Murder In Small Towns
By
Ellen Stanton
Welcome to Murder In Small Towns short story murder mysteries.
I'm a graduate of the Writers' Digest Short Story Mystery School! I want to thank my instructors, authors Judith Greber and Anne Wingate for their excellent classes and support through the courses and years!
I would also like to thank Liz Arini, Melody Schafer, Carol Sue Jones, Annette Desmarais, and Kathy LaVere for their encouragement during the many years of our friendships!
And finally, I would like to thank my sisters, Marianne and Cate who were there for me to ask for advice and valued opinions. I miss both of you more than any words I could write.
All stories are original and have a copyright. All characters are fictional and a product of the author's imagination.
Each story is a donation with a minimum of $2 via paypal and all proceeds will be donated to St. Jude Children's Hospital or the Multiple Sclerosis Society. This can be a tax write off.
To purchase a story: PayPal.Me/smalltownmurders
Then email me: murderinsmalltowns@yahoo.com and let me know which story number you would like and I will send it to you via return email!
Please stop by often for new stories!!!
#1 The Prime of My Life
“Let’s go over it one more time.”
“You’re sure she’ll die?”
“Trust me. By this time tomorrow, I’ll be a widower. A very wealthy widower.”
“Let’s go over it one more time.”
“Relax, Stephanie, we’ve planned this for months. Claire’s murder will be perfect.”
“Still, let’s go through this again.”
“Alright, alright. Tonight, at her fiftieth birthday party, in full view of some of Litchfield’s most prominent citizens, including your husband, Claire will eat what will appear to be chicken hors d’ouevre from Robertson’s Catering, which only you know I’ve replaced with seafood. Given her extreme allergy to crustacean, almost instantly her tongue will swell, blocking her airway. Then she’ll develop respiratory paralysis and die. Her death will look like a tragic accident which will be blamed on the caterers.”
“You’re positive no one will know the difference between your hors d’ouevre and the caterers?”
“You know I’ve spent weeks perfecting them. They’re identical. I went all the way to Hartford for the ingredients and paid cash. There’s no way to trace anything back to me.”
“The police.... “
“Will send food samples to the state police lab where they’ll verify that most of the hors d’oeuvres contain the ground chick which I specifically ordered from Robertsons but five or six contain seafood, which they also have on the menu, but which I specifically did not order. Even if Robertson’s denies there was a mix up, the long, finely manicured finger of guilt will point to them. They will be an unfortunate casualty in this. Besides, why would anyone suspect me? For the past ten years I’ve played the part of the devoted, loving husband. You, my dear Stephanie, are the only one who knows how much I despise that penny-pinching....”
“I know exactly how you feel, Ted. I have a similar problem, remember?”
“In six months, I promise we’ll arrange for your beloved husband to have an accident.”
What happens to Claire?
#1 The Prime of My Life
“Let’s go over it one more time.”
“You’re sure she’ll die?”
“Trust me. By this time tomorrow, I’ll be a widower. A very wealthy widower.”
“Let’s go over it one more time.”
“Relax, Stephanie, we’ve planned this for months. Claire’s murder will be perfect.”
“Still, let’s go through this again.”
“Alright, alright. Tonight, at her fiftieth birthday party, in full view of some of Litchfield’s most prominent citizens, including your husband, Claire will eat what will appear to be chicken hors d’ouevre from Robertson’s Catering, which only you know I’ve replaced with seafood. Given her extreme allergy to crustacean, almost instantly her tongue will swell, blocking her airway. Then she’ll develop respiratory paralysis and die. Her death will look like a tragic accident which will be blamed on the caterers.”
“You’re positive no one will know the difference between your hors d’ouevre and the caterers?”
“You know I’ve spent weeks perfecting them. They’re identical. I went all the way to Hartford for the ingredients and paid cash. There’s no way to trace anything back to me.”
“The police.... “
“Will send food samples to the state police lab where they’ll verify that most of the hors d’oeuvres contain the ground chick which I specifically ordered from Robertsons but five or six contain seafood, which they also have on the menu, but which I specifically did not order. Even if Robertson’s denies there was a mix up, the long, finely manicured finger of guilt will point to them. They will be an unfortunate casualty in this. Besides, why would anyone suspect me? For the past ten years I’ve played the part of the devoted, loving husband. You, my dear Stephanie, are the only one who knows how much I despise that penny-pinching....”
“I know exactly how you feel, Ted. I have a similar problem, remember?”
“In six months, I promise we’ll arrange for your beloved husband to have an accident.”
What happens to Claire?
Each story is a donation with a minimum of $2 via paypal and all proceeds will be donated to St. Jude Children's Hospital or the Multiple Sclerosis Society. This can be a tax write off.
To purchase a story: PayPal.Me/smalltownmurders
Then email me: murderinsmalltowns@yahoo.com and let me know which story number you would like and I will send it to you via return email!
#2 The Last Thing I Do
The first bullet entered my left arm, exiting it shattered the base of the decanter next to the brass lamp. Looking down I watched as shards of crystal mingled with my blood staining the pages of the St. James Bible resting on my lap. From the hallway the grandfather clock chimed the hour and the shrill sound of the ringing phone echoed through the house. Knowing I had a millisecond to live, I focused on the silver framed photographs of my beloved daughter and her family, the people I loved most in this world. The second bullet lodged in the center of my brain, and then....
The vision evaporated and I took deep breaths to steady my racing heart. As the time grew closer to my death, the images were coming faster, more intense. I looked at my watch: 7:30 PM. Eric Schroeder would murder me in a half an hour.
All her life, Lydia Peterson's psychic visions have come true. Did she see her own death?
The first bullet entered my left arm, exiting it shattered the base of the decanter next to the brass lamp. Looking down I watched as shards of crystal mingled with my blood staining the pages of the St. James Bible resting on my lap. From the hallway the grandfather clock chimed the hour and the shrill sound of the ringing phone echoed through the house. Knowing I had a millisecond to live, I focused on the silver framed photographs of my beloved daughter and her family, the people I loved most in this world. The second bullet lodged in the center of my brain, and then....
The vision evaporated and I took deep breaths to steady my racing heart. As the time grew closer to my death, the images were coming faster, more intense. I looked at my watch: 7:30 PM. Eric Schroeder would murder me in a half an hour.
All her life, Lydia Peterson's psychic visions have come true. Did she see her own death?
Each story is a donation with a minimum of $2 via paypal and all proceeds will be donated to St. Jude Children's Hospital or the Multiple Sclerosis Society. This can be a tax write off.
To purchase a story: PayPal.Me/smalltownmurders
Then email me: murderinsmalltowns@yahoo.com and let me know which story number you would like and I will send it to you via return email!
#3 The Neighborly Thing To Do
New Year’s Eve
My darling daughter, Sarah:
By the time you read this I’ll be....
I ignored the burning tears, crumbled the paper and began again.
My darling daughter Sarah:
Please forgive me for what I’m about to do.
I sat back and stared at the asymmetric script on the ecru stationery. Consumed by a mother’s fierce instinct to protect my daughter, I had to make sure she felt no guilt about my impending action and had a clear understanding of why I couldn’t go on like this. Not for another year, not for another day.
Pushed to her limit, will she survive the night? The new year?
#4 The Right Thing To Do
“Mrs. Prescott, one of your neighbors told us she saw you walking from the direction of the Louden Farm about the time we believe Annie Rossel was murdered, and you didn’t see anything?”
Silently I asked Annie to forgive, looked into the eyes of the detective seated at my dining room table, and shook my head.
“Look, he lowered his voice. “I know she was a friend of yours and that this has been a shock, so take your time, anything can be important.”
For the past two hours, since I’d heard gunfire, then seen Annie’s husband run from their white clapboard farmhouse--the barrel of his shotgun gleaming in the early morning sun--I told myself that Annie would understand why I couldn’t get involved in her murder.
We all have choices to make in life. Most of the time we choose to do the right thing. But sometimes, for whatever reason, we just can't. Then what?
New Year’s Eve
My darling daughter, Sarah:
By the time you read this I’ll be....
I ignored the burning tears, crumbled the paper and began again.
My darling daughter Sarah:
Please forgive me for what I’m about to do.
I sat back and stared at the asymmetric script on the ecru stationery. Consumed by a mother’s fierce instinct to protect my daughter, I had to make sure she felt no guilt about my impending action and had a clear understanding of why I couldn’t go on like this. Not for another year, not for another day.
Pushed to her limit, will she survive the night? The new year?
Each story is a donation with a minimum of $2 via paypal and all proceeds will be donated to St. Jude Children's Hospital or the Multiple Sclerosis Society. This can be a tax write off.
To purchase a story: PayPal.Me/smalltownmurders
Then email me: murderinsmalltowns@yahoo.com and let me know which story number you would like and I will send it to you via return email!
#4 The Right Thing To Do
“Mrs. Prescott, one of your neighbors told us she saw you walking from the direction of the Louden Farm about the time we believe Annie Rossel was murdered, and you didn’t see anything?”
Silently I asked Annie to forgive, looked into the eyes of the detective seated at my dining room table, and shook my head.
“Look, he lowered his voice. “I know she was a friend of yours and that this has been a shock, so take your time, anything can be important.”
For the past two hours, since I’d heard gunfire, then seen Annie’s husband run from their white clapboard farmhouse--the barrel of his shotgun gleaming in the early morning sun--I told myself that Annie would understand why I couldn’t get involved in her murder.
We all have choices to make in life. Most of the time we choose to do the right thing. But sometimes, for whatever reason, we just can't. Then what?
Each story is a donation with a minimum of $2 via paypal and all proceeds will be donated to St. Jude Children's Hospital or the Multiple Sclerosis Society. This can be a tax write off.
To purchase a story: PayPal.Me/smalltownmurders
Then email me: murderinsmalltowns@yahoo.com and let me know which story number you would like and I will send it to you via return email!
#5 Welcome to Wallingford, Chief Russeau
“My sister’s death was not a suicide. You will reopen her case immediately or I assure you I will go to the state police and the media. Do I make myself clear?”
I leaned forward with my hands folded on my mahogany desk, looked directly in her blue eyes, with heavy brown, and chose my words carefully. “I’ve read the reports left by the former Chief of Police, as well as those of the medical examiner and the lab technicians. There is no evidence of a homicide. I’ve also read the statements from your sister’s family all of whom stated that your sister was suffering from depression.”
“That’s a lie.” her voice rose. “ Theresa was not depressed. Why would she be? She loved her family, she had hundreds of friends, she just won a large lawsuit from a contractor for over a million dollars. She wasn’t ill. Her life was good.”
I tried another tactic. “Mrs. Phillips, why do you think that Chief Brennan and the medical examiner deemed your sister’s death a suicide?”
Without hesitation, she angrily responded. “Because they’re inept. This is a small, upscale community. The biggest crime the police have had to deal with is a stolen car. They were over their heads.”
I remained silent and waited for her to continue her tirade. She didn’t disappoint me.
“I have no use for that idiot Brennan. He botched this case from the beginning.”
“Why would you think that?” I asked calmly.
Krystan Phillips looked at me as if I were from another planet. She leaned forward resting her manicured hands on the edge of my desk. In a controlled, low voice said, “Let me lay this out for you. Chief Brennan failed to interview at least three witnesses who saw my sister sitting on the Oneida Lake breakwall across the street from St. Mark’s Church where she had just attended an evening service. They also saw two men standing next to her. Witnesses saw her black Cadillac SUV blocked in by two cars on River Road, which is directly across from the church, near the lake’s edge. Is that in your report? No, it isn’t! I found out about the witnesses from Erin McKinnley, a reporter for the Wallingford Chronicle. I’ve spoken to those witnesses and every one of them said that they contacted the police department, told the Chief what they’d seen, and were never called to give a statement. I have it all documented in this file,” She pointed to a manilla file folder she had placed on my desk when she arrived for this appointment. “And I’m going to tell you something else Chief Russeau, my sister was devout. More devout than anyone I’ve ever met. As I said, she had just left an evening service at St. Mark’s. She didn’t believe in suicide. AND if she did, she would go home and swallow whatever was in her medicine cabinet. She was afraid of the water, always had been. She wouldn’t go near that lake voluntarily. Ever. AND she certainly would not have chosen a lake located across the street from the church she attended where the elite of Catholicism in Wallingford, worship. The thought of one of her friends finding her body, wet and bloated, well, it’s out of the question. My sister was murdered. Now, you are an experienced former New York City Chief of Detectives whose now our police chief and I want you to reopen this case and find out who killed my sister and why. Understood?”
Welcome to Wallingford, Chief Russeau is the first in a series of murder mysteries centered around the citizens of Wallingford, New York. Wallingford is a beautiful, affluent town located in Upper State New York, on the Hudson River, surrounded by the majestic Catskill Mountains.
In this story Krystan Phillips believes her sister's death is a homicide not a suicide.
Will Chief Russeau prove her right?
#6 Wallingford Founder's Day Murders
Fellow citizens, distinguished guests and visitors, it is with great pride that I welcome all of you to our annual Wallingford Founder’s Day celebration!”
Mayor Stephen Jennings waited for the applause to subside before continuing. “In the spring of 1794, after purchasing the land we now know as Wallingford , Samuel Wallingfor left his home in New York City, enticing fifteen families to join him, for promises of rich, new lives. By the fall of that year, with his wife and daughters, they traveled by wagon train and carriages, through trails, and paths, and the twisting Caskill Mountains, to become the first settlers of our community! The first homes and barns were built between September and early November From the diaries and journals of those first families , life here wasn't’ easy for the them.” Mayor Jennings spoke with more passion, “Not only did they have to contend with wild animals , wolves, deer and other wildlife, their first winter was near disastrous with one of our east coast blizzards.
He cleared his throat and continued, “In the spring, these brave men and women planted our first orchards. They also sowed crops on our hilly terrain, continued to battle the elements and prospered! As more settlers arrived, stores sprung up, the first church was erected, permanent homes were built! Some are still standing today in out historic district.”
He continued in a more somber voice, “Unfortunately our founder died in 1797. We don’t know how or why, but we do know that before his death, Samuel Wallingford, and those he selected to govern the town, wrote a charter . That charter reads: This place has been created, and shall continue to be preserved, in such a manner that is for the common good of all who dwell here. No one person or group of persons shall be allowed to inflict his will for any reason on the well being of his fellow citizens, without the consent of a Wallingford decendant. That charter remains the fabric of our town government today! Samuel Wallingford was a courageous, noble man of integrity who brought his vision of a beautiful community, filled with hard working industrious citizens, to life! And we are still prospering from their labors!”
I sat back in the hard wooden chair that faced the enormous white covered ,bandstand located in the center of our quaint town. I’d heard similar speeches by a dozen or so mayors through out my fifty two years -my entire life- all of it living here in Wallingford. Looking around the usual crowd at these events, , I spied Kathryn Wallingford Collins, her son and grandson sitting two rows ahead and to my left . They nodded almost in unison at the mayor’s speech. I shook my head. There were less than a handful of people who knew the truth: Samuel Wallingford , our founder, was a liar, a thief, extortionist, a rapist and a murderer.
Anne Hawthorne is the Director of the Wallingford Historical Society. When she becomes privy to the knowledge that the founder of her beloved town is not the man of courage and honor who everyone believes him to be, she is torn to do the right thing. We all have reasons for the decisions we make and living with the ramifications of those decisions. Did she make the right one?
Each story is a donation with a minimum of $2 via paypal and all proceeds will be donated to St. Jude Children's Hospital or the Multiple Sclerosis Society. This can be a tax write off.
#7 A Moment In Time
I fingered the Glock in the pocket of my frayed, red blazer.
I was prepared for this moment I told myself. I’d waited half my life to see her again.
Half my life.
The cold steel brought me a sense of power and security.
I was ready.
I looked at my watch.
I had already waited five minutes. Damn it. I told that short, haughty butler that this was important when he shooed me into this room.
I breathed deeply and looked around the mahogany paneled room filled from floor to ceiling with books, most of them leather bound.
I didn’t know much about antiques , but even I could tell the dark oak desk, with the large a leather chair, tilted sideways as if someone had just gotten up and left the room, was expensive. I touched the fabric of the cream and burgandy sofa, a almost silky texture, and wondered if anyone, beside me, had ever sat on it. I looked to my right at wooden tables with heavy marble tops, and brass lamps gleaming in the sunlight ,streaking through the diamond shaped window panes,
There was more money in this room than I probably saw in the last twenty years of my life.
I rose from the sofa and walked to the book cases. My gaze fell on shelves, just beneath the books, where strategically placed, were photos of the woman, I was waiting to see. Her life shown in photographs.
I picked up a silver framed photo of her wedding taken years ago. I looked closer and saw a sign in the uppper left corner that read the Ritz of New York City. The smiling young bride in a billowing wedding dress, stared back at me . I swore silently and I slammed the photo back on the shelf.
I moved from one photo to another. From life in a high rise in Manhattan to pictures of her husband and her traveling to places, in parts of the world, I didn’t recognize.
And then I held my breath as my attention rested on the photo of the grinning , brown hair, chubby toddler about 15 months old in the arms of Charlotte.
I reached in my pocket, and next to the Glock, pulled out the photo of my son, Johnny. I placed the photo next to the one on the table. Without a doubt, I knew this was my son.
This is every mother's nightmare. In one moment in time, your child is taken. Jennifer McGrady spent half her life searching for her son who had been kidnapped, years ago, in a boutique in SoHo. Now that she found him, and the woman who took her son, what will happen to the three of them?
“My sister’s death was not a suicide. You will reopen her case immediately or I assure you I will go to the state police and the media. Do I make myself clear?”
I leaned forward with my hands folded on my mahogany desk, looked directly in her blue eyes, with heavy brown, and chose my words carefully. “I’ve read the reports left by the former Chief of Police, as well as those of the medical examiner and the lab technicians. There is no evidence of a homicide. I’ve also read the statements from your sister’s family all of whom stated that your sister was suffering from depression.”
“That’s a lie.” her voice rose. “ Theresa was not depressed. Why would she be? She loved her family, she had hundreds of friends, she just won a large lawsuit from a contractor for over a million dollars. She wasn’t ill. Her life was good.”
I tried another tactic. “Mrs. Phillips, why do you think that Chief Brennan and the medical examiner deemed your sister’s death a suicide?”
Without hesitation, she angrily responded. “Because they’re inept. This is a small, upscale community. The biggest crime the police have had to deal with is a stolen car. They were over their heads.”
I remained silent and waited for her to continue her tirade. She didn’t disappoint me.
“I have no use for that idiot Brennan. He botched this case from the beginning.”
“Why would you think that?” I asked calmly.
Krystan Phillips looked at me as if I were from another planet. She leaned forward resting her manicured hands on the edge of my desk. In a controlled, low voice said, “Let me lay this out for you. Chief Brennan failed to interview at least three witnesses who saw my sister sitting on the Oneida Lake breakwall across the street from St. Mark’s Church where she had just attended an evening service. They also saw two men standing next to her. Witnesses saw her black Cadillac SUV blocked in by two cars on River Road, which is directly across from the church, near the lake’s edge. Is that in your report? No, it isn’t! I found out about the witnesses from Erin McKinnley, a reporter for the Wallingford Chronicle. I’ve spoken to those witnesses and every one of them said that they contacted the police department, told the Chief what they’d seen, and were never called to give a statement. I have it all documented in this file,” She pointed to a manilla file folder she had placed on my desk when she arrived for this appointment. “And I’m going to tell you something else Chief Russeau, my sister was devout. More devout than anyone I’ve ever met. As I said, she had just left an evening service at St. Mark’s. She didn’t believe in suicide. AND if she did, she would go home and swallow whatever was in her medicine cabinet. She was afraid of the water, always had been. She wouldn’t go near that lake voluntarily. Ever. AND she certainly would not have chosen a lake located across the street from the church she attended where the elite of Catholicism in Wallingford, worship. The thought of one of her friends finding her body, wet and bloated, well, it’s out of the question. My sister was murdered. Now, you are an experienced former New York City Chief of Detectives whose now our police chief and I want you to reopen this case and find out who killed my sister and why. Understood?”
Welcome to Wallingford, Chief Russeau is the first in a series of murder mysteries centered around the citizens of Wallingford, New York. Wallingford is a beautiful, affluent town located in Upper State New York, on the Hudson River, surrounded by the majestic Catskill Mountains.
In this story Krystan Phillips believes her sister's death is a homicide not a suicide.
Will Chief Russeau prove her right?
Each story is a donation with a minimum of $2 via paypal and all proceeds will be donated to St. Jude Children's Hospital or the Multiple Sclerosis Society. This can be a tax write off.
To purchase a story: PayPal.Me/smalltownmurders
Then email me: murderinsmalltowns@yahoo.com and let me know which story number you would like and I will send it to you via return email!
#6 Wallingford Founder's Day Murders
Fellow citizens, distinguished guests and visitors, it is with great pride that I welcome all of you to our annual Wallingford Founder’s Day celebration!”
Mayor Stephen Jennings waited for the applause to subside before continuing. “In the spring of 1794, after purchasing the land we now know as Wallingford , Samuel Wallingfor left his home in New York City, enticing fifteen families to join him, for promises of rich, new lives. By the fall of that year, with his wife and daughters, they traveled by wagon train and carriages, through trails, and paths, and the twisting Caskill Mountains, to become the first settlers of our community! The first homes and barns were built between September and early November From the diaries and journals of those first families , life here wasn't’ easy for the them.” Mayor Jennings spoke with more passion, “Not only did they have to contend with wild animals , wolves, deer and other wildlife, their first winter was near disastrous with one of our east coast blizzards.
He cleared his throat and continued, “In the spring, these brave men and women planted our first orchards. They also sowed crops on our hilly terrain, continued to battle the elements and prospered! As more settlers arrived, stores sprung up, the first church was erected, permanent homes were built! Some are still standing today in out historic district.”
He continued in a more somber voice, “Unfortunately our founder died in 1797. We don’t know how or why, but we do know that before his death, Samuel Wallingford, and those he selected to govern the town, wrote a charter . That charter reads: This place has been created, and shall continue to be preserved, in such a manner that is for the common good of all who dwell here. No one person or group of persons shall be allowed to inflict his will for any reason on the well being of his fellow citizens, without the consent of a Wallingford decendant. That charter remains the fabric of our town government today! Samuel Wallingford was a courageous, noble man of integrity who brought his vision of a beautiful community, filled with hard working industrious citizens, to life! And we are still prospering from their labors!”
I sat back in the hard wooden chair that faced the enormous white covered ,bandstand located in the center of our quaint town. I’d heard similar speeches by a dozen or so mayors through out my fifty two years -my entire life- all of it living here in Wallingford. Looking around the usual crowd at these events, , I spied Kathryn Wallingford Collins, her son and grandson sitting two rows ahead and to my left . They nodded almost in unison at the mayor’s speech. I shook my head. There were less than a handful of people who knew the truth: Samuel Wallingford , our founder, was a liar, a thief, extortionist, a rapist and a murderer.
Anne Hawthorne is the Director of the Wallingford Historical Society. When she becomes privy to the knowledge that the founder of her beloved town is not the man of courage and honor who everyone believes him to be, she is torn to do the right thing. We all have reasons for the decisions we make and living with the ramifications of those decisions. Did she make the right one?
Each story is a donation with a minimum of $2 via paypal and all proceeds will be donated to St. Jude Children's Hospital or the Multiple Sclerosis Society. This can be a tax write off.
To purchase a story: PayPal.Me/smalltownmurders
Then email me: murderinsmalltowns@yahoo.com and let me know which story number you would like and I will send it to you via return email!
#7 A Moment In Time
I fingered the Glock in the pocket of my frayed, red blazer.
I was prepared for this moment I told myself. I’d waited half my life to see her again.
Half my life.
The cold steel brought me a sense of power and security.
I was ready.
I looked at my watch.
I had already waited five minutes. Damn it. I told that short, haughty butler that this was important when he shooed me into this room.
I breathed deeply and looked around the mahogany paneled room filled from floor to ceiling with books, most of them leather bound.
I didn’t know much about antiques , but even I could tell the dark oak desk, with the large a leather chair, tilted sideways as if someone had just gotten up and left the room, was expensive. I touched the fabric of the cream and burgandy sofa, a almost silky texture, and wondered if anyone, beside me, had ever sat on it. I looked to my right at wooden tables with heavy marble tops, and brass lamps gleaming in the sunlight ,streaking through the diamond shaped window panes,
There was more money in this room than I probably saw in the last twenty years of my life.
I rose from the sofa and walked to the book cases. My gaze fell on shelves, just beneath the books, where strategically placed, were photos of the woman, I was waiting to see. Her life shown in photographs.
I picked up a silver framed photo of her wedding taken years ago. I looked closer and saw a sign in the uppper left corner that read the Ritz of New York City. The smiling young bride in a billowing wedding dress, stared back at me . I swore silently and I slammed the photo back on the shelf.
I moved from one photo to another. From life in a high rise in Manhattan to pictures of her husband and her traveling to places, in parts of the world, I didn’t recognize.
And then I held my breath as my attention rested on the photo of the grinning , brown hair, chubby toddler about 15 months old in the arms of Charlotte.
I reached in my pocket, and next to the Glock, pulled out the photo of my son, Johnny. I placed the photo next to the one on the table. Without a doubt, I knew this was my son.
This is every mother's nightmare. In one moment in time, your child is taken. Jennifer McGrady spent half her life searching for her son who had been kidnapped, years ago, in a boutique in SoHo. Now that she found him, and the woman who took her son, what will happen to the three of them?
Each story is a donation with a minimum of $2 via paypal and all proceeds will be donated to St. Jude Children's Hospital or the Multiple Sclerosis Society. This can be a tax write off.
To purchase a story: PayPal.Me/smalltownmurders
Then email me: murderinsmalltowns@yahoo.com and let me know which story number you would like and I will send it to you via return email!
#8 Plain Jane Of Wallingford
Deidre Crawford, the State of New York has found you guilty of manslaughter in the death of Veronica Eastman. On that charge I sentence you to five years in Bedford Hills Correctional Facility. All charges against you relating to the abduction of your daughter, Katie Crawford, from the state of Indiana, have been dropped due to mitigating circumstances. Bailiff remand the prisoner. This court is adjourned.”
Tears burned my eyes as I stood and watched the judge leave the courtroom. I looked across to the defendant’s table where my friend Deidre Crawford was being handcuffed. She turned her head, smiled and said, “I’ll be allright.” to her sobbing parents.
Deidre looked briefly in my direction. She nodded, and gave me a half smile as she was led out of the courtroom by two tall, heavyset female officers.
Deidre Crawford, the State of New York has found you guilty of manslaughter in the death of Veronica Eastman. On that charge I sentence you to five years in Bedford Hills Correctional Facility. All charges against you relating to the abduction of your daughter, Katie Crawford, from the state of Indiana, have been dropped due to mitigating circumstances. Bailiff remand the prisoner. This court is adjourned.”
Tears burned my eyes as I stood and watched the judge leave the courtroom. I looked across to the defendant’s table where my friend Deidre Crawford was being handcuffed. She turned her head, smiled and said, “I’ll be allright.” to her sobbing parents.
Deidre looked briefly in my direction. She nodded, and gave me a half smile as she was led out of the courtroom by two tall, heavyset female officers.
I removed my glasses, wiped the tears and left the courtroom. Fifteen minutes later I was driving out of White Plains and enroute to my home in Wallingford in upstate New York. I merged onto the expressway and for the hundreth time, thought about how Deidre Crawford had imeasurably impacted my life and wondered who could have set her up to kill Veronica Eastman. I watched the cars speed past me on the expressway and slowed to let a white Cadillac Escalade merge, then settled back in the driver’s seat. I still found it difficult to call the woman that I knew as Bridget Reynolds, was actually Deidre Crawford. In my mind and heart she will would always be Bridget, my mentor and friend.
Jane Adams did find out who set her friend up to kill Veronica Eastman. And she had some tough decisions to make with that knowledge. What would you do? I'd want Jane on my team.
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