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Inheritance by Philip Levin
Tricia Tracy anticipates receiving a multimillion dollar Inheritance on her twenty-fifth birthday in four months. She may not live that long.
In her Corpus Christi newspaper column, Tracy’s Tidbits, she accuses Lupe Garcia of murdering his wife. He stalks her and attacks her, her life saved by Bill, a mysterious sailor. Tricia falls madly in love with Bill, and breaks up with her boyfriend, Mel, a police detective.
Tricia’s and Mel’s paths crisscross in their investigations of a cocaine ring, the mysterious death of one of Tricia’s friends, and a bribery scandal involving millions of dollars in damages. Tricia and her Inheritance face a determined menace, with her very life hanging in the balance. |
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About the Author: Philip L. Levin, President of the Gulf Coast Writers Association in Gulfport, Mississippi, inherited his writing prowess from an authoress mother and an editor father. With thirty years as a emergency physician, Philip sharpens his insight into human motivations with his travels throughout the world. |
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Take a sneak peak at... Inheritance, A Suspense Novel by Philip Levin
Tracy’s Tidbits by Patricia Tracy Corpus Christi Caller Times Monday, September 12, 1994
Law and Disorder We live in a society of law and disorder. Our laws set up standards, and our citizens disobey them. The degree of disobedience sets the mores of society. The law says drive fifty-five miles an hour. Those who go that slowly obstruct traffic. Most drivers pop along at sixty. Tooling down the highway at a hundred endangers the citizenry. Noise limits hardly matter when you turn your radio up for your favorite song. They make more sense when that dressed out Cadillac next to you bounces your car with the rhythm from his huge bass speakers. How much harm is there in an occasional puff of marijuana? Devastation comes when disrespect of illegal substances leads to cocaine or heroin. When a man hits his wife we look the other way. Does society have to wait for murder before intervening? Maria Garcia suffered for years, a helpless victim of her husband’s belligerent drunkenness and documented violent abuse. Several times she filed charges of battery against her husband, Lupè, yet our legal system allowed him to walk away unpunished. Two weeks ago Maria disappeared. She and Lupè spent the last known evening of her life drinking at The Lonesome Coyote, a local bar, where witnesses watched Lupè become loopy. Now, the best excuse Loopy Lupè can give is that maybe Maria suddenly decided to go visit relatives in the Valley. Without a body, police can do nothing. Where might the body be, if it were to be somewhere? Noting a freshly capped abandoned well in the backyard of the Garcia property, Detective Mel Sweeney petitioned to dig up the well as a possible location of the missing Mrs. Garcia. Judge Parker, previously mentioned in my columns in reference to light sentences for criminals, turned down his request. Our lawmakers legislate morality. Society decides when actions exceed acceptable limits. We count on our judges’ judgments to adjudicate these limits. Without enforcement of society’s morality, daredevils drive dangerously, pushers propagate poppies, and murderers meander menacingly. Please, Judge Parker, enforce the law. Help us secure a safe society. Chapter One The telephone ring startled Tricia, resulting in her making a jagged eyeliner mark across her lid. She wiped it clean as she hurried into her bedroom to grab the receiver. “Tricia Tracy here.” She brought the phone back to the bathroom to finish applying her make-up. “Hi Tricia, it’s Dovie. I’ve got a mystery for you to solve!” Tricia smiled, picturing Anna Marie Dove in her black leotard, prancing around her little cluttered home. “A mystery, huh? You have my full attention. Tell me more.” “It’s something I have to show you. How about over lunch? Can you join Turtle and me for some freshly picked vegetables?” Tricia picked up her date book to check her day’s schedule. Other than the mayor’s reception tonight, she was free. She had planned to head into the newspaper building before lunch, but could easily put her work off until the afternoon. “Lunch sounds good, Dovie. Are you going to give me a hint about the mystery?” “Okay, but only a tease. It’s something Turtle discovered while cleaning a car he bought last night.” “That could be a fuzzball. You can do better than that!” “It has to do with a lot of money.” “A mystery about a lot of money? I can hardly wait! I’ll see you in half an hour.” She slipped a yellow sundress over her trim twenty-four year old body, followed by yellow half-heels onto her nylon encompassed feet. Climbing into her yellow Ferrari, she careened along Shoreline Drive before turning up Naples road to Dovie’s home. Acorns from the tall oaks shading the fifty-year old clapboard home crunched under Tricia’s feet as she balanced her way up the cracked sidewalk. The door opened to reveal a diminutive bundle of energy. Dovie barely topped five feet, with black hair swept back, small eyes, and a sensuous mouth. At thirty-four, her constant dancing kept her lithe and muscular. Tricia met her in a friendly hug. Making their way past antique dressers and breakfronts overcrowded with worldwide knickknacks, they settled onto a pair of mismatched overstuffed chairs. Dovie poured two cups of herbal tea from a silver serving set. “How have you been?” Tricia asked. “Just fine. And you?” “Good. Now that we’ve got the niceties out of the way, tell me about this mystery.” Dovie laughed. “I’m surprised you could hold your curiosity for even those thirty seconds! Anyway, it’s Turtle’s discovery. Let’s see if I can get him to tell you about it.” Dovie turned to the hallway door and shouted, “Turtle! Come in here and say hello to Tricia.” From deep in the house Tricia heard a rumble of thunder. “Who?” Dovie went into the bedroom. Tricia could hear her voice drifting back. “We invited Tricia over for lunch. She wants you to tell her about that intriguing note you found. Come join us for tea.” Dovie returned to her chair. “Turtle’s doing much better, Tricia. We journeyed out on two car purchase trips last week. He even went to the store for me and brought back a pint of whipping cream. I was very proud of him.” Turtle emerged, a ponderous reticence wearing shorts and a huge T-shirt. African-American features of broad nose and thick lips accented his noncommittal expression. Dovie sometimes referred to Sidney Jones as her teddy bear. Tricia thought the label was half right; he looked like a bear, sure enough. Tricia waved. “Hello, Turtle. Good to see you again.” He stood solemnly. “‘Yo, Tricia,” he boomed. “S’all right?” “Sure. Same old stuff, really; tanning at the beach, writing for the paper, partying with the socialites, and dating old Mel. How about you? Anything new?” He shrugged. “Now, Turtle,” Dovie said. “Tell Tricia how you’re doing. Let’s hear about your car business.” Turtle’s slow gaze moved for a moment onto Dovie before falling down to his feet. “You tell ‘er.” Dovie sighed and, with a plaintive look, turned to Tricia. “He’s really doing much better. He’ll warm up after lunch. I’ll be right back with the food.” “Can I help?” Tricia asked. “Sure.” Dovie pointed to a half dozen newspapers neatly stacked underneath the table. “Your papers are ready, Turtle. Why don’t you enjoy them while Tricia and I bring lunch to the table?” In the kitchen, Dovie directed Tricia to the utensils and asked her to pull down three brightly colored plates. Dovie poured the ratatouille into a bowl and put it on a tray with the bread and salad. Returning to Turtle with feast in hand, Dovie served portions to all. “So,” Tricia asked, as she ate. “What is this mystery you promised? You said Turtle found something valuable? I’ve been imagining all sorts of things, like maybe a diamond brooch or an ancient manuscript?” “You’re so silly, Tricia,” Dovie said, and giggled. “Turtle loves to buy and sell cars, don’t you Sweetheart?” Dovie turned to Turtle, waiting to hear the affirmative grunt. Mounds of newspapers spread around him like sand dunes at Padre Island beach. His half gray hair stood short; half inch soldiers standing sentinel, guarding the quiet man’s thoughts. Tricia knew little of the causes of Turtle’s reticence. “War experiences,” Dovie had said. Tricia hadn’t appreciated any improvement in his social skills in the year she’d known him. “Turtle finds car deals in these papers that we get from all over the area. If he can get a good deal, I’ll drive him out, and he’ll bring it back, clean it up, and drop it off at a local car lot where he sells it on commission. All sorts of things fall out of people’s pockets and get lost in the seat cushions. One time my man found a solid gold money clip with five fifty dollar bills.” “What did Turtle find this time?” Tricia asked eagerly. Dovie smiled with delight. “I hope it tickles your fancy as much as it did ours.” Turtle handed Tricia a document detailing a failed water perking inspection. In the upper margin of the report, someone had jotted in neat blocked script, “Bruce says it’s going to cost $50,000 to get this changed.” “Fifty thousand dollars! Sounds like a substantial bribe to me!” “I thought it would intrigue you, Tricia. Seems like a big scandal a super reporter like you could expose.” Tricia felt a slight burn on her cheeks. “Thanks for the compliment. I’m a feature columnist, though, not an investigative reporter. I’ll show this to Bob Randolph today. Maybe after he’s seen what a good job I did with today’s column about that Garcia fellow he’ll want me to investigate this scandal too. Whose car was it?” “Barbara Dupree.” Turtle’s deep voice pronounced each syllable slowly and precisely, as if each sound received close inspection, tender packing, and gentle delivery. “I’ve never heard of her.” “Me either,” Dovie said. “Turtle said she lives in a huge ugly home in one of those new developments out near the river. He bought her one year old Lexus for a bargain. He said it’s in great shape.” “A Lexus, huh?” Tricia=s asked. “What color?” “Blue,” Turtle said. “Want?” “Thanks anyway. I’m happy with my Ferrari.” “And now that we’ve finished eating,” Dovie announced, “it’s time to dance. Come on, Tricia. I’ve got some new steps I want to show you. Turtle will play his flute for us, won’t you, dear?” “It’s a little too hot for me to dance, but I’d enjoy watching you.” Tricia and Turtle followed Dovie to the backyard, a riot of green vines and overhung trees, surrounded by an eight foot privacy fence. Metal and ceramic icons formed a mishmash of decorations. Sundials and birdbaths decorated narrow pebbled paths. Tricia relaxed on a clover patch in the shade. Turtle settled on a bench beneath the gargantuan oak tree. Fitting the sections of his flute together, he floated a happy Irish melody. Dovie pranced and twirled in time to the music, pointed toe ballet poses accenting stylish jumps and spins, dancing until her entire outfit became dark with sweat. She stopped abruptly, panting and flushed. Tricia asked, “Dovie, are you okay?” Before answering, she took a long draught from her water bottle. “Just great, Tricia, just great. Tomorrow afternoon I’ll try to drag Turtle out to Cole Park for a performance. You should stop by and watch.” “Maybe I can make it. Right now I better get to work.” Passing back through the house and out the front door, Tricia climbed into her car, and sped downtown to her newspaper office.
Chapter Two In Interview:Lupretto Garcia Date:Sun. Sept. 11 Location:Police Station
Sweeney: Lupè, I've turned on my recorder. Do you give permission for this interview to e recorded?
Garcia: Only ‘cause Hopscotch says you can. You sure, Hopscotch?
Hopsteader: Mr. Garcia, as we just discussed, recording is common for these types of interviews. It prevents misrepresentation of your words. Naturally, Mel, you’ll send a transcript to my office promptly.
Garcia: Okay, cop man. You gonna tape.
Sweeney: For the record, today's date is Sunday, September eleventh. Present for this interview are Lupretto Garcia, known as Lupè, David Hopsteader, his attorney, Samuel Byrd, police sergeant, and me, Mel Sweeney, detective. Lupè, this isn't our first interview. I talked to you Tuesday.
Garcia: Yeah, you and your friend here came bustin' in my door.
Sweeney: As I recall, Lupè, you invited us in. In the five days that have passed, have you had any further thoughts about what might have happened to your wife?
Garcia: I don’t know nothin'. My old lady split, that's all. She run off like the puta[1] she was. She no good, cop man. Maybe she find a skinny cop like you to screw?
Sweeney: You told me last week that she was supposed to be visiting relatives for Labor Day weekend. Yet she disappeared a week before. Didn’t you wonder where she went?
Garcia: Like I said, cop man. I figured she decided to leave sooner. She got a right to go visit her family, ¿verdad?[2]
Sweeney: I worked on a case last month -- a spouse murder. All their friends said they were the happiest couple around. You and Maria weren’t like that, now were you?
Garcia: We got along suffiecineté. We fight. We make up. I don't know why she go. I don't know where she go.
Sweeney: You like to drink, don't you, Lupè?
Garcia: What-cha mean, cop man? |
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