Enid Carmichael, In Her Own Words
My name is Enid Carmichael, and I will get you up to date on what’s going on in the life of the Fog Ladies. Many of you know me from the Fog Ladies’ previous adventures in The Fog Ladies and The Fog Ladies: Family Matters, but you can read our latest caper without knowing anything about those. I’m eighty-one years old now, if you can believe it. But that’s just between you and me. My red hair and high heels add to my youthful appearance, so my age is not widely known.
We Fog Ladies are spunky senior sleuths, plus one unspunky, overworked, and, frankly, undersuspicious young doctor, solving murders from our elegant apartment building in San Francisco. Harriet Flynn has us volunteering in a soup kitchen, and have we got a doozy of a murder! A celebrity chef boiled up in a gigantic, bigger than me, cauldron that was ready to go for the California Big Pot Soup Competition. We didn’t even get to taste the soup. Hmph.
No one liked the guy, so there is no shortage of suspects. The police arrested the soup kitchen director, and I bet he’s the one. But, of course, the others think differently. So we are on the hunt, spending time at the soup kitchen where all the action is, chopping so many vegetables even Frances Noonan’s ergonomic knife doesn’t help. There’s the jilted wife. I know a little about that, so I understand her motives completely. There’s an unhappy lover, a businessman with a long-ago grudge, and an unpredictable soup kitchen guest with a violent past. Could be any one of them.
I’m keeping my ears open, and you know what sharp hearing I have. I overhear a lot, which is how I know about the connection to the dead man’s past. And the blackmailer. Some call it snooping. I call it keeping us safe. Because two of us were almost blown to smithereens in a gas explosion. So there.
We are the Fog Ladies, and you can count on us like you can count on early morning San Francisco fog burning off by midday. You can count on us to figure it out.
We Fog Ladies are spunky senior sleuths, plus one unspunky, overworked, and, frankly, undersuspicious young doctor, solving murders from our elegant apartment building in San Francisco. Harriet Flynn has us volunteering in a soup kitchen, and have we got a doozy of a murder! A celebrity chef boiled up in a gigantic, bigger than me, cauldron that was ready to go for the California Big Pot Soup Competition. We didn’t even get to taste the soup. Hmph.
No one liked the guy, so there is no shortage of suspects. The police arrested the soup kitchen director, and I bet he’s the one. But, of course, the others think differently. So we are on the hunt, spending time at the soup kitchen where all the action is, chopping so many vegetables even Frances Noonan’s ergonomic knife doesn’t help. There’s the jilted wife. I know a little about that, so I understand her motives completely. There’s an unhappy lover, a businessman with a long-ago grudge, and an unpredictable soup kitchen guest with a violent past. Could be any one of them.
I’m keeping my ears open, and you know what sharp hearing I have. I overhear a lot, which is how I know about the connection to the dead man’s past. And the blackmailer. Some call it snooping. I call it keeping us safe. Because two of us were almost blown to smithereens in a gas explosion. So there.
We are the Fog Ladies, and you can count on us like you can count on early morning San Francisco fog burning off by midday. You can count on us to figure it out.
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