Murder at the Bank House Cafe

Murder at the Bank House Cafe is the first book in a new Lucinda Wynn mystery series set in the small, Southern town of Wynnville, Georgia. This new book is scheduled to debut in early 2027. Visit the contact page to add your name and email address to our mailing list so you don't miss this new book's debut.

Sneak Peak at Chapters One & Two

Chapter One

In my forty-two years on earth, I’ve only once considered killing someone. Really. I’m not that kind of woman. Most of my friends and neighbors in Wynnville, Georgia, would describe me as a harmless, hardworking bookseller and dedicated city council member. A widow and mother of Olivia, my spirited 10-year-old daughter. A devoted native Wynnvillian descended from a long line of Wynns who were among the first settlers in the area. I care about this tiny Southern town and all its citizens.

Well, maybe not every one of them. After our new mayor, Burt Adderhold, finished ruining his first council meeting last month, I stopped caring about him. Not that I ever cared much to begin with. In a weak moment, I even thought about murdering the mayoral monster for the good of everyone in Wynnville. But while I was thinking about committing the first serious crime of my life, someone beat me to it.

It happened on a frosty February night, after the new mayor’s second council meeting, another colossal clown show. I’ve been an elected official for five long years, and none of our meetings have been fun. Most people who come to City Hall council meetings are there to complain, not to tell us we're doing a super good job.

Some nights when I’m sitting in my worn, squeaky chair behind the council counter, listening to yet another citizen gripe about a neighbor’s dog barking, or a pothole on Main Street, or a speed limit that’s too high, or too low, or whatever, I feel like getting up and running out the door.

And that's exactly what I did after Mayor Adder Snake—that’s my favorite nickname for him—finally adjourned his second council meeting. One of the mayor’s few fans, 92-year-old Frances Ruff, gave me an incentive to run faster when she chased me out of City Hall, screaming politely phrased near-obscenities in her cultured Southern accent.

“Stop right now and listen to me, Councilwoman Lucinda Wynn,” she shouted. “I knew your parents before they moved away from Wynnville. Your grandmother Margaret, bless her soul, was once my best friend. Her untimely passing nearly killed me. I'm so old, I knew your great-grandparents. All fine people. And not a one of them would run away from anything or anybody. What’s wrong with you, young lady?”

I was about halfway across the city hall parking lot when I put on the brakes and turned to face the mayoral groupie, a stately older woman with a thick mane of meticulously styled silver hair.

Frances looked at me through the lenses of her rose-gold glasses, took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “You remind me so much of your mother. If you're anything like her, I know there’s some good in you."

"I'm becoming more like my mom every day," I said, thinking about my recent visit to Cleveland, Tennessee, the town about 30 miles from Chattanooga where my mom, younger sister, and dad moved many years ago after he became Cleveland's postmaster.

"We all turn into our moms sooner or later," Frances said. "And our grandmothers and great-grandmothers if we live long enough. I know Sandra Wynn would love what Mayor Adderhold is doing for our town, if she still lived here."

"I doubt that," I said, thinking about my people-loving, community-minded mom and how much she would disapprove. She wouldn't be shy about letting everyone in Wynnville know how she felt either. Including Frances Ruff.

"Whatever you think of the mayor, you need to support him,” Frances said in an authoritative voice. “And do his bidding. You work for him. If he wants to fire the police chief or anyone else, you shouldn’t stand in his way—”

“I work for the people of Wynnville, Mrs. Ruff. The ones who elected me, and those who voted for someone else. Our employees are excellent—”

“Excellent at draining the city's finances,” Frances snapped. “You serve the mayor. If he wants you to hop across the council room like a kangaroo or eat the agenda sheets and spit ‘em on the countertop or pull down your tight, raggedy jeans and moon the audience, you do it. Burt Adderhold is your boss. The people spoke in November when they delivered a commanding victory to the greatest mayor we’ve ever had in Wynnville.”

I shook my head. “He only won by one vote, Mrs. Ruff. I guess that was your vote.”

The older woman pointed her index finger at me. “You know what they say. Every vote counts in Wynnville.”

Yeah. They say a lot in Wynnville, whoever they are. I opened my mouth to say more about what people say in Wynnville, then changed my mind and headed across the road toward the Bank House Cafe.

Frances Ruff is an exception, I thought, as I crossed North Church Street and hurried by Blackstone Park toward the historic 1912 red brick bank building that houses the cafe. No way had Burt Adderhold legitimately received a one-vote majority in a town filled with voters who, at the very least, don’t like him.

Rumors of multiple dead people voting have swirled through town since election day. But no one has proven that theory. Others in Wynnville think the mayor might have gotten his best friend, Marvin Dean, to hack the voting machines in our historic train depot polling place. I could imagine that happening. Marvin Dean was a snake, like his only friend, the mayor.

I paused at the Bank House Cafe’s front door and texted my sister Meg, who had moved back to her hometown last month after a messy divorce in Tennessee, to let her and Olivia know I would be late getting home.

As the smartphone message swooshed its way to my sister's phone, I glanced back at City Hall. The mayor’s biggest fan had vanished—perhaps on an extremely posh witch’s broomstick. But several small groups of townspeople lingered in front of the building, talking, most likely about our disastrous council meeting.

A sudden round of hunger pangs reminded me I’d skipped dinner, so I turned back to the cafe, pushed open the heavy door, and stepped across the threshold.

Wynnville’s Bank House Cafe is one of those places where you walk in and slip into a home away from home, if you know what I mean. I felt my blood pressure drop as I inhaled the rich aroma of locally ground Jittery Joe’s coffee and listened to the murmur of hometown conversation mixed with an old R.E.M. song playing on the 1960s jukebox near the back door exit.

My longtime friend, Amanda Wilson, bought this historic building a few years ago and turned it into the best little gathering spot in town. Actually, it’s one of the few gathering spots here, and it’s way more fun as a restaurant than it ever was as Wynnville’s longtime post office, or as a bank many years before my time.

“What can I get you tonight, Madam Councilwoman?” Amanda said in her smooth, Southern drawl from her usual spot behind the counter. She was wearing her personal uniform—a denim shirt, black jeans, and a yellow apron. Her thick, red hair was pulled into a bushy ponytail, and her green eyes sparkled behind the lenses of round tortoiseshell glasses.

“How about a whole bottle of Tylenol—or something stronger?” I said.

“So, tonight’s council meeting wasn’t any better than last month’s? Tell me all about it.” Amanda raised her eyebrows and gave me a knowing look. As the owner and operator of the Bank House Cafe, where almost everyone in town ate and shared gossip, and the daughter of a former mayor and town clerk, I’m sure she’d heard plenty of talk about council meetings gone awry.

“Believe it or not, the meeting was much worse than last month’s,” I said, thinking what a gigantic understatement that was.

“Did the mayor try to punch anyone in the face tonight?” Amanda folded her arms across her apron as she waited for my answer.

“Yeah, me,” I said. “Halfway through the council meeting, the mayor lost his temper, balled his fist, and tried to smash my face. Good thing I ducked.”

“The mayor’s behavior is disgusting, Lu,” Amanda said.

“I know. Kim Hawkins, our new city clerk, warned me before the meeting that the mayor was going to fire Police Chief Noah.”

“Well, at least it wasn’t a total surprise,” Amanda said.

“Council stopped him. But I made a mistake when Kim and I were talking before the meeting started. I told her that Mayor Adder Snake had tried to fire Public Works Director Ray Chandry at his first council meeting last month. And that he was also planning to fire the previous city clerk, but she quit after her first day on the job. So, of course, Kim is worried about her job.”

“She should be,” Amanda said. “Now, put all that bad political stuff out of your mind. Tonight’s crapshow is over. I know you don’t eat before council meetings. You must be starving. What can I get for you?”

I glanced at the menu on the chalkboard behind the counter. “I’ll have one of your grilled chicken salads with extra ranch dressing on the side. And don't skimp on those homemade croutons. You know I'm addicted to the crunch.”

“Excellent choice, Lu,” Amanda said, patting my arm. “These antique bar stools are like sitting on rocks. Go find yourself a comfortable seat. I’ve got a couple of orders to fill first, then I’ll have your salad out ASAP.”

Mary Blackstone, the former mayor’s widow, was sitting in a booth to the right of the front door. She was deep in conversation with her best friend, Donna Burkhalter, a retired RN who had spent most of her career at Piedmont Regional Hospital in the nearby town of Athens.

Winston, Mary’s husband, had choked on a tuna fish sandwich at their kitchen table three months ago. His tragic, unexpected death had brought on the special election last November that resulted in Mayor Adder Snake’s win.

Mary and Donna stopped talking and looked up at me as I approached their booth.

“Good job tonight, Lu,” Donna said, giving me a thumbs-up. “You fought back against our despicable mayor and didn’t let him get away with anything.”

“I know Winston would be proud of you,” Mary said.

“Thanks, ladies.” I had shared condolences with Mary and other members of her family at her husband’s funeral. Tonight, I wanted to say something more about her recent loss. But as usual, I couldn’t think of the right words, so I said, “I’ve missed you at the council meetings, Mary. It’s good to see you tonight.”

“You, too, Lu. Been out of touch with everyone since Winston died. Still seems like a bad dream. He wasn't perfect by a long shot, but Lord, I miss that man.”

I nodded, took Mary’s hand, and squeezed it. “I know the feeling. Christopher’s been gone almost four years, and I still wake up sometimes in the middle of the night thinking his accident was just a horrific nightmare.”

Mary squeezed my hand back and looked away for a moment. “Donna was just telling me about the last two meetings at City Hall,” she said, turning her damp eyes back my way.

“Yeah, they were beyond horrible,” Donna said. She ate the last bite of her Cobb salad, then pushed her empty plate aside. “Tonight’s meeting was so disturbing I couldn’t stay till the end. I left early, called Mary, and asked her to meet me here so we could talk about the sad state of politics in Wynnville.”

“Sorry you’re having to go through all of this ugliness, Lu. You should’ve run instead of Adderhold. You’ve been a wonderful council member and mayor pro tem. I'm not the only one in town who thinks you'd make a fine mayor,” Mary said.

"Thanks for your vote of confidence, Mary," I said. "It means a lot coming from you. I don’t mind taking my turn to serve the community. Someone has to do it. But being the mayor is not my thing."

“I understand that feeling. Being the first lady of Wynnville wasn’t my thing, but I got used to it after a few years,” Mary said. “Donna's waiting for her dessert. But I’m gonna head home and walk my ancient Pomeranian—before she has another accident on my favorite Persian rug. You can keep Donna company while she enjoys her dessert."

Mary slid out of the red vinyl booth seat and gave me a brief hug before walking over to the counter to pay her check.

“Here comes my sweet potato pie,” Donna said, a couple of minutes later.

“And my grilled chicken salad,” I said, watching Amanda scoot between tables, balancing a tray laden with our food.

While Donna devoured her pie, a wide slice of sweet potato heaven topped with a dollop of whipped cream sprinkled with nutmeg, I dug into my salad. The crisp lettuce, along with the fresh-tasting carrots and other veggies, reminded me just how hungry I was. The chicken was tasty, too. And Amanda had added my usual mug of steaming decaf to wash it all down.

“More people than I expected here tonight,” Donna said, pushing her empty pie dish away and wiping her mouth with a napkin.

“Amanda has a great business,” I said, glancing around the room at the other diners. They were a mixture of citizens, both native and transplants. Most hadn’t been at City Hall tonight. Though attendance has grown since Mayor Adderhold took office, many people in Wynnville have never attended a council meeting and rarely, if ever, set foot inside the municipal building.

The jukebox changed to one of my favorite songs, “A Carriage on the Hill,” by local musical artist Dodd Ferrelle.

“I love that song,” Donna said, closing her eyes and leaning against the red vinyl seat back to listen.

"Me too," I agreed. Humming along with Dodd’s tune, I scanned the walls of the cafe, admiring Amanda’s collection of paintings by local artists, framed photos of Wynnville’s historic buildings, and portraits of prominent citizens from the city’s past. A fine old barrister’s bookcase near the back of the room held Amanda’s collection of local history books, many of which I had found for her at estate sales and auctions.

I was thinking about how the delicious food, tranquil atmosphere, and conversation with two like-minded friends had almost made me forget all that had happened that night in City Hall, when the heavy cafe front door burst open. Mayor Adder Snake strutted in like he owned the place. He stopped by the counter and placed an order, then surveyed the premises, nodding at several people who didn’t nod back.

Donna almost choked on her ginger ale. “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she said, in between coughs.

“A cat would never drag something like Mayor Adder Snake into a nice place like the Bank House Cafe,” I said, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

I took another bite of my salad, keeping my head down so I didn’t have to look at the mayor. I’d already seen too much of him at the council meeting. As I sipped coffee, I felt him staring at me. When I looked up, he was sitting at a table across the room from our booth, giving me a look that could kill.

“I’m glad I finished eating before he showed up,” Donna said, pulling an antacid from her purse and shoving it into her mouth.

Still hungry, I nibbled more of my salad, then glanced at the mayor again and gave him a piercing look. Two could play this game.

The mayor glared back, narrowing his icy blue eyes. He lifted his right hand and pretended to fire a gun into the air toward me.

“What a vile thing to do,” Donna said.

“What else would you expect from someone like him?” I drank more coffee, wondering what I should do next. The mayor of Wynnville had just fired an air gun at me. Even though I had played it down to Donna, his pretend shot felt like a threat.

I was still thinking about the mayor’s sick joke when the front door opened, and a person dressed in black and a large latex cobra snake mask dashed into the cafe. Am I hallucinating? I wondered as he rushed over to the mayor's table and pointed a small handgun at him.

Donna gasped, spitting ginger ale all over our table.

I froze. Was this really happening in Wynnville, Georgia? In our safe little town? Where we all knew each other? And no one worried about anyone pulling a gun here, much less being shot.

Screams erupted across the room as diners realized there was a snake-headed gunman pointing a weapon at the mayor.

Donna and I exchanged terrified looks. My heart raced in my chest as I broke out in a cold sweat.

"We have to do something. Quick, Lu," Donna whispered.

I grabbed my purse and fumbled for my phone. 911. I wanted to call 911, but I was afraid that would draw the gunman’s attention. Chief Noah was working the late shift tonight. I cradled the phone in my left hand and texted a shaky message to him. “Come to the cafe. Now. It’s an emergency!”

The communal terror in the cafe was palpable. Most of the diners had pulled out their cell phones and were madly thumb-tapping messages.

“Donna, turn your back to the gunman and call 911 while I divert his attention,” I whispered.

"That sounds too dangerous," Donna hissed.

"Do it," I said.

Donna nodded.

I shoved my phone in my jeans pocket, slid out of the booth, and squared my shoulders. “Everyone, stay calm. Get under the tables. The police will be here any minute,” I said, hoping I was right.

At the sound of my voice, the cobra-masked gunman turned his head and glanced at me over his shoulder without moving the gun away from the mayor. For a moment, we exchanged looks. Whose face was behind that hideous mask? And what was this madman thinking as he stared at me through those eyeholes?

The gunman jerked his head back around when Mayor Adderhold rose from his seat and, pointing a finger at me, said something I couldn’t quite make out to his would-be assassin.

The masked man shook his head and moved closer until the gun butted up against the mayor's forehead.

Why did the mayor point at me just now? What’s going on? I wondered.

Pop! The gun fired.

More screams filled the cafe as Mayor Adderhold fell backward in his booth, then slumped face-first onto the tabletop. ©2026 D.B. Seagraves

Chapter Two

When someone, even someone you despise, gets shot at point-blank range right in front of your eyes, how can you stop yourself from rising as far as you can go, up to the 14-foot-tall Bank House Cafe stamped tin ceiling? Not wanting to watch, but feeling compelled to see the tragedy unfolding in slow motion below.

Bloodcurdling screams continue to echo across the room. Mass chaos. Appetites and thirst gone. People you know and love shattered by sudden tragedy, their brains permanently imprinted with what they’ve witnessed tonight.

Where to look. Where not to look. What to think, hear, feel. Nothing feels right in this moment. And nothing may ever feel right again. Just like the night you lost your most precious loved one.

Is Mayor Adderhold dead?

I blinked, inhaled a deep, trembling breath, and tried to make sense of what had just happened. The gunman shot the mayor at close range. Adderhold’s forehead showed a round, black-edged, bullet-sized hole. There was blood, too. But not much.

Even though he had just shot a man, the gunman was still standing there, staring at the mayor, as if he was having trouble fully comprehending what he had done.

Don’t murderers usually run away from their crime scene? What was this guy waiting for? Was I in danger? Was everyone in the room? Of course, we were. The person holding the gun had fired only one bullet. No doubt he has more.

The gunman glanced back at me but didn’t point his weapon my way. Instead, he turned, scrambled past the counter, and bolted out the back exit door.

For a moment, I considered running after him, into the cold, dark, heavily wooded park.

But what if I caught the shooter? I'd read tons of mystery novels during almost ten years of running an online book business. I'd streamed untold hours of crime shows. And I'd heard my grandfather, Harold "Whispering Wynn," tell stories about his time as chief of detectives in the Athens-Clarke County Police Department. I knew better than to try to apprehend the murderer myself.

Several people had called 911, but so far, no law enforcement officers had arrived. My text to Chief Noah had gone unanswered.

I tapped his cell phone number into my smartphone.

After several rings, he answered. “Hey, Lu. Got your text. I know you said it was an emergency, and I was gonna call you back, but—”

“Get over to the cafe. Now!”

“Okay. But I have a problem. The mayor fired me tonight after everyone, but the two of us, had left City Hall. I don’t work for the City of Wynnville anymore.”

“Noah, someone shot Mayor Adderhold in the head just now. In front of a roomful of people. At the Bank House Cafe.”

“What?”

“We need our police chief. Drop whatever you're doing and get over here pronto.”

“Uh, I'm not your police chief anymore,” Noah said. 

"The mayor looks dead, Noah. At the very least, he’s totally incapacitated." I thought for a moment. I had been the mayor pro tem for five years. One of my primary duties was to step in when the mayor couldn't do his job. Like it or not, I was now the interim mayor with full powers. I could change what the mayor had done.

“Noah, as mayor pro tem, I’ve just inherited the mayor’s job—at least until the next election. You’re reinstated. Now, Police Chief Noah Schultz, please get over to the cafe as fast as you can. I need you here. We all do.”

“Yes, Ma’am, Mayor Lu. I’m on my way,” Noah said.

I looked around the cafe. A shared expression of fright had darkened the roomful of familiar faces. Amanda was going from table to table, handing out steaming mugs of coffee and dispensing soothing words.

Donna got up and walked over to the mayor’s booth. I followed and stood beside her as she placed her index and middle fingers in the soft hollow beside his Adam’s apple and pressed firmly for several seconds.

“No pulse,” she whispered, looking at me. “Even though I’m an RN, I can’t officially pronounce him dead. But unofficially, Mayor Adderhold is a goner.”

I nodded and stared down at the mayor’s still, silent body. His mouth had gaped open. I watched a tiny trickle of blood drip down his pale forehead and thought about his family. His wife was a sweet lady who enjoyed gardening in the spacious yard of their home on Lakeview Drive. I’d met a couple of his children on election night. A son and a daughter, both grown and living successful lives. They would all be devastated by the shocking news they’d receive tonight.

"There's nothing we can do for the mayor right now," Donna said, taking my arm and leading me back to our booth where Amanda was refilling our coffee mugs.

Amanda and I exchanged a worried look as I slid into my booth seat and watched steam rise from my coffee, thinking about all that had happened tonight. And wondering what was yet to come as I curled my hand around the mug's chunky, handcrafted handle.

"Better let that cool for a minute," Donna said. "Or you'll have a burnt tongue, in addition to everything else you're dealing with tonight."

"Good thinking," I said. "I wish Noah would hurry up and get here."

“I'm sure he'll walk through the door soon," Amanda said. "Coffee is on the house tonight. And it’s the highest caffeine level Jittery Joe’s makes. We need all the energy we can muster right now. It’s gonna be a long night.”

It's already been a long night, I thought, watching Amanda speed walk back toward the counter. She was almost there when Zack Rhodes, a local businessman who lives in the historic Palmer house by the park, twirled around, slid off one of the antique barstools, and blocked her way.

“If I drink one more sip of coffee, I'm gonna puke," Zack shouted at Amanda. "I need to go home. Right now!"

“Me too,” several other people chimed in.

“No one’s going home until after the police arrive,” I said. “Coffee's on the house. Drink more and try to stay calm. We’re all witnesses to a shooting. When the police get here, we need to share what we saw.” I grabbed my coffee mug and took a long sip. The still-hot brown liquid didn’t make me feel any calmer.

As I’d told Noah, I was the mayor now. Something I didn’t want and had never asked for. And tonight, as I felt the sheer, overwhelming weight of the job, I was also thinking about what I could do to help find the mayor's killer. What would my grandad Whispering Wynn do? I made a mental note to pay him a visit tomorrow. Solving the mayor's murder would be a hard job for sure, but I wouldn’t be working the case alone. I could hear the shrill sound of sirens in the distance. And, like Donna said, any minute, Chief Noah Schultz would walk through the café’s front door. ©2026 D.B. Seagraves

Author's note: These first two chapters of Murder at the Bankhouse Cafe are not final versions. Do not copy or share these chapters without written permission of the author.

Join the mailing list to be notified when Murder at the Bank House Cafe is released.