The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club

by Duncan Whitehead

  Doug Partridge was not—never had been and never would be—an accountant. He had come up with the cover story four years previously, during his first visit to Savannah. He had used the ruse of being an investment account manager for a Swiss bank to gain entry into a financial gathering held at the Savannah Conference center, located across the Savannah River. He had been selected by the Organization to carry out a very lucrative and high-profile contract. Vladimir Derepaska had many enemies, and one of them had paid a lot of money to have him killed during the banking conference. It had been a successful hit—the police had assumed the Russian banker had been mugged while exploring the city, inadvertently wandering into a less desirable part of town.

  The trip to Savannah had been doubly rewarding for Doug. He’d met Veronica, and for the first couple of years he had tried to juggle his work and a relationship. After the birth of Katie, he made the decision to remain in Savannah and retire. However, his finances and investments had failed, and he had contacted the Organization and offered his services for any work locally available. He hadn’t been too hopeful about a response. It wasn’t usual for a contractor to work in his hometown, but he had done some good work over the years for the Organization. Though he had never met the Director, or any other member of the Organization, he knew that he was a well-respected operative.

  The email he had received informed him that there was indeed work for him. In fact, the organization was considering operating far more extensively in the area because there had been a sudden surge of potential contracts, all of varying value. Doug’s main priority, though, had to be the security of his family, and he had considered the implications of being caught in the act. Satisfied he had every angle covered, it came as a shock to him when he discovered the intended victim’s identity. He wondered who would want his Gordonston neighbor dead, but he knew that it was not his prerogative to ask questions. So he didn’t.

  Doug had worked for the Organization for six years, recruited from the British Secret Service, where he had carried out a similar type of work for considerably less money. His ambition spread further than being an assassin, though. He dreamed of one day writing a novel, based on the exploits of a fictional hit man and an intended victim. It was a secret. He didn’t want Veronica getting her hopes up. He knew she couldn’t help but tell her friends at the hospital that her husband was writing a book. What if it never got published? It would be embarrassing. He had been horrified when he caught her reading a page of his draft manuscript after he left his laptop open and logged on, in full view on the dining room table. Luckily, she hadn’t seen too much. She had no idea what she had seen, and he had told her, to allay her fears, that it was some sort of journal entry. He’d eventually told her that he was writing a book, and his wife promised not to mention to anyone he was writing a novel and promised not to snoop around his computer ever again.

  As Doug slowly drifted into slumber, he considered his future options. At least now they could retrieve Veronica’s car and even buy a new one. He would get his watch repaired and would set a sum aside for Katie’s college fund. What he would do with the remaining money was the fifty-thousand-dollar question. It wasn’t enough for Veronica to either retire or cut down her hours. He would have to stash it until more local work materialized, which he was sure it would. In the meantime, he would focus his energy on trying to stop smoking. He was tiring of the menthol smokes anyway and was sure it would only be a matter of time before Veronica smelled smoke on his breath or clothes, and his secret would be out.

  Chapter 19

  Carla had seen Tom talking with Elliott and Billy and decided against joining the men. Despite her desire to speak with Tom, it was just too risky—the last thing she wanted was for the gossiping to start. She waved, shouting, “False alarm!” and led Walter back indoors.

  Anyway, it was too late now. The caller had been brief and to the point. “It’s done,” is all the voice on the phone said before hanging up. The call came from Las Vegas, and she realized that it meant that Tom was dead. What did he expect anyway? she asked herself, staring at her reflection in the mirror on her dresser. As she brushed her dark hair, she went through the events of the last week in her head.

  She had bumped into Tom—purely by chance—in the park the day after his wife had flown to Paris. They were both walking their dogs and struck up a conversation. She found him, as did all the women in the neighborhood, handsome and charming, and he in turn found it hard to keep his eyes off her new chest. One thing led to another, and he invited her back to his home. Carla hadn’t slept with a man in years, and she would challenge any woman not to be flattered by the advances Tom Hudd made.

  Tom was charming, and he had seduced the older woman. Despite their age difference, Tom told Carla he found her very sexy. Considering that she looked half her age, it wasn’t hard to imagine that the younger man would find her appealing. Carla had felt guilty about sleeping with a married man, but when Tom explained that his wife had practically abandoned him, she’d felt sorry for him and her guilt passed.

  She should have realized that Tom’s story of abandonment didn’t ring true after Kelly called while the two of them were in bed. She had coughed, and Tom told his wife that it was his dog lying next to him. That angered Carla, but she let it go. What had made her really mad was the fact that she’d helped him clean and prepare the house for his wife’s return and even prepared a casserole for her homecoming. It had been risky, together at the grocery store, but they were sure they hadn’t been seen. They had seen Elliott, looking ridiculous in his disguise, but luckily he hadn’t seen them.

  She hadn’t been sure what to expect once Kelly had returned from Paris, but when she learned from Cindy that the reason Kelly had traveled solo was due to Tom’s lack of a passport and not because she had wanted to travel alone, as Tom had suggested, she became enraged. When he didn’t call her—well, that just made her angrier.

  Tom was just like her late husband. He was philanderer, a user of women, a man who just wanted sex and didn’t care how he got it. He had lied to her, misled her, and totally tricked her into thinking that maybe there was the potential for a long-term, albeit clandestine, relationship. She felt used and stupid. How the hell could she continue life as normal with him just around the corner? How could she be expected to pretend that nothing had happened? Her lust turned to hate, and there was no way that bastard was going to get away with it.

  She called Gino, the one man who had always respected her. Gino knew people who knew people who could get rid of problems. She explained to her wealthy Mafia-connected admirer what had happened. He listened and did not judge her, and suggested a permanent solution to her problem. The conversation with Gino took her back thirty years, recalling the day she discovered her husband was sleeping with his secretary. It was Gino who had provided the coronary-producing drugs, but it had been Carla who had slowly administered them to her husband in his breakfast food. Ian Zipp had no idea that the eggs he ate each morning were slowly eating away at his heart; it had only been a matter of time before his heart stopped. It was ironic that it happened while he was in the arms of that little tramp.

  Carla continued brushing her hair. Tom deserved what had happened to him, and thanks to her association with Gino and his Las Vegas connections, it had not cost her a penny. He took care of it all on her behalf; he knew of a certain organization that did jobs for some of his associates. It wouldn’t be a problem. Carla was sure Kelly would get over the loss of her husband. Now that she was a widow, and met all the other criteria, she could become the fourth and newest member of the Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club. Carla reconsidered her last thought. Actually, if Elliott took up his invitation to join the club, they could rename it. She felt The Gordonston Widowed Dog Walking Club had a certain noble ring to it.

  Betty Jenkins had waited for Elliott’s call, but it never came. Maybe he was looking for someone younger to be his housekeeper. She was disappoint
ed; she had enjoyed cleaning the big white house and thought that she’d done a good job. She expected that Elliott didn’t want to upset his neighbor, Heidi Launer.

  The arrangement had happened when Heidi had given Betty the impromptu day off. Elliott had found her strolling around the park. He offered her one hundred dollars to clean his home: she accepted and got straight to work. Afterward she offered her services on a more permanent basis, but Elliott did not want to commit to anything without first talking it over with Heidi. No doubt he had reconsidered and decided it wasn’t worth aggravating his neighbor by poaching her home help.

  Betty thought it probably for the best anyway. She had seen the book that Elliott tried to hide, hidden under the bed in the spare bedroom. She might not speak German, but she recognized the title and the author. There was no way she was ever going to work for a Nazi sympathizer like Elliott Miller. No, she was far better off working for Heidi, a nice genteel old lady who wouldn’t harm a fly.

  Chapter 20

  From where he stood watching, the Director had seen everything. He was very impressed with the methods Doug had used—not only in killing Tom but also in disposing of the body. He was especially impressed with the one shot to the temple. He was indeed one of the best killers the Organization had ever contracted. Maybe this would bring him out of retirement. There were three more hits currently pending, and if it were local work he wanted, then the director was sure he could accommodate the highly skilled assassin. The Director understood Doug’s reasons for no longer wanting to travel, and he hoped that the Organization could accommodate him in the future. The pay would be less than he was used to, but anything would be better than nothing. A good professional like Doug was hard to find. It would be good to get him back aboard. The Organization needed killers like him, and the Director was sure that the hundred thousand dollars he had just transferred into Doug’s offshore account would be well received.

  The Director lowered his binoculars and returned to his seat behind the mahogany desk. He had paperwork to catch up on and needed to contact the Las Vegas office to let them know the contract had been fulfilled, so they could inform whoever had paid. He switched on his computer and sent the relevant information across cyberspace. He had a busy day ahead of him. Another Russian executive needed to rid himself of a rival, and a third-world dictator needed to eliminate a political foe. Once the money was received, he would send in two of his men. These were big money contracts, not like the one he had just witnessed, and would ensure a big payday for all concerned.

  Before he commenced with planning the Organization’s weekly schedule of murder and assassination, he wondered at the remarkable coincidences of the past few weeks. To have four proposed contracts land on his desk at virtually the same time, all in the same small city, let alone the same neighborhood, was unprecedented. The majority of the contracts he administered usually took place in more traditional locations such as the south of France—especially popular among holidaying businessmen aboard their private yachts—or major European cities or South American backwaters.

  It was amazing, he thought, how many people actually knew how to contact the Organization. The Mafia connection was not hard to work out. He had heard of the mob lawyer who had contacted the Organization’s office in New York on behalf of his mother, and anyone who knew how to use the Internet would not be long in discovering the Organization’s untraceable and encrypted website. As for the marketing ploy in Paris, well, that had been ingenious. The Paris office had surpassed itself by using children to hand out flyers, as if they were advertising a shoe sale, to café-goers along the Champs Élysées. The Director had initially dismissed the advertising gimmick as highly likely to fail, despite the fact that a major business conference was taking place in the city, involving executives from some of the biggest oil companies in the world. Even if one of the visiting executives needed to take out a business rival, it was dubious whether he, or anyone else, for that matter, would contact the number on the flyer or log onto the website address advertised. Printing them in English had proven a very fortuitous decision indeed.

  The Las Vegas connection was also easy to understand. The Organization had done a lot of work for the West Coast Mafia, even if this job had been by proxy, an old friend doing an unrequited love a favor.

  The Director stretched in his chair and yawned. It had been an early morning for him, and maybe he didn’t need to plan the weekly schedule just yet. The Organization had many cells, and he was merely the one who decided which contractors to use and which contracts to accept. Time was not really an issue, and he relaxed.

  He considered the latest victim of the Organization, now lying in the unmarked, shallow grave. The Director had no doubt that Tom’s body would be discovered sooner rather than later, but the police would have absolutely no leads or any way of tracing the killing back to Doug. He wondered whether the others had any inkling of an idea about just how close they had come to dying that morning. He had not based his decision to have Tom killed on money (even though his had been the highest paying contract of the four), but on the fact that it was plain good business sense. Why have Carla killed before her own contract had been paid and honored? Now that the money had been received and her request fulfilled, she was fair game. It would be interesting, he thought, deciding who would be next.

  The Director was hungry. Maybe he would make some coffee or even grab some breakfast. He rose from his seat. The first thing he needed to do, though, was to attend to the scratching outside his office door. The poor fellow had been itching for a walk all morning. The director grabbed the leash that hung from the hook on the inside of his office door. The same office with the window that overlooked the Gordonston Park and that once had been the fourth bedroom of his Gordonston home. The view of the park was what had attracted to him the property in the first place.

  “Come on, Chalky,” said the Director as he opened the door, and his constant companion bounded into the room. “You and I need to stretch our legs, and you need to do your business. But we must remember to scoop today. We don’t want another letter of complaint from the Resident’s Association; no, sir, we sure don’t,” said Ignatius Jackson to his small, white, loyal Cairn terrier, his constant companion and the current thorn in the side of the Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank the following for their assistance, help, inspiration, and patience during the writing of The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club: Rosemary Daniell, Lynette Hendry, Donald and Joan Calder, Keira Whitehead, Gissell and Ashley Pozna, Steven Lynch, and Robert Peel.

  About the Author

  The life of Duncan Whitehead, winner of the 2013 Reader’s Favorite International Book Award and Gold Medalist, is as quirky as his works. Born in 1967, he served in the Royal Navy in embassies across South America and was an amateur boxer. He worked as a purser on some of the world’s largest super yachts and visited many exotic places. He’s also an instructor of English as a foreign language, fluent in Spanish, and a children’s soccer coach.

  Duncan retired to Savannah, Georgia, to pursue his passion—writing. Mindful that we all harbor secrets and inspired by the locale’s odd characters, he wrote The Gordonston Ladies Walking Club, a dark comedic mystery.

  In 2011, Duncan spent six months in Brazil before settling in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. His interests include cooking, the Israeli self-defense art of Krav Maga, and Dim-Mak, a pressure-point martial art.

  He has written over 2,000 comedy news articles for U.S. and UK websites, and The Reluctant Jesus, a comedic novel set in Manhattan.

 

 

 
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