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Knowing Abbie
Knowing Abbie
Knowing Abbie
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Knowing Abbie

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Nancy Abigail Labado—known as Abbie to her parents—is a widowed African-American, Center City, Philadelphia club owner who is targeted by a mysterious person in a hooded sweatshirt. After her coffee was drugged and the mural on her building defaced, by someone who obviously knows about her past, she receives a message that implicates her best friend, David, in the murder of her abusive ex-husband. While trying to rekindle a relationship with David, whom she has not seen in years and still loves deeply, Nancy must come to terms with whatever the truth turns out to be.
LanguageEnglish
Release dateJan 20, 2018
ISBN9781626945531
Knowing Abbie

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    Knowing Abbie - AR Neal

    Nancy Abigail Labado--known as Abbie to her parents--is a widowed African-American, Center City, Philadelphia club owner who is targeted by a mysterious person in a hooded sweatshirt. After her coffee was drugged and the mural on her building defaced, by someone who obviously knows about her past, she receives a message that implicates her best friend, David, in the murder of her abusive ex-husband. While trying to rekindle a relationship with David, whom she has not seen in years and still loves deeply, Nancy must come to terms with whatever the truth turns out to be.

    KUDOS FOR KNOWING ABBIE

    In Knowing Abbie by AR Neal, Nancy Abigail Labado, who is known as Abbie to her parents, collapses on the street one morning. She is discovered on the sidewalk by an old flame David Burketsky, also known as Damon the Artist, who gets her to the hospital. The two went to school together but haven’t seen each other in years. Unaware that their reunion was part of a sinister plot by someone who knows too much about them, the two rekindle their friendship and romance, but someone is plotting against them, aware that David has a dark secret he is afraid to reveal--one that could destroy his relationship with Nancy forever. With superb character development combined with an intriguing mystery and a touch of romance, this is a moving and suspenseful story that mystery fans will love. ~ Taylor Jones, The Review Team of Taylor Jones & Regan Murphy

    Knowing Abbie by AR Neal is the story of two people with a shared past, both haunted by dark secrets. When artist David Burketsky finds his childhood sweetheart whom he hasn’t seen for thirty years passed out on the sidewalk, he becomes one of the suspects in her accident. But David claims he is innocent, and Nancy is delighted to be reunited with him. She knows he wouldn’t hurt her, and she hires him to do a mural on the wall of her building. But the mural is defaced with graffiti claiming that David is a murderer. Nancy doesn’t want to believe it, but what if it’s true? The police are still suspicious of him and warn Nancy away. But is David really the villain, or is it someone else who knows too much about David and Nancy’s pasts? With an intriguing mystery, enchanting characters, and a number of unexpected plot twists, Knowing Abbie is a poignant and captivating tale that will leave you hungry for more. ~ Regan Murphy, The Review Team of Taylor Jones & Regan Murphy

    ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

    As the Author’s Note indicates, this is a work of fiction. It does include real places, like Brigantine, Pleasantville, Atlantic City, and Center City (Philadelphia).

    When I was a kid, my grandmother took me to Wanamaker’s every Christmas season. She shopped, and I sat with a bunch of other kids, listening to the organ and watching the light show. We would also go to the Gallery and, somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I remember a wooden escalator at the very top of the Strawbridge’s building. I love the architecture in and around Center City, so it makes sense that there would be connections to many of these places.

    To my knowledge, there is just a department store (Macy’s, as of this writing) in the Wanamaker Building. The main character’s home is located at 1850 Rittenhouse Square, a fictional condominium residence modeled after 1900 Rittenhouse. Her private garage is a fictional place behind the renovated Divine Lorraine Hotel.

    There may be other locations that feel familiar--go with it, as they are probably where you think they are.

    Enjoy.

    Author’s Note

    This is a work of fiction, based on an idea I had in my head for a while. It is dedicated to my friend Don Buchanan, (far right in the photo on the Dedication page.)

    That’s the guy I met in 1987 when we were both at Rutgers. We were fast friends, and then things got weird for me, and the River of Life took me on a tributary that carried me far away from him.

    But he has always been on my mind.

    I stopped being scared of personal computers in the late 1990s, but that’s another story. When Yahoo and Alta Vista were all the rage, I started trying to search for him. I kept looking as computers got smaller, the Web got bigger, and the world got closer and had a baby named Google. I never thought to drive to New Brunswick and walk into the Court Tavern to leave a note--somebody there had to be in touch, right?--with my number and an open invitation to share a half a head of lettuce at Tumulty’s (or we could have met and talked music at Cheap Thrills or grabbed a cup of real coffee somewhere...or found one of our other haunts before they all disappeared).

    Had I done that, I might have been able to talk with him, catch up, and say how wrong I was for letting the River take me so far away.

    I might have been able to do that before the River took him away from all of us.

    Some of this story happened, but probably not the parts you think. The parts that happened and the parts that are made up will make for good conversation when the tributaries align, and I meet up with Don again one day. We’ll share that half a head of lettuce (I know, it was only a quarter head, but ‘half a head’ sounds so much better) with gobs of dressing and play albums until sunrise while we tell our stories.

    Until then, this is for him. And for me.

    KNOWING ABBIE

    AR NEAL

    A Black Opal Books Publication

    Copyright © 2018 by AR Neal

    Cover Design by Jackson Cover Designs

    All cover art copyright © 2018

    Dedication picture used with permission of William T. Luther, Jr.

    All Rights Reserved

    EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-626948-53-2

    EXCERPT

    She hadn’t seen the man in years, but they had been friends at one time. She knew he would never hurt her...would he?

    Nancy, take a look at these. Detective Sullivan fanned out a number of photographs. They are from the surveillance tapes we recovered. The first showed Nancy entering the Fifteen Street Station at four-fifty-two a.m. Why were you out so early?

    Nancy shrugged. I like to go out early. Mr. Ahmed sells the freshest bean pies in the city. I sometimes go into the office very early to go over the books, finalize the schedule, that sort of thing. It was a beautiful morning. The expression on the detective’s face made her feel defensive. It’s nothing unusual for me. You can ask Carla. She sometimes meets me at the club around five or six, we go to breakfast, and go catch a nap before coming back in the late afternoon.

    Have you been keeping that schedule since you’ve been home from the hospital? Sullivan asked.

    Nancy shook her head. No. Like Mr. Ahmed said, it’s been a while since I’ve gone down there. After what happened, I didn’t feel right. I don’t go out that early much. For the most part, I go into the club after seven--sometimes as late as ten. I try to get home fairly early as well. She paused to think. I don’t think I’ve stayed at Thirteen Hundred later than eight at night since all this.

    Except when you’re with Mr. Burketsky.

    The look was back on the detective’s face. Nancy crossed her arms. Listen, Dave and I have been friends for a long time. I’ve said it over and over again. He wouldn’t hurt me.

    DEDICATION

    To my friend, Don Buchanan

    (far right in the photo below)

    The Phantom 5--photo by Scott Rudie Rosinski,

    Summer of 1986

    CHAPTER 1

    Tuesday, May 6:

    As he removed the sweaty kufiyah from his head, the man smiled in the shadows and watched Dave Burketsky. Every Tuesday it’s the same routine, he thought. He turned to make sure the woman, whom he had subdued just prior to Dave’s arrival on Broad Street, was still unconscious and that Dave’s encounter with her was inevitable as he walked toward Cuthbert Street.

    ***

    I should open an art store, Dave thought. He squinted as he looked south along Broad Street. Nah, if I do that, I’d have to be around customers, employees, nosy folks with questions. Too many peop--

    He tripped over a foot. Hey!

    He looked down and sighed. His usual response was to help the man or woman up, pop them into the diner for a cup of strong coffee, and get them back to wherever they were staying. Some of the people he met on the street had become his friends, and he made sure they had a place to crash. If he couldn’t put them up, he had connections at the Mission.

    The woman at his feet groaned. Miss, he said as he gently touched her shoulder. Are you okay? He leaned around to see her face and gasped.

    ***

    The man in the shadows nodded. That’s right. Call Nine-One-One. Get help for her. He rolled the hooded sweatshirt as tightly as he could, wrapped it around his waist beneath his T-shirt, turned, and casually walked toward Arch Street as sirens began to wail in the distance.

    ***

    Mr...um... Detective Sullivan consulted the documents on her desk. She looked up and cleared her throat. What should I call you? The officer on scene indicated your name as ‘Damon, the artist.’ Is that your legal name?

    Dave shook his head. No, but that’s how I’m known around the city. My real name is David Burketsky. Do you need to see my ID?

    That would be helpful.

    Dave unzipped his jacket. My wallet’s in the inside pocket, he stated, reaching inside. He pulled out a well-worn billfold, flipped it open to the license window, and placed it on the desk.

    Thank you, the detective said as she adjusted her reading glasses, leaned over his license, and began copying the information onto a form, Mr. Burketsky. I’ll update my file with your given name. Anyway, tell me what happened, starting with why you were walking by the Masonic Temple so early.

    Dave watched her write. I had a meeting at the McDonald’s--Broad and Arch. Tuesdays are pretty quiet, and the traffic is slow that early in the morning. People like it when I schedule there because they can grab coffee or something to eat before going to work. I finished up and was on my way to the Terminal by way of Cuthbert. A friend of mine who’s just getting back on his feet asked me to meet him there around five-thirty. He had some produce that he was setting up for the Fair Food Farmstand. They don’t open until eight, but vendors get there early for the best stalls.

    Sullivan looked over her glasses and handed the wallet back to Dave. Thank you for that. She nodded toward the wallet. So you left the Mickey D’s, crossed Broad at Arch, and walked down Broad to Cuthbert. When did you encounter the victim?

    I was thinking about opening an art store, y’know, daydreaming. I tripped over her foot. I thought she might have been one of the regulars--

    Regulars? Sullivan interrupted.

    Dave nodded. Yeah. As I’m sure you know, there are a lot of street folks in the area. Many of them are artists, performers, people just trying to make it from day to day. I know quite a few of them and try to look out for them. I reached down to help her and when I saw her face... Dave seemed suddenly lost in thought. His eyes glazed as he remembered moving her hair. "Nance..." he said quietly.

    You knew the victim? From where?

    Dave refocused his attention at the sound of the detective’s voice. I actually did, and not from the streets. Nance, ah, Nancy Labaro, and I went to high school together, but we go back farther than that even.

    Detective Sullivan finished writing. ...high school. Based on the birthday on your license, you would have graduated a little over thirty years ago. Have you had contact with Ms. Labaro since then?

    Not until today.

    Can you think of anyone who would want to harm Ms. Labaro?

    Dave shook his head. Like I said, I haven’t seen her in years. Even back then, she lived a pretty quiet life. That’s something we had in common.

    Do you remember seeing anyone in the area? Maybe someone running across the street or near the Temple or generally moving away from where you found her. You mentioned you know the regulars, the homeless folk, around there--anyone out of the ordinary besides Ms. Labaro?

    Dave shook his head again. No, the street was empty except for a few passing cars... His eyes glazed over again with memories.

    Sullivan finished her notes and took off her reading glasses. She could see he cared about the victim. I know this is hard for you, Mr. Burketsky. Thank you for giving me your statement. She slid the form over for him to read. Can you take a look at this to make sure I got it all down, and to confirm your contact information?

    Dave picked up the paper, read through it, and handed it back. Yes, that about covers it.

    Thank you again. Please stay in town while we investigate. Sullivan noticed the worried expression on his face. Don’t be alarmed, Mr. Burketsky. You are not a suspect here. I’d just like to be able to call you in to answer more questions if we have them or to maybe look at some images. We will be checking camera footage in the area, and maybe you’ll see something or someone familiar. She stood, motioned toward the door, and lowered her voice. I didn’t realize who you were until I saw your real name. I remember you now. The Germantown station incident.

    Dave lowered his eyes.

    Don’t worry, Mr. Burketsky. We won’t make a big deal about this. You know how it is around here--anything happens in Center City, it makes the news. A woman found on the street? It’ll probably catch the midday report, but there is so much going on all over that it probably won’t show up in the later editions or get more than a passing mention. And no one in this office will be discussing it. You did a good thing. And what’s more, you’ve found your friend. She smiled and opened the door.

    Dave smiled back. That’s true. I hope she’ll be okay.

    I’m sure she’ll be fine, Mr. Burketsky, Sullivan replied.

    He looked at her with concern. Do you think they’ll let me in to see her?

    I don’t see any reason they wouldn’t. After looking at the clock, she added, It’s just gone seven. If you hurry, you can catch your friend at the market. Maybe he still needs help setting up.

    ***

    Monday, May 12:

    The pain in her leg was excruciating, and Nancy woke up. Miss Labaro! Miss Labaro, please stop struggling! An aide held her shoulders while the nurse gave the injection.

    The pain slowly receded to a dull ache. Whatever they gave me must be really strong, Nancy thought. She heard voices from a distance and struggled to open her eyes. They felt weighted. She got the left one open, but the right one refused to budge.

    I’m so sorry about that bright light, but I need to check this left pupil, the nurse said softly. Your right eye is still swollen so we’ll wait to check that one. Nancy gagged and tried to turn her head. The smell of Italian hoagie puffed into her nostrils with each of the nurse’s words. Oopsie! Here, let’s get this under you, just in case.

    Nancy dry heaved over the pink bean-shaped plastic dish. She tried to sit up, but nothing happened. What’s going on? Look, I need to sit up. Where am I? What happened to me? All that came out was What? followed by air and squeaking noises

    The nurse gently took Nancy’s hand. It’s good to talk with you finally. Now, can you tell me your name?

    With concentration, she answered, Nancy.

    That’s great, Nancy. I have some paperwork that has Abigail as a name for you, too. Do you go by Abigail?

    Nancy rolled her one good eye. My parents call me Abbie, but nobody calls me Abigail. The only audible part of her statement was the names.

    Hoagie Breath released her hand and smiled. It’s okay, Nancy. In case you don’t remember, my name is Judy. I’m your nurse until seven a.m., and it’s Monday, the twelfth. Do you know where you are?

    Nancy looked around. ICU.

    Judy nodded. That’s right. You are in the intensive care area at Hahnemann Hospital, where you have been since last Tuesday, the sixth. You were unconscious for a few days, and you’re a bit hoarse, most likely from the Diprivan we had you on. I don’t want you to strain what little voice you have, and you’re probably getting sleepy from the injection, so I will keep my questions brief for now. Do you remember anything about what you were doing before now?

    Nancy took a deep breath. The last thing she remembered was taking a walk and the sensation of falling. I was, I think, going somewhere. She nodded.

    "Good. Try and hold on to what you remember because you’ll need to talk about it when you’re able. For now, we’ll do a

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