Getting Old Can Kill You: A Mystery

by Rita Lakin

  Enya, our war survivor, sits in her corner, large straw sun hat blocking her face, eyes glued to a book, ignoring everyone as is her preference.

  The snowbirds are devouring their usual Canadian newspapers.

  Irving and Mary, still good friends, continue to visit Irving’s wife, Millie, who remains in the Alzheimer’s ward at a nearby facility. They visit her every day, even though she doesn’t recognize either of them.

  The two cousins, Barbi and Casey, who ran a computer information business, have moved back to San Francisco where they feel they will have more freedom to live the kind of life they prefer to lead. I suspect they weren’t really cousins.

  As we settle into our chaises, Hy starts in with another of his jokes. The Internet supplies him with these old saws by the hundreds. He practically dances up and down in his enthusiasm.

  “Didja hear the one about the ninety-year-old guy sitting on a park bench crying? A cop comes over and asks what’s the matter. Herby, that’s his name, Herby says he just came home from his honeymoon with his gorgeous young wife. The cries become sobs. ‘Well,’ says the cop, ‘good for you. But why are you crying?’ Herbie blows his nose and says, ‘She’s waiting for me in her negligee and I don’t remember where we live.’ ”

  There is a mild smattering of applause, mostly from Lola and Sol. I would guess that joke is as old as Hy.

  Jack and I apply our sunblock. He does my back and I do his.

  Hy wants to annoy us some more. He leans closer and pesters us about where the girls were going today and have we heard from Evvie. I say, “I don’t know” and “yes.” That’s as much information as I’ll give out to the likes of him. I lie down on my stomach, my back to Hy.

  He’d try harder, but one look from Jack shuts him down. Off he goes to join Sol. They sit at his patio table and the two men start to play cards.

  Peace and quiet at last. Jack is happily doing the Sunday crosswords and I am trying not to think of Evvie and Joe’s two empty chairs next to me. I’ll probably call my sister again today. I remember back to the days we all lived in the Bronx. We used to call each other three or four times a day, and laugh at ourselves. The second or third conversation always started with, By the way, I forgot to tell you, this or that …

  And here we live in buildings directly across the way. We can even see each other in our windows and wave. Yet we still make the many calls. I smile.

  Jack pokes me gently, pulling me out of my memories. “Company.”

  I turn over and glance to where he’s indicating.

  To my surprise, Arlene, in a bathing suit and coverall, is heading toward me, carrying her towel and swim tote. For a woman her age, her body is toned and agile.

  I sit up. All eyes are on her. Hy lets out a wolf whistle and Lola gives him a small, playful smack.

  Hy tells his wife, “Babe, I ain’t dead yet. I can still look.” He calls out, “Hey, Arlene. You get lost? Phase Three is thataway.”

  She doesn’t hear him; she is focused only on reaching me.

  Jack and I stand up to greet her.

  “May I join you?” she asks with intensity. She whispers, “You know why.”

  I point to Evvie’s empty lounge. “Of course. Take this chaise.”

  All eyes are on her. It’s change. And attention is paid.

  She adjusts the chair, sits down, and takes long breaths to calm herself.

  I speak low as well. “Has anything happened?”

  “I can’t talk about it now. I just need to get away from there.” She reaches for a magazine from her bag and attempts to read, but her hands are shaking.

  I pick up my novel, but I’m not reading, either. I don’t know how to help her. This is no solution. She’ll have to run into Joyce one of these days.

  The innocuous Muzak being piped in on the intercom starts to relax her. She places the towel across the front of her body, closes her eyes, and covers her face with her beach hat. I sense she might even sleep, she looks so tired.

  Now I do start to read. Jack gets up, stretches, and walks over to the pool, ready to dive in.

  But the peace and quiet is short-lived.

  Suddenly I can sense something change in the atmosphere. The low buzz of chatter halts. I glance up to see what has caught everyone’s attention.

  Joyce has entered the pool area and is looking around. A peacock among the hens. I don’t think any of us here have bought anything new or as colorful in at least five years. She is enveloped in a long loose muumuu-like outfit in strikingly bold and bright slashes of pink and green. Her matching sun hat is at a rakish angle. Her huge white-rimmed sunglasses almost cover her whole face. All of it is obviously expensive.

  One can’t help compare the two of them. Arlene is the real beauty and Joyce uses the cover of clothing to hide her unattractiveness.

  Joyce spots me and starts to walk over, smiling as she does.

  Hy has to butt in. “What’s going on in Phase Three? What’s with all these sudden visitors? An exodus? An epidemic? Somebody’s grandkid pee in the pool?”

  These things happen at once. Jack quickly comes back to me. I jump up, accidentally knocking into Evvie’s chair, which startles Arlene.

  As Joyce reaches me, Arlene leaps up off the chaise, her hat falling down onto the cement.

  Both women gasp.

  Joyce stops in her tracks.

  Arlene turns to me, stricken. She whispers hoarsely, “What is she doing here? What?”

  Even though Arlene speaks to me, Joyce answers her. “Our pool was so crowded, I thought I’d just come next door and see if there was room here.”

  Arlene grabs her towel and bag, forgetting her hat and her sandals, and begins to back away. She cries out, her voice shaky, “Please. Keep her away from me!”

  Joyce, embarrassed, lifts her arms in supplication. “Wait, Arlene, don’t go. I didn’t know you were here. Honest. I’ll leave, please, Arlene, come back!”

  But Arlene is running now. I’m hoping she doesn’t fall. At our age, falling is a real danger.

  Everyone watches this dramatic happening. News of this incident will spread fast and far.

  I pick up the belongings Arlene left behind and hurry after her. I nod to Jack, who nods back, understanding that I need to try to help. No running for me, but I’m moving as quickly and as safely as I can. Behind me, I hear Joyce saying poignantly to one and all, “What can I do? She hates me. What should I do?”

  I catch up with Arlene, who has stopped, out of breath, and is now leaning against the outside wall of the Phase Three shower room, tears in her eyes. “I can’t bear it.”

  I put my arms around her to comfort her. “Arlene, this is no good. You have to find a way to deal with this situation without getting yourself in such a state.”

  “I know, but you don’t know what’s going on. I can’t tolerate the sight of her!”

  “First, call your doctor and ask for a mild tranquilizer. You need to calm down.” I’m hoping her doctor suggests she see a psychologist.

  She nods her head. “I will. I promise.”

  We move toward her building. All the while Arlene glances behind her in case Joyce is following. “I have to do something. I’ll have to move out!”

  “That’s not a solution. This is your home. You’re happy here.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “But you have friends here.”

  Arlene stops and looks straight at me. Stronger now. “Do I? Do you ever see me with friends?”

  I look at her, surprised at the unexpected comment. I try to recollect her being with people, other than at the few clubs she joins, but I’m not getting any picture of her hanging out with any of the club members. I remember she is considered a loner.

  Arlene sighs. “I know what people say behind my back. How they see me. Why don’t I conform? Everyone else has let their hair go natural. I still color mine. And go to the beauty salon every week. The ‘uniform’ here is to wear loose and plain clothes. I dress up every day. I st
ill wear makeup. I go to the gym three times a week.”

  I try to defend her. “You can do whatever you want.”

  “Gladdy, really? Come on. Not so. As I mentioned, I was married twice. Each husband wanted a glamorous wife. So I dressed up for them and it became a habit. A habit I kept on following even though I’m single now. Can you understand what I mean?”

  I comment, “Yes, as I was trained by my mother early on to always make my bed as soon as I woke up. And I still do that even though no one is watching.”

  “Exactly. When I came here, I thought I should change and be like everyone else. And then one day I said to myself, I’m not here to please them. I dress to please myself. What’s wrong with that? The women here think it’s necessary to be invisible because they’re old. Society expects that. But we aren’t obliged to look old. I’m not willing to look old.”

  I recall Hy whistling at her just moments ago. And Lola’s response.

  “So they think I’m a snob. And even a threat to the women. As if I’d want any of their husbands! Therefore, I keep to myself. I’m used to it and I prefer it.” Her mood changes. Darkens. “And now I’m forced to deal with someone out of my past who is toxic to me.”

  She is getting disturbed again. “Listen. I’ll go and talk to Joyce. Let me find out how long she intends to stay.”

  Arlene looks up at me, unhappily. “I can always visit my son or daughter for a while until she’s gone.” She shudders. “It gives me the creeps knowing she’s right underneath me. I can’t go down for my mail. I can’t shop for food. I feel trapped in my apartment. I only came out today because I thought I’d be safe where you are.”

  We reach her building. I suggest she go upstairs and lie down. She agrees. With a last look behind her she hurries into the elevator.

  This is a mess. This woman I hardly know has touched me. How can I help her? I don’t know what to do.

  I return. Joyce has gone, but her memory lingers on.

  Jack and I decide we’ve had enough of the pool today. We walk back to our condo. “What did I miss?” I ask him.

  “A lot of staring and whispering. Joyce apologized for spoiling our swim time, shed some tears, and walked off in another direction.”

  Jack asks, “And what did I miss? You were with Arlene for quite a while.”

  “She’s quite a woman. I had no idea. I’ll tell you more over a cup of tea. I need to think about this situation.”

  Jack adds, “While you were with Arlene, I had an idea. Since we’re on the Seymour case, it gives us an excuse to search his apartment. Hopefully, we can talk to Joyce at the same time and find some solution to Arlene’s problem.”

  “Good thinking,” I say.

  “Not that I’m dodging my responsibilities, but as you pointed out to me, these are women’s issues. You’d fare better talking to her alone.”

  I grin. “Aha … And what will you be up to, while I do all the work?” I give him a friendly nudge in his ribs.

  “Maybe talk to Morrie and get some ideas on how to track Seymour.”

  “That’s an idea.” I smile, thinking of Ida renaming her PI group. “Soon you’ll want to change our professional name.”

  Jack laughs. “Thanks for the suggestion. How about Jack Langford in big letters on our business cards, and in a corner, Gladdy Gold Langford, assistant, in tiny letters.”

  I punch him lightly on the arm. “We’ll see about that.”

  Joyce is more than willing to let me come up to search Seymour’s apartment. When I called her for an appointment, I had a feeling she wants to talk to me as much as I want to talk to her.

  She opens the door to me dressed in a simple yet elegant jumpsuit. Her thinning red hair is tousled and half covered with a scarf.

  As I enter, she tells me she’s on the phone with her daughter in California, so I should just feel free to look around.

  Joyce hurries back to the couch, picks up the phone, and continues speaking. “Yes, Stacy, honey, it’s just one of the neighbors.” I hear her sigh. “More delays? How hard is it to put in a Jacuzzi bathtub?”

  I slowly look around, but I’m half listening. The subject matter continues to be about the construction job on her new cottage in Sausalito.

  To say Seymour’s place is nondescript is putting it mildly. This man has lived here for twenty years and all he has are the basics. An ordinary wooden table with two chairs. A brownish five-foot couch and a black plastic recliner that’s seen better days. And a small TV on a rickety stand. No pictures on the walls. A minuscule side table with a TV Guide, still open.

  There’s some kind of scrapbook leaning next to the recliner. I stop for a few moments to examine these two things. The TV Guide has a number of shows circled. I recognize them as reality shows. Then I look into the scrapbook. It’s a shrine to these same kinds of shows. The Amazing Race, Survivor, Big Brother, Fear Factor, to name a few. Seymour is a big fan. Pages of information about the places, the people, the experiences. Interesting. This is the only object in this painfully plain apartment that shows an interest in life for Seymour. More like a passion, seeing how large this scrapbook is. I replace it where I found it.

  In the bedroom, I’m surprised to see an expensive king-size bed along with a single-size bed pushed against a far wall and a simple chest of drawers. I open the drawers. Nothing in there. The closet has, I assume, what’s left of Seymour’s clothes after taking the rest on his trip. Joyce has hung up some of her things as far away in the closet as she can from his. The rest she seems to keep in her open suitcase near her bed.

  In the bathroom, there’s nothing in the medicine cabinet except for a half-used tube of toothpaste. Joyce keeps all her cosmetics out on the sink.

  The kitchen has barely any cooking utensils. I open the fridge. Joyce has her groceries in there. Some yogurts, salad makings, juice, and coffee.

  A few TV dinners are in the freezer, probably left over by Seymour.

  My search takes five minutes. There isn’t anything here. Seymour lived with practically nothing. Which makes sense now that Leah explained about his narrow existence. It seems to reflect Seymour’s empty, sad life.

  But the more important mystery: What is the obviously wealthy Joyce Steiner doing in a place like this? There’s no doubt she comes from much better circumstances.

  Joyce appears behind me, phone call completed. As if she reads my mind, “Dismal, isn’t it? Amazing that anyone could live like this. As you might have noticed, I shipped my own bed here. I’m used to a lot more comfort, at least while I’m sleeping. I couldn’t imagine myself sleeping in Seymour’s bed. Would you like to join me in a cup of tea?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Joyce boils the water in a small pot. There are literally only two cups. She brings over a package containing a selection of herb teas.

  “Peppermint all right with you?” I nod. She pours hot water over our tea bags.

  As we sit at the kitchen table, she asks, “Did you find anything? Nothing much here of Mr. Seymour Andrews, is there? I was quite amazed when I saw this place, to think that he’s actually lived like this for years. At first I was appalled, and then I was not. I suddenly realized I craved what he had. Simplicity.”

  I wanted to ask questions, but I didn’t need to. I let her ramble on. Heaven knows, I’ve already realized, she loves to talk about herself. She’s doing all my investigative work for me.

  “Most of my belongings have already been shipped to my daughter, since I thought I’d be going there as soon as I sold my place. When Stacy informed me there was a delay in construction, I panicked at first. But then I began to understand this odd situation was freeing me to do what I had to do. Deal with myself.”

  She grimaces, then reaches into her purse, which is at her side. It’s large, and I’m curious as to what’s in there.

  Joyce takes out a pill bottle, spills two pills into her hand. She gets up and takes them with a glass of water. “Indigestion, acid reflux,” she explains. “I’m ashamed.
I don’t even have a cookie to offer you. I’ve been dieting.”

  “Not a problem.” She is painfully thin. Why do wealthy people need to look like skeletons? I’m happy that Jack talked me into a large lunch. She should stop dieting, but it’s not my business to give her advice.

  She continues. “At first I stayed at good hotels, but after a while I was bored with it. Too much temptation to drink and smoke and spend time with the kind of people I no longer enjoyed. I wanted to get back to who I once was a very long time ago, not this angry, rich wife, recently widowed. I realized I hated who I’d become.”

  Joyce chats on and on. About the mansion she had just sold that was on the Intracoastal Waterway. It’s a throwaway remark, as if it was no big deal, but I know that area. Just about everyone does. Yet, few of us ever get to see it. The waterway covers three thousand miles of land touching the Atlantic and Gulf coasts. It runs nearly the entire length of the eastern seaboard. But what she’s talking about is a section of Fort Lauderdale and Sunrise. Both towns contain incredible real estate. No way to visit them unless invited. Or if one takes the tourist boat trip that shows off these expensive homes, known for their astronomically high prices because of their privacy and exclusivity.

  We are probably a twenty-minute drive from those homes, but they might as well be on the moon for how far they are from our reality.

  Joyce regales me with tales of servants, country clubs, what she called in her words a useless life. The cash register in my head is tallying up real estate and memberships and Jaguars and yachts and I’m way up in the millions.

  Joyce is still throwing pearls to the swine, so to speak. Seemingly so bored with her affluent life. “I gave up on hotels and looked for a sublet. And that’s how I ended up here. And then to my utter amazement, I found Arlene. It was beshert. You know, fate.”

  She pauses. I guess she is finally giving me a turn to speak. Or cueing me on what should come next? Or skipping over details she doesn’t want me to know? Gladdy, I chide myself, don’t be so cynical.