The Girl on the Edge of Summer Read online

  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  Acclaim for J.M. Redmann’s Micky Knight Series

  By the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  About the Author

  Books Available From Bold Strokes Books

  The Girl on the Edge of Summer

  Micky Knight reluctantly takes on two cases, one for money, one for pity. The first is a trawl though archives to solve a century old murder for an arrogant grandson who thinks riches should absolve his family of any sins. The other, to answer a mother’s anguish as she tries to understand her daughter’s suicide. Micky sees no happy ending to either case; the dusty pages of history aren’t going to give up their secrets after holding them for so long. And even if she finds answers for the mother’s questions, nothing will bring her daughter back. But as Micky discovers, the past is never past and a young girl can lead a complicated, even dangerous, life. The secrets, both past and present, are meant to remain hidden—only the first murder is hard. The rest come easy.

  A Micky Knight Mystery

  Acclaim for J.M. Redmann’s Micky Knight Series

  Ill Will

  Lambda Literary Award Winner

  Foreword Magazine Honorable Mention

  Ill Will is fast-paced, well-plotted, and peopled with great characters. Redmann’s dialogue is, as usual, marvelous. To top it off, you get an unexpected twist at the end. Please join me in hoping that book number eight is well underway.”—Lambda Literary Review

  “Ill Will is a solidly plotted, strongly character-driven mystery that is well paced.”—Mysterious Reviews

  Water Mark

  Foreword Magazine Gold Medal Winner

  Golden Crown Literary Award Winner

  Water Mark is a rich, deep novel filled with humor and pathos. Its exciting plot keeps the pages flying, while it shows that long after a front page story has ceased to exist, even in the back sections of the newspaper, it remains very real to those whose lives it touched. This is another great read from a fine author.”—Just About Write

  Death of a Dying Man

  Lambda Literary Award Winner

  “Like other books in the series, Redmann’s pacing is sharp, her sense of place acute and her characters well crafted. The story has a definite edge, raising some discomfiting questions about the selfishly unsavory way some gay men and lesbians live their lives and what the consequences of that behavior can be. Redmann isn’t all edge, however—she’s got plenty of sass. Knight is funny, her relationship with Cordelia is believably long-term-lover sexy and little details of both the characters’ lives and New Orleans give the atmosphere heft.”—Lambda Book Report

  “As the investigation continues and Micky’s personal dramas rage, a big storm is brewing. Redmann, whose day job is with NOAIDS, gets the Hurricane Katrina evacuation just right—at times she brought tears to my eyes. An unsettled Micky searches for friends and does her work as she constantly grieves for her beloved city.”—New Orleans Times-Picayune

  The Intersection of Law and Desire

  Lambda Literary Award Winner

  San Francisco Chronicle Editor’s Choice for the year

  Profiled on Fresh Air, hosted by Terry Gross, and selected for book reviewer Maureen Corrigan’s recommended holiday book list.

  “Superbly crafted, multi-layered…One of the most hard-boiled and complex female detectives in print today.”—San Francisco Chronicle (An Editor’s Choice selection for 1995)

  “Fine, hard-boiled tale-telling.”—Washington Post Book World

  “An edge-of-the-seat, action-packed New Orleans adventure…Micky Knight is a fast-moving, fearless, fascinating character…The Intersection of Law and Desire will win Redmann lots more fans.”—New Orleans Times-Picayune

  “Crackling with tension…an uncommonly rich book…Redmann has the making of a landmark series.”—Kirkus Review

  “Perceptive, sensitive prose; in-depth characterization; and pensive, wry wit add up to a memorable and compelling read.”—Library Journal

  “Powerful and page turning…A rip-roaring read, as randy as it is reflective…Micky Knight is a to-die-for creation…a Cajun firebrand with the proverbial quick wit, fast tongue, and heavy heart.”—Lambda Book Report

  Lost Daughters

  “A sophisticated, funny, plot-driven, character-laden murder mystery set in New Orleans…as tightly plotted a page-turner as they come…One of the pleasures of Lost Daughters is its highly accurate portrayal of the real work of private detection—a standout accomplishment in the usually sloppily conjectured world of thriller-killer fiction. Redmann has a firm grasp of both the techniques and the emotions of real-life cases—in this instance, why people decide to search for their relatives, why people don’t, what they fear finding and losing…and Knight is a competent, tightly wound, sardonic, passionate detective with a keen eye for detail and a spine made of steel.”—San Francisco Chronicle

  “Redmann’s Micky Knight series just gets better…For finely delineated characters, unerring timing, and page-turning action, Redmann deserves the widest possible audience.”—Booklist, starred review

  “Like fine wine, J.M. Redmann’s private eye has developed interesting depths and nuances with age…Redmann continues to write some of the fastest –moving action scenes in the business…In Lost Daughters, Redmann has found a winning combination of action and emotion that should attract new fans—both gay and straight—in droves.”—New Orleans Times Picayune

  “…tastefully sexy…”—USA Today

  “An admirable, tough PI with an eye for detail and the courage, finally, to confront her own fear. Recommended.”—Library Journal

  The Girl on the Edge of Summer

  Brought to you by

  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  The Girl on the Edge of Summer

  © 2017 By J.M. Redmann. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-688-3

  This Electronic book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, NY 12185

  First Edition: April 2017

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editors: Greg Herren and Stacia Seaman

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

  By the Author

  The Micky Knight Mystery Series:

  Death by the Riverside

  Deaths of Jocasta

  The Intersection of Law and Desire

  Lost Daughters

  Death of a Dying Man

  Water Mark

  Ill Will

  The Shoal of Time

  The Girl on the Edge of Summer

  Women of the Mean Streets: Lesbian Noir

  edited with Greg Herren

  Men of the Mean Streets: Gay Noir

  edited with Greg Herren

  Night Shadows: Queer Horror

  edited with Greg Herren

  As R. Jean Reid, the Nell McGraw mystery series

  Roots of Murder

  Perdition

  Acknowledgments

  Sitting in front of a computer trying to make words turn into worlds is never easy. (Nor are the words ever as perfect as the vision we have in our heads.) There are moments when I come home from the day job and I’m tired and want nothing more than to turn my brain off, pour a glass of wine, and read a book instead of writing one. But in those moments, I remember the coterie of readers and writers, who keep me sane and focused. Yes, that would be you. Thank you.

  My writer friends, all of us who struggle to get the words in the page amidst everything else life throws at us. Carsen, Ali, Anne, VK, ’Nathan, Jeffrey, Rob, Fay, Ellen, Greg, and I know I’m forgetting some of y’all. You keep me sane, or at least aren’t bothered by my insanity.

  I also need to thank the generous folks who have willingly supported my day job at NO / AIDS Task Force by donating because I used a name of their choosing in the book. The support is greatly appreciated, and it really helps me come up with names.

  A big thank you to Greg Herren for his editorial brilliance and calmness, especially his Zen about deadlines.

  Mr. Squeaky and Arnold because I’m a lesbian and we have to thank our cats. Also, Sammy and Ms. M, the rescue cats left homeless by the floods in the summer of 2016 who shared my house this fall and are now in their forever home thanks to Mary and Ginny.

  My partner, Gillian, for all the joy in us both spending evenings at our respective computers working on our respective books. At least I don’t have to footnote and index mine.

  There are many people at my day job who keep me sane—or don’t point out to me that I’m not—and are greatly understanding about the writing career. Noel, our CEO, Reg, our COO and my boss for his tireless leadership and letting me run off to do book things. My staff is great and makes my job easy enough that I have time to write—Narquis, Joey, Lauren, Allison, and all the members of the Prevention Department. I would love to be able to write full-time, but since I have to have a real job, I’ve very lucky to have one of the best ones possible.

  Also huge thanks to Rad for making Bold Strokes what it is. Ruth, Connie, Shelley, Sandy, Stacia, and Cindy for all their hard work behind the scenes, and everyone at BSB for being such a great and supportive publishing house.

  To the City of New Orleans and all my friends here.

  A fascinating, beautiful, maddening place and a glorious one to set mysteries in.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I cursed. Silently. I had to keep my face neutral, to look like I didn’t regret the question I had just asked. But the words were out, and she would answer. And the answer would compel me to do something I desperately didn’t want to do.

  It had started out as a good day, cold—for us—but with clear sun after days of drizzle and clouds. Traffic was post–Mardi Gras light. Everyone was either crammed in the airport to leave or home sleeping it off, leaving the roads blessedly sane for a few days.

  I’d even caught a coconut at Zulu, now proudly displayed on my mantel. I hadn’t been exactly sober but maintained a pleasant buzz, enough to enjoy the insanity but not stumble into the gutter—as many other people were doing. I had seen Zulu in the non-tourist area up on Basin. You could pay me enough money to watch Mardi Gras on Canal Street, but it would have to be a lot. A whole lot. After a wander through the French Quarter to see all the costumes—and get a voodoo daiquiri to keep the buzz going—I’d come home. It had still been light out. For New Orleans, I was a good girl.

  I’d taken it easy this week, used Ash Wednesday for a grocery run to replenish my bare larder. I live in an old neighborhood, close to the French Quarter, and once the parades start it’s hard to get out and about. I don’t quite recover from the tromping around—and to be honest, the mix of alcohols—as when I was younger. Thursday was a half day at the office, half day at home cooking the newly bought food. Friday I left early; it was Friday, after all. The work could wait until a real Monday, far from the toss of shiny beads.

  And Monday, it was, one of bright sunshine, the light changing, stronger, more direct, a harbinger of spring, the renewal of what had gone in the winter. I’d come to my office around the usual time, before ten but safely after nine.

  In a few days I’d be busy with everything that had been put aside to ride on a float, make a costume for a ball—or to have left town to get away from the madness.

  I had done paperwork, billing, which I hate, but it’s part of the job and the part that pays the cost of my existence. My standards are to never darken the door of a Laundromat again—this is New Orleans, I know enough weird characters without having to meet any at the dryer, thank you very much. So much nicer to have my own. At least I know where the dirt it’s washing off came from.

  There had been one message on my voice mail. I’d returned it, my phone call of the day, making this appointment with Mrs. Stevens—she called herself Mrs., so I followed suit. Mrs. Susie Stevens. Yes, Susie, not Susan. Deep South much? Our call had been brief; she said she wanted me to find someone, and I agreed to meet to talk about it.

  She had arrived on time, a little early as if I were a doctor’s office and there would be paperwork to fill out first. She was neatly dressed, a conservative navy blue blazer with matching skirt, crisp white blouse. Pearls, even, although they were small and looked more middle-class respectable than money. Sensible black leather pumps. Her hair was the brown it probably always had been, with a few blond highlights that were either from a long summer on the beach or a bottle. My money was on the latter. Mrs. Stevens didn’t come across as a long time at the beach person. She was every inch the kind of woman I’d pass in a mall in Metairie—assuming I ever went to the mall or the suburbs—and not notice. Except for her face. No, not her face, but the emotions sculpted into it, sad, lost, her glance searching for a place to focus but finding nothing to compete with what she was seeing behind her eyes.

  Her voice was low, soft; I had to strain at times to hear the words. “I need you to find someone for me. I don’t know his name, but I know what he looks like and have some idea of places he might be.”

  “Why do you want to find him?”

  Her eyes looked away, the rest of her face immobile as if she didn’t dare move it. “He obtained—I don’t know how—a picture of my daughter. She had her shirt off. He posted it online, sent it to all his friends.” Her lips were tight, brittle, as if the words could break them.

  “What do you want to do with him if you find him?”

  Her answer was ready, as if she’d thought this through over and over again. Or rehearsed it. “Only what he did to my daughter. Post who and what he is to the online judge, jury and executioner.”

  Maybe it was true. A twitch at her eye, the tight lips, a mask, or so many emotions, the real one was lost.

  I asked the logical next question. “Can I talk to your daughter?”

  Her expre
ssion told me before the itch of memory recalled a newspaper story. A car found on River Road by the Bonnet Carré Spillway. The body of a young girl had washed up. A brief story; her life was brief, only seventeen years. No evidence of foul play. Trouble at school. Suicide.

  I didn’t want to take this case, and I knew I would. If I said no, Mrs. Stevens would find someone else to take her suburban money and ignore her grief. Maybe I thought I could talk her out of anything rash, keep her to her word of shaming him online. Maybe I thought I would be kinder, wiser than the next person she tried. Rationalization comes so easy.

  “You can’t talk to my daughter. She killed herself,” the words a bare whisper as if they were shards of glass cutting her mouth on the way out.

  “I’m very sorry. That is a hard loss.” No mother should bury a child. But she knew that, and there were no words in the world that would make any difference. I didn’t try. “Will it help?” I asked. “Finding him?”

  “It’ll help his next victim. The next girl he taunts and makes miserable.”

  She continued, her lips still pressed together as if each word cost her, “The police could do little. They claimed they didn’t have the resources to hunt down some anonymous online person. Particularly for…” Then the words cost too much and she couldn’t say them.