Susan M. Hooper
Barnaby Moss and Arnie Kotkin have been friends since their boyhood days of schoolyard squabbles and choirboy impersonations. After graduating from college, each of them realized that they were more than friends.
Domestic partners for over a year now, they have struggled to get through events that would have torn many couples apart--everything from attempted murder to the real thing.
Taking what should have been an enjoyable trip to Vermont in October, they find that red is not only the color of the leaves on the trees…it is also the color of blood on the ground.
Susan M. Hooper was employed as a legal secretary/legal assistant for 23 years before hitting the craft circuit as a doll maker in 1996 and beginning to write comedic fan fiction pieces about a year later. Murder Junction is her second novel, and it features some of the characters from her first novel, Belle Harbor Skeletons.
Ms. Hooper resides in Connecticut with her family, which includes members of the four-legged variety as well; specifically three cats and two yellow Labs...so walking is an obvious hobby.
Attorney Jamison Hart, a red-faced, balding mountain of a man, looked across his massive oak desk at an assistant he considered small potatoes, and drummed his short, thick fingers impatiently. In just over three weeks, one of the biggest real estate deals he had ever taken a crack at would slip through those same fat fingers.
As a practical point, the aging lawyer knew the person seated across from him stood almost no chance of success; far more experienced people in his office had already failed.
Hart was willing to listen to his assistant’s proposition on the outside chance that there might be something to it, but he really did not expect much…but then again, David had slain Goliath.
Making the claim, “I know I can do this,” the assistant’s voice oozed smug self-confidence.
Hart exploded, “Better people than you have failed to get that property. What makes you so cock sure you can do it?” With steely eyes and a hardened mouth, Hart studied his younger colleague for several seconds, and then said, “The whole deal hinges on getting that land. If we can’t get the entire parcel for Yantzing by the end of the month, the deal’s off.”
“I understand that, Mr. Hart,” the assistant said calmly. “Yantzing wants the extra land in its back pocket now, for expansion later.”
“That’s exactly right,” Hart boomed. “They don’t want to be locked into just the acreage from the biggest lot, even though it’s big enough to float the mall right now. This thing’s gonna grow, and grow fast…being right off I-91, how can it miss?” He pounded his mammoth fist sharply on the desk to punctuate his sentence.
“It can’t” Hart’s cohort said, totally undaunted by his gruff manner. “I’ve seen the traffic flow charts. I-91 is one of the busiest highways in New England. ‘Vermont Country Estates Mall’ has the potential to be the biggest thing to hit that area in years…it’ll put Maple Grove Junction on the map…”
“Only if we can get the entire parcel” Hart interrupted, throwing his hands up in the air. He could not believe that his firm was blowing this, but already he had heard jokes that Hart & Associates had snatched defeat from the jaws of victory.
“Mr. Hart, I told you I could handle this. I’ve got some information that will change things…”
Jamison Hart cut in quickly. “What kind of information?” he demanded.
“It’s a long story…difficult to explain…”
“Explain it…we’ve got all night,” the senior partner barked.
Smirking at his underling, he added, “If it’s good enough, I may send one of my other people up there. So far, they’ve done nothing but waste postage, and run up the office phone bill. One of ’em ought to be able to do the job they’re getting paid for.”
“I have to do this, Mr. Hart.” The associate sneered back at the senior partner, and in a condescending voice stated, “In all due respect to my colleagues, I think I’m the only one who can pull it off…it’s my plan, after all.”
Hart crossed his trunk-like arms across the wide expanse of his chest, and listened…and listened…and listened.
When his associate finally finished speaking, a long-buried sense of decency made Hart say, “We can’t do that…it’s extortion, or at least fraud; you know it as well as I do.”
The assistant smiled evilly, and said, “You don’t care about that any more than I do. Neither one of us has any scruples, Mr. Hart. Besides, who’d the old hag hire that you couldn’t buy off? Daniel Webster died a long time ago.”
Years earlier, Hart would have fought his position a lot harder, but ideology had died out quickly in the attorney; the world was cruel, and he had learned to give back as good as he got. Decency did not put food on his table, fancy clothes on his young wife’s body, or pay alimony to his first two wives.
