Deadly Homecoming at Rosemont
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Meet the Characters
"...enchantment with echoes calling me to the past--other people's pasts, their history, for I am not enchanted with my own"
Wrenn Grayson, Deadly Homecoming at Rosemont, Chapter 9
My name is Wrenn Grayson, and I had just hung out my “historian” shingle the summer Trey Rosemont was murdered.
In response to this new venture, the town’s retired police chief, Clayton Addison, signed up to be my first paying client. Well, it wasn’t so much that I’d been paid yet as he intended to do so on the morning we found Trey Rosemont with two bullet holes in his chest. Yes, he was quite dead on the foyer floor inside the Rosemont mansion.
Clay was the mansion’s new owner. He picked it up at auction three months earlier, after Trey—the last Rosemont in a long line of Rosemonts—was declared legally dead. This was an easy assumption since Trey went missing twenty-five years before. I’m aware of all these details because the long line of Rosemonts and the Rosemont mansion topped the list of historical data Clay asked me to research.
And did I mention all the doors were locked when Clay and I stepped inside the mansion that morning? The atmosphere was spooky: big old house, dead body, locked doors.
My name is Gideon Douglas, and I was absorbed with an exhibit of Egyptian artifacts on loan to Eastwood University the summer Trey Rosemont was murdered.
I’m a history professor and department chair at Eastwood, and I live in unwedded bliss with Wrenn Grayson. My personal history is this: I’ve known two short marriages, leading to two ex-wives, followed by an extensive list of short-term relationships with a variety of women. Then I met Wrenn.
Recently, one of the women off the variety list marched back into my life. Sherrie Lippincott is a burglary cop. Burglary is a clue. Ancient gold jewelry from the Seventeenth Dynasty and a Theban funeral mask were stolen from the Egyptian collection, literally overnight, after its arrival on campus. Security plans were kept between a trusted few. I had one appraising look at these artifacts with their million-dollar price tag. Who’s looking at them now?
Only their safe return will save Eastwood’s reputation and my career.
My name is Clayton Addison, and most days, I was covered in sawdust, plaster dust, and regular dust the summer Trey Rosemont was murdered.
Not too many months ago, I turned in my police chief’s badge, then put up some retirement funds to purchase the Rosemont estate, long unoccupied and sadly deteriorating. The assumption that Trey Rosemont was dead, leaving the estate open for auction, was a bit premature by the courts. This reasoning belongs to the perfect vision of hindsight.
The dead body at my feet inside the house brought Homicide Lieutenant Frank Elmore to my door. Elmore and I have a tainted history. This murder investigation was an opportunity of a lifetime for him. It has always been my opinion that while the cop may not be dirty, he, at the very least, smelled bad.
As the man with the only key to the mansion’s new locks, I became Elmore’s suspect. As the man owning Trey Rosemont’s birthright, which anyone would rightfully assume he wanted back, Elmore supplied my motivation to move Trey out of the picture again—and permanently.
How the hell did Trey get murdered in my house? And how did the murderer lock Trey inside?
My name is Georgie Crandall, and I was enjoying life as a traffic cop the summer Trey Rosemont was murdered.
I played a pivotal role in the case. The contortionist in me is patting my back. I sniffed out information on the homicide and the theft of the Egyptian artifacts.
Clay Addison is my good buddy, and Clay Addison as not a murderer. When he said keep my eye on Wrenn Grayson, I was up to the test. When it was Sergeant Sherrie Lippincott, my flaxen-haired beauty who I needed to snuggle up to, I sucked in the extra fifteen pounds draping my gun belt and moved in.
It might be said around headquarters that I am Clay Addison’s inside man. Some use the word snitch. Without pause or equivocation, I claim covert operations specialist. It’s classier.
For days, progress went at an agonizingly slow pace on all three fronts: Rosemont’s murder, Eastwood’s theft, and any appreciation for the devoted attention I paid to Sergeant Sherrie Lippincott, the absolute love of my life.
Then it happened. I was there, sitting across the table, probably sending out superior crime-fighting vibes, when Wrenn reasoned out the connection between the two crimes.
But how would she put proof behind her reasoning?