Sample Chapters, Book 5

The Woke and the Dead

A Nostalgia City Mystery #5

Copyright 2025 by Mark S. Bacon

Chapter 1

March 31

The man’s T-shirt said, I’m proud of my— but the coagulated blood across his torso obliterated the rest of the slogan like the three bullets had obliterated him.

Lyle felt a familiar tightness in his stomach. He took a deep breath and stepped away from the body. He scanned the Nostalgia City parking lot as he reached for his phone. Regulations forbade employees from using cell phones in the park, but he often carried his. Just in case.

Judging by the condition of the victim, the man had been shot some time ago, and whoever did it was not hanging around. Instead of 9-1-1, he dialed the theme park’s security office. They had a direct line to the sheriff.

“Howard, it’s Lyle. What’s the chief of security doing answering the phone?”

“The weekend bash used up overtime. What d’ you need?”

“Sheriff’s deputies, medical examiner, Rey Martinez if he’s on duty, and of course, you. If you can spare yourself.” He looked west and shaded his eyes from the sun setting like a slow-motion fireball falling into central Arizona’s high desert. “I found a body. Guy’s been shot three times.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in the southeast corner of employee lot C. Parking is pretty thinned out. You’ll see my car. The body is propped up against one of the low Nostalgia City signs.”

Within minutes, Lyle heard the wail of a siren and saw flashing lights. A Nostalgia City security car screeched to a stop. Close behind came a San Navarro County Sheriff’s cruiser.

Howard got out of his car and headed toward the body. “What have you been doing, Lyle?”

“Helping our guests enjoy themselves. I was too late for this one.”

“You just find the body?”

“Right before I called you.”

A young sheriff’s deputy walked up, creating a trio standing around staring at the body. The man on the ground might have been resting against the sign, but his fixed stare never altered. The deputy leaned over and felt the man’s neck for a pulse. Lyle hadn’t checked. His years of experience told him the man before him was beyond help. He chastised himself regardless, remembering a pathologist telling him once he’d received a body that was “not quite dead.”

“So you found him?” the deputy asked needlessly.

“I’m Lyle Deming. I drive a cab in the park. I’m sure you know Howard.”

“I’ve seen you around,” the deputy said glancing at the security chief.

The deputy moved to touch the dead man’s shoulder.

“We should step back,” Howard said. “Rey is going to want to set up a perimeter.”

Almost on cue, another sheriff’s black and white arrived, and San Navarro County Sheriff Jeb Wisniewski stepped out. He wore a tan uniform, his gun belt constraining his slightly bulging gut, his cowboy hat in hand. His long, shiny black hair tied in a ponytail glinted in the sun and hinted at his Native American roots. “Deputy,” he growled, “get this area taped off.” He motioned with his hat at light poles and sign posts. “String it here and here.”

The deputy hustled back to his car, and Wisniewski turned his attention to Lyle. “Deming, what the hell you doing here with a body? Seems like every time there’s trouble, you show up.” He rested his hat on the back of his head. “Or maybe vice versa.”

“Take my word sheriff, I’d rather be anywhere else in the park right now.”

Nostalgia City theme park sprawled over many square miles. Streets of Centerville, a meticulous re-creation of an entire small town from the 1970s, crisscrossed what was once open desert. The creation of former Vegas casino owner, Archibald “Max” Maxwell, the park contained the ’70s town, plus a cluster of retro hotels, high-tech rides in the Fun Zone—a theme park itself—a golf course, and many other amenities. For Lyle, the park represented his taxi’s territory and very much an escape. 

“Whatcha doing here, sheriff?” Lyle said. “We expected Rey.”

“S’matter, you don’t like my company? Your buddy the undersheriff is taking a day off. You’ll just have to deal with me.” The sheriff offered what passed for a smile then moved his hand in the air as if to wave away any levity. “So what d’ we got? How long’s the body been here?”

“I dunno sheriff,” Lyle said, “I found him like this fifteen to twenty minutes ago.”

“Then Lyle called me,” Howard said. “The first we’d heard of a body.”

As the deputy started stringing yellow tape, the sheriff examined the body and looked at what appeared to be scrape marks in the parking lot dust.

“I noticed that too, sheriff,” Lyle said.

“We’ll wait until the techs arrive, but I can tell you he wasn’t shot here. There’s no blood pooled on the ground, and look at the wrinkled pattern of the dried blood. Looks like there could be dust on it, too. That sign behind him would’ve been broken if at least one of the bullets exited. You didn’t pick up any brass, did you?”

Lyle shook his head.

The sheriff bent over, and using a folded portion of a rubber glove, held the victim’s right pant cuff and raised his leg exposing dirty and torn fabric on the underside.

“If there was more than one perp,” the sheriff said, “he didn’t help carry the body. It’s been dragged over rough ground.”

Lyle pointed to the slogan on the victim’s bloody T-shirt. “I wonder what he was proud of.”

Chapter 2

Kate Sorensen smiled down at her petite friend and Nostalgia City colleague. From her perch on the bar stool, Kate towered over Drenda, but then, barstool or not, at six feet, two and one half inches, Kate towered over many people. “Have a seat. Sauv blanc?”

“I think I’ll indulge in a red,” Drenda said to the bartender. “Why are you working on Sunday?”

Kate nursed a glass of wine, wondering how she, the queen of special events, could have been caught by surprise.

“I needed to find out more about our unexpected, unofficial celebration today,” Kate said. “I wandered the grounds this afternoon, talking to visitors, trying to sort it out. Then I picked up preliminary sales figures.”

“And this is your reward?” Drenda said, nodding toward Kate’s half empty wine glass.

Kate smiled and lifted her glass in a toast.

Kate and Dr. Drenda Adair constituted the female members of senior management at Nostalgia City.

Maxwell, Drenda’s uncle, picked up the idea for the park from an academic paper Drenda wrote when she taught university history. Her paper hypothesized how a small town frozen in time might be an interesting setting for empirical research. Maxwell thought a retro small town might be an interesting setting for making lots of money.

Initially, Maxwell aimed to attract well-heeled seniors but found that his living time machine attracted all ages, provided they could afford it. Drenda became senior VP of 1960s and ’70s history and culture, the subject she studied for her PhD.

After the park had been open about six months, he hired Kate, who’d directed public relations for his Vegas hotel, to handle the park’s publicity and promotion.

The thirtyish former academic and the fortyish PR director sat at the shiny metal bar in the Boogie Lounge. Open to the public, the tiny, out-of-the-way watering hole was frequented mostly by park employees. Regardless, the lounge was still precisely ’70s from the chrome, Naugahyde-upholstered stools to the color, 25-inch, picture-tube TV behind the bar.

Drenda draped her suit coat over the back of her seat and took a sip of her merlot. “So our informal ‘gay day at the park’ was a success?”

“Yes, a few thousand more guests than average, and hotel bookings were up. Not bad for an almost spontaneous event. I think it happened on short notice—in part—through social media. Took us by surprise.”

“How did it get started?”

“Someone in Kingman posted an idea online several weeks ago, suggesting an LGBTQ day at the park. No date was mentioned and few people responded. We didn’t notice follow-up posts on different sites until the middle of the week. According to people I talked to today, texts and old-fashioned phone calls created part of the energy for this.”

“You didn’t do any promotion?”

“No. I wish I’d thought of the event.” Kate tucked strands of her long blonde hair behind one ear. “But planning a park-wide event, even a small one, takes weeks, or more likely months. I think what I would have done—”

Kate paused and she and Drenda looked up as the lounge door opened to admit a middle-aged man in a suit. Kate recognized him as a park employee, so they relaxed. She smiled at the man who took a seat several stools down the bar. She and Drenda were incognito, their euphemism for not wearing their name badges, required of all staff when on park grounds.

“So, what’s your excuse for being here on the weekend?” Kate said.

“I was brainstorming a new history display. It’s a welcome break from my usual job as authenticity police telling concessionaires they can’t talk on their cell phones or have signs asking customers to give them five stars on Yelp.”

“You really need an assistant to handle that.”

“You mean additional assistants. The park has a lot of transgressors.”

Kate stretched her legs to be comfortable. She wore a navy rayon midi skirt and blouse. “So, what’s the new display?”

“I would like to expand our history exhibit in the Plaza. The park is primarily history hardware. I’d like to explore more of the socio-cultural norms of the 1970s.”

“But Max —”

“I know. Max would say—”she frowned, bringing her eyebrows together and adopting an artificially gruff voice—“socio-cultural norms don’t bring in paying guests.” She smiled. “But I think a focus on these—if not with a new exhibit right away—at least an integration into our staff training programs, would add depth to Nostalgia City’s verisimilitude.

“I’m talking about things like women’s rights, gay rights, Earth Day. You’d be surprised at the things that happened in 1970 alone. I know Lyle does classes. He could mention a few of these movements.”

“He volunteers at the Training Department once in a while. For fun. He enjoys telling the young new hires about the ‘good old days,’ even though he was just a child back then.”

“We could see what he thinks about it. It has to start somewhere. By the way, where is Lyle today?”

“His daughter is staying with him this weekend. I’m on my own.”

Kate sipped her wine and looked up at the live TV news. Drenda grimaced. Drenda saw to it that park-controlled television consisted of rebroadcasts of 1970s news shows along with westerns, sitcoms, and movies from the period.

“I know,” Kate said, “live TV is strictly forbidden. But there’s no guests in here now and the bartender is new.”

Television sound was low, but it was quiet in the bar. The TV scene showed a field reporter interviewing Arizona Governor Rod Gudgel, a candidate for re-election. His shirt sleeves rolled up, the lanky governor wiped perspiration from his partially bald head and leaned over with a serious expression as he listened to a reporter’s question.

“Governor, your proposed legislation about school libraries has been criticized as a form of censorship.”

“Jennifer, a concerned mother from Casa Grande, actually started the impetus for this bill. She contacted my office when she found books discussing sexual orientation and gender identity in her children’s school library. Some of them mentioned perversion of the worst kind. So you see,” he leaned over even farther and deep lines appeared in his forehead, “what we’re doing is protecting our children. And it’s the right thing to do.” He made a chopping motion with his left hand.

“Governor, do you think—”

“I’ve heard enough,” Drenda said. “I’m going to tell the bartender to cut the live news and stick with the ’70s. Gudgel’s an idiot.”