Ladies Lunch Club Murders

by David Bishop

  “Have them delivered to Nora Burke’s room. She’ll sign for them if it’s required.”

  “It will be.”

  Max stepped into Jack’s view and mouthed a question: “Also a member of the ladies lunch club?”

  Jack asked Conway.

  “Yes, Mr. McCall. The latest victim was a member of the same ladies lunch club. All three victims were.”

  “As was, Mary Alice Phelps. Correct?”

  “Yes sir. That’s true. However, the sheriff hasn’t altered his position on seeing Phelps as an accidental death.”

  “Do you have an updated file on Phelps?”

  “The sheriff’s office reported the file Governor Lennox gave you is it, no change on that one. Ignoring the governor’s contention about Phelps, the sheriff refers to three homicides … as he sees it, not four.”

  “Is the ladies club still holding its scheduled lunch meetings?”

  “Lieutenant Reynolds is the one most likely to know that, or can find it out. At my instruction, she’s prepared to provide you a complete roster of the club’s membership with full contact details for all the members—including the four who are dead. Do—”

  “This new murder, the victim was also an elderly woman?”

  “She was, and, like I said, also a member of the ladies lunch club.”

  Jack whistled. “Seems like we’ve moved past coincidence.”

  “Sure does. Do you have Lieutenant Reynold’s cell number?”

  “No.”

  Conway gave it to Jack. After hanging up, Jack called Lieutenant Ann Reynolds. They agreed to meet in the bar at the Seasons 52 restaurant in Orlando at seven-fifteen to discuss the cases and have dinner.

  “If you looked on the state’s website, in that picture I wore a formal uniform. Tonight I’ll be in civvies.”

  “Oh, darn. I so love a woman with handcuffs.”

  “Not to worry. I’ll bring them. They fit in my purse.”

  Jack laughed. “I’ll see you in the bar.” He hung up.

  Max smirked. “Finally, we get to talk to an investigator rather than more of the political types.”

  Nora had hefted her suitcase onto the bed. She kicked off her heels and began unpacking. “Be kind, boys. The politicos are the ones cutting through the red tape to get us licensed in Florida.”

  Jack watched Nora’s nyloned feet slide silently over the close-cropped carpet as she moved between her suitcase and the closet. The prior year, Nora and Jack had been intimate in New York while there on a case known as The Blackmail Club. She’d been rather matter-of-fact about it, and no problems had come from it, still, he felt it best that not become a habit.

  She definitely has an inviting way about her.

  “I’ll meet with Lieutenant Reynolds. You two stick here and go through the updated reports Conway’s sending over. You probably heard my conversation with him about another victim. I’ll be briefed on it by Lieutenant Reynolds. When I get back or in the morning, early, we’ll compare notes and then get after it. Agreed?”

  Max gave the okay sign with his fingers.

  Nora shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Conway said the updated files would be here within an hour.” Jack glanced at his watch. “A half hour now. The courier will ask for you. You’ll have to sign for them. Proceed however you choose, just be ready to compare notes after I get back.” Jack looked at Nora. “Conway says the sheriff has nothing new on Phelps.”

  “The first woman, the fruitcake toss murder, was beaten to death in her home.” Nora used the side of her foot to push her shoes out of her way. “I have that correct don’t I? The first vic was beaten to death, the second woman hanged. Or was it the other way around?”

  “No, lass, you got it right. Alphabetical order, beaten and hanged. I always want to say hung, but I think you’re right. Hanged is correct.”

  Nora smiled at Max. “Hanged is pretty much left for describing people being killed. Hung is for inanimate objects and highly rated males. A man may be hung, but if it’s by the neck until dead, then he’s hanged.”

  “A lassie with brains and beauty. How lucky we are.”

  “Okay, enough you two. We’ll touch base when I get back. We can decide then whether to get into it tonight or hold off until the morning. Let’s plan breakfast here at seven. I expect we’ll start the official morning with Lieutenant Reynolds. I’ll get that sorted out and fill you in when I get back.”

  “Enjoy your dinner. Nora and I’ll grab something close in. After that I’ll get started on the border of my puzzle.” He handed Nora a card key for his room. “Whenever you want, drop in and work on it.”

  Jack stopped at the door out of Nora’s room. “Have you always been into puzzles??

  Max shook his head. “Just about a year.”

  “I heard Mary Lou say they’re delivered in a bag?”

  “Yeah. I get them from the game store.”

  “I thought puzzles came in boxes?”

  Max smiled. “They do. I have the store cut it open and dump the pieces into one of their plastic bags.”

  Jack glanced at his watch. “Why?”

  “I tell the store to send me a puzzle with at least three hundred pieces, and not to tell me what the finished picture shows. When we work a murder we don’t know what the solution’s going to look like. I work the puzzles the same way. Move the pieces and find the picture.”

  4

  Ann Reynolds sat in her car, alone. It was time to go inside the restaurant and meet Jack McCall, the private investigator Governor Trey Lennox hired during his recent trip to Washington, D.C.

  She perused the website of McCall Investigations, paying particular attention to the pictures of McCall and his two detectives: the foxy Nora Burke and the grizzled Max Logan. She’d spoken briefly to McCall on the phone.

  Damn, Trey, I had it covered. Why in the hell did you call in an outsider?

  She punched her steering wheel, took another look at Jack McCall’s picture on his firm’s website, and closed her cellphone.

  Shit, it’s done. McCall’s a hunk. Let’s have some fun with it.

  Jack wore an open-collar blue shirt with khaki slacks and loafers. He parked in the lot for the Seasons 52 restaurant and walked past a man of around fifty smoking a cigarette near the outside corner of the building. The man tossed the butt into a small puddle left over from the afternoon rain. Jack watched the cig sizzle and die. After expelling his last cloud of smoke, the man walked through a side door into the restaurant. He was wearing an apron, an employee ending his break.

  Jack walked in the front entrance and checked in with the hostess. She gave him a vibrating pager that would let him know when their table was ready. He walked into the bar and sat on a stool with a view of the door. He used his cellphone to take one more look at Lieutenant Ann Reynolds. In the photograph, she wore her hair tight to her head and offered no smile—the stern, authoritarian police detective.

  She came into the restaurant. Her eyes, lightly shadowed in blue, moved about, obviously looking for the entrance to the bar. Her face was smooth and tanned. Her hair and dress void of the rigidity in her official photo, but it was her—Lieutenant Ann Reynolds. She wore a satin blouse in a color suggestive of having been dyed in crushed raspberries.

  She didn’t have the face that would launch a thousand ships, but she had the body that would encourage the sailors to swim back to shore. He switched his phone to the camera feature and, just as she saw him, took her picture. When their eyes met, they smiled the way people do when recognizing someone not yet met in person.

  His eyes settled on the stressed condition of her raspberry blouse, then the slope of her hip. He slid off the barstool.

  “Hi, I’m Jack McCall.”

  “Don’t blame me.” Ann shook his hand. “You can always change your name.”

  Jack narrowed his eyes. “Why, what’s wrong with my name?” He got back on his bar stool.

  Ann stepped toward the bar, settled her derriere on the stool n
ext to Jack, gripped his forearm and used leverage to rotate toward him. Her eyes flashed. Her voice turned throaty. “Jack McCall sounds like a down-and-out movie PI played by our Sean Connery or your Mark Wahlberg, rather than a high-priced gumshoe handpicked by the governor.”

  “I never knew so much about myself. Thank you.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. It doesn’t make you a bampot. Far as it goes, your name’s not bad. It has a rugged, edgy connotation just above animal. … Am I describing you?” She smiled without parting her lips.

  “How do I answer that? Yeah. At times … maybe.”

  “In response to fear or passion?”

  “Is this the sexual tension thing I see in the movies and read in novels?”

  They laughed and ordered cocktails.

  When the drinks came, Jack raised his in salute. “I take it you’re from that country we kicked out to get our independence.”

  “Right you are, Yank. Yorkshire, to be exact. It’s about four hours north, sort of north, of London.” She smiled again. This time showing her teeth.

  “Did you start your law enforcement career there or here?”

  “Over there. Started pursuing a criminology degree at University of London, changed schools after two years, graduated, and went to work for MI6 for a couple before coming here to the states.”

  “Ah, catching spies.”

  “No, that’s mostly MI5, Domestic. MI6 is our spies, Foreign Service. I was with six.”

  She knows the difference. She’s likely telling the truth.

  “Why are they called five and six? Why not just use one and two?”

  “In the beginning, there was an MI1 and MI2, actually an MI1 through MI19. MI1 was code breaking, MI2, Russia, MI3 Eastern Europe, and four did maps, etcetera. MI19 was charged with obtaining information from enemy prisoners of war. As time went by there became duplication and overlapping of duties and jurisdictions. Along the way some were discontinued and others became departments in five or six.”

  “Your MI6 … includes assassinations, right?”

  “That’s mostly storytelling. James Bond, license to kill, stuff. I won’t deny it happens. The fact is some baddies who must be stopped can’t be gotten through due process.”

  “When you got here did you go straight to work for Florida Department of Law Enforcement?”

  “Not right away. My first two years I worked for a law firm in Tallahassee, but I could never get comfortable with all the desk duty. I’m more the in-the-field type. Hands on. Driven by objectives. Improvise. Adapt. You understand. During the time with the law firm I made some connections within FDLE and, when they needed an investigator, I applied and got lucky.”

  Jack felt a tingle in his left thigh—the vibrating pager. Their table was ready. They picked up their just-arrived drinks, clinked glasses, took a quick sip, and followed the hostess to their table. Before leaving, the hostess pulled free the cloth napkins wedged into their water glasses, and broadened them across their laps.

  Ann closed her menu and put it down. “Did you get caught in the rain earlier today?”

  “We’d just gotten in our rooms when it came down.”

  “This time of year in Florida it’s best to keep a brolly in your car.”

  “Oh, yeah, you Brits’ slang for an umbrella.”

  Her breasts jiggled with her laugh. “I’ll teach you more of our lingo while we’re working together.”

  “I’m looking forward to it. Apparently, British slang is a lot more fun than American.”

  “I’ll do my best, Yank.”

  Jack’s eyes moved across her. “You look different in person than your picture on the Florida website. More muscular. You lift weights?”

  “On the website I went for the “bobbies” look. When I’m off duty I try to look scrummy. That picture was taken soon after I left the law firm and joined the department. And, yeah, a couple times a week I pump iron with the boys. Dead lifted three-fifty this morning.”

  “No way. I mean you’re not … musclebound, just trim and … and fit.”

  “The trick is keeping the strength parts from getting bulky while keepin’ the feminine parts soft enough to be tempting. If you were one of boys back home, I’d smile if you referred to me as a fit bird.”

  “Which is?”

  “Attractive. Sexually appealing.” Another toothless smile. “I’m not fishing for a compliment, just trying to help you learn improper King’s English.”

  “I like that. It’s accurate. You are a fit bird.” Jack grinned. “One word or two?”

  “I’ve seen it both ways. Also with a hyphen. It’s the thought that counts.” She glanced down at her outfit. “I look okay, then? This isn’t too clingy or too conservative?”

  “As long as you asked, I would say you’re outfit’s too conservative for a second date, but about right for a first.”

  “Oh? Is this how you see tonight—a date?”

  “Hmmm. Maybe half-date. Half-professional.”

  “That’s the first I knew of it. Please keep me current as to which half we’re in so I’ll know how to behave.”

  Jack laughed. It was a silent one, more a broad smile than an outright laugh. “I imagine you’ll be able to keep up. You Brits are pretty sharp.”

  “A Brit and proud. Going way back, part Scandinavian. The Vikings conquered the area around York back in the ninth-century. A lot of ‘em stayed around, including some of my ancestors.”

  “A few minutes ago you stated I was not a bampot. Please explain so I’ll know what I’m not.”

  “It means a clumsy oafish man. That you’re not, but it doesn’t automatically make ya a gent for whom a lady would tumble arse over tit. By the way, we can get businesslike any time you’re ready. Ask whatever, whenever you want.”

  “All right.” Jack put down his glass. “Married or single? Heterosexual or? Involved or looking? Do you prefer serious relationships or shallow and superficial?”

  “There wasn’t a dead body in any of those questions. So, I’m guessing we’ve not yet entered the professional half of tonight.”

  “After watching you walk in, one thing’s for certain: there’s no dead in your body.”

  “That’s good to know.” Ann looked down for a moment, then up. “Are you Jack McCall the PI engaged by the governor to delve into our recent homicides, or just some hunky guy who stumbled over me in an online dating site? Help me out, so I’ll know how to respond.”

  “I’m the PI. I could be the other guy except I’ve never fished for a woman on the internet. If you represent what I’d catch, maybe I need to try it. But then, we’ve now met, so there’s no need.”

  “To answer your questions: Single. Definitely heterosexual, and not involved. Speaking of relationships, I’ve no interest in players or fobs. Superficial sounds swell, certainly in the beginning.” She picked up her cocktail, raised it to her lips, and looked over it. “And, just so you’ve been warned, on the job and off, I’m a bit more direct than most women. I trust that doesn’t intimidate you. How about you answer the same questions you asked me?”

  “Same answers and, no, I’m not intimidated. I find candor refreshing. I do notice however, we’re being respectfully watched. I think they’d like us to order something—pretty soon, would be my guess.”

  They placed their orders after the waiter brought a little loaf of bread on a cutting board.

  Ann picked up the near weapons-grade knife that came with the bread. “Do you think women and men are equal?”

  “Yes, of course. I’m sure you agree.”

  “No, Mr. McCall. Actually, I don’t agree.”

  “That’s a surprise. Why not?”

  “Women will not be equal to men until women with a beer gut and bald head can walk through a room and still think they’re sexy.”

  Jack grinned. “You have a point. Men are more self-confident and at ease with themselves.”

  “Perhaps. They’re also less judged by their appearance than we women.”
>
  “Hey, you gals are the sex symbols of society, so—”

  Ann reached over and covered Jack’s hand with her own. “Perhaps we should move on to discussing the cases.”

  5

  Jack picked up his drink. “Aah, yes, the cases, as we navigate a seamless segue into the professional half of tonight. Let me say, first off, we’re pleased to finally get to talk to an investigator rather than another politician. No disrespect to the governor, but, for us, this advances the process.”

  “First question?”

  “Victim number one was beaten to death. The file made it seem very brutal.”

  “There were wounds on the left side of the old lady’s head. Her skull was fractured. Some kind of blunt instrument, but none was found. Contusions, I don’t recall the exact number. Several more were found on the right side of her head, judged to be caused by the same blunt instrument. Some of the blows were interpreted as coming from the weapon held in the right hand while others were administered with the weapon held in the assailant’s left hand.”

  “Two assailants’ maybe?”

  “Nothing supports that other than what I just said. There were multiple stab wounds in her neck. Her right jugular was severed from left to right. Three cuts were found on the back of her left hand, probably defensive in nature, and several on the back of her right hand. There was a deeper cut just left of her chin. The medical examiner says the angles and depths of the cuts suggested the assailant alternated which hand held the knife. The precision of the cuts was not sufficient to support a clear indication of whether the perp was left or right handed, but the M.E. did conclude that for the majority of the cuts the knife was held in the left hand.

  “For an eighty-seven year old coffin-dodger, the lady put up a valiant fight. According to the autopsy report, she was five feet three inches and weighed one hundred thirty-six pounds. The energy that went into those cuts suggests a man, but not with certainty. The folks who know how to calculate such things opined that the perp was six feet tall give or take an inch or two. A real scrote.”