The Fog Ladies: In the Soup

By Susan McCormick

The Fog Ladies are back, in the third installment of this endearing cozy murder mystery series.

"There was a man in the soup." When the Fog Ladies volunteer at a San Francisco soup kitchen, these spunky elderly friends plus one overworked young doctor-in-training envision washing and chopping and serving. Not murder. Now the soup kitchen is doomed, and the mysteries have just begun. Was the death rooted in a long-ago grudge? Can they save the soup kitchen? Will they find the killer? Could the Fog Ladies, too, end up "in the soup"?

• Language: Unknown
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Oct 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781509237999

Susan McCormick

Susan McCormick is an award-winning writer and a doctor who lives in Seattle. She graduated from Smith College and George Washington University School of Medicine, with additional medical training in San Francisco and Washington, DC. She served as a doctor for nine years in the US Army before moving to the Pacific Northwest and civilian practice. She is married and has two boys. She loves giant dogs and has loved and English mastiff and two slobbery Newfoundlands.

Book preview

Chapter 1

There’s a soup kitchen next to my church.

Sarah James smiled at Harriet Flynn, who was all smiles herself in her purple pointed birthday hat.

I saw a young woman from my church go in, and then I saw what it was, Mrs. Flynn said. I don’t know why I never noticed it before. It doesn’t look new. In fact, it looks downright downtrodden.

Frances Noonan perked up. A soup kitchen. Really.

Yes. And it turns out they need help, Mrs. Flynn continued. They are trying to enter some sort of contest and need extra volunteers. I was thinking it might be just the thing. For us.

Harriet Flynn’s face glowed from the light of the two large birthday candles adorning the cake in front of her. A seven and an eight. She was seventy-eight years old. A full half century older than Sarah, who had recently turned twenty-nine. As were the other ladies gathered in Frances Noonan’s apartment for the birthday celebration. Frances Noonan, culinarian extraordinaire, had baked a carrot cake and told Sarah the seven candle was left over from her own seventy-sixth birthday cake. The eight candle was from Enid Carmichael.

Eighty-one years old, Enid Carmichael was the oldest of the ladies. She showed no indication that she was following the conversation as she adjusted and readjusted her red party hat on her large head. It still sat askew and clashed with her dyed red hair and bright red lipstick. But she must have been listening because she blurted, More good deeds? I don’t care for soup. Especially vegetable. What’s the point?

Sarah’s boyfriend, Andy, San Francisco Chronicle photographer and camera enthusiast, snapped a picture of Harriet Flynn behind her cake, then one of Alma Gordon, who sipped her tea thoughtfully. Mrs. Gordon’s pink party hat matched her pink sweater and sat beautifully atop her fluffy white hair. Olivia Honeycut, sitting next to her on Frances Noonan’s flowery sofa, shook her head slowly back and forth. Her own hat hung from a hook on her walker. Mrs. Noonan’s multicolored cat, Camouflage, lay underneath, pawing the air where the hat dangled above him.

Sarah wasn’t surprised at Harriet Flynn’s enthusiasm. Usually averse to projects involving unsavory characters or morally questionable types, Mrs. Flynn had turned a corner in her old age and now sought out ways to help anyone, the more downtrodden the better. At the same time, she started coloring her hair, and her salt-and-pepper gray and brown contrasted with all the white heads in the room. And Sarah with her long black hair plus two redheads, Enid Carmichael and adorable Andy, grinning now at the ladies as if he couldn’t imagine spending his afternoon anywhere else.

Olivia Honeycut tapped her walker. I’m afraid a soup kitchen means standing and chopping and serving. I don’t think I can manage. I have to have both hands on the walker at all times now. Her voice was low and raspy, as usual, making her words sound even more disheartened.

We’ll see, we’ll see, said Harriet Flynn. I think we’ll find there is a role for each of us.

I’d be happy to volunteer, Sarah offered. The hospital now wants us to have sixty hours of community service a year.

The group was the Fog Ladies, named by Sarah because you could count on them like you could count on early morning fog in their city of San Francisco. Except for Olivia Honeycut, they all lived together in an elegant, old apartment building in Pacific Heights. Sarah was a Fog Lady, too, happy to have this supportive group, feeding her, watching out for her. Sarah was almost done with her second year of medical residency, and without the Fog Ladies, she would have eaten cold cereal for dinner on a far more regular basis. As it was, Frances Noonan saw to it that she had a steady supply of casseroles or lasagna or whatever was cooking. With the new hospital requirement, Sarah counted on the Fog Ladies again, hoping to wheedle her way into one of the ladies’ volunteer projects, of which there were many.

It’s settled then, said Frances Noonan. I’ve always wanted to try my hand at soup. Harriet, will you let them know we’d be delighted to volunteer, and find out when they’d like us to come?

Mrs. Noonan was Sarah’s favorite Fog Lady, and not just because her calm manner and twinkly blue eyes reminded Sarah of her late mother. Mrs. Noonan saw the best in people, and in turn, she brought out people’s best.

I think soup kitchen doesn’t mean just soup, Olivia Honeycut said to Enid Carmichael. I think these places serve everything, sandwiches, soup, the works. Maybe even cookies.

Cookies? Did you bake cookies today, too, Frances? Cookies would go well with this cake, said Mrs. Carmichael.

Are there cookies? Andy asked, a hopeful expression on his face. Sarah didn’t cook, but Frances Noonan baked enough to keep them all happily supplied in sweets.

I’m sorry, dear, no. Just the cake, said Mrs. Noonan.

The cake looks delicious, Andy said and took a close-up picture.

I told them we could start tomorrow, said Mrs. Flynn.

Glory be, rasped Mrs. Honeycut. I hope they have chairs.

Perfect, said Mrs. Noonan.

Oh, dear. Oh, dear, said Mrs. Gordon. I told Mr. Glenn I would help him pick out a new rug tomorrow. He’ll have to take a rain check.

Tomorrow works for me, Sarah said, happy to have the day off. Andy gave her his lopsided grin, and she smiled back. A day off was hard to come by, and usually she spent it with Andy or catching up on sleep, but with the new requirement, this soup kitchen would work out well.

Enough about the soup kitchen. When are we going to cut the cake? said Mrs. Carmichael.

Chapter 2

The soup kitchen was not in their Pacific Heights neighborhood but several hills away. Though what wasn’t several hills away, Frances Noonan reflected as she drove the ladies, stopping at Olivia Honeycut’s building on the way. Sarah offered to walk, bless her heart, as Frances only had room for five, with Enid Carmichael stretching out her long body in the passenger seat, and Alma Gordon, Harriet Flynn, and Olivia Honeycut crammed in the back.

Downtrodden was an understatement. Mrs. Noonan gazed at the one-story square building, onetime red brick but now painted over many times in many shades in the fight against graffiti. On either side were empty lots, bare dirt and weeds fenced in with chain link. It was the only one-story building left on a street of industrial buildings, most of which had already undergone facelifts. Harriet Flynn’s church sat on the corner, a large, impressive stone structure. No wonder Harriet had never seen beyond it. Plus, the view down the street was incredible, with the enormous Bay Bridge towering in the distance. No one would notice the soup kitchen unless they were specifically looking.

The front door hung off-kilter and shut with a bang behind them. Sarah was already there, sitting in the front room on a metal kitchen chair. The chairs lined the wall, their green vinyl seats torn with age. Olivia Honeycut sank into one beside her.

They told me to wait here, Sarah said.

What are we doing here again? said Enid Carmichael. Will they serve us lunch?

I brought this for you, said Frances, handing Enid a mini energy muffin filled with nuts and raisins. She had one more if Enid needed it.

We probably shouldn’t bring in food, said Harriet Flynn. It might be disrespectful.

Disrespectful? Hmph. Anyway, I’m fine now. Enid chewed and swallowed. That muffin hit the spot.

The room was small, and the Fog Ladies nearly filled it. On the far wall was a closed reception window and a closed door. Out-of-date posters covered the other two walls, and a bulletin board offered services like free medical care and shelter options. Frances Noonan felt claustrophobic in the warm room with tall Enid Carmichael hovering over her and almost touching her.

Alma Gordon was on Frances’s other side, also standing close. Mrs. Noonan was sweating, it was so hot. Alma breathed deeply and said, Smell that?

Frances took a deep breath in and saw why Alma looked so content. Cookies. There was no doubt about it. Sugar cookies, if Mrs. Noonan’s keen nose wasn’t mistaken. And lavender. Suddenly the room didn’t seem hot and small, just warm and cozy.

The far door opened, and a middle-aged man stood in the doorway, his huge smile showing perfect teeth. Welcome, welcome. His voice was rich and deep. My name is William Whitman, and I run this kitchen. Thank you for giving us your time. Please come this way.

He stepped aside to hold the door and nodded a hello to each lady as they walked through. His balding head had a thin sheen of sweat from the heat of the room. His eyes were brown, with long eyelashes and crinkles that deepened with his big smile. He looked utterly happy, and Frances’s spirits lifted as she passed by him.

Stepping through the door was like stepping through the cardboard box Frances Noonan had crafted as a child, transporting her from her boring bedroom into a fantasyland of her imagination. The large room smelled more strongly of the cookies. The walls were painted bright yellow, with white trim around large windows that framed the back of the beautiful church perfectly, somehow missing the dirt lot in between. Round wooden tables and wooden chairs sat around a long buffet table. Colorful plates and bowls of all sizes were stacked on one end, alongside a wooden container of cutlery. Mismatched glasses sat at the far end next to a water cooler. Light poured in and glinted off the gleaming silver soup tureen in the center of the buffet.

This is where we serve lunch and dinner to our guests. William gestured widely with his arm. I’ll show you the kitchen, and then we can discuss the upcoming contest.

They dutifully followed him into the kitchen, where the lavender smell was overpowering. Mrs. Noonan sneezed. Alma Gordon handed her a handkerchief, which was lilac scented like Mrs. Gordon. Usually this light lilac scent was lovely, but now Mrs. Noonan felt assailed by flowers on all sides. She sneezed again.

Bless you, Sarah said.

I think it’s the lavender, Mrs. Noonan whispered.

William clearly wasn’t bothered, as he took a deep breath in and smiled. This is Sadie, whose cookies you smell.

Sadie waved with her rolling pin from across the room, her smile almost as big as William’s. Her hair was swept into a hairnet, and one brown tendril escaped over her ear. A dusting of flour covered one cheek. She was short and muscular in a short-sleeved T-shirt, her apron reaching below her knees.

This where it all happens. William was obviously proud of his kitchen, and for good reason. The room was spotless, including the worn wood floor. Fresh carrots with long green carrot tops covered a butcher block counter. Tall pots, dented but shiny, sat on an old six-burner gas stove with a double oven underneath. A large refrigerator and a small counter under a window took up an entire wall. The room was not large, but the six Fog Ladies crowded in anyway.

Enid Carmichael stepped on Frances Noonan’s foot with the point of her high heel, and it was all Frances could do to not shout out. Why did Enid wear those heels? She was over six feet without them. Frances herself stepped on Sarah’s foot, but Frances’s sturdy orthopedic shoes only brought a turn of the head and a smile from Sarah.

Let’s go back in the dining room where we have more space. Sadie, would you like to join us?

They trooped back to the dining room and sat around a round table. Sadie placed a plate of pale cookies in front of them. Lavender sugar cookies, she said, her voice surprisingly loud.

Enid Carmichael pounced at once, taking two. Mrs. Noonan was thankful to see that Sadie must be used to hungry people. She had loaded the plate with cookies and didn’t bat an eye when Enid immediately took a third.

Mrs. Noonan bit into her cookie. Oh, my. Lavender sugar cookies were a little, well, lavender-y. Mrs. Carmichael must have agreed, because she frowned at her fistful of cookies, mouth stopped in half chew. Wait… She wasn’t… She was! Mrs. Carmichael put two of her cookies back. Good gracious! Sadie had turned her face to the sunshine and didn’t notice. Mrs. Noonan swallowed her bite whole. She sneezed again. Must be the lavender.

We are happy to have you volunteer with us for our upcoming project, William said. And please spread the word of our soup kitchen. All are welcome here.

As if on cue, the front door banged shut, and a man wandered in through the dining room door. He was tall and thin and wore a stained overcoat. His hair was as pale as his skin, his stringy, long ponytail tied with a dirty shoelace.

Hello, Cedric, William said. It’s too early. We’re not ready yet. But here, look what Sadie made. He held out the cookie plate, and the man took two cookies, the very ones Mrs. Carmichael had put back.

Cedric grunted and shuffled out, a lavender cookie in each hand. The front door banged again.

That was Cedric, William said. He’s a regular guest here. Where was I? Oh, our project. We are going to enter The California Big Pot, a new competition for the largest soup in California. We have experience making food for a crowd. They judge not merely on size but on taste, and I think this will be where we shine. The five largest pots are sampled by a panel of three. If we can get into the top five by size, we have an excellent chance of winning. The prize money will cover a new stove and oven plus renovations of our front greeting room, sorely needed. I’m sure you noticed.

Your whole place is lovely, said Mrs. Noonan.

That room where we came in? said Mrs. Carmichael. Hideous. Good thinking to change it up.

Yes, we agree, said William. However, we only have so many resources, and most go toward food. All other expenses are secondary to our main mission. But prize money is different. I think we could be a little frivolous with prize money.

A new oven is not frivolous. Sadie spoke up in her loud voice. Ours is on its last legs, inconsistent temperatures, fickle pilot light. It’s only a matter of time before it conks out completely.

Good thing you know how to charm it, William said.

I can’t charm it forever. I only know so many tricks, Sadie said.

Yes, yes. But until it actually dies, food is forefront. We simply don’t have any extra money. That’s why we need to win the contest.

Tell us what we can do to help, Mrs. Noonan said. When is the contest?

First week of May. Less than a week now. Sadie and I have planned everything. He turned his huge smile on Sadie, who beamed back. As soon as I heard about this contest, I knew we had a shot at it. I grew up in a town that had a huge community soup festival every year and an enormous soup pot to go with it, one of the biggest soup pots in the country. They are happy to help, and the pot will arrive by train the day after tomorrow. He rubbed his hands together.

I called in as many favors as I could, and food donations are pouring in. We decided on vegetable soup because we don’t have the refrigerator space for much more than that. But don’t worry. I’ve got a special recipe. I just have to do a little arithmetic to upsize it. We’ll store all the vegetables in here. He pointed to a table in the corner covered in large bags of onions. More bags leaned against the table legs. We just needed extra volunteers, and we were about to put out the call when you all so kindly stepped in. Now I think we’re covered.

We are at your service, Frances Noonan said.

You tell us what you need, said Harriet Flynn. We are good at chopping.

As long as I can sit, said Olivia Honeycut.

Vegetable soup. That sounds delicious, said Alma Gordon.

Vegetable soup? said Enid Carmichael. Say good-bye to winning, then. How about a good, hearty chicken noodle? No one likes vegetable soup.

Chapter 3

Alma Gordon had never seen so many vegetables. When they were at the soup kitchen two days earlier, one table had onions. Now vegetables covered the surface of almost every table, with more bags on the floor. Carrots, celery, mushrooms, potatoes, tomatoes, green beans, all donated for the big contest by local farmers and stores. Alma’s horoscope that morning read, Bounties abound. Goodness, was that ever true.

The Fog Ladies sat around a large table peeling and chopping carrots, the six of them fitting comfortably. Ten could fit around that table. They each had their own cutting board brought from home and their own knives. Coolers were stacked against one wall, all empty and waiting for the chopped vegetables. Thick morning fog obscured the view of the church. The yellow walls and bright lights made the room cheerful despite the gloom outside.

Try this. William set a plate in the middle of the table. Tomato slices overlapped in a circle, a sprinkle of salt visible on top. Enid Carmichael reached out first, then the rest of them. Alma let the tomato sit in her mouth and sucked, the sweet and salty as delicious as any tomato she had ever eaten. Of course, with her blood pressure, she usually didn’t salt her food. Maybe she was missing out.

Best tomato I’ve ever had, Frances Noonan proclaimed.

William’s ever-present smile widened. They are from a farm outside Merced. I found this guy years ago, and his tomatoes never disappoint. And these are hothouse. Just wait until summer.

Don’t get him started, Sadie called from the corner. He’ll never shut up if you start talking about tomatoes.

You try this and tell me if I’m not right. William lifted a slice off with a fork for her.

Alma Gordon smiled and took another tomato slice. She was glad Harriet suggested this project. Alma suddenly had a lot of time on her hands and felt out of sorts. She had been taking care of a toddler, Baby Owen, who consumed every ounce of her energy and time. Then her daughter, Sylvia, adopted him, but Mrs. Gordon still helped out three days a week, taking the train to Sunnyvale on Sunday nights and returning on Wednesdays, perfect for her seventy-six-year-old stamina. Owen loved his new home, and Mrs. Gordon loved seeing him so happy.

Now Sylvia’s work had granted her six weeks’ leave, so she was home with Owen. Alma was not needed. Her free time piled up like the heap of Owen’s outgrown clothes in the basket in her closet. This soup contest was ideal. Maybe William and Sadie would want them to keep volunteering after the contest, too.

The Fog Ladies had lots of projects. They were babysitting twins, the babies of a friend of Sarah’s from the hospital. The mom was a doctor and the dad was writing his PhD, and the Fog Ladies arrived every morning in twos to give him four hours off, sometimes more. He worked from home or went to the library, but the Fog Ladies took complete charge of the little ones. Alma had never helped because she had been busy with Owen, but now she could babysit there as well. Helen and Scott were away on a trip, but when they returned Alma would join the babysitting lineup. Between the soup kitchen and the twins, she could fill her time just fine. And still have time to get Owen’s old clothes to the donation center at Harriet’s church.

William and Sadie stepped from table to table with a clipboard checking off items. He was much taller than she was, but they were both sturdily built. Sadie picked up an enormous bag of potatoes and hoisted it to the table without so much as a huff. Her loud laugh frequently filled the air, along with William’s chuckling. Sadie’s sweater matched her laugh, a bright pink sweater she called lucky. She said she wore the sweater the day she was hired at the soup kitchen years ago, and she’d wear it until they won the contest.

I hope they don’t expect us to chop all of these vegetables, said Enid Carmichael. I’m happy to be a soup taster, but all this chopping is a bit much.

I know what you mean, said Alma, trying to mollify the big woman. I think I’m getting a blister. But chopping is right up my alley.

Here, trade knives with me, said Frances Noonan. Mine is ergonomic.

Alma tried Frances’s knife and saw what she meant. It made all the difference. She handed it to Enid Carmichael, who handed it back, saying, It’s not the knife. It’s the monotony.

My hands are toughened up from using the walker, said Olivia Honeycut. I’m a good chopper.

I’ll do anything they need, said Harriet Flynn. Wash, peel, chop. It’s for a good cause.

That it is, said Alma.

I’m glad I get to be part of this, said Sarah. The timing fits perfectly with my next rotation. The emergency department is shift work, so I’ll have more days off now.

I can taste the soup already, said Frances Noonan. I can’t wait to see how this all turns out.

That would be fine if we were actually tasting soup. So far there’s been no food at all, said Enid Carmichael. Are we about done? Haven’t we done enough good deeds for one day?

The front door banged, and Alma Gordon gave a little start. A moment later, the gangly ponytailed man rushed in, overcoat flapping behind him. His head jerked this way and that in tiny robot movements, his wild eyes taking in the room. Alma shrank down in her seat hoping to hide behind her pile of carrots.

William was next to him instantly, walking shoulder to shoulder until the tall man slowed. William was almost as tall and much bigger. Sadie planted herself right in front of them.

Cedric, William said in his smooth voice. Welcome. It is not time for lunch yet, but we can find you something if you are hungry.

I’ve got ham left over from last night, Sadie said, loudly as usual. Would you like a sandwich?

Cedric’s head stopped its search, and his eyes focused on Sadie. What? He shook his head as if to clear it. What did you say? His voice was as mellifluous as William’s.

A sandwich. Would you like a ham sandwich?

I am not here to speak sandwiches. He cast around wildly again, eyes fixing on the Fog Ladies’ table. His head did the robot jerks as he stared at each one of them. Alma Gordon fastened her eyes on Frances Noonan. Maybe if she didn’t look at Cedric, he wouldn’t look at her. He