Ladies Lunch Club Murders

by David Bishop

  Max licked a smudge of cream crease off his forefinger. “My guess is, this nut job is simply sprinkling meaningless clues. ‘Chase your tails, flatfeet, while I sit back and laugh my ass off.’ Still, the existence of a fruitcake in the fridge of the first victim, and the bowl of bubble gum in the home of the second suggests this stuff might mean something. There’s nothing in the files indicating the sheriff has made inquiries on the first victim’s credit cards to see if she’d bought a fruitcake. I checked the inventory of that crime scene and saw nothing about receipts from stores. The crime scene reports didn’t include a schedule of items in drawers. We need to look for receipts at the scene. A credit card entry for a fruitcake purchase, or maybe receipts stuffed in the pocket of a pair of slacks, her purse, or maybe the console in her car. We need to ascertain if the fruitcake was something the vic bought and put in her own refrigerator, or something the perp brought and left.”

  “I have an uncle that loves fruitcake.” Nora put the last hunk of bacon in her mouth, and wiped her fingers on a napkin. “I send him one every year for his birthday.” She swallowed. “The crime scene-inventory just said fruitcake. Let’s check on the brand. Some fruitcakes are predominantly bought online and shipped. The sheriff probably has a staff computer expert or one on call who can get into her computer and see if she bought a fruitcake online, or find it among her credit card purchases.”

  Jack, who’d finished his breakfast, put down his coffee cup. “Until two days ago, there’d only been two certain murders. Still, the fruitcake and the bubble gum at the scenes match up. As for the Steak and Knobber Murder, the victim was found in a position suggesting she may have been involved in a related celebration. That’s pure supposition, however. She could have been romancing, her blouse unbuttoned, and, in death, just collapsed face down onto the passenger seat.”

  Nora shook her head. “That hanging for the second murder was pretty nutso.”

  “Yeah.” Jack’s eyebrows went up, “In the end, the dead husband provided the weapon. You’re right, that is weird.”

  Nora nodded. “Super weird. Your first reaction: Is our killer a younger guy or on the mature side?”

  Jack shrugged.

  Max slurped a gulp of coffee. “I’m not sure that any adult’s age is revealed through behavior. It’s possible none of us ever really grow up, we just learn how to act in public.”

  “Okay fellas,” Nora said. “Still, if the most recent victim was at the water reserve for romantic purposes, one would guess the killer was similar to her age. Then again, if we learn she’s a cougar, then he could be younger. So, for now, there’s no basis for an informed opinion on the age of the perp.”

  “We’re dealing with a community where murder is very rare. The idea of having multiple murders by multiple killers within a few weeks seems hard to swallow. So, I’m thinking we’re chasing one killer, but that’s reason not fact.”

  “Jack’s right.” Nora put down her fork. “Let’s run through the questions we’d like answered as soon as possible.”

  Max went first. “Did the ME find the perp’s DNA in or on the most recent victim? Was the Steak and Knobber victim awake or drugged when the icepick was driven into her brain?”

  Nora pushed back from the table. “Does this national day angle hook up somehow with the Phelps death? If so, that would touch two of our hot spots: it would suggest Phelps was not an accident, and further firm up that we hunt only one killer.”

  “We need to spend time at the Phelps’ residence.” Max raised his voice in obvious frustration. “It’s incredulous that Phelps hasn’t gotten a rigorous crime scene workup. The file had only three pictures. One showing the spa with Phelps and the radio in the water. A second showing Phelps out of the water, and a third showing the radio after it was left on the deck near the spa. That’s it, along with the write up of what the lone investigator concluded. Thank God the governor got his sister’s place buttoned up like a crime scene. Without that, the sheriff would have this file stamped closed.”

  Jack ran his hand down over his mouth and off his chin. “You’re right, that house needs a complete going over. If it’s an accident, we need that supported by more than the convenience of the sheriff’s office. Reading between the lines, this Sergeant CC Wilmer got there with two murders already on his plate, saw Phelps and her radio in the spa, and wrote it up as an accidental death.”

  Nora nodded. “You two essentially said the same thing, and I agree. It still could be an accident.”

  Max swallowed a bite of his bagel and looked at Jack. “Moving on, you had dinner with Lieutenant Reynolds last night. Are we meeting up with her this morning? If so, where and when?”

  “The county sheriff’s office at nine.” Jack looked at his watch. “We’ve got an hour and a half. I checked the GPS in my phone, it’s not far. We should leave in an hour.”

  Max and Nora finished their coffees while Jack used his cell to search for the national day of recognition for the date the governor’s sister died. He read it out loud: “February twenty-fifth is a day of recognition for two things: National Chocolate Covered Nut Day and National Clam Chowder Day.” He looked at Nora. His expression asked his question.

  “No. There was no inventory sheet in the Phelps folder. Why would there be? It has never been treated as a possible homicide. Like Max said, ‘body plus radio in the spa equals accident. Exit stage left. In the end, Phelps may hold up as an accident, but there’s no doubt the handling of it was abysmal.”

  The Irish detective crossed his legs. “If there’s chocolate-covered nuts or clam chowder displayed at the Phelps scene, I’m gonna agree with the governor that his sister was murdered.”

  Jack wiped his mouth on his napkin. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. If that’s the case, I agree we have four murders.” He tossed the napkin onto his empty plate. “But we don’t know yet.”

  Nora shook her head. “We’ll also have a new question. If Phelps was a murder, why was hers the only murder out of the four that was staged to appear an accident? The other three were boldly presented as no-doubt homicides. Any thoughts on that twist?”

  Jack picked up his glass. “Is it possible the killer knew Mary Alice Phelps was the sister of Governor Lennox?” He sipped his water. “If so, he may have hoped the governor would accept her death as an accident, thereby reducing the likelihood of his authorizing state resources for the investigation.”

  “No.” Max raised both his hands. “No. I’m sorry, Boss, that doesn’t add up. If the killer knew Phelps was the governor’s sister, we’ve got a two-part question. How did this killer know what almost no one else knew? Second, assuming for the moment that the killer did know, why wouldn’t he just pick a different victim from that ladies lunch club? Why risk stimulating the governor to bring in the country’s top detectives from DC—ah, that being ours truly.”

  Jack shooed a fly away from his plate. “Aside from the possible connection to the days of recognition, why is he killing only women who are members of one particular lunch club?”

  The three detectives looked at each other, but no one spoke until Jack moved them away from that question. “You said, ‘he.’ Is it your opinion the killer couldn’t be a woman?”

  Nora stood and used both hands to inch down her skirt which had crept up while sitting. “Not at all. I just said ‘he.’ Our language desperately needs a gender neutral singular pronoun. We could use an indefinite pronoun like anyone or anybody or another, but they feel klutzy, and it’s cumbersome to say he or she every time, so ‘he’ gets used for the masculine and, most often, for the gender neutral.”

  “I don’t know about you Max, but Professor Nora Burke is the prettiest English school teacher I’ve ever known.”

  “Okay. Okay. … Prettiest school teacher isn’t equal to prettiest pole dancer, but a woman doesn’t get to pick the compliments she gets.”

  Jack looked at his detectives. “Back to the matter at hand, let’s not get so wrapped up in trying to figure out w
hat all this shit about fruitcakes and bubble gum means, and spend too little effort on what it means that all the victims belonged to this one lunch club. Okay, we got time for one more question before we get on the road.”

  Max stood. “Why do they put holes in the center of bagels?”

  “Okay,” Nora said, “I’ll be your straight man. Why do they put holes in the center of bagels?”

  “No. I’m serious. I love ‘em, but damn it’d be so much easier to spread on the cream cheese if they didn’t have those blasted holes.”

  “With that I think we’re ready to get on the road.” Jack buttoned his blazer. “We meet at the car in five.”

  7

  Jack and Nora and Max, walked toward the main office for the county sheriff. “How’s the puzzle coming?”

  “I got the border done. They’re never that hard. Nora helped last night. It’s slow, but coming along.”

  “I think it’s a picture of calm water,” Nora said. “Probably a lake, rather than an ocean. We can see some tree trunks on one of the lower corner pieces. Thanks to not having the box, we don’t know yet if we have boats or piers or islands or whatever.”

  Lieutenant Ann Reynolds from the Florida Department of Law Enforcement came to greet them, looking more official than she had the night before at dinner. After touring them through the station, and introducing them to various members of the sheriff’s staff, she led them into one of the sheriff’s conference rooms.

  Jack sat center on one side of the long table. The blue-eyed southern sheriff took a seat across from him. His pale white skin had the craggy texture of an ocean reef. His mouth displayed the memory of biting into his first lemon as a youngster. Strangely, the man still looked as American as apple pie and the U.S. Constitution.

  Ann Reynolds sat to the right of Sheriff Jackson, across from Nora Burke. According to the Florida website, Ann was five-nine, two inches taller than Nora. Max sat across from Marty Bledsoe, the sheriff’s chief administrative deputy, who took a seat to the left of the sheriff. Bledsoe had a pasty complexion with a broad, flat snout that would have qualified him for a recall if faces were built by General Motors.

  Sergeant CC Wilmer, the sheriff’s only full-time investigator, stood at the end of the table. The sinewy sergeant wore his graying hair close-cropped and a Boston Blackie mustache. He was backed by a rolled-in board coated with pictures that told the story of the violent removal of three members of the local ladies lunch club. Mary Alice Phelps was not included on the board. The sheriff, holding firm, still considered her death an accident.

  The first hour was wasted with an unnecessary recap and overview the sheriff insisted Sergeant Wilmer make. As soon as he finished, Jack pointed toward one of the pictures. “Sergeant Wilmer, I take it that picture is the elderly woman who was hanged in her own home?”

  “Yep. A widow hanged by her husband’s rope, and not by him. You don’t see that every day.”

  “I understand he’s an old west aficionado.”

  “Yeah. I know the guy.” Sergeant Wilmer put his hands out in front of himself. “Not all that well. Our paths crossed a few times because we shared a fascination with the old west. That hanging rope was one of his proudest possessions. He told me he bought it at an online auction. The very rope, he claimed, had been used to string up a drifter caught running brands on stock owned by John Tunstall, Billy the Kid’s employer at the start of the Lincoln County War. The old man once showed me a certificate authenticating the rope was made from hemp common to the old New Mexico Territory. He bragged up owning one of the few pictures proving Billy the Kid was really right-handed.”

  “No, way.” Sheriff Jackson raised his hands in protest. “Billy the Kid was left-handed. I’ve seen several pictures of him—left-handed. In the movies, Paul Newman played the kid as left-handed.”

  “Sorry, Sheriff.” Sergeant Wilmer set his hand on the butt of his holstered Sig Sauer P226 duty-issue pistol. “Those pictures, showing Billy the Kid as left-handed, were images made as ferrotypes, a common development process in those days, which reversed images. The kid’s real name was William Bonney and he was right-handed.”

  Jack commented when the two men paused their discussion. “It appears the victim’s husband isn’t the only fan of the old west fan in these here parts.”

  “You got us on that one, Mr. McCall.” The sheriff grinned. “Now, enough pussyfooting. Let me cut to the core of the matter at hand. Why did Governor Lennox bring you into this case?” He went silent with his finger pointed across the table, directly at Jack.

  Jack put his hands flat on the table in front of him, his thumbs touching. “Frankly, Sheriff, the governor is of the opinion your department carelessly pushed aside Phelps as an accidental death. The governor is certain Phelps was murdered, giving you a total of four homicides, not just the three you had the sergeant recap.”

  “Phelps was an accident. Open and shut.”

  “I’d like to agree with you Sheriff, but, if I do, we might both be wrong. I suggest we remain open-minded until we’re working off something more substantive than intransigence.”

  “What the hell does the governor know about this stuff? My God, man, he wasn’t even here.”

  “Nonetheless, he believes there’s been four, not three, murdered members of the ladies lunch club.”

  “I understand that, Mr. McCall. … What I don’t understand is why the man’s office has bullied my department to keep the file on this Phelps death open.”

  “Open, yes, you’ve kept it open, but nothing is being done on it. When we got here, there were updated files on the cases you’re treating as homicides. But no update on Phelps, which remains labeled as open while your department continues to ignore it as if it’s closed.”

  “Please spare me the political claptrap, I realize that the governor,” the sheriff swung his arm in a wide arc, “like the rest of us, is concerned whenever a Floridian dies, for any reason.” Sheriff Jackson drummed the ends of his fingers on the table top. “Why has the governor obsessed on this one particular death?” His fingers went silent. He glared across the table at Jack.

  “Sheriff Jackson, sir, I cannot speak to the governor’s motivations. You’d have to ask him.”

  “You cannot or will not?”

  “Slice it however you like. But don’t ask me what you’re reticent to ask the governor. I’m not going to speak for him on this matter, just as I doubt you’re going to investigate the governor on this matter. Let’s, you and me, focus on how we can work together to help each other, not on the minor differences in our tasks. He’s not interfering, as far as I know, with how you investigate your homicides.

  “The governor only wants a careful look into the death of Mary Alice Phelps. My team was brought in when he concluded he wouldn’t get that in-depth look through your department. In the final disposition, if the Phelps finding holds up as an accident, the governor will learn you were right all along. If you’re confident in your conclusion as to Phelps, where’s the threat in what I’m here to do?”

  “I don’t feel threatened, Mr. McCall. It’s a point of respect. My investigator, CC Wilmer,” he gestured toward his sergeant, “concluded accidental death. CC was at the scene while the governor pontificated from behind his solid mahogany desk. That’s disrespectful.”

  “Look Sheriff, let’s cut to the chase. I’ve been assured your department will cooperate with me fully as I address what the governor, using the authority I understand he has, engaged me to do. Did I misunderstand your stance on this?”

  Sheriff Jackson breathed in and let it out slowly. “No, Mr. McCall, you did not. This friction, if I may label it plainly, isn’t between us. The governor is within his rights. … I’ll satisfy my duty here and cooperate fully. What is it you need?”

  “Thank you, Sheriff. May I address myself to Sergeant Wilmer and invite you to disagree in the event you don’t approve of whatever I request?”

  The sheriff sat back, his knees apart as if they were a couple
in the midst of an argument. “Yes, Mr. McCall. Go ahead.”

  Jack turned to look toward CC Wilmer. “Sergeant, I want copies, promptly, of everything associated with any of these cases, including Phelps, as you receive them. I want my investigators to be informed and invited along,” Jack motioned toward Nora and Max, “to any gathering concerning these four deaths. What I’m saying automatically extends to any future deaths of any members of the ladies lunch club regardless of how those deaths are initially perceived. Any deaths, exclusive of lunch club members, about which you have even the slightest inkling might be connected. And, that we be invited to accompany the first officers to any relevant scenes.”

  CC Wilmer glanced to Sheriff Jackson.

  The sheriff pursed his lips and nodded.

  The sheriff looked at Jack. “Anything further, Mr. McCall?”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe the home of Mary Alice Phelps has been secured as a crime scene. The same as the homes of the three dead women booked as homicides. Is that still correct?”

  The sheriff doffed his hand toward Sergeant Wilmer.

  “Yes, sir. That order first came from the governor’s office. It was passed to me by Sheriff Jackson. We remain in full compliance.”

  “As I understand it, Lieutenant Reynolds has been instructed by her department, at the governor’s request, to accompany me in my movements to assure cooperation, and to establish what actually takes place, should the need to do so arise. It hasn’t been specifically covered, but I would like my two investigators, Nora Burke and Max Logan, to work as a team. I’d like them to accompany Lieutenant Reynolds and me, or work independent of us as efficient process dictates. Do you wish to have someone accompany them or not?”

  Again, the sheriff deferred to Sergeant Wilmer.

  “I don’t see why Detectives Burke and Logan cannot, generally speaking, accompany me as I work the cases. Or, in the alternative, I can accompany them if they want to pursue a line of inquiry not of my choosing. We have the option for any of the three of you to work independently of any of us as all three of you are now temporarily licensed under Lieutenant Reynold’s department. … Look, we’re working the same cases, depending on what efforts and determinations are reached regarding the Phelps death.”