Blind men dont dial zero, p.1
Blind Men Don't Dial Zero, page 1
Blind Men Don’t Dial Zero
Sleuths of Last Resort
(Book 1)
C.A. Larmer
LARMER MEDIA
~
Copyright © 2021 2023 Larmer Media
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Discover other titles by C.A. Larmer:
The Sleuths of Last Resort:
Smart Girls Don’t Trust Strangers (Book 2)
Good Girls Don’t Drink Vodka (Book 3)
The Murder Mystery Book Club
The Murder Mystery Book Club (Book 1)
Danger On the SS Orient (Book 2)
Death Under the Stars (Book 3)
When There Were 9 (Book 4)
The Widow on the Honeymoon Cruise (Book 5)
Gone Guest (Book 6)
Ghostwriter Mysteries:
Killer Twist (Book 1)
A Plot to Die For (Book 2)
Last Writes (Book 3)
Dying Words (Book 4)
Words Can Kill (Book 5)
A Note Before Dying (Book 6)
Without a Word (Book 7)
Posthumous Mysteries:
Do Not Go Gentle
Do Not Go Alone
Plus:
After the Ferry: A Gripping Psychological Novel
An Island Lost
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License Notes
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this work has been generated using Artificial Intelligence (AI).
Published by Larmer Media, NSW 2482, Australia
E-book ISBN: 978-0-6488009-3-4
Cover design by Nimo Pyle
Cover photography by Nimo Pyle, Krapels
Edited by The Editing Pen
& Elaine Rivers, with thanks
~
This one’s for my son Nimo, whose enthusiasm for the concept of ‘Supersleuths’ inspired me from start to finish.
Sorry they don’t don capes, honey, or have actual superpowers, but I think you’ll find they come pretty damn close.
~
CONTENTS
Cast of Characters
Prologue
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
Acknowledgements
About the Author
~
CAST OF KEY CHARACTERS
The Sleuths:
Meredith (Merry) Kean ~ Cluedo/Clue champion, single mother of
Otis, Lola and Archie
Kila (Mad Dog) Morea ~ Private investigator, single
Martin Chase ~ Famous crime fiction author, living with Tamara
Earle Fitzgerald (Fitzy) ~ Retired police detective,
husband of Beryl, father of Teresa (Tess)
Francesca Josephina (Frankie Jo) ~ Herald crime reporter, single
The Burlington Family & Staff, Seaview:
Sir George Burlington ~ Mining magnate, family patriarch
Roman Burlington ~ George’s son (deceased)
Tawny Burlington-Brown ~ Roman’s wife (deceased)
Heathcliff (Heath) Burlington-Brown ~ Roman and Tawny’s son, George’s grandson (deceased)
Charlotte (Charlie) Burlington-Brown ~ Roman and Tawny’s daughter, George’s granddaughter
Susan LeDoux ~ George’s daughter
Clement (Clem) LeDoux ~ Susan’s husband
Verity Vine ~ George’s Personal Assistant
Lia Segeyaro ~ Seaview’s ex-housekeeper
Angus Johnson ~ Ski Lodge manager
Plus:
DI Andrew Morgan ~ Investigating detective
Igor Ivanov ~ Charlie’s boyfriend
Trevor ~ Kila’s friend, barman at Taboo Wine Bar
Woko Wangi ~ Lia’s friend, music producer
Jan ~ Frankie’s friend
~
Prologue
Fingers bloody, he grappled for the phone and stabbed in three zeroes, his breath like hiccups as he waited for a response.
“Emergency services, what’s your emergency?”
“I, um… I’d like to report a… a murder please. Two murders.”
There was a stunned silence, then a squeaky, “Can I have your full name and address please?”
The man cleared his throat. “Heath. It’s Heathcliff Burlington-Brown. I’m… I’m at Harrow’s Drive. Two thirty-five… Is that right?” A brief grumble, then, “Shit, I can’t remember! We just call it Seagrave.”
Like that would sort it out.
“Are you in any danger, sir? Are you injured?”
“What? Um, no… not yet. But I will be.”
An inhalation. “I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”
“Look…” Annoyance now. “All you need to know is I killed both of them and now…”
“And now? Sir?”
“And now I’m going to kill myself, so… sor… sis—”
But his last words were lost behind the sound of a gunshot.
Chapter 1: An Invitation
Meredith Kean tried very hard not to picture her sixteen-year-old snogging the school principal’s son behind the recycling bins, where she was currently dumping a load of empty cans and boxes inside. That was a rumour. Surely it was just a rumour? She also tried not to notice that her nineteen-year-old’s rusty old Mazda had gone AWOL, along with her nineteen-year-old, even though he knew her thirteen-year-old had scoffed down every last morsel of food like it was some sort of Olympic event, and she needed a lift to the supermarket pronto! And she focused instead on a slip of white poking through the letterbox out the front.
Oooh, snail mail. What a treat.
Creaking the lid open, she reached tentatively inside, half expecting it to morph into a bill but finding something else entirely—a crisp white envelope with her name handwritten on the front in a lovely black scrawl.
Her next thought was that it was another invitation to Las Vegas and she felt her stomach tighten, regret descend upon her again. Flipping it over she noted there was no address on the back, and her gloom evaporated as fresh theories began circling her brain.
A letter from her mother? Her ex? The aforementioned school principal! Drawing it to her nose, she hoped the scent might provide a valuable clue. It did not.
Eventually, reluctantly, Merry held up the white flag, pushed her pink spectacles back into place, and whipped it open.
~
Kila Morea heard the Uber pull up long before his guest did, and he gave her a gentle nudge.
“That’s you, my love.”
The older woman groaned and reached for her dress. “Why can I never stay, Kil’?”
“Aww, babe, you know what I’m like. Come on, little icon thingie says he’s right outside.”
She got up and glanced about for her bag, spotting it on the coffee table where she’d tossed it the night before amongst the empty wine bottles and crowded ashtray and coagulating camembert. As she stepped across the bedsit to retrieve it, she swished her hips and hair, and he couldn’t help smiling. He knew what she was doing, but he wasn’t going to fall for it this time. His head was hammering, and he had some serious sleeping to attend to.
“Aren’t you at least going to see me out?” she said, her thick lips pouty, and he smiled, detangling himself from the covers.
“Here you go, my lady.” He strode naked to the front door and swept it open. “Your chariot awaits!” Then he waved a hand towards the car idling at the kerb.
The Uber driver gave a little wave like he’d seen it all before, and the woman giggled at Kila’s audacity and pecked him on the cheek, then lingered for a moment, smoothing back his unruly curls, soaking up his sweaty scent, before sighing deeply as she stepped outside.
“Sorry again about your license, Kil’,” she said. “I mean, I never thought you’d actually be crazy enough to do it.”
He shrugged like it didn’t mean the end of his career and waved as she walked away, swishing her hips again. But Kila wasn’t watching now. He was staring down at the envelope she had just stepped over. Eying it suspiciously for a moment, he glanced up and down the street, then snatched it, shut the door and dropped it atop the soggy cheese before returning to bed, where he promptly fell into slumber.
~
The moment Martin Chase noticed the envelope resting on the kitchen bench, he gave his nose an angry rub and dumped it in the garbage bin.
Piss off, lady, he thought as he strode into the bedroom to replace his cycling gear with skinny jeans and a T-shirt that read I’m silently correcting your grammar, then returned to the living area. His laptop was on the dining table and he slapped it to life as he dropped into a chair.
He didn’t have time for histrionics today. He had a very important manuscript to finish.
But it only took a few minutes, staring at the blinking cursor, to pique his curiosity, and he was soon back in the kitchen, scooping the letter from the bin and brushing some Tanzanian coffee mulch from the top.
“Is that another of those loony letters you’ve been getting?” his girlfriend asked, glancing up from the lounge where she’d been flicking through a gossip magazine.
“Mm-hmm,” he mumbled, his nose wrinkling.
Was Tamara burning that hideous incense again? Or had her smell now permeated the place?
“Why do you even keep them?” she said. “Just put Return to Sender and be done with it; she’s obviously got the wrong address, the nutter. Oh, and don’t forget to call your agent. I think she wants to nag you again.”
Well, you’d know all about that, he thought. He wasn’t in the mood for another round with Tamara. She sensed it though and lifted one sculptured blond eyebrow skyward, but he didn’t take the bait, just returned his eyes to the envelope and the florid cursive script.
Hang on a minute… This wasn’t the mad woman’s usual frantic scribble, and she’d got his name right this time. Perhaps it was fan mail, Martin decided, and opened it with a flourish.
~
Earle Fitzgerald was just shoving his thumb through the top of the white envelope when his wife appeared with some steaming tea in a chipped cup that read World’s Grumpiest Dad.
“What’ve you got there, dear?” Beryl asked, plonking the cup down on the rotting wooden table in front of him.
“Not sure. Probably another wedding invite.”
In their old age, it seemed like the Fitzgeralds’ social life had been reduced to other people’s weddings and funerals, although he’d see the inside of a coffin long before their Teresa ever walked down an aisle. She was a confirmed spinster, his daughter. Not that he’d use that word in front of Tess or her scary flatmate Fiona! They were both proud of their single status. Like it was a badge of honour. Buggered if he could work out why.
“Two eggs this morning? Or just the one?”
“Hmm?” Earle was so engrossed in the embossed address peeking out from the top of the letter that he barely heard his wife speak. He looked up. Scratched his bushy white beard. “Oh, just the one, thanks, Beryl. Tummy’s not getting any slimmer.”
Then Earle patted his wide girth proudly as he wrenched the letter out.
~
The croaky voice was just explaining how he’d “slipped the shank deep into the fucker’s belly” when Francesca Josephina’s almond eyes glanced across the invitation she had just plucked from the neatly split envelope.
She nearly dropped the telephone.
“You right, Frankie Jo?” the man on the other end said. “Told ya this’d freak you out.”
“What? Oh, give it a rest, Shane. I’m fine. Keep going.”
He sniggered, not believing her for one moment, and continued on. The bikie’s story was riveting stuff, but that’s not what had her quaking.
George Burlington was inviting her over. Sir George! The mining magnate himself!
Now here was one for the books. After months of begging and pleading and camping on his doorstep, Mr Burlington was suddenly having her around for… She glanced at the invite again. “A brief consultation,” whatever the hell that meant. No other explanation was provided.
She thought about that. Had he read her articles? Was he fuming? Perhaps he wanted to set the record straight.
In any case, Frankie could not have been more delighted. The Burlington story was still relatively fresh—gory true crime had no use-by date—but it was a pity he hadn’t reached out earlier. Still, this could provide fodder for yet more “Frankie Jo exclusives”, perhaps even a book. A probing tome. A brilliant bestseller. The diminutive blonde salivated just thinking of the publisher’s advance.
“You even listenin’ to me, sweetheart? Only got five minutes before they cut me off.”
“Of course I’m listening, Shane. Don’t be such a princess. I’m busy taking notes. Keep going.”
Then Frankie’s eyes wafted back to the invitation in her hand, and she was glad she was recording the conversation, because she barely registered a word.
Chapter 2: A Proclamation
Sir George Burlington’s residence was not at all what Meredith had been expecting. Located in an ornate Victorian-era building that left the neighbouring Town Hall looking frumpy, the interior was surprisingly minimalist and über modern.
Stepping out of the elevator to the penthouse floor, she was welcomed at the door by a redheaded woman with a smart suit and a very subtle Irish accent. She introduced herself melodiously as Verity Vine, Mr Burlington’s assistant, then led Merry into a polished concrete living area where three men and a woman stood, staring suspiciously at each other. The penthouse took up the entire floor and was full of glass and steel and lots of cold leather and sharp edges.
“Mr Burlington will be with you shortly,” Verity announced before closing the door behind her.
“Thanks!” Meredith sang out, then repositioned her cat eyeglasses and smiled at the others, trying not to appear quite so exhilarated. They certainly didn’t, and at least one of them looked almost maudlin. He was a forty-something in a statement T-shirt and black skinny jeans, with a perfectly sculptured nose and surprisingly dark hair, which he was now slicking back as he turned to inspect a bookcase.
The man looked vaguely familiar, Merry thought. She just couldn’t decide from where…
The other two men were also dressed casually, and she was self-conscious now in her crisply ironed, pale blue skirt and not-quite-matching jacket. Her sixteen-year-old was right. She looked “so try-hard it’s embarrassing.” At least the other lady had made an effort in what was clearly vintage Chanel. Merry might not have money, but she did watch Project Runway, thanks very much.
“Hello there,” said the oldest man, a portly Santa Claus lookalike, holding up one palm. “The name’s Earle. Earle Fitzgerald.”
“Hello, Earle,” she called back. “I’m Merry.”
“As in Merry Christmas?” asked the man with the slicked back hair by the bookshelf. Incredulous.
“Oh, goodness me, no!” She giggled, glancing at Santa and snorting. “As in Meredith Kean. It’s short for Meredith.”
“Well, I’m Kila Morea,” said the third man as he dropped into one of the white lounges, his messy black curls bouncing along with him. “And no, it’s not Killer as in murderer. It’s Kila with an a.” He directed that comment towards the bookshelf.
Bookshelf man just said, “Martin” like that was all that was required.
Merry glanced then at the smartly dressed woman who was tiny and blond and perfect. She was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking downwards as she tapped furiously into her smartphone, not participating in the introductions.
