by David Bishop
Max pulled to the curb in front of the home of Janet “Jan” Davis, a member of the ladies lunch club, a partner in the theater ownership, and, according to the notes from Sergeant CC Wilmer who interviewed her, a very religious woman.
The heavyset woman answered the door promptly, looked at their badges, and stepped back. “Please wipe your feet on the porch mat before coming in.”
“If you prefer, we can take off our shoes.”
“Thank you, Ms. Burke, but that won’t be necessary. I’m fussy but not fussier or fussiest.”
Nora and Max wiped their shoes and went inside. In response to Ms. Davis’ gesture, they sat on her couch. A picture of The Last Supper hung on the wall above the couch. There was a large wooden cross on the wall to their right.
“Its lovely weather this morning isn’t it officers?”
Max smiled. “I agree. It’s just grand outside.”
Nora opened her notepad. “I understand you’re one of the four partners who own a movie house a few miles from here.”
“That’s correct. Like I told you on the phone I was close friends with Gayle Ash, the first of our members to die. I was interviewed by some sergeant. I don’t recall his name. He didn’t bring up our movie house.”
“That would be Sergeant CC Wilmer. Your movie house didn’t come up then because at that point, the police weren’t aware of the theater partnership.”
“Oh. I guess that’s true. My partners are Mitzi … Maria Welz, Shirley Germaine, and Sarah Sims. Mary Alice Phelps was our bookkeeper, not a partner. Yes, I remember the sergeant’s name now that you mention it.”
Max spoke for the first time. “Sarah Sims. She’s the member you call Red Rider, correct?”
“The others do, Mr. Logan, not I. It is a demeaning reference, I’ll have no part of.” While speaking she shook her head strongly. Her jiggling neck fat suggestive that she stored Jello the way squirrels stored nuts.
Max leaned to the side, against the armrest. “I understand there’s been discussion about selling the theater, which we understand includes both the business and the real estate.”
Ms. Davis’s housedress sagged down the side of her leg. She pulled it up over her knee and used her forearm to pin it there. “Yes, that’s correct. There’s been talk of selling. Maria is firm in her opposition. I strongly support the sale. Sarah was in agreement with Maria, that is, she was opposed. We could have it sold by now if Shirley Germaine would make up her mind.”
Nora turned to a fresh page in her notepad. “So, early on, there were two against the sale, you in favor, and Shirley Germaine undecided. After Sarah Sims’ death, it would be you in favor, Maria Welz opposed, and Shirley still undecided. Looks like Shirley is the swing vote.”
“Would appear so.” The vertical wrinkles in Ms. Davis’ upper lip deepened when she puckered. “With respect, Shirley sort of goes alone. Frankly, I don’t think Shirley’s comfortable being the swing vote.”
Max engaged Ms. Davis’ eyes before asking his next question. “Please tell us why you’re in favor of selling the theater.”
“From the very start, right from the first day, I was concerned about the films we would feature. It quickly became obvious my concerns had merit. We choose too many godless films of the kind which decay the social fabric of America. Destroy the moral images we present to our youth. … If I owned it alone I’d stop the smutty films and feature wholesome stories. … If Mitzi Welz had been a victim … I’m sure I could buy Shirley’s interest. … I apologize. That was a selfish thought.”
“Were you friendly with Mary Alice Phelps?”
“No, Lieutenant Reynolds, I was not. Mary Alice was not easy to be friends with. She was a supremely private person. She spoke to very few. At our luncheons, she’d smile and greet everyone with kindness, but mostly spoke only to Norma Taylor. … Norma controlled Mary Alice.”
“Controlled?”
“You know, Norma was like the mother duck with Mary Alice following her like a duckling. They’d sit together at lunch. If Mary Alice was in one of her moods, she would point to something on her menu and Norma would order for her. … Frankly, Mary Alice’s death came as no surprise to me.”
“Why is that?”
Janet Davis turned sharply to face Nora. “Mary Alice lived on the next street. From my front window I can see part of her house. I set my alarm each morning to wake in time to watch as God raises the sun to warm all he created. This time of year it comes up right over her rooftop. The morning after what turned out to be the night she died, I saw an owl sitting on her roof. It took flight as the sun came full.”
“So?”
Jan’s eyes widened. Her gaze remained on Nora. “Since early recorded history, many have considered owls to be omens of death and the guardians of the entrances to hell. They stay awake nights and hoot to alert the devil whenever the living wander close to one of the entrances to hell. Some of us know this to still be true. There were rumors of Mary Alice’s sins as a young woman. In her mature years, she appeared to find her way to becoming a good woman. Apparently, that held off retribution, but it does come and, for Mary Alice, it did.”
Nora looked down, cleared her throat, and looked up. “Since Sergeant Wilmer spoke with you, have you remembered anything further about any of the ladies in your lunch club which might have a bearing on these crimes?”
“Not a thing. I gave your sergeant a full rendering of my opinions of those ladies, particularly Sarah Sims, whose lascivious behavior brought the devil down upon her. … Then, that dear Gayle Ash, a sweet lady, killed in her own home, a place that should be a sanctuary. And Carrie Douglas, hanged in her own home. My God … my God, please come to our rescue. Evil is destroying our heaven on earth. Beyond that, I have nothing to add about my lunch club sisters. I pray for all of them, as well as all God’s creatures, large and small.”
After saying that, Janet Davis quietly lifted a fly swatter and brought it down on a fly on the end of her coffee table.
A moment later, a young woman came through the hallway from the back bedrooms.
Janet Davis braced herself with her hand on the arm of her chair and stood. “May I introduce my granddaughter, Bea? Her real name is Beatrice, named after my grandmother. She prefers Bea. She’s here visiting me during a break between semesters in her first year of college.”
Bea stepped forward and shook hands with Nora and Max as her grandmother introduced each of them. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Burke, Mr. Logan. Well, I’m off, Grandmum. I won’t be home for dinner.”
“Wait, girl. We need to talk.”
“I’m sorry. I’m late.” Bea smiled at Max and Nora and headed for the door.
“You aren’t going to meet … that man again are you?” When Bea smiled, Janet Davis went off on her. “Damn, girl. I’ve told you before, that man is old enough to be your father. Where are you going this time?”
“We’re getting married, Grandmum, okay?”
“No, it’s not okay. There oughta be a law, I mean—”
“There is a law, Grandmum. It states that last year, when I turned eighteen, I gained the right to marry whomever I choose, whenever I choose.”
“That’s one of the things wrong with this country, child. We had more than enough laws a hundred years ago, but those fopdoodles in our nation’s capital don’t know when to leave well enough alone.”
“I was only kidding, Grandmum. We’re going to an afternoon movie, then having dinner. Not to worry. I wouldn’t get married without inviting you to the ceremony.”
“I love you, dearest, with all my heart, but I could not attend such a travesty.”
“Well, it’ll be my decision to invite you, and your decision to come or not.”
Bea smiled at Max and rolled her eyes while looking at Nora. She turned back to her grandmother, kissed her on the forehead and left.
“Sorry, for that distraction. … Kids. In my generation, well, I never—” She clenched her hands, stared at her shoes, and left her sente
nce unfinished. Then her head came up. “At least they’re going to see a movie in a theater. Today, too many movies are watched on cellphones and those e-reader thingies. Movies should be watched in a dark theater on a huge screen filled with laughter and gaiety, not sitting on the toilet with someone banging on the door hollering, ‘are you going to be long, I need to get in there.’ I worry for the health of our nation when we hand it over to the next generation.”
Back in the car, Nora chuckled. “Well, that was enlightening.”
Max laughed. “She clearly didn’t think much of Red Rider.”
“Or her granddaughter’s man of the moment.”
“Or,” Max added, “Mary Alice Phelps.”
“I don’t know about you, but I think Grandmum Janet Davis would be capable of kicking a radio into a spa.”
Max started the car. “If no one had yet discovered Silly Putty, we’ve got a prototype.”
18
“Are you fully adjusted to driving on the correct side of the road?”
Lieutenant Ann Reynolds turned the last corner and pulled into the driveway of Shirley Germaine, the next to last member of the theater-owning foursome who had not yet been interviewed.
“Versatility, my dear Jacki. I’ve been here in the States long enough that it seems perfectly natural to drive on the wrong side of the road, as defined by British custom.”
Jack and Ann walked up the driveway. Shirley Germaine, or a lady they assumed to be Shirley sat on the front step polishing a silver teapot. She gripped the pot with both hands and turned it—her grip suggestive of a strangler holding the neck of a victim.
They introduced themselves, showed their badges, confirmed she was Ms. Germaine, and encouraged her to call them Jack and Ann.
“I sit outside when I polish my teapots. The sun keeps the polish soft and helps me see which areas on the pot need a little extra.”
“That doesn’t look to be an everyday teapot. Do you collect them?”
“Yes, I do. It’s not as popular as stamp and coin collecting, but there are several ladies here in the development, and a few from the neighboring communities, who are into teapots. We meet and search together. We go to estate sales and antique shops, and have lunch. It’s our thing, as the young people say. We’re actually a quilting and teapot group but, for me the lure is the teapots.”
“You know we’re here because we’re working the cases of the deaths of four members of your ladies lunch club.”
Shirley nodded, stood, and opened her screen door. “Let’s not talk out here. Come in. My other pots are inside. Would you care to see them?”
“I would, yes.” Ann noticed Shirley lose her balance for a moment. The detective put her hand under the woman’s elbow as she stepped into her home.
“Thanks, dear. When I get up too fast, I sometimes get a little dizzy.”
“Please show me your pots first.” Ann winked at Jack who rolled his eyes. “It’ll help us get acquainted.”
Jack held the door open.
Shirley had a shelf running the full distance around her living room about six feet above the floor. The shelf was crowded with teapots, each one displayed with its spout pointing toward the center of the room.
“Oh, golly, this one is amazing.” Ann stepped closer. “It’s so colorful.”
Shirley took it down. “You’ve a good eye, my dear. That’s a Phoenician Flight teapot. One of the stars of my collection. I got it just last month.” She leaned close to Ann, and spoke in little more than a whisper. Her words accented by exaggerated expressions. “It cost me an arm and a leg as they say.” She drew in her lips as if sucking from a straw.
Jack stood in the center of the room and feigned interest. “What is this?” He pointed. “It can’t hold tea.”
Shirley chuckled. “Of course, not, Detective McCall. That’s a ceramic teapot warmer. You heat it up and set your teapot on it. I keep the warmer right there next to my Blue Sky Ceramic Elephant, a rather pedestrian teapot as collections go, but one of my favorites. I just love the way you hold the elephant’s tail and pour the tea through its trunk.” She emitted a short giggle. “As for value, my big star is my Blue Crane Grasshopper and Butterfly teapot which can run as high as three thousand dollars.” She put her hand on her cheek. “It was the only teapot I bought that year. It’s in my kitchen right beside my I’m a Little Teapot book.”
“I’d love to see your Blue Crane pot.”
Shirley led Nora into her kitchen. She pointed it out on the second shelf along the wall beside her small kitchen table and four chairs.
Jack quickly ran his gaze over all the teapots in the kitchen. “Fortunately, Florida doesn’t have many earthquakes.”
Nora and Shirley shared one of those isn’t-that-just-like-a-man grins.
While Nora looked at the Blue Crane teapot, Shirley stepped over to her stove and turned the heat on. “I set up a pot before you got here. We’ll have a cuppa while we talk. Detective McCall, please get the ceramic warmer we were looking at in the living room. It’s one of the rare warmers that are microwave safe. We’ll use it to keep the pot nice and warm.”
“Are you British, Shirley? You said ‘cuppa’ which is a common word where I grew up in Yorkshire, not far from London.”
“No. But two of the ladies in our teapot group are. We’re fast friends. I guess I picked it up from them.”
Jack brought in the warmer.
Shirley put it in the microwave, closed the door, and poked a couple of buttons. “Now, I know you two didn’t come to hear about teapots. I appreciate your indulging my pride in my collection. Sit, please, and ask me your questions.”
Jack asked the first. “Four of the fourteen members in your ladies lunch club are dead. Three are obvious murders, the fourth is probably a murder. Tell us your thoughts on what’s behind this.”
“Well, golly, a few of us have said things like, ‘What’re the odds against four out of the fourteen of us being murdered, but nobody has a theory about why. We’re all befuddled by these things like fruitcake and gum that were left in the homes of the victims. A few of the ladies have stopped coming to our lunches. I’m still going. I expect the others will come back as the weeks pass.”
Nora cleared her throat. “Unless more are killed.”
“Oh, my. Do you think—”
The teapot on the stove whistled. Shirley stopped talking and got up. “Tea’s ready.” She turned off the burner, took the ceramic pot warmer out of the microwave, and placed it on a wooden trivet in the center of her table.
Jack crossed his legs. “Why do you, yourself, think four members of your ladies lunch club have been murdered?”
Shirley sat and reached for the pot, then withdrew her hand. “Oh, my, I have no idea.” She leaned against the backrest of her chair. “I thought it was your job to tell me why my friends are being murdered.”
“You’re right.” Jack nodded, then raised his eyebrows. “Problem is, we just don’t know. To tell the truth, we’re groping. This isn’t like any murder case I’ve ever worked.” Jack looked at Nora.
“That goes for me, too. This one is very different in so many ways. That’s why Jack asked. Any thoughts you have could be an important piece.”
“Maybe only one of our members was the target. The others are being killed merely to confuse your investigation.”
“That’s perceptive. Are you a retired investigator?”
Shirley laughed. “My heavens, no. But I’ve watched all the British Inspector Morse stories on the telly and all the episodes of Perry Mason. I’ve read all the Ellery Queen mysteries, and the Nero Wolfe stories. Right now, I’m in the middle of reading the Matt Kile mystery series. Matt’s a hunk, as the girls say, and his buddy, Axel, is a man I would love to meet.” She had a rolling giggle with an obvious melody, a certain sense of joy in just the laugh. “Truth is, I have no clue. I just want it to stop. These ladies didn’t deserve to be killed by some crazy, no-good bastard. … Excuse me, my language.”
&
nbsp; Jack leaned forward, his forearms on the edge of the kitchen table. “Tell me about the movie theater you’re involved in.”
“Sure. But what could it have to do with all this?”
“We don’t know,” Ann said. “Probably nothing. We’re just trying to get acquainted with the things that involve the members of your lunch club in general and the victims in particular. We just agreed, remember, that anything might be a piece of the solution. The more dots we have, the greater the chance they’ll connect to form a picture.”
Shirley turned toward Ann’s voice. “We understand there has been discussion of selling. That you’re undecided whether you favor or oppose the sale. What’s your thinking about that?”
“With Red Rider dead, there’s only three of us left. One for, one against, and me. I just don’t know. I see both sides of it. Mary Alice was our bookkeeper and she thought we should sell. She was a quiet woman, but smart about that kind of stuff. … I just don’t know.”
“That’s fine. We aren’t asking you to decide, just asking about your thoughts on it. Thank you for being so open with us.”
Shirley stood when Jack and Ann did, and escorted them to her front door. “Thank you for coming. I hope I’ve helped in some way. Please catch whoever is killing my lunch club sisters.”
19
When Jack and Ann got back to the station house, the sheriff was standing out back in the parking lot smoking a cigar. “The misses doesn’t like me smoking at home. I indulge myself a couple nights a week before I leave here.” He shrugged. “It’s a filthy habit I’m through with, but it’s not quite through with me. You’d think having gotten down to two stogies a week that I could just cut the damn cord. If I’d ever imagined how tough it would be to let go, I’d never have started.”
“That’s true about a lot of habits.”
The sheriff nodded toward Jack. “You two find anything out today? We could sure use a bone with some meat on it,”
Ann pursed her lips and shook her head.