Getting Old Is Très Dangereux: A Mystery

by Rita Lakin

  The Snake concentrates on the two women with a small pair of binoculars. They are chatting amicably. Every so often, when they face each other, he can tell what they’re saying. He learned lipreading years ago, a very useful tool. They’re eager to get home. Too bad. They won’t be getting there. So sorry.

  “Stay very close,” he demands of his driver.

  But maybe they will see you?”

  “They won’t,” he insists.

  The driver half turns. “This is an affair of the heart? Your woman runs away from you?” He giggles. “Which is she? The younger? The older? Both such beautiful redheaded ladies. I hardly ever see such women in my country.”

  The Snake would like to push his knife into the driver’s jugular right now, but he needs the fool to keep driving. Patience. “José, my friend, I will pay you double if you keep quiet. I need to think of how happy I will be when I am reunited with my wife and daughter. It will be such a surprise to them.”

  José grins. Seems like the fool listens to all those romantic songs.

  “And do turn your lovely salsa music down.”

  “Si, señor. Of course, señor,” and he switches the music to earphones. It takes all The Snake’s control not to snatch the earphones off his head and smack him. Instead he taps the man on the shoulder and indicates the earphones. José nods and reluctantly takes them off and shuts off his radio.

  The Snake watches the women as they lean back in their seats relaxing. He is rightfully pleased with himself. They all fell for it. The flics. The woman. The former lover.

  Finding some moth-eaten homeless man was easy. There were so many of them. And this one was very eager. A meal in his hotel room. A shower, what a luxury. And the look of gratitude when The Snake helped the formerly disgusting, smelly man into one of his suits. The pathetic vagrant would have done anything he wanted of him. A squirt or two of his cologne helped mask years of street smell. It also helped with the disguise.

  And so easy to walk him back outside and into a nearby alley with the promise of much money. The indigent loser half drooled in happiness. The Snake, of course, made sure his victim faced him when he showed his knife. The thrill for him was always the terrifying look of realization on their faces before they died. And voilà!

  All he had left to do was check out of that fleabag hotel, and get the computer and his other passport and other set of airline tickets out of the hotel safe downstairs. He laughed. He wondered how many guests ever had need of the safe—he doubted there were many—but he was glad it had been there.

  The garage band continues to play what they call music as the two brides wait. Seating the huge number of guests is taking longer than they expected, reports Hy as he enters the grove to reassure us. “Shouldn’t be much longer.” He grins in his usual mischievous way. “Not to worry, the band is entertaining us. They just played an original song they wrote, ‘Kill All the Cops.’”

  Evvie groans. “Sorry, my mistake. I should have checked Linda’s suggestion in advance.”

  Hy shrugs. “Ya gets what ya pay for.”

  With that, he trots back to the great lawn, and his place at the chuppah, laughing rudely.

  What’s happening? The two taxis are waiting for the light to change. The Snake sits forward, peering anxiously into the redheads’ cab directly in front of him. Something’s wrong. The two women are turned, staring out the back window. The young one is gesturing excitedly. He reads her lips. “It’s him! It’s the man in the book room!”

  The older one says, “It can’t be! Are you sure? You never got a good look at him!”

  Now the two women are leaning over to the front seat excitedly talking to their driver and pointing back at him.

  As soon as the light turns green, the cab swerves and makes a sharp right turn.

  The Snake punches his driver in the shoulder. “Follow them—they’re heading in a different direction—fast!”

  The startled man does as he is told. “But that is not the way to the airport!”

  “Shut up and don’t lose them.”

  He senses the driver’s trepidation. He’d better reassure him. “Triple the money if you stay with them!”

  The cabbie calms down and concentrates on his driving.

  “Merde.” The Snake thinks that this disgusting city will be the death of him. Where the hell are they going?

  Merrill Grant readies his Cane Fu team into action. The rat-a-tat-tat of the drums calls them forward. Our daughters and the girls blow us air kisses as they proudly step out of the grove and into the lawn area, their canes on high.

  We listen to the amused laughter and applause, knowing they must be setting up their crossed canes for our grand entrance.

  Our turn next. I straighten up and primp my hair for our march down the aisle. I have to admit I’m excited.

  Evvie pokes me, indicating that I should turn around. “Look at that!”

  “Now’s not the time to be sightseeing. Get ready. We’re heading out in a minute.”

  Evvie pinches my arm. “Turn, dammit!”

  “Ouch. Stop that. At what?” And then I see what she sees. To my astonishment, a taxi careens into our parking area with screeching tires. It zigzags until it gets as close to us as possible. For a horrible moment, I fear it will hit us. The cab door opens. The driver rushes to the trunk and grabs two large suitcases and dumps them on the ground. At the same time, two women jump out of the backseat.

  The taxi driver takes off as if the devil himself is after him.

  I stare at the women running toward us. Two redheaded women. What? “Oh, my God! It’s Michelle and her niece!”

  They are screaming. “Help!”

  “What the hell … ” Evvie says, equally amazed. She squints to get a better look. “So, that’s Jack’s Michelle!”

  “Never mind the commentary! What are they doing here?”

  Michelle is half dragging Colette, who holds onto her injured side painfully. And I recall she has just come out of the hospital.

  As Michelle reaches me I’m aware that, behind them, another cab is screeching to a stop in the parking area as well.

  Michelle is panting. Colette, in agony, sinks to her knees.

  “Gladeeze, The Snake is not dead!”

  As she says this, I see a small, thin elderly man jump out of the second cab. He, too, drops his luggage and sprints toward us at a startling speed.

  “He will kill us.” Michelle clutches at Colette in terror.

  I have to think fast. “Michelle,” I say, pointing. “Run through the shrubs and get Jack and Morrie. Run!”

  To Evvie I say, “Hide Colette! Fast!” There’s no running for me with my bad ankle.

  Evvie practically drags the young woman, who is gasping for air.

  The Snake gets closer. I hobble away from him. Evvie is back in seconds. Who knows where she dumped Colette.

  “Glad, what are we going to do?”

  “Stall him somehow until Jack and Morrie get here.”

  Evvie and I hear the Wedding March being played. Badly. Our cue.

  “Are you kidding? How? With what?” asks my practical sister.

  “Anything. Think of something!”

  Jack waits eagerly under the chuppah for his bride. Joe, standing next to him wearing his matching tuxedo, smiles shyly at him. The rabbi is patient. The men holding the poles stand proudly in place, though Hy wobbles a bit. Merrill and the Cane Fus hold their canes crossed on high. Jack looks behind him to his best man, Morrie.

  Morrie shakes his head. “I’m not going to tell you again. I’ve got your ring!”

  The awful band mutilates the Wedding March. Jack groans. The guests stand as they all turn toward the tree grove, respectfully awaiting the two brides. Some of them have their fingers in their ears.

  Suddenly there is a wave of reverberation from the audience. Building to a crescendo of chatter. Jack assumes it’s the response to the band. But that’s not it.

  He turns around. The wedding guests are poi
nting and staring.

  No, he thinks. It isn’t possible. Michelle? Michelle is marching—no, running—down the aisle toward him? Through the archway of canes? Morrie is equally incredulous. Jack shakes his head as if to get rid of this bizarre specter. Michelle throws her arms around his neck. “Jack, save us!”

  Everyone’s jaws drop—to say they’re in shock is putting it mildly.

  He hears Hy at his pole say, “Gotta hand it to you, Jack. You sure got a touch with women!”

  Jack pushes Michelle away from him. “What have you done with my wife-to-be?”

  “Never mind that—”

  Jack interrupts her. “How did you find this place?”

  Michelle points toward the grove. “A cab driver with his GPS. Thank God you told me where the wedding would be. Listen to me. The Snake is here. He is not dead!”

  Morrie asks anxiously, “Where is he?”

  “By now with Gladeeze!”

  The Cane Fus, with Merrill in the lead, race back down the aisle toward the brush, closely followed by Morrie, Jack, and Joe as the rabbi gets out of their way.

  The members of the audience are also on the move.

  The chuppah, left behind, collapses.

  I watch Evvie smash her bouquet of flowers into The Snake’s face. Over and over she hits him. He sneezes. A triple sneeze. Oh, what can I lose? I shove my bouquet at him as well. He can’t stop sneezing, but it doesn’t hinder him from getting his knife out.

  What else can I do but use my cane? I wish I had taken Merrill’s course. I hit the assassin haphazardly on the head as he swings his knife at us. We manage to back away.

  At the same time I hear Merrill calling out: “Hit hard! Hard as you can! Sound off. One two, jab into his neck.” His group chants in cadence along with him as they surround The Snake. Sophie, Bella, and Ida do their stuff. Our daughters jump in as well, following Merrill’s instruction as he gets into the fray with them.

  The Snake struggles to get away from the swinging canes while Morrie grabs him and twists his arm and forces the knife from his hand.

  The Snake is wrestled to the ground as now wedding guests who really need their canes join in.

  Jack calls out to his son, “Where’s your gun?”

  By now, Morrie has the killer’s arms twisted behind him. The Snake struggles and has fit after fit of sneezes as more flowers are thrown by yelling female guests. Even Linda gets her licks in, tossing her bouquet from her wheelchair.

  Morrie shouts, “You think I’d bring a gun to your wedding?”

  Jacks asks, almost poignantly, “Handcuffs?”

  “No!”

  With that, Jack pulls his cummerbund off and pushes it at his son. Joe does the same. Morrie, with their help, ties the struggling killer up with the bright peach fabric.

  Michelle and Colette clutch each other.

  Jack embraces me.

  Our family is dumbfounded. Our friends and neighbors applaud even though they have no idea what’s going on.

  Hy can’t stop gazing at Michelle. Lola puts her hands over his eyes.

  The rabbi appears through the trees. He glances around, stymied by this strange panorama. “Is there going to be a wedding today?”

  Toothpaste, still at their little bandstand, attempt another feeble try at the Wedding March.

  Jack, out of breath, takes my hand in his. “Shall we?”

  The entire congregation head back to their seats, chatting merrily in relief. I smile. This will certainly be a wedding to remember. How many weddings include a gorgeous redhead running down the aisle instead of the bride, and grabbing on to the groom? And the best man holding on to a killer while he passes the grooms their rings? And everyone participating in capturing a famous killer? There’ll be dozens of free dinners to dine on with this story.

  Michelle and Colette stand to the side, not quite knowing what to do. I call out to them, “Catch a later plane. You’re both invited to our wedding.”

  Evvie and I no longer have bouquets. I don’t have my cane, either. My hair is a disaster.

  Frankly, we look a mess. But I have my darling’s arm to hold on to.

  As the ceremony finally begins, something makes me look back. The sounds of the wedding guests fade away and there is only the soft rustle of the trees. The now empty grove seems to shimmer in the shade. I sense movement and I squint to see who’s standing in the mist. My new husband is unaware.

  It’s my Jack Gold. My beloved first husband, long deceased. He wears his old plaid jacket with the patches on the sleeves. His eyes gleam at me through his black horn-rimmed glasses. He raises his hand and waves.

  I can barely hear his whisper. “Good-bye, my dearest. You don’t need me anymore. Have a good life.”

  I blink and he’s gone.

  No, don’t go. I won’t forget you. But I probably will. A little.

  I turn back to greet my new life with tears in my eyes.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to Shirley Ragsdale of Diogenes Ridge Vineyard for connecting me to Randy Dunn of Dunn Vineyards, in Napa Valley, for his wine expertise.

  Thanks to Betty and Roger Eggleston, my Florida spies, for Cane Fu (and especially thanks for Deb).

  Thanks to the wonderful Toby and Bill Gottfried, just because …

  And rounding up the usual suspects, Caitlin, Nancy Y., Peggy, Jonnie, and Camille.

  And my boys, Howard and Gavin, every single time.

  Farewell to my beloved aunt Annie—my “Evvie”—never to be forgotten.

  Dear Reader,

  So there you have it. Seventy-five percent of you loyal readers thought it was right and proper for Gladdy and Jack to marry. Nervous seniors have often faced these questions pertaining to leaping into so precarious an institution as marriage. Should we? Why not? If not now, when?

  Gladdy and Jack answered with a resounding yes!

  However, the twenty-five percent of you (mostly men, cynics all) who voted con to the prevailing pro insisted the marriage was literary suicide—that boredom and snores would follow.

  The pros fought back. What about Nick and Nora Charles? What about Tommy and Tuppence? Lord Peter and Harriet Vane? On and on, the famous married character names poured in. Well, we shall see.

  Reality has set in for the girls. Jack is no longer a maybe. Jack is a fait accompli. He and Gladdy are in honeymoon heaven at Niagara Falls. The girls’ concern: How much is Jack going to interfere with the Gladdy Gold Detective Agency? But their greater worry: Will their friendship suffer? Will they no longer have the fun they used to have when they were “just us girls”?

  Meanwhile something strange is happening in Lanai Gardens. A new resident has moved in, and within a month she is brutally murdered. Everything points to longtime resident Arlene Simon as the killer. “Save me,” she begs Gladdy. “I’m innocent.” But is she? Another adventure begins.

  So watch your local bookstore for the arrival of the new and exciting GETTING OLD CAN KILL YOU, coming soon. Or visit my website, www.ritalakin.com, to get updates. And keep those wonderful e-mails coming to me at ritalakin@aol.com. I love hearing from you.

  Getting Old Is Très Dangereux is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A Dell Mass Market Original

  Copyright © 2010 by Rita Lakin

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Dell, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  DELL is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  eISBN: 978-0-440-33841-3

  www.bantamdell.com

  v3.0

 

 
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