Chuck Galey – Mississippi Artist

Chuck Galey has drawn all his life.

“I had everything I needed growing up in a small farm town in the Mississippi Delta; a pencil, a piece of paper and a long-winded Baptist preacher.”

He has illustrated over seventy educational books and ten children’s picture books, one that he authored. When he is not working on books in his studio in Jackson, Mississippi, he is presenting exciting school programs that inspire and astonish students. His programs, listed on the Mississippi Arts Commission’s Teaching Artist Roster, encourage them to be creative in their reading, writing and art. For additional information, please visit his website: www.chuckgaleycom.

As a MAC teaching artist, what is your role in education?

I use the opportunity of developing arts integration lesson plans that introduce critical thinking with a visual art activity that enhances the learning process.

What does Arts-in-Education mean to you as an artist?

By utilizing the arts, teaching any subject reaches the students on a new level rather than just memorizing dates and equations.  The students are able to artistically reach a critical thinking process that helps them utilize and retain the lesson for future use.

Why are MAC teaching artists/roster artists important to education?

Teaching Artists (TA) are important because these are lifelong professional artists that are able to teach the creative process and apply that process to learning any subject.

Describe the MAC SPED initiative made possible through a grant from the Kennedy Center for Performing Arts (KCPA).

KCPA provided funding so that TAs could work with inclusive and self-contained SPED classes.  The concept was that, through the arts, SPED students could be taught in a creative way and that they would understand and retain information.

How will your role in this initiative enhance and/or improve the skills of children with special needs.

My role as a visual artist lets the students approach problems in a critical manner in a way that, perhaps, they haven’t been taught before.  SPED students vary in so many ways, from severe Autistic to the physically handicapped.  Each learns in different ways.  The arts explores that.

How can teaching artists help children of all ages and mental and emotional levels experience Mississippi’s culture and heritage while also developing their learning and life skills?

By applying arts integration to different cultural and heritage lessons, students can learn the lessons on a basic level.  Just by working through the lesson, the student has to use critical thinking through the arts to solve a problem or experience a cultural event.

How do you think MAEC can impact education through the arts?

Coordination with school principals and teachers is the key. The schools will have to buy-in to the idea that arts integration does enhance the educational process. This could possibly done with workshops for principals and school system superintendents to convince them to use the arts.  Many are skeptical and are very old fashioned in their educational approaches.  One only need to look at arts integrated school district’s soaring test scores for proof that arts integration is a legitimate way to enhance the learning process. By providing on-going workshops, including traveling workshops to schools, MAEC can impact education by using arts integration lesson plans to enhance the learning process.  MAEC sponsored performances, screenings and exhibitions targeting area schools can also be utilized in tandem with the arts integration lesson plans.

The Cotton Candy Catastrophe at the Texas State Fair – Nominated for the 2005 Texas State Reading Association’s Golden Spur Award for children’s literature written by a Texas author, Dotti Enderle.
Jazz Cats – 2003 Mississippi Library Association Award for Excellence in Illustration in Children’s Literature;  Nominated for the 2003 Texas State Reading Association’s Golden Spur Award for children’s literature written by a Texas author, David Davis;  2003Children’s Choice Award presented by the Children’s Book Council.
My Brother Dan’s Delicious; 2004 Children’s Choice Award presented by the Children’s Book Council.
This interview between Richelle Putnam and Chuck Galey was first published on the Mississippi Arts and Entertainment Experience website and in its newsletter.  For more information about MAEE click HERE

“Once Upon a Time”

R.W.B. Lewis, a major literary critic of [the 20th] century, once gave this evaluation of Southern literature: “It is impossible to name another region in this country with so massive and virtually unbroken a display of literary genius.” (source: Living By Words; Why Are There So Many Great Southern Writers by David Todd)

Rocking chairs and front porches. Sweet tea and cornbread. Old men playing checkers and whittling wood. Women cooking in the heat of the kitchen and chit-chatting. Some things just go together. Stories and the South go hand in hand.

William Faulkner, Eudora Welty, Fannie Flagg, Alice Walker, Harper Lee, John Grisham, Richard Wright, Tennessee Williams, Flannery O’Connor, Zora Neale Hurston …the list could go on and on.

The American South is a place of storytelling-that is for sure.

Today’s authors and writers stand on the shoulders of the great writers of yesterday. I have often found it ironic to realize that the American South, particularly the Deep South, is a place filled with people who write. They gather in coffee shops, join local writing groups, and attend a menagerie of Book Festivals and symposiums to learn all about how to write. Their books are filled with ideas, both staunchly conservative and openly reflecting on the dark days of the South and examining Southern culture with new eyes. In this sense, it is a place of straddling fences. How can it be such a place…one where countless people have a desire to create with words and art, yet also stubbornly cling to the past and refuse to join the 21st Century?

We need only consider the history of the Deep South to see that storytelling has always been a part of the culture. The American South is a place that once belonged to many Native American cultures, most notably the Cherokee and Choctaw, who have a strong tradition of oral history and storytelling. It’s also a place to where many immigrants and pioneers journeyed in the early days of the founding of Alabama and Mississippi. Long story short- no pun intended- throughout the history of the South, we have always gathered on the front porch or around the kitchen table to tell tall tales, gossiped about everybody’s business, or soaked up Paw Paw’s stories of his childhood and the good ol’ days (Paw Paw=Grandpa for those unaware). It’s just who we are, and what we have always done- in both word and song. And so the tradition continues.

One MS Gulf Coast author, Fran McNabb, explains it like this:

“The South is more than a regional destination; it’s a state of mind, a feeling, an emotional attachment, and a connection to the past and family…The slow rhythmic cycle of seasons gives a person the time to appreciate the little things in life….Living the slower paced life gives [us] time to allow ideas to develop.”

Perhaps it is also this very emotional attachment which is the reason why we Southerners stubbornly hold onto old ideas, yet are also straddling that fence of old vs. new? On any account, that will have to be a different story on another day, as it is one that is long and complicated.

Today the Gulf Coast is dotted with indie book shops and local writing groups.

The Gulf Coast Writers Association of Mississippi (GCWA) is one such group. Founded in 1986, their purpose is to “encourage and inspire local writers…[whether they] dream of writing their very first story or poem…[or if they are] experienced published authors.” They host monthly general meetings with speakers on a variety of topics related to the art of the written word, an annual “Let’s Write” Literary contest, and publish a quarterly magazine. Philip Levin, a local author and the President of the GCWA, says that they have 176 members, half of which actually live on the MS Coast and 80% of which live within the state. The other folks live as far away as Pennsylvania, Delaware or Colorado but have roots in Mississippi. It seems that the rule applies: ‘once a Southerner, always a Southerner’- those roots stretch deep.

However, another local author named Connie Rainey (who writes as G.G. Houston) adds this:

“You don’t have to be born in the South to understand how to be a Southerner. All one needs to know is that the South is a quilt of heritage and time. It is snug with remembrances, and stitched together by the diversity of its people. I live in this wonderful place because I ‘feel’ the past in its plantation homes and know its future in its modern steel structures. Art and stories blend together to make the South a home for anyone with a story to tell.”

Regarding writing, Philip Levin states,

“Mississippi has a long, proud heritage of inspiring authors. The fetching vistas of our Gulf Coast, with her gentle breezes and proud history, provide inspiration for heartfelt stories. Our generous and friendly citizens offer lovable and quirky characters to populate those tales. Here on the Mississippi Coast, we have a tradition of neighborly visits, relaxing on the front porch sharing a pitcher of sweet tea under the fragrant magnolias. This is why so many Coastians become writers – it’s just a matter of writing down those stories.”

Almost every town and community has a local writing group: Mobile and Fairhope are two that are nearby the Gulf Coast area with large and vibrant writing groups. Oxford, MS, although in the northern part of the state yet home to William Faulkner’s Rowan Oak, holds its own in the world of Southern literature, and is another area that has a large following, mostly in part because of its rootedness with the University of MS. Square Books, famous in that neck of the woods, has a long history of supporting and featuring local and up-and-coming authors, as well as Thacker Mountain Radio which also shines a spotlight on local stars of literature. Along the MS Gulf Coast, Southern Bound Book Shop, a younger indie book shop that has two locations in Biloxi and Ocean Springs, also features local writers on its shelves and at Book Signing events. The MS Writers Guild is still relatively new, as it was only established in 2005. But they have local chapters in Hattiesburg Jackson, Newton, Natchez, Tunica, and Yazoo. Columbus (MS), known as the birthplace of Elvis, isn’t far behind with their Writers and Storytellers Guild.

Despite the long tradition of writing and storytelling, it was only this past summer that the very first Mississippi Book Festival was held. Hopefully, this event will grow each year, and shine a bright light upon the many talented writers in our area. My favorite aspect of editing is working with local authors; most are unknown yet extremely gifted with words. Publishing a book isn’t easy these days, but I’m not sure if it ever really was a simple feat. If you think about it, William Faulkner, John Grisham and Fannie Flagg all got their start somewhere. Stop by your local indie book shop today and peruse the Local Author section. You may discover a hidden treasure tucked between the pages of a book. Or perhaps you have a story to write?

  • - Book Signing event for writers who contributed to the "Katrina Memories" book. (photo credit- GCWA)

(Click on Name to go to site)

For More Info: Gulf Coast Writers Association (MS)

Featured Local Authors from this story: Fran McNabb

Connie Rainey (G.G. Houston)

Philip Levin, President Gulf Coast Writers Association (MS)

By Kristina Mullenix Juniper Creek Editing & Literary Services

Southern Bound to Reading

What is a book shop?

Is it just a place to buy books or to take your old books for store credit? Independent book shops stretch far beyond this box, if they are true to their purpose and nature; for they are meant to be a hub of ideas, discussions, imagination and thinking, nerve centers of the community regarding literature and ideas, and encouragement toward literacy and reading. Every community should have an indie book shop.

Our community is blessed to have an indie book shop in Biloxi, MS.

Since 2013, Southern Bound Book Shop has been the only indie book shop in Biloxi (and also Ocean Springs). Shereen Markowitz Kostmayer dreamed of opening a community book shop and after 17 years in her chosen profession and a personal tragedy three years ago, she took her life into a different direction – to create space for real books to thrive in a digital world.

The book shop opened with nearly empty shelves, but it quickly grew and now spills over with books. In fact, a second location will soon open as the only book shop in Ocean Springs, Miss.

The Mississippi Gulf Coast is filled with talented writers and authors.

From the ocean, words seem to drip upon the shores and hang from the palm trees, inspiring the many who write. It’s a place known for artists, creativity and writers. Southern Bound Book Shop features the work of local and regional authors, from the well-known like Greg Iles and Carolyn Haines to the new and novice authors. Regional authors frequently visit the book shop to host Book Signings, readings, and receptions sometimes coined as “Wine & Signs.”

Southern Bound Book Shop has many loyal customers who order books and frequently stop by to peruse the menagerie of genres lining the bookshelves in the cozy boutique atmosphere. It’s the kind of place that overwhelms your desire to pull up a chair, grab a cup of coffee and read all day. You can also chat with Shereen about books as you meet new and interesting  people. In the children’s area is a reading rug and bean bag for the kiddos; in the back of the shop, Mom & Dad can plop into one of the funky and cushioned chairs.

The book shop also carries a large collection of used books,

many of which come from patrons who receive a store credit. The used books are in such great condition, one never guesses that most are used. Prices are reasonable and when in doubt about which book to choose, Shereen is happy to recommend one or two.

In addition to books, Southern Bound Book Shop offers vintage jewelry and recycled art by local artists. There is a small collectible books section for the true book collectors. Don’t forget to check out the Okra Picks Books, which are nominated by the Southern Independent Bookstores Alliance (SIBA). Members of SIBA nominate new books quarterly. Their motto is “Great Southern books, fresh off the vine.” Trisha Yearwood’s cookbook has been nominated, as well as many other great books for all ages.

Every Tuesday is New Release Day.

Lucy (from the “I Love Lucy” show) has become the unofficial mascot of New Release Day, and her image – a face of surprise and wonder- announces what new books have been released.

Southern Bound Book Shop encourages the community to read

by sponsoring a Little Free Library located at The Greenhouse on Porter in Ocean Springs, which has gotten great feedback from visitors who take a book and leave a book. This past summer, Southern Bound held several story time events for children.  They also offered a free activity for children at the Downtown Ocean Springs Artwalk at which kids could draw, write and make their own book to take home. Other recent events relate to local history, container gardening, and a benefit concert.

This corner book shop is truly a treasure for the community! Stop by and check it out… and bring a friend!

Southern Bound Book Shop
280 Eisenhower Drive (Biloxi, MS) in the Hobby Lobby Shopping Center
(second location coming soon to Ocean Springs, MS)

Visit Webpage

Visit Facebook:

Instagram & Twitter @ReadLocalBiloxi

By Kristina Mullenix

Columbus, Mississippi – Home of Tennessee

The 14th Annual Tennessee Williams Tribute & Tour of Victorian Homes

will take place from September 6-13, 2015 and pays tribute to one of the most important playwrights in American history, Tennessee Williams who was born in Columbus. Many of the struggles in Williams’ own life show are portrayed in A Streetcar Named Desire, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and The Glass Menagerie.  He was awarded The Pulitzer Prize for Drama for A Streetcar Named Desire in 1948 and to Cat on a Hot Tin Roof in 1955, both of which were successful as films.

This annual event celebrates the life and work of Mr. Williams. During the festival week, attendees will enjoy special performances, educational presentations, and a 5k race.








Reading – Your Civic Duty


Many people think literacy a simple question of being able to read,

but there is more to the issue. A person who is able to read but rarely does is not much better off than one who has never learned to read. Whether you can’t or can, but don’t read, you are functionally illiterate.

Many people love to read because it’s entertaining, fun and takes them to places they’re never been. Reading teaches us about the world and helps us develop empathy. According to Scholastic “each time you turn a page, your brain lights up — reading is a workout for the mind, body and soul.” In addition, Dr. Robert S. Wilson of the Rush University Medical Center states that, “reading has strong, positive effects on the brain. It increases concentration and memory, improves language abilities and grows brain cells in children.” Also, when children read, they are able to plan out an action in their heads and solve new problems in real life. Children are encouraged to read to find out more about the world in which they live and use that information to improve their lives.

Information from the National Institute of Child Health and Human Development says, “Reading is the single most important skill necessary for a happy, productive and successful life.”

It’s not just children who benefit. Reading slows the process of cognitive decline in adults. Reading has a positive effect on the body as well. Reading can relieve stress better than listening to music or taking a walk.

Reading skills are essential to function in our society.

The world requires that adults are able to read and understand basic texts; function in the workplace; pay bills; understand legal and financial documents, and navigate technology. Advanced reading comprehension skills are needed to figure out the technological advances being made everyday in our society. Try figuring out how to program an I-phone, for instance.

Widespread illiteracy not only leads to lower education and employment rates, it is also linked to increased crime and incarceration with a high social and economic cost. In the National Adult Literacy Survey, participants completed a series of literacy tasks and received proficiency scores in prose, document, and quantitative literacy. Higher scores were associated with being employed, working more weeks during the year, and having higher wages. Lower levels of literacy correlated with high levels of poverty, unemployment and incarceration. The National Adult Literacy Survey (NALS) found that between 21% and 24% of U.S. adults performed at the lowest level on all three scales. Illiteracy has profound effects on society.

Duane Alexander, director of the National Institute of Child Health and Human Development found when there is a large number of adults whose literacy skills are too low to perform normal, day-to-day tasks, communities suffer. On average, adults at the lowest levels of literacy earn about $230-$245 per week, work only 18-19 weeks each year, are more than three times as likely to receive food stamps as compared to of those who read at the highest levels. They are almost ten times more likely to be living below the poverty line (41%-44% as compared to 4%-8%). Alexander further found and that many children living in poverty lack the skills that will allow them to become lifelong readers. A person with low reading ability may not be able to read signs, understand medical information or prescription directions, or apply for jobs that require basic skills tests.

Readers think critically about what they’ve read and make connections to their own lives.

As a result, they are likely to have a better life.

What’s a Person To Do? Get a good book and read!

Libraries have plenty of them. Read to yourself, your children, grandchildren and anyone you can get to be part of this experience. It’s a bonding experience that also cements the love for reading and its life long value.

  • Read to your children and have them read out loud to you. They’ll get better with time and your listening ears.
  • Become a tutor at a nearby school. Teaching helps you to learn.
  • Take or teach an Adult Education Classes. They’re fun.
  • Share books with others. Sharing experiences is contagious.

By Dr. Rachell Anderson

Check out Rachell’s website for more articles and books.


First published in Brick Street Press “Mississippi’s Got Talent” Winners Circle Anthology, Second Place Winner


The gun felt as light as a dust mote in Sam Branton’s hand. He had held it to his head, in his mouth, and against his heart, wondering what it would feel like to die. The room he sat in spoke nothing of why he was there. It was the same study he had worked in for years, the same study she had come into every night, delivering his icy cold Coors in one hand, holding her glass of Merlot in the other. Directly across from him was the same chair where she sat, legs curled beneath her. She had loved watching him finish his last bit of work in this room she had decorated in dark leather, iron and glass.  Original canvas art hanging on the cream-colored walls allowed the only true splashes of color into the room. She had known him so well—plain, a bit old-fashioned, conservative inside out—and yet she always found the splashes of color in him. She loved him with a fierceness to the very end.  Her quiet, serene love brought peace into his chaotic world of constructing buildings of steel, stone and glass where roaring, pounding machinery and shouting crewmen devoured the air.

Now, this quiet room only provided the space and privacy he needed to do—ask the same question he’d asked ever since she drew her last breath. Why her?  Why not the scum crouched behind a bush waiting to steal some old lady’s purse? Why not the crackhead who killed his own mother over ten dollars. Why? Why?

Now this space was too quiet, and his temples throbbed. Until Sara’s death, he had not realized how many sounds she had made: her classic music traveling and settling in each room, pots and pans clinking in the kitchen, her steam iron spewing, broom swishing, drawers opening and closing, her furry slippers shuffling across the floor, even the slightest movement in her chair across from him. Never had he noticed the sounds of her love until they were gone.

Still, it was her bath water not running at precisely eight o’clock every night that drove him mad, the absence of her humming and the warm water trickling over her bare skin. Her voice scented their home like a lover’s serenade and he longed to hear it again. He needed to hear it again.

How could her heart have stopped? Stopped. As if it clocked out because the job was finished. His moans alarmed him and he aimed the gun again, firing all six shots.

The holes in the ceiling gaped at him and he ignored the sheetrock spilling down like sand. At least sound penetrated his existence again. But silence quickly returned. It always did.


The stranger approached Regina at Macy’s east entrance, introducing himself as Sam Branton. His face was strained, but something in his tired hazel eyes prompted her curiosity and she listened to the story stumbling from his mouth. Sam Branton. The name was familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

“How did you know I’d be here?” she asked.

“Frank Baylor. A mutual friend, I believe.”

Frank? Why would Frank risk his reputation as a supposedly happily married man, pillar of the community and church to help this man?

And why did this Sam Branton want to be in her elite circle of men? The question got the best of her and she didn’t like that feeling because in her business she had to maintain control at all times.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” he said. His eyes belonged to a child begging for a too expensive gift at Christmas.

But she didn’t need this man’s money. She had invested well, thanks to Frank, making sure that when her looks finally gave out, her money would not.

“I take it we share the same investor,” she said.

“That—and more.”

What could that mean? She questioned his mental stability, but wondered more about his motive.

She said, “I’ll meet you at The Bay Restaurant at six o’clock tonight, but I’m not promising anything.”

“I am,” he said before walking away.


The face in the mirror startled him. He rubbed his clean-shaven chin and wondered when he had gotten so old and stern looking? His hair was almost completely gray now and three ruts remained between his brows even when he tried to relax. He had lost weight, but at least the long hurried late-night walks had kept him fit. What did it matter anyway? Women like Regina looked at the wallet, not the face.

How had he arrived at this sick point? Hiring a prostitute, of all things. Lying on the bed he pressed his face into Sara’s pillowcase that hadn’t been washed going on—no, it couldn’t be a year. Not yet. Her scent barely lived anymore within the fibers, but what remained was enough and he breathed it in as if it contained all the oxygen he needed.


Okay, so Sam Branton is rich. Sinfully rich.

At her table in The Bay Restaurant, Regina sipped lemon water and refused to glance at her watch again, wishing that she hadn’t agreed to do this. She had her quota of four well-to-do men, four pillars holding up her world. She paid her taxes, had been honest with the IRS, except the part about being a business consultant, thanks to William, her accountant, and one of the select few. She didn’t need anyone else. Actually, she didn’t need anyone.

Sam Branton followed the maître d’ to the table. Regina sipped again, patted her lips with the linen napkin, and returned it to her lap.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, pulling out a chair. “Thank you, Wilson.”

The maître d’ bowed. “Very good, sir. Shall I bring the wine list?”

Sam nodded before looking at Regina. “I thought you might back out.”

“I’m not the backing out type.” She smiled to prove her confidence.

Wilson delivered the wine list and waited to take their orders.

“May I order wine?” Sam asked.

He was too mannerly, no telltale signs of domination that money often wrought. She forced her usual smile that was now like a late night rerun.

“Just water for me, please, with lemon.” She decided it was either madness or pain that emanated from his eyes, but was she willing to find out which one?


That first moment he saw Regina sipping water at the table, he had ached to embrace her. “Sara,” he wanted to whisper. Then he had the impulse to flee. But to where? Back home to tear through the hiking trail, the way he usually did, until he spent his energy. No. He was going to do what he set out to do. He always finished what he started, and, by God, he’d finish this—if she allowed him to.

She said, “What did you have in mind?”

Her face was Sara’s, but not her voice, being deep and much too smooth, controlled to the point of iciness. But when she smiled, a knot swelled in his throat. The teeth were straighter, whiter, maybe a tad larger, but it was Sara’s smile.

“Weekends,” he said.

“I’m booked on weekends.”

“Okay.” He’d said it too fast, but he didn’t care. “Sunday through Wednesday.”


“$5,000.00 a week.”

“What?” When her voice rose, she sounded more like Sara.

He cleared his throat. “$5,000.00.”

He sounded like a desperate madman, but he didn’t care. He’d spend six, seven thousand to see Sara’s smile again.

“For how long?” she asked.

Her eyes weren’t enthusiastic like Sara’s. In fact, they looked more like his had earlier that day in the mirror, determined to survive, but so close to giving up.

“Not long,” he said.


He had told her not to pack, that he would buy what she needed, but she packed anyway, her way of saying, “I am in control.” She refused the car he offered to send for her, another way of controlling. So why did she feel out of control?

Sam Branton wasn’t crazy or at least hadn’t been until his wife’s death, according to the information she had gathered. He was a successful real estate developer, a multi-millionaire who had built condos along the Alabama and Florida Gulf Coast at the ideal time. Now, he constructed casinos along the Gulf coast. Word had it that he no longer went to his Chattanooga office, but worked from crew to crew, like he was really trying to work himself to death.

For a second, sympathy tugged at Regina, but every man had something to grieve: a demanding wife, a daughter dating the wrong boy, a lazy son who’d never amount to anything, or a demanding business that probably caused the other problems.

As Regina packed, her thoughts swarmed inside. She hoped Sam Branton’s house had lots of windows and bright colorful walls like her condo. She needed light. No blinds and heavy drapery for her. Never again.

His home in the Chattanooga Mountains was no disappointment. She had expected monstrous and luxurious, and discovered comfortable and chic. He glanced at her bag and she clenched the handle as she followed him.

“Here’s your room,” he said, flipping on the light.

“My room?”

The large, square room housed a king-sized sleigh bed, two iron bedside tables, antique dresser, and armoire that served as an entertainment center. The walls were cheery yellow, the floors glossy oak. Outside the picture window an enormous oak danced and mountains scraped the intensely blue sky. Somehow she knew that was what Sam Branton wanted to do, reach up and retrieve what was rightfully his.

That night, on a barstool in the kitchen, sipping a glass of lemon water, she asked the question, “Exactly what do you want?”

His heels clicked across the Italian tile to the cabinet over the sink where he retrieved a glass, wiped out the inside, stuck it under the spigot, filled it with water, and drank. With each swallow, his Adam’s apple jumped. What else he was trying to swallow? He set the glass on the countertop, picked up a dishtowel, and wiped his mouth. The overhead light reflected in his eyes.

He said, “I want you to make sound.”


She had handled him better than he thought she would. Somewhere, she’d learned to be a fighter, but that was not his concern.

She had asked, “What kind of sound?”

And he named them, “Music, sweeping, cooking, singing, you know, sound.”

“You want me to clean and cook?”

“I want you to make sound.” He didn’t mean for his voice to crack and become hard.

“I see.” She drank her water down.

“And,” he added. “At eight sharp every night, I want you to start your bathwater, fill it with bubbles, light the candles, and relax to music.”

Regina’s brow lifted into a quizzical arch and he trembled. Sara had also done that when amused or skeptical.

“And you’ll be joining me?”

He grabbed his same glass, filled it again, but didn’t drink.

“I will enter the room, ask how your day was. You’ll tell me.” Again, he swallowed that relentless lump. “Then, I will leave you to your bath.”


And that’s what he did.

Candlelight flickered around her, forming a lighted walkway inside the mirrors around the tub. He sat on the edge and his shadow shuddered on the wall without mirrors.

“How was your day?” he asked.

It sounded so normal, like a husband might say to his wife after a long day. But what did she know about normal? About marriage. About husbands and wives. Relationships. She closed her eyes. “Strange,” she said. “And yours?”

His silence made her wonder if she had angered him, but she didn’t open her eyes. Through the speakers, an old Sinatra song played, “When I was seventeen, it was a very good year…”

She forgot about Sam Branton and hummed to the music. The sponge swelled with warm water and she squeezed it over her face, water trickling off her skin. When she opened her eyes, he was gone.

That night, in bed she thought about how Sam had walked away from her nakedness. The ceiling fan twirled above, cooling the night air. Maybe he didn’t want to snuff out loneliness the way other men did. This frightened her, because if he didn’t want her physically, how could she control him?

Regina remembered her mother, how she had no control, scurrying about trying to catch up on unfinished tasks only to stop before she finished. Beds were never made. Dirty dishes stacked up. Cobwebs gathered along with every promise she’d made to Regina.

“We’ll go to the movies tomorrow, just you and me, okay, Reg?”

They never did.

No, there was that one time they went to see, oh, what was the name of that movie? Her mother had gone to get popcorn and in the lobby had run into Luther, a previous boyfriend. She left with him, returning in a drunken stupor hours after the movie was over.

“Don’t be mad,” her mother had begged.

As much as Regina had wanted to hate her mother, she couldn’t. Her mother tried to squeeze love out of men like juice from citrus. But they were as dry and bitter as persimmons.

The shades in their small house were always drawn. Burned out bulbs were never replaced. Dark. Gloomy. Like their lives. Late at night, her mother’s weeping would burst into Regina’s room. Or it might be the screaming and cussing before the latest man left her mother. Or the raw groaning sex that sounded like two dogs stuck together.

One night, silence woke Regina and she knew her mother was gone. That silence gave a sixteen-year-old girl the determination to use before being used, to control before being controlled. Unlike this strange man who craved sound to make life bearable, Regina yearned for silence that might one day turn into peace.


His silence remained until Regina returned on Sunday afternoon. He was amazed at her ability to simply—be. Though her boldness was so unlike Sara, he realized without that boldness this arrangement would not be happening.

He listened. Pots and pans clanged. Water boiled on the stove. Regina shuffled from one area to another. He wanted to watch her, but settled on closing his eyes, imagining Sara preparing garlic roast and twice-baked potatoes, cheddar bubbling on top.

“I brought you a Coors.”

His eyes popped open to see a bottle wrapped in a paper towel, icy mist floating out the top.

“Thank you,” he said.

The bottle cooled his trembling hand, and, as he drank, bits of ice floated down his throat.

From the kitchen, she yelled, “I’m trying this new recipe I saw in Woman’s Day. It looks divine. A red sauce with Italian sausage served over linguini. Do you like Italian? I didn’t think to ask.”

Food was not something that mattered to him anymore, but he answered, “Sounds great.” He listened to the sausage sizzle. The mixture of garlic and tomatoes pervaded him. Andrea Bocelli’s Come Un Fiume Tu played through the sound system.

At the dinner table, Regina talked while he listened.

“There was a pile up on 127 today.”

“Really?” he asked. Her ease fascinated him. It was as if everything that interested her must interest him as well.

“Three were killed; five are in the hospital. Seven cars were involved. Can you believe that? Seven.”

“That’s too bad.”

She nodded and bit into her garlic bread, chewed, washing it down with lemon water. “Life can be snuffed out just like that.” She snapped her fingers.

His heart jerked and he rose abruptly. “I enjoyed it,” he said. Ignoring her confused look, he retired to the guest room that had never been used until his wife’s death.

At first, he had planned on Regina using the front bedroom, but when she arrived the first day carrying that bag, her chin held high like Sara’s, every bit of logic flew out the window. So he gave her the master bedroom, the bed where he and Sara had held each other every night.

At eight o’clock, the sound of running water called him. At five after eight, he sat on the tub.

“How was your day,” he asked.

She laid back, closed her eyes. “Peculiar. But not too terribly so.”

Bubbles snuggled around her neck. In the background, Canto Della Terra played. She must really like Bocelli. Sam lingered until he was sure her hums carried across the hall to him. Then, he stretched out on his bed to listen.


Around two a.m., she switched on the lamp, rose, walked over to the dresser, and opened the top left drawer. Inside were white bras and cotton panties intended for small breasts and hips, much in contrast to Regina’s fuller breasts and round derriere. The drawer squeaked as she closed it. She opened another drawer, finding soft cotton gowns. She pulled one out and held it against her. Regina didn’t wear cotton, choosing instead enticing silk lingerie.

In the mirror, she saw Sam in the doorway, watching. She looked away, embarrassed to be holding his dead wife’s cotton gown against her. When she looked again, he was gone.


Weeks quickly passed. Too quickly. They had shared a total of 36 days. Regina had arrived on Sunday as usual. In the kitchen, she rambled on about the deal she’d gotten on sirloin, griped about the squishy oranges, and boasted about the sandals she’d gotten on sale at Macy’s. Sam pulled a pot from the hanging rack, seeing the ingredients to their now favorite dish, linguini smothered in Italian red sauce. Regina shuffled from the counter to the refrigerator and back, adding important news, knowing where to find every pan, spice, and dish.

“How did the grand opening of Her Majesty’s Casino go?”

“Larger than anticipated,” he answered.

“That’s wonderful.” She stirred the browning sausage and onion. Spicy aromas saturated the kitchen. “Did you win much?”

“Let’s just say I didn’t lose.”

She emptied the grease into a container. “That’s all that matters.”

For the past weeks, Sam Branton had gone to the office every Thursday, Friday and Saturday, accepted phone calls, and answered mail. He had even used his sudden re-emergence like a mischievous boy, enjoying it, stirring it up. For the office, he bought new computers and installed a stereo system. He was sure everyone wondered if he was into opera now because Bocelli boomed from the speakers. Today, he’d even given the staff a day off.

When had the change taken place? Was it when Regina’s steps relaxed into a stroll? Or when she giggled when she spoke, her controlled voice finally giving in? Or had it been when she had jogged with him through the mountainside, not bothering with makeup, dressed in sweats, her hair in a ponytail? Afterwards, they had stretched out in lawn chairs on the patio to read, him a Michael Crichton book, hers a Jane Hamilton. She flicked her nails as she read, the pages sounding crisp as they turned.

“I love the quiet,” she said, pouring a drink from the pitcher on the table between them.

“I love the sounds that the quiet makes.” His eyes never left his book as he spoke.

Now when she smiled, her eyes seemed to respond, and he felt sure it was the first time in many years. Every time he thought of that abandoned teenage girl she once was, he hurt for her.

The prior days had brought nights of remembrances, confessions really, short and slow at first, but then becoming detailed, drawn out, as if with each one, their confessions grew with their trust. He finally shared his motives for hiring her, how he had seen her at Frank Baylor’s reception celebrating his newly built office that Sam’s crew constructed. He had watched her, studied the way she mingled with others and yet comfortably stayed to herself. He had wanted to introduce himself that night, but he couldn’t get up the nerve.  So, he contacted Frank, “and the rest is history,” he told her.

She told him about never knowing who her daddy was, and quitting school at the age of sixteen after her mother had left her.

“I got tired of broken down cars, rundown apartments, and sorry men,” she said. “Seemed like every girl I knew had been left to take care of three or four kids, while their men started over with new women. Some of my friends clung to sorry men like my mama did, not caring if the men beat them as long as they stayed.” She paused, like the past held her down like a heavy boot. “I know what I chose was wrong, but at the time, it felt, not so much right, but better.”

He had felt the rousing then, but the change hadn’t come until his question, “How was your day?”

She had gazed at him and touched his hand. “Absolutely wonderful.” Then, she lay back and closed her eyes.

That night, he walked through air that was thick and humid from gathering clouds. Hours later, he wiped tears and rain from his face, feeling drained but cleansed, as if life could carry on now.

In the dark, he pondered these things. He had promised Regina it wouldn’t be for long.

It was time to let her go.


Darkness enfolded her, but she wasn’t afraid. Earlier, he had chuckled at something she said, his eyes lighting up as if someone had lit a match. What was it she’d said? Oh, yes. She’d told him about the little girl in the grocery store who, every time her mother looked away, pulled an item off the shelf, and threw it into the buggy. The mother didn’t notice until she was checking out. Sam’s laughter had thrilled her as no touch had ever done.

Sara’s picture had shocked her at first. Except for Sara’s dishwater blonde hair, and Regina being taller and meatier, they could’ve been twins. Sam confessed that this had been his motive for hiring Regina. But was how she’d dealt with her pain any different from how Sam dealt with his? Any better? Any more sane?

In the pictures of Sara and Sam, Regina saw an equal love, each giving the other so much that neither had to steal from the other. She admired their determination to stay together through difficulties: the bankruptcy in the first few years, the slow climb back to success, their inability to have children, and Sara’s fragile heart. He couldn’t embrace anyone else because he still clung to Sara and his devotion couldn’t be swayed.


It really did exist.

Regina hadn’t planned to stop seeing the others. It just happened. And each good-bye was a stone removed from the doorway she had to step through to be free.

Sam had never kissed her, only grazed her hand, or brushed past her. His simple question, “How was your day?” had touched her where no other man could.


She entered the kitchen, carrying the same bag she’d brought that first day. But this time, she was leaving for good. The lump had returned to his throat and he had swallowed it all day.

“I’m flying to England. Lancashire,” she added. “I’ve always wanted to walk across Duddon Valley in autumn. The heather moors and birch trees should be glorious this time of year.”

As she spoke, he pulled out a glass, wiped the inside with a dishtowel, and filled it with ice and water. He squeezed in a lemon, and handed it to her.

“I’m most looking forward to Birk’s Bridge near Seathwaite,” she said.

He had known she wouldn’t stop talking when he handed her the water. He also knew she’d say, “Thank you,” before she sipped, while shifting her weight to her left foot.

Silence came. They stared at each other.

“I’ll be leaving tomorrow as well,” he said. “First stop, Taiwan, then on to Tokyo. New venture in architecture software.”

“You’ll do very well, I’m sure.”

At the same time she said, “I guess…” he said, “I’ll….”

They paused.

He came closer, wiped away her tears with his thumb. “Where will you be staying?” he asked.

“I don’t think that’s wise, Sam.”

He nodded. Then, he kissed her cheek, even though he wanted so badly to taste her lips. But it wasn’t time.

Not yet.


His lips were soft on her skin, his breaths dependable, like the rustling newspaper in his hands every afternoon, the flick of the remote every night, the cough clearing his scratchy throat, and the yawn when he was tired. Sound—constant, dependable. That’s what he had longed for. Now, she wondered if she could return to silence.

She took one last look at the kitchen, the stove he and she had cooked on, the dishwasher he and she always loaded together, the refrigerator she opened to get his beer and where he had gotten ice for her glass.

She. He.


She had arrived to change his life and he ended up changing hers. She thought of sweet Sara, knowing they would meet one day. Sara would thank Regina for saving her husband, and Regina would thank Sara for sharing him.

“I better go,” she said.


The doorknob felt icy cold, but she didn’t let go. “Yes?”

“Next time, it will be you I come for. Not Sara.”

Regina stood in the open doorway knowing she could believe him. It felt good to trust someone. He would find her—in time. But first, they both had to find themselves.

She smiled and said, “Until then.” And she left the door open behind her.

By Richelle Putnam


Feature photo courtesy of Free Digital Photos and Danilo Rizzuti

Murder in the Myrtles (PG)

Crape myrtles lining Grant and Terri Coleman’s driveway seemed to wilt in sorrow.

Their dog Buster, soaked with blood, chased the coroner’s van down the dark wet street carrying his masters’ bullet riddled bodies past terrified neighbors, dressed in house robes and slippers. This was not supposed to happen in the Garden District of New Orleans where tourists walk the streets and take photographs of antebellum mansions and browse quaint little art galleries.

Homicide commander Captain Jack Fontenot, of the New Orleans Police Department, (NOPD) stared into the void of the Crescent City fog. He said nothing, and then gazed at his subordinate officers as if he were trying to wake up from a very bad nightmare. His greenish pale face, and glazed eyes baffled his fellow cops. They had never seen their captain rattled or emotional at a crime scene.

A few feet from where the bodies were found, (NOPD) Sgt. Marti Lance called to her boss, “Captain Fontenot…Captain Fontenot are you okay?”

“I’m fine, just been in this business too damn long,” he said running his hands through his thinning hair.

“Looks like Grant and Terri Coleman returned from the bar association awards around eleven o’clock and walked in on their killer. From the way the bodies were lying, I would suggest he was hit first. It looks like Grant threw himself between his wife and the shooter. Crime lab officer Phillip Landrieu said. “Double-O buckshot. No sign of robbery. White powder in her purse appears to be cocaine. Blood spattered their flesh and blood and brain matter on the wall. Worse damn mess I ever saw.”

“Can’t imagine Terry Coleman being so dumb as to have cocaine. Send me your lab report ASAP, Phillip,” Fontenot said. “And tell Kip Houser, he’s free to go, but not to leave town.”

Fighting back anger and tears, Lance said, “They were both dead they before they hit the floor.”

“We have to get to Leo Coleman before the reporters do. How did they get here so fast? Damn police scanners, ought to be against the law!” Fontenot said.

Fontenot and Lance worked their way through the crowd of onlookers and reporters, and then sped away with blue lights flashing and sirens blaring, clearing the way for veteran homicide detective Jack Fontenot’s most dreaded mission of his twenty-seven year career.


They say Leo Coleman was two men in one, wrapped in a three hundred and sixty pound package;

to his opponents on the football field, a bone crushing nightmare, but to his family and friends, a gentle giant. But standing among the tombstones and crypts at his son’s and daughter-in-law’s burial, Leo found himself fighting with himself, with the Lord, and with Satan to keep his giant heart from turning to stone, and his blood from turning to ice-water.

Leo cradled his six-year old granddaughter in the bend of his massive arm while Kip’s umbrella sheltered her from the cold rain. Leo wiped the tears from her eyes, and said, “Go with Grandma. Grandpa has something to do.”

“I’m scared Grandpa. You will come back won’t you? My mommy and daddy never came back from the banquet.”

Leo kissed his granddaughter. “Nothing can keep Grandpa from you sweetie. I’ll be home in time for dinner. Promise.” He told his wife, “I have to go to the airport. Kip will drive you and Little Robin home. The priest will be with you too.”

“But Leo why can’t you—?”

“Do as I say. I’ll be along soon,” Leo snapped.

When Leo spotted Yancey Turner at the Delta Terminal at New Orleans International Airport, he said, “Yancey, it’s been too long.”

The two old friends embraced. Leo’s hubcap-sized hands dwarfed those of his old quarterback teammate. Their handshake was long, but their small talk was short. Yancey Turner was ready to take care of the business he came to New Orleans to do.

Leo tossed his keys to Yancey and said, “you drive. I hate to drive in the rain.”

“Don’t like to drive in rain? I remember the way you drove at Ole Miss, the same way you played football. Full speed ahead, rain or shine.” Yancey said.

“You can stay with Louise and me, and you can use my car.”

“No. I have reservations at the Holiday Inn in Slidell. Best we keep our distance, but I’ll take you up on the car. I bought four Trac-Phones. Those are all we’ll be using. If you and Louise have smart phones keep them turned off. Same goes for Little Robin if she has one.” Yancey said.

“Tell me, how is it being a big city Washington D.C. private eye?”

“Not as glamorous as you might think. Nothing like the TV dicks, all work and no play.”

“Sounds like professional football,” Leo shot back.

Leo laughed for the first time in four days as they reminisced about their college days,

but his demeanor changed with his next breath. Tears cascaded from the eyes of a man who was big enough and powerful enough to squeeze the life out of any man. His hands trembled as he wiped his swollen eyes. His voice weak, his words slow but deliberate, he said, “You know why I called you, so let’s get to the point. I don’t care what it takes, or what it costs. I want you to bring me the head of the son-of-bitch who killed my son and his wife. Money is no object?”

Before turning onto Airline Highway toward Kenner, Yancey stopped Leo’s Lexus and said, “Let me get to my point too, Leo. Your money’s no good with me. I’m a private investigator, not some gun slinging bounty hunter. If you want their murderer brought to justice, I’ll find him, and I’ll turn him and the case over to the proper authorities, but if you want him assassinated, I’ll turn around and catch the first plane back to Washington.”

Leo’s voice became louder to be heard over the rain pounding on the roof of the car. “You think I’m some kinda dumbass? You know me well enough to know that nothing would make me any happier than killing the bastard with my bare hands, but I have a granddaughter to raise.”

“What does your gut tell you about the murders? Was it because your son married a white woman?” Yancey asked.

“I don’t think so. Interracial marriages are no big deal here in New Orleans.”

“The FBI says Grant knew too much and the New Orleans Police did it. Maybe a drug deal—hell I don’t know. But do I know neither Grant nor Terry was involved in dope? Hell they donated a million dollars to the rehab center last year.”

Yancey looked in his rear-view mirror, and spotted a plain-jane Ford Crown Vic on his bumper and asked Leo, “what do the NOPD detectives drive?

“The one I talked to drove a Chevy Tahoe,” Leo answered.

“Do you know of any reason anybody might want your son and his wife dead?” Yancey asked.

“All I know is what the FBI told me. They said they still don’t know who the killer was. I’m sending Louise and Little Robin to stay with my brother in Atlanta. They’ll be safe there”

“Good move, you need to go too.”

“No way, I’m not leaving ’til the killer is caught.”

“Very well Leo, but my first stop will be the NOPD in the morning, and you’re not coming with me.  But first I’m raiding your liquor cabinet.”


In the homicide bureau of the New Orleans Police Department, Jack Fontenot and his team reconstructed the crime for what seemed like the umpteenth time. Each time, Kip Houser was the only person they could put at the scene.

“Captain Fontenot, the Times Picayune is on the phone,” Marti Lance said.

Fontenot gritted his teeth and said, “Tell them I’ll call them back. If those damn reporters don’t get out of my face, I might be facing a murder charge. They want a suspect, but we’re not giving them one till we know for sure who it was. Not one word about Houser outside this office,” Fontenot ordered.

“We have company, Captain,” Marti Lance said.

Raised eyebrows and suspicion greeted Yancey Turner as he strolled his six foot three inch frame into the precinct office, “My name is Yancey Turner,” he told the uniformed female at the desk.

Jack Fontenot, interrupted, “I know who you are, Mr. Turner. You’re the former Ole Miss All American quarter back, turned Secret Service agent, turned private investigator,” the detective said.

“Then you know why I’m here.”

The detective instructed the desk officer to make any and all public records available to Turner. Turning away from Turner, he made it obvious he had nothing else to say to Yancey.

“Got minute,” Yancey asked the homicide detective.

Jack Fontenot focused on the file folder in his hand, and said, “Mr. Turner, I’ve had maybe four hours sleep in as many days, and I still have a murderer to catch, and you can tell Leo Coleman, the NOPD had nothing to do with Grant’s and Terri’s murders. The officer has your copies ready. They’re fifty cents each. Good day Mr. Turner.”

“Detective, why the hostility toward Leo Coleman? I know he makes no secret that he thinks the NOPD was behind the murders of his son and daughter-in-law. The man’s grieving, he’s confused. Hell, he doesn’t know who, or what the hell to believe, but I have to tell you, you’re not making it any easier for him to believe otherwise,” Yancey said.

Fontenot lit a Viceroy and said, “I have nothing against Leo Coleman, except that he’s from Shreveport, Louisiana and chose to play football at Ole Miss instead of LSU. Go figure!”

“Well he did come home to play for the Saints. Doesn’t that mean something?

Fontenot paused and with a subdued chuckle said, “Okay step into my office, you have one minute,” he said.

The detective closed the door, and sat in a chair in front of his desk, close to Yancey. He spoke barely above a whisper. “Mr. Turner, I know what Leo Coleman told you, but this police department had nothing to do with those murders and I’m not going to say it again.”

Yancey fanned Fontenot’s cigarette smoke from his face and asked, “Then who did kill them?”

Fontenot exhaled a cloud of smoke, rolled his eyes and said, “If I knew that, you wouldn’t be here, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But I can tell you this, there was no physical evidence at the crime scene that did us any good. There was cocaine in Terry’s purse. But according to the medical examiner, neither she, nor Grant had any in their blood. Strange! The shooter left the weapon lying on the floor beside the bodies. No prints, no nothing. Whoever it was, knew how cover their tracks.”

“Who reported this to the police?” Yancey asked.

“Kip Houser. A washed up football defensive lineman and family friend of the Colemans. Grant and Terry both liked the booze. His story is that he drove for them that night. After he dropped them off after the party, he said he found Terry’s cell phone on the car seat, and went back to give it to her. Dog was going crazy when he got there. Front door was open, that’s when he found the bodies.”

“I know Kip, and the timing doesn’t look too good for him. Is he a suspect?” Yancey asked.

“Every son-of-a-bitch in New Orleans is a suspect.”

Detective Fontenot handed Yancey his card and said, “Careful out there. My private cell phone number’s on the card if you need me.”

“Why the sudden change of heart, detective?” Yancey asked.

“No change, just a word of caution. I have enough to deal with, without a dead x-Secret Service agent on my hands. If you’re smart, you’ll forget this, and have a bowl of Louise Colman’s gumbo, then head your Ole Miss ass back to DC,” Fontenot answered.


Kip Houser mounted his Harley Davidson and headed east on the Chef Highway, when a purple crotch rocket pulled alongside him.

The two bikers showed off, popped wheelies, each trying to outdo the other on their showroom clean machines. When a red-light caught them, the rider of the purple bike sent a hollow-point from a 357 Magnum to Kip’s head.

The purple crotch rocket disappeared into the jungle of East New Orleans traffic, while helpless and horrified onlookers stared at Kip’s lifeless body lying beneath the overturned Harley. They could tell the police little about what appeared to be just another New Orleans drive-by shooting.


At the Bayou View Café, Yancey gazed at his watch. Kip should be here by now, he thought. After two beers, he ordered the red-beans and rice, hardly taking eyes off the police report, until Leo called his cell. “Kip’s dead. Shot while riding his motorcycle on the Chef Highway about fifteen minutes ago.”

“I’ll call you back Leo,” he said, and hit the end button on his iPhone when a man dressed in a business suit parked himself at his table as if on cue. Yancey knew the signs. The sunglasses, the cropped hair, and most of all the dead-pan expression on his face, spelled FBI.

“I’m Special Agent Roberto Garcia, FBI,” he said and shoved his credentials in Yancey’s face.

“I know the drill and I know the protocol.  Why have you been following me since I stepped off the plane?” Yancey asked.

“Of course you do, former agent Turner, and you know I ask the ques–.”

“Don’t try to play the game with me. I knew the rules when you were still in diapers. Why have you been following me?” Yancey asked again.

With his chin raised and his jaws tight enough to bite a railroad spike in two, the FBI agent called the waitress over and ordered coffee and a beignet, and said, “I can save you a lot of trouble Turner. If you’re smart, you’ll be on the next flight back to D.C.”

“Sorry Agent, but the NOPD beat you to that line earlier today,” Yancey said.

“We know who killed Grant Coleman and his wife, as well as Kip Houser.”

“Want to share that info with me as a matter of professional courtesy?” Yancey asked.

“I’m surprised, Mr. Turner. You mean to tell me you don’t know the NOPD narcotics division was behind all this. They made it look like a drug deal gone bad. Planted cocaine on his wife.”

“Why? What the hell was their motive?” Yancey asked.

“Coleman was a damn good lawyer, and so was Terri Ann. They were getting too close to the narcotics division’s little game of setting up young boys for bogus drug deals,” Garcia said.

“Terri Ann? Funny thing! I never heard Leo or Louise call her Terri Ann,” Yancey said.

“An old habit, I always refer to murder victims by the first and middle names,” Garcia said.

“Sure you do. Now what about Kip Houser?” Yancey asked.

“He was their trigger man. They had to silence him when you got here.”

“By the way Agent Garcia—Kip Houser was shot less than an hour ago, how did you know about his murder so soon?” Yancey asked.

Garcia took a sip of his coffee and said, “it’s my business to know.” He stood up, adjusted his sunglasses and walked out, leaving Yancey with more questions than answers.

Yancey chuckled and called to Garcia, “Don’t worry about the coffee and the donut. I’ll take care of it.”

Yancey found Fontenot’s card and dialed, “Do you know FBI agent Roberto Garcia?”

“So you met Agent Garcia? How were the red-beans and rice at the Bayou View?” Fontenot asked.


Leo’s cell rang, Yancey calling.

“Everybody from the FBI to the NOPD knows our every move. They might even be listening to us now. Leave now. Drive to where Little Robin and Louise are staying. Don’t use a credit card for anything. Cash only for gas, food, whatever.” Yancey said.

“Can’t do it Yancey. Remember the time Arkansas had us down by three points with seventeen seconds left on the clock?”

“What the hell does that football game have to do with it?” Yancey asked.

“You think you could have run that touchdown if I hadn’t opened the damn hole for your ass?”

“Leo. Get to hell out of New Orleans! Sometimes you have to take the bench for the sake of the team,” Yancey said.

After a long silence Leo said, “I’ll call you when I get there.”


“I’ve been wondering how long it would take for you to show up in my office, Turner. How could the Bureau be of service to one of America’s finest, or should I say, former finest?” Garcia asked with a strong hint of disdain in his voice.

Yancey opened his notes from the NOPD and took more time than he needed in order to locate the report he was looking for. “Ah, here it is. According to the report, Grant Coleman and his wife were shot multiple times with double-O buckshot. Doesn’t look like a hired hit to me. More like a revenge, or a rage killing. We both know, professionals like to keep it clean, quick and quiet,” Yancey said.

“But Kip Houser was no pro,” Agent Garcia said.

“He was no psychopath either. What makes you think it was him? No history of violence—except when he got his hands on some poor quarterback. He was loyal to Leo Coleman. Leo took care of him after he got hurt and had to quit pro football.” Yancey said.

“He was kicked out of pro-football for using steroids,” Garcia shot back.

“The NOPD hired Kip Houser to kill the Colemans and I can prove it,” Garcia said.

“Of the all needle popping, cocaine snorting disposable pieces of shit in New Orleans they could have hired, you’re trying to tell me the New Orleans Police hired Leo Coleman’s best friend to kill his son and wife. Bull-shit, and you know it.” Yancey said.

“He had a gambling problem. The loser bastard was up to his ass in debt. It’s that simple.” Garcia said

“What federal laws were broken? “Nobody seems to think this was a hate crime, in spite of the racially mixed marriage.

“The NOPD was directly involved. We were about move in with a RICO charge.”

“This was no paid hit, and Kip Houser was not your man. Now I’d like to speak to Agent Pakowsky,” Yancey said.

“Agent Pakowsky is out. Sick with a cold, or something. Probably be back in a day or two,” Garcia said.

“Or something?” Yancey asked.


After his twenty hour day, Yancey returned to the Holiday Inn in Slidell and called Leo.

His tired eyes strained to find the numbers on his cell phone. “All I have is a stack of papers from the New Orleans Police, and bullshit from the FBI. But I can tell you this, the New Orleans police had nothing to do with it.”

“Then who did?” Leo asked.

“I don’t know yet, and it’s not going to be easy to solve. If I only had a motive.” Yancey said. “Is there anything more you can tell me?”

Yancey wanted to ask Leo more about the murders, but he could tell by the tone of Leo’s voice that he was getting irritated. “I’ll call you back tomorrow,” Yancey told him and then went to the restaurant for dinner.

The Wednesday night crowd was sparse, and the bandstand was empty in the Slidell restaurant. Yancey’s tip hungry server seemed more than happy to keep cold beer in front of him.  She said, “your shrimp should be out shortly.”

He wasn’t expecting company for dinner when an attractive brunette, fiftyish looking woman and dressed in business attire found his table and introduced herself. “I’m Abigail Dunn, I am, or was, Terri Coleman’s secretary. Leo told me how to find you.”

“Now that you’ve found me?”

“The FBI agent, Roberto Garcia, he and Terri used to date when she was in law school in Dallas. He was stationed at the Dallas FBI office. When she broke of their relationship, it got ugly. After she married Grant and moved to New Orleans, he followed her here, and began stalking her—mostly in the form of phone calls to her office,” she said.

“FBI agents don’t have the privilege of moving around at their will and pleasure,” Yancey said.

“If their father is a buddy with the Attorney General, they do,” Abigail said.

“What did Grant think of all this?”

“She never told him. He would have hurt Garcia. She didn’t want that.”

“You’re taking a hell of a chance, being here and telling me this.”

“I can take care of myself,” she said.

“Would you like to order dinner or something to drink?” Yancey asked.

“I’ve had dinner, but I’ll take a Jack and Coke.”

“Lucky for you. Worse shrimp I ever had. Taste like some of the shit you get in D.C.” Yancey said.

“I’ll take you to Emeril’s for dinner tomorrow evening,” Abigail said.


The ten o’clock meeting in Jack Fontenot’s office was a little more cordial than the day before.

“I know you’re not here for coffee, Mr. Turner, but from the look of your roadmap eyes you could use a cup.” Fontenot said.

Yancey forced down the New Orleans coffee and chicory and asked Fontenot, “what did the witnesses at the Kip Houser murder scene tell you?”

“Not much. The shooter was riding a purple crotch rocket. Some guy said it was the same color as the crape myrtle trees in the Garden District. Shot one time, and hauled ass. Whoever did it knows the city. Three scenarios, A, the shooter grew up here, B, he studied the streets well and planned his getaway, which I doubt, or C, law enforcement. No prints, tape on the handle and barrel, just like the shotgun used in the Coleman murders. This guy knew what he was doing.” Fontenot said.

“All this sort of gives credence to the FBI’s theory, doesn’t it Detective?” Yancey asked.

“I didn’t say cop. I said law enforcement,” Fontenot said.

“Garcia?” Yancey asked.

“Maybe, but no record of Garcia owning a motorcycle. But one of my detectives, Sgt. Martie Lance, has learned that Agent Garcia used to date Terri Coleman when she was in law school. She broke up with him and started dating Grant. The breakup got nasty. According to her confidential informant Agent Garcia had been calling Terri at her office.”

“I had a visitor last night. Do you know an Abigail Dunn?” Yancey asked. “What she told me backs that up. I think we need to talk to Agent Garcia.”

“Before we start questioning an FBI agent for suspicion of murder, we better make damn sure we have our ducks in line,” Fontenot said.

Yancey took another sip of his coffee, laughed, and said, “don’t be intimidated by the Feds. They are an arrogant bunch of airhead bastards.”

“You ought to know. I’ll arrange a meeting with Garcia and make it look like we want to cooperate with their investigation. That should loosen him up a bit,” Fontenot said.


In the conference room of New Orleans Field Office of the FBI, file folders and laptops  cluttered the table in front of the meeting between, Garcia, Fontenot and Turner. Their meeting started a few minutes early. Turner knew the early start was a sign of nervousness for Garcia. One of the FBI intimidation tactics is to keep others waiting, starting meetings late and dropping meaningless hints about what they know and what they don’t know. All this was a sign that Garcia was so ready to get it over with that he strayed from his training and protocol.

“I’m happy to see you’re finally willing get to the bottom of this case, Detective Fontenot,” Garcia sneered and rolled his eyes toward Yancey Turner.

Garcia pointed to the screen on the wall and said, “I have prepared a power-point presentation on the case for your convenience.”

“Before we get started, Agent Garcia, may I ask do you own a motorcycle?” Fontenot asked.

“A purple crotch-rocket to be exact,” Yancey said.

“What the hell are you two getting at?” Garcia asked.

“You know exactly what we’re getting at,” Fontenot said.

Garcia slammed his laptop shut and shouted,

“I don’t know what you two sons-of-bitches are implying, but this meeting’s over.”

Fontenot jumped to his feet and pointed his finger in the face of the FBI agent and said, “this meeting is over when I say it’s over Agent Garcia. Your FBI badge doesn’t mean a damn thing when it comes to murder in my town. You can cooperate with me here and now or surrender your weapon and we’ll finish this discussion downtown.”


Detective Fontenot handed Sgt. Lance a court order to back up the orders he was about to give her and said, “I want a twenty four hour surveillance on Agent Garcia. I want to know his every move, his every phone call, and his every breath, if that’s what it takes to nail that bastard. There’s a hole waiting for him at Angola and I want him in it. The sooner the better. But for now, I have a shooting. The victim asked for me.” Fontenot told his staff.


“A locksmith. He’s one lucky son-of-bitch. Not hit that bad. He’ll live. You can see him,” the doctor said.

In the emergency room, Fontenot asked the victim, Thomas Saucier, if he knew who shot him.

“I don’t know her name, but it was the same woman who hired me to get her into the Grant Coleman home the night they were murdered.”

“Why did you let her in the Coleman home? Yancey asked.

“Am I in trouble Capt. Fontenot?” Saucier asked.

“I ask the questions. Why did you let her into the Coleman home?”

“She paid me.”

“What did she look like?” Fontenot asked.

“Don’t know. She never took her helmet off.”

“Her helmet?

“Yeah. Motorcycle helmet.  One of those blacked out face guards.”

“What kind of motorcycle was she riding?” Yancey asked.

“I don’t know that either. It was one of those little streamline jobs that goes real fast. Purple, like the crape myrtles in the Garden District.”

“Oh, One more thing Detective, the woman who hired me to open the Coleman house—she spoke with a husky voice. She sounded like she had a bad cold or something,” Saucier said.

“I’ll deal with you later.” Fontenot told him.


“How did your meeting go with Fontenot and Yancey Turner?” Mickey Pakowsky asked Garcia.”

You crazy bitch. Look at what you’ve gotten us into,” Garcia answered.

“What I got us into?” she shouted. “If you hadn’t been hung-up on that damn whore, this would not have happened. Terri Ann this, and Terri Ann that. She’s all you could talk about. I gave you everything, but no, you said we couldn’t be together. It would violate Bureau policy. Bullshit! Policy had nothing to do with your half-ass excuses.”

“Why the hell did you have to kill Kip Houser? He wasn’t a player in this game?” Garcia asked.

“The more people we get out of the way, the safer we are, darling.”

“You’re crazy, you need help. I’ve covered for your crazy ass for the last time,” Garcia said. ”and don’t call me darling.”

“If you’re smart, you’ll follow me toward Houma, and let’s ditch the bike in the bayou,” she said.


Sgt. Lance called her boss and told him the pair of rogue agents were headed west on Highway 90. Fontenot called the Louisiana State Police (LSP) and requested backup outside the city on the highway, and he and Yancey made a mad rush to beat them to the bridge at Des Almonds.

“Damn, you’re scaring the hell out me, Fontenot,” Yancey said as he blew past two cars with blue lights flashing.

“LSP didn’t have a unit close enough to assist. If we can get to the bridge before they do, we’ve got them. And I don’t know if they’re in front of us or behind us. They got away from Lance.”

Fontenot spotted the purple crotch rocket approaching in his rear-view mirror, and told Yancey, “that’s her, but she made us, and she’s about to turn around. Garcia’s right behind her.”

Spotting Fontenot’s unmarked Tahoe, Mickey Pakowsky slammed on her brakes. Her bike skidded out of control, and off the road unto the muddy shoulder.

“Oh, shit!  She busted her ass,” said Fontenot.

Mickey rolled and tumbled on the soggy earth, but got up on one knee, shaking, blood flowing from her nose and with her weapon drawn. Garcia stopped his Ford just short of running over his partner with Lance on his bumper. She blocked his car from behind. The trap was closed as Fontenot brought his cruiser nose to nose with Garcia’s Ford. Garcia emerged with his hands up.

“Freeze, and drop the weapon,” Fontenot shouted at the female FBI agent.

Her insane eyes focused on Fontenot’s weapon. She dropped her shoulder, lowered her gun and said, “Don’t shoot, I surrender.”

“Drop the weapon now,” Fontenot shouted again.

Pakowsky nodded in the affirmative, but then in an insane rage, turned and fired. Garcia’s head exploded from the 357 Magnum. Before Fontenot could fire, Pakowsky put the gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger.

“Damn.” Fontenot said. “I really wanted to personally deliver that bitch to Angola myself.”


At the gate of the New Orleans Airport, Leo Coleman’s giant hand again engulfed the hand of his former teammate.

Little Robin asked Yancey, “Are you a real private investigator?”

He answered, “I’m just an old friend of your grandpa’s.”

Louise Coleman hugged Yancey and said, “We can never thank you enough. Next time you come down, I’ll be at home and fix you a bowl of my gumbo.”

“No thanks due me, but I will accept the gumbo. Thank Jack Fontenot. Oh, and Louise, please drive Leo home. He hates to drive in New Orleans in the rain, and besides that, he drives the same way he played football at Ole Miss.”






















Mississippi Signposts

There is something like magic in a good book.

Some are like living, breathing voices with the capacity to change the reader’s life. Good books can crack open a door to let you see a tiny bit of someone else’s soul and help you to understand people in another place and time. The reading of a book somehow causes words to turn into faces and places as they tattoo themselves inside the reader’s mind.

It’s a mystery how this happens, but I know that skillful writers have drawn pictures in my head. Years after I’ve read their stories and the pages are yellowed and frayed, images are still etched in my mind. There’s also something like a map with signposts inside my brain. When I read a story, I have to connect it with some place I’ve been. Since I’ve lived in Mississippi most of my life, I suppose it’s natural to have lots of Mississippi signposts standing inside my head. For instance, when I read A Time to Kill by John Grisham, maybe I was thinking about the author and a story I’d heard about him writing while sitting on the courthouse steps? Nevertheless, a picture placed itself in my head of a man aiming a gun at his daughter’s rapist on the stairs of the courthouse at Oxford, Mississippi. Now when I visit the old-fashioned square in Oxford, I find myself looking up, trying to see inside the second story window of the court house on the square.

Union Station in Meridian, Mississippi, is one of those signposts.

I can’t pass those train tracks without remembering the story of a young woman stepping from a train, searching through the terminal, and then darting into the woods. Helene lives within a tiny corner of my mind because Toni Morrison put her there. When I read Sula some years ago, I became, for a moment, a young woman with skin not white enough to enter a public restroom in a train station governed by white folks. I could almost experience pressure upon my bladder and feel the panic of having no place to go for relief. So now when I drive up Front Street in Meridian, I search for trees and tall grass. I see only buildings and train tracks today, but my eyes will always search for a safe place for Helene to rest. And I will question again why it was that kind of world back then. It’s funny I don’t remember the rest of the story or the other characters in Morrison’s novel, just Helene and her urgent need for a rest stop.

When I drive along The Natchez Trace,

a signpost pops up in my head with a voice that says, “Look out there in the woods. Can you see Phoenix Jackson?” And I’ll find myself searching for a little black woman with a red rag tied around her head. I’ll think about the dress she wore and her shoes that needed to be tied because she couldn’t bend down to tie them herself. I can even see her walking down that Worn Path the way Eudora Welty described her, “moving a little from side to side, with the balanced heaviness and lightness of a pendulum in a grandfather clock.” I want to stop the car right there and go searching for that little grandmother so that I can tie her shoes. And if I could find her, I would follow Phoenix Jackson home and tell her that she was very brave and that people should have respected her. I would go inside her shack and try to comfort her little grandson who swallowed lye.

I’m acquainted with William Faulkner’s novels.

But it’s his short stories that have impressed me most. One could never forget “A Rose for Emily” or his story about the Mississippi Flood of 1927, a tale to ponder forever. From “Old Man”  these words etched indelible images in my head:  “…chained ankle to ankle and herded by armed guards…they had plowed and planted and eaten and slept beneath the shadow of the levee itself…but many of them had never seen the Mississippi River until the flood of 1927..” When I visit the Delta and see the levee against the river, I recall those men in leg-chains, their eyes staring at the ground, never looking up because their minds were bound in strong chains too.

I have read stories that made me hear and feel and see more clearly.

My mind now contains a rich treasury of characters and ideas set in courtrooms and cotton fields, train stations and riverboats, mansions and shacks. Mississippi is the place where writers have drawn pictures in my head and tattooed their words inside my heart.


By Virginia Dawkins


Delta Blues


(Black, White and Blues)



Flatlands stretch endlessly

Toward the horizon

As far as the eye can see;

Rich, black soil

Yields endless rows

Of blinding white wonder

On fertile ground

That gives birth to the blues.

2012 Patricia Neely-Dorsey

My Magnolia Memories and Musings-In Poems




Somebody’s always singing

Them Monday Morning blues songs

Them sho’ nuff done me wrong songs

Them stayed out all night long songs

Them moaning, groaning love songs

Them bear your heart and soul songs

Them feel it in your bones songs

Them make you weak and strong songs

Them letting go and holding on songs

Them totally yours and mine songs

Them everybody knows songs…

We ALL love them blues…songs

2012 Patricia Neely-Dorsey


John’s Gift

First published in A Cup of Comfort for Christmas Prayer (Adams Media Publications)

Ephesians 4:7-8 –  “When he ascended to the heights, he led a crowd of captives and gave gifts to his people.”

The first time my son, John, held a crayon,

it was to create; a cat, a dog, a tree, or a creature or place no one had ever seen. He drew while watching TV, eating at the table, and riding in the car. He drew on homework, in school and in church, as if an unseen force drove his fingers and he couldn’t stop.

At age five, he began art lessons and his art teacher told me on more than one occasion, “He has the gift.” She explained how she could teach the basics of drawing, the different techniques of painting water color, pastels, charcoal, acrylic, and oils, how to study objects and draw their form. But the gift is God-given.

In her studio, she said, “I set different models on that table and have students draw what they see.”

She showed me some art her students had done, vases, bowls of fruit, a piece of driftwood, each a masterpiece by a child’s hands.

I said, “You have some talented students.”

She smiled. “Now, let me show you some of John’s work.”

I followed her to another stack where she picked up the top picture.

“This is John’s painting of the fruit.”

I took the artwork and followed her as she guided me through his painting.

“Notice the detail, how he shaded the shadow of bowl underneath and highlighted the light reflecting off the orange?”  I nodded. “But look beyond the bowl.”

 I scanned the page, holding the curling edges taut. Above the painted bowl of fruit was a light.

I glanced over at the light above the table. It was identical to the painted version, down to each tiny link in the chain holding the fixture.

“Look at this,” his instructor said pointing to his painting. “My art books on the table, my paint jar, and the shelf beside the table with each item.”

I looked at each, compared them to the real items. Chills ran with amazement through me.

“That’s not all,” she said. He includes the window behind the table? And this.”

She pointed to the black dog outside the window sitting beside a tree in the painting.

“He sees beyond the obvious, sees the bigger picture.”

She chose another of John’s drawings, a fire-breathing dragon with enormous wings and a tiny figure of a man fighting the creature with his sword. Each individual scale had been drawn on the dragon and the fire exploding from its mouth and nostrils was so real, you would hesitate touching it for fear of being burned. The ground was just as complex, with different sized stones, tiny cracks, wide crevices, and dust rising beneath the valiant man’s feet. The sky revealed a bright orange sun setting behind a rocky mountain range.

“Most artists draw from models or landscapes they see.  But John can draw this kind of detail in things he doesn’t see or may have never seen. Only a select few have this gift.”


There was that word again.

But with gifts also come trials.  John struggled in his school work.

“He has problems paying attention,” one teacher said.

“He’s looking at the board, but his mind is miles away from school work,” said another teacher.

“He needs to be in a special reading class,” still another one said.

Then we heard others word. ADD. Medication.

So, every night we read and did flash cards at the dinner table. Weekly, I took John to tutoring. Even though medication did help John concentrate and stay on task, he hated how it made him feel. We slowly worked our way through each grade.

John’s best friend, Josh, was an artist, too, and throughout school, they yelled and loped through the woods behind our house, imaginations running wild along with them. They drew their own super heroes and developed “save-the-world” plots. They created other worlds with powerful enemies threatening to take over earth and its people, drawings in such intricate detail the blades of grass in a meadow were easily counted as well as the strands of hair draping a character’s shoulders. They had big plans for their artistic endeavors. And I couldn’t wait.

When I received a letter from John’s High School explaining Awards Day and that John would be receiving an award, no one had to tell which award he’d be receiving.  I knew.

I sat on the bleachers in the gym that had filled up with loud voices and the clamor of students finding their seats. On the floor, chairs were neatly lined up and in each chair sat a student who would receive an award.  I watched John tease the girl sitting beside him, clowning around like he always did. The long program was a blur except for John’s art teacher stepping to the podium and calling John up to accept the art award.

After the program, I went to John’s art classroom to thank his teacher.

“John’s one of my most talented art students,” he said.  “He oversaw our school mural project, drew most of it. Come on. I’ll show you.” As I followed him out of the classroom, he said, “He certainly has a gift.”

When the local Museum of Art held its Youth Art Competition, John entered a few of his pieces and won Best of Show.  He also sold his first art piece.  To me!

After John graduated, we looked into art colleges. But there was one problem. School and John had had never mixed.  All he related to the word “school” were other negative words.

One day, John brought home another word. Army.

And another word.


He left for boot camp at Fort Benning in September 2006. I was mortified because troops were being regularly deployed to Iraq. Daily newscasts showed casualty counts from what was called the War on Terrorism. And there was no sign of an end to this war.

At John’s graduation, he received an award for marksmanship. I was proud, but frightened.  All I’d ever seen in John’s hands were crayons and pencils and paint brushes.  Not weapons.

From Fort Benning, he was transferred to Fort Hood. From there, after extensive training, he was deployed to Baghdad, Iraq to serve in PSD (Personal Security Detail).

Throughout my house, John’s paintings and drawings hung on the walls and I longed for his gift to once again to bring colorful life into our existence. Everyday, I questioned the Lord and prayed about His plan for John and his gift. All I could visualize was that weapon in my son’s gifted hands.

The phone rang early one morning and I rushed to answer it, smiling immediately when I heard John’s voice.

“Hey, Mama. How’s it going there?”

“Fine,” I said, sounding choked up. “How are things there? You need anything?”

“I’m fine, Mama.  Really I am. But I do need something.”


“The kids here are always asking for soccer balls.”

“Soccer balls?”

“Yeah.  And there’s this one kid—I call him Little Buddy—who comes to the fence asking me for a ball.  I’d really like to give him one. A nice one.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

I hung up, immediately called my pastor and was so excited when he said, “We’ll send John a whole box of soccer balls.”

The boxes went out, the church’s box filled with soccer balls and my box filled with goodies for John and a special ball for Little Buddy. I imagined Iraqi children crowding around John to receive their ball.

Then I knew. John’s gift still lay within his hands, not with a paintbrush or a pencil, but with his love for these children.

And with this love, he was creating something so much bigger than what he could create on paper.

I thought about God’s gift to us on starry night where shepherds were keeping their flock, how He knew His infant son would one day face powerful enemies threatening to take over earth and its people.

God’s plan was so much bigger for His son’s life, bigger than his mother Mary’s or his friends’, or even His disciples’ plans.  They all loved and honored Jesus, but sometimes they couldn’t see past the obvious to see the bigger picture.

I know now that God’s plan is so much bigger for my son John and the gift that lies within his hands.

So much bigger.

By Richelle Putnam