Category: PART OF A SERIES
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TRIXIE’S TALE, CHAPTER TWO: Burn Barrels and Razor Wire
CHAPTER TWO OF SIX THAT EXPLAINS JUST WHO TRIXIE IS. The marriage started on the wrong foot and never got pointed in the right direction. If their trip to Vegas was a fever dream, reality came cold and clear the minute they returned to Fort Stockton. Kirk’s boot prints barely had time to dry on…
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TRIXIE’S TALE: CHAPTER ONE: Cherry Stems and Horsepower
CHAPTER ONE OF SIX THAT EXPLAINS WHO TRIXIE REALLY IS. Modern Manors wasn’t so much a mobile home park as it was a sun-baked graveyard of past-due rent and busted dreams. The trailers leaned slightly, as if embarrassed to be seen, their tin siding faded to the color of old chewing gum. Claudia and her…
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TILL DEATH DO US PART, Part IV: A Bird Uncaged
THE FINAL INSTALLMENT OF A FOUR PART STORY. The news of Dane Granbury’s execution landed in Fort Stockton like a long-overdue payment—expected, but still a little unsettling when it finally arrived. The Stockton Telegram-Dispatch didn’t run a headline, just a quiet blurb below the fold:“Granbury Executed in Huntsville.”The same paper that once refused to print…
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TILL DEATH DO US PART, Part III: The Long Goodbye
PART III OF A FOUR PART STORY. TILL DEATH DO US PART, Part III: The Long Goodbye Dane Granbury lasted ten years longer than anyone in Fort Stockton thought he would. Not that many folks spent time thinking about him anymore. After the conviction, his name became shorthand. A warning. A whisper behind hands at…
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TILL DEATH DO US PART, Part II: Trial and Tribulation
PART II OF A FOUR PART STORY. Six weeks after the discovery of Deb Granbury’s body, with no murder weapon, no eyewitnesses, and no clear motive—other than being the husband—Dane Granbury was arrested for her murder. The warrant was signed at dusk, with Chief Martin himself leading the arrest, his shirt sleeves rolled up to…
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TILL DEATH DO US PART, Part I: The Granburys Move In
PART I OF A FOUR PART STORY. They arrived in the spring of 1964 like a pair of movie stars who’d taken the wrong exit off Route 66. Deb Granbury looked like Tippi Hedren stepping off the Universal backlot—cool, elegant, and slightly untouchable. Ash-blonde hair always perfectly set, waist so narrow it seemed architectural, lips…
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LADIES WHO LUNCH, PART IV: Epilogue
They met on Tuesdays, always at noon. Three women, each a kingdom unto herself. They sat at the soda fountain counter at Rex Hall Pharmacy like queens surveying a landscape only they could read. From a distance, they were just another trio of Fort Stockton ladies sipping phosphates and splitting gossip. But up close? They…
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LADIES WHO LUNCH, PART III: Soiled Dove, Regal Lark
Virginia “Ginny” Vale drove a car as demure and underestimated as she was. A 1960 Studebaker Lark VIII, painted a color so politely green it looked like it asked permission to leave the driveway. At first glance, the car was a librarian in steel form—tight-lipped, no-nonsense, with just enough polish to pass inspection. But like…
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LADIES WHO LUNCH, PART II: The Thunderbird Affair
Dell Sanderson had hips that told the truth and a smile that lied like a rug. She drove a 1961 Ford Thunderbird convertible in Rangoon Red (J), repainted by a previous owner using PPG materials and more than a little lust. The car shimmered like a ripe cherry soaked in bourbon and roared like a…
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LADIES WHO LUNCH, PART I: The Cadillac in the Mirror
Maribeth Vining’s Cadillac came first. Before the rumors, before the art, before the man found dead behind the Blue Star Motel clutching a cigarette stub and a half-finished sketch of her profile—there was the car. A 1962 Cadillac Series 62 Coupe in Pompeian Red metallic, long as sin and just as unforgiving. You could see…