Tag Archives: murder

The Cannabis Murders

I’m excited to announce that The Cannabis Murders, my eleventh novel in the Maggie Keiller/Derek Sloan crime series, will be released early in February!

The riveting story unfolding in this book is set against a backdrop of rising public concern over the extent of covert Chinese interference in political and corporate affairs in Canada, and across North America.

The story itself is tied to the legal production and distribution of cannabis products, as a global producer with Chinese connections attempts to establish a manufacturing facility near the resort town of Port Huntington on Georgian Bay.  In so doing, the company encounters community opposition, and runs up against Indigenous land-claims to the property in question, both of which throw up major stumbling-blocks to its plans.

To everyone’s dismay, repeated vandalism, threatened extortion, violence, and eventually murder soon follow.  Maggie and Derek become caught up in events through her support of a young, Indigenous woman trapped in the turmoil that follows, and through his involvement as a negotiator for the First Nation land-claims.  And both are drawn further into the mayhem because of their connection to the government’s pending inquiry into the secretive operations of Chinese interests in the area.

Resolute as always to protect their community, and themselves, Maggie and Derek work closely with police to bring the evil perpetrators to justice.

I know you will enjoy this story, and I’ll post notice here when the book becomes available.  In the meantime, the ten earlier novels in this series, together with my eight anthologies of tales, can be found for a free preview or purchase at this safe link—https://www.lulu.com/spotlight/precept

Thanks to all of you who read my blog-posts. If you enjoy them, you are sure to love my books!

But He Didn’t!

The Gulf Coast Writers Association in southwest Florida recently announced the winners of their 2023 writing contest. I’m pleased to say I won First Place in the fiction section with this piece, But He Didn’t!

The GCWA provides a forum for fellowship, education, and information for writers, and its well-regarded contest draws a wide-range of authors.   Based in Fort Myers, the organization attracts members from throughout Southwest Florida, including published as well as unpublished writers, and professional editors, agents, and publicists.  The literary genres run the gamut from poetry, adult fiction and nonfiction, to children’s and young adult, historical fiction, romance, mystery/thriller, memoir, essays, and screenplay.  Members include full-time writers, as well as corporate professionals, teachers, and business owners, all still working or retired. GCWA’s website is https://gulfwriters.org/ 

I hope you’ll enjoy But He Didn’t!

* * * * * * * * *

After the wife died, I started talkin’ to myself.  Not ‘cause I’m some crazy coot who’s lost the cream-fillin’ outta his Twinkie, but just so’s the house wouldn’t be so quiet.

I got in the habit when I’d hike myself onto the barstool in the rec room downstairs an’ see myself in the mirror.  I’d pour a shot, raise it high, an’ say, “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid!”

Not that I was a kid.  I was in my early-sixties when the wife died, an’ my reflection looked every bit of that.  For the longest time, I was the only one doin’ the talkin’, but at some point the guy in the mirror joined in. Lookin’ back, I think it was when I told him the wife had always been a nagger, but now I sorta missed her constant yammerin’.  “She’d rattle on an’ on,” I said, “but that was okay ‘cause if I got mad, she’d know to shut up.”

Mine, too.  Had a nasty mouth when she set her mind to it, but every now an’ then, I’d drop the hammer.

His voice sounded like mine, maybe flatter on account of it was bouncin’ offa the mirror.  The more we talked, the better we got to know each other; an’ the better we got to know each other, the more we talked.  Turns out, he was retired, like me, an’ we told each other funny stories ‘bout the jobs we worked, an’ the jerk-off bosses we had.

“I sometimes miss the job,” I said after a long swallow.  “But not the bosses!”

Me, too!  I actually punched one out after he got on my case for somethin’.  Got fired, but it was worth it!

He told me his name was Michael—which is my name, too, what the wife used to yell in capital letters every time she got teed off.  I told him I’d call him Mike.

Both of us enjoyed our drinkin’ time, which started around four in the afternoons.  Mike was left-handed, which I noticed when we poured our shots, an’ whenever we raised our glasses. 

He always arrived when I did, an’ got up to leave every time I headed back upstairs.  I always turned at the stairs for one final glance in the mirror, an’ we’d wave.  Mike was real good company, an’ I didn’t feel so alone anymore.

“I got two kids,” I told him one day.  “But I ain’t seen neither of ‘em since the wife died.  It’s like they blame me for her dyin’.”

That’s exac’ly like my kids!  You think I ever hear from ‘em?  Not a freakin’ word!  I used to call ‘em, but never once heard anythin’ back!

Sometimes we’d sit quiet for the longest time, nursin’ our drinks, thinkin’ our own thoughts.  Neither of us ever offered to buy a round ‘cause we always had our own bottle. 

We had other stuff in common, too.  He was fightin’ with the IRS, like me, over back taxes.  He liked the Rollin’ Stones, an’ we both thought the Beatles were fairies.  He loved the Red Sox, but neither of us could afford tickets to Fenway.  We both still saluted the flag an’ stood up for the anthem, but neither of us went to church anymore.

“I gave that crap up after the wife died,” I said.  “Between the church an’ the undertaker, I shelled out more’n a thousand bucks for her funeral!  Nothin’ but bloodsuckers, all of ‘em!”

You got that right!  I had the wife cremated, an’ I still hadda fork out for a casket.  An’ all’s I got at the end of the whole thing was a little cardboard box, sealed up tight, s’posed to have her ashes inside.  How do I know if it does or not?  I sure as hell ain’t gonna open it!

“I got the same thing,” I said.  “Plus, my kids got twisted in a knot over the whole cremation thing.  Said their mother should be buried whole, like she wanted.  I hung tough, though, an’ still got stiffed for the dough.”

The only thing I regret is the wife an’ me had a fight the day she died.  Real shame!

“What were you fightin’ ‘bout?”

Nothin’ really.  When I came into the kitchen, she started yappin’ at me, so I told her to stifle herself.  She said somethin’ back, wavin’ her wooden spoon in my face, an’ a piece of whatever she was cookin’ landed on my cheek.  Hurt like hell!  So, without thinkin’, I hit her.  Not hard, but she staggered back, caught her foot in the floor-mat, an’ fell backwards.  Hit her head on the countertop when she went down.  I heard the crunch, an’ then she just lay there.

“Holy crap!  Was she dead?” I asked.

Stone dead, just that quick.

“So…you killed her?” I said.

No, don’t be stupid!  Wasn’t me that killed her, it was the granite countertop. 

“Yeah, but you hit her…”

I know, but by mistake.  She tripped on the floor-mat! 

“So, what’d you do?” I asked.  I was completely…memorized, or whatever the word is.

 I called 9-1-1, told ‘em my wife was on the kitchen floor, said I couldn’t wake her up.  I started bawlin’ my eyes out, was still doin’ that when the ambulance arrived.

“What’d you tell ‘em?” I asked.

Told ‘em I’d been sleepin’ while she was cookin’ dinner, woke up when I could smell the food burnin’, found her on the floor.

“An’ they believed you?”

Yeah, no reason not to.  I hadda talk to the cops a coupla times, but everythin’ I told ‘em added up, so they called it…death by missed adventure…somethin’ like that.

I poured myself another shot, as did Mike.  “Yeah, but still…”

The whole house stunk like burnt food, an’ that’s what I said woke me up, so that prob’ly helped.

“Lucky you,” I said, takin’ another swallow, watchin’ him do the same.  Like I said, we both liked our drink.

Yeah, but I never could get those pots clean.  Hadda throw ‘em all out. 

I didn’t sleep much that night, thinkin’ ‘bout what Mike had told me.  I ‘preciated that he trusted me, but I couldn’t shake the idea that what he did was wrong.  I mean, it’s one thing to do somethin’ bad, even like an accident, but it’s a whole other thing to cover it up.  I think they call that rationin’…some word like that.

Anyways, I didn’t go downstairs for a drink the next day, but while I was gettin’ my supper ready—baked beans on toast an’ a slice of fried ham—I thought some more ‘bout what he’d said.  An’ because I wasn’t payin’ attention, my toast got burnt an’ the beans stuck to the bottom of the pot.  I pictured myself in Mike’s kitchen on account of the smell, got sick to my stomach, an’ couldn’t finish my supper.  Couldn’t get the burnt beans offa the bottom of the pot, neither, so the whole thing went in the trash.

I was on my barstool the next afternoon, though, got there just as Mike did.  We poured ourselves a shot, like usual, an’ raised our glasses.  After a good, long sip, I said, “You’re gonna hate me, Mike, but before I came downstairs, I called the cops, told ‘em what you told me ‘bout how your wife died.  They’ll prob’ly be gettin’ here soon.”

Why’d you do that?  I thought I could trust you.

“Yeah, I’m real sorry,” I said, takin’ another sip.  “But after you told me what you did, I figured I couldn’t live with knowin’ what really happened.  You shoulda kept it buried inside your head, y’know?  But once it was out there, I figured I hadda do somethin’, right?  So, I told the cops everythin’.”

We stared at each other without talkin’ for awhile, an’ then I saw two policemen enter the rec room, move up behind Mike, put his hands in cuffs behind his back.  I got up to leave when he did, feelin’ like they were leadin’ me away, too.

Like always, I paused at the bottom of the stairs, peered over my shoulder at the mirror, saw my friend lookin’ back at me, a cop on each side of him.  “Sorry, Mike,” I said sadly.  “I enjoyed knowin’ you.”

I’m not Mike, you poor sod!  You are!  I’m just your reflection!  You’re the one who killed your wife!

“Don’t be crazy!” I cried.  “You’re the killer!”  But even as I spoke,  my wrists were chafin’ from the cuffs, my shoulders hurtin’ under the grasp of the two big cops.  As they manhandled me out of view of Mike, I shouted desperately, vainly, “You’re not my reflection!  You killed your wife!”

But he didn’t.

Hot Off the Press

The latest full-length novel in my Maggie Keiller/Derek Sloan crime-fiction series is hot off the press and available for Christmas-giving!

Three decades ago, a predatory high school Principal in the Northern Highlands District School Board sexually assaulted a number of his female students, one of whom subsequently took her own life.  Despite the courage of one fifteen-year-old girl who reported the assaults to the Director of Education at the time, nothing was done to stop the Principal’s depredations.

Now, thirty years after the assaults were first reported, that former Principal is murdered in his home by an unknown assailant.  Within a week of his killing, two more men are murdered—the Director of Education who had done nothing about the original report, and the board’s lawyer at the time, who was complicit in the cover-up.  Police begin investigating the killings, and as usual, Maggie Keiller and Derek Sloan are drawn into the unfolding events.

This riveting story is set against the backdrop of a truckers’ blockade organized and funded by a coalition of western-separatist, white-supremacist groups, who seek to disrupt the flow of trade and commerce in Ontario and force the government to resign. 

In a heart-stopping finish to the story, Maggie and Derek are confronted by the vengeful killers at their home on Georgian Bay, and are themselves threatened with death as they try to protect the woman at the centre of everything.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

This paperback book is intended for mature audiences, and is available for preview and purchase at this safe site— https://www.lulu.com/spotlight/precept 

Or, you can visit the publisher’s bookstore at https://www.lulu.com/search?page=1&q=J+Bradley+Burt&pageSize=10&adult_audience_rating=&sortBy=PUBLICATION_DATE_DESC  

All my published novels and anthologies of tales are displayed on these safe sites. Once you’ve added any of the books to your cart, tap the cart icon in the upper right of your screen and you will be taken to a safe payment page.

If you have read any of the previous books in this exciting series, or if you are a regular reader of my blog, I know you will enjoy this book.

Coming Soon!

After The Lake Caught Fire, the eighth novel in my Maggie Keiller/Derek Sloan crime-fiction series, will be published and available for purchase by mid-November.

The pristine shoreline of Georgian Bay north of the Ontario resort town of Port Huntington is threatened by voracious developers planning to build a vacation condominium development.  Several local municipalities and community organizations are opposed to the plans, and the struggle soon becomes acrimonious.

At the same time, environmental testing reveals that the land proposed for development is a toxic wasteland, a result of chemical dumping by a long-ago munitions manufacturing company.  Although the Russian-backed developer is undeterred, the public outcry increases dramatically after several unmarked graves are uncovered at the site of a former Indigenous residential school located on the property. 

When a prominent, outspoken community leader is murdered by persons unknown, Maggie Keiller and Derek Sloan are drawn into the ensuing police investigation.  That alarming murder is shortly followed by two more killings and the abduction of a young girl, frightening the entire district.

As the scandalous involvement of the provincial government in ensuring approval for the development comes under close scrutiny, several players step forward with plans of their own to enrich themselves.  Matters worsen quickly, and Maggie and Derek, immersed in the midst of these fast-unfolding crises, suddenly find they are under attack from the same malign forces.  In order to save themselves and protect the interests of the Port Huntington community, they must use every means at their disposal. 

Like the seven books before it in the series, mayhem and skullduggery abound in After The Lake Caught Fire, a gripping, contemporary story that will hold your interest from start to exciting finish.

In plenty of time for Christmas giving, the book will be available to order by mid-November at this safe link, where the seven previous novels in the series will also be found—

https://www.lulu.com/spotlight/precept

Those Were the Days

Let me list some life-threatening things that have befallen us, my wife and me, along our way together through these many years—

  • a head-on collision that totalled our car, from which we walked away shaken, scathed, but alive;
  • a diabolical attempt on our lives by an unhinged assailant, foiled only by the most fortunate of circumstances;
  • a last-minute, lifesaving operation in the wee dawn hours by a dedicated surgeon who removed my colon before the disease ravaging it could snuff me forever;
  • the onset of cancer, that most insidious of diseases—once for me, twice for her—held successfully at bay, so far, by equally dedicated doctors;
  • a severe lacunar stroke that struck her without warning, treated as quickly as possible, from which she has recovered to the point of resuming her tennis and golf endeavours.

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It’s a grim list, to be sure, not one we enjoy recalling.  And yet, here we are, still alive, still able to remember each and every event.

Let me cite now another list, this one of life-altering blessings we have been allowed to experience together on our journey—

  • two amazing daughters and their loving husbands, who love and esteem us beyond what we deserve;
  • five loving grandchildren, only just awakening to the limitless possibilities dawning before them;
  • siblings, six in total now, whom we have known and loved for more years than seems possible;
  • fast and faithful friends, both new and old—as the children’s song says, the one silver, the other gold;
  • a beautiful home on a lake in Ontario, another on a freshwater pond in Florida, each a place of inspiration and respite;
  • a creative penchant that allows us the opportunity to craft things where there was nothing before—pottery and glass-sculpting for her, music and writing for me.

This is a much happier list than the first for so many reasons, the most important being that, where the first comprises things from our past—never to be revisited, we hope—the second embraces blessings we continue to enjoy.  And that enjoyment follows from a belief that, as Robert Browning wrote, …the best is yet to be.  Through the hardships, it is that belief that sustained us.

An old Russian folk-tune (for which English lyrics were composed several years ago) speaks to the reminiscences of people my age upon their vanished youth, and recalls their once-cherished romantic idealism—

Those were the days, my friend, / We thought they’d never end…

I’m happy to say that, so far, they haven’t.  We’re still singing and dancing.

days

Girl Missing, Girl Murdered

A young Indigenous woman is brutally murdered in Toronto, her body left in a back-alley garbage dumpster by her indifferent killers.

Another statistic in a tragic tale of girls gone missing, her death comes under scrutiny seven years later by the nation-wide Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls inquiry, which is holding local hearings in Port Huntington, a small resort town on the shores of Georgian Bay.   

Even as the MMIWG committee is doing its work, a second murder is discovered, and yet another young woman goes missing.  Maggie Keiller and Derek Sloan, long-time residents of the town, become directly involved in the ensuing police investigation, which unearths one surprise after another.

As the hunt for the guilty party narrows its focus, Maggie and Derek find they, too, are in danger from the deranged predator who is determined to escape justice.

Girl Missing, Girl Murdered is the fifth novel in my Maggie Keiller/Derek Sloan crime series.  It is a gripping story, told in riveting fashion, sure to entertain readers who enjoy murder mysteries. 

The book is expected to be available online in time for Christmas shopping.

In the meantime, you might enjoy this excerpt from the working draft—

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Melanie Garland underestimated both the threat and her ability to counter it, a mistake that cost her dearly.  When she came out of the cottage to put a bag of household garbage in the trunk of her car, and to close the convertible top, she heard a vehicle approaching.  She watched warily as it pulled up behind her.

She knew right away what he was after, of course.  No surprise, given their earlier conversation.  But he adopted an air of unexpected nonchalance at first, probably trying to catch her off guard.

Careful, girl.  Don’t let this go too far.

It didn’t take long for him to get to the point, and as his manner changed, she felt an inkling of danger.  He was not-so-subtly eyeing the scant clothing she was wearing—a denim skirt and faded Queen’s tank-top, neither of which did much to conceal her obvious assets.

Experience had taught her the best way to cut off an aggressive man was to confront him directly—especially this one.  Slamming the trunk lid, she pointed a finger in his face, demanded he leave immediately.  Otherwise, she warned him, she’d call the police—although, belatedly, she remembered leaving her cellphone on the kitchen table.

When he responded with a slow grin, as if amused by her threat, she spun on her heel and headed for the cottage.  Without warning, he grabbed her roughly by the wrist, bringing her up short.  Angered now, and more than a little fearful, she wrenched her arm free and smacked him across the face.  Putting everything into it.

He responded so fast, she didn’t have time to flinch.  His backhand caught the side of her face, driving her against the side of her car.  Leaning into the back seat—stunned, gasping, but infuriated by the blow—she grabbed the first thing she saw lying there, a nine-iron she’d been practising with earlier.

With a primal scream, she swung it full-force at him.  Ducking sideways, arms raised to protect his face, he took the head of the club across his ribs.  As he stumbled to one knee, she dropped it and took off for the cottage.

Get away!  He’s crazy!  Get the phone! 

Halfway to the door, she was felled by a massive blow to the back of her head.  Her legs collapsed, the ground rushed up to smash her face.  Warm blood oozed from the back of her skull, trickling behind her ears.  She could taste a metallic tang in her mouth.

Oh fuck, I’m hurt!  I’m hurt!

She felt herself being rolled on her back, but her eyes wouldn’t focus.  She saw a blurry figure looming above her…heard him wailing…felt a weight pressing on her chest, over and over.  She was sure she was going to die.

No…no…no…

And then, blackness.

When he left, panting from his exertions—utterly astonished and distraught by the violence he’d committed—he didn’t  remember to take the golf club.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

There was no one there to see a different vehicle approach the cottage twenty minutes later, an hour or so before sunset; no one to observe its driver fearfully approach her motionless body; no one to hear his anguished cry, or the scratchy sound of retching as he crouched beside her.

No one else was there to detect her whispered, anguished murmurs for help; nor to notice small bubbles of blood forming at her mouth; nor to spy the fragile fluttering of her eyelids; no one to see him discover the bloodied nine-iron.

And there was no one to watch the man stand up, finally, the club in his hand; no one to witness the sudden, savage blows he rained down on her; no one to shrink from the rage in his voice as he cursed her.

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No one at all was there to see the car spraying gravel as it left in a frantic hurry moments later; no one to mourn her brutal killing.

It would be four days before anyone else discovered the decomposing body.

 

Bearing Arms

When I was about ten years old, a long time ago now, my father gave me some needed advice to deal with bullies at school.  The ones who could outrun me.

“Don’t run away,” he said.  “That’s what they want, and they’ll keep coming after you.  It’ll never stop.”

I asked what I should do, instead.  “Hit them,” he said without hesitation.

When I pointed out that such a response might result in a worse beating than usual, he said, “Maybe.  But if you land one good punch, right in the schnozz, for example, they’ll think twice the next time.  Bullies don’t like to get hurt.”

bully

I honestly don’t know if that was wise counsel or not.  But I remember ending up in a few fights for awhile afterwards, often enough that my mother spoke to my father about his advice.  For her, fighting was never the answer.  Talking through a problem was always the preferable option.

I’ve been an adult for quite a long time since then.  And there have been occasions through the years when I felt put upon unfairly by someone—not physically, perhaps, but in a bullying manner.  And I’ve wondered what would have happened at those times if I had continued to follow my father’s advice.

Don’t like somebody’s behaviour?  Hit him!

I suspect I might have been charged with assault, my only defense being that I was following a strategy that was, perhaps, legitimate once upon a time—but no longer.

It reminds me of the tragic situations I read about too often, it seems, in the great republic to the south of us, the Land of the Free, the Home of the Brave.

In 1791, more than 225 years ago, the American government adopted an amendment to their constitution, which had been ratified two years earlier.  That amendment bestowed upon every citizen the right to keep and bear arms.  The arms in question in the eighteenth century, of course, bore little resemblance to the guns available today—some of which constitute weapons of mass destruction, by any reasonable definition.

Weapons-Silhouettes-Set

As recently as last year, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled:  …the Second Amendment extends, prima facie, to all instruments that constitute bearable arms, even those that were not in existence at the time of the founding; and further, that its protection is not limited to …only those weapons useful in warfare.

According to the New York Times, more Americans “…have died from guns in the United States since 1968 than on battlefields of all the wars in American history.”

Data from the National Vital Statistics System of the U. S. Centers for Disease Control, through 2015, show that—

  • on average, there are 12,000 gun homicides every year in the U.S.;
  • seven children are killed with guns in the U.S. on an average day;
  • America’s gun homicide rate is more than 25 times the average of other nations.

A list of firearm fatalities in the U.S. since 1999 yields more than 440,000 killed, including the awful massacres of school children in Columbine, Colorado in 1999, and in Newtown, Connecticut in 2012.

And this past week, of course, the lives of fifty-eight innocent souls were snuffed out in Las Vegas, Nevada by a deranged killer with an arsenal of military-grade, automatic weapons at his disposal.  All legally purchased.

As has been noted many times elsewhere, shocked politicians offer their thoughts and prayers every time to the grieving families.  Far fewer of them, however, think to call for an end to the madness.  Apparently, the slaughter of American children has become something that can be tolerated in the name of preserving the sanctity of the Second Amendment.

2ndAmen

That provision may have been acceptable, even advisable, when it was ratified those many years ago.  Today, however, a nation’s fawning adherence to it strikes me as being even less wise than a decision on my part to follow my father’s long-ago advice into adulthood.

When—if ever, I wonder—will that gloriously-blessed, yet grievously-afflicted nation grow up?