The Fog Ladies: Date with Death

By Susan McCormick

The Fog Ladies are at it again, spunky senior sleuths and an overstressed young medical resident solving murders from their elegant apartment building in San Francisco. They join a senior dating group, and romantic intrigue soon turns to murder. Graham Parselle, lady killer extraordinaire, plunges off a cliff on a Senior Singles outing. Did one of his dates pitch him over? Or is Olivia Honeycut’s new beau to blame?

• Language: Unknown
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Oct 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9781509249824

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

I joined a senior dating group.

Sarah James dropped her butter knife, and it clattered onto the dainty dish, knocking her raspberry scone to the coffee table. The ladies gathered in the room glanced her way in collective alarm. What?

I joined a senior dating group. Olivia Honeycut leaned forward, gripping her walker for support. Her low voice was unusually animated. Don’t act so surprised, Sarah. You have a special someone. Why shouldn’t I? Look at Alma.

Alma Gordon’s cheeks blushed the same light pink color as her sweater. She sank back into Frances Noonan’s flowery sofa.

Just because you’re twenty-nine, you think I can’t have a boyfriend? If Alma can find love at age seventy-six, so can I.

That’s marvelous, said Frances Noonan.

Interesting, said Harriet Flynn.

You’ve lost your marbles, said Enid Carmichael.

Sarah felt her own face flush. She retrieved her scone and brushed the crumbs into her hand. Of course Mrs. Honeycut could join a dating group. Sarah had just never thought of her that way. Mrs. Honeycut was one of the group, one of the Fog Ladies, and somehow Sarah didn’t think of that as including men.

Why would you ever want a man back in your life? We’re doing fine the way we are. Enid Carmichael bobbed her dyed red head up and down. My life finally bloomed once Stanley was out the door. I know it wasn’t quite the same for you, Olivia, what with Chester and his cancer, but still… Good riddance, that’s what I say.

God rest his soul, said Harriet Flynn. She and Enid Carmichael were the only two ladies who colored their hair, though Mrs. Flynn’s was a sedate salt and pepper while Mrs. Carmichael’s was a different shade of gaudy red every month. Quite a contrast to the three silver and white heads in the room.

He’s been gone more than ten years, and I do miss him. But this has nothing to do with Chester. Olivia Honeycut lifted her chin. This has to do with me. This is my time. I think a little romance could be fun.

Hear, hear, said Frances Noonan.

Will you join me, Frances? The next lunch is tomorrow. I want to go, but I don’t want to go alone.

Heavens no, said Mrs. Noonan.

I’ll go, said Mrs. Flynn.

Sarah laughed. These ladies. The Fog Ladies. They’d lived together in the same Pacific Heights apartment building forever, all except Olivia Honeycut, who lived a few streets over, and Sarah, who’d moved into the elegant, old building two years earlier at the start of her internal medicine residency. The ladies had grown closer as each husband died, or in Enid Carmichael’s case, left in divorce. They came together over volunteer work and projects, helping others through their good deeds. In truth, they helped each other. They were the real project.

Sarah was happy to be one of them, and she dubbed the group the Fog Ladies because you could count on them like you could count on San Francisco early morning fog burning off by midday, a phrase she heard daily on the radio.

Thank you, Harriet. Anyone else? said Mrs. Honeycut.

Ridiculous, said Mrs. Carmichael.

Oh, no, not me. Alma Gordon wriggled forward on the sofa and leaned in to take the last scone.

You don’t need a dating group anyway, Alma. You’ve got what’s his name. Enid Carmichael snatched the scone with her large hand. Anyone want this? Nope? Okay then, I’ll eat it.

Mr. Glenn, said Olivia Honeycut. Alma has Mr. Glenn, and now I may find a gentleman friend for myself. Harriet might, too. The group is called Senior Singles.

Senior Swingers? said Harriet Flynn. Maybe it’s not for me after all.

No, no, that’s your bad hearing. Senior Singles. Do I look like a swinger? said Mrs. Honeycut.

You do not, Mrs. Noonan said, setting down a new plate of scones. She lifted one off with silver tongs and placed it on Alma Gordon’s plate with a smile. More tea, anyone?

Frances Noonan was the ringleader, and Sarah’s favorite Fog Lady. Not just because she baked delicious raspberry scones. Sarah helped herself to a second. Mrs. Noonan’s baked goods and meals in general had seen Sarah through many a late homecoming with nothing in the refrigerator. And it wasn’t because Mrs. Noonan had crinkly blue eyes that reminded Sarah of her late mother. It was Mrs. Noonan’s calm, her steadiness, her solid friendship that assumed the best of those around her and in turn brought out the best.

Thanks to Mrs. Noonan, Sarah was slowly patching things up with Andy, the boyfriend Mrs. Honeycut mentioned. Sarah had made a botch of things, and Mrs. Noonan had pushed them back together. Using chicken and onions and mushrooms. Chocolate brownies, too, if Sarah remembered the evening correctly.

Are there swingers anymore? Is that still a thing? said Mrs. Carmichael.

Was that ever a thing? Dear Lord, said Mrs. Flynn.

Sarah? Mrs. Carmichael pointed a bony finger in her direction. Is it still a thing?

Swingers? What even was a swinger?

Sarah wouldn’t know about that, said Mrs. Noonan. She has Andy.

By the way, Sarah, not that you need my advice, said Mrs. Flynn, but that green sweater does bring out your green eyes nicely, and with your black hair, well, you look particularly fetching today. I think you should wear green more often.

Fetching? said Mrs. Carmichael. That word went out with girdles.

You know, for Andy, said Mrs. Flynn. He’s a keeper. You are twenty-nine. Not getting any younger.

Sarah smiled. Mrs. Flynn couldn’t wait to see her married. Thank you, Mrs. Flynn. I do like this sweater.

Who needs another scone? said Frances Noonan.

Me, me. Enid Carmichael shoved the last half of her scone into her mouth. What do you do at a dating group anyway?

Lots of outdoor activities, I think, since it’s August. I brought the pamphlet. Olivia Honeycut rustled through a cloth bag dangling from her walker. It’s in here somewhere.

Oh, yes, do read it to us, said Harriet Flynn.

It is exciting, isn’t it? said Alma Gordon, bouncing on the sofa. Sarah sat next to her and smelled the lilacs of her bubble bath.

Oh, get on with it, Olivia. Now that you’ve got us all waiting in suspense, said Mrs. Carmichael.

Mrs. Honeycut brandished the pamphlet. Ta-da. I knew I had it.

Enid Carmichael rose from the high-back wing chair, the most comfortable seat in Mrs. Noonan’s apartment. Mrs. Carmichael somehow always managed to sit there. Today Frances Noonan sat on the low bench, her old multi-colored cat curled underneath, with Sarah, Alma Gordon, and Harriet Flynn on the couch and Olivia Honeycut on the straight chair. Mrs. Carmichael crossed the living room and planted herself next to Mrs. Honeycut.

Now I’ll just get my glasses. They’re in the bag. Hold on. Mrs. Honeycut hunched over the cloth bag again, and Mrs. Carmichael’s six-foot frame towered above.

Oh, for Pete’s sake. Mrs. Carmichael grabbed the pamphlet. I’ll read it. She held the glossy paper up so they could all see. These must be actors. Old people don’t look like this.

The pamphlet showed a group of people laughing and clinking wine glasses. Half were men, distinguished looking, with full heads of silver hair. The women had gray hair also, but fancy coifs, one a French braid, another a chignon. The entire group wore evening clothes.

They do look like swingers. You sure about this, Olivia? said Mrs. Carmichael. You sure it’s not for s-e-x?

Oh, dear, said Mrs. Gordon, but Sarah couldn’t help but notice her smile.

Enid! Mrs. Noonan said. How could you even think that? I’m sure it’s for fun, wholesome activities.

Hmph, Mrs. Carmichael said.

Look at them, Mrs. Flynn said. I don’t know if I’ll fit in,

Don’t worry, they don’t really look like this, Mrs. Honeycut said. Enid’s right. These may be models. The people I met were normal.

Here’s what it says, said Mrs. Carmichael, assuming a falsetto voice.  ‘If you are single in your sixties or over, seeking new friends or a new life partner, join us. In addition to our weekly buffet lunches, we have fun events like wine tasting, beach walks, picnics, hiking, dancing, lectures, city tours, music, card games, board games, dinners, and much more. What are you waiting for? Be a part of it.’ 

Enid Carmichael stopped reading. Phew. She handed the pamphlet back to Mrs. Honeycut. Sounds exhausting.

The ladies didn’t say anything. Sarah glanced around.

Harriet Flynn cleared her throat. Well, she said. What are we waiting for?

Chapter 2

Frances Noonan shifted the muffin plate and knocked on Alma Gordon’s door. A single, deep woof answered and quick footsteps followed. Not Alma Gordon. She would be far behind. This would be Boris.

Boris was a Newfoundland puppy. Someone had to take him when his owner died, but how that someone ended up being Alma, Frances was still not certain. So far, so good, though. So far. Each time Frances saw Boris, he was bigger. And she saw him every day.

Coming, coming. The door opened revealing Alma and Boris, a short, white-haired woman wearing a pale yellow sweater, and a giant, fluffy, black dog sitting by her side, his head almost to her waist. And the girth! What was Alma feeding him?

Frances, Alma greeted her. Right on time. No one’s here yet. Ooh, I can’t wait to hear how it all went. Olivia Honeycut and Harriet Flynn were due any minute from their first Senior Singles luncheon.

I’ll just get out of your way. Game starts soon anyway. Giants are looking better and better, a low voice said.

Frances hadn’t noticed Mr. Glenn, but of course he would be there. He ambled over from the living room, leaned to kiss Alma’s cheek, and gave Frances a hearty wave.

Alma beamed, resting her hand on Boris’s enormous head. She was so happy these days. A dog. Mr. Glenn. Two loves in her life.

Olivia Honeycut and Harriet Flynn should be so lucky.

The elevator dinged, Boris woofed again, and voices filled the hall.

They’re here! Oh, dear, I hope it went well? I could never do such a thing, Alma said.

Frances definitely agreed with her. Frances would never want to put herself out there like that. And Alma? Well, the Alma Gordon of old was a meek, mild mannered, don’t rock the boat, don’t trouble yourself on my account sort of woman. But not anymore. She had come into her own in the past year or so, and Frances bet she could do anything she wanted. Even walk into a room of strangers, intent on forming a new romantic relationship.

Tall Enid Carmichael strode in first. They won’t talk until we’re all here. Hmph. Like I’m a bag of potatoes.

Don’t you mean ‘second fiddle?’  said Olivia Honeycut in her raspy voice. We just didn’t want to repeat everything twice. But everyone’s here except Sarah, and she’s working, so we’re ready to talk.

I think the phrase is ‘chopped liver,’  said Harriet Flynn.

I love chopped liver, said Alma Gordon. You almost never see that anymore.

I haven’t made liver in years, said Frances. Not since before Bill died.

Liver and onions. Remember that? Yours was quite tasty, Frances, said Enid.

Do you want to hear our story or not? said Olivia.

Oh, yes, please, said Alma. I’ve been on tenterhooks all morning.

Yes, yes, of course we want to hear, said Frances. Tell us everything.

The ladies settled in with Frances’s muffins in front of them. Alma led Boris to his dog bed with a large bone.

Frances eased into a chair. This darn knee. Getting up was easier, but this lowering down part was the pits. What did she expect? She was seventy-six years old. In two weeks she’d be seventy-seven. How long could a bit of cartilage last?

Olivia Honeycut and Harriet Flynn sat hip to hip on Alma’s new sofa. They exchanged glances and burst out laughing. Well, giggling, really, like they were twelve.

Come on, already. Spill it, said Enid Carmichael. She stood by the dog and dropped muffin bits onto his bed.

Oh, Enid, please don’t feed him. Alma Gordon shooed Mrs. Carmichael to the other side of the room. Boris’s eyes followed her dolefully. He’s only allowed kibble.

This poor dog, said Mrs. Carmichael. He deserves more. When are you going to loosen the leash, Alma? A little muffin never hurt anyone.

Ladies. Listen, said Harriet Flynn. Enough muffin talk. Mrs. Honeycut met a man.

What? In one luncheon? Frances was astounded. How did this work, exactly?

Watch out. Mrs. Carmichael waved her muffin. He’ll be after your money.

I don’t have any money, said Mrs. Honeycut.

Does he know that? Your necklace might have thrown him. Mrs. Carmichael gestured to Mrs. Honeycut’s pendant, a large teardrop of green glass surrounded by sparkly faux diamonds. Frances had been there when Mrs. Honeycut purchased the necklace at the department store downtown. Forty dollars.

Mrs. Honeycut shook her head. If he was after jewels, there’s a woman with a ten-thousand-dollar bracelet hanging off her arm. She told me so. A gift from her first husband. Said she’s never taken it off.

She told you? How in heaven’s name did that come up? said Frances.

Kind of sad, actually. She said the bracelet was worth so much money, but the man himself was priceless. That she’d given up hope of ever meeting anyone like him, but wasn’t it fun to be dating again. Her name is Roxanne, and she looks like a million bucks herself.

Enough of Roxanne. Tell us about Olivia and this Don Juan who is after her money, said Enid Carmichael.

He doesn’t need Olivia’s money, said Harriet Flynn. He has plenty of his own. He owns a home in the Marina and drives a fancy car. He’s not after Olivia’s money. He’s after Olivia. They’re going on an actual date tomorrow night.

A date? squeaked Mrs. Gordon. Oh, dear. Oh, dear.

Maybe he’s an ax murderer, then, said Mrs. Carmichael.

Tomorrow? That’s very quick, said Frances. Is it prudent to meet outside the group so soon?

A new beau. Mrs. Flynn clapped her hands, clearly enjoying herself.

Ladies, ladies, please. Mrs. Honeycut pushed herself up with her walker. You’re getting all worked up over nothing. I appreciate your concern. But he’s not a new beau. He’s old.

Of course he’s old. We’re all old, said Mrs. Carmichael.

No, I mean he’s an old beau. We dated for a year. We kissed.

Good gracious, said Mrs. Gordon.

This is all so sudden, said Frances.

Baloney, said Mrs. Carmichael. I’ve known you for years. Before and after Chester. I don’t remember dating. I certainly don’t remember kissing. And I make it my business to know such things.

High school, said Mrs. Flynn. She knew him in high school.

The one that got away, tittered Mrs. Honeycut, her low voice high.

Reunited after all these years. That’s so romantic, said Mrs. Gordon.

Usually there’s a reason things didn’t work out, said Mrs. Carmichael. Does he pick his teeth?

You dated this man in high school? What are the chances of that? said Frances.

Sounds hokey if you ask me, said Mrs. Carmichael.

"It has been some time since you knew him, Mrs. Flynn said. The ladies are right that a modicum of caution is not unwise."

Yes, yes, I’m not an idiot. Our date will be among people, said Mrs. Honeycut. It’s not as if he’s coming to my apartment. We’re meeting at the restaurant, that new sushi place on Union.

You hate sushi, said Frances. Anything that was once wet, you always say. Bill was the same way. Her Bill, gone more than ten years now, had not been an adventurous eater. So many roasts, so much ground beef. Frances had branched out considerably in her cooking since he died.

I don’t care for sushi either, said Mrs. Gordon.

I’ve never tried sushi, myself. Perhaps I will, said Mrs. Flynn.

You’re going to eat raw fish? said Mrs. Carmichael. Do you know how much they charge for that stuff?

I don’t know and for tomorrow, at least, I don’t care. Malcolm made it very clear that this was to be his treat, said Mrs. Honeycut. Harriet is right. He does have money.

Malcolm? said Mrs. Gordon.

Malcolm Maxwell. My date. Mrs. Honeycut giggled again, holding her walker with both hands to keep from tipping over.

Chapter 3

Enid Carmichael could not believe it. What was Olivia Honeycut thinking? Getting caught up in all that man stuff again. Here Olivia was, living the high life, her own apartment, her own car, happy, and she was going to let a man in and ruin it. Enid knew about such things. She had been none too pleased when Stanley took off with that young thing, but in retrospect, it was for the best.

Look at her kitchen here. Slightly cluttered. Stanley would have been all tut, tut this and frown, frown that. And Snowball, her Bichon Frise? Enid could feed him all the bacon bits and toast crusts she wished, without a disapproving glare from across the table. A man wanted things just so. His way. At least Stanley did.

One thing Stanley was good for was his name. Carmichael. Much better than Snodgrim, Enid’s name before marriage. And she liked the Mrs. they often used in this building, adding that extra gravitas. She thought it odd when she moved in, until she met the building matriarch, ancient Miss Carroll. The woman was desperate to preserve civility in her tiny domain. Well, it was the sixties! The seventies. The country was falling apart, but Miss Carroll insisted on manners, respect. That was a lifetime ago, but the Fog Ladies tried to keep it up still, and if it led to deference toward Enid from the newer tenants, all the better.

What was that old woman’s first name? Darned if Enid could remember. She was Miss Carroll, and that was that. Well, now Enid was the building matriarch, and she was Mrs. Carmichael. So there.

And, blissfully, there was no Mr. to grumble at a tiny mess. Enid pushed a hardened muffin to the floor. She’d pilfered it from Alma’s but hadn’t gotten around to eating it. Snowball pounced, crumbs flying everywhere. He did like a treat.

What was with Harriet Flynn, egging Olivia on? Mrs. Flynn used to say All men are vile. Boy, had she changed her tune. Her hair color and her outlook. All changed. And hunting for a man as well. Shocking.

Enid could usually count on Olivia Honeycut to be the suspicious one. Didn’t she know most men their age were only after one thing? It wasn’t s-e-x. That was a younger man’s game. It was money. Olivia couldn’t see it. Her head was turned by this Malcolm.

They were headed to Olivia’s now to help her dress for her date. Enid was in charge of makeup, since most of the ladies wore lipstick at most. Enid had once worked at the cosmetics counter of a high-end department store, and the ladies naturally turned to her for grooming tips. She checked her face in the hallway mirror. Hmm. She rubbed lipstick off her teeth and wiped a smudge from the end of her nose. There.

They all met in the lobby and set out on foot. Frances Noonan could no longer drive. Vision troubles. Enid’s eyes were not perfect, so she had sympathy. Enid carried her cosmetics bag. Frances Noonan had a plastic-sheathed outfit over her arm. Harriet Flynn wielded a portable blow dryer. Alma Gordon had nothing, but that was just as well because she was not a fast walker.

Do you think he’ll have flowers? said Alma Gordon. She was all gooey eyed. Did Mr. Glenn bring her flowers? Stanley had never brought Enid flowers, not after their first anniversary when he turned up with roses and she let him know she preferred baubles. Men.

Maybe one of those ladies will come into the restaurant with the basket of flowers and he’ll buy her one, said Harriet Flynn. She looked gooey eyed herself. What was it with these women?

Oh, I hope not, said Frances Noonan. Those tend to be quite expensive.

The women paused to admire the San Francisco Bay view halfway up the hill. Enid fastened her eyes on dark and gloomy Alcatraz, the prison island plunked in the middle of the shimmery, silvery water. Olivia would be in her own prison soon, if she gave her life over to a man.

Didn’t the Senior Singles brochure mention hiking? Mrs. Gordon panted. I might prefer the picnic.

I think the lectures would be interesting, said Mrs. Noonan.

It all sounds like fun to me, said Mrs. Flynn. The woman was possessed. Unrecognizable, what with her good works and enthusiasm. Where was her pinched mouth? Her turned up nose? Enid could always count on her to shoo away any vagrants in their path. Now the woman would waltz up and offer a helping hand. Hmph.

Olivia Honeycut greeted them with cold lemonade and a red tin of shortbread cookies.

Drat. Mrs. Honeycut used to serve cream puffs from a bucket in the freezer, but Enid hadn’t seen them in a while. She missed those cream puffs. The shortbread always tasted stale.

Mrs. Honeycut flitted around, not drinking lemonade, not eating stale shortbread. I haven’t been on a date since before I was married. I can’t go on a date.

Finally the woman had come to her senses.

Now, Olivia, of course you can go on a date, Harriet Flynn soothed. You know this man. You are old friends. It will be as if no time at all has passed.

I do enjoy a date, said Mrs. Gordon, smiling. You will, too.

You’ve got Mr. Glenn. Mrs. Honeycut was practically whining. He’s not a date. He’s a neighbor. He’s like a comfortable old chair.

Alma Gordon’s smile disappeared, and she looked to Frances Noonan for help deciphering the comment.

Mr. Glenn is so comfortable and easy to be around. You are very lucky to have found each other, said Mrs. Noonan.

That Frances Noonan could spin a story. Enid had to give it to her. Mr. Glenn was a paunchy, balding, creaky old man. No one was lucky to be saddled with him.

What was Olivia Honeycut thinking?

Chapter 4

Does Enid have to do my makeup? I’ll look like a clown.

Oh, dear. Alma Gordon had had this very thought when Enid volunteered to bring her cosmetics case. Enid had stepped into Olivia Honeycut’s