This is the title of a new murder mystery written by Ben Rehder. It is situated in Blanco County. The whole book reads like an extended post by A.P. Merillat. Sample dialogue:

You know why it's so hard to solve a murder in a small Texas town?

All the DNA is the same.

And there's no dental records.

...and today's suspects were yesterday's victims. The witnesses willing to offer any information are next week's defendants. Lawyers, cops, barflies and fender lizards -- the only way the gene pool is unmuddied is by the parking places at the courthouse. If you've got a reserved one, you're okay, for now.

They take turns being defendants and victims in one city in my county, too.

I've read his other books and they are great. All in paperback, too.

I liked the way this thread was starting. We should write a book, or at least a short story with different people adding onto the story line with each post. Only rules are: no hogging the whole thing (no multiple page postings), and each subsequent post has to pick up where the last one left off. What do y'all think? I know at a couple of people are up for it!

Count me in!

Chapter One

I knew that she was trouble the minute she walked into my office, trouble with a capital T. Yeah, she was a looker, but I knew that her kind of trouble often left dead bodies in it's wake. She was the kind of gal that wore too much perfume, so when she left a room or an elevator her scent lingered behind for five or ten minutes, even with the air conditioning on. I wondered as she closed the door what she would want from me. I knew it wouldn't be good news.

[This message was edited by Greg Gilleland on 09-28-05 at .]

[This message was edited by Greg Gilleland on 09-28-05 at .]

And then she threw down a wad of cash. Ten one hundred dollar bills, saying, this was down-payment for my finding her son and brother, Johnny. Seems her father had reproduced through her several years ago and the offspring, Johnny, had been whisked away secretly to far-off relatives to hide the dirty little secret.

As soon as she left my office, I began looking closely at the money, and I noticed that certain attributes of detail on the bills seemed to be blurred and fuzzy. I pulled out one of the counterfeit money testing pens that I had bought at the local office supply company, and tested one of the bills. Sure enough, it was as fake as a department store santa's beard. Nowadays, everyone with a color printer, scanner and a computer was trying to print their own money.

Then, after putting the pen back into the drawer, I took a closer look at the face on the bills. I recalled that I couldn�t recall any president �Uncle Money Bags� in recent memory. That gave me all I needed to remember that I thought this money was fake in the first place.

Acting on a hunch, I pulled out one of the counterfeit money testing pens.

Then I knew what I had to do.

I quietly put the counterfeit money testing pen away. I knew it was going to be a long night if I kept pulling out my counterfeit money testing pen only to put it back. But that was the kind of girl she was, the kind of girl that makes you want to test money to see if it was forged again, and again, and again. You couldn't trust her, but deep down, you wanted to. You wanted to trust her so bad you'd pull out your pen hoping you'd be wrong. You wanted to so bad that all the possibilities that came with clutching that counterfeit money testing pen made you forget the abrasive pain you felt each time you realized that you had been duped. That's why I knew I had to put that pen away and get me a hot cup o' joe.

[This message was edited by David Newell on 09-29-05 at .]

I had to leave through the back window and down the fire escape. When you are as behind on the rent as I am, the landlady tends to keep an ear cocked toward the stairwell. The last time I had been foolish enough to try the stairs that snitch of a fourth tread betrayed me. It squeaked and groaned like a pug-dog full of styrofoam.

"Templeton? Cortes Templeton? Is that you?" She had opened her door and blocked me there against the rickety banister on her landing. Her housecoat had been quality once but now was an indeterminate shade of mouse-grey. She took a frantic drag from her Turkish-blend cigarette and inhaled sharply.

"Where's my money, deadbeat?," she said as she exhaled a cloud of blue/gray smoke that reeked of camel dung and sand and 2500 years of Byzantine decay.

Heading down the fire escape my mind was filled with thoughts of counterfeit money and trouble in a chartreuse skirt. I knew I had to help the woman. I�m the type of guy that just can�t pass up a good missing brother/son case.

After making it down the steps to the street below, a fog started to roll in. I could make out a large figure in a mouse grey moo-moo and I realized that the �fog� had a faint hint of camel dung.

Trying to remember how exactly I came to know what camel dung smelled like I said, �Good evening Mrs. Horsewafer. I was just looking for you.�

With her cigarette hanging out of the side of her mouth she took on the stance of a gunfighter from the old west. She had only one word for me, �Money�.

�It�s on my desk Mrs. Horsewafer, take what you need and leave me alone.�

Having solved the first problem of the night, I set off into the Byzantine fog.

Progressing from a damp spot to a slow drip, the moisture setttling on the tattoo over my left breast began to form a warm, sticky puddle. I marveled that there was no pain, just the congealing, uniquely colored fluid taking the path of least resistance.

Yes, my fears were realized -- the counterfeit detection pen was leaking. It was emptying its contents through the backside of the pocket on my polo. And, the truth was suddenly, brazenly exposed: my shirt wasn't a Polo like Aunt Hazel wanted me to believe at Christmas. It was, that's right, a counterfeit.

Just like the pen was designed to do, detection, baby. Truth, cold and brutal.

I ambled on down to the local watering hole, the Red Dog Saloon, and took a seat at the bar. I was out of breath from the stroll. That made me start thinking about an exercise program. The more I thought about it, I figured I was as physically fit as the next guy, as long as the next guy was sitting on a barstool.

My mind had been cluttered by the sight of all the money she had given me and the details she gave me in my office started coming back to me. She mentioned that a local banjo player might have some information about where her brother/son was, and there was supposed to be some clues hidden in his banjo case. I started thinking she might be grateful if I solved this case, and I ordered another drink.

...And another...and another...
Pretty soon, I felt that old familiar rage brewing inside me. That rage one only feels on rare occassions. At times when one can no longer control that slow burn and it soon engulfs you to your core. A Time such as this. WHen you realize that you are fixin to haveto more likely than not listen to some form of @#&@#% banjo music.
"Barkeep," I said, "Leave the bottle."

"Say, aren't you a little young to be drinking in a bar?" the bartender said, after studying me for a minute.

I stared back at him through the Bynzantine fog of Camel dung cigarrette smoke, and the effects of several previous drinks.

"Who is that guy?" I asked myself. He wasn't the same bartender who had been tending the bar up to now. Must have been a shift change.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to see some I.D.--drivers license, banjo pickers license, Parole I.D. card--something with a picture on it," he said.

A roar of laughter erupted from the patrons seated in the Red Dog.

I decided I really wasn't that thirsty. I put the snow pacs back on my feet, and lurched thru the door into the Byzantine fog outside.

I began to wonder why I did not see a banjo player in the bar. Everyone knows they are heavy drinkers, they'd have to be.

I walked on down the lonely road toward the bad part of town. I took a left, and a left, then a left and another left. I had arrived in front of a dank and dark bar that looked somewhat familiar.

It was just then that I heard what sounded like an animal in distress somewhere off in the distance.

It wasn't animal, it was human, sort of. I took my glasses out of the freshly-stained pocket, slipped them on and peered through the one clean lense in the direction of the noise.

There he was, limping toward me, slobbering great globs of cottage cheese spittle. The one large eye in the center of his head staring intently in my direction. An oily tear dripped from the orb; I think he tried to say something: "Daddy, is that you? Mommy said she was going to find you, that I should look for a drunk with a dirty pocket walking around in circles. Is it really you? Do you know the way to San Jose? I've been away so long, I may go wrong and lose my way."

[This message was edited by A.P. Merillat on 09-29-05 at .]

Seeing as how I didn't have time for any invasive swab tests, and I could not recall ever going home with a one eyed lady more than once, I was almost sure this gent was mistaken. But I had to let him down easy. I gave him directions out of town and reassured him.

"They've got a lot of space. There'll be a place where you can stay I was born and raised in San Jose"

And then I gave him my glasses - I figured that since only one side worked anyway, he could get better use out of them then I could - and sent him on his way to San Jose.

After he was long gone and the odor died down, I heard yet another strange sound coming from under the bridge. The whoots and hollers were unmistakable. The Brice boys were noodling again...