perfected the feet perching and ankle crossing combo, and demonstrated his trick as often as he could. “Okay, so there’s a spinnin’ wheel, kinda like a roulette wheel only it’s mounted on a pole or somethin’. My buddy Monty films the sheriff, who starts out by tellin’ the audience there’s a jail cell waitin’ for everybody on that wheel. Then he gives it a good spin, and waits for it t’land on a picture. That guy’s the fugitive o’ the week, an’ the sheriff tells ‘im he’d better jus’ go ahead an’ do the right thing. Cuz if he don’t turn himself in, somebody watchin’ the show’s gonna tip off the deputies. An’ the fugitive unit’s gonna come kick down their door an’ haul ‘im away tuh jail.”
I grabbed my phone and texted Mitch. Why have you never told me about this wonderful Wheel of Fugitives? And can I spin the wheel next time?
“Hey, Doc, iffen yer textin’ the sheriff, ask ‘im if I can spin the wheel next time. I already asked Monty, but he said I gotta get permission from Sheriff Dupre.”
I could see my big city friends scrolling through Facebook, coming upon my tag in the East Baton Rouge Parish sheriff’s department post. Their curious fingers would click the link, and there I would be, spinning the wondrous Wheel of Fugitives. Then they’d finally understand. They’d realize that small towns have just as much fun going on as those bustling mega cities. Hmmm, or maybe they’d laugh so hard they’d choke on their fancy coffee drinks. Then they’d thank their lucky stars they didn’t live in Hicksville. No, best to stay off YouTube.
“No problem, Shorty. I’ll ask the sheriff for you.” My eleven-year-old nephew Jack had taught me how to edit my text messages. I changed my message to read Why have you never told me about this wonderful Wheel of Fugitives? And can Shorty spin the wheel next time?
“Anyway, Doc, it comes out every Friday, an’ they caught the guy from the first show last week. Today they’re filmin’ aroun’ two o’clock. Iffen we finish up early, how about we head over an’ watch the show? Hey, does my shirt look alright? Do I need a haircut?” I edited my message again. And can Shorty PLEASE spin the wheel on today’s show?
“The next item we gotta discuss at our staff meetin’ is gettin’ a secretary. We need someone tuh answer the phones, do the filin’, an’ make the coffee. I talked tuh my cousin at the paper, an’ Hugh says we can get an ad for fifty dollars a week.”
“Gosh, Shorty, I don’t know what to say first. How about…is your cousin crazy? Fifty dollars for an ad? And next, I think I’ll say…if we hire a secretary to do all those things, then what am I going to do? Because you’ve already ruled out catching up on soap operas, filing my nails, and ordering off the internet.”
Shorty was like a dog with a bone, and his bone was hiring a warm body. “Doc, we ain’t no shoddy outfit! We’re experienced investigators. Well, I am anyway. You’re still prent-issin. This is a business, an’ ya’ gotta act as such.”
“Maybe I should just record you for a couple hours. Then, instead of repeating yourself, you could refer me to the specific words of wisdom you’ve already spouted. For instance, you wouldn’t have to waste your breath telling me for the thousandth time that this is a business, and I’ve got to act as such. You could just say, first words of wisdom. Or, first rule of the PI business. Or something like that. You would save us both a lot of time.”
Fortunately for me, the phone rang. But why had Shorty insisted on a landline for the office, tying us to the same four walls all day? Why couldn’t we have a separate cell phone number for our company?
“Doc, only drug dealers an’ spies carry aroun’ a buncha cell phones. An’ we ain’t either. Respectable businesses like Cormier Investigations Elle Elle See have a landline. End o’ the discussion.”
Being the prent-iss, I answered the phone. “Cormier Investigations LLC. How may I direct your call?” Don’t get me started on the fact that Shorty made me say LLC and ask how to direct the call. Where else could I direct it, but to Shorty’s extension? Apparently a prent-iss wasn’t experienced enough to talk to a client, at least not at Cormier Investigations LLC.
“Evangeline, this is your daddy speaking. I need you to call your boyfriend and ask him if I can spin the wheel today. Do it now, child, before someone gets ahead of me.”
How did everyone know about Mitch’s new show except me? I glanced at my cell phone, which told me that Mitch had read my text. Should I edit it for the third time, and ask if my father could spin the wheel? No, too late—Mitch was texting back.
I already promised my mother she could spin the wheel. But Shorty can do it next week. Or should I ask your father to do it? I can always use brownie points. He added a couple of winking emojis.
“Who’s tyin’ up our business phone? That better not be Elizabeth, tryin’ t’stir up lunch plans. This is a business…” I tuned out my supervisor, focusing instead on my father.
“Dad, Mitch’s mom, Daphne, is spinning the wheel today. But you can spin it next week.” I covered the mouthpiece. “Shorty, Mitch texted that you can spin the wheel after my father. And he’s going to put up the meanest, nastiest fugitives on the wheel, just for you.” Mitch wasn’t the only one needing brownie points.
I paused to hear my father’s response. “Well, that’s fine, I guess, putting his mama over his girlfriend’s daddy. I know I wouldn’t do that, but to each his own.” My cell phone read 8:45 a.m. Would this Friday never end?
“Okay, Dad, we’ve got that all settled. I can’t tie up the business line, so I’ll let you go. Love you.”
“Wait! Tell Shorty that Amy Meloncon’s cousin’s daughter’s looking for a job. She took typing in high school, and she’s taking some of those over the line classes. Business classes I think.”
“Dad, they’re called online classes. Is this for the secretary position? How much does she want to be paid?”
Bang! Shorty’s feet hit the rug and he leaped from his chair. “Gimme that phone. Skeeter! Don’t ya’ be tyin’ up this business line chit-chattin’ with yore daughter. This here’s a business…”
I glanced at the quarter inch stack of files on my desk. What was less taxing on my soul: filing two files or listening to Shorty argue with my father? My cell phone rang, saving me from both tasks.
“Ev, did you hear? There’s been a murder at the community theater, and Jen Guidry’s been arrested!”
My right arm transformed into a wild pendulum, swinging back and forth across my body. Unfortunately, Shorty and I hadn’t worked on our hand signals—he’d been too busy teaching me how to file.
“Elizabeth, that can’t be true! The entire Guidry family goes to our church. Jen volunteers in the nursery, and she’s in our Bible study. I’d peg my Aunt Ruby as a murderer before Jen.”
Shorty stopped mid-sentence at the word murderer. Who says men aren’t good listeners?
“Skeeter, I gotta get off the phone. Tell this Tracy lady t’send over her resume.” He twisted round to face my desk, punching his index finger towards the floor. I recognized the international sign for, put the call on speaker.
“El, I’m putting you on speaker, so Shorty can hear too. Start from the beginning.”
My sweet bestie had never been on this side of a murder case. She’d come in alongside me, interviewing suspects and talking to witnesses. But this was a whole new adventure.
“I talked with Jen’s mother-in-law, Ava, this morning and she gave me the story. Last night was the dress rehearsal for the play. Everybody left the building right after rehearsal, except Daniel Sullivan. He’s the lead, or was the lead. Someone must have come into the building after everyone else left and killed him! But not Jen—there’s no way she did this.” Elizabeth stopped to catch her breath. “Anyway, this morning, a deputy drove by and noticed the back door was ajar. He came inside to investigate, and he found Jen hunched over Daniel’s body. Oh, Ev, this is terrible!” Elizabeth’s voice caught as she stuffed the sobs back into her throat.
My poor bestie! “It’s okay, El, take a breath. But why is Jen a suspect? It sounds like she was just trying to help the victim.”
A rattling breath and my bestie regained her composure. “She’s the stage manager, you see, and it’s her very first time. She wanted to make sure everything was ready for tonight’s show. Jen has been trying so hard to get everything right, and she wanted everything to be perfect.”
“Elizabeth, this here’s Shorty Cormier. Why was Miss Jen at the theater? Thank ya’.”
I bit my lower lip and made a mental note to explain once again how the speaker option worked.
“Oh, hi, Shorty. Uh, well, Ava said Jen came to the theater early this morning, to make sure everything was ready. She went in the back door and was straightening up the props backstage. Then she stepped on to the stage to double check everything, and found the body. She kneeled on the floor to examine Daniel more closely and see if he was still alive. That’s when the deputy walked in. He didn’t believe her story, because she was all flustered and out of sorts. Who wouldn’t be? I’d be hysterical if I’d found a dead body!”
More jagged breaths. “This so-called deputy put Jen in handcuffs. Handcuffs, Ev! He threw her in the back of the squad car and took her down for questioning. Poor Jen was so upset that she couldn’t remember all the details. The deputy said that’s how guilty people act. Can you believe that? The district attorney’s convinced she’s guilty, and he’s going to charge her. Oh, Ev, this is terrible! Her husband Mike’s just shattered–Ava picked up their boys from school, before anyone could tell them that their mother’s in jail. Oh, this is awful!”
“Elizabeth, this here’s Shorty Cormier. Is Mike gonna close up Big Ed’s while his wife’s in jail?”
I glared at my supervisor. “You’ve got to be kidding me! What does that have to do with poor Mike and Jen?”
Shorty’s shoulders lifted a couple of inches. “I need some hog feed, an’ Mike’s got the best prices in twenty miles. If he shuts down Big Ed’s, I’m gonna hafta drive a good long ways to get some.”
Elizabeth had the scoop on everything. “Don’t worry, Shorty–Mike’s got Amy and Jimmy Meloncon keeping the doors open. And I think Ken’s going to step in, too. The whole Melancon family’s going to manage the store until this mess gets straightened out. But ya’ll have got to get down to the jail and start clearing Jen’s name. That’s why I’m calling. Ava wants you two on the case. She said there’s some sort of fund to pay legal costs for founding family members. I asked Cal about it–turns out he’s in charge of it, since he works at the bank. He’s working on getting a lawyer for Jen, and he said your expenses are covered. My son said to spare no expense, and clear the poor girl’s name!”
“We’re on our way, Elizabeth. Uh, unless we need to stop at Big Ed’s and pick up some hog feed. Then we’ll be on our way. Love you, friend–I’ll keep you posted.”
***
Shorty didn’t mention hog feed during our trip to the East Baton Rouge Parish detention center. He resurrected the secretary discussion instead. Honestly, I’d rather talk about hog feed.
“See, Doc? If we’d gone ahead and hired that secretary like I said, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”
I closed my eyes as I contemplated our situation. “Uh, I’m not following. We need to pay someone to sit at the office and file the two files on my desk? Oh, and make a new file, I guess. One that says Guidry, Jennifer. But other than those two tasks, I still don’t see the need for a secretary.”
“Ya’ gotta spend money t’make money. An’ we’re not some shoddy outfit, we’re a professional business. We need a friendly face t’greet our visitors an’ serve ‘em a cuppa coffee.”
“Okay, I’m going to skip the part where we debate my friendly face and the quality of my coffee. And I’m going to jump past the old discussion about paying someone to do the job I’m already doing. Let’s flash forward to the end of our conversation, just to keep things fast paced and interesting. I’ll throw a crazy idea out here, just bear with me. How about we hire an intern instead? A college student getting a degree in criminal justice, or psychology, or something similar. Someone you can mentor and influence and guide.” I finished the conversation in my head by adding someone who costs a lot less than a secretary but can still file and make coffee. I also pondered what I would do if the intern did my job. Maybe I could supervise the intern, and Shorty could supervise me. Our infrastructure was starting to look like a mid-level corporation, minus the profits.
If I didn’t know Shorty so well, I’d think he was ignoring me. But there it was, the almost hidden crease along his forehead. The man was mulling over my idea, allowing it to simmer like a pot of gumbo on low heat. At last, the gumbo was ready.
“Now ya’ might be on t’something there, Doc. Yeah, a young mind I could take under my wing, guide and direct, even teach. Yeah, that’s a good idea.” Shorty sunk his shoulders into his seat and dropped his left hand to his knee. My supervisor had embraced my idea, which was good. But it sounded like he would supervise the intern, which left me with time to fill each day. Maybe I could take up knitting? Hmmm, the knitting PI. Maybe the intern could create a logo, with a cute ball of yarn…
“Yeah, Doc, that’s a real good idea. I mean, I thought I was gonna do that with you. But yore problem’s that yer too hard-headed. Yeah, yer too stuck in yore ways.” There it was, the other shoe had dropped. “Yeah, I was jus’ tellin’ yore daddy the other day that I’ve taught ya’ all I can. Yer jus’ too stubborn t’listen tuh my wisdom an’ experience. But someone who’s young an’ eager, someone who’s ready t’lap up all the advice an’ experience I’ve got. Yeah, that’s the kinda person we need aroun’ the office!”
The average person didn’t rejoice at the sight of the parish detention center in their eyeline. Then again, the average person didn’t spend every blessed day with Shorty Cormier.
***
Jen Guidry sat across the metal table, her fingers resting on its scarred top. Her shoulder length brown hair normally resided in a ponytail, but rubber bands weren’t allowed in the slammer. Neither was makeup, but she wore very little, anyway. Dark circles sat under her eyes, the despair spilling out of her soul. How could anyone believe this early thirty-something mother of two and nursery volunteer would kill anyone? Of course, true crime shows told us these kinds of people did kill, all the time.
I didn’t know Jen well, but she’d always given off a bubbly vibe. She over shared and overstepped, but in the nicest way. I’d heard a story that she’d talked to someone at a party for fifteen minutes before the hostess intervened. Jen’s fellow conversationalist didn’t speak English, the hostess explained, and she had no idea what Jen was saying. This young lady wasn’t the most observant person in the room, but she didn’t strike me as a killer.
“Ev, Shorty, thank you for coming. I was praying earlier, and I asked God to put you on this case. I just know you’ll bring me home.” Jen’s brown eyes flooded with tears and her shoulders shook. I couldn’t keep my tears locked up either, and we cried together. Shorty paced the room.
“Ladies, I hate to break up this sob fest, but we ain’t doin’ anyone any good. Miss Jen, I’m real sorry yer in this situation, I truly am.” He looked toward the guard. “Couldja do us a favor, an’ get these ladies some tissues? Unless ya’ wanna clean up a buncha tears an’ other stuff, I think ya’ better get us a big ol’ box.”
The guard made a motion to the window and Shorty joined us at the table. “Miss Jen, take us through this mornin’.”
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If you could insert yourself into a murder investigation, would you do it? What talents or skills would you bring to the investigation? Who would be your sidekick?
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Thank you, Jann, for being a guest--I hope you sell lots of books! God bless, Christina
This sounds so interesting and I would say one of my daughter's to be my sidekick Have a Blessed Day
I tried posting yesterday when I was sick but it wouldn't work for some reason. We reported on a manhunt when I was working my journalism internship, so I would like to think I would be up for this, hahahahaha. Sounds intriguing!
I would definitely insert myself into an investigation. I like to think that I am a skilled observer.
Thank you so much for sharing. I loved the excerpt. I love cozy mysteries. This sounds fabulous. If I would want to be part of an investigation. I would be the quiet, shy person who would be observant to what was being said and happening in the background. I would not want to put myself in a position of being hurt. God bless you. Have a wonderful week. Stay cool.
I throughly enjoyed the extended excerpt. It proves to be an intriguing and entertaining cozy mystery.