by David Bishop
The meeting broke up without them having found much in the way of direction, but the teaser remained: Phelps might have been killed by a different person. The reasoning went that if the same person killed all the women, his memo to the TV station would have mentioned more than only Phelps.
After a while, Jack meandered to a coffee pot on a hotplate in an alcove down the hall. CC Wilmer was there. He handed Jack a pressed paper cup, lifted the pot, and poured for Jack. They touched cups.
CC lowered his voice. “Lieutenant Ann Reynolds is a top cop. She works at it and is the best the state office has. The British intelligence service trained her well.” He stepped closer. “Speaking personally, for years I’ve lusted to get in that woman’s knickers. You’ve been here not quite two days, and she’s in heat just being in the same room with you.”
“Not so I can tell.”
“Lieutenant Reynolds has never traded on her considerable feminine charms or flaunted them. There’s even a few rumors of her being a lesbian. Rumors I consider incredulous.”
“Sergeant, with respect to her and me, you’re seeing things that aren’t there.”
“Stuff, it, McCall. I’m envious, not angry. Got no cause. Just tell her, maybe as you ride off into the sunset after this job winds up, if she’s interested in an old bull who still knows how to buck, give her my number.” CC smiled. “By the way, I like the way you handled the sheriff. You coulda rubbed his nose in it. You didn’t. That was classy.” CC dropped his cup in the trash and started down the hall.
Jack’s voice caught up with the sergeant. “I imagine she’s already got your number.”
CC stopped and looked back. “In more ways than one, Mr. McCall. You know, ‘round here, the woman wears iron panties. I’d caution you to be careful, she looks all feminine like, but Ann Reynolds has a purple belt in taekwondo. By the way, I hope I won’t be needed tonight. I’m planning an alcoholiday.”
At five-fifteen, the Florida Department of Law Enforcement reported none of the victims had a webpage. Three of them had social media pages which were stuffed with pictures of grandchildren, house pets, and political claptrap. Mary Alice Phelps had no social media presence.
By six, the two interview teams had put together a file containing the names, addresses, and phone numbers for all fourteen members of the ladies lunch club, as well as the nearest neighbors for each of the four victims.
Back in the squad room, Jack and CC picked up the discussion about the cases. In addition to his role as the hub for the efforts of the two interview teams, CC would focus on developing information on any life or accidental death insurance policies owned by the victims.
The sergeant leaned against the wall and crossed his feet at the ankles. “An accidental death policy pays nothing on murder. It was a clue left unpursued when I caused Phelps to be sluffed off as accidental. If the killer is the beneficiary on an accidental death policy, that could explain why Phelps was the only murder staged as an accident. I’ll dig around for policies. Also how each of the four victims held title to their homes and any other real property they owned, as well as beneficiaries on any other investments. We continue to gather copies of the last wills of all four victims.”
When the sergeant started moving away, Jack put out his hand to stop him. “Anything else come up?”
“Not really.” The sergeant took a couple steps, then turned back. “I stopped to see Mary Alice Phelps’ doctor. He confirmed Phelps’ had a very weak heart. To quote him, ‘I was surprised when my receptionist showed me the article reporting she was the sister of Governor Lennox.’ I had her doc look over the autopsy report. He agreed that an electrical shock from the radio in the spa could very likely have induced her fatal heart attack.”
Detective work always includes a certain amount of pavement pounding. On the whole, the detectives were ready to get out of their chairs, off their phones, and start talking to people.
Ann Reynolds and Nora Burke reported that the two teams had finished setting tomorrow’s interview appointments, so the squad began to break up and drift home.
Men plan and God laughs.
11
Jack McCall and Lieutenant Ann Reynolds had a morning appointment to interview Mary Alice Phelps’ next door neighbor and, reportedly, best friend, Norma Taylor, a self-proclaimed early riser. For later in the day, Ann arranged for them to interview Pauline Goddard, a late sleeper, a lunch club member and neighbor of Sarah Sims, the victim in the Steak and Knobber Day murder.
Murders without known motives were rarely solved. Somewhere in this assortment of interviews they needed to uncover at least a motive.
At eight-fifteen, Ann pulled onto the street where the Taylor woman lived. After a block and a half she pulled to the curb in front of the Taylor residence. The two detectives walked up to her door. Jack knocked.
The door opened in the hand of a woman not more than five feet tall. She stood erect, wearing a loose housedress with waist high, sagging, softball-sized front pockets. Her hair was white. Her lipstick a light shade of red. Her smile wide.
“Hello. I’m Detective Jack McCall. This is Lieutenant Ann Reynolds. Are you Norma Taylor?”
The woman cleared her throat and pushed open her screen door. “Yes, I am. Come in, quickly now, so the flies don’t get in.”
Inside, Nora smiled at Ms. Taylor. “I love your shade of lipstick. Not too dark.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. I’ve been wearing this one for … forever. Never got out of the habit of getting up and putting my face on, first thing. Until that’s done I’m not ready for the day.”
Ann brought her hands together. “I understand you and Mary Alice Phelps were the best of friends. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. In this community we regularly lose our friends, but not often to violence. Mary Alice was a quiet woman, kept to herself. She loved to paint pictures of flowers and meadows. That one,” Norma Taylor pointed, “Mary Alice painted. I love the meadow of red flowers beneath the clean blue sky. She gave it to me last Christmas. … I’m fighting here to keep my composure. Mary Alice didn’t bother anyone … nobody. We saw each other every day. I feel disoriented not seeing her.”
Jack stepped right into the deep end with his first question. “Were you aware Mary Alice Phelps was the sister of Governor Lennox?”
“My phone has been ringing off the hook since that was reported on the television. Everyone’s asking if I knew. I didn’t. And, from the calls I got, I can tell you no one knew, at least not in our circles. Mary Alice was a very private person. I think she shared more about her life with me than with anyone, but not that morsel.”
Jack smiled at her use of the word morsel. “We searched her home and found no files beyond some loose recent bills and that kind of thing. She was a former investment guru and a well-educated, intelligent lady. Can you tell us where she kept the kinds of files you’d expect such a person to have?”
Norma Taylor stood without speaking and motioned for Jack and Ann to follow her. She led them down the center hallway of her home and took a short turn into a rear bedroom she’d converted to a computer room. She pointed. “Mary kept her stuff in that lateral file cabinet. It’s locked.”
“Okay. Thank you. We found two unusual keys on the ring with her car key; they hung on a cup hook inside the laundry room door leading into her garage. This one,” Jack held it out, “has a stenciled number suggesting it fits a safe-deposit box. Can you tell us which bank she used for that box?”
“No. I’m sorry. I didn’t know she had one.”
Jack moved the second smallish key to between his thumb and index finger, put the key into the lock on the file cabinet and turned it. The cabinet lock released.
Ann brought her phone out and took a video of Jack talking with Norma Taylor.
“Ms. Taylor, is this Mary Alice Phelps’ lateral file cabinet?”
“Yes.”
“What is it doing in your home?”
“On some things, Mary was priva
te to the point of eccentricity. This is one of them. She asked me if she could keep it here. I agreed. She kept it locked.”
“With your permission we’d like to take the file cabinet to our station where it can be treated as evidence. It’s in your home so it’s your right to say no. If you do, we’ll pursue a court order to take control of it.”
“It’s hers. You’re investigating her death.” Norma Taylor held her palms out toward Jack. “Please, take it as soon as possible.”
“Thank you. We’ll make a call and have it removed within an hour or two. Is that all agreeable?”
Norma Taylor cleared her throat. “Yes. Please do. I’ll wait here until they arrive.” She lowered her head and gently rested the pads of her index fingers on her closed eyes.
Ann turned off the video recording and called the station. After hanging up, she reported, “CC’s sending an officer with a dolly, maybe an hour.”
“We’ll wait to get into it after it’s moved to the station. Can we talk with you more now?”
“Anything you’d like to know, that I know … sure. Let’s go to the kitchen and have some iced tea?” Norma moved as if she expected a yes. Jack and Ann followed her through the living room and into the kitchen.
After the tea was poured, Jack picked up his glass. “I’m fascinated by these screened-in lanais. They seem to be on a lot of the houses. May I?”
Norma Taylor smiled and opened her hand toward her lanai. “Some of the bigger ones, like Mary Alice’s, are called birdcages.”
Jack went through the open connecting door into a lanai about twelve feet deep, running the full width of the back of the house. Unlike the Phelps home there was no pool or spa. Ms. Taylor’s lanai held a barbeque, two tables with four chairs at each, and a couch facing three casual chairs, all chosen to endure the rain which came in through the screened roof. Next to one chair was a black plastic ashtray with two butts, unsigned by Norma Taylor’s red lipstick. One had been smoked down to a nub. The other had been snuffed out after only a few puffs, as if the smoker had suddenly decided to leave and not take the cigarette—maybe called inside where the cigarette wasn’t allowed. They’d been there a while. The ashes were dry but caked. He used a pen to push and turn the butts over. The brand name, Pall Mall, showed up near the filter on the longer butt.
By their length, Pall Mall one-hundreds.
Jack came in to join Ann and Ms. Taylor at her kitchen table. “I’ve never lived in an area where lanais are so prevalent. Who smoked the two cigarettes stubbed out in the ashtray on your lanai?”
“Oh, golly, it could have been any of several people. Lots of the people who live here foolishly smoke. I don’t let anyone smoke inside my home. They may have been there a good while.”
Jack motioned to Ann who again turned on the video recorder on her cellphone and held it up.
When Ann nodded, Jack turned to Ms. Taylor. “Seeing you don’t know who left the cigarette butts in the ashtray on your lanai, and because your lanai overlooks Mary Alice Phelps’ lanai, would it be all right if we took those two butts? Your home is not part of the crime scene so we need your approval. It’s a formality.”
“Sure.” Ms. Taylor’s eyes darted back and forth between Ann and Jack. “Take them. I keep the ashtray there in case any visitors smoke. It’s so rare that anyone uses it I sort of forget the thing’s out there. I don’t remember the last time anyone used it. If I’d seen those cancer sticks, I’d have thrown them out and cleaned it.” She turned to face Ann. “What purpose could those disgusting things have in your investigation of Mary Alice’s death? … Oh, my God, you said, ‘crime scene’ are you thinking Mary was murdered? That her killer was watching her while sitting in my lanai?”
“It’s possible, but let’s not jump to any conclusions. Do you keep your lanai screen door locked?”
“The lock on my lanai screen door is broken. It has been for at least a year. At night I lock the door from the lanai into the house. … I should still get it fixed, I just haven’t.”
The concern on Ms. Taylor’s face was obvious.
Ann smiled. “So much of police work is collecting things from, at, and near crime scenes. The overwhelming majority of this kind of stuff ends up having completely innocent explanations. We’re being pedantic here. Thank you for indulging our tendency for overdoing it.”
Ann followed Jack out into the lanai and filmed him putting the butts into an evidence bag. She turned off the recording.
Back in the kitchen, Jack took a long pull on the tall glass of iced tea that had been left for him on the table. “Thank you. It’s already getting pretty hot. This tea really hits the spot. We’ll try not to keep you much longer. We’d like you to help us get to know your friend, Mary Alice Phelps. Later this afternoon we’re meeting with a neighbor of the woman killed just a few nights ago. I assume you knew her as well.”
“Are you two working the murder of Red Rider, too?”
“Red Rider?”
“Oh, sorry. Sarah Sims. She was in the lunch club with Mary and me. All us gals called Sarah, Red Rider. She didn’t spell it like the old movie cowboy. His name had a y instead of an i.”
“Our reports show Ms. Sims owned a red SUV, and, when she was found at the waterfowl reserve, she was wearing red high heeled shoes and a red bra. Is that the reason for her nickname?”
“Mostly, yes.” Norma grinned. “Well, totally, yes. Red loved red.”
“Ms. Taylor, Sarah Sims is dead—clearly a murder. The more we know about her, well, we never know which piece of information may tie in somehow. So, please, don’t hold anything back.”
Norma Taylor looked at Ann. “I understand. Miss—Lieutenant Reynolds. I’m guessing when you were in school, your class had one girl that was sort of, well, the class slut, shall we say.”
Ann smiled. “Yes, Ma’am. My memory is my class had several.”
Norma Taylor looked away, but did so after a flashed grin. “Sarah Sims was our ladies lunch club slut. She never left home without a French letter in her purse.”
Jack flashed a questioning look. “French letter?”
“I’ll explain it to him later.” Ann motioned to Ms. Taylor. “You were saying?”
“Sarah was a regular at the cougar pick-up spots around the area. While secretly envying her, we always warned that her free-range lustiness could be her downfall. Red … Sarah would laugh and say, ‘I wish. What a way to go.’ From what was in the local paper, sadly, it looks like Red got that wish.”
“Was there a love relationship in her life? My question assumes she’s heterosexual, but that doesn’t have to be the case.”
“Sarah was definitely a card-carrying, active member of the heterosexual club. As for a man—men yes, one man no. She was married for forty years before her husband died. After that, Sarah became fascinated by younger men.” She smiled and looked away while saying, “The way she put it, ‘I crave the hard heat.’ Red’s words, not mine.”
“Any regular man?”
Norma sat up straight, her lips stern. “The only regular, so to speak, was her continuing fantasy about her podiatrist—a gorgeous young man. A couple of the gals in our lunch club go to him. A few have joked about wishing he was a gynecologist rather than a podiatrist.”
“Was the doc a regular in Sarah’s life?”
“As a fantasy, yes. In reality, no.” She looked away again. “I hope this doesn’t sound too coarse. Red often spoke of wanting him to check her feet while her ankles were on his shoulders.”
“Are you sure it was only a fantasy?”
“Yes. No doubt whatever. Sarah enjoyed telling us all the juicy details about her conquests, as she called them. Were her podiatrist fantasies real, she would have bragged on it ad-nauseam. She never did.”
“Did she mention the names of other men?”
“Always. I’d guess two or three dozen over the past couple years. First names only. I doubt Red bothered to remember their last names, if she even got them. A couple times, w
hen she was telling us about this one or that one, one of the lunch gals would ask, ‘What’s the guy’s last name?’ Using me as an example, she’d reply, ‘Sweet Norma,’ that’s what she called me. ‘Sweet Norma, in the throes of passion a women doesn’t yell out a man’s last name.’” Norma’s smile retreated. She lowered her face. “God, I’m going to miss Red, she put the color in the word colorful. One of the gals called Red’s stories our lunch club calorie-free desserts. I believe several in the club lived their romantic lives vicariously through Red’s colorful stories of her amorous escapades. Now we’ll all outlive Red, for some period of time, but I doubt any of us will live as exciting a life as she did.”
“Did she talk about a man she was going to see on the night she was killed?”
“No. Oh, we’d have gotten all the details on that at our next lunch gathering. Her passion reports were as regular as the reading of minutes at other meetings. Her stories were always about actual conquests, never possibilities beforehand.”
“Anything else come to mind on Sarah Sims?”
Norma moved her mouth around like a kid squishing Jell-O. She looked toward the ceiling and shook her head. “No.”
Ann Reynolds set her ice tea down and leaned forward. “Let’s talk more about Mary Alice Phelps.”
“First, will you answer a question about Re—Sarah?”
Jack put down his glass. “What is it?”
“Is the part about her being murdered on Steak and Knobber Day important?”
Jack looked at Ann who immediately asked the question, “Where did you hear about that?”
“Everybody’s talking. Some of the sheriff’s deputies live in the development. A few civilian workers in the sheriff’s department live here, too. I don’t know how many, but several others who work in some county office. You can’t keep a fascinating story like this bottled up.”
Jack swirled his nearly empty glass, rattling the ice. “Who mentioned the Steak and Knobber Day connection?”