by Rita Lakin
Morrie is about to put down his wineglass. “We have a busy day tomorrow. I better head out.”
Jack teases, indicating his glass, “Are you sure you can drive? We wouldn’t want you to be picked up by the cops for DUI.”
I can’t resist adding, “And have to walk that silly line in front of your peers. It would be so embarrassing.”
“Ha-ha,” Morrie says. “I’ve been nursing this one drink all evening, smart guys. I think I can manage to get home in one piece.”
We smile and exchange hugs.
“Tomorrow we clear up this mess,” he says, lifting the wineglass in a toast.
We do the same.
“Tomorrow,” Jack says.
Amen.
Things are moving very fast and furiously. With Morrie’s police team doing the legwork, answers are coming in practically every hour on the hour. Morrie keeps us in the loop all day long. Every so often Evvie and the girls drop in to hear the latest news reports. Needless to say we’re very excited.
Kenneth was definitely the key. He lied about everything. His phone records show he was in constant discussion with Joyce since she moved into Lanai Gardens. They were so sure of themselves, they didn’t even bother to hide their tracks by using prepaid cellphones.
He wasn’t going to Hong Kong. He never intended to. Based on the way this trip was ticketed, he bought it the night Joyce died. He knew she was dead before we notified him. He knew we’d discover that he was the person holding her will. So he needed only to wait for us to meet with him, spin his prepared story, and—poof!—he was gone.
Apparently Kenneth Ryan had the entire fortune. Joyce’s house sale profits. And the Jaguar. And the yacht. All her properties. How did he manage to keep that information secret? It doesn’t matter now. All the profits went away with him. All eleven million, and as he arrogantly told us, whatever more that would round it out. All gone. There was no money left in his or Joyce’s bank account.
Our boy transferred all his funds to his next destination, his new home. Not Hong Kong. And where did he move to? Dubai, United Arab Emirates. And why there? It’s all about extradition. The United States can’t bring him back on any charges.
His secretary had a lot to say. Mr. Ryan had been acting oddly for a long time. He was constantly going to “meetings” but never told her where or when or with whom. Very unlike him. He used to have her keep detailed records of all his appointments, but that changed suddenly. She suspected he had a secret place where he went quite often. She had no idea where. We assume he was with Joyce.
Kenneth made a number of practically overnight trips overseas for very short periods of time. His secretary didn’t know where.
He also told her just before he left that he wouldn’t be back for a long time. She was now looking for another job.
A new shocking piece of information: Morrie contacted the lawyer we were told would handle Joyce’s affairs from now on, a man named Jeffrey Finch. Mr. Finch had a different will from the one we were given to read. Apparently Joyce came in and changed the earlier one, thereby canceling that one out. This new will stated that if Arlene Simon was disavowed because of criminal charges, it all went to Kenneth Ryan.
Apparently Mr. Ryan took a jump start on his inheritance.
We questioned the validity of such a document. Could Joyce’s lawyer write up a will that makes him the beneficiary? No, legally he couldn’t. But Kenneth and Joyce thought of everything. He didn’t prepare this last will; this Jeffrey Finch, who did not know Kenneth Ryan, was the new executor of her estate.
The stunning news keeps coming in.
After an exhausting day of absorbing one shock after another, Jack and I collapse on our sofa, reeling from the information about this incredible plot that these two people concocted. Probably hadn’t been difficult for Joyce to entice Kenneth into assisting her. He had those eleven million as his reward for helping Joyce destroy Arlene’s life.
The phone rings and we don’t want to answer any more calls. Too tired to explain to one more person what had been going on.
We let it ring and the answering machine clicks on. “Hello,” we hear a woman’s voice, “this is Stacy Wilson calling from California. You’ve been trying to reach me …?”
Jack and I sprint for the phone. I am closer. I quickly press the speaker button, so we both can hear.
“Yes, hello,” I say breathlessly. “My name is Gladys Gold. We live in Florida. My husband and I have been trying to reach you for some time now. Did you speak to the Sausalito police?”
“No,” she answers. “I was more curious to find out why total strangers were also leaving messages for me.”
Jack speaks. “Hello, Stacy. My name is Jack Langford. But didn’t the police leave word that it concerned your mother?”
I hear a sound that makes me think she’s lighting a cigarette. There’s a rather long pause. We wait. Then she speaks again. “Yes, they did, but frankly I had no curiosity and wasn’t the least bit interested in hearing anything pertaining to my mother.”
Jack and I look at each other. What’s this?
I say as gently as I can, “We called, sorry to be the ones to inform you, to say your mother has died.”
Another pause. I’m beginning to get a feeling about what is coming next.
Stacy laughs, causing herself to cough. Definitely a cigarette raspy cough. “Hell,” she says, “I thought she died years ago!”
Now we’re the ones needing to pause. What do we say next? But Stacy saves us the trouble.
“And more to the point, as far as I’m concerned, my mother has been dead to me since I was twenty-one, when I was finally able to break away from my parents. That’s when I got married and moved to California, getting as far from them as I could.”
I might as well go for it. “But before she died your mother said she was going to move to California and live with your family in a guest cottage you were building for her on your property.”
The laughter this time gives her hiccups. “What guest house? There is no guest house. My looney-tune mother was not coming to Sausalito to live with me and my husband and children. Over my dead body before I’d let that happen. What had that witch been up to?”
Jack comments, “Frankly, we’re stunned hearing this. We believed her story.”
“That’s not too hard to understand. My parents could turn on their devious, charming personalities when they wanted to get their way.”
Her tone is sarcastic now. “Let me fill you in about my life with Mummy and Daddy. Doctor Edward, as he liked to be called, was too busy. He was never home, and I learned to be grateful for any precious moments he bestowed upon me. Which were few and far between. Mom, on the other hand, was toxic. She was a horror. Luck of the draw. I had a sick mother who should have been institutionalized. She was the mother from hell. When she met my husband-to-be, the witch even tried to seduce him. That was the last straw.
“When I got married and moved out, I never looked back again. Frankly, it always amazed me that I turned out normal after those two misfits finished raising me. I was lucky I was able to choose a decent, caring, sane man and was able to love someone.” Stacy laughs again. “I may have married a doctor, too, but I was smart enough not to marry a surgeon.”
When Jack and I are finally allowed to get a word in, we tell her that her mother has been murdered.
Stacy’s response is chilling. “What took so long?”
She adds, “I have no intention of coming to any funeral. Please don’t call again.” Wow!
Later in the day, we report on the Stacy call. Morrie is as astounded as we are. Then we get this further update from him.
“Guess where Kenneth Ryan went to on his almost-overnight short trips to very faraway places? Sydney, Australia, Fiji, Tahiti, and Hawaii. Sound familiar?”
To mail four postcards of a posing Seymour, to make sure the stamps were real! Very expensive trips as part of their devious plot.
Yes, the postcards stopped
the day Joyce died. And Kenneth left the country. Seymour never got to travel, after all.
Why did Kenneth assist her? Who knows? Did he love her so much that he helped her plan the murder/suicide plot? Maybe blackmail. Did she have something on him that forced him to assist her? We may never find out.
Or maybe he did it for eleven million dollars and change.
We now know all we need to know except for one very important fact.
What did they do with Seymour? For the first time, I’m beginning to fear for his life.
We decide to make a party of it. We’re dressing up. Cocktail party dresses. Makeup. High heels, sort of. The works. Guys are actually wearing suits. We don’t care that it’s only ten in the morning.
We’re forming a convoy. Nine cars are in our parade, carrying four to six people each. The neighbors from all of the Phases are up early, busily making signs to wave and attaching balloons to each auto.
Yesterday a man arrived at Phase Three with what looked like his girlfriend. Why that assumption? He was obviously rich and old and driving a Rolls-Royce. She looked like a Vegas showgirl. We doubted it was his daughter. They came to pick up Joyce’s Jaguar and had the key and ownership papers to prove it was his. The papers were signed by none other than Kenneth Ryan. The showgirl moved over and drove their Rolls-Royce. He climbed in and took the wheel of his brand-new Jaguar.
Of course it reminded Hy of a joke. Very off-color, but the punch line was something like, Get out, you and the horse you rode in on.
After they drove off, that renowned cynic of Phase Two, our very own Ida, commented, “He’s definitely a doctor. A surgeon for sure.”
We had a good laugh at that.
Anyway, we’re finally ready. Jack, Evvie, and I are in the lead car. Jack’s car. Not a Jag, but his very old (he calls it vintage) Caddy. The girls are riding along with Hy and Lola. Third car, Tessie and Sol, Irving and Mary. Even some Canadians have joined us. Fatima and Elaine and Frances are with us, after sheepish apologies. Sandra rides with them.
Just about everyone is carrying a bouquet of flowers.
Jack leans his head outside our car window. “Ready,” he calls out, waving his arm to signal the line of cars behind him.
A chorus of “Ready!” floats back at us.
Hy has to put his own spin on it. “Wagons ho!” he calls out.
We arrive at the Fort Lauderdale jail. We wait. Some stay in their cars, with the air conditioners on; others step out carrying their signs.
The jail door opens. There she is. Arlene is free. Morrie is with her. Horns honk. Signs are being waved. “Welcome home, Arlene!” Women bring her their bouquets, hugging her and filling her arms with flowers.
Arlene cries. Everyone cries. She is overwhelmed by an ocean of happy tears.
Hy meanders over to where Jack, Evvie, and I are standing. He puffs out his chest and says, “Too bad she lost all those millions. I was hoping she’d spring for dinner.”
We are sound asleep. The phone rings. Jack, eyes still closed, groggily reaches for it. He answers.
“Yeah, hello?” He yawns.
What time is it? I squint at the clock: 6 A.M.!
I jump up into a sitting position and grab his arm. Any calls at odd hours must mean something’s wrong. With someone somewhere.
“Who is it?” I pull at his arm. He slides himself up. “Will I accept charges on an international call? Where? Dubai?”
I hit him on that same arm. “Say yes!”
He might be too groggy to remember, but I bet I know who’s calling. Who else could it be? We don’t know of anyone else in Dubai. I lean into him and he lowers the receiver so I can hear, too.
“Yes, I accept.” We wait through static and foreign languages until we hear a familiar voice.
“Mr. Langford?” he asks.
Early as it may be, Jack’s sense of humor is awake. “Mr. Kenneth Ryan, I presume?”
Kenneth is all business. “Get a pen and paper,” he orders.
“What time is it where you are?” Jack asks, waving at me, trying to make me hurry. I scramble for something to write on.
“Two P.M.,” he says. “Cut the small talk.”
I run my hands through whatever is on my bedside table. What I come up with fast is a bookmark holding my place in my bedtime reading. Then I scuttle through the drawer for something to write with.
“How’s the weather?” Jack asks, stalling. “Hot. It’s always hot,” Kenneth answers, annoyed.
“Come on back home and we can make it even hotter for you.”
I punch Jack again. “Don’t make him mad, he’ll hang up,” I whisper.
“Write this down.” Another order.
Pencil gripped tightly, I write whatever Jack repeats. It’s an address.
“You took your inheritance too soon,” Jack says. “Your scheme didn’t work.”
“It worked well enough for me.”
“You now owe Arlene Simon eleven million dollars, rounded out.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“You can never come home again. Ever.”
Kenneth hangs up.
“Stay cool,” Jack says sarcastically to the dead air.
“Oh, no! Why didn’t we ask him where Seymour was?”
Then we look at each other and start moving. Fast!
I’m already out of bed and grabbing the first outfit I can get my hands on. Jack’s right behind me. It’s got to mean what we think it means.
“Where the heck is Mariposa Street?” I ask.
“Morrie will know. I’m calling him as soon as I’m dressed.”
I’m ready. I don’t care what I look like. I run my fingers through my hair. That’s good enough.
“I’ll make some coffee,” I call out to him even as I’m running down the hall.
Morrie is used to getting up at all hours. He picks us up in about twenty minutes. We ride with him in his car, each holding a coffee cup to help wake us up.
I thought I knew our neighborhood, but I don’t know this street even though it is only ten minutes from where we live.
It’s an old neighborhood with small stucco houses. We’re holding our breath, not knowing what to expect. I pray it isn’t a dead body. Somehow, even though Joyce and Kenneth were willing to destroy Arlene’s life, I hope they couldn’t commit an actual murder.
The house is in the middle of the block. Rundown, peeling paint, shutters broken off, needing a lot more than just a new paint job. It looks abandoned, but we know it’s not.
We move slowly behind Morrie, who is looking every which way, observing everything, to be ready for whatever might happen. It’s a cop thing. His hand is on his gun holster, but he hasn’t snapped it open.
The shades are all drawn in the front. We tiptoe into the backyard, pushing open a squeaking, broken chain-link gate. Those windows there are covered, too. We return to the front and climb up the three steps leading to the door. Morrie tries the knob. It’s locked. We search around the obvious places for a hidden key. Kenneth didn’t oblige us with that information. Nothing under a flowerpot with a dead plant in it. Jack feels along the top of the door frame, another possibility. Nada under the tattered doormat.
Morrie shrugs. “Might as well ring the bell.”
A few minutes go by. Morrie is groping in his pocket for the tool he carries that will open the lock when we hear a voice from inside.
“Who’s there?”
I breathe a sigh of relief. He’s alive.
Jack nudges me to answer. A woman’s voice would be less threatening.
“Seymour, is that you?”
A pause. “You’re not Joyce.”
“No, I’m not. Joyce couldn’t come.” Well, that’s not a lie.
“Where’s Kenny?”
Kenny? We look at one another. A nickname for a kidnapper? He knows both their names. In mystery books, kidnappers wear masks and hide their identity. If a mask falls off, their victim is a dead duck.
They never meant to k
ill him.
“Kenny couldn’t come, either. He had to go on a trip.” That’s close enough to the truth.
“Who are you? Are you from the show?”
What’s that about?
“It’s Gladdy. Gladdy Gold, your neighbor from Lanai Gardens.”
Silence. I can almost hear him thinking as he processes what this means.
Finally, “You didn’t bring my sister, did you?”
His voice is tremulous.
“No, Leah is still at home. But I’m here with Jack … and his son, Morrie.” No need to use the cop word. Yet.
We hear the turning of locks. One. Two. Three and the door is opened.
And here’s Seymour. At long last.
Seymour, dressed only in baggy shorts and a not-too-clean undershirt, walks us through the apartment. Very little in the way of furniture. A musty smell from a house that hadn’t had windows opened in a very long time. The fifties-style kitchen is sparse. Pockmarked linoleum. A portable mini-fridge only. No stove, but a small microwave. A plain wood table. One chair.
We pass the bedroom. Just as sparse. A cot. Period. Seymour’s few clothes are in a neat pile on the floor.
And then we get to the living room. What a difference.
There is a video camera. Now we know where the death scene played by Lady Macbeth was taped. A screen covers one wall. On another, a backdrop hangs from ceiling to floor, featuring—lo and behold—a rear projection of the Sydney Opera House in Australia.
There’s also a TV and many DVDs stacked on a table along with props, such as a fishing net and baseball caps, from four different countries.
How did they ever get him to stay here?
Seymour asks poignantly, “Did you bring any food? I’ve run out. Kenny was supposed to go shopping today.”
Well, Kenny won’t be doing any more shopping in the future, either.
What good chocoholic wouldn’t have a couple of Hershey’s Kisses in her purse? I offer my small supply to Seymour, who rips the silvery paper off and eats them hungrily.
Morrie contributes a Power Bar he keeps in his pocket for those times on duty when he can’t get any food. It, too, is grabbed. “Shall we sit down and talk?” he suggests.
