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  A Most Unusual Case

  Heather Graham

  Copyright © 2020 by Slush Pile Productions

  All rights reserved. This publication may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior express written permission of the author. Unauthorized reproduction of this material, electronic or otherwise, will result in legal action.

  Please report the unauthorized distribution of this publication by contacting the author at theoriginalheathergraham.com, via email at [email protected], or at Heather Graham 103 Estainville Ave., Lafayette, LA 70508. Please help stop internet piracy by alerting the author with the name and web address of any questionable or unauthorized distributor.

  A Most Unusual Case is a work of fiction. The people and events in A Most Unusual Case are entirely fictional. The story is not a reflection of historical or current fact, nor is the story an accurate representation of past or current events. Any resemblance between the characters in this novel and any or all persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Prologue

  Tom Flannery walked up the stairs of the old Cory house to Mason Dresden’s office, telling himself to control his temper; if he flew off the handle, he’d achieve nothing.

  Marty Cromwell, Dresden’s gray-haired and almost dignified “assistant,” or valet--or do-anything-for-the-man lackey--was just coming out of the room, followed by Gina Murphy, his grumpy—and frumpy—housekeeper.

  “Hey, you can’t just go in there!” Marty protested.

  “Watch me.”

  Marty and Gina saw him pound on the door with his fist and scurried away.

  Despite all his efforts, Tom felt his temper rising. He knew he would get nowhere.

  He had to try. And try hard. He had to remember part of the reason his temper was flaring was the fact he just didn’t like Dresden. The man tried to create an image for himself that suggested he was a champion of the downtrodden man.

  What he did was exploit those who needed a helping hand. True, he gave the men work.

  But underpaid them and overworked them.

  And he hired them so he didn’t have to hire union labor—those with powerful men and women to force the issue that a man be paid justly for a day’s hard work.

  Dresden was standing by the window in his office. He had chosen one of the bedrooms in the house for his office and living quarters during the work. It had once been a grand chamber for Julius Cory, the old settler who had first ordered a portion of his land be dedicated as a cemetery for the area.

  Nice of him. Half of the dead men in the cemetery had come to be there because they had been working in the mine owned by the Cory family and been caught in cave-ins or other mining disasters.

  “What?” Dresden asked, not bothering to turn and look at Tom.

  “Monday. It’s Labor Day. A Federal holiday. The men have been told to report to work,” Tom said.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s a Federal holiday,” Tom said.

  “And yes, stores will be open, planes will fly—and we will work to get this project completed.”

  Tom inhaled deeply. “Labor Day,” he repeated. “A day created for workers just like these men—and women—who spend hours of their week working hard for someone else. Some, like the men employed here, break their backs on heavy physical labor. Others go blind over computers or get back aches on their feet all day serving others. Labor Day. These fellows work hard. Give them the holiday, Mr. Dresden. Please. They need it and they deserve it.”

  Dresden was quiet. Tom thought about the old Cory mansion; it was now owned by the conglomerate that had commissioned the extension of the cemetery.

  It was one hell of a place to have an office and living quarters in one.

  The master chamber had offered a large dressing room—bigger than most decently-sized bedrooms in itself--where Dresden now slept. The bedroom part of the chamber held his desk, drafting table, scanner, and other office equipment.

  The window overlooked the new section of the cemetery Dresden had been commissioned to design and the central mausoleum that was part of the project. The view extended to the old section of the cemetery where the oldest graves went back to the early 1800s

  Except he had hired nonunion workers, usually men and women who were down and out, some with criminal records, determined to get the work done as quickly as possible.

  Dresden spun around, arching a brow at Tom. He was dressed in a suit that would have paid three workers for a month. His face hard lined. Not from labor, Tom thought. But from the intensity with which he always intended to get ahead. His hair was a steel color—it matched his personality. He was lean and hard, exceptionally so for a man in his late sixties.

  “Tom,” Dresden said slowly, and Tom knew he was going to get the brush-off.

  “You have to give the men Labor Day off,” Tom said.

  Mason arched a brow. “I don’t care for the term—have to. These people are lucky to have work. I have hired them when few others would. We’re not stopping; the cemetery needs to be completed. The shrubs and trees to be planted can’t be placed until the mausoleum is complete. I hired men who have criminal records—oh, like you, and like your criminal record.”

  Tom had a record that was true. He’d gotten probation and community service for carrying beer for his frat brothers in college.

  He didn’t even drink. He had an allergy to alcohol and was the delight of his friends because that made him a damned good designated driver.

  Still, it was on his record. Dresden knew the truth of it.

  He just hadn’t known he was going to supervise for a man who had the goodness of a snake residing in him.

  No. That was an insult to snakes.

  Yes, Dresden had hired men who had records and men who were desperate. Men with families, little kids, who had wound up in hard times under the Covid19 circumstances.

  But it wasn’t out of kindness! It was because he hired men who would work for pennies on the dollar he was willing to throw their way.

  He warned himself again not to get angry.

  It was no good.

  He leaned on Dresden’s desk and smiled tightly.

  “What a view you have here! Look out across the distance and you’ll see the old cemetery. You know who is buried there? Angus Cory. I’m sure you’ve heard the stories. Angus was furious with a minor named Brendan Antrim, who is buried out there, too. Antrim was a hard-working son-of-a-gun, but he objected to conditions in the mine, and he was hell-bent on seeing the idea of a working man’s holiday come to fruition. Strangely, one of Cory’s mine shafts collapsed—when Brendan Antrim and his crew were down in the mine. Men spent days trying to dig them out—they could hear them, but they couldn’t reach them. And Brendan died down there, cursing Angus Cory and all who followed in his footsteps.”

  Dresden shook his head. “I’m not part of the Cory family. I’m just someone they hired to oversee a project.”

  “And I’ve heard you are well paid. But I’m not asking for more money for the men. Keep your money—just give them Labor Day.”

  “Tom—”

  “I didn’t tell you the best part of the story. They say that Angus Cory was sleeping one night when he heard something. And there was the ghost of Brendan Antrim. He was filthy and covered in all the dust from the mine. And rotting, of course. So this horrible corpse came at Angus, and Angus was terrified and jumped up and tried to protect himself with the poker from the fireplace. Well, some say he tripped and the poker went right through his body where his heart should have been. Others say the rotting body of Brendan Antrim came to life throug
h the power and fury of his ghostly soul and stabbed Cory through the heart. Angus Cory was a miser and he paid for what he did to Brendan Antrim. I imagine the ghost killed the man. And I hear Brendan Antrim is still out there—the boys were talking about him the other day. Well, you penny-pinching miser, maybe that ghost will come after you, too.”

  “Tom, you’re fired,” Dresden told him.

  Tom was expecting it. He didn’t care. Well, he did care. He’d been the spokesperson for the men Angus Dresden had hired. Now . . .

  “Don’t bother—I quit!”

  Tom turned to leave the room, furious.

  Dresden called after him, “Don’t try collecting unemployment, quitter!”

  Tom left the old Cory mansion shaking. He avoided the work field—and the men he had supervised.

  He didn’t head to the pub where he usually had a soda and lime so that he could spend time with his coworkers and friends.

  He just went straight home, or to the little house he’d rented near the work site.

  He wished he drank. He sat for awhile without even turning on the television. He wasn’t upset for himself; he was sorry for so many of the men he had come to know. Dresden had been careful not to hire any serious offenders; most had been in prison for minor infractions.

  Yeah, it was true—in prison many had found religion.

  And now they were doing all they could to be good human beings.

  He finally turned on the television, but the first thing he saw was a story on how people would be celebrating the holiday while social distancing.

  He sat again, wondering what he was going to do with his life now. His folks were gone; his mom had died of cancer soon after his high school graduation. His dad had lived long enough to see him get his college degree. Tom was almost glad a heart attack had taken him before he’d discovered his son’s mistake in college would cost him most decent jobs.

  But he would get another job—he knew it.

  He was still just sitting in the dark when the doorbell rang. He stood; weary, afraid it was one of the men he would have to tell they were not getting a holiday.

  To his surprise, there was one man in a suit standing there with two uniformed officers.

  “Can I help you?” Tom asked.

  “Thomas Flannery?” the man in a suit asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Sir, I’m Detective Arnold Cambridge, Coryville police, and you’re under arrest for the murder of Mason Dresden.”

  “What?” Tom gasped.

  Was it a joke, an elaborate joke set up by Dresden?

  Apparently not.

  “Please come quietly. Sergeant Riley will read you your rights,” Cambridge said.

  “No, I—”

  “Don’t add resisting arrest to your other charges,” Cambridge warned him.

  “I just left Mason—” Tom protested.

  The detective interrupted him.

  “Yes, you just left him. In a pool of blood! With a fire poker right through his heart.”

  Chapter 1

  “Labor Day!” Axel Tiger said, grinning. “It celebrates mothers, right? I mean having a baby—they call it ‘going into labor.’ So surely Labor Day is really for moms!”

  Jackson Crow laughed softy and walked around to where his wife, Angela Hawkins, was sitting, setting a hand on her shoulders. “I’m certain that kind of labor comes into the question, but . . .”

  He and Angela were parents to Corby, their adopted son, and their baby girl now just a few months old. Of course, Axel was teasing Angela. She had just gone through labor and the birth of their baby daughter.

  Angela had, of course, gone through labor just as she did all else with flying colors. He often marveled at his wife’s ability to juggle work and parenthood without ever appearing overwhelmed. But Corby was ten, and a special boy, and he loved to help with the baby and—sometimes—even their work.

  And Angela was dedicated to their work. She had been in law enforcement even before they’d met on the first case for their special unit, called the Krewe of Hunters because that first case had been in New Orleans. And to him, she remained the most beautiful and extraordinary woman in the world. She was exceptional in her care for others, beautiful on the inside, tough as nails as well, and incredibly lovely with her long golden hair and crystal blue eyes.

  Still . . .

  Angela looked at Raina Hamish, Axel’s fiancée, rolled her eyes and smiled. “Yep, labor is—labor. But the holiday came about to celebrate American workers. We have decent hours and coverage now--”

  “What do you mean, decent hours?” Axel challenged. “I’m not sure we ever have off hours because of the nature of what we do. But I wouldn’t trade any of it. And you, Special Agent Hawkins, work all the time.”

  “I do not! I watch Little Baby Bum and Cocomelon with the baby, and when she’s asleep I play games and watch Avengers movies with Corby. And Muppets! I love Muppets. Jim Henson was a brilliant man, lost way too soon. Corby and the baby and me—we all love Muppets!” Angela said indignantly.

  “Corby is an amazing kid,” Jackson added, joining Angela on her side of the picnic table. “He never minds when we answer the phone, and he knows one or both of us will have to go into the office, and even be out of town for days.”

  “Mary is working out well?” Axel asked them.

  “Mary is the best gift ever—thank you!” Angela told him.

  He grinned. “You know Mary—she chooses what she does. I suggested she might enjoy moving in with you to help with the children. She loves children and never had any of her own. She’s happy to be with them, so long as she gets to go home now and then.” He cast his head to the side with a little smile. “She wants to make sure the kids back in Florida embrace both Miccosukee culture and American culture. Though that’s an interesting debate, since Native American culture was here before whatever culture we now claim.”

  Jackson laughed; he was a mix himself of European and Native American heritage just like Axel. And Corby had a mixed heritage, too, European and African.

  “We all need to embrace whatever we are and appreciate what everyone else is, too. But Mary has a mind and she never minds speaking to us about what’s on it, but still . . . she was the best suggestion ever!”

  They were extremely lucky. Mary Tiger was one of Axel’s aunts on his dad’s side, and she had come up to live with them and watch the kids when they were working. She was adept with keeping them busy and safe. In her free time she loved to watch crime shows, and therefore, was ready with an opinion on any case that might come the way of the Krewe of Hunters.

  That was why they could take this thirty minutes after work to sit outside at one of the picnic tables set up by a small restaurant near the office and enjoy coffee and snacks with Axel, someone they’d all known belonged in the Krewe from the beginning, and Raina.

  Raina had her own special talents, above and beyond, Jackson knew. She had been instrumental in solving a case in Florida through a strange sense of sight in her mind’s eye that came from touching an object—or in the instance when she had discovered her talent—by trying on a dress that had last been tried on by a murder victim in the Everglades. It was strange because she and Axel had met years before, when he was just eighteen and she was still in school. He had been giving a lecture and telling stories to a school group in the Everglades. They hadn’t seen each other again until she’d been instrumental in solving a murder there years later. She was a wonderful addition to their group, enthusiastic, in love with Axel, and certainly lovely with auburn hair and eyes that were almost a pure amber.

  Most Krewe members had spouses or partners who were also among the percent of a percent of the population with the sense that allowed them to see and speak with the dead.

  When the dead had something to say, of course.

  “Mary is great. And, of course, she’ll be joining us on Labor Day,” Jackson told them.

  “It is always great to see Aunt Mary,” Axel said.


  “I love Axel’s family!” Raina assured them. “And Mary is wonderful. She does love little ones so much and they love her, too. So, Angela,” she said. “Labor Day. It will be nice to spend some time together. And nice that those working will get their holiday, too.”

  “It really is a holiday for everyone,” Angela said, “It was first celebrated in New York City in September in 1882. It was all in accordance with the Central Labor Union.”

  “Of course, she knows all about Labor Day,” Raina said, laughing. “Angela, you are an amazing font of knowledge.”

  “Trivia,” Angela said dryly. “Well, because of the nature of our business, I wind up researching all kinds of things.” She shrugged. “Historians aren’t really sure who came up with the idea that we were going to need a national holiday, but they agree it was one of two men with similar surnames—Peter J. McGuire or Matthew Maguire. Matthew was a machinist. Peter was the general secretary for the Brotherhood of Carpenters and Joiners and co-founder of the American Federation of Labor. Oh, and Matthew later became the secretary for his local group of the International Association of Machinists.”

 
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