Deep South Trouble takes Abit Bradshaw on his most perilous adventure yet!  He starts off in trouble and gets into even more when he heads down to Atlanta, Georgia, to help a grieving father learn more about his deceased son. But his problems soon multiply before they chase him back home to Laurel Falls, N.C. There, old friends help him, including Della Kincaid, Alex Covington, Nigel Steadman, and Shiloh.

You'll get a better idea of what Abit gets into when you read the excerpt below.

Laurel Falls, N.C., October, 2016 

"I kept asking myself if I should’ve seen all that trouble coming my way. But the answer was always no. No shivers, no belly ache, no bad feelings. Even Mollie, her head hanging out the truck window, missed any signs of danger.

We’d just come home from a trip to see friends. Everything looked right as I pulled up the drive—I felt a tug in my chest when I saw the house hadn’t burned down, the fall garden hadn’t dried up, and the chickens were walking through the yard, looking for bugs right on schedule.

When I unlocked the front door and stepped inside, that was when I knew something was wrong. Even before I saw the man. Holding a gun on me.

Oh, let me tell you, it went from bad to even worse. From there I found myself chasing round Atlanta, Georgia, looking for the reason all that sorrow had landed on my doorstep. I even had to stay down there in the hospital.

By the time I got home, I could see it all came down to more conmen stealing from the poor folks and taxpayers of our mountain region. Unlike those I dealt with earlier in my life, these were corporate types, slick and cagey about how to milk the system and bribe our politicians. I chased after them from Laurel Falls to Damascus, Virginia, and back to Laurel Falls.

My friends Della Kincaid and Nigel Steadman, plus a young newspaper man, Newt Watson, helped me, but it was touch and go whether any of us could bring justice to the hard-working people we called neighbors and friends." ~Abit Bradshaw

You'll enjoy this suspenseful story because who doesn't long for justice in a world where money speaks louder than goodness?

If you love Elly Griffiths, Sue Grafton, and Cheryl Bradshaw (no relation to Abit Bradshaw that we know of), you're sure to enjoy the Appalachian Mountain Mysteries series.

Get it now—for the rich natural setting, colorful characters, and suspenseful investigations.

Deep South Trouble is the nineth novel in the Appalachian Mountain Mysteries series by award-winning author Lynda McDaniel.

EXCERPT FROM DEEP SOUTH TROUBLE

Laurel Falls, N.C.
October 2016

Chapter 1: Abit

I kept asking myself if I shoulda seen all that trouble coming my way. But the answer was always no. No shivers, no belly ache, no bad feelings. Even Mollie, her head hanging out the truck window, missed any signs of danger.

We’d just come home from a vacation, probably only the second or third of my life. Everything looked right as I pulled up the drive—a satisfying sight after three week away. I felt a tug in my chest when I saw the house hadn’t burned down, the fall garden hadn’t dried up, and the chickens were walking through the yard, looking for bugs right on schedule.

Mollie was so happy to escape the truck, she jumped over me and down to the ground before I could move outta her way. She started rolling in the grass, doing her do-dahs on her back, big fuzzy paws waving in the air. She did that every time we’d been away for a spell.

I smiled as I watched, recalling the time Mollie looked so happy wiggling on the cool grass I decided to join her. Hurt my spine something fierce, so no temptation this time. Besides, I was eager to get inside my home. For more than twenty year it had held my life’s tales and treasures, and I wanted to wallow in its warmth again.

When I unlocked the front door and stepped inside, that was when I knew something was wrong. Even before I saw the man.

“Oh. I wondered when someone would show up,” he said, putting his phone down on the kitchen counter, like it were sustenance.

“Do I know you?” I asked. Stupid question, but my mind was whirling after a four-hundred-mile drive home and an intruder waiting for me. Of course I didn’t know him, and what in the world was he doing making himself at home in my home?

Just then Mollie wandered in, and for oncet she was more surprised than me. I could see her coming to terms with the fact that someone likely up to no good was in her house. I grabbed her.

The man looked at me that way some people did, like I didn’t have good sense. “I can imagine it’s unsettling to come home and find a stranger inside,” he said, a sneer making his comely face ugly. “But you see, I can’t leave. So get used to it.”

He said it so calm-like, I caught myself thinking he musta had a good reason to stay. But just as quick, I shook my head clear. Mollie started growling, something she rarely did; I bent over to console her. When I turned back toward the man, I was looking down the barrel of a gun.

I’d felt a rush of anger at this man taking over my home, but that gun cast a different light on things. “Now listen, mister,” I said, my voice sounding stronger than I felt. “I don’t know what kind of trouble you’re in, but you can get what you need and move on. I’ll even make you some food for the road. And I won’t say a word to a soul.”

He laughed. “I’m not going anywhere, Mountain Man.” When I started to move toward the door, he added, quick-like, “And neither are you. Hand over your keys.”

I tossed them his way. I didn’t want to get any closer to him, and I sure didn’t want Mollie getting within biting distance.

***

Eventually we settled into an uneasy truce. He did his thing, studying his phone for hours on end in the living room while me and Mollie hung round the kitchen. I could see he’d taken food from my freezer, mostly left uneaten on the counter. Like the meatloaf I’d been looking forward to, frozen for a night just like this one when cooking was outta the question. His picking at it made me furious since it would now go to waste; I could not eat his leftovers.

I’d left my cellphone in the truck, so I eased toward the bedroom where I still had a landline, acting like I needed to lie down. That was when I heard the pistol cock. “Maybe you didn’t hear me, Vester. You aren’t going anywhere or calling anyone.”

Mollie started growling again, but I whispered in her ear that I needed her to be a good girl. She gave a few of those whisper woofs all dogs do so they can have the last word. She quieted down then, like she knew we were in deep trouble.

We sat silent-like for what seemed to be hours. I stayed in the kitchen, away from him all sprawled out in my chair, and prayed for our safety. Like I did at times like this, I promised to be a better person if given the chance. I’d cherish every moment instead of letting them race by, as though each one weren’t precious.

After a while, I looked at my watch, expecting hours to have passed, but it hadn’t even been one. I moved into the living room so I could study the man, not long past being a boy. Tall, but kinda flabby. And pale. Like someone who’d spent too much time indoors, likely at a desk. His dark hair was longer than the current fashion, something I somehow knew from watching television. I was trying to hate him, but those dark brown eyes of his looked so sad it was hard not to feel something close to pity.

My stomach started growling. I’d been hungry on the way home, thinking about that meatloaf for supper, but my appetite left when I’d crossed the threshold. I’d never known it to stay away long, though, and oncet again it was rearing its head. And I could feel Mollie’s stomach gurgling as I held her close.

“I need to make us some supper.” I stood and walked toward the freezer.

“Sure, sure. I’m a reasonable guy.” He kinda chuckled, like that was funny.

I thought about beans and pulled pork, but my stomach felt too tender for that. I rummaged round and made Mollie’s dinner from her bag of kibble and mine from the chickens—fresh scrambled eggs—and toast from a loaf I’d picked up at a farmers market on the way home. There was plenty for me and the stranger, but I was loathe to offer him any. Eventually, though, I figured kindness might work better than anger and asked if he wanted any. He turned down my offer with a shake of his head.

After my meal, while I was doing the dishes, a bone-weariness washed over me. I walked into the living room, Mollie by my side, and headed to my bedroom.

“Oh, no you don’t. I need to keep an eye on you. And what about your cellphone? Hand it over.”

“How do you know I have one?”

“Because everyone does. They’re like our opposable thumbs … distinguishing us from other animals.” He thought that was clever and kinda smiled before motioning with his free hand and steadying the gun on me with the other.

“It’s in the truck,” I said. “I can’t be calling anyone with it out there.” I kept walking to the bedroom.

“I said NO!”

“I told you I don’t have it on me.”

“But you probably have some old-fashioned landline in there. No way. You can sleep on the sofa, where I can watch you.”

That was so senseless. Why not rip out the telephone cord and let me sleep in my own bed? But I caught myself before I spoke. I didn’t want to cut any possible ties with the outside world. I made my way over to the couch. “And what about you?” I asked.

“I don’t sleep.”

I figured he was just being contrary. I settled on the couch, way too small for my six-foot-three frame, but better than the hardwood floor where Mollie curled up nearby. I hoped she’d stay close and not try some fool thing to protect me.

Exhaustion pulled me into sleep.

Chapter 2: Abit

My neighbor’s rooster woke me round five o’clock, before the first speck of light in the sky. What is that blamed rooster doing up before dawn? I thought, barely awake. I rolled over and put the pillow over my head. Then I remembered the stranger. I looked his way in the still-dark room. The moon was full or I’d never've made him out, sitting in my easy chair, wide awake, the gun pointing directly at me.

“I’m getting up now,” I told him. “I need the bathroom and then to make breakfast for me and my dog. She needs to go out. Trust me, she won’t be calling anyone out there.”

He did that thing with the gun like they do on TV, motioning with it, not saying a word.

Mollie didn’t want to leave my side, but the man had already told me I couldn’t go outside with her. I let her out the front door and spent a moment appreciating the cool October morning air. Soon though, the tang of autumn, something I’d loved since I were a boy, filled my head with thoughts of death and decay. I closed the door and walked to the bathroom. Along the way I noticed the landline. I looked over my shoulder to make sure the man couldn't see and picked up the receiver. Silence. The cord lay on the floor like a dead serpent; the man had pulled it from the wall, likely while I'd slept.

After I washed, I went back to the front window, where I could see Mollie sitting on the porch in the exact spot I’d left her. “Go on, girl. It’s okay. Get to it.”

I started breakfast and offered to make the stranger some. He grunted no. Again.

“You need to eat,” I told him, as if I cared about his well-being. But I could see he was kinda feverish—his brow moist with sweat, even though the house had turned cool overnight—and I didn’t want him doing something crazy because he had the jitters from not eating.

“Make it for yourself and that dog, but leave me out of it. How do I know you won’t poison me?”

I shuddered at the terror of living inside a mind like his. Life was hard enough for real, but add in his dark imaginings, and it had to be unbearable.

I went back to my fixins. Mollie and I tucked into the eggs and sausages and some biscuits I’d found buried in the freezer. I let her have some people food in addition to her kibble, hoping she’d enjoy her day more.

While we were eating, the man’s phone buzzed with a text that sent him off the deep end. He paced round the living room, ranting like a man in deep despair. He started spouting a bunch of gibberish about “them coming for me.” After a time, he put his phone down and collapsed in my chair again.

“All I can figure is you’re hiding from someone, but really you need to get away from here,” I said. “I can help. I’ll drive you anywhere. You can have all my cash. Food is low because I’ve been gone, but there’s plenty in the freezer and fruit cellar.”

“You’ll know what I look like, where you’ve taken me.”

“You can take my truck. It looks old but it runs good.” My heart cramped at the thought of giving him my Chevy truck, the kind with those beautiful wraparound windows in the back, the way they made them in 1950. But at this point that seemed the better choice.

“No, they’re looking for me, but they’ll never find me here. I’m staying put.”

“Who’s looking for you?”

“Shut up.”

“This is crazy. You can’t stay here forever.”

“I’m thinking. I’m thinking. Shut up!”

I ignored him. “What if someone comes? Or calls? There are people expecting me. What if they show up to check on me?” I could see him stop to ponder that for a moment. “Tell me who’s after you? I know a lot of people who can help. You’re just a boy, not much older than my two. What could you have done so wrong?”

“Oh, mister. You are so quaint. By the time anyone’s twenty-five years old, they could’ve destroyed a whole village. Dismantled an empire.”

“You say they, whoever that is, won’t find you here, but all kinds of people do come here, any time of day. That could lead to gossip, which won’t work in your favor.”

“Oh, yeah? Looks to me like you live a pretty solitary life. I checked it all out before you got here. I know you live alone. Your bed is slept on only one side, and the kids’ beds are a little dusty. I’m not expecting anyone to show up. And if the postman or someone like that happens along, this,” he added, looking at his pistol, “will help you say the right thing.” He nodded at Mollie. “Or that dog is history.”

Thing was, he was right. No one was coming here. Not even the postman; I’d stopped my mail for the trip. My girlfriend, Keely Crivello, lived in New Jersey, where I’d been for a coupla weeks. We’d met last summer when she was down this way writing her novel, and we’d hit it off. But she taught school and needed to return to Jersey for another year.

My best friend, Della Kincaid, and her husband, Alex Covington, had moved back to Washington, D.C., where I’d stopped for a few days on my way home. They’d promised to come for the holidays, but that was weeks away.

Shiloh, my woodworking partner, was off on one of his Zen retreats. I’d timed my trip so he could stay here and water the garden and feed the chickens before he went off to whatever they do—or don’t do—at an ashram.

Even my neighbor Matthew wouldn’t know I was home ‘til Mollie wandered down his way to play with his Irish setter, Red. No way he could see my truck from his house.

I was at a loss for any more pleas or promises. While we sat in the living room for another agonizing spell of silence (Shiloh would’ve loved it!), I thought about the book I’d been reading while I was away. It talked about how unexpected happenings shape our lives. How things turn out—or not—for the flukiest reasons. Like the way a random exchange with someone or a missed turn on the road could send your life in a whole different direction. Which made me think about when Della and I’d met all those year ago. If I hadn’t been sitting in my chair outside of Coburn’s just when she drove by, if I hadn’t waved, we might not have ever met, and I’d still be just one more local no-count, moping round a closed store. Or how maybe if I hadn’t gone on that vacation, the stranger would have stopped at a different place, tormenting someone else right now.

Chapter 3: Abit

The next day was pretty much the same as the day before, except I skipped my midday dinner, mostly because I didn’t have enough food in the house. And because fear was turning my stomach inside out.

The man had put his phone down and spent much of the day scribbling in a notebook. That was something we could agree on—I preferred that kinda notebook more than my phone. Easier to find stuff. I recalled Della telling me about using special reporters’ notebooks, so maybe that was his story too.

My mind raced with ideas about how to slip away. I had visions of somehow getting ahold of the keys and sneaking out at night, me and Mollie making a run for it to the sheriff’s office in Newland. But then what? Sheriff Armstrong would probably just laugh at me. “Scared of your own shadow?” he’d taunt. He’d treated me thataway before.

Besides, I’d never make it past the stranger, who didn't seem to sleep. For two days and two nights, I’d catch glimpses of him, and he was always awake. I didn’t know what to make of that.

But I kept working at ways to escape. After a while I swear he could read my thoughts. He pointed the pistol at me. “When you’re dreaming, remember this,” he said, shaking the gun. “And don’t think that stupid happy dog of yours will be any protection. I'd shoot it first.”

I was offended by how glib he was about killing a fine dog like Mollie. Or anything, for that matter. Everything started to wear down on me, time moving so slow I thought the day would never end. I could sense Mollie growing anxious, stuck inside so much, barely venturing past the porch. Finally, just before suppertime, I looked into the man’s sad, lost eyes and decided to make a pact with the Devil.

“I’ve got a place in my barn that no one knows about. My boys, back when they were little, found it and hid there. That first time I looked and looked but couldn’t find them. Nearly scared me to death. They started laughing, and I was so happy to hear them, safe and sound, I ran to where they lay and joined in. It’s a serious place to hide. If you’re careful, no one will find you. You can go out there and stay as long as you like. I’ll bring you food and water. Then when the coast is clear, you can move on.”

He was quiet for a while. The more time passed, the more I got my hopes up he’d take me up on the offer. Before long, though, I worried about what I’d just said. What was I thinking, giving safe harbor to someone pointing a gun at me and Mollie?

I jumped when he suddenly asked, “What’s your name? I saw some bills on your desk. Said a man named Vester Bradshaw Junior lived here. You don’t look like a Vester, whatever they look like.”

“People call me Abit, a nickname my father gave me. Because he said I was a bit slow. Thought that was real funny.”

He frowned. “Why’d you keep using it?”

“Oh, I reckon I’d been called that so long, by the time I was old enough to make a change, it didn’t bother me anymore.”

“Well, at least your dad was around. I barely knew mine.”

“Sometimes I wished that were true for me.”

He nodded, though I could tell he thought his was worse. Probably was. “My father inherited a ton of money, then made even more. But he never helped with my college tuition, which would have been spare change for him. But I showed him; I got a scholarship and worked hard.”

“Why in the world would he treat you like that?”

“I was the son from before. Before his shiny new family that didn’t come with baggage. But you wouldn't know about things like that with your hillbilly family units.”

He was definitely out of his head. I didn't know about distant rich fathers, but I knew the poor kind. And we never had much of a family unit, if that was what I thought it was. I told him that.

“Well then, you know what it feels like to be a kid raised by a father who doesn’t care.”

“Raised, yes, but you're no kid anymore.” I stopped before I said too much.

“What, you think I need to get a grip?” He sneered at me. “Is that what you were going to say?”

“No,” I lied. “Just that you should live your own life. Not the bad version you’ve brought to my doorstep.”

He glared. Then pouted.

“So what’s your name,” I asked, trying to keep him talking.

“None of your business.”

I shrugged. Fine, I didn’t really want to know his name. I just wanted him gone.

The living room thrummed with silence. Finally he said, “Parker.”

“What?”

“My name’s Parker.”

“Is that a first or last name?”

He waved the gun, kinda limp-like, but still, it was a loaded gun. “Don’t get cute. It’s my first name. Family name and all that.”

“Well, Parker, we both got screwed on first names.” He seemed lost in sad memories when I stood to stretch my legs. As I headed to the front door, he sat up in a hurry. “I sure could use some walking round,” I said before he could threaten me again. “You can hold that blamed gun on me, but let’s walk round outside. I’ll show you the hiding place. You’d never find it on your own.”

I gulped the fresh air, a tonic after two days stuck inside a room stinking with fear. Autumn had come down on Hanging Dog while I was away—something that now seemed months instead of days ago—blanketing the mountains in bright colors and a hint of wood smoke. Wonderful.

We still had just enough daylight to make our way into the barn, where all kinds of tools—shovels, pitchforks, rakes—were just out of reach. Parker noticed them too. “Don’t get any ideas,” he said, giving me a little shove. We had to squeeze into the space just below the hiding place, so close I could smell his unwashed body. I prayed he’d move in there and leave us be. Maybe he’d sleep some and calm down enough to leave.

He actually thanked me for showing him, but said he’d have to think on how he might use that space. He pushed me back toward the house.