Summary:
Thursday, July 16, 1953
It's just another Thursday morning in July of 1953 when the doorbell rings at 137 Hartford Street and it's bad news.
Carter's father has been murdered in Georgia and the local sheriff has no intention of finding out who really did it.
So, Nick and Carter borrow the first plane that Marnie, Nick's amazing secretary, can find for them and they zoom off back into the past to see if they can uncover the truth of what really happened before the wrong man is convicted. And, knowing the lay of the land under the moss-covered oaks, Carter is pretty sure that the color of a man's skin will figure heavily in who takes the fall.
In The Laconic Lumberjack, the best Nick can do is stand by Carter's side as he confronts an awful past, uncovers some surprising secrets, and deals with the unsavory reality of small-town hypocrisy.
In the end, Nick and Carter discover more about themselves than they ever expected to find.
Summary:
Monday, December 19, 1955
It's early in the morning and Carter is worried that he and Nick won't be warm enough for their Christmas trip to Vermont.
Nick, for his part, is wondering if they will ever be able to return to the big pile of rocks he's finally come to love. An exile in France isn't the worst thing in the world but still...
But before they can get much more than halfway from San Francisco to Vermont, they discover that the mob is after them and is on their tails, chasing them across the country as they take planes, trains, and automobiles.
They finally get to Vermont, all covered in freshly-fallen white snow, and begin to wonder if it will be their last Christmas, after all.
Wednesday, November 24, 1965
It's the day before Thanksgiving and Nick and Carter have been in Paris for nearly a month when an early-morning call brings the news they've both been dreading for three years: Louis Jones Richardson, Carter's mother, has passed away in her sleep. The funeral will be on Monday in her hometown of Albany, Georgia.
With that, Nick is determined to find a way to get into Georgia since, in 1953, he and Carter signed an agreement they wouldn't enter the state without permission. And, in spite of the sad circumstances, neither the district attorney in Albany nor the state's attorney general are inclined to let them in.
Help comes in the form of two of their operatives: Tom Jarrell and Ronnie Grisham.
Meeting up in Miami on Thanksgiving Day, the four of them make the trek north and surreptitiously cross the Georgia-Florida state line in the early morning hours of Friday.
At Belle Terre, a plantation-style house nestled between cotton fields and the banks of the Flint River south of Albany, Nick and Carter begin to play hosts to friends and family who come by to pay their respects, since neither man will be able to safely show their faces on the day of the funeral.
But then something unexpected happens that turns a time for grieving into a devastating tragedy...
The Laconic Lumberjack #4
Original Review August 2024:
The Laconic Lumberjack finds Carter faced with his father's murder and the police back in Georgia don't have any plans to make sure the right suspect is apprehended so despite Carter's feelings about his father he knows he needs to get answers. Unfortunately, many things throw a wrench or two into Nick & Carter's plans, one big one being Nick's PI license is not valid in the state of Georgia. As it turns out Nick's money doesn't turn too many heads or help uncover any answers the way it has before.
I won't delve into the mystery too much so as not spoil the who done it. I will say that for some authors multiple twists and turns can bog down a mystery and for others heighten the suspense. Frank W Butterfield falls into the heightens category. One thing that never leaves readers wondering is the passion and love between Carter and Nick but if you are one of the few with doubts Laconic Lumberjack shows how far Nick is willing to go for his guy.
Friendships, family, murder, rampant Old Southern racism, good-bad-indifferent cops, humor, love, hurt, comfort, healing, and mystery. The Laconic Lumberjack has all of this and so much more. Whether you're cheering, booing, swooning, or swearing at the characters one can't deny every factor is needed to tell this leg of N&C's journey. So much amazing storytelling in this series entry that you better make sure you have time to finish because once you start you'll find a desire, a need to know everything will blossom inside.
A Happy Holiday #17
Original Review December 2024:
I'll admit once again to jumping around to read entries that fit the holiday currently going on and in doing so I know there are something factors I'm a little unawares about, so there might be a few holes here and there info tidbit-wise that need to be filled, for which I'm truly looking forward to but at the same time I wasn't lost. The main reason I wasn't lost? Nick and Carter stories having mystery and ongoing scenarios but the meat and potatoes of their world is the chemistry and love between them and the ever growing found family they have around them.
A Happy Holiday finds them trying to have possibly one last holiday with family and friends before being exiled in Paris. As par for the course, things don't exactly go as planned but that doesn't mean the holiday cheer is ruined just downsized a bit. That's about the extent plot-wise you'll get out of me but just know Holiday will suck you in until you reach that final page.
When you jump into Nick Williams and Carter Jones' world you never know what you're going to get: pure mystery, pure romance, friendship, family, drama, blend of some, blend of all, holidays, every day, but one thing that is guaranteed: you will always be entertained and taken on an amazing journey.
The Redemptive Rifleman #29
Original Review November 2024:
Once again I jumped ahead as I was in search of Turkey Day stories(and there aren't many of them in any genre but especially LGBTQ) and this time the jump was about 10 years or so. I wasn't lost by any means but there were a few characters and a few tidbits of info that had occurred in Nick and Carter's universe that I had not discovered yet but there was a scene where some backstory was given to a new-to-me couple who had not been aware of all the little facts that transpired over the years relating to Georgia. It was this scene that helped fill in a few blanks as well as refresh my mind on a few things I had experienced but overall it made me hungry to learn those missing years in 2025, always nice to have something to look forward to.
Onto The Redemptive Riflemen.
I would say(of those I've read) this one had less on the mystery front but it wasn't lacking in moments of danger for the men and their found family. I don't want to give anything away so this review will be shorter than most. Nick and Carter are just as in love as ever and their circle continues to grow but it has also lost a member as they are trying to find a way to give Carter's mom a proper goodbye when they aren't allowed back in Georgia. Never fear, their found family pulls together and finds a way, though not quite as involved as I'm sure the men would like to be in the final send off but sometimes being close and surrounded by loved ones is all that's needed. Just so much love all around that it can't help but make your heart warm and what better holiday than Thanksgiving to help them, and the reader, feel the love and thankfulness.
One little personal sidenote: As with the other entries(the one's I've read anyways) involving Carter's Georgia history, there is mention of the Klan. It made me think of how this spring after watching something on TV my dad mentioned how he remembers his dad telling stories of the Klan being around when he was younger. This is not in the South, we're Wisconsinites and have been for several generations so it really struck me how far reaching hatred and bigotry reached even in my grandparents generation. With Frank W Butterfield's Nick and Carter universe he helps to show just how far we've come, granted we have a long way to go(and unfortunately in this country recent events have shown we may be in for a bit of setback in the coming 4 years) but as heart-hurting as N&C's experiences are they do give one hope by showing the contrast of yesteryear to today, and more specifically how far we had come just within the timeframe of their journey. This may not have been something the author set out to do and not every reader may find it but Nick and Carter's journey brings a layer of comfort to me and for that I have to say a huge "thank you" to Mr. Butterfield.
The Laconic Lumberjack #4
137 Hartford Street
San Francisco, Cal.
Thursday, July 16, 1953
Just before 10 in the morning
I was walking downstairs, thinking about the three important things I needed to do that day when I heard a knock on the front door.
It was another bright day and the air was a little on the cool side, as summer days can be in San Francisco. Sinatra was crooning on the hi-fi. I was feeling better than I had felt in a while.
I could hear Carter Jones, my tall, muscled, ex-fireman husband, whistling along with Sinatra and, as always, he sounded handsome. I smiled at the oddness of that thought as I opened the door to see Marnie, the best secretary a guy ever had, and her mother, Mrs. Wilson, standing on the front porch looking sad and apologetic at the same time.
"Come in," I said as I stood back to let them pass.
They both walked in. Marnie was dressed for work. I knew she was going to be meeting Robert, our new boy wonder, at the office later to go over some new ideas about managing my real estate properties. I had hired him over a month ago, and he was working out fine. Better than fine. He was pretty sharp, that kid.
Marnie reached out a gloved hand and said, "Oh Nick! This is terrible!"
They were both standing in the entry hallway. I asked, "Can I get you some coffee?"
Mrs. Wilson said, "No, thank you. I just received a call from Carter's mother."
I was surprised. I knew they had been keeping in touch. Carter's mother was supposed to be visiting San Francisco in a little over a week. Plane tickets had been purchased and arrangements had been made for her to stay with Marnie and Mrs. Wilson, who lived one block up and two blocks over on Collingwood. Mrs. Jones didn't feel comfortable staying with us and, to be honest, the feeling was mutual.
I looked at Marnie, who was dabbing her eyes with one of her lace handkerchiefs.
"What's happened?" I asked.
"Oh, Nick! Carter's father is dead and they think it was murder!"
Mrs. Wilson bustled in an irritated way. "No one knows anything yet other than we're here to help you and Carter pack your bags and get you on a plane."
I shook my head. I wasn't about to go to Albany, Georgia. In July.
"No. There must be a mistake. She's coming here next week." I knew that sounded idiotic but it was what popped out of my mouth.
Mrs. Wilson took me by the elbow and pushed me into the sitting room. "You have to go upstairs and tell that man about his father. We'll be down here if you need us."
I shook my head. "Maybe—"
Mrs. Wilson was firm. "No maybe. He's dead. You have to go. Today."
It finally got through to me. I could hear Carter still whistling upstairs. I looked over at Marnie whose face brimmed over with concern.
I took a deep breath, crossed the sitting room, and began to walk up the stairs. They felt long and steep. I wasn't looking forward to this.
When I got to the landing at the top, I said, "Carter?"
He replied, "Yeah?"
"I need to talk to you."
"Can it wait? I'm on my way to meet Martinelli. We have that arson case down in San Mateo."
"No, honey, it can't wait."
"Honey? Since when—" He was quiet for a moment. "Is something wrong? Who was at the door?"
I entered the room carefully, stopping just inside the doorway, and watched him fiddle with his tie. He was looking at me through the mirror. As usual, he was stooping over to see his reflection. We really needed to get a bigger mirror. But, obviously, not today.
"Marnie and Mrs. Wilson are here."
"Why?" he looked confused.
"Sit down."
"I really—"
"Carter, your father is dead and someone murdered him."
He stood up straight, stopped fidgeting with the tie, and looked forward, without any further movement.
"Are you sure?"
I shrugged. "Yes."
"If you're sure, why are you shrugging? Besides everyone who ever knew him, who would want to kill Daddy?"
I sighed. "We're gonna go find out."
A Happy Holiday #17
1198 Sacramento Street
San Francisco, Cal.
Monday, December 19, 1955
Half past 4 in the morning
"Do you have everything?"
I looked up at Carter from my side of the bed. I was leaning over and lacing my boots. "Gustav took care of it all. The trunk is down in the car."
Carter, my tall, muscled, ex-fireman of a husband was looking around the bedroom. "How cold do you think it will get?"
"I have no idea." I sat up and looked over at him. He was obviously nervous about something. It might have been about spending the next eight days cooped up in the middle of Nowhere, Vermont for a big family Christmas. Or it might have been about leaving our home on Nob Hill in San Francisco for the unforeseeable future. Or it might have been something as simple as the fact that he was worried about how cold it could be in a place as foreign to us both as Vermont. It might have even been all three.
While I was thinking about that he caught me watching him, so I grinned at him and said, "Carter Woodrow Wilson Jones, if you don't know what else to do, you could lace up these boots for me. I should have broken them in. The leather is stiff."
He nodded and knelt down in front of me. He yanked on the laces of the boot on my left foot. As he did, I could feel that odd sort of comfort which came from having my ankle and calf held tightly in place.
Over the previous week, we had spent a fair amount of time preparing for eight days in Vermont. We'd been buying clothes of all sorts that we didn't usually need in San Francisco: bulky sweaters, thick socks, heavy boots, mufflers, gloves, and warm overcoats. We'd finally decided to buy a couple of sets of flannel pajamas for sleeping in, along with robes to cover up with. Usually we slept in our BVDs or nothing. But with company coming and going, we thought it would be better to be covered up than not.
Somehow, Gustav had got everything packed into a single trunk. The night before, he and Carter had hauled it down to the Roadmaster in the garage so we would be ready to leave the house in time to be in the air by half past 5.
I owned a house in Vermont that I'd inherited from my mother. We'd only been there one time, and that was the previous March when I'd finally discovered that my mother didn't die in '29 as my father and I had long thought. After finding a cache of unopened letters that my mother, Alexandra, had written in the 30s, I had brought in some of our employees at Consolidated Security, our private investigation firm, to start digging into the past. What they found was that Zelda, the housekeeper my mother had hired in the late 20s, had been slowly poisoning her with arsenic. After a doctor mistakenly diagnosed her stomach problems as cancer, she had left by ship for Mexico to die overlooking the ocean. However, we discovered she had lived eighteen more years, including six in an old farmhouse in Grafton, Vermont, a small town in the south central part of the state.
While living there, my mother had met and fallen in love with the local deputy sheriff, a man by the name of Ed Richardson. Once we'd met Ed, the older man had embraced the two of us as if we were his own sons. I thought of Ed as my stepfather, even though the man had never married my mother.
In the previous July, and after knowing each other for only four months, Ed and Carter's mother, Louise, had announced their engagement. And, in October, the two had married at our house in San Francisco.
Just before the wedding, Ed had asked about the family spending Christmas in Grafton. My father and Lettie, my stepmother, had enthusiastically embraced the idea. Several other family members had been invited. My mother's house only had two bedrooms. All of the needed accommodations in Grafton had been arranged by Ed. And, last I'd heard, everyone finally had a place to sleep. The big gatherings, of course, would be at my mother's house.
So, on that third Monday in December, we were all getting up early in order to fly to Boston. There we would meet Ed's oldest son, Kenneth and his wife, Michelle. Ed's youngest son, Robert, was still not happy with his father's marriage and plainly didn't like Carter and me, so he was staying by himself at the small apartment he'd recently rented in Cambridge, just outside of Boston.
Carter took me by the hand. "You ready?"
I swallowed and nodded. I put my hand on the post of the big bed my grandfather had carved after the '06 earthquake and fire. I felt its solidity and, not for the first time, was grateful to my grandfather and the carpenters who built it. Thanks to them, it was solid enough to let Carter and me play around as much as we wanted without any fear that it would collapse.
I looked around the room, taking in the fireplace, the big Chesterfield, and glancing up at the hand-carved wood ceiling. I wondered if we would ever see any of them again.
Carter put his hand on my neck. He gently pushed me towards and through the bedroom door. As we moved down the hallway, I stopped next to the door to my childhood bedroom. It was ajar and, after switching on the light, I walked in. My eyes were immediately drawn to the table Carter had set up a few days earlier. I walked over and squatted down on my haunches to get a better look.
The table was covered with a set of wooden Prussian soldiers my father had once brought me from Germany. They were each six inches tall. The set came from an antiques store in Berlin. My father had bought the set in '32 while on a work trip.
I looked at the captain, handsome in his uniform, and gave him a mock salute. "You're in charge of the house now."
Carter walked over and squatted next to me. "They're so lifelike."
I sighed. "Yeah. That colonel from the Presidio told me that the officers are based on real people who fought during the Napoleonic wars."
Carter picked up one of the lieutenants and closely examined the carved face. "He's my favorite."
I smiled and said, "Better watch out, Chief. That other lieutenant is his lover."
Carter gingerly put the soldier back and, in a very serious voice, said, "My apologies, Lieutenant."
"Coffee, Mr. Nick?" That was Mrs. Kopek, our housekeeper. She and Mrs. Strakova, our cook, were both waiting for us in the kitchen. They were both bundled up in thick wool robes against the morning chill.
I nodded as she poured a cup and added two sugar cubes. After stirring slowly, she handed me the cup and asked, "When do you return from France?" I took a sip and shrugged. "We don't know."
"I am glad you leaving. No good for you be in jail like my Ivan was." That was her son. We called him Ike. He'd just been released from Soledad State Prison down south of Salinas after doing time for distribution of pornography.
I nodded in agreement. "But you'll come visit us, won't you?"
She wiped the counter with a towel and quietly replied, "Yes."
The way she answered made me realize she had no interest in going back to Europe. She was from Czechoslovakia and had left back in the 30s, before Germany annexed the country. Except for her accent, she was as American as anyone I knew.
I looked over at Mrs. Strakova, who was yawning while packing up a huge hamper of food for us. "What about you, Mrs. Strakova?" She shook her head. "I cannot go back to Paris. Too many bad memories."
I sighed and took a sip of my coffee.
"Was everyone up and waiting to see you off?" That was John Parker, Carter's cousin. We'd stopped at his apartment to pick up him and Roger Johnson, his lover, on the way to the airport.
Carter turned around in his seat and replied, "No. Only Mrs. Kopek and Mrs. Strakova were up. That's where the hamper came from."
In the big backseat, John sat on one side of the hamper while Roger sat on the other. We were only three blocks down Van Ness and he was already zonked out and leaning against the window.
Carter continued, "Last night, we told Gustav and Ferdinand to sleep in, along with Nora and Ida. We'll see them next week in Boston."
John sighed. "I still can't believe you're leaving. And I'm amazed that no one has said anything. Every morning, I open up the Examiner and expect to read something about Notorious Nick leaving the country. So far, so good."
In the rear-view mirror, I could see Roger stretch out his arms. He yawned and said, "So they all agreed to go?"
Carter nodded. "Yep. And, to be honest, I'm glad. Ferdinand's aunt lives in Paris."
John asked, "But I thought that lawyer kid was going with you too? He and his boyfriend. Isn't the boyfriend a frog?"
I laughed. "Jake is the lawyer. Did you ever meet Antoine?"
John shook his head and looked at me in the rear-view mirror. "No, why?"
Carter said, "He's my height and not quite as broad, but he's solid. More than you are. I've spent some time at the gym with him."
John grinned. "So, you're sayin' I should mind my Ps and Qs when Roger and I come visit you in April?"
Carter nodded. "Yeah. That would be smart. He's hard to read at first, but he's a real sweetheart. He's very good to Jake."
Roger asked, "How do they feel about going back so soon? Didn't they just get here? Didn't it take a long time for the boyfriend to get a visa?"
I replied, "I think they were relieved, to be honest. I was raised to believe that San Francisco is the center of the world, but it's nothing like Paris."
No one disagreed.
We were flying to Boston on our Lockheed Super Constellation, dubbed The Laconic Lumberjack. The front of the main cabin held twelve oversized seats. Leather benches lined both sides of the cabin just behind. Small tables bolted to the floor in front of the benches provided space to eat or work. A full galley sat in the center of the plane. In the rear of the ship were two smaller cabins, one with a set of Pullman-style lower and upper sleeping berths, the other with a full-sized bed and large bathroom, including a shower.
When we'd arrived at the small private terminal at the south end of the international airport, we'd found my father and Lettie already on board along with Carter's Aunt Velma, Marnie, and Alex.
Marnie was my secretary, the best a guy could ever have, as well as being my stepsister, Lettie being her mother. Marnie and Alex had been married for a year or so. I knew him from prep school and, now that we were all older, he was turning out to be a really good guy and a great husband to Marnie.
Once we were in the air, our pilot, Captain John Morris, emerged from the cockpit and walked up to me. Carter and I were sitting in the front row. He knelt down next to me and asked, "If you'd like, I can go over our flight path with everyone."
I nodded. "Sounds good."
He stood. "I'll get Christine"—she was our stewardess and his wife—"to gather everyone together in about thirty minutes. How do you like that big table in the back that Robert had put in?" Robert Evans managed all of my properties, including the airplanes. Since we were leaving the country, I'd handed that part of my business over to him. His first decision had been to install a big work table behind the galley. It was similar to the one in our—now his—smaller Constellation. There were five planes in the stable I'd handed over to Robert, including a Comet jet that was sitting in Ireland, being updated and retrofitted.
I smiled. "Looks good."
He nodded and stood. "I'll ask Christine to get everyone back there."
As we all gathered around the table, sipping coffee in the light of the pre-dawn twilight, Captain Morris rolled out a big map. He pointed to where we were right then, approaching Las Vegas from the northwest, and said, "There's a big storm over Wyoming, Colorado, and northern New Mexico,"—using his finger, he drew a big line through those states—"so we're headed down towards El Paso. We have to scoot around some of the Air Force bases in the area, so we'll fly parallel to the Mexico border from around Tucson until we pass over El Paso. From there, we'll angle north." He stopped and drew a line to Dallas. "Once we're there, we'll head towards a line that's a hundred miles south of St. Louis and then turn due east towards Cincinnati. We want to avoid the Great Lakes where they're socked in from Cleveland to Buffalo. After Cincinnati, we head towards Philadelphia. Then we turn northeast, flying over New York. We should land in Boston at around half past 6 in the evening, local time."
I said, "Thank you, Captain. It's always—"
Right then, I heard a strange metallic sound from the port side wing. Captain Morris quickly made his way over to the window just past the galley and looked out for a moment. Without saying anything, he ran forward to the cockpit.
Always calm, Christine said, "Let's all get seated quickly and fasten seat belts."
Following her instructions, we did just that. As soon as we were buckled in, the captain made an announcement over the loudspeaker.
"Sorry about that, folks. We had a misfire in the number two engine. But Captain Obregon just cycled her through and now she's back up and running. Let's stay seated for a few more minutes, just to be sure. I'll let you know when you can get back up again. Thanks."
The Redemptive Rifleman #29
6, rue Catherine la Grande
Paris, France
Wednesday, November 24, 1965
4:04 p.m.
"Nick?"
"Good morning, Dr. Sylvester." Dr. Ernest Sylvester was a psychoanalyst I'd been seeing and talking to over the phone since the summer of '60, nearly five and a half years.
"Good morning. Or should I say, 'Good afternoon'?"
I chuckled.
"What can I help you with? I think this may be our first Wednesday appointment."
"Yeah." I took a deep breath and looked around. I was sitting in the library of our house in Paris, right under the kitchen and right above the Turkish bath. I had pulled the big, black phone over to the love seat and was curled up on it, something I rarely did.
"Nick? What's happened?"
"Well, first things first. Thanks for meeting with me so early. I wasn't sure if you'd be able to do so at 7 in the morning. And I'm sorry they called and woke you up in the middle of the night."
"I'm at home and, of course, will be billing you for this phone call."
I laughed. "Of course."
There was a crackling silence over the phone. I could hear the echo of another conversation happening. The callers were speaking French and, as usual, I understood none of it. That reminded me of something important I had to say. "Before we start, I wanna remind you about Uncle Chester." That was our code word which meant that it was likely someone was listening in on the call, probably the C.I.A., but it could have been anyone. When I'd picked up the ringing phone, I'd heard a subtle click, followed by two more in rapid succession. As far as I could tell, that was the clue that there was at least one extra pair of ears on the line.
"Ah, yes, dear old Uncle Chester. One of these days, I'd like to have him on the couch." I knew he was specifically talking about J. Edgar Hoover, the long-time head of the F.B.I.
I laughed. "That would be interesting."
"At a dollar or more a minute, Nick..."
I sighed. "I know and I'm sorry." I took a deep breath and then said, "Louise passed away last night your time." Louise Jones Richardson was the mother of Carter Jones who was my tall, muscular, ex-fireman of a husband.
"I'm very sorry to hear that, Nick. How are you feeling?"
"To be honest, the main thing on my mind is that it seems like it was just a day or two ago when we first got the news she was sick."
"That was during your trial in 1962, correct?"
"It was a hearing, but, yeah." There was another long, crackling pause. The French couple were still at it. Finally, I said, "Ed called us at about 8 this morning, which was at 2, Eastern Time. Louise went to sleep and just stopped breathing."
"I am very sorry."
"She'd been doing so much better. She was here, you know. Just a couple of weeks ago."
"I remember your saying so."
"I feel hollow." That sounded like something I'd once read in a book, but it was also right on the money.
"That, of course, makes sense. You've suffered a loss. You feel the absence of Louise."
I sighed. "Yeah."
More crackling silence. The pair who'd been chatting in French hung up. I could hear the click. The crackling got a little louder and a hiss that I hadn't noticed started up.
"I sense there is something more you wish to tell me."
"Yeah. It's about Carter."
"How is he?"
"Pretty bad. He had already planned a day trip to Marseilles to check on a couple of his gyms down there. He decided to go and should be back in an hour or two, depending on traffic."
"And what have you done all day?"
"I've been out walking around. I popped into one of our hotels for lunch. But, mostly, I've been walking around."
"Where did you go?"
"Mostly up to Monkmarter. I love going up there. It reminds me of Uncle Paul and Joujou." My Great Uncle Paul Williams, who had passed away in 1932 and whom I had only met once when I was a kid, had spent a lot of time in the very house where I was sitting. That had been back during the Belle Époque. He had lived elsewhere and spent a goodly amount of time up on the hill above Paris.
"Monkmarter? Do you mean Montmartre?"
I laughed. "Yeah. You should know by now, doc, how bad my French is."
"I still believe that, if you tried..." He sighed. "I'm rather off the point, aren't I?" Before I could answer, he said, "My apologies. Please, go on."
"Before I had lunch, I called Carter at his gym in Marseilles. He could barely talk, he was crying so hard."
"That's quite understandable. How did you feel about that?"
"I don't know." I thought about that for a moment. "I think Carter is upset because he didn't get a chance to really say goodbye to his mother."
"How does that make you feel?"
I knew why he asked that question. Over and over and over again. It was a good question to ask. But, still, it irritated me. "Well, I'm ready to go any time, doc. You know because we've talked about it. There's no one in my life who doesn't know how I feel about them. I could pop off right now, and no one would be confused or surprised. Kenneth"—Kenneth Wilcox was our lawyer—"keeps my will in shape. I'm ready to die any time, doc."
"Nick?"
"Yeah?"
"Take a deep breath."
I did just that.
"Now, how does it make you feel that Carter is upset?"
I immediately knew the answer. It was the reason I'd begged Dr. Sylvester's answering service to call him at home. I took a deep breath and just said it, "I said goodbye to Louise when they were here earlier this month."
"Does Carter know that?"
"Yeah. I begged him to do the same thing and I think he tried, but I don't know."
"You don't know if he tried?"
"Right."
Dr. Sylvester paused and then asked, "What, if anything, do you think your job is here?"
That was a good question. "Well, I love Carter and I want him to know that and to feel that."
"You once told me about the first night you spent in that house. In the Turkish bath."
I grinned in spite of everything. "Yeah. That was quite a night."
"I believe you told me that was the only place in the house that was warm."
"Yeah."
"It seems to me, Nick, that Carter might respond to an action like that much better than to any words."
I nodded to myself, suddenly feeling like I had something I could do. "Thanks, doc. That's what I needed. Now I know what I can do."
"My pleasure, Nick. May I ask something?"
"Sure."
"Please don't offer to buy out the answering service the next time you need to reach me."
"Sorry about that."
"That's quite alright. Simply tell them you're a priority client. But use that word judiciously, Nick."
"I will. Thanks, doc."
"I have two more questions."
"Shoot."
"Where will the funeral service be?"
I took a deep breath. "Well, that's another part of what has Carter upset. It's gonna be in Albany, in Georgia, in his and his mother's hometown, on Monday."
"Does he wish to go?"
"It's hard to say. I think we should." I sighed. "We were both surprised that she wanted to be buried there instead of in Vermont. But, then again, maybe she was too much of a southerner to bear the thought of being buried with a bunch of Yankees."
I could hear Dr. Sylvester chuckle over the line.
I asked, "What was your second question?"
"Do you actually intend to buy the answering service?"
I laughed. "I will if you think I should. I know you're not supposed to tell me what to do as my analyst, but this is business."
He chuckled again. "I think you should. Margaret is getting on in years and could use the break. And the money, to be honest."
"It's a deal then."
"Good." He paused. "You know, of course, that means I'll have to hire another service."
"Why?"
"It's hardly fair to ask the girls who work there to say no to their boss."
I laughed. "You're right about that. Thanks, doc."
"You're welcome, Nick. Goodbye."
"Goodbye." I waited and listened as he hung up. Half a second later, there was a series of clicks. I put the receiver on the base and sighed deeply.
Nick Williams Mystery Series
In 1953, the richest homosexual in San Francisco is a private investigator.
Nick Williams lives in a modest bungalow with his fireman husband, a sweet fellow from Georgia by the name of Carter Jones.
Nick's gem of a secretary, Marnie Wilson, is worried that Nick isn't working enough. She knits a lot.
Jeffrey Klein, Esquire, is Nick's friend and lawyer. He represents the guys and gals who get caught in police raids in the Tenderloin.
Lt. Mike Robertson is Nick's first love and best friend. He's a good guy who's one hell of a cop.
The Unexpected Heiress is where their stories begin. Read along and fall in love with the City where cable cars climb halfway to the stars.
Long before the Summer of Love, pride parades down Market Street, and the fight for marriage equality, San Francisco was all about the Red Scare, F.B.I. investigations, yellow journalism run amok, and the ladies who play mahjong over tea.
Nick & Carter Holiday Series
Welcome to a year of holidays with Nick Williams and Carter Jones!
This is a series of short stories with each centered around a specific holiday.
From New Year's Day to Boxing Day, each story stands on its own and might occur in any year from the early 1920s to the first decade of the 21st Century.
Saturday Series Spotlights
Frank W Butterfield
Frank W. Butterfield is the Amazon best-selling author of 89 (and counting) self-published novels, novellas, and short stories. Born and raised in Lubbock, Texas, he has traveled all over the US and Canada and now makes his home in Daytona Beach, Florida. His first attempt at writing at the age of nine with a ball-point pen and a notepad was a failure. Forty years later, he tried again and hasn't stopped since.
The Laconic Lumberjack #4
A Happy Holiday #17
The Redemptive Rifleman #29
Nick Williams Mystery Series
SMASHWORDS / iTUNES / KOBO
B&N / iTUNES AUDIO / AUDIBLE
Nick & Carter Holiday Series
