Murder in Queen County - By Jennifer Lightburn

If you read Seasons Change, you're probably wondering why I didn't go into great detail about what happened when Annette learned about her grandfather.  That's because that's a story by itself.

Chapter One 

The architecture of Queen County resembled the setting of Mulberry.  And even though, Monica drove slowly down the quaint street, Annette clutched the passenger arm rest.  Ever since she saw Mississippi Burning, southern towns made her nervous, especially since there wasn’t a black person to be found.  Not even a Mexican.  Instead, she saw variations of Gomer, Andy, Barney and Aunt Bea, and everything in the town looked old and worn-down, including the dirty kids that ran across the street in bare feet, the old man rocking in his chair with a pipe in his mouth, and the bitter-looking woman standing on a ladder wiping down the store window with newspaper.  But what caught both Annette’s and Monica’s attention was the way that people stared at them as they drove by. 

“They act like they’ve never seen a black and white person drive together in the same car,” Monica said, wiping away perspiration that made her blonde hair stick to her forehead.

“I think it’s your car,” Annette replied.

Monica nodded, as she drove by an Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme, a Chevrolet Impala, a Ford Torina Cobra.  There wasn’t a car on the street a day newer than 1980, except for Monica’s 2007 BMW.  “Could be,” she said, turning down the heater.  “Let me know if you get cold.  I’m burning up.”

The anxiety of new surroundings and unease of finding out the truth about her grandfather kept Annette’s blood pressure elevated, so she too was experiencing a heat flash. 

“Let’s try to find a hotel,” Annette said, just as a Sherriff’s car swerved in front of them with his siren on.  “Where you driving over the speed limit?”

“In this old country town?  Hell no!  I made sure of that,” Monica said.

The Sherriff got out of his car with his hand firmly on his firearm. 

Monica rolled down the window.  “What seems to be the problem officer?”

“License and registration, ma’am,” the Sherriff said with an accent that sounded as if he was from deep in the Appalachian Mountains of Tennessee.

To be continued...