Twelve Million Nights: A Junne Phunkhauser Mystery

After an evening of hurried passion, twenty-year old Junne Stapleton was told that the man she was married to was also her father. Five minutes later, she shot William Stapleton dead. Junne packed up and left Louisiana for the small town of Dublin City, Georgia. That was in 1934. In Dublin City, she met and married a traveling salesman, Blake Phunkhauser. That marriage too, died a sudden death. In two years, she would marry and kill three more men. Her fifth husband, Mr. Cole barely walked away with his life. For more than sixty years, her house on Tobacco Road held a horrible secret. That is...until just recently. In 2006, the house finally had a buyer: Hal and Karen Wixon...Dublin City's richest black people. They bought the property no one wanted, and then hired Hazel Huckleberry as the live-in maid. On their first night together, Hazel can't wait to tell the Wixons that the house they had spent so much money buying isn't really their own: "Even after it becomes yours, this house will still belong to Junne Phunkhauser. It is a haunted house," she tells them. The dead don't eat, and they don't talk either. But they can finally reveal the secrets the house on Tobacco Road harbors through their hand-picked storyteller, Hazel Huckleberry. As dinner progresses, the Wixons suspect that Hazel knows much more about Junne Phunkhauser than she is willing to divulge. Hal and Karen wonder if they will walk out of their new home alive.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Twelve Million NightsA Junne Phunkhauser MysteryBy Don OkoloiUniverse, Inc.Copyright © 2009 Don OkoloAll right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4401-7902-0Chapter OneGRANVILLE, TEXAS. 1935 "Name?" "Phunkhauser." "Full name, sir" "Blake Phunkhauser." "I can only design your fate by your full name." "Blake Beebe Phunkhauser." ... "From where?" "Georgia." "Where exactly in Georgia?" "Dublin City ... we discussed this on the phone prior to me coming here." "You believe we did. I know ..." "Why do you ask me for information I have already given you?" "I was saying we didn't. Get it through your head ... I am not the Juan Bravo, Mr. Phunkhauser. Mr. Bravo has all your information regarding the franchise you are seeking." "You look like him ... sound like him." "You are right ... there is a connection." "This is Granville, Texas ... I am in Mr.Bravo's office?" Mr. Phunkhauser pressed on. "This is Granville, and yes, we are in Mr. Bravo's office." "I thought so ..." "But, I told you I am not Mr. Bravo ... don't you want to know who I am?" "Where is the real Juan Bravo?" "Out to lunch." "Ok, then, you tell me who you are?" Mr. Phunkhauser pleaded. "This is where it gets weird. Believe it or not ... my name was Juan Bravo." "Was?" "Was ... yes." "I am his father ... well, not anymore." "Is this all a joke?" "You are going to a place where humor does not exist ... where pranks are not allowed." "But, you have a prank going, Mr. Bravo." "We aren't there yet. You'll follow me there moments from now. Here, I can fraternize, cajole, and quip all I want." "Why are you here in your son's office?" "Told you he was my boy, Mr. Phunkhauser." "Where is the paperwork? I have a plane to catch, you know." "You are asking the wrong man, Mr. Phunkhauser." Mr. Phunkhauser gave up, and stared at the man in front of him. Something wasn't right; his face bore the telltale sign of confusion and anguish. He drew a snarl and just as quickly released the rough, muscular scheme that framed it. He must appear meek, just in case the deal he had come here looking for rested with this joker. This was the day he was hoping he would celebrate the crowning of his only achievement in the ten years he had been in business. Not so fast; on this same day, he had begun to sense that fate was working overtime and against him. No doubt. Mr. Phunkhauser knew no reason why he was being picked on. Why not massage this man's ego, he was thinking. "Why did you have to speak in the past tense?" "Do you really believe you know where you are?" "Granville ... I came here yesterday on business. And I'm done with your inconsiderate and silly inquiries," Mr. Phunkhauser said, losing his composure. Why would this man question his sanity? He chose to ignore the question. "What do you feel?" "Empty ... hollow ... like a deserted, empty vessel." "By that you mean ...?" "Lifeless ... soulless ... and your attitude is irritating, and driving me nuts." "Great ..." "Great?" Mr. Phunkhauser hissed, bewildered. "Yes, great indeed. Granted that most people who have experienced what you are going through now could never figure it out." "By that you mean?" "You are lifeless as you yourself have said." "What's all this, Mr. Bravo?" "There ... that is the man you were supposed to meet today, Mr. Juan Bravo of Solid Energy ... coming back from lunch." "What do you mean supposed? I am here in his office to see him." "The journey is usually unplanned in most cases ... like the one you have embarked on. Mr. Bravo can't see you ... can't hear you, even though you believe that you are in his office." Mr. Phunkhauser remained still and watched the man he had come to visit take his seat. Mr. Bravo picked up a package and inspected it. He slammed it down on his desk and mumbled to himself, angry somewhat that Mr. Phunkhauser wasn't in his office and waiting for him. He dialed someone in the outer office, obviously disappointed. Mr. Phunkhauser could hear the connection buzzing, even with the phone resting against Mr. Bravo's ear. Instead, the office door opened, and a lady walked in. "Is Mr. Phunkhauser here, Cindy?" He slammed the phone down. "I'm afraid; I have very bad news, Mr. Bravo. His wife, Junne, called just after you left for lunch ... Mr. Blake Phunkhauser was killed last night." Mr. Bravo picked up the package he had inspected earlier and without hesitation, slammed it on his desk a second time, "Sonofabitch ... he hissed. "He couldn't wait to die." Chapter TwoJunne Phunkhauser walked into the cool night feeling lightheaded. Her face was hidden under the Neal Zihi's baseball cap. If you knew her, you'd know the red, cotton cap was victory head gear and not the fashion statement it looked like. She wore it each time there was something to celebrate ... especially, on the day she had either trounced, and/or walked all over someone in a scheme she had been working on. She parked her vintage, two-seater roadster, three blocks from her destination, and stepped out into the cool night air. At the time of night when most women were afraid to walk alone, she strolled down Wood Creek Lane without fear. Ten minutes past midnight, the cool breezy, quiet night, seemed to quicken her pace. On this the second day after her husband's death, Junne was dressed gorgeously, and her once subdued steps had grown into a full-blown swagger. She could have been attending an all night, girls' only party, rather than making this visit to the Caldwell Funeral Home. She didn't have to announce her arrival. The ground-to-ceiling door of the Funeral Home slowly backed off its hinges, opening wide. In the middle of the red interior, a man in a black suit stood as rigid as a flagpole. A mist of green pulsated around his body's perimeter ... like a halo around him. You knew right away, he was a crafty romantic, besides being the house 'Undertaker-at-Large.' He leaned forward to embellish a smile and to strike a friendlier pose. The man was, undoubtedly, working hard to change the morbid, indifferent persona his profession as an undertaker had bestowed upon him. He was expecting the deceased body of the assistant police chief on this night. But thank goodness, it would be another couple of hours before that delivery would be made. He was therefore smiling quite a bit because, the lively, gorgeous woman, was cause for a different kind of celebration. He beckoned her with a wider smile and open arms. Junne Phunkhauser strolled in like a model on the runway, making the short distance between them appear longer. She fell into his arms, and rested her head on his chest. He felt her heart skipping and racing. It wasn't difficult to see that they were celebrating something, even before his hands found both sides of her face. There would be no small talk made about her loss. Junne squeezed him harder, and then raised her head in abandonment. The man wasted no time planting a kiss on her ruby-red lips. It was only a test run. They broke it off to appreciate the haunting silence surrounding them, before locking fingers and falling into a tighter embrace. They seized this embrace completely, flaunting and rolling with it unashamedly. But the harder they squeezed and kissed each other, the drier the moment ran. And with mouths staled, and breaths hotter, they finally broke off. "He's in there ..." Doc Caldwell said, pointing, panting. Junne walked away from him, losing some of that runway strut. The door she was approaching was a black patch in an otherwise red interior. She gave it a small push and entered, stopping for a few seconds to gauge her safety, wipe the excess wetness from the corner of her mouth, and to determine if the coffin filled room was breathing on its own. The unexpected sound of a cork popping froze her. But, she was quick to write it off as the muffled fart her mind said it was. Maybe, Doc Caldwell was in the room with her. Junne turned, staring at the door she had come from. It was shut ... and she was alone with the dead. Maybe the corpse in the coffin, in the center of the space, had let loose an air-pocket lodged in its throat. As she stared at her husband's dead body from the distance, Junne wondered if her lipstick was badly smeared from the kiss with Doc Caldwell. She looked down on herself and her dress was full of creases. She stood there and worked to remove the ridges. Satisfied, she finally looked up to the casket holding her husband's remains. Her husband's postmortem features were dull and haggard. Had Doc Caldwell been in one of his dark moods when he prepared this body ... where he practiced his morbidly, fatalistic art form on a dead man? Her dead husband's face looked worse than a contused African mask. Junne saw the humor of it all and appreciated it. She knew Doc Caldwell had done this to humor her more than it was for the man with the last laugh over an adversary. She continued her approach and stood next to the coffin that held the remains of Blake Beebe Phunkhauser ... her husband. Junne had not stirred in more than two minutes: She was still gazing at the body. It took the voice of Doc Caldwell to break her reverie. "Isn't he gorgeous looking?" She turned to look at him. He walked in to be with her. With arms around each other, they stared at the body in the coffin. "I could have fashioned him to look a lot more like Rudolph Valentino in his sleep." "I like the way he looks," Junne said. They turned and held each other in a weak hug. But, as they tightened up, they inadvertently bumped against the coffin. "Wait ... wait ..." Doc Caldwell moaned. He broke from her and hurried over to the nearest empty coffin. Doc Caldwell pushed the coffin to the marble floor and ripped it apart. He pulled at the soft cushioning inside the coffin, tearing it loose from a secondary attachment. Finally, he held up the white padding to full length, as if to show it to his guest, before he spread it on the cold marble floor. Doc Caldwell looked at Junne, and beckoned. She came closer, and lowered herself onto the inviting pallet. Chapter ThreeDUBLIN CITY, GEORGIA, 2006 Everyone in Dublin City knew about the house on Tobacco Road. The stories told varied from one county to the next. No matter what version one heard, it was bad. Because of that, the house had had no buyers for more than six decades. Then again, not many people would want to own or live in the house with the Mayberry Tobacco Plantation as the backdrop. At one point, the Plantation had been the trade center for those who trafficked in the sale of human flesh ... slaves. On any given day, as many as a dozen slaves were shot to death, if at the end of the day, no one wanted them. That was why this area of prime real estate had been held hostage for nearly a century and a half. When Junne's third husband, Doc Caldwell, bought the property seventy years ago, he had plans to convert it into a mausoleum, as a way of propagating the family business. In some way, he believed the spirits of the murdered slaves would come back to haunt anyone who profited from these lands. But, he went ahead and made a homestead out of it anyway, because his new bride said so. And the spirits of the murdered slaves, he knew for sure, couldn't pass through the vacuum of time to be effective. Junne conceived grander schemes: The dilapidated house on Tobacco Road was lavishly remodeled. Ten years later, in 1946, the house was again vacant. It had remained so for more than sixty-years ... well, until yesterday. DECEMBER, 2006 The daytime temperature in the city was in the nineties. And this was December, the thirteenth day of the month. The fire-red sun was still blazing, sizzling with vengeance, and making it clear she wasn't going to offer any respite any time soon. But, the second darkness came, the residents of the tiny town of Dublin City, Georgia, not far from the world's renowned delta, suspected that God had abandoned them. With that, they feared they'd probably all freeze to death before daybreak. Six O'clock that evening, the town was already enshrouded in mist. If you were flying over at that time, Dublin City would be hidden from your view ... and it would remain so, for saken almost, as were her residents. Cries of hopeless abandonment filled the frigid night air. There were occasional high pitched wails from women and children as they suffered; they cried out more, and died quicker. The men among them, who pleaded with God to do something, quickly remembered how this same God had dealt with Pharaoh and the Egyptians in the time of Moses. They knew they had no prayers, and that the dark, cloudy frigid air was probably sent by God to avenge a century-old sacrilege. Some wondered what the iniquity was, and how it was that the entire city was dragged into it. They weren't warned, nor were they told to evacuate. As the night grew darker and colder, cries of anguish diminished as death prospered. The similarity between the sudden deaths of hundreds of people and the curse heaped on the Egyptians was unmistakable. Only in this modern time, the drifting mass of cloudy, frigidity that invaded every home in Dublin City, in addition, spared no one. The weight of the ice on rooftops caused some homes to collapse. Those who hadn't died from the cold were crushed to death. Sometimes, it was the powerful wind that did most of the damage; houses were uprooted and tossed. Gas lines snapped, causing huge fires to erupt with powerful explosions. But, as rain began to fall, the much needed relief most were praying and hoping for came with it. Soon the fires were quenched, and the grounds soggier than a bowl of cooked oat meal. Somewhere beyond the highlands on the east, the withered pine trees stood hollow in their vastness, and the rooftop of the house on Tobacco Road was covered with snow. Even in the prevailing darkness the rooftop glowed. The other houses on Tobacco Road and a dozen more around the city were the only ones that, somehow, had managed to survive the combination of heat and freezing that ravaged the city all in one day. Mayor Greg Flannigan shot up from his sleep ... freeing himself from the wind and rain induced nightmare. Chapter FourHal and Karen Wixon, the richest black people in Dublin City were in bed, asleep. At one time, the husband and wife had been the most successful commodities traders west of the Mississippi. When the competition became meaner and steeper, they moved east from Harlingen, Texas, to be closer to the merchants who bought and sold minerals from West and Central Africa and even beyond. A few years later, the Wixons had cornered the market in gold and diamond trade from West Africa. Today, most nations in that equatorial belt would only ship to the Wixon Corporation located in the southern redneck town of Dublin City, Georgia. It was a good move for the Wixons, because they had come to Dublin City with an agenda. In the first three years of their move here, they had successfully romanced their rich white neighbors with elaborate parties catered from as far away as New York, and Paris. The mayor of Dublin City, Greg Flannigan, soon became the Wixons best friend and advisor. Once every month, the Mayor himself, would hand-deliver the coveted invitations, as it were, to the deserving rich folks in the city. By the fourth year, calls were coming from the city's high-rollers to the Mayor's office, demanding invitations to the Wixon's next ball. It was ripe ... the situation, that is. The sharp, witty comedian turned Mayor soon found himself a comfortable niche; he would 'double dip' on occasion, making a few thousand dollars from those who couldn't stay away, and from all the others who would pay a pretty sum just to attend the party. It was quid pro quo; the Wixons had found the perfect way to repay their greatest admirer. The next ball was held December, 15th of 2006, and the city's biggest realtor was in town for the event. He couldn't wait to unload the property on Tobacco Road ... the one no one wanted, to the couple most would love to hate. Yes, they ate and drank with the Wixons, but hated the couple just as much, because no one in town could figure out how they made their money. Selling the notorious house on Tobacco Road could be a good way to get rid of them. James Carter, the realtor, was hoping that the legend of the haunted house was true; that these two would die, haunted to death, that is, by the same slaves murdered on these very grounds. By midnight, the party had wound down. Everyone was gone, except for James Carter. Armed with the bill of sale for the house on Tobacco Road, he sat with his legs crossed, in the Wixons' library, smoking a fat cigar and sipping the rich bourbon they served. (Continues...) Excerpted from Twelve Million Nightsby Don Okolo Copyright © 2009 by Don Okolo. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Reviews

News