National Novel Writing Month -- Update: A partial of Searching for Rachel Edelstein

Since so many people have been so kind in the last two weeks as I have struggled to bring a little of this novel to life -- and there have been times when I've seriously doubted it -- I have a small treat for you. Very small.

Here is a little of the beginning of Searching for Rachel Edelstein.

This is only a little more than a page and doesn't really tell you what the story is about. But I thought I'd do this anyway.

Remember: This is part of a first draft. It has no polish. Much is likely to be re-written one day.

Enjoy. Thanks for the support and thanks for reading.

Searching for Rachel Edelstein

By

MB Dabney

00,000 words

 

BEFORE

 

The blade of the shovel sliced across his face, gouging a deep cut, from his hairline down across the cheek to his chin. Dazed, Muller dropped the gun and staggered backwards. Rachel raised the shovel again and brought it down.

Hard.

The rounded part of the shovel caught him squarely in the face, flattening his sharp, pointy facial features. The blow dropped him to the ground and Rachel continued savagely beating him. Fear and anger overwhelmed all her sensibilities. She kept hitting the man lying helplessly on the ground.

Rachel didn’t know Ellington was behind her until he reached around and grabbed the shovel in mid-swing, stopping her from again striking her helpful victim.

“That’s enough, Rachel. It’s over.”

When the autopsy was done on Johann Muller the next day, his face was nearly undistinguishable.

 

 

 

CHAPTER I

“Rachel, you haven’t answered.”

 

The subway car rhythmically rocked Rachel side to side as she blankly stared ahead, almost like a zombie, oblivious to her immediate surroundings. The clang of the metal wheels on the track below didn’t phase her, nor did the sight of the fashionably dressed young Korean woman across from her. She was uncomprehending of the aroma of the man in the tattered clothes seated to her right, although those unfortunate enough not to have a seat turned away from him and his assault on their nasal passages.

It was perhaps muscle memory that guided Rachel from the subway stop to her shop, Guilford and Sons Antiques, in the Union Square section of lower Manhattan. Once inside, the shop greeted clients with the smell of mahogany and old money. The items on display reflected it, because it wasn’t a shop for a spend-thrift.

Guilford and Sons specialized in furniture for any room – cabinets, seating, tables, wardrobes and armoires, decorative objects and occasionally rugs. There also was a small area dedicated to classic photography and prints.

To accommodate its customers, the shop could arrange shipping to anywhere in the U.S. – for a hefty price. Global shipping was also available, for an even heftier price. But New York’s wealthy rarely blinked twice at the expense.

Rachel had not changed the name of the shop when she purchased it years before from the sons of the late owner, reasoning that keeping the former male owner’s name on the front windows would probably help her business in the city’s male-dominated antiques industry. It certainly would be better than having the name Rachel Edelstein front and center.

Or so she told herself.

In an emotional sense, that pissed Rachel off, as it might with any black or Jewish woman. And since she was both, she was doubly pissed off. But from a business sense, she was willing to let it slide. After all, she had herself to feed and her employees to support, though that hadn’t been a problem recently.