Ladies Lunch Club Murders
Page 1
Ladies Lunch Club Murders
Jack McCall Mystery
David Bishop
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Contents
Ladies Lunch Club Murders
Stories by David Bishop
Foreword
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
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Jack McCall Mystery
Matt Kile Mystery Series
Excerpt
Prologue
About the Author
This Novel is fiction.
Except as otherwise provided for herein, the names, characters, places, and incidents have been produced by the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, or to any actual events or precise locales is entirely coincidental or within the public domain. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
Copyright 2019, David M. Bishop, All Rights Reserved
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publishing author is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
The author and publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for any third-party websites or their content.
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Please visit the author website: http://www.davidbishopbooks.com
For current information on new releases visit:
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and there, subscribe to David Bishop’s newsletter
David Bishop’s stories currently available – By Series:
Matt Kile Mystery Series (in order of release)
Who Murdered Garson Talmadge, a Matt Kile Mystery
The Original Alibi, a Matt Kile Mystery
Money & Murder, a Matt Kile Mystery Short Story
Find My Little Sister, a Matt Kile Mystery
The Maltese Pigeon, a Matt Kile Mystery
Judge Snider’s Folly, a Matt Kile Mystery
The Year We Had Murder, a Matt Kile Mystery
Shorter Fiction by David Bishop: Love & Other Four Letter Words
Scandalous Behavior
The Twists & Turns of Matrimony and Murder
Maddie Richards Mystery Series (in order of release)
The Beholder, a Maddie Richards Mystery
Death of a Bankster, a Maddie Richards Mystery
Linda Darby Mystery Series (in order of release)
All Linda Darby stories, co-star Ryan Testler
The Woman, a Linda Darby Story
Hometown Secrets, a Linda Darby Story
The First Lady’s Second Man, a Linda Darby Story
Heart Strike, a Linda Darby Story
The Ryan Testler Character Appears in: (in order of release)
The Woman, a Linda Darby Story
Death of a Bankster, a Maddie Richards Mystery
Hometown Secrets, a Linda Darby Story
The First Lady’s Second Man, a Linda Darby Story
Heart Strike, a Linda Darby Mystery
Jack McCall Mystery Series (in order of release)
The Third Coincidence, a Jack McCall Mystery
The Blackmail Club, a Jack McCall Mystery
Game of Masks, a Jack McCall Mystery
Ladies Lunch Club Murders, a Jack McCall Mystery
Standalone Stories: The Twists & Turns of Matrimony and Murder, a novella
www.davidbishopbooks.com
david@davidbishopbooks.com
DEDICATION
This story is dedicated to my family and all those who read my stories. I appreciate your interest in my writings and the faith you display by purchasing my stories. I trust you will enjoy this one. I would be pleased to hear from you after you read it. david@davidbishopbooks.com
In writing this and other stories, my aim is to create characters with whom readers can relate, like or hate, as they reach deep within the story to learn if those characters get what they deserve, are captured or saved, seduced or simply survive. The connecting magic of the author-character-reader triad rests in the fact that readers, like the characters living within the pages of fiction, have themselves endured trials and tribulations in their own lives.
I would like to acknowledge all who have found their way into my life, challenging me and enriching me by their presence, goodness, and affection. And last, but certainly not least, this book, as with my others, is dedicated to those I love.
Special thanks to the wonderful people who read early drafts and made suggestions which unfailingly enhance my stories.
Dear Readers: All my stories go through numerous and rigorous edits, nonetheless, typos and other errors sometimes survive the process. If you encounter any errors, please send them to me at: david@davidbishopbooks.com .
David Bishop may be contacted through his Internet site or Email:
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Foreword
When I was a kid I wanted a career as a garbage man. Gilbert, the fellow who collected the waste in our neighborhood, was a nice man. I’d follow Gil on my bike until he drove his trash truck across a street my mother wouldn’t let me cross on my bicycle. When I asked Gil if he made a lot of money as a garbage man, he said, “A dollar a day and all I can eat.”
I repeated that line every week when he pulled to the curb and jumped onto our driveway.
I never made it to that career. Instead, after I grew up, finished college, did a hitch in the U. S. Marines, and about twenty years with the Central Intelligence Agency, I started McCall Investigations.
Gil, if you read this, the only difference between us is I deal in human garbage.
1
Lieutenant Ann Reynolds, from the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, pulled to the curb and watched CC Wilmer, a sergeant from the county sheriff’s office, approach. Most people in this community were retired, some worked part-time. Murders here were not commonplace. Assuming tonight’s death was ruled a homicide, this made three homicides and one accidental death in the county this year—
a number that almost matched the total homicides in the prior five years—and it was only March.
On the job Ann usually wore her chestnut hair back in a tight bun. She’d released it with her decision to visit tonight’s homicide scene. The county sheriff’s department had its share of hunks, but Ann didn’t flirt on the job. The exception was Sergeant CC Wilmer, a man more than twenty-five years her senior. He liked the look with her hair down. At times, Ann needed CC’s help so, it was to her advantage to stay in good stead with the long-divorced career cop. His influence was such that he was, in effect, the final word on homicides in this county.
When he got close, she stepped out of her car and turned to let the cool breeze push a few miscreant hairs off her cheek.
“Hiya, Sarge.” She swung her door shut, set her feet at shoulders width, and gently settled her hands on her hips. “What’s today’s special?”
“Hey, Ann. We got ourselves another dead woman, Sarah Sims, a local, probably retired. I think this one was a real looker in her day. For that matter, she’s a darn good-looking woman today. Well, not literally, her being dead and all.”
“Before we get into that, what’s with the story going ‘round you’re close to pulling the plug on your career?”
“That story recycles every now and again.”
“Not true? You’ve got in your twenty, right?”
“Shit. I’ve never told you the boring story of how I ended up here. After a double hitch in the army, I went to work for state law enforcement, where we met after you joined several years back. Later, I signed on with Sheriff Jackson. Fortunately, my state time transferred into the sheriff’s pension system … last year pushed me past thirty, not twenty.”
“Sounds like the truth’s catching up with the rumor.”
“After last night, what’s your opinion? You think I’m too old?”
Ann emitted a low, throaty, rolling groan. “After last night, my opinion is, you qualify for rookie of the year.”
“That may be overdoing it. My last birthday I cracked the egg on sixty-four, but I appreciate your opinion.”
“That’s good news. I’d hate to see you put yourself out to pasture too soon.”
“I got no plans to take off my shield. Every day the department puts out fresh hay and this warhorse trots into his stall. Okay, we through with the old-guy dance, here?”
“Sure, Sarge. You run the plate?”
“Scotty, the officer first on the scene, did. That’s where we picked up her name. Car’s registered to a Sarah Sims, local address. The picture on her license matches the woman in the car.”
How’d it go down?”
“The medical examiner’s on her way. My take says an icepick in her ear. Entry point’s too small for anything else. If that’s the how, the pick punctured her brain and shorted out her circuits.”
“Don’t tell me, you’re clairvoyant.”
“Nah. Any other blade would’ve done more damage.” Sergeant Wilmer pointed down the gravel-covered dirt road. The target of his long finger was a red SUV parked head-in at the lookout over the water reserve about a hundred yards off the paved road. “Come on. I’ll give you the dime tour.” He started in that direction.
Lieutenant Ann Reynolds held her hair back against the breeze, and used her other hand to wave at Scotty, the uniformed officer posted near the entrance to the water reserve. She walked a little quicker, keeping Sergeant Wilmer between herself and the low-setting western sun. “How’d we get the word?”
“The call to the station showed a pay phone; not many of them around anymore. The caller said, ‘There’s a dead woman in a red SUV out at the bird pond.’ I motioned for the dispatcher to get a patrol car to the scene. The caller said he looked inside and rapped on the driver’s window. When she didn’t react, he called it in. He refused to ID himself. He had it right. She was dead.”
Ann moved her purse to her other shoulder. “A man you say, not some yob?”
“I love it when you talk dirty.”
“That’s not dirty.” She wagged her finger. “It’s the way I talked back home. Sometimes it slips into what I’m saying.”
“I’ve been in London, and I never heard yob.”
“Well you weren’t in Yorkshire, up north and east of London.”
“I’ve heard you say it before, remind me.”
“Yob is boy spelled backward. A youngin’ who thinks he’s tough, a hooligan, street kid ya know. What you said gave me the feel this was a full-grown man so he’d be a scrote, not a yob.”
“That one I need you to define.”
“You yanks call some fella a dick. We Brits use scrote, short for scrotum. More colorful don’t you think?”
“Could be. From his voice I pegged him near fifty.”
“You think the caller could’ve been the perp?”
“Mebbe.’
“The first two victims, the woman in January and the one killed last month, they were both members of a local ladies lunch club. Could this lady be another member?”
“I don’t think of a group of elderly ladies getting together to share lunch as involving much risk of being murdered. I’ll check that angle when we get back to the station, but the odds say no.”
“Excluding coming to get murdered, what do people visit this pond to see?”
“Pretty much all the wildlife common to this part of the state. Gators, sometimes, but the developer calls in the fellas from SNAP to keep gators out’a this particular pond.”
“Don’t tell me, because these gator police come SNAP ‘em up?”
“It’s an acronym, like so much nowadays. SNAP stands for Statewide Nuisance Alligator Program. The state uses private contractors.” Wilmer ran his finger across the left trail of his thin mustache. “Other times the gators just skedaddle on down the road on their own. Usually at night, mostly during mating season. Like us two-legged variety, boy gators cruising for willing female companionship. I got no idea how they identify the good-looking gal-gators from the ugly ones.”
CC started walking, but Ann grabbed his arm. “Before we stop talking about gators, do you know what they call an alligator wearing a vest?”
“I have no idea.”
“An in-vest-a-gator.”
CC shook his head. “You get a lot of razzing about your jokes, but that one doesn’t even measure up to your others.”
Ann squinted into the setting sun when she looked up at CC. “Before I left the station, the buzz was this could be the same perp who took out those two women earlier this year. Look, CC, if this one doesn’t fit with those two, I got better things, you know. You see any connection?”
The sergeant beckoned for Reynolds to follow him around to the driver’s side of the car. “So, far, it’s anybody’s guess. She looks dressed from this angle, but her blouse is mostly unfastened. They appear to have been well into a session of, what I’ve heard you call, getting a bit of the other. Like her SUV, her bra’s red.”
Lieutenant Reynolds pointed. “The lady appears to have a thing for red. She’s also wearing red high heels.”
He shined his light on the side of the dead woman’s face. “See … there.” He wiggled the light. “The small trail of blood coming out of her ear. What, an inch, maybe.”
“From that, you get icepick in the ear? That little bit of blood could’ve been from picking a pimple.”
“Annie, my love, you’re a hot number. Let’s assume for the moment you’re in the company of a fella, and you’ve pulled in here for a little romantic plug and play. Would you pause to pick a pimple?”
Ann bobbed her head and grinned. “I s’pose not. Neither of the first two women were ice picked.”
“And while we’re on the subject of romantic plug and play, when this case closes you’ll head back to Tallahassee. After that our getting together will require a fair amount of driving. You have any thoughts on how we might deal with that?”
“Whoa, big guy. Slow it down. Let’s not let this great thing of ours get t
oo serious, at least not too fast. You’re a good man, Charlie Brown. We’re good together, but, well … we have time before we’ll need to deal with that. For now, let’s stick with this case.”
They stepped back from the red SUV, onto the grass beside the parking area.
“The first two women were killed in their homes. This one in a car. Could be no connection. Then again, we’ve gone years without any local retired women being murdered, now we got three in about ten weeks. It feels reasonable to presume that this woman and those two were the work of the same perp.”
Ann turned to face into the breeze skidding across the pond. “What about your inquiry into the death of Mary Alice Phelps? Has anything surfaced indicating she could have been a homicide? If so, she’d raise our total to four.”