by Rita Lakin
“I don’t understand,” Ida says. “Who would want to kill them? They didn’t have enemies.”
“And why? Why would anyone hurt them? They never hurt a fleabag,” Sophie insists.
“It was the coincidences,” my sidekick informs them. Evvie proceeds to list my suspicions.
“If it wasn’t heart attacks,” Sophie asks me, “what made them dead?”
“I think poison.”
There is a group gasp at this as each of the girls tries to absorb this momentous information.
“I went back to Francie’s apartment. I went to get those chocolate crumbs. It could have been the proof we needed. . . .”
Evvie gets it first. “Oh, no. The cleaning girl was there after we left.”
“Gone,” I say. But was it the cleaning girl? Or did the killer get there first?
“Why are you telling us this?” Ida asks softly.
“I want you all to help me find the killer.”
There is a long moment as they digest the earth-shattering things I have been saying. Bella and Sophie reach out and hold hands. Ida jumps up, needing to move around.
Bella sighs. “How can we? A killer could be anywhere.”
“Yeah,” says Ida, “maybe he’s the serial killer.”
“The serial killer is a strangler, the cops told us,” Evvie informs them.
“You’re not saying . . .” Sophie begins.
“I am saying. I think the killer lives here or comes here, somebody we probably know or have seen hanging around.”
“A choleria! A plague on him! I can’t believe such a thing,” Sophie cries out.
“I’m never going out of my apartment again,” wails Bella.
“They were both killed in their apartments,” Ida says with evil relish.
“Vay iz mir, I’m dying!” Bella is in tears.
Sophie screeches, “Whose birthday is next?”
“Does anybody know when it’s my birthday? I can’t remember,” asks Bella plaintively.
“We don’t know for sure if that means anything,” I say, trying to calm them.
Evvie takes a stronger tack. “Snap out of it!” she says, the movie critic paying homage to Moonstruck.
“I really do need help,” I say. “I want us to go around and talk to everybody. Find out if they saw anything unusual the nights of the murders.”
Again, silence as this is absorbed. Finally Sophie sighs. “Oy, I wish I were only seventy-eight again!”
Ida pats her on the back. “Don’t worry, Princess, you’ll find the strength. We all will, for Francie’s sake.”
“I don’t know,” Sophie says. “Maybe we’re opening up a can of snakes.”
Bella whimpers. “Maybe you’ll make the killer mad and he’ll come after us.”
“God forbid,” Evvie says.
“I’m more worried we’ll scare a lot of people, but it has to be done,” I reply. More silence.
“Everybody in?” I ask.
I get a chorus of “in’s.”
“Then, hopefully, we’ll get real information, so the cops will believe us and take over.”
The girls get up and start clearing the cards off the table. We always help the hostess clean up.
“You should have told me about the crumbs,” Evvie says accusingly.
“I know,” I tell her. “I know.”
“I would have remembered!”
“I know! Don’t keep rubbing it in!”
Suddenly we hear sirens very close. Ida runs and flings open the door. “Police cars! Coming in here!”
“Murder! Another murder!” Sophie screams.
And Bella faints.
I feel very guilty. What have I unleashed?
18
Old-Timer’s Disease
We don’t even wait for the elevator. In spite of our age, and the possible damage we can do to our bodies, we are running down the three flights of stairs and across the parking area to where two policemen, and a small group of our neighbors in a varied assortment of sleepwear, are gathering. The flashing lights from the police car zigzag across the watchers like strobe lights at a “happening.” Something is happening all right and we are terrified.
All the activity is centered at Millie and Irving’s apartment. The police are pounding at their door. Thoughts crowd my head. Making assessments. It’s after nine P.M. They must be asleep. It’s not an ambulance, thank God, so Irving didn’t call the paramedics. So, why are the police here? Please, God, don’t let anyone be hurt. The officers keep hammering. No one is answering.
We arrive at the door, hearts throbbing with fear and overexertion. Throwing questions at them, although we are so out of breath we can barely speak.
“What is it?”
“Why are you here?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Please talk to us. We’re their friends.”
The taller policeman with an orange mustache tells us they got a 911 call.
The short, stubby one says, “The woman was screaming that she was being raped and someone was trying to kill her.”
The girls breathe a collective sigh of relief. “Boy, have you got the wrong address,” Evvie informs them.
By now the group is beginning to look like a crowd. Hy and Lola, in matching robes, peer over the balcony right above our heads. Peripherally, I am aware of Harriet, tying her robe, as she hurries across the parking area. Tessie is not far behind her.
On this side of the building, Denny pokes his head out of his apartment. He looks disheveled, wild-eyed. . . . When he sees me looking at him, he turns and scurries back in. The expression on his face is pure fright. Poor thing. After having discovered both Selma’s and Francie’s bodies, I don’t blame him for not wanting to be witness to yet another fearful situation.
All eyes turn as the door squeaks open to just the barest sliver. “Who is it?” Irving whispers.
“Open up. Police.” Orange mustache is very forceful.
The door opens slightly farther. Irving is in his pajamas, his eyes sleep-encrusted and barely open, still not really awake. I sigh in relief. He looks at his visiting assemblage with alarm. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“We’re here on a nine-one-one. Did you phone the police?”
“No,” he says, still befuddled.
“I did,” says a raspy voice behind him. The door is flung wide open.
How can I describe what Millie looks like? We all stare in awe. She can hardly move because she is wearing so many layers of clothes. I would guess she tried to put on everything in her closet and finally stopped when no more would fit. After the eye has absorbed that, the real horror seeps in. Millie has a huge pair of scissors in her hand which then makes you notice that most of her clothes have been mutilated. I hear someone moaning behind me.
Then there is the makeup. Millie’s face is layered with cosmetics. And her hair! There are ribbons wildly tied to every possible strand. As I wonder where she got ribbons from, I realize they are the cut portions of her clothes.
Millie hits Irving on the back with her fist. “Rapist!” she shrieks. “Sodomist!” Where did she ever learn that word? “Assassin!” Irving freezes, mortified, standing there letting the blows fall on his bent shoulders.
I am vaguely aware of someone quite tall pushing his way forward through the growing crowd. But I can’t take my eyes off Millie and Irving.
“She’s ill,” I finally say to the two policemen. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”
“Irving wouldn’t hurt a hair on her head,” I hear Sophie say behind me.
“This is all a terrible mistake,” Evvie says.
The short one speaks kindly to us. “Can you handle it from here, or do you need our help?”
“We’ll manage,” Ida says.
Millie’s fit is already lessening. She now leans her head on Irving’s shoulders, dropping the scissors as she does. He reaches behind and holds onto her. Taking charge, Ida hurries in to help him.
As Ida cl
oses the door, the crowd begins to disperse. The patrolmen walk to their cars, but stop to greet someone. “Detective,” I hear one say, and I wheel about. And there’s Morgan Langford.
I hurry over to him, Evvie following right after me, with Sophie clutching her arm.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
He bends as if in greeting and smiles. “Mrs. Gold. Mrs. Markowitz.”
“Such a good memory,” Evvie marvels.
“Just call me Sophie,” Sophie says, pushing her way in front of Evvie.
By now Harriet has joined us and she introduces herself as well. Evvie pointedly explains to Sophie and Harriet, “This is the cop we talked to, the one who wouldn’t believe us when we told him about our murders.”
“Enough, Ev,” I say. “He’s here now.”
“I heard the police call,” Detective Langford says. “I thought I’d check it out.”
“Then you did believe me!” I am feeling vindicated.
“I didn’t say that,” he answers mildly, bursting my balloon.
“Morrie!” I hear an excited voice coming up behind me.
To my astonishment, there’s Bella, obviously recovered from where we left her resting, hurrying over as fast as she is able. And then, standing as high as she can on her toes (all four foot eleven of her), which still only brings her up to his belt buckle, she reaches up (as Langford leans way down to accommodate her) and gives Detective Morgan Langford a big, gushy kiss. Good thing he didn’t pick Bella up, she could have gotten a nosebleed.
Morrie?
“You know him?” Evvie asks, beating me to it.
Bella grins. “This is Jack Langford’s son from Phase Six. You remember, I was in Hadassah with his mother, Faye, until she passed, aleha ha-shalom, may she rest in peace.”
Langford smiles way down at her. “So, you’re one of these troublemakers, are you?” Bella looks confused.
Ida rushes up to join us, worried she is missing something. “Millie’s back in bed,” she reports. “And who is this tall, handsome stranger?” she gushes. Next she’ll start to bat her eyes.
Evvie fills her in. Ida, being Ida, immediately leaps in where fools would fear to. “How dare you not believe Gladdy!”
“Hey, whoa. Easy, ladies.”
“Lay off,” I growl at Ida. Making an enemy of Detective Langford is not smart.
“Look,” he says to me, “just find me a shred of something to go on, then I promise to get involved.”
“Fair enough,” I say, thinking guiltily of the cake crumbs I let get away.
“But, Mrs. Gold, be very careful. If there really is a killer, he’s smart. He hasn’t made any mistakes. That makes him very dangerous. Do not, I repeat, do anything foolish. If anything comes up, call me!”
Langford leaves and everyone voices an opinion.
“Gorgeous,” breathes Ida.
“Ooh, so tall,” says Sophie.
“Wow!” says Harriet. “Next time take me to the police station.
“I’m reserving judgment,” says Evvie.
“Such a shayner boychick,” says Bella. “I know him since he was this tall.” Her hand moves up and down trying to measure the man as boy. If we believe Bella, Lanky was six feet tall at two years old.
I smile. So, he’s Jewish? Well, what do you know!
You’ve heard of the immovable object and the irre sistible force. . . . Well, that’s stubborn us seated in a row in the Weiss living room, facing even more stubborn Irving. After all the excitement, we went back to check on Millie and found Irving in tears.
“Enough, Irving,” I say. “No more discussion. Things have to change.”
“I never heard her get up.”
“It could have been worse,” Evvie says, shuddering. I know she is thinking about the scissors.
“All right. I’ll unplug the phone. I’ll hide it before I go to sleep.”
“She’ll think of something else,” Ida says. “Remember how she got out of the apartment that night and wandered down to Oakland Park.”
“I put double locks on the doors. I hide the keys. She doesn’t get out any more.”
“No, she calls the cops in,” says Bella.
“No more putting off, Irving,” says Sophie. “If you’re in a hole, you better start digging.”
“It’s time to get real help. Full-time help,” I say.
“Around the clock,” adds Evvie.
“No,” Irving says. “I have no room for a stranger to sleep.”
“You can’t stay up all night and watch her.”
“I’ll nap during the day if someone is here.”
“Irving,” Ida says carefully. “You know she’d be better off in managed care.”
Irving puts his hands over his ears. “No! I won’t hear this.”
I get up. I feel so weary and so helpless. Through the bedroom door, I can hear Millie softly snoring. “All right, dear. We’ll try hiring someone. But if that doesn’t work . . .”
Irving turns his back on us.
We all tiptoe into the bedroom and take a look in at Millie. She is curled up with her thumb in her mouth. She looks almost young lying there, as though the Alzheimer’s has made her face soften as she gives up her worldly cares. Her eyes open and she smiles slyly at us. Almost like she knows what havoc she causes and it tickles her.
We take turns kissing her good night. Suddenly Millie says pleadingly, “Where’s Francie? Why doesn’t she visit me anymore?”
My precocious granddaughter, Lindsay, when she was younger, mispronounced Millie’s illness as old-timer’s disease. As we watch Millie’s suffering and try to remember happier days to offset our reality, maybe that’s a gentler way to put it.
19
Gladdy’s Gladiators
It is Sunday afternoon and we are sitting in the clubhouse, our chosen headquarters, strategizing. Now we are six. Since Harriet met that cute Morrie Langford the other night, she has begged to be allowed to join our merry band of private eyes. Ida, naturally, is not thrilled. She still hasn’t forgiven Harriet, even though Harriet apologized for the bank incident.
We have a chalkboard and chairs. What more do we need? Except that the PA system keeps spewing out songs of the thirties and forties so loud we have to shout to be heard. The stereo music is supposed to play outside around the pool. Manuel, our groundskeeper, turns it on and up every morning before he heads out to do his landscaping chores. However, he didn’t do it today. The music is inside and blaring at us instead. None of us knows how to figure out the complicated panel, so Evvie is on her hands and knees (not easy with arthritis) searching every wall, looking for the plug to shut the whole thing off. With no success. Hopefully, Manuel will be back soon, or those of us who aren’t deaf will be.
The first half hour is spent wasting time with general nonsense, all at the top of our lungs. Sophie suggests we give ourselves a name.
Ida informs her this isn’t bingo, this is not a club, it’s very serious business.
Bella, not hearing her, suggests “Gladdy’s Girls.”
Ida says, “No names, dammit!”
Sophie, always happy to spite Ida, says, “How about ‘Gladdy and her Girls’?”
Bella says, “I like ‘Gladdy’s Gladiators’ better.”
“Where did you come up with that?” Evvie says from somewhere under one of those industrial-type tables.
“Gladiator is like Gladdy, and Florida has alligators.”
“That has a certain logic, I think,” says Harriet.
She’s even beginning to make sense to me and that’s scary. “Thanks for all the credit,” I say. “But maybe we should get down to business.”
“It’ll look good on T-shirts,” says Sophie.
“No T-shirts!” screeches Ida.
“With our names maybe on the pockets,” says Bella.
“No, I don’t like pockets,” Sophie adds.
Ida picks up her copy of the Broward Jewish Journal and swats them both. “I’ll give you a T-shirt
, you meshugenehs! What has seventy-five balls and kills idiots like you!”
“I give up,” Evvie says, getting up from the floor and brushing off her clothes. “I can’t find the switch and somebody should really sweep better in here.”
“Is it time to take our coffee break?” Bella asks.
“We haven’t started yet,” Ida says with disgust, “and she wants a break.”
“I brought rugallah. Raspberry.” She offers up a handful sweetly. This activates the bringing out of other plastic Baggies.
Another fifteen minutes are spent dividing up our coffee and tea and Danish and cinnamon rolls and all the other various goodies everyone brought, “so no one should go hungry until lunch in two hours.”
As everyone eats and chats, I look at the dozens of group photos lining the walls. I can feel the spirits of twenty-five years surrounding me. This building could tell some stories!
Ida sees me glancing around.
“Ghosts,” I say.
Ida nods. “So many people gone. But what good times.”
“Tell me,” Harriet says.
“Such parties,” Ida says. “We’d use anything as an excuse to celebrate. Besides having all the real holidays and the Jewish holidays, there were birthdays and anniversaries and welcoming new arrivals and the births of grandchildren. . . .”
Evvie laughs. “Harriet, you should have seen us in the beginning, fresh from New York. The men had all retired and we came here planning to do nothing but have a good time.”
Ida says, “Correction. Murray retired, I never got to retire. I still had to cook and clean and shop. . . .”
Evvie cuts her off. “At first, in winter, everybody wore their fur stoles and wool dresses. Until we wised up and dumped them for shorts and sundresses and muumuus.”
“You shoulda seen the pool in those days, not like the ghost town it is today,” Ida says. “Standing room only. Every lounge chair was spoken for. You would put a towel down to reserve your seat, turn your back, your lounge was gone. We had to bring chairs down from the apartments. All the kids came visiting at the beginning. With all the grandchildren. So much giggling and laughing . . .”
“Don’t forget the weekends in Miami Beach,” says Evvie.
