Getting Old Is Murder

by Rita Lakin

  “I doubt it,” I say. Bella calms down.

  Amazing. All of it amazing.

  We go back into the dining area and the girls press me into sitting down. Sophie is hovering. I can tell she wants to raid the pantry and find something to eat, but she is having second thoughts about touching what belonged to the dead.

  “Wait ’til you hear the rest,” Evvie says.

  “You have my undivided attention,” I say.

  “You have to admit, it was my duty to come up here. After all, with no relatives, we had to find out if she left a will.”

  “Absolutely,” I tell her.

  “And sure enough she had papers—”

  Sophie interrupts, cutting to the chase. “Boy, were we surprised. She made Evvie her executor!”

  Evvie beams and nods. “She had a paper she wrote by hand saying if anything happened to her, I should be in charge.”

  Sophie pouts. “I still don’t see why she picked you.”

  Evvie puts her hands on her hips. “Why not me? I was always nice to her and besides, I’m on the board.”

  “No heirs?” I ask.

  “Nobody. All her stuff goes to any charity we pick. Her bankbook has a few hundred dollars in it. That goes to some starving actors’ fund. And she left a letter authorizing me to dispose of her remains as she asked.”

  Bella pipes up. “So that’s what we were doing today.”

  Ida continues. “We called the coroner and they wanted to know what mortuary to send the body to, but first we had to prove Evvie had the right to say so.”

  “We needed you, but we looked everywhere for you, and you were gone,” Sophie adds.

  “Thank God we had Harriet. She did the driving.”

  “Lucky for you,” I mutter. What turncoats.

  “She knew just what to do about everything,” Ida says. “We were already over the twenty-four-hour period for burial, so were we ever rushing.”

  Sophie continues. “We had to go to the bank and get it notarized who Evvie was, and make copies of Kronk’s final instructions, then we had to run it over to the morgue and then we had to arrange it with the mortuary.”

  Bella grins, fanning herself. “I don’t know how we ever got it all done in one day, but we did it!”

  “Thank God for Feinberg’s,” continues Sophie. “Since everyone we know goes to Feinberg’s when they die and they know us there, when we rushed them a copy of the death certificate they ran to pick up the body.”

  “And the cremation is,” Evvie looks at her watch, “just about over now.”

  Everyone looks up at me, smiling, waiting for my words of congratulation for an impossible job well done. Instead, I scream, “What cremation?!”

  “That’s what the Kronk wanted.”

  I am hyperventilating now. I sputter. “Jews don’t get cremated. It’s against Jewish law.”

  Evvie grins. “Guess what. That’s the joke. We did all that running around just to get everything done today because we thought the Kronk was Jewish.”

  Ida laughs. “We always think everyone is Jewish.”

  “Feinberg, of course, won’t have anything to do with a cremation,” Evvie continues. “He insists there must be some mistake. So we reread the papers again, and there it is. Turns out, after all that, that the Kronk was Catholic, so Feinstein ships her to O’Brien’s right down the street on Sunrise.”

  I get up. My face must be purple. If I had high blood pressure I’d be having a stroke right now. I smash my fist down on the kitchen table so hard they all jump. “Do you idiots know what you’ve done!!”

  I see the bright eyes dim and the smiles turn to frowns of resentment.

  “Do you know why you couldn’t find me?” I shriek. “Because I was at the police station demanding an autopsy on Greta so we could find poison in her body! You cannot find poison in a charred hamburger! You cannot find poison in a jar full of ashes! You knew the only way we’d ever prove Francie and Selma were murdered was if we could find poison in a body!!! And we had Greta’s body! What the hell were you thinking!”

  It slowly sinks in, and one by one they realize what I am saying. And what they have done. They cringe.

  “Whose idea was it to do all this today! Who!”

  “Well, we thought we had to hurry because of Jewish law . . .” Bella whimpers.

  “Well, Harriet said since she had the car and she wasn’t busy . . .” Sophie adds.

  “Quick,” I say, going over to Evvie and shaking her, “give me O’Brien’s number.”

  Evvie fumbles though all the papers in her purse, then she looks at me, stricken. “I don’t have it. Feinstein made the call.”

  I look through Greta’s kitchen drawers until I find her phone book. “Maybe Jews have to hurry, but what was O’Brien’s rush? Why would O’Brien need to cremate her so fast? Don’t they go through their own kind of funeral service, like a viewing of the body or a wake or whatever Catholics do?”

  Evvie’s voice was practically whimpering. “Since there were no relatives . . . And . . . the crematorium had a cancellation. . . .”

  With my back deliberately turned away from them, I find the number and dial. I get voice mail which I hate the most of all these so-called modern improvements. I wade through all the instructions to press all the right numbers and after an endless wait on hold I finally get an operator who has to find someone who knows the phone number of the crematorium. The crematorium also puts me on hold, and an electronic voice tells me someone will answer in (pause) four minutes, and then I have to listen to an advertisement about the Neptune Society and be reminded to stop in their gift shop to see their large assortment of attractive urns. Finally I get a receptionist who makes me wait some more until she can find someone with an update on the disposition of the deceased. After too long, I hear what I prayed not to hear. The cremation is over. But if I’d like to come over and light a candle . . . and don’t forget to stop at the gift shop. . . .

  Through it all, the girls haven’t moved. They sit rigidly, practically holding their breath. When I hang up they can tell by my face that the news is not good.

  I walk stiffly to the door, turn, and face them.

  I know I’m being melodramatic, but I can’t help myself. “On behalf of the murderer of Selma, Francie, and Greta, I thank you.” With that I walk out on them.

  The way I feel right now, I may never speak to any of them again.

  30

  Nobody’s Talking

  Even though the weather continues its monotonous daily routine—heat and more heat—the song lyric running through my head is from “Stormy Weather.” “Gloom and misery everywhere . . .” It might as well be raining. The grapevine, true to form, is spreading the word: The sisters aren’t talking. And Gladdy’s not talking to the rest of the girls, either. Buzz, buzz, buzz, but no one knows the reason. The girls, probably out of guilt, are keeping mum, and no one dares ask me. The condo board held a memorial service yesterday for Greta in the clubhouse. The girls attended when they were sure I wouldn’t. I suppose everybody said kind words for the deceased and nobody mentioned insulting poems and garbage left smeared on doors.

  It is too quiet these days, as if everyone is tiptoeing around us. Waiting for it to blow over or get worse. People still gossip about the murders, but there is much heated dissension as to whether they really were murders or just figments of my imagination. There are no more morning walks, and none of us go to the pool. From my window, I see the girls pile into a cab on Publix day.

  I spend much of my time doing heavy thinking. Or else I am at the library commiserating with Conchetta and Barney. They share my consternation about the cremation of Greta. I do take them up to Greta’s apartment at a time I knew the girls have gone somewhere, again by taxi. They are bowled over by Greta’s artifacts, as I knew they would be. Dear friends—they try to get me out of my depression by saying I mustn’t give up my detecting. But what is there to detect? No clues. No body. I really don’t expect the killer to drop in
on me and confess.

  If you made a bet about it you would have won. Detective Morrie Langford calls me the next day and agrees to set up an autopsy. I briefly explain what happened, and I can tell from his voice he is genuinely sorry.

  An afternoon shower hits hard, and the air seems almost cool for a few minutes. I decide to walk through the grounds just because I need to move around a little. I miss our exercise time, such as it is.

  I find a bench in a quiet area, and I wipe the rainwater off and sit down. A few minutes later I hear two voices, coming toward me, singing happily, although off-key, in Spanish. Millie is awkwardly trying to stroll in her walker and Yolanda is with her, one arm keeping the walker steady. Millie seems genuinely happy. That sight finally makes me smile.

  “Hi, Millie . . . hi, Yolanda.”

  Like twins they answer, “Buenos días, Señora Gladdy.”

  “And buenos días to you, too. Where’s Irving?”

  Millie answers. “Mi esposo esta jugando cartes.”

  “Cartas,” Yolanda gently corrects.

  “Yolie is giving me lecciónes in Español.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  Millie giggles. “And I’m giving her lessons in snooping.” Now Yolanda puts her hand over her mouth and giggles, too.

  Getting into the spirit of it, I ask, “Why are you snooping?”

  “Because the children like it. They like to see the dirties. . . .”

  “The what?” I ask, curious.

  “Hy Binder watches porno movies when Lola takes her nap.” Another round of giggles.

  “We vemos through las ventanas.” More giggles. “And Señora Feder, she walks when nobody looks.”

  “I don’t understand. Harriet walks?”

  “No, la vieja, the old one,” says Yolanda.

  Millie imitates it. “She gets out of that old wheelchair and she just sashays around.” Millie lets go of the walker to show how and loses her balance. Yolanda and I both grab for her.

  Millie starts singing again, “La cucaracha . . . la cucaracha . . .” and Yolanda joins in. Together they continue down the path happily singing about a cockroach.

  Is it possible? Esther is faking being crippled? It would explain how she managed to see what Greta wrote on John and Mary’s door three floors up. And why? To keep Harriet imprisoned? If she can get around, what else has she been up to? Wait ’til I tell Evvie—I stop myself. And remember there is no telling Evvie . . .

  I go back upstairs. I try to read, but can’t concentrate. The hours drag by. The phone never rings. I guess I never realized how much of my days were dominated by the girls and their unending activities. I try to watch TV. Everything seems stupid to me. Now I am pacing and wondering what I can do to get out of this rotten mood.

  The phone finally rings. I jump, so unaccustomed am I to hearing it. What a surprise. It’s Langford, Sr. Why do I have the feeling the son called his father and told him I am feeling blue?

  “I hope you don’t mind my calling?”

  “Of course not, Jack.” I blush and I’m glad he can’t see it. It must be genetic. Both father and son seem to be able to make me turn red. “Sorry. I’ve been terribly distracted.”

  “Things not going well?”

  As if Morrie hadn’t told him. “At the moment, my investigation has come to a full stop.”

  “Then the timing may work to my advantage. May I take you to dinner this evening?”

  Suddenly that seems like a wonderful idea. “Yes, thank you.”

  “May I pick you up at six?”

  “No!” I surprise myself at how fast I say that.

  “What time would you prefer?”

  “It’s not the time, it’s the place. I don’t think it’s such a good idea for you to come here.”

  “You want to pick me up?” I can hear laughter in his voice.

  I am getting frustrated. “No, that’s not what I mean, either.”

  “What have you got in mind?”

  “Maybe we can meet somewhere else?”

  “How’s this: We can meet halfway between Phases Three and Four. Or how about that palm tree next to the mailbox. You can hide behind it and jump into my car as I speed by.”

  “Stop laughing at me,” I say, laughing myself. “You know what busybodies we have in this place. People talk about me enough behind my back. Why should I add fuel to the fire? I’ll meet you off campus, so to speak.”

  “Is ten miles far enough away? Or perhaps we can meet in Miami? Key Largo? Cuba?”

  He got me at last. We are both laughing hard now. I play along. “Well, we can’t go to Chinese. Or Italian. Definitely not a deli. We’re bound to run into somebody we know. I’ve got it. Nobody here eats Greek. Do you like Greek food?”

  “Mention moussaka and I’ll follow you anywhere.”

  “You’re on. Athenian Kitchen. Sunrise Boulevard, six P.M.”

  “I’ll wear dark glasses and a fez.”

  “And I a babushka and a veil.”

  “Code names, Boris and Natasha. Which one do you want to be—the moose or the squirrel?”

  “Wrong country. Try Irena and Nico.”

  “Whatever.”

  When I hang up I am grinning like a fifteen-year-old. A little ouzo, a little feta, a lot of laughter—just what the doctor ordered. Or was it the detective?

  But first, I have a million decisions to make. What am I going to wear?

  31

  The Dating Game

  Look at me! I’m wearing a bra for the first time since I can’t remember when. And a smidgen of makeup. Did a little something to my hair. I keep changing my outfit, unable to make up my mind. What image am I trying to project? Am I dressing up or dressing down? I’m making myself crazy. Finally I end up with the first thing I had on. Which I now hate. But I’m exhausted, so this is it. Glancing at the mirror, I’m startled. I don’t look like me, the me that’s gotten used to living single in these so-called golden years. The me that does nothing more than run a comb through my hair when we go out, just us girls. None of us bother anymore, in terms of attempting beauty. It’s comfort that counts. Except for Sophie, of course, but she doesn’t know any better.

  It’s only a dinner, I keep reassuring myself. It’s a date, admit it! And if you’re spending so much time getting gorgeous, that means you want to impress him. You want him to think you still look good. That you are interested. It means you’re actually contemplating—oh, gasp—the possibility of a relationship!

  Shut up, I tell myself, and move it already or you’ll be late. How much longer are you going to attempt to turn not much into something more? Go, already.

  When I enter the restaurant I see Jack talking to the owner. He waves me over.

  “You look lovely,” he says, then, “There’s a complication. A nice one.” He smiles.

  “What’s the name again?” Mr. Thomopolis asks. I know that’s his name because his picture is over the cash register, smiling with a group of Little Leaguers.

  “Jack Langford.”

  “No problem. The very minute you get your call.” With that he shows us to a table and hands us gigantic menus.

  “What’s that all about?”

  “Right after I spoke to you, my daughter called to tell me she was on the way to the hospital to give birth. Morrie’s sister Lisa.”

  “That is exciting. But don’t you want to be there with her?”

  “Not too manageable. She lives in New York. It’s their third child. I just want to get the news hot off the griddle, so to speak.”

  Now that that’s taken care of, we are facing each other for the first time since Fuddruckers. And yes, he still looks great to me. And he’s smiling, so I guess I pass muster.

  We make a big to-do about picking from such a huge menu, but finally the drinks are taken care of, white wine for me, beer for him. Moussaka for him, dolmas and a Greek salad for me. That took up a little time, but here we are again looking at each other.

  He seems very content wi
th the silence. And I remember that feeling. Belonging to someone. Feeling you fit and all’s right with your world. My Jack used to call it the “aha” factor. Meet the right person and you breathe a sigh of relief and your mind says, Aha, at last. The search is over. You’re home.

  “Well,” he says, “I don’t have anything to report. My life has been status quo. But you—clearly much has been going on. Want to talk about it, or do you want this evening to be your respite from the real world?”

  “The latter. Desperately. My world has become too much for me.”

  “OK, then,” he says, smiling. “Read any good books lately?”

  And we talk about the kind of books we like (me, good fiction and, of course, mysteries; he, nonfiction, especially history); movies (me, sophisticated comedies and good drama; he, spy thrillers); music (me, opera and Beethoven and swing; he, Mahler, Britten); theater (both agreeing that the last great musicals were in the era of West Side Story and Fiddler on the Roof and in drama, Arthur Miller and Tennessee Williams); and both of us, crossword puzzles and travel, which we don’t do much anymore, and our children (extreme prejudice on both sides).

  We laugh and talk and laugh and talk. It’s wonderful.

  Mr. Thomopolis comes over, smiling. “The phone, Mr. Langford.”

  Jack excuses himself and follows Mr. T.

  I sit there bathing in the glow of happiness. God, how much I’ve missed this. Someone to share ideas with. Being a couple.

  And suddenly I get anxious. What am I thinking! Too late for this. Haven’t I spent my widow years assuming I would never love again? Redefining myself as single. Learning to adjust to that life.

  I sip my wine as negative thoughts start tumbling about. At my age, it’s too late to start over. Give up the known for the unknown? And think of what’s involved. Readjusting to a new, unfamiliar man living with you. What’s he going to expect? Here’s a woman who has all the trappings of old age, from varicose veins to the dire results of gravity on down. This body is gonna turn a man on? Part of the agreement being never to turn on a light at night again? It’s one thing for couples to live together fifty years, when the changes are gradual as opposed to shocking.