Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    The Book Sale Murder: A Detective Bass Mystery
    The Book Sale Murder: A Detective Bass Mystery
    The Book Sale Murder: A Detective Bass Mystery
    Ebook110 pages1 hour

    The Book Sale Murder: A Detective Bass Mystery

    By Stephen Randorf

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    All murders are mysterious.  It was no different when a body was found at a book sale sponsored by a local church.  No one recognized the victim, but Detective Bass knew the killer had to be one of the 12 who were buying books or helping out.  Follow him as he doggedly works through the list, and finds the surprising results.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherStephen Randorf
    Release dateJan 5, 2016
    ISBN9781519961068
    The Book Sale Murder: A Detective Bass Mystery
    Author

    Stephen Randorf

    Stephen Randorf grew up in the Midwest region of the U.S.  His education includes history and creative writing.  The Detective Bass Mystery novels and novellas specifically center around Detective Gilbert Bass, a middle-aged, desk-prone police detective who solves the low-profile cases of an urban city.

    Read more from Stephen Randorf

    Related to The Book Sale Murder

    Related ebooks

    Police Procedural For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      A rapist was HIDING IN THE WALLS

      Sep 3, 2020

      Paul Verhoeven, 37, Melbourne, Vic Wandering around my parents’ walk-in-wardrobe, I noticed the pile of cardboard boxes stacked in the corner. I was only seven, but knowing they contained items relating to my dad John’s work as a police officer, I

      3 min read

    • Article

      Chronicles of NOELLA BRAY

      Mar 11, 2022

      Chronicles of NOELLA BRAY
      4 min read

    • Article

      The Mind Reader

      Sep 10, 2022

      It happened so long ago you’d think I’d just forget it. But I haven’t, I can’t; it’s nested in my mind, coiled and twisted into my memory like a serpent I can’t get rid of. I remember it at odd moments: when I’m eating breakfast or riding the train t

      23 min read

    • Article

      Quantum Radio

      Feb 22, 2023

      Quantum Radio
      5 min read

    • Article

      Fantasy and Reality

      Aug 3, 2017

      Fantasy and Reality
      4 min read

    • Article

      Hunting For A Lesbian Canon

      May 17, 2018

      Hunting For A Lesbian Canon
      8 min read

    • Article

      The Poet At Work

      Oct 11, 2017

      The Poet At Work
      15 min read

    • Article

      When Your New York Apartment Has a Secret Literary Past

      Mar 13, 2017

      It was about three years ago now that my boyfriend and I met the broker of our current apartment. On that December morning, we walked down 84th Street, scanning the building numbers until we found our destination. I felt mildly disappointed as the br

      14 min read

    • Article

      79 The Terrible Grinning Men

      Sep 10, 2020

      79 The Terrible Grinning Men
      8 min read

    • Article

      Chris Bohjalian

      Apr 12, 2021

      Chris Bohjalian
      12 min read

    • Article

      The Art of Fiction No. 242

      Dec 15, 2018

      The Art of Fiction No. 242
      28 min read

    • Article

      ‘Guest’ Of The Gestapo

      Oct 5, 2021

      ‘Guest’ Of The Gestapo
      10 min read

    • Article

      The Power Of One Book

      Jun 8, 2023

      The Power Of One Book
      5 min read

    • Article

      ‘Each Envelope Was A Treasure’: How I Became Le Carré’s Friend And Reader

      Oct 8, 2022

      I’d seen the man on several occasions, seated in a corner of my local pub. I was clueless as to who he was. Then, in the aftermath of the Iraq war, I went to the Wells Tavern [in Hampstead] with a journalist, who knew the white-haired, conservatively

      3 min read

    • Article

      The Poet at Work

      Oct 11, 2017

      The Poet at Work
      16 min read

    • Article

      Fragile Evidence

      Nov 1, 2021

      In 2008, just after college, I spent the summer traveling across Texas in a midnight-blue Corolla with a crooked “Yes We Can!” Obama bumper sticker. I’d been hired by a new organization called the Texas After Violence Project, founded by Walter Long,

      11 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for The Book Sale Murder

    0 ratings

    0 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      The Book Sale Murder - Stephen Randorf

      The Book Sale Murder

      by

      Stephen Randorf

      png_div

      Copyright © 2015, 2020 by Stephen Randorf

      Cover Design by Jeanine Henning

      All rights reserved.

      This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual places or events now or in the future is coincidental.

      Table of Contents

      Title

      License

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Epilogue

      Chapter 1

      The book sale, held annually at a local church in late summer, was in its second day—a Saturday—when the victim’s body was found in a small room set off from the main area of books.

      The discovery at first provoked a low murmur from the dozen shoppers who were milling around the book tables. The browsers spoke in hushed tones of shock, fear, and disbelief. The murmur soon subsided into complete silence as police sirens sounded in the distance. The sounds grew louder until they reached the church, where they abruptly stopped. A cascade of police lights followed, reds and blues pulsating into the narrow windows along the church south wall.

      A tall, white-haired man stood out front in the hot morning sun and met the officers as they left their squad cars. He immediately led them through the double set of doors and up the four entryway steps, where they met another church member. This person then took the officers directly down a narrow hallway, bypassing the large room where the sale was being held, to a small, side room where the body—that of a young man in his early twenties—lay dead on the floor. The lower portion of the youth’s white checkered shirt was drenched in blood. A knife lay three feet from the body.

      The officers, two of them, surveyed the room, which was empty except for the table and chairs pushed up against a wall, a window facing the back, and of course the dead youth. His bloodstained body lay in sharp contrast to the wall’s dull green paint.

      That window? one officer asked.

      Locked, the man replied, speaking softly.

      What’s this room for? the officer asked.

      Mostly consultation. Family matters, divorces. The man was near the doorway, and he stepped further into the room so they could hear him. He introduced himself as Shawn Morton, and explained that the reverend, Reverend Farlee and his wife, were away on vacation. Morton, a man in his late fifties, was noticeably shaken. He spoke slowly, as if to hide the twitching of his upper lip, which was under a thin mustache that did little to hide the redness of his face. His response to each question was specific and carefully thought out, but he appeared to be at a loss with what to do with his hands. One waved in the air aimlessly, then ran down the front of his buttoned shirt, and then reached up into the air again as he pointed out the location of various rooms. The other hand seemed bashful, remaining in the pocket of his slacks. We have lots of groups, Morton continued. They use the outer area—where the books are now—for meetings and events.

      You know who he is? one officer asked.

      Who? Morton asked with a bewildered expression.

      The guy on the floor, the officer replied.

      Oh, him. No. I’ve never seen him before.

      You find the body?

      No. He did. Morton pointed to the white-haired man who had led the officers in and followed at a slower pace.

      He went to the bathroom, Morton continued. Then, he said he was going to go to the kitchen for a drink of water. He saw him then, when he went by the room. This room.

      The other officer then questioned the white-haired man. You have some identification? A driver’s license?

      The man slowly removed his wallet from a back pocket, removed the laminated license from the leather slot, and then handed it to the policeman. William L. Chackiowski, he said as he introduced himself.

      The officer made notations in a small black book while the other officer took down the names of those standing near the doorway.

      Chackiowski said, It’s Bill. You can call me Bill.

      The officer nodded and made another notation.

      The name-collecting had a thinning effect on the bystanders. They moved into the larger room, where they spread out further among the book-laden tables.

      When additional police officers entered with the paramedics, Bill Chackiowski and the officers had to step into the small hallway to make room for the others.

      By then, the numerous police officers who had gathered outside the church were evident. Inside, the red and blue lights continued to spiral across the sunlit walls. A half dozen three by six tables filled the center of the large room, another set of four tables were across the aisle, additional ones lined the outer walls, and they all had used books piled on them. Some books had their spines turned upward so the titles and authors’ names were visible, others lay flat. More books, similarly arranged, were in shallow cardboard boxes under the tables, waiting to replace the books above. Another room, a smaller room, perhaps a half-room, an anteroom, was set off from the large room by a sweeping archway. Two women sat there to collect the money.

      The officers, all in standard police uniforms, belts loaded with their communication equipment and gear, were now streaming in and out, first to the front door, then back to the small side room. Several more policemen were taking down names in this anteroom near the card table where the two women sat.

      The first police officer concluded his interview with Bill by saying, A detective will be here shortly. You might have to repeat some of this to him.

      Twenty minutes later, the first police detective arrived: Detective Gilbert Bass.

      A group of onlookers had gathered outside the church annex, which told Detective Bass which entrance to use. He approached the building, following a flagstone path to where an officer stood.

      What do we have?" Detective Bass asked.

      Up there, to the back, the officer replied, pointing inside.

      Bass glanced up the four wooden steps, looking through the doors of the entrance to the open hallway and the area between the two rooms. He was familiar with the church and had driven past the sunny brick exterior often; this was his first occasion to enter.

      The morning air was thick and humid, so he took his time climbing up the steps. He was already tired. Once on the landing, Bass paused to absorb through his suit what cool air the room offered. An air-conditioner was braced on one of the narrow window sills, but it did little to comfort him. Dressed in his usual browns, his tie knotted loosely and dangling freely over his white shirt. He was average in height compared to the others in the room. His age showed around his stomach.

      Bass stood briefly on the perimeter of the main room where the book sale was underway and noted the poor lighting and the dismal blue-green color that lined the narrow hallway straight ahead. From his vantage point, he could see into the rooms on either side: the small anteroom to his left, and the larger one on the right. At the moment, he was looking for a chair, a specific type of chair that would be suitable to use later. But he saw no such chair. He did see the line of wooden ones, but they had no padding, and seemed too solid to be comfortable.

      His presence there, while he scanned the room, caused the dozen faces, which had been browsing books, to turn in his direction. He assumed it was his suit: not because it was rumpled or smelled odd,

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 1