by Rita Lakin
Evvie adds, ‘Our company name is Gladdy Gold and Associates.’
I ask carefully, ‘Are you saying that only the Wassingers think Mr Strand was murdered?’
She answers me just as cautiously. ‘Robert Strand had no enemies. None that anyone heard of. A good man, beloved by all who knew him. He went fishing one day. Alone. He went fishing often and was quite good at it. What happened was freakish. He had a huge marlin on his line and he was gored by that huge fish as he tried to pull it in.’
Evvie is startled. ‘A fish killed him?’
Teresa sighs. ‘The truth is, there is positive proof of this. Even though they never found his boat. The whole city is positive this is the case.’
I insist, ‘But the Wassingers were so sure …’
I’m just about to ask her for more information, when I’m stopped by Teresa. With a quick look at the iPhone in her hand, she changes the subject, maybe pretending there is a text message; something of importance. And as for her demeanor, she’s business-like now. ‘Jin, get the rest of the luggage from the car.’
She turns to me and hands me two sets of room keys. ‘My nephew will show you to your rooms. I must go to my office.’
With that she hurries from the lobby and disappears down a hall.
Uh, oh, what have we gotten ourselves into? Here’s a different kind of mystery.
‘Follow me,’ says Jin too quietly, not looking at any of us. ‘After you unpack, I’ll give you directions to the Wassingers.’ He, too, is suddenly all business.
I have a feeling his aunt will be giving him a lecture while we are unpacking about keeping one’s mouth closed.
Evie and I share a room. We quickly get settled unpacking the one backpack each that we brought. The other two girls are down the hall. I imagine they’ll be up half the night unpacking all their unnecessary clothes and chatter-boxing about the events of the day.
I hardly notice how stunning our room is in its pale peach and beige décor. Soft beige walls. With Laura Ashley peach curtains with white lace trim and peach duvet covers on our twin beds. The smell of lavender on the down pillows is subtle.
I remember for a moment the room Jack and I shared that tumultuous night we were here as the hurricane hit. Our room had a king-sized bed and faced Mallory Square where so many people came to watch the sunset.
What I see out this window is the street, but I can hear from that other side of the building the air horns of cruise ships coming and going.
My mind replays what I heard from Teresa, and there is something she is not saying.
‘What’s going on here?’ I say to Evvie. ‘The Wassingers never mentioned anything about an accident. And the fact of all those disagreeing with them; I wish we’d been advised of this.’
Evvie nods. ‘No kidding.’
‘Did you hear Teresa say the Wassingers were misguided? She also said, “not again”. What did she mean by that?’
Evvie shakes her head. ‘I’m positive we’ll find out more once we meet them.’
We’re ready to go back downstairs. She adds, ‘Teresa didn’t think much of the fact that we were professionals.’
‘I guess not. But don’t forget, she’s under seventy-five and according to our motto, we don’t trust their opinions.’
Evvie grins. ‘I wonder which surprised her the most: that we were women investigators, or that we were old? Or that we are not here for a funeral.’
I nod. ‘Probably a little of each.’
I call the Wassingers to make sure they still want to see us today, or would they prefer tomorrow, since the day is almost gone. I am hoping we’d get a chance to rest, but, no, come right away was Mrs Wassinger’s answer. We have an appointment and she gives us the simple directions to their home.
When we go downstairs, Teresa has not come back to the lobby. Jin is there, waiting for us.
He greets us, but he is clearly uncomfortable. He stiffly hands us a few brochures; his voice is a monotone. ‘If you like key lime pie, this is where it was invented, and there’s a building in town with a plaque to prove it. Parasailing? No, I guess not.’
Yes, Aunt Teresa did have that chat with her nephew. He’s nervous with us.
‘I do recommend the Shipwreck Museum and Harry Truman’s winter home and of course, the mansion. You won’t want to miss …’ He stops himself, choking on his words. His face turns red, because once again he’s about to reveal something else he shouldn’t; but what?
Jin quickly opens the front door and urges us out. ‘You don’t want to be late.’
Before the door is completely shut, I hear Teresa’s voice. ‘Have they gone yet?’
She is hiding from us? What is going on? What don’t they want us to know? Are we going to be sorry we took this trip?
Evvie and I are aware of Teresa and Jin’s tension; Sophie and Bella are oblivious. My sister and I are puzzled. What next?
Ready or not, we’re off to meet the Wassingers. Whatever they throw at us, we’ll be able to manage.
Or will we?
NINE
Ida’s Apartment – About the Same Time
Ida has not dressed today at all; she is still moving around barefoot in her living room. A radio is playing loud, intense hip-hop music and Ida, who has discovered she isn’t ill at all, is celebrating by dancing up a storm. And remembering the way things were when she first came to Lanai Gardens sixteen years ago.
Ida was a loner. She had decided to stay that way when she moved in. She came loaded down with a mysterious, despondent past and if she’d had her way, she’d have curled up and lived closed-up and alone. Away from all feelings. Feelings and memories that made her cry.
But the survivor in her knew that isolation was bad for her. She had to pull out of her depression with her own mantra, ‘Get over it, get over it.’ The real Ida wanted to live her life and forget a past that she couldn’t fix.
And so, years ago, she befriended her neighbor, Sophie, who introduced her to Bella and then to Gladdy and Evvie, and she knew her decision had been right. She’d found good friends. And finally, a feeling of having a home. And then a bonus; a happy and useful senior life once they became investigators. She had become the new and improved Ida Franz.
And a quick unwanted thought about not being in Key West tonight ran through her mind. No sense crying over spilt milk.
She looks at the time, clicks off the radio and turns on the TV to her favorite night-time soap opera. Her chicken is roasting in the oven, her veggies are waiting to be steamed; she’s not hungry yet. So she plops down on her couch, ready to enjoy her program, Lust Among Lovers. She’s addicted to this corny soap, and she doesn’t care that others think it’s silly. She’s hooked.
In a few moments, the phone rings. She debates whether to interrupt her happy viewing and decides to let it ring. If it’s important, whoever it is will leave a message.
And someone is leaving a message, one that surprises her. She listens to the near-hysterical Lola Binder practically screeching. What on earth can Hy’s wife want with her?
She hears: ‘Ida! Are you there? I’ve left six messages already on Gladdy’s phone! She’s not answering. Doesn’t she ever pick up the phone anymore? What if she got important calls? I need to talk to her. It could be a matter of life or death …’
With that, Ida lowers the sound and with one eye still on the television, picks up the phone and interrupts Lola’s hysterical chatter. ‘Lola, yes, I’m here. You can’t reach Gladdy ’cause she’s out of town. Can I help you?’
‘No, I need Gladdy. I have a serious problem for her to solve for me.’
‘I’d be glad to be of service …’
‘When will she be back?’
‘I really have no idea.’
Lola is still fairly shouting. ‘Where is the Gladdy of Gladdy Gold and her Associates? What kind of business does she run to not be here when she’s wanted? I need Gladdy, not you! Find her and have her call me right away! You know my number!’ With that she hang
s up.
Ida mutters something obscene under her breath. What the hell can Hy’s wife want that’s so important? She raises the TV sound, drops back down onto her couch, looks at her clock. Her chicken needs ten minutes more. She goes back to enjoying her program. When her favorite male star, Kit Kittredge, comes on screen toying yet again with his long-suffering girlfriend’s desires, Ida gives him badly needed advice, ‘Kiss her already, dummy.’
TEN
Meet Clients. What is Happening Here?
According to our map, and directions, we are traveling only three blocks from our B&B. We could have walked. Our plan is to meet and greet the Wassingers, then go out to dinner. We’ve never stopped eating in the car on the way up, and had lunch in one of the keys, so how can they still be hungry? But they can’t wait to go to Margaritaville – whatever that is – and try some Caribbean seafood. And maybe sample the key lime pie. That’s what they are eagerly looking forward to tonight. But for me, it’s been a long, exhausting day and all I want is a hot bath and early bed.
According to Evvie’s travel guide, ‘We are just around the corner from a famous tourist location. 900 Whitehead Street was the home of Ern—’ Before she can finish her sentence, we’ve arrived at our destination.
After the well-kept B&B where we are staying, and the many gorgeous mansions we’ve passed, this building is a disappointment. It’s a shabby structure covered with gray clapboard, in desperate need of paint. Three storeys above there’s a widow’s walk on the roof. Evvie points it out and informs the girls that fishermen’s wives used to stand on their high balcony, waiting for their husbands’ ships to come home. Many husbands never returned, never to see their families again. Many tearful women learned that they had become widows from on that high floor.
The girls aren’t paying too much attention to the history lesson, more interested in wondering about this house we’re standing in front of.
Bella comments, ‘It needs a lot of work.’
Sophie adds, ‘It looks real old. And falling apart.’
The bell doesn’t seem to work, so I knock. Then I knock again. After what seems like a long time, the door opens and an elderly couple stands there to greet us.
Obviously the Wassingers.
Bella whispers, ‘So are the owners. Very old. And falling apart.’
Evvie pokes her. ‘You should talk, alta cocker. You’re almost as old as they are.’
He says, ‘Welcome. Come in. She is Sadie.’ A quivery voice.
She says, ‘Come in. Welcome. He is Louie.’ An equally weak voice.
We follow our clients inside. I introduce the girls.
They repeat our names twice. ‘Gladdy. Evvie. Bella. Sophie. Gladdy. Evvie. Bella. Sophie.’ Their way of remembering names. Good luck with that.
The Wassingers move at a snail’s pace. We slow down to keep up to them. Aware of my girls’ fears and foibles, I can read their minds as we walk through the dark hallway with dim lightbulbs hardly doing the job. A sharp contrast to the brightness of our B&B. Bella is already looking at the ceilings, expecting spiders and their webs and getting ready to faint.
Even Evvie is responding, unlike her, but somehow needing to touch tabletops and moldings for dust, her sleeve and fingers getting dirtier by the minute.
Sophie is sniffing – here she goes with her favorite aversion; the house smells of cats. She is allergic to cats. She’s never been in a house where there’s been a cat, so she’s never tested that theory, but she’s convinced she’s afflicted. She can’t help herself; she is sure the cat odor is causing her to sneeze. Finally, unable to resist, she addresses the backs of our hosts and whispers timorously, ‘Do you have a cat?’
Sadie and Louie turn, smile sweetly at one another. Sadie says, ‘We did a while ago. Snow White, number Seven. She was such a dear; she loved to sit on my head …’
Louie finishes it. ‘… and she was a great mouser. We miss her.’
They continue at their pathetic slow rate. Sophie is still sniffing unhappily. Evvie’s sleeve and fingers are still dusting.
Bella continues to peek up, then down, with a new worry. No cat? Then there must be mice under foot. She tiptoes her way through the darkness.
I need to describe our clients. Both are tiny people, seemingly shriveled, with long, narrow faces, bodies pitifully thin. They are probably in their nineties. They wear gray, the same color as their outdoor house paint and the same shade as their hair. He is in a drab gray shirt and loose gray pants, no socks and house slippers, she in a gray loose-fitting, longish tent-like dress with heavy gray socks and also house slippers. Both use canes. They seem ancient.
I hope the girls are counting their blessings, since our ages are getting closer. We are all still able to get around; these folks seem shaky and feeble. Nearly helpless.
Sophie turns to me whispering, concerned at the shabbiness surrounding them. ‘Can they even pay?’
I touch my finger to my lips, shushing her.
The Wassingers lead us into their kitchen for, as they call it, high tea. I haven’t seen an old, avocado-colored fridge and stove like that since maybe the 1970s. The whole room looks like a painting out of a long ago Saturday Evening Post cover. I imagine the rest of the house is similarly furnished.
‘Please sit down.’ Louie points lovingly to his wife. ‘Sadie will pour.’
‘Please sit down,’ she says, equally lovingly. She goes to the stove, where a kettle is turned up on high, steam hissing, almost clouding up to the ceiling.
I go through the routine of introducing our group, once again, our names already forgotten. ‘Gladdie. Evvie. Bella. Sophie.’
With much nodding, they indicate that this time they’ll remember. They won’t. We all, but Sadie, take a seat; albeit on an aged, wooden, ladder-back, rickety chair. The room smells of mold and dust.
Sadie is advancing toward us from the stove holding the boiling hot kettle to pour water into teacups. We watch, with tremulous apprehension. Her hands tremble; we expect disaster any moment. She is close to scalding her hands. But somehow the cups are filled safely. We busy ourselves, being good guests, with the milk, sugar and dunking our tea bags, as Sadie calls them (they look used!) and drinking … boiling hot but utterly weak tea.
We all look about for maybe scones with clotted cream. Or jelly. Not a muffin, not a cookie. Nothing. This is high tea?
To make conversation, since my girls are silently trying to hide their disappointment, I ask the Wassingers how they found out about us.
Louie says, ‘We read your ad …’
Sadie says, ‘… In the newspaper. We cheered at your …’
Louie says, ‘Slogan.’
They both giggle. Sadie sips her tea, purses her lips and recites, ‘Never trust anybody …’
Louie pinches Sadie’s cheek in glee. ‘Under …’
‘Seventy-five.’ Sadie pokes him on his shoulder and finishes the slogan. Both are pleased with their recitation.
We sit there, waiting for them to comment on the case. I have to keep from yawning. It’s been a long day of driving, and the heat in the room is making me sleepy. Evvie is busy looking around this ancient room. Sophie and Bella keep lifting their feet up, worried about what germs might be on the floor.
Louie takes charge. He pounds his fist weakly on the scarred and wobbly wooden table. ‘Let the meeting come to order. First, we formally welcome our guests.’
Sadie. ‘You are so welcome in our humble home.’
‘Thank you,’ we respond.
‘It was good of you to come,’ says Sadie.
I say, ‘We are pleased to be of service. Shall we discuss the case?’
Sadie pushes at Louie. ‘Tell them it’s not true.’
‘I know dear, it’s not.’
‘About Robert, did you know Robert?’ Sadie asks us.
‘Mr Robert Strand?’ I ask.
Evvie answers her, surprised, ‘No, because we don’t live here.’
That was a mistake. They wa
nt us to take a left turn in the conversation to discuss yet another topic. ‘Where do you dear ladies live?’ asks Louie.
Surely they remember that they contacted us where we live? I try to keep it short to get this slow-moving show on the road. This very long day is getting longer. ‘We live in Fort Lauderdale.’
Sadie shows surprise, ‘All of you?’
‘Yes, all of us.’
Louie jumps in. ‘Is that anywhere near Orlando? We once had a friend who lived in Orlando.’
Sadie adds, ‘We always intended to visit. But we never got there. We traveled to Rome and Paris and London,’ she giggles, ‘but never made it to Orlando.’
Louie sighs. ‘Poor Oliver. He died too young. He left a large family and many debts.’
Sadie musing along on her own pathway, ‘I think Venice was my favorite city. Traveling on the water in gondolas.’ She hums a bit of O Solo Mio.
I assume he’s still mentioning the friend in Orlando, Florida. And she’s going to take us through her full travel itinerary. I think it’s time to get them back on track or we’ll be here all night. ‘Tell us what facts you have about Robert Strand.’
Sadie rotates her head, back and forth. Quivery, like her hands. ‘He was our only hope.’
Louie adds, equally frail. ‘They’ll take it away, that’s what they’ll do.’
Evvie asks. ‘Who wants to take it? Who wants to take what?’
Sadie looks at her, eyes tearing. ‘Why, our house. That’s why they killed him.’
Louie shows anger by squinting. ‘What they did was to make the police believe we’ve lost our marbles. Robert’s lawyer partners will put us away in some nut house. Sell our home out from under us. That’s their plan. And what will happen to Papa?’ He pounds pathetically on the table again.
Papa? These two people in their nineties can’t have an older parent. A brother? Some relative? A leftover somebody from Orlando?
