Getting Old is to Die For

by Rita Lakin

  “When should we pick you up, your royal highnesses?” Ida doesn’t bother hiding her sarcasm, though it’s lost on the two of them.

  Bella is gleeful. “It sure beats that last stakeout we were on, at night on that awful street.”

  Sophie adds, “Yuk. Nothing to look at, nothing to buy.”

  “And no bathrooms anywhere.” Bella shudders at the memory of the awful bar in Plantation, where we staked out a client’s husband.

  “Perhaps you might want to look into a hotel and stay overnight. And shop some more tomorrow as well.” Icy-toned Ida still waits for a response.

  “You’re wasting your breath,” I tell her. To the girls, I say, “Call us on the cell phone when you’re ready to come back to work.”

  Bella feels a minuscule amount of guilt. “Do you want we should do takeout and get some sandwiches for you?”

  Ida lets her off the hook. Sort of. “Don’t bother, I love going hungry.”

  With that she and I drive away. “The little twits,” Ida adds.

  Ida is sitting next to me up front. Sister Evvie’s place of honor. Need I say Evvie is not with us? Yet again another excuse to be left alone and wallow in self-pity.

  The girls were right. Linda Silverstone’s house is impressively large and elegant, in a mock-Tudor style. But clearly built with security in mind, set far back with a long driveway and fenced all around. There’s an intercom at the entrance. We park across the street and settle in for a long wait.

  I catch Ida up on my reading of last night. She pales at the mention of the library. I make an educated guess. “You were also weirded out about the Google search?”

  “Yeah. I didn’t like the idea of our lives being so easy to probe.”

  I know I shouldn’t but I’m curious. “What did you think they’d say about you?”

  Ida immediately stiffens. “Nothing,” she says too quickly.

  I’m sorry I asked. It’s none of my business. If Ida wants to tell me something personal she’ll get to it in her own time. “Sorry,” I say.

  My cell phone rings, startling Ida. “They can’t have bought out the stores already.”

  “It might be Dr. Silverstone, the father. I put in a call this morning and left word for him to call me back.” Sure enough it is. I introduce myself and Ida, who I tell him is standing by. I remind him they’ve already spoken. I turn up the sound and Ida leans over in order to listen in.

  “What can I do to help you?” he asks. His voice is a rich baritone. I imagine him to be a good public speaker. From his book jackets I already know what he looks like: ramrod tall, lanky, thin. His wife, Elsbeth, as well. They look so much alike, they might have been brother and sister.

  “Tell us your plans. We hope to talk to your daughter soon. It might help to know what she’ll be missing.”

  “We have an elaborate shindig planned for the weekend. Guests will be flying in from all over the country. My university and business colleagues. And Linda’s aunts and uncles as well. All of us will be staying at the Ritz-Carlton. There will be a cocktail party Friday night and golf Saturday morning. Saturday night, a banquet with fine dining and dancing, for Elsbeth’s and my seventieth wedding anniversary. Sunday we’re planning an all-day hike along the Everglades.”

  Ida and I look at one another, impressed. I ask, “Sounds quite vigorous. May I ask your ages?” The doctor laughs. “I’m ninety-four and Elsbeth is a mere ninety-two. We practice what we preach in our books.”

  I think how upbeat and robust this man sounds. Ida comments, “It certainly seems like it.”

  I ask, “Can you think of any possible reason your daughter doesn’t want to join you on this important occasion?”

  Elsbeth is now on the line. She sounds chirpy and optimistic as well. “Absolutely not. We’re very close to our daughter and she always attends every family function. We do need your help to understand what is going on.”

  I ask, “Have you spoken to her lately?”

  “No, she only e-mails. I mean that isn’t unusual. We’ve been in the habit of doing that for years. But not to speak to us at all? What could she possibly be working on that she can’t take off a weekend for us? We know she’s writing a new book; she keeps us apprised, but still.”

  Harvard adds, “In fact she used to hop in her Mercedes and drive the hundred and fifty miles on a whim just to surprise us.”

  “We are greatly puzzled,” Elsbeth says. Now there is a quaver in her voice. “Did we do or say something that offended our daughter? We can’t imagine what. I’ve always thought of us as a very close family.”

  Harvard continues. “Besides hurting our feelings, how can she insult all our guests, most of whom she’s known all her life?” He pauses. “I won’t beg.”

  Elsbeth says with passion, “I would. I need to have our daughter with us.”

  Ida nudges me. A car drives up to the gate.

  I close the conversation. “We will do what we can and inform you as soon as we know something.” The Silverstones thank us and we all hang up.

  “I missed it,” I say to Ida. “Did you see what was written on the side of the van?”

  “I think it said something about gourmet foods.”

  The van is buzzed in. Ida grabs the binoculars and watches the front door. I squint to see as well. Sure enough it’s a grocery delivery. A woman comes to the door, but it can’t be Linda; this woman is much younger. She signs a receipt and the door closes. The van leaves.

  “Well,” says Ida, “that tells us she doesn’t answer her own door or do her own shopping. She has an assistant or something, who doesn’t do the shopping, either. Wonder if the woman lives in?”

  “Linda and her parents sound like a loving family.”

  “Unless they’re lying,” says my cynical partner.

  I muse. I wonder how Evvie would feel knowing that Ida has taken her place and is a pretty good assistant.

  Nothing much happens in the hours we wait. Ida and I share our bag lunch. No one else arrives or leaves. I attempt to call Linda a few more times but still get the answering machine every time. We wait for her assistant to leave. She doesn’t.

  “Next time we come earlier and leave later,” I inform Ida.

  “Whatever.”

  Finally at seven o’clock I pick up my “helpers” at the mall. Their arms are filled with packages.

  “Is it that late already?” Sophie comments. “My, how time flies when you’re having fun.”

  Need I say a word?

  FULL SPEED AHEAD

  They sit in the lobby of Jack’s seedy run-down hotel: Jack, his daughter, Lisa, and Gladdy’s daughter, Emily. The lobby is a study in discolored browns and faded shades of beige. The lights are kept low, the better to hide what time has wrought on this sad place.

  Despite what the place looks like, it is filled with tourists. Hotels are always at a premium in this city. The travelers look harried, mostly Europeans who trusted the descriptions of what they would find here from far away. The hotel staff, having seen it all, and been around too long, are bored and lethargic. Service is at a minimum.

  Lisa is still needling Jack for not staying with her in their apartment on the West Side. “I guess my dad doesn’t mind hot and cold running bugs.”

  She pretends to scratch her legs as if something is crawling. “This place gives new meaning to the word ‘fleabag.’ ”

  “Please,” Jack retorts, “my abode is centrally located in the heart of Manhattan, where all the action is. Besides, I like beds that sag in the middle—keeps me from falling out.”

  Emily and Lisa laugh. “No accounting for some people’s taste,” Emily says.

  Jack is practically kvelling at the two women now becoming fast friends. After Back to School Night, they got together, he suspects, to gossip about their parents, probably speculating about their parents’ love affair. He imagines them giggling behind his back.

  Lisa has learned from Emily why her father has come back to New York, and now they’re hi
s cheering squad. Encouraging him on, breathlessly hoping he can do the impossible. Jack thinks he’s crazy for undertaking such an unattainable goal, and even crazier for telling them about it.

  Look at them, Lisa’s blond head leaning into Emily’s dark one, dressed like the sophisticated New Yorkers they are. Their eyes are bright with excitement—and worry, as well. Two beautiful, smart, caring women. Wait ’til Gladdy finds out. After she gets over wanting to kill Jack for doing this behind her back, she’ll be as thrilled as he is.

  For an hour they’ve been unaware of the people going back and forth with suitcases, the doors opening, the sound of the bellman’s whistle summoning cabs; even the Musak piped in has no effect on them. So totally focused they are in listening as Jack gives them the details of how he intends to proceed with his impossible quest.

  They are rat-a-tat questioning his every comment.

  “How long will you be away?” Emily.

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “Is there someone there who can help you?” Lisa.

  “Not really.”

  “Will you bring the police in on it?” Emily.

  “Only when and if I have to.”

  “How do you expect to find her?” Lisa.

  “What if Patty moved away?” Emily.

  “What is she refuses to talk to you?” Lisa.

  His hands fly up in mock reproach. “Whoa. Slow down. I promise to keep you up on what I find out. I have names of relatives, thanks to that oddball reporter, Milt Paxton. I have an old address. Believe me, if she’s there, I’ll track her down. And I will find a way to make her talk to me.”

  “When are you leaving?” Lisa asked.

  “I’ll pick up the car rental and head out as soon as we are done. It’s not that far away. Maybe twenty minutes or so over the bridge. And I’ll dig right in.”

  Almost in unison, the women lean back against the worn brown couch. He can almost feel their tension. “Try not to worry.”

  “Hahaha,” says Lisa. “What, me worry?” mimicking Alfred E. Neuman, the Mad magazine character.

  There is finally a lull in the conversation. It’s as if they’ve run out of things to say. All that’s left are the unmentionable fears and doubts.

  Lisa stands up. “I’ve got to go and pick the baby up at the sitter.”

  Emily stands, too. “I’ve got to stop at Gristedes for something for dinner.”

  The three of them head for the door. Outside, they respond momentarily to the heat and the crowds hurrying past them. The women take turns hugging Jack.

  “Be careful,” Lisa warns.

  “Godspeed,” Emily says.

  Jack watches after them as they walk away from him.

  He says a quiet prayer to himself: Please don’t let me fail.

  HEADING OUT

  Jack is following his pal Tim Reilly’s directions and warnings. Yes, the West Side Highway is full of potholes and, yes, there’s plenty of traffic. He drives his rented Ford Escort onto the lower level of the George Washington Bridge. Tim advised him of the maze of confusing signs once he got off, but he finds the exit for Route 4 west easily enough. He passes Fort Lee and remembers taking his children to the Palisades Amusement Park, which no longer exists.

  Such happy days. He and Faye would hold hands and watch as Morrie and Lisa went on those terrifying rides: The Tilt-A-Whirl, the Cyclone, the Wild Tiger—one more petrifying than the other. How they loved the excitement.

  “Tell me when they’re off,” Faye would say, keeping her eyes closed until the kids were on the ground again. Those precious days when Jack took time off from work, hoping every moment that his beeper wouldn’t ring and disrupt their day. Faye never stopped worrying. She dreaded the possibility that someday he would not come home at all. But God was good to them: Jack survived being a cop; Faye lived long enough to see their children grow up. He was a lucky man. Now he has a new chance at love. And this trip will bring his new love the best wedding present he can give her.

  He passes Teaneck, then Hackensack. Finally, he turns at his exit at Saddle River Road. It’s only taken him half an hour to arrive at Fair Lawn, where he is determined to ferret out Patty Dennison. Or else. Or else what? he wonders. What if the trail ends here?

  Jack watches the signs carefully. He’s heard about Radburn, the unique model community built in the thirties, almost a town within a town. It has a park at its center with the streets angling out at its hub, a contained unit.

  But he senses that’s not where he needs to go. He follows the road into Fair Lawn itself, past Carvel Ice Cream and Topps Cleaners and the Royal Bakery. As he starts leaving town, he sees a diner and a nearby motel. That should work. Register, and then hit the diner. He’ll stir with a big spoon and let whatever relatives might still be around learn that a big gun is in town.

  He has made the decision to stay here, at least overnight, to see what might happen. The motel is adequate, like so many chains across the country. He leaves his duffel bag there and walks across the way to the diner, his shirt clinging to him in the heat. His khakis are wrinkled from the drive. He enters the diner—it, too, is like thousands of others of its kind across the country.

  It’s lunchtime. Jack isn’t hungry, having had a nosh with the girls. He orders coffee at the counter and looks around. It’s what he would expect. A trucker type, probably from the rig parked right outside. A couple of moms with their small children. A few guys in suits, maybe from the real estate office he just passed. A man and woman casually dressed. A youngish redheaded male, alone, reading a newspaper. Good. Mostly locals. There’s a low buzz of quiet conversation.

  Jack takes out his map and pretends to study it: the ultimate tourist. The counter waitress, plain-looking and curious, wears a uniform with one of those old-fashioned napkins in her pocket with a name tag. Betty hands him a menu. “Looking for someplace?”

  Jack smiles at her. “Actually looking for someone, Betty,” he says, reading her tag. “She had family, used to live on Upton Street. Doubt they’re there anymore.”

  “Maybe I could help you. Born and bred in Fair Lawn.”

  “Dennison. Patty Dennison?” he says, purposely raising his voice.

  The chatter stops. The customers openly stare at him. Betty recoils. The owner, big and brawny, fiftyish, maybe once was a boxer, quickly steps forward from behind the counter, placing his bulk in front of the waitress, arms crossed. “Nobody in this town named Dennison.”

  “Her name’s Patty? Maybe you knew her? Know where she moved to?”

  “Never heard of her.”

  Jack turns to the other customers. “Anybody else know her? It’s worth a few bucks.” No one speaks. The customers pretend to concentrate on their meals. The redhead rattles his paper.

  Jack purposely looks insincere, about to tell a lie that would easily not be believed. “She’s got some money coming to her and I’m here to give it to her.”

  The owner looks at him in disgust. “Yeah, right.” He returns to his griddle. The waitress moves away.

  “What about anybody named Sutterfield? B. Sutterfield?” One of the family names from Paxton’s list. Not a peep out of anyone. “I’m at the motel across the highway if anyone thinks of something. Jack Langford.”

  Jack downs the rest of his coffee, pays, and leaves the totally silent restaurant.

  He walks around the corner and pretends to be looking at a newspaper rack. He doesn’t have to wait long. It’s the redheaded young man who was reading a newspaper.

  “How much is this information worth?”

  “Fifty bucks if it’s true info.”

  The young man’s hand snakes out. Jack holds the money away from him. “What do you know?”

  “I know Barbara Sutterfield. We both work at the Nabisco factory.”

  “Why aren’t you there now?”

  “I get sick of eating in the cafeteria.”

  “Where’s Patty? That’s worth a hundred.”

  He hesitates, his eyes glued to J
ack’s open wallet. Jack notices his jeans are worn; his T-shirt advertises a local bowling alley. The young guy shakes his head as if to shake temptation away. “I only know about Barbara.”

  Jack pretends to get tough. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  “My name’s Dick Smiler.” He indicates the coffee shop. “Everyone knows me.”

  “I’ll find you if I have to.”

  Jack looks Smiler hard in the eyes for a few seconds, then hands him a crisp fifty. The young man starts moving away quickly. He turns. “You some reporter or something?”

  Jack smiles. “Something.”

  The guy runs off to where his car is parked in the back lot. Jack is pleased. Go ahead, kid, tell the whole town.

  He buys the paper and crosses back to the motel, deciding on the way. He’ll wait until tomorrow, let the word spread. Let the tension build. Maybe Paxton’s information was still good and he caught a big break. Patty still has family here, and that’s a very good omen.

  GETTING TO LINDA

  “Hello, I left a message earlier. This is Gladdy Gold. Please call me.”

  I am very frustrated. Linda Silverstone is getting to be annoying.

  Evvie opens my screen door; walks in, joins me in the kitchen. I notice she’s still wearing dark colors. I can’t get used to it. My Evvie, my Florida Parrot, a woman of many bright colors. She’s in mourning and I don’t know what to do to get her out of it.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask.

  She shrugs. She beelines to the stove and pours herself a cup of coffee.

  “Want to do something today? Maybe a movie? I happened to notice, one of the local movies is giving out prizes at Wednesday matinees. Should I find out which theater?” Evvie keeps ignoring me. I press on. “Something you might want to review? People keep asking when they’ll see another edition of your newsletter.”