Getting Old Will Haunt You

by Rita Lakin

  This is what hell will be like. This scene, these people saying and doing what they do. Over and over into eternity. ‘The Strand file,’ I say, weakly.

  Louie points, excitedly. ‘There it is. On the top shelf. See the lavender thingy?’

  Sadie hurries (if you can call it that) to the kitchen table and pushes one of the chairs inch by agonizing inch toward the cupboard.

  Oh, no, he’s going to climb on that rickety chair.

  I nudge Evvie; she is our tallest. ‘Reach up, for heaven’s sakes, before Louie climbs up and kills himself.’ I shudder to think how he got it up there in the first place.

  With a bit of stretching, Evvie pulls the file down, along with a stack of other pieces of paper that were leaning against it.

  Louie hands me the file, as if it were a piece of fine jewelry, and I was expected to bow in pleasure. To me, it’s a plastic mess, with coffee or tea stains. I look inside. There is one sheet of paper with four names penciled in. That’s it?

  With the one page gripped in my hand, I rustle my gang out of this loony bin. With the bin residents giving advice as we go.

  ‘Watch out for that lady police person,’ Sadie advises. ‘She’s meaner than a bee sting.’

  Louie, always up for a cheerful announcement says, ‘Robert’s law partners are worse than she is. Shakespeare was right. Kill all the lawyers.’

  ‘And those lazy boys Robert fishes with and also drinks and plays cards with,’ warns Sadie, ‘they’re a rowdy bunch and useless.’

  I’m waiting for their take on number four, Mr Pebbles, the coroner. They don’t give out any advice about him, l won’t ask. It will cost at least another lost hour.

  The Wassingers giggle, pleased at their art of reference-giving.

  Louie waves at that list happily. On his soap box again, ‘Then you’ll know the truth and the truth will set us free. Justice for Robert Strand!’

  Sadie warns us in her sweet little way, ‘Many people around here are so negative. Don’t let them get you down.’

  Evvie calms her. ‘We have minds of our own. Not to worry, Sadie dear.’

  Sadie is proud as she announces, ‘We thank you for all you are doing and Papa thanks you, too.’

  Yeah, in your dreams. But I don’t tell her that.

  Louie asks, ‘What about Papa’s cape and cigars? Mr Hemingway has asked about them a number of times. I’ll be glad to take you to retrieve them.’

  I shake his trembling hand. ‘Not now, Louie, maybe later.’ Maybe never I hope.

  TWENTY-NINE

  To Cop Shop. First on List

  I compare our escape from the Wassingers to an escape from Alcatraz; swimming in dark waters with sharks nipping at our heels. Only in our case, it’s more like minnows nibbling at us. With their lack of cool air, we are outside scratching sweaty bodies and sticky hair. It was voted that we need a hearty lunch to give us the strength to go on. I would rather have returned to the B&B to shower and nap. As usual the vote is tied, Bella and Sophie and food vs Evvie and me, but I give in.

  The outdoor cafe we are in specializes in hominy grits. Bella and Sophie won’t try them, but Evvie and I are game; we’re always willing to attempt something new. However, we’re disappointed; it tastes like Cream of Wheat breakfast cereal with sugar and some items we don’t recognize.

  Of course, our curious one, Evvie needs to look it up. She calls Google up on her laptop, which she always has with her. Those grits are especially popular in the south (but not South Florida) especially in New Orleans. She reads to me: ‘“Grits is a porridge made from corn (maize) that is ground into a coarse meal. Hominy grits are treated with an alkali process called nixtamalization with cereal germ removed”.’ She pauses as I react to the incredibly long, worrisome word.

  ‘Wait, there’s more. That big word means how they make the original hominy; the corn is dried and treated by soaking the mature grain in a dilute solution of lye or slaked lime. Then the maize is thoroughly washed. In Italy grits are also named polenta.’

  Lye? Really? They have to thoroughly wash it to get the lye out? Oy. TMI as the kids would say. Way too much information. I push my plate as far away as I can. An odd name for a kind of cereal. I’ve lost my appetite, but Evvie talks me into a small house salad.

  Sophie and Bella laugh with glee as they thoroughly enjoy their double-size hot dog special with raw onions, sauerkraut, mustard and whatever else possible on it.

  Snarky Evvie asks the girls, ‘Would you like me to tell you what’s really in your hot dogs?’

  Sophie and Bella nervously, at the same time, ‘No, thanks.’ They keep eating, but with less enthusiasm.

  Oh well. What I really need is a stiff drink, after another bout with the maddening Wassingers. But this hamburger joint does not carry booze.

  I suggest we check in with Ida. However, the last two times I phoned her, I had to leave a message. I try again this minute with same result. And when she’d try to reach us, we were occupied. We keep missing each other.

  Evvie comments. ‘She must be awfully busy with her case. I wonder what mischief Hy is involved in.’

  Sophie adds, ‘I haven’t forgotten that rotten thing he did with us at the pool. I still want revenge. Just you wait, Hy Binder, when we get home …’

  Bella, of course says, ‘Ditto.’

  Lunch is over. I get up. ‘Onward to visit the police. Let’s see what they have to tell us.’

  The police station was at the top of Louie’s list. So we decided that should be our first stop. We called ahead for an appointment to let the station staff learn we are Private Investigators.

  Evvie, ‘I can’t wait ’til we hear their definite opinion.’

  ‘We need to hear it for ourselves.’

  The local police station is smallish. The half-a-dozen cops in the plain office seem relaxed. Only one cop is on the phone. Others are reading reports and or newspapers. A large ceiling fan spreads the cool air around. Maybe a slow crime day?

  And here comes Sergeant Barbara Ella Robbson, according to her name tag. Oh, oh, I think, as she marches toward us, she’s big. Over six-foot tall, rather hefty, with bulging shoulders and brillo-type black hair squashed under her cop hat. She seems like one tough cookie and is naturally carrying a rather scary large-looking gun.

  When the female cop reaches us, she walks past us and says, ‘Where are those detectives who wanted to meet with me?’ Her voice is tough, reminding me of the sound of a cement mixer. ‘If they wasted my time …’

  The girls are immediately panic-stricken. This isn’t going to be easy. Sadie’s bee sting may be right.

  I walk over to her and hand her our card. ‘Gladdy Gold. And my associates. At your service.’

  She turns to us, as if peering down at something unpleasant, then skims quickly at the card, plays with it, turns it up and down and around; smirks, as if it were some kind of joke. Then she glares at us, treating us with the same scorn she treated our card. She laughs. ‘You’re kidding. Right. This is some trick or treat?’ She looks to her audience of two policemen who sit nearby at their desks, and says ever-so-cutely, ‘Is it Halloween already?’

  The cops grin, clapping at her humor.

  Halloween, ha ha, big joke. Another insult. Here we go again. Teresa was surprised at our vocation, because we were females and seniors. Our ‘famous’ ghost thought we were pitiful and laughed hysterically, or so we learned from our spirit-communicator, Bella. Now this mean-looking piece of work is demeaning us, and giving us a hard time.

  I ignore the affront, and stiffen my body into a sturdy business position. And with an equally strong voice to hers, I let her find out we are to be reckoned with. ‘We work out of Fort Lauderdale and we’re here hired by the Wassingers …’

  The sergeant’s hand shoots up. She stops me. ‘Not them, again! Mercy me. Look, ladies, you are out of your depth. We’ve already informed the Wassingers that Robert Strand died in a boating accident. And we have definitive proof.’

  Evvi
e jumps in, furious with this hard-nosed cop, ‘You must not have found the boat; it might have given you much-needed information.’

  Callous smile from Barbara, ‘Not that we needed it. Strand’s drowned body was washed up on shore. The autopsy definitely showed that he was gored by a fish. I wish all of our cases were this easy. The victim did us the favor by taking a photo of himself being gored by that fish.’ She stifles a laugh. ‘Sorry, but it does sound funny. Proof positive. Death by selfie. This case is open and shut!’

  Wow! I’m impressed. She blew all that ‘definite’ information out, without taking a breath.

  The cops, at the nearby desks, chuckle along with her. One calls out, ‘A great fish story.’ The other mimics, ‘Something’s fishy here.’

  Barbara gets into the act. ‘Good things come to those who bait!’

  Cop one is next, and says winking at her, ‘I like that gal. She’s a hooker!’

  Big laughs all around. but they’re not through. We watch with pursed lips.

  Cop number two, ‘Happiness is a big fish and a witness to prove it.’

  Barbara again, ‘Couples that fish together, stay together.’

  That gets a small woo! Barbara isn’t finished, ‘Here fishy, fishy, fishy …’

  Cop one tops her, ‘The way to a man’s heart is through his fly.’

  Big laughs at that. Sophie blushes and covers Bella’s ears with her hands.

  Cop humor.

  Evvie comments angrily. ‘A man died. It isn’t funny.’

  That quiets them down. The guys go back to what they were doing. Barbara stands firm. She’s waiting for us to leave.

  Cop-lady sure is full of a lot of assumptions. I say, ‘About that photo, may we see it?’

  Sergeant Barbara Ella cuts me off and practically shoves us toward the door. ‘Time to leave. We have real cases to deal with. With real cops, not little old ladies playing at being cops. And do tell the annoying Wassingers to please stop – no more phone calls.’

  Talk about being insulted!

  Outside, dumped like trash, we stand there for a few minutes, waiting to get over that ‘bums rush’. We are seething. Bella is confused. ‘I didn’t get those fish jokes. Especially that last one. It sounded dirty.’

  Sophie says, ‘It was, forget you ever heard them. They were mean.’

  Bella also wants to know what a selfie is.

  Evvie explains it. Bella doesn’t get it. Evvie tries again, ‘You have a phone that is also a camera …’

  Bella is confused. ‘How can a phone be a camera?’

  Evvie quits. Bella will never get it.

  Sophie takes over and also tries her hand at explaining it. ‘It just is. You hold the phone up and it takes a picture of you holding up your camera. And it’s called a selfie, because you take your own self’s picture. Get it?’

  Bella is near tears. ‘It doesn’t make sense. A selfie? Is that really a word?’ She says low, ‘My phone doesn’t do that.’

  Sophie pats her on the back, as if to say it’s all right, never mind. What she usually does when Bella is confused. Bella smiles; she has her best friend back.

  No hope back in there with Ms Hard-as-nails cop. ‘And she never showed us the photo. She tells jokes? We wasted her time? The witch!’

  Once again, we’re seen as just little old ladies playing at being cops. Indeed!

  I promise that soon you will eat those words, Barbara, babe.

  THIRTY

  A Busy Tale of Three Lawyers

  Next stop, STRAND, SMYTHE and LOVE lawyers. We find a posh office on an expensive street. Lots of glass and shiny wood in all the buildings.

  In their office, we are aware of the many plaques on the wall showing us how famous the trio is and what city and state awards they’ve won. And of all the important organizations they belong to. There’s also a photo of their pre-teen baseball team, with the winning name, Dolphins, printed at the bottom. Robert Strand is in the photo as their manager. The kids are all smiling and happy. Part of public service.

  And even a photo of – I guess his partners – Smythe and Love, proudly showing off a huge caught marlin. This town is fish crazy. But, never having seen a monster like this, I shudder at its long, lethal, spear-shaped dangerous snout.

  We inform the receptionist, a gum-chewing, flabby blond with black roots showing, that we have an appointment. She is busily fanning herself with a Japanese type of fan as she reads an issue of People magazine. She wears a sleeveless thin blouse in this exceedingly warm office.

  With her nose up in the atmosphere, she advises us that only Mr Parkhurst J. Smythe is here today. Mr Albert Love is out of the office. And we are informed that Mr Smythe is extremely busy.

  I respond to huffy with huffy, ‘We’re busy, too, but we’ll wait.’

  To show how active and important he is, we’re kept waiting forty minutes. We show how busy we are by looking around the room a lot. After a closer glance at the awards and such, we become aware that the air-conditioning is on dreadfully low, and we are getting awfully warm. Cheapskates obviously don’t want to spend their money. Without the air to recycle it, the room smells of dead cigar.

  And everything is so brown! Brown furniture. Brown walls. Brown bookcases; even all the law books look brown. Brown photos of early Key West, sometime in the eighteenth century, in what is called sepia brown.

  We wiggle in our seat cushions (brown also) and attempt to read the magazines on the coffee table, but they’re all are about yachting. Along with company pamphlets with the title, ‘Ten Reasons Why You Need a Lawyer’. The cover is … brown.

  When Smythe finally comes out, he’s a skinny, fifty-ish, five-foot-high man in a shiny black suit. He takes one look at us, and he immediately looks at his watch, to indicate that his time is precious and he is annoyed at being bothered. He asks the blond with black roots receptionist, as if wondering aloud, ‘Where are the private investigators?’

  She shrugs and goes back to her People magazine.

  Here we go again. I look down – Smythe’s shoes are brown.

  I sigh, and then go through my dog and pony act again, quickly explaining: ‘Incredible as it may seem to you, yes, we are private investigators; my associates are Evelyn Markowitz, Sophie Myerbeer and Bella Fox. We were hired by Louie and Sadie Wassinger to find out what happened to your partner, Mr Strand and we wish to discuss this case with you.’

  All said without taking a breath. I can do that, too.

  Bella and Sophie are trying to hide their giggles because they think Smythe’s (brown) toupee is crooked. I can tell Sophie already dislikes him because he seems cranky and uppity. Bella also looks askance on this unpleasant man.

  After he gets over the shock of our really, truly insisting we are PIs; being a man of the law, and probably paranoid, he immediately wants to see our credentials and license.

  Shucks, I was afraid of that. This only comes up once in a great while. Needing to downright lie, I say, playing my role as impractical woman, ‘Oh goodness me, I left them at home.’

  One of these days, we must get around to applying for a license. My son-in-law, Morrie, has warned me time and time again that this paperwork was a necessity. But at our age, it seems silly to bother. Naturally, when we get back, I won’t report that Morrie was right once more.

  Being the stuffy lawyer he is, Smythe rightly feels he shouldn’t discuss personal information with the likes of us. And because we had no proof of our business, he is unwilling to treat us as equals. He says in his smarmy way, ‘Thank you for dropping in.’

  He waits for us to leave. I don’t move, so neither do my girls. Not so fast, Smythey. It’s not about our not having a license. It’s the same rigmarole. Women. Old. Couldn’t possibly believe we should be taken seriously. We’re not bowing to his obvious disrespect of women. I imagine pasting onto the plaque on the front door, ‘Misogynist-at-Law’.

  Bella whispers to Sophie, ‘Do we need to tell him fish jokes?’

  Sophie shushes h
er.

  Here I go again, ‘About the Robert Strand case …’

  We hear the expected groan. Translation: them again, those annoying Wassingers.

  ‘All right,’ he says caving in like the coward he is, ‘but I will tell you only this much.’

  He tosses words at us, a lot of legal mumbo jumbo into the air, that he and his partner, Albert Love, have taken over Mr Robert Strand’s clients and he can assure us they will do what is right for the Wassingers, and … please ask them to stop calling. It is very bothersome.’

  Speaking for our clients I say, ‘But the Wassingers are concerned that their property won’t go to the Historical Society when they are gone.’

  Smythe looks as if smoke will come out of his ears. One look at his guilty face and I am positive he does not have the interests of the Wassingers at heart. No siree.

  He manages to control himself. ‘That is no business of yours.’

  ‘We’ve heard that there is a photo that allegedly proves Mr Strand’s death was accidental—’

  Stiff as an ironing board, he interrupts, ‘So sorry. I cannot show it to you: it’s privileged.’

  This is getting repetitious. He walks us quickly to the door. Mr Smarmy sneers, needing to get in the last word, ‘Not your concern. Ours.’

  The receptionist throws us a little wave goodbye.

  But just before the door closes, my eye is caught by Smythe taking a quick glance at his photo of his big fish. Then immediately turns away.

  Outside, once again dumped, the girls rate him and with giggles, rename his fancy lawyer sign outside, ‘SLIMY, SLIPPERY & ONE DEAD GUY.’ I preferred my misogynist title.

  We don’t like him. We don’t trust him.

  Strike Two.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Ida Takes Over. Hy in Shock

  Ida places her hands on her hips and is smiling; obviously pleased with herself. Like some ice statue, frozen in time, Dolly-Ann, Manny and Hy stare at the woman in the doorway who is removing a raincoat.

  ‘Gotcha!’ smirks Ida Franz, private investigator extraordinaire. She looks around, noticing as to how her entrance has crowded this trailer. She can barely find standing room, as she takes it all in. What she sees in front of her is litter. She doesn’t want to touch anything. It seems so … unclean. What on earth has brought Hy to this depressing place so unlikely, so … beneath Hy’s sense of self?