by Rita Lakin
“A what?” Tessie.
“Didja get a reward?” Hy.
Bella starts to speak, but Ida stops her by slapping a hand over her mouth. Ida faces Hy. “None of your business.”
“Congratulations,” Barbi and Casey say in unison.
“So where’s Jack?” Mary asks.
My head is spinning. Evvie seats me in a chair and shifts the nearby umbrella to shade my face. “Have mercy, she’s jetlagged,” warns my sister, always protective of me.
I’m feeling nothing but anger. Anger at all of their nonsense. And most of all anger at myself. I could be in Jack’s arms on our island paradise instead of here. Coulda, woulda, shoulda.
Tessie pulls a chair close. “Lots of news here. The Peeper struck again.”
Mary adds, “And again and again.”
“Dumkupfs,” Hy says with disgust. “I told these ladies to pull down their shades. They’re just asking for it.”
I know I should show some interest. This man, whoever he is, has been frightening many of the women who live on the first floors of buildings throughout the condo. But my heart isn’t in it. Tessie leans over and swats Hy.
“Ouch,” he says. Then to me, “You missed my joke. Wanna hear it?”
A chorus of “No” blasts out at him. He ignores it. He circles round me, hands on hips, gyrating his tush as he always does. He begins, “At eight you take her to bed and tell her a story.”
Even though I try not to listen, he goes on and on. The group gives up, knowing they can’t stop him, and they disperse, ambling back to their other pursuits.
“At eighteen, you tell her a story and take her to bed. At twenty-eight, you don’t need to tell her a story to take her to bed.”
Irving makes the universal gesture of repulsion, waving his hand. “Feh.”
Hy gestures back, meaning who cares what you think. “At thirty-eight, she tells you a story and takes you to bed.”
Ida reaches out and smacks him with her wet towel. He ducks, not missing a beat. “At forty-eight, you tell her a story to avoid going to bed.” Hearing rumblings of impatience, he talks faster. “At fifty-eight you stay in bed to avoid her story. At sixty-eight if you take her to bed, that’ll be a story—”
Almost as if rehearsed, the entire poolside gang (except Enya and Irving) shouts the punch line loudly, cutting him off. “At seventy-eight, what story? What bed? Who are you?”
Hy walks away in disgust. “I waste my talents on you ingrates.”
In spite of my misery, I find myself laughing out loud. Some things never change. I am beginning to feel a little better. I’m here. Whether I want to be or not. So be here, I tell myself. I’m with people who care about me. I’m with my lantsmen, my neighbors, my family.
FOUR
CATCHING UP
Since the weather is so pleasant, the girls opt to work outdoors. Evvie called the meeting of Gladdy Gold and Associates Detective Agency, insisting it was time to catch up with our mail and calls since we’ve been away. But as nice as it is to see my neighbors and friends, I just can’t get with it. I want to care but I don’t. Jack is the only thing on my mind. How serious is this fight? Is it something he’ll get over quickly? I wish I knew.
We are gathered around a picnic table on the grass in the shade. Behind us ducks quack as they swim past under the little wooden bridges that dot one of the many ponds around Lanai Gardens. Lucky for me, the girls are all so self-absorbed that they haven’t mentioned Jack’s reaction to our coming home so early, though I would have expected more response from Evvie. Sophie is applying new nail polish. Something lavender to go with her latest hair rinse. Her ten vials of pills are stretched out in a row. She intends to take them after her nails dry. Bella, our recording secretary, is eagerly waiting to take notes on the meeting. Evvie is catching me up on all the new calls that came in to our answering machine while we were away.
“This one sounds promising,” she says. “His wife’s become addicted to the shopping channel and she just keeps ordering stuff. But what makes it worse, with her bad memory she orders the same things over and over again. He doesn’t know how to stop her.”
“Pass,” I say listlessly.
“Tell him to cut up her credit cards,” Ida suggests in her toughest voice. She is busy reading the directions on our brand-new cell phones.
After our harrowing experience on the cliffs of Puerto Rico, when I would have sold my soul for a phone, I promised we’d now have cell phones. To my surprise, they’ve already bought them.
“This is complicated,” Ida says. “What’s text messages?”
“Who cares,” Evvie tells her. “Just learn how to talk on it and get voice messages.”
“But this manual is thirty pages long.”
“Ignore it. Learn everything on a need-to-know basis.”
“What about programming numbers?”
“No,” insists Evvie, “we don’t need that. We’re only going to use it for emergencies.”
I pretend to read through my mail, but all I want is to go back to my apartment and cry.
“What about this one?” Evvie asks. “Here’s a woman who thinks someone is stalking her.”
“Tell her to call the police,” I say sharply.
The girls look at me, surprised at my prickly answer, so unlike me. I sigh. I’d better be careful and not take my frustration out on them. I don’t want to answer any questions about what happened between me and Jack.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Evvie says, throwing the girls an anxious look, which I pretend not to notice.
“So tell Gladdy what we were talking about for you,” Bella says to Evvie. Always the peacemaker, she knows it’s time to change the subject.
Evvie sits up taller and gives me a perky grin. “I decided I am finally ready to start dating again. I simply must get out of my rut.” She runs her fingers through her fading red curls. “Time to wash that gray right out of my hair.”
Sophie, who changes her hair color with her moods, applauds. “Bravo.”
“I mean, look how happy you are with Jack. I’ve just been stubborn. Now I’m ready to spread my wings and fly.” Evvie leans back in her deck chair and spreads her arms wide. “Adventure, here I come.”
Oh, my dear sister, if you only knew.
Sophie adds, “We’ve been making lists of what things she should try. Like maybe she puts an ad in the personals in the Sun-Sentinel.”
“Or join a matchmaking service.” Bella grins at the thought. “Then you can lie about your age like everyone else does.”
Evvie adds, “I’m even toying with the idea of getting a computer and doing that online dating, like with Match.com.”
Sourpuss Ida gives her opinion: “Waste of time and money.”
“I don’t care. I’m ready and Glad will help.” She turns to me. “Won’t you? You’re the expert.” Luckily, before I can sputter some kind of inane comment, I am saved by a familiar voice.
“Good afternoon, ladies.” Sol Spankowitz bears down on us, full set of false teeth gleaming. He carries the inevitable racing form, so he must be on his way to meet his racetrack buddy, Irving. “Welcome home. I only just heard you were back, and I couldn’t wait to welcome you personally.” All of this is directed at Evvie, who makes a face showing her displeasure.
“You look so tanned and healthy,” he says, looking down at her chest as usual. She pulls up her halter top to hide any cleavage showing, then reaches over and pushes Sol’s chin up, so he’s forced to look at her face.
The lack of any positive response doesn’t stop him. “I was thinking maybe I could tempt you into a little breakfast date tomorrow?”
“Date. He said the magic word,” says Bella excitedly.
“I’ll call you this evening and we’ll make plans.” With that he waves his farewell and jauntily strolls away.
“And my phone will be off the hook,” Evvie says under her breath. She shoots Bella a dirty look. “He’s not what I had in mind.”
Bella is practically jumping up and down. “I can’t believe it. You said the date word and a minute later, you’re asked.”
“So, Miss Popularity,” Ida says caustically, “what Prince Charming do you expect to show up on your welcome mat?”
Evvie thinks for a few moments, trying to find the right words. “I want someone... someone debonair. Worldly. A man who’ll sweep me off my feet. Maybe even handsome. Someone who’ll understand me. Not like that pathetic schlepper; Sol.”
Bella says, “So give him a broom and he’ll sweep.”
Sophie looks up from swallowing her pills as she mixes yet another metaphor. “Look at him like a practice trial.”
“Look at him like the loser he is,” adds Ida, negative as usual.
Evvie scowls. “I’d rather have the heartbreak of psoriasis.”
I can’t sit another minute. I stand up. This date talk is driving me crazy. “I think it’s time we dealt with the problem of our Peeping Tom. Let’s go to the office and find Greta Kronk’s file.”
“Right.” Evvie jumps up. “We have to find the drawing labeled ‘sneaky peeky.’ It may identify the guy who’s been peeping in all those apartments.” Greta Kronk had been a longtime resident of Phase Two. After she died, on a hunch I suggested we keep all her sketches. I sigh. I still bemoan the fact that the police refused to do an autopsy on her. We later proved she was murdered. If we’d found out earlier, we might have been able to save the next victim.
Bella is confused. “What?”
Ida says, “Remember when poor crazy Greta was smearing paint on our doors and cars, she always left a nasty little poem? And then when we went to her apartment, we found out she did sketches to match the poems?”
Bella smiles. “Now I remember, when you remind me.”
Sophie says, “I can’t go. Mah-jongg. And Bella, you’re playing, too.”
Ida tells us she has to write letters to her grandchildren. We all avoid commenting since we know what little good that will do—they never answer any of her mail.
Evvie puts her arm through mine. Meeting is over. Thank God.
The condo office, where all the Lanai Gardens records are kept, is really not much more than a large broom closet. Actually, board members converted part of one of our many storerooms for this purpose. An old wooden desk, an unmatched chair, a two-drawer file cabinet, a bulletin board, and that’s about it. Evvie looks up at me from where she is searching the lower file drawer. “It’s not here.”
“How can that be? It has to be there.”
She wipes the dust off her hands. This place is only cleaned when someone thinks about it, and that isn’t often. Evvie looks through the mess of papers on the desk as well. “Nope. The Greta Kronk file is gone, along with the poems and sketches she did of almost everyone in Lanai Gardens. You think the Peeper took it?”
“Who else?”
“But the office is always locked.”
“And the key is always under the mat. Probably fifty people know that, and just about that many knew all about Greta’s pictures, too. Try and keep any secrets around this place.”
We secure the door when we leave, and yes, we put the key under the mat.
I glance up toward the third-floor catwalk, where my apartment is, and catch a glimpse of a couple standing there.
They see us at the same time. “Mrs. Gold?” the man calls down.
“Are you waiting for me?”
“Yes,” he says, “We might have a job for you.”
Evvie pinches my arm excitedly. “I hope this is a good one.”
As Evvie and I hurry up the stairs, only about a dozen or so doors open, allowing their residents to get a look at what’s going on. I find it amazing that, what with the huge yenta population around here, no one has seen the Peeper yet. Anyone could have snuck into the condo office—any resident, that is. But a stranger on the property would have attracted immediate attention. That’s why I’m sure it’s one of our men, an insider, who is the Peeper.
But who? If I’ve learned anything as a PI or from my lifelong love of reading mystery novels, it’s that the guilty party will have to make a mistake sometime!
FIVE
BACK IN BUSINESS
As they sip the tea I offered them, I examine my visitors. Mr. Alvin Ferguson, mid-sixties, I think, wears a dark wool suit and tie. Prissy. Nervous. Keeps patting what few strands of grayish brown hair he has across his rather bald pate. His wife, Shirley, who looks about the same age, wears a bright, large-patterned heavy rayon dress with matching closed-toe shoes. Her hair is a multicolored mishmash of gray, brown, and a bit of dirty blond. Either it’s time to get to the beauty parlor or she likes the way that looks. If Sophie were here, she’d have plenty to say about Shirley Ferguson’s style, or lack of it. And yet, their clothes appear expensive. The heavy fabrics must be stifling in our Florida heat.
“This is your office?” Alvin asks. He looks around my living room with concern. Family photos everywhere. No business equipment in sight. I could point out our answering machine in the kitchen, plugged into the same wall socket as my toaster, or our new cell phones, but I doubt if he’d be impressed. His expression reads, This is how you run a business? He should see our business files, stored in a seltzer carton behind my shoes at the bottom of my bedroom closet.
“For now,” I tell him. “We’re thinking of renting a regular office, but we’ve been so busy, we haven’t had time to look.”
Evvie grins at me as if to say, Nice move!
“I like it,” says Shirley. “Very haimish. Instead of boring stuffy office stuff, a person can feel cozy here.” She stretches her arms out to illustrate her comfort.
I’m making a guess here—after all, I’ve only just met this couple—but I’ll bet that whatever Alvin says, Shirley will reply in the negative.
He looks at the wall sampler Bella stitched for us last Hanukkah. “ ‘Don’t trust anyone under seventy-five’?” he reads disdainfully. “This is your motto?”
“It’s just our company joke,” Evvie explains.
“Cute,” Shirley says. See what I mean?
“How may we help you?” I say, to move things along.
Alvin clears his throat. “My mother, Esther Ferguson, died on July 27th—nearly one month ago.”
Evvie says, “Sorry to hear it.”
“Well, she was ninety-five.”
“That’s a good, ripe old age,” says Evvie encouragingly.
Shirley jumps in. “She died in her bathtub in her apartment in the Grecian Villas retirement complex.”
That’s informative. Grecian Villas is probably one of the most expensive and elegant retirement hotels in all of Fort Lauderdale. Evvie’s glance tells me she made the same connection. She is smiling, which means she is sure that this couple can afford to pay. That’s one of the advantages about sisters knowing each other so well. We can often read each other’s minds.
Alvin pushes his teacup away. “I need to tell you up front that I’m interviewing a number of private detectives.”
There goes Evvie’s smile. We don’t have the job yet.
“Alvin,” his wife warns, “enough already.”
“Well, I need to make sure, don’t I? I can’t turn this sensitive matter over to just about anybody. This is a serious situation.” He turns back to me and Evvie. “I think my dear mother was murdered.”
Shirley butts in quickly. “Just so you know which side I’m on, I don’t. The woman was nearly one hundred, for God’s sakes.” She glares at her husband.
“I know it was that man.”
“She was living with her lover,” Shirley reports.
“Don’t call him that. It’s disgusting.”
“Well, he was! They weren’t just playing Parcheesi.” Shirley grins at me. “She called him Romeo and he called her Juliet. Isn’t that sweet? I should be so lucky to have such a romance at that age.” She gives Alvin a look that threatens it might not be him.
“Philip Smythe was taking advan
tage of her,” Alvin insists. “He knew she was loaded.”
“We met him once,” Shirley says to me and Evvie. “Don’t you just love British accents? I could tell he made her happy. He really loved her. He was a saint.”
“He was stealing her blind.” Alvin’s face is getting purple with anger.
“Alvin. We went through her bank accounts. All her money was there. She didn’t marry him or leave him anything in her will. You’re crazy, carrying on like this. We were her sole heirs.”
“I know he did it! I can’t let it alone. I want justice!” Now he is standing; his collar seems to be choking him.
Shirley stands up, too. “So what’s his motive?” She turns away from her husband and addresses us. “I’m really sorry we’ve wasted your time. We don’t need a detective. What we need to do is go back home to Seattle.”
That explains the wardrobe. Only out-of-towners wear rayon and wool.
Evvie frowns. There goes our job.
Alvin clenches his fists, defying her. “I say we do need a detective.”
Shirley says, “So all right, waste our money and hire these girls already. They seem nice enough. All I can say is I’m not schlepping to one more PI. I’ll wait for you outside.”
Alvin turns to us and announces, “So be it. I am formally hiring you to prove that my mother, Esther Ferguson, was murdered by Philip Smythe!”
“No fool like an old fool,” Shirley mutters as she heads for the door.
Evvie says mildly, “You’ll die of the heat out there.”
Shirley walks out, then walks back in. “You’re right.” She stands under the air-conditioning vents, arms folded. “I’ll wait right here.”
I go to my mahogany credenza; lying there in the top drawer, amid the dessert and cocktail forks, is a small stack of copies of our boilerplate contract.
Alvin takes one when I hold it out to him. “Just tell me where I put my John Hancock.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Ferguson?” I ask him. “Don’t rush into signing with us if you need to interview others.”
“No, this is it,” he says. He signs the contract and starts to write us a check. “How much is your retainer and who do I make it out to?”
