Ladies Lunch Club Murders Page 2

  “Sheriff considers Phelps an accidental death. So, we have three homicides. Each is enough different that we could have one killer who can’t settle on his technique, or two killers, hell, could be three.”

  Ann took a small flashlight out of her purse. She held it in her right hand, an old habit to keep her gun hand free. “You’ve been working these homicides since the first one back in January. I’ve never thought of you as a man who can’t make up his mind.”

  “I used to be indecisive. Now I’m not so sure.”

  Ann punched Sergeant Wilmer in the bicep. “Nonetheless, you remain convinced Phelps was an accidental death.”

  “Sh-iii-t, Annie. Phelps should be closed up, but, for some fool reason, the governor’s office is pressuring the sheriff to not shut it down. Nobody I talk to at the Capitol knows the story behind the governor’s obsession with Phelps, or they aren’t talking. Phelps was a stupid woman who somehow snagged her radio into her hot tub and fried herself—the end.”

  “Okay. Let’s drop Phelps, at least for now.”

  Sergeant Wilmer crossed his arms. “The first two dead women were murdered on dates for celebrating something. I never before realized it, but nearly every damn day in the year is a day of recognition for one thing or another, most days for several things. The first murder, in early January, was on National Fruitcake Toss Day. Ain’t that something? The way I see it, the person doing this shit is the fruitcake, and I’m looking forward to tossing his ass in the slammer.”

  Ann moved around to the passenger side of the SUV and shined her light around in the back seat. “Why, Sergeant. Your tone suggests you don’t like fruitcake?”

  “The gift nobody wants but sometimes gets. Speaking for myself, Fruitcake Toss Day is one of our most worthwhile silly national days of observation.”

  “Your murder book didn’t mention the fruitcake angle until after the second killing nearly a month later. I hear it was the dispatcher at the station who linked the murder to National Fruitcake Toss Day. A little slow on the uptake, weren’t you, Sarge?”

  “One day, the dispatcher was reading the reports. When she saw fruitcake on the inventory sheet, she mentioned that date was Fruitcake Toss Day. Apparently, she’s a real fruitcake nut and takes offense there’s a formal day for tossing them away.

  “Gimme a break, Detective Lady. For Christ’s sake, every murder happens on some day. There’s rarely a specific connection between the murder itself and the actual day on which it happens. The precise day can tie to opportunity or means, sure, but not literally the day in and of itself.”

  Ann Reynolds leaned closer to the rear window, taking care not to touch her cheek against the glass. “I take it you got no idea what these connections mean?”

  “That’s twice. How long’re you gonna bust my balls on this?”

  Ann muted the lit end of her flashlight against CC’s officer shirt. “Sorry, didn’t mean to yank your chain all that hard.” She switched off her flashlight and retreated a few steps, taking care where she put her feet, while looking over the outside of the vehicle. She circled around and returned to the driver’s side. “There’s no tracks for a man getting out on the passenger’s side. Assuming the killer was in the passenger seat, he would’ve gotten out on that side. There’s what looks like a man’s tracks on the driver’s side, but approaching the car, not from getting out of it—likely the anonymous guy who called it in.”

  “He said he looked in the driver’s window and saw the woman slumped over. The car was locked. He yelled and rapped, but when he couldn’t rouse her, he called it in. I’ll have the crime scene team check the driver’s window. According to the caller’s description of what he did, we should find smudges from his knuckles. If the caller was the perp he wouldn’t have knocked on the window.

  “If we’ve got the timeline near right, I’d estimate this SUV’s been here something like eighteen to twenty hours. It rained yesterday, early evening, stopping around eight. There’s no rain spots on the windows of the SUV. That suggests it got here after eight.”

  CC raised his eyebrows. “My guess is she was going down on the perp who was in the passenger seat. From there on, the woman’s luck turned to shit.”

  “Don’t talk to me about luck. If I had luck I’d be a blonde with a filthy-rich, faithful husband.” Ann turned sideways, her silhouette enhanced against the lighter background. “And a drawer full of thirty-six-double-D designer bras.”

  CC stepped back and took a long, exaggerated look at Ann’s shape against the low sun. “You didn’t get the blonde hair or, as far as I know, the rich husband.” His smile changed the angle of his mustache. “Then again, one out of three ain’t bad.”

  “One out of four. I don’t have a drawer full of designer bras.” Still holding her flashlight in her right hand, Ann used it to poke CC in the gut. “The vic’s purse is on the floor in the back seat. Have you looked in it yet?”

  “After we got the scene cordoned off, I took pictures while Scotty called in the plate and summoned the M.E. A few minutes later, you drove up. We’ll get to the purse and the glovebox when we work the inside of the SUV. That might be after the M.E. gets the body out.”

  “On the positive side, the file shows your department was a lot quicker on the uptake after murder number two occurred on the first Friday in February—National Bubble Gum Day.”

  Wilmer grinned. “Yeah. That time it only took us a day to make the connection. There was a bowl of wrapped pieces of bubble gum at the scene. The dispatcher’s got some weird calendar that shows the items recognized on each day of the year.”

  Ann laughed. “I’m sorry. Murder should never be funny stuff, but damn, Fruitcake Toss Day, Bubble Gum Day … funny stuff.”

  “I figure this lady got killed last night somewhere between nine and midnight.”

  “The rain. Yeah. Like you said it stopped around eight and the windshield isn’t spotted. Okay, that sets the low-end of the range at what, nine or later. How did you settle on the high-end being before midnight? It coulda been early this morning or even afternoon today.”

  CC Wilmer stopped behind the red SUV. “I don’t think so. After the first two murders, before I headed out here I went up and looked at the dispatcher’s calendar to see the recognition items for yesterday and today. Yesterday was March fourteenth so, yeah, her being murdered yesterday is the better fit. That’d require the killing be done before midnight—that supports the backend of my range.”

  Lieutenant Reynolds took a moment to settle her feet on the uneven dirt and gravel. “I can’t argue that yesterday was the fourteenth, that’s a fact. But how did you establish it’s more likely she was murdered late on the fourteenth rather than early on the fifteenth?”

  “You, being not only a bigtime state investigator, but a gorgeous hunk of womanhood, don’t know March fourteenth, one month after Valentine’s Day, is the celebrated Steak & Knobber Day.”

  “And that means?”

  “Equality, my dear lady, eee-quality. You women love Valentine’s Day. You get flowers and candy and dinner at your favorite restaurant. Some years ago, a forthright DJ in San Diego, California, decided men should get a day of what they want. He declared March fourteenth, one month after Valentine’s Day, to be Steak and Knobber Day. A day set aside for us dudes to get our well-deserved eee-quality.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve never heard of it. What is it men get?”

  “I’ll translate: Steak and Knobber Day means: Steak and Blow Job Day.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. Now I understand.”

  “And?”

  “And what?” Ann faced CC. “Equality is good. It avoids claims of sexism. Equality should work for men as well as for women. Truth is, you men are much more reliable about holding up your end on Valentine’s Day. Let me apologize on behalf of women everywhere. Speaking for myself, in the future, I’ll try to be more cognizant of my responsibilities on March fourteenth.”

  “On behalf of the eager, but patient men of the worl
d, thank you for your support.”

  “In fairness, we should acknowledge this scene suggests the woman was quite possibly trying to honor the occasion.”

  “So?”

  Ann raised her eyebrows. “So, it goes to show not all women shirk their responsibilities.”

  “Let’s hope Doc Bones discovers this lady is holding some of the perp’s DNA.”

  Ann walked around to the passenger side, turned her flashlight on, and searched the front floor of the car. After that, she cast her eyes on the ground around the SUV. “For mostly gravel, seems sort of level.”

  “I thought so too. Steps push gravel this way and that. The footprints near this vehicle are only yours and mine, and we figure the guy who called it in. I took pictures. My guess is the perp smoothed or raked it, maybe with a palm frond.” He motioned just off the trail. “As you can see, there’s plenty of decaying fronds all over this area.”

  “What you’re implying was going on here is something few women bestow upon perfect strangers. Does that say she knew her killer?”

  CC smiled. “Or, imperfect strangers for that matter.”

  “Hey, you’re saying we women need to be more cognizant of our Steak and Knobber Day duties. You’re saying this woman was quite possibly doing just that. So, how about showing a little appreciation.”

  “I am sorry. If we’re right about what was happening here, then, yeah, the vic most likely knew the perp. I mean, we’re not discussing blowing on a cup of hot coffee.” Wilmer scratched at the late-afternoon stubble blossomed on his cheek. “No pun intended.”

  Ann turned off her flashlight. “Aren’t investigations fascinating? They touch on every aspect of the human experience.”

  Sergeant Wilmer turned toward a set of headlights pulling in behind Ann Reynolds’ car on the far side of the entrance to the reserve. “That’s the M.E. The rest of tonight will be formal stuff. While Doc Bones focuses on the body, my men’ll do a grid-search. Although, if anything was discarded it probably got tossed out into the deeper water.”

  “You thinking the icepick?”

  “If I’m right about the murder weapon, my guess is the pick was taken away and tossed somewhere else. A guy meticulous enough to comb his footprints out of the gravel would probably take the pick and toss it somewhere down the road. There’s dozens of these ponds and lakes within a couple of miles in any direction of where we’re standing.”

  CC started walking toward the approaching medical examiner. While he did, Ann opened the backdoor of the car and reached in to pick up the woman’s purse. She pressed the clasp on the purse and let it fall open. She leaned out of the car and stood.

  “CC! Come back here. In the purse. It’s a bloody icepick. You were right. The perp put it inside her purse. The arrogance of the bastard.”

  CC took out an evidence bag and Ann, holding the pick with two of her gloved fingers, dropped it inside.

  The medical examiner was half way to them.

  CC turned to Ann. “Look, unless you just like this kind of thing, there’s really no need for you to hang around. I got no choice. The next coupl’a hours is pretty much paint-by-the-numbers. If you wanna boogie, you can pick up a copy of our preliminary report at the sheriff’s station in the morning.”

  “Thanks, CC. I’ll leave this in your capable hands and nip off. Thanks for the edification on the duties of women in today’s evolving dating scene.”

  Sergeant CC Wilmer put his hand on Ann’s shoulder. “Just doing my part to spread the word. If the objective is to elevate Steak and Knobber Day to the level of Valentine’s Day, we men have a lot of promotional work to do.”

  Ann grinned. “Take care, Sarge. I’ll see ya at the nick in the morning.”

  “Later.”

  Lieutenant Ann Reynolds walked through the long, lowering shadows. She stopped and shook hands with the medical examiner. After that, Ann walked to her car, got in, and as she drove away looked back and grinned.

  2

  Earlier that same day:

  The dangling end of Mary Lou’s O-ring metal belt clanked against the edge of Jack McCall’s desk. He looked up.

  “A Mr. Trey Lennox is in the lobby. He’s with another man and a woman. He wouldn’t tell me anything. Just insisted I inform you he’s here. Claims he has an appointment. I show your calendar blocked out until noon.” She lowered her voice. “For some reason he looked familiar. I googled him. He’s the frigging governor of Florida. …Florida. This is Washington, DC. What’s he want with us?”

  Her expression suggested her mouth held more questions, but, rather than ask, she let her tongue move around inside her cheek and stared.

  “Governor Lennox is why I blocked out the morning. This appointment is to be kept confidential. Understood?”

  Mary Lou’s eyes got big. Her brows went up. She stood straight, took a deep breath, and nodded. “We’re in the big time. Should I bring him in here—your office?” She held her hands open, like swaddle for a newborn. “Or, should I show him into the conference room?”

  “The conference room.”

  “You want Nora and Max in there too?”

  “I’ll let you know when.”

  Mary Lou shook her head like a wet dog shedding water.

  “The conference room, please.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Mary Lou buzzed Nora’s office. “Heads up. The governor of Florida’s in our conference room. Jack’s going in. He’ll buzz me to bring you and Max in. Be ready.”

  “I didn’t know he was here, but I knew he was coming.”

  “But did you know he’s single, well, widowed—I googled him. He’s only fifty-two and very debonair. Looks sort of like Mitt Romney who ran for president a while back. A few of the articles I found suggested Lennox might run for president next time. How’s this for a fantasy: Nora Burke as First Lady with Mary Lou Sanchez as her chief of staff.”

  “You have a vivid imagination. Whether or not it’s healthy, I can’t say.”

  Mary Lou chuckled. “Oh, if you see Max tell him his puzzle for this month was just delivered. The pieces came the way he always wants them. In a plastic bag, without the puzzle box.

  Jack went through the door connecting his office to the conference room. Governor Lennox and his team of two had taken the liberty of sitting.

  “Good morning, Governor, welcome to McCall Investigations. I’m Jack McCall.”

  Governor Lennox stood and the two men shook hands. A stylish woman of about fifty remained seated to his right. Her glasses large for her small round face. A somehow familiar, well-muscled man of similar age with the warmth of a fireplug, sat to the governor’s left. He ran his hand through his wavy hair.

  Jack couldn’t place him but knew he’d seen him before.

  The governor didn’t introduce his underlings.

  “Good to meet you, Mr. McCall. Thank you for seeing me. Can we get right to it? I’m expected at the White House for lunch.”

  “Certainly.”

  Governor Lennox took his seat.

  “Let me call in my lead detectives.”

  “Is that necessary, Mr. McCall? I expected you would handle this personally.”

  “I will, Governor, but working a case requires more than one person. Each of my investigators has worked dozens of homicides. Nora Burke is a solid all around investigator with an impressive solve rate. Max Logan is the best in the field I’ve ever seen.”

  Jack didn’t wait for the governor’s reply. He stepped around the table and opened the door into the lobby. “Mary Lou, please ask Ms. Burke to join us, and Mr. Logan.”

  A moment later, one of Max Logan’s wingtip shoes appeared in the doorway. Before the door shut fully, the click of Nora Burke’s high heels announced her arrival.

  “Max, Nora, this is the Governor of Florida, Trey Lennox. He has a case he’d like us to handle.”

  Governor Lennox stood and shook hands with Max and Nora. The governor’s staff members remained seated, silent, and unidentified
. The woman had a dental website smile. The bulky bodyguard remained stoic. He had the slender fingers of a pianist and the arms of a sumo wrestler.

  “Governor Lennox, when we spoke on the phone you mentioned a murder.”

  The governor ran his hand down the length of his garnet, black, white, and gold striped tie—the colors of Florida State University. “Mr. McCall, my sister, Mary Alice Phelps, died on February twenty-fifth. She lived in one of Florida’s prominent retirement communities. The local sheriff ruled she died as the result of a home accident.” The governor stood, made a fist of one hand, placed it on the table as a fulcrum and leaned over it. His knuckles paled as his blood retreated from his clench. His other index finger thumped the table punctuating each word. “My sister was murdered.”

  His hands opened. He stretched his fingers. “Frankly, if I weren’t governor, they would’ve already closed the case as an accidental death. Two other women in the retirement community where Mary Alice lived have also been murdered in the last two months. The police see those murders as probably connected, but not connected to the death of my sister.”

  “It’s clear, Governor, that you don’t agree.”

  The governor was not acting overly superior. More like a rich man asking for a loan he didn’t really need. “No. I do not agree. My sister was many things, but not sloppy or careless. An accidental death in her home is just not possible.”

  “How old was she?”

  “Mary Alice turned seventy-two in early January. My sister was born when our mother was quite young. Twenty years later, at age forty, Mother gave birth to me. When I started school, Mary Alice was in college. When home, she was like a second mother.”

  Nora looked up from her notes. “How was her health?”

  “She had a heart attack last year. She did tell me that, saying only, ‘oh, it’s fine now. Nothing to bother you with.’”

  Jack leaned forward. “Was she married?”

  “Never.”

  “Why was her name Phelps, and not Lennox?”