The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club

by Duncan Whitehead

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2013 Duncan Whitehead

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477818107

  ISBN-10: 1477818103

  Cover design by Inkd

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013917241

  As always, for Keira

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  He took one final draw on his cigarette before flicking the wet butt into the hole he had just dug. It was still dark, the sun not due to rise for another thirty minutes. He checked his watch and confirmed the time. He was still on schedule. He turned suddenly to his left, surprised by the rustling noise he heard in the undergrowth. A gray squirrel peered out from the bushes before rapidly disappearing into the wooded area to the right. Overhead, a woodpecker began to tap against a nearby oak tree. The rat-a-tat, like a hammer, echoed through the densely forested landscape.

  Satisfied that he was still alone, he re-inspected the freshly dug hole. Ideally, it should have been six feet deep, but four, he thought, would do. It was not the first time he had dug a hole like this, but he wondered if this one would be the last. He had begun digging the night before and hoped that no one would discover his half-dug hole and half-empty bag of lime salts, which it now appeared, no one had. Usually he would have poured more lime salts into the bottom to cover the unpleasant smells that would rise from the ground later, but he had decided that the extra bags would be too much to hide. He crouched and leaned over the hole, stretching his arm to full length to pick up his discarded cigarette butt. Unprofessional, he thought. He really knew better than that. He slipped the butt into the packet it had come from, alongside the other nineteen yet unsmoked menthols.

  From his vantage he could see anyone entering or leaving the park. There were three gates, but he had taken the precaution of locking the north and south gates with padlocks, which he would remove and discard once his task was complete. Now the only way to enter the park would be via the east gate, which was the main entrance anyway, and the one he knew would be used that morning.

  The recently prepared hole was ensconced just off the well-trodden path that encircled the park; he couldn’t have asked for a better spot to perform his task. If only they were all this easy. He picked up his shovel and placed it out of sight in the undergrowth. He would need it later to fill the hole back in. Though he had dug holes like this before, they were usually not necessary. But the instructions he had received were very specific, that there should be no trace of his work for at least one week. He hoped that four feet was deep enough. He considered his surroundings and decided it was.

  The park was located in the center of a middle-class neighborhood of approximately three hundred homes. It was protected by a wrought-iron fence and three gates—perfect for his purposes. Signs proclaimed that this was private property, designated solely for the use of those who lived there. At least half the families in the area owned a dog and regularly used the park to exercise them. Not everyone walked his dog in the park. He estimated that only fifty or so people ever ventured where he now stood.

  The Girl Scout hut, an old log cabin-style building that stood in the center of the park, was available for hire for private functions and neighborhood gatherings as well as for residential association meetings. An extensive wooded area, home to an abundance of wildlife, dominated the interior of park. Trees and shrubbery surrounded the perimeter railings, hiding the interior of the park from anyone traversing nearby streets. A children’s playground in the northeast corner of the park offered wooden swings and forts. These, along with sliding boards and monkey bars, delighted the children of those privileged to play there.

  Dog walkers took advantage of the chipped-wood track that circled the park. The path wove around the trees and crossed ditches and natural moats. The occasional jogger who ventured into the park would sometimes make use of the track but would have to watch for fallen trees and avoid the sprawling roots that sprouted from the earth. He pulled another menthol from its packet and lit it. He sucked in the mint-flavored smoke and exhaled it into the early morning air. It was hard to hold the cigarette in his gloved hand, so he removed the leather pair that he wore. He wore the gloves not because of any coldness, but as necessary to his task.

  The sky was no longer black, but a dark blue, the sun now on the verge of rising. The first birds of the morning began their song, and the temperature was slowly beginning to rise. The unnatural sound of a car engine straining into life could be heard in the distance. Its owner was probably an early morning worker, beginning his day while most were still enjoying their last few minutes of sleep.

  It was going to be another warm day, and air-conditioning systems would be on high throughout the city. He considered removing the dark coat that he wore, but didn’t. It, along with the gloves, was his standard attire when working: an unofficial uniform of his trade. More rustling, this time from the north, made him twist his body and alerted his senses. As before, another squirrel disappeared into the dense wood as the streetlights that illuminated the avenues and streets that ran alongside the park switched off in unison, announcing that daybreak was approaching. Soon bedroom lights would turn on as people rose to prepare themselves for the day ahead.

  He was conscious of the four homes that backed onto the park on the west side, where he waited. He had considered the possibility of being discovered by a dog released into the morning to relieve itself and to stretch its legs, but had decided that the chance of any animal being able to navigate both a garden fence and the iron railings and still see him through the dense trees was minimal. He was a professional, and he had taken no chances. He never did. The previous morning he had stood in the exact same spot where he was now, at the exact same time, and he was confident that neither dog nor man would discover him.

  He placed his gloveless hand into the front lower pocket of his jacket and felt the cold stainless steel held snugly there. One final check was required, one final inspection. The last thing he needed was some equipment malfunction.

  He removed the Beretta M9/92F 9mm semiautomatic pistol from his pocket and ran his hand along the smooth barrel. It was his weapon of choice for up-close hits, and it had never let him down. For jobs such as this, it was ideal. He checked the safety catch and the clip that contained six bullets. He hoped he would only need one—two at the most. He delved into his other pocket, produced
his M9-SD silencer, and caressed the long, sleek black cylinder, before attaching it to the barrel of the Beretta. Once again, it was a tool of the trade that had never let him down.

  He had always considered silenced, close-up hits to have a personal touch, and strived for perfection whenever tasked with such a kill. It was important to hit the selected vital organ. The quicker a target fell, the quicker one could leave. The heart or the middle of the forehead were his preferred targets, though a single well-placed shot in the center of a chest or the stomach could also result in instantaneous death without the need of a second shot. He considered more than two shots poor form. What separated the best from the rest, he thought, was the swiftness and accuracy of hits. It was easy to kill, but not so easy to kill smoothly, efficiently, and quickly, leaving behind no clues or trace as to the identity of the killer. The less blood the better, especially in a situation like this, where instructions demanded the disposal of a body and no immediate trace of a crime.

  The sun was rising now, and the sky was turning from dark to light. It was going to be another beautiful day in Gordonston, an older but stylish neighborhood where he stood, two miles to the east of downtown Savannah, Georgia, and the Historic District, a five-minute drive at most from the center of the city. He yawned and stubbed out the cigarette before placing it into its pack with the other eighteen and the one smoked butt. He put on his gloves again and slipped the Beretta, with the silencer screwed into the barrel, into his pocket.

  He could hear voices close by and the barking of excited dogs. Two voices bade farewell to a third voice, and the iron gate creaked, opening and then closing as the owner of the one voice entered the park. From where he crouched near to the ground, he could see a dog having its leash removed, then running into the woods. He drew his weapon. His heartbeat didn’t quicken, and his breathing didn’t rise. He fixed his gaze on his intended target and waited as the darkness gave way to daylight.

  A beautiful day indeed in Juliette Low Park, but for one individual, that day would not last long.

  Chapter 2

  “Betty Jenkins said that her light is shining, which I guess means to Betty that the Lord is coming for her.”

  “I heard that she was on her deathbed and won’t make it through the day.”

  “Young Kelly told me that a priest had been called to administer the last rites.”

  The three women looked toward the large white house that overlooked the east side of Gordonston Park.

  “Poor Elliott,” said Heidi Launer, eldest of the three by twenty years. The other two women nodded.

  “Yes, poor, poor Elliott,” agreed Cindy Mopper, the youngest of the three by a few months.

  “Whatever will he do, once she is gone? A man like him needs a wife at his side,” added Carla Zipp, the most attractive of the three.

  The trio of women stood at the east-facing wrought-iron gate—the main entrance to the park—looking out onto the street as more cars arrived at the house, carrying friends and relatives of the dying Thelma Miller, who had been diagnosed with throat cancer five years earlier. Given only months to live, she had somehow clung to life longer than anyone had expected. Thelma had been a founding member, along with Cindy, of the Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club, and it was her fellow members of this exclusive club who now stood within the railings of the park, discussing among themselves what they guessed was happening inside their ailing friend’s home that afternoon.

  “I hear he may run for mayor,” said Cindy, throwing the tennis ball that had been dropped at her feet by her Irish terrier, Paddy, into the park. “I heard that from young Veronica, on Kinzie Avenue,” she added as her dog disappeared into the wooded area of the park, closely followed by Carla’s bulldog, Walter, and Heidi’s German pointer, Fuchsl, all three dogs determined to be the first to reach the ball.

  “I think he should definitely run for mayor,” said Carla, lifting to her lips the disposable, red plastic cup that contained her homemade cocktail of gin and tonic.

  “He’s been our alderman for so long now,” said Heidi, “and he has always done such a great job. I think he should run. He would certainly get my vote.”

  The women all nodded in agreement. Elliott Miller, soon to be Thelma’s widower, had been alderman for the Gordonston District for the last twenty years. He was a popular man, not just in Gordonston but also throughout Savannah. Elliott and Thelma Miller ran a small but profitable real estate agency, though Elliott now devoted most of his time to city politics, and Thelma, due to her illness, had not sold a property in months.

  “How do you think they’ve managed?” asked Cindy, “I mean financially? With Thelma bedridden and Elliott caring for her, they haven’t sold anything in ages.”

  “I hear Elliott has family money,” answered Heidi. “I know there’s no mortgage on that house. Thelma told me once that Elliott came into some money years ago, just after they were married, enough to set her up in business and for him to concentrate on his political affairs.”

  The three turned from the gates and walked toward the Girl Scout hut that sat in the center of the park. There they would resume their usual afternoon positions around the wooden picnic table, another permanent feature of the park, each lady with her afternoon cocktail inside a red plastic cup. It was their usual routine. For the past ten years the Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club would meet at the picnic table every afternoon at four o’clock, weather permitting. While their dogs roamed the park and played together, the four members—now reduced to three—would sip on their cocktails and pass the afternoon gossiping about their neighbors and friends.

  The only rules for membership into the Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club were that members had to be female, own a dog, and reside within the boundaries of Gordonston. One other criterion was that members had to enjoy an afternoon cocktail. Not that just anyone could join. Membership was by invitation only. All members had to agree to accept any potential newcomer.

  Heidi, Carla, and Cindy were all widows. Thelma was the only one with a living husband, and it was not lost on the other members of the Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club that she would be leaving him behind, an eligible widower. Cindy’s late husband, Ronnie, a successful car salesman, had died four years earlier. Cindy considered that he had been a good husband. Carla’s late husband, Ian, had not been such a great catch. He had philandered his way through the years, so when he died of a heart attack in bed with his secretary, it didn’t come as too much of a surprise to Carla. The bank that he had presided over for several years had provided for her very well in order to avoid a scandal and ensure her silence.

  Heidi’s husband, Oliver Marsh, had died over twenty years before. Though she was originally from Austria, Heidi had immigrated to Savannah with her parents just before the outbreak of war in 1939. Oliver had owned several large tracts of commercial real estate in the Savannah area. After his death, Heidi, proud of her European roots, had reverted to her maiden name of Launer.

  “Who is going to walk Biscuit and Grits?” asked Cindy, a hint of concern in her voice. “Those poor dogs. You know Thelma dotes on them. They are her babies.”

  Biscuit and Grits were the Miller’s two pet poodles. Since Thelma had become bedridden four months before, Biscuit and Grits hadn’t been seen in the park by any of the trio. Elliott would release them in the morning onto the quiet street and let them roam about for twenty minutes before ushering them back inside the house. The two small dogs could be heard barking each day from the street outside, trapped in the house and no doubt missing their three canine friends.

  As the women pondered the physical well-being of Biscuit and Grits, and the lack of exercise that had befallen them, the gate to the park opened. All three heads swiveled to see who had arrived.

  “Ah, that’s Doug, Veronica’s husband,” said Cindy.

  “Isn’t he Australian?” asked Carla.

  “No, I think English,�
�� said Heidi.

  “That’s right,” Cindy confirmed. “He’s English. I’m sure he used to be some sort of an accountant, in Switzerland or somewhere like that. But he retired so he could be with Veronica and the baby.”

  The ladies watched as he opened the gate and released his dog into the park. The animal, a German shepherd, made its way speedily toward the other frolicking dogs. Dressed in khaki shorts and a white T-shirt, Doug was pushing a baby stroller, which, the moment his dog left his side, he wheeled onto the chipped-wood track that circled the park.

  “He’s here every day,” Carla observed, “with the baby and the dog.”

  “She’s a beautiful baby,” said Cindy. “She looks like Veronica, I think.”

  “They have a beautiful house. They’ve done a lot to it. I remember Thelma telling me that she sold it to them,” said Carla as Veronica’s English husband and baby disappeared from view, swallowed up by the trees and shrubbery. “She also said they paid cash for it. No mortgage. He just wrote out a check. I guess that’s why he can retire so young. He’s thirty-five, at the most,” said Carla.

  “More like forty, I think,” said Cindy, “I think he made his money dealing stocks and bonds. Used to work for one of those big international banks, I heard. Veronica told me he was waiting on immigration now to get a permit or something. I don’t know; it all sounds complicated.”

  Heidi agreed. “It is, you know. These days it’s not easy being a foreigner over here. I remember when I came over, it was very easy. But now, boy, they make you sweat.”

  The women all nodded, as if they were well aware of the pitfalls and red tape encountered by new immigrants to their country. Then each of them took a sip from her red plastic cup.

  “Where will they bury poor Thelma? Does anyone know?” Heidi asked as the women returned to the previous subject.

  “I would have thought Bonaventure Cemetery,” replied Carla. “I’m sure that they have a plot there. They’re Old Savannah.”