by Lois Winston
Both nodded toward me. “Mind if we ask you some questions, ma’am?” asked Menendez, the older of the two, a woman about my age and height but easily fifty pounds heavier, all in muscle. She looked like she could bench press me without working up a sweat.
LaMotta, a head taller than Menendez, looked like he could bench press her. I was glad they were the good guys.
I rubbed my arms against the cool late summer breeze that had kicked up since I’d left Blake alone with the body. On the other side of the parking lot, stray trash blew up against the chain link fence. Ever the gentleman, Blake removed his navy summer blazer and slipped it over my shoulders. He left his arm draped around me.
“What would you like to know?” I asked Menendez.
The two of them peppered me with questions. How well had I known Sidney Mandelbaum? When had we met? Exactly what was our relationship? (That one caused some raised eyebrows and a bit of explanation.)
“Did you see anyone follow Mr. Mandelbaum outside?” asked LaMotta.
I gasped. “You can’t possibly think one of the other seniors killed him! It had to be a random mugging, right?”
“We’re just collecting information at this point, Mrs. Elliot. Please answer the question. Did you see anyone follow Mr. Mandelbaum outside?”
I shook my head. “No, but I really wasn’t watching. I went to speak to Mrs. Goldenberg.”
“And how long would you estimate Mr. Mandelbaum was gone before you went in search of him?” asked Menendez.
I thought for a moment. “Ten minutes? Maybe less.”
“You’re sure it wasn’t longer?”
“No, Mrs. Goldenberg was quite interested in meeting Mr. Mandelbaum. When I couldn’t find him anywhere in the lodge hall, I figured he was still outside, puffing away on his cigar. Blake and I came to get him.”
Menendez and LaMotta stole a glance at each other. “Why both of you?” asked Menendez.
“Mr. Mandelbaum had wandering hands,” Blake offered.
“And since those hands were helping feed us, I didn’t want to risk losing a client by having to deck him,” I added.
“So he was a dirty old man?” asked Menendez, raising an eyebrow in need of a good plucking.
I shrugged. “Sidney dabbled in borderline inappropriate behavior. You know how old people are, not necessarily up on the latest political correctness.”
In truth, Sidney’s flirting fingers bothered Blake more than they did me. The textile industry, where I had worked my entire adult life, is rife with guys like Sidney Mandelbaum, and I learned early on how to deal with them without threatening sexual harassment lawsuits seventeen times a day. There’s more than one way to skin the Sidney Mandelbaums of this world.
Blake’s world was different. In academia, political correctness had turned into a zealous religion. Consequently, I have a higher tolerance for such nonsense than my husband. As long as Sidney kept himself to an occasional quick tush pat and didn’t progress to groping, I was willing to put up with his coarseness in exchange for all the business he gave me. Life is a matter of trade-offs.
Menendez and LaMotta exchanged another glance. I wished they’d stop doing that. It reminded me too much of The Look. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. My shouldn’t-have-bought-them-but-they-were-on-sale-and-a-steal-so-who-could pass-up-such-a-bargain Kate Spade kitten heeled mules, the gold ones with the rhinestone trim, were pinching my bare, bordering on frostbitten, toes.
After a few more questions that seemed pretty inane and meaningless to me, Menendez and LaMotta finished their interrogation. Menendez handed me her card. “Call me if you remember anything else,” she said.
Once they headed inside to question the assorted seniors, lodge members, and catering staff, I collapsed against my husband’s chest. “Poor Mr. Mandelbaum,” I said.
“Yeah, poor sleazy old Sid.”
I sighed. “But he was a very well-paying old sleaze.”
“I wonder who did him in,” said Blake as we headed to our car.
I glanced up at my husband, surprised that I wasn’t getting a now-do-you-see-why-I-didn’t-want-you-getting-involved-in-this-cockamamie-idea-of-yours? lecture, but he was probably in shock over Sidney’s murder. The lecture would come after the shock wore off.
Blake can be very overprotective. I think he sometimes wishes he’d taken a different career path, one that would have allowed his wife to stay in the kitchen baking cookies all day. But then he probably would have worried I’d burn down the house. Blake is an oxymoron—an unflappable worrywart.
“Not you, too? Come on, Blake. Sid was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, thanks to his need to light up. Knowing Sid, he tried to bargain the mugger down, and it cost him his life.” Muggings were rare in the New Jersey suburbs, but they did happen from time to time and often to the elderly who are easy marks.
Blake clicked the button on his key fob to unlock our Camry. “I don’t think so. And from what I gather, neither do the police.”
I stopped and turned to face him as he held the car door open for me. Have I mentioned my husband is a gentleman? How many twenty-first century men open doors for women? I have to thank my mother-in-law for raising her son right. “Come on, Blake, you can’t think someone deliberately set out to kill Sidney Mandelbaum.”
Blake let go of the door handle and grasped my shoulders, holding me at arm’s length. “After you went to speak to Mrs. What’s-her-name—”
“Goldenberg.”
Blake sighed before starting over, but to his credit he didn’t give me The Look. “After you went to speak to Mrs. Goldenberg, the police found Sid’s wallet in his pants pocket. Gracie, the guy had over six hundred dollars on him. This was no mugging. Unless he interrupted a drug deal—”
“In the Moose Lodge parking lot?”
“Exactly. Which means—”
“Someone intentionally killed Sidney Mandelbaum?” Every nerve in my body began to shudder and kept shuddering as I slid into the car. “Maybe someone interrupted the killer, and he didn’t have time to find Sidney’s wallet.” But I found it hard to convince myself of that, let alone Blake. Wouldn’t this fictional someone have run into the Moose Lodge for help?
I made three abortive attempts at fastening my seat belt before Blake took over and snapped the metal tongue into the slot for me. He might be the worrywart of the family, but his hands never shake.
Thinking sleazy old Mr. Mandelbaum had been the unfortunate victim of a mugging gone wrong was bad enough. Contemplating his death may have been at the hands of someone who specifically wanted him pushing up daisies was more than I could handle. I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths.
“You okay?” asked Blake after he settled himself behind the wheel.
“Not really.” Aside from a case of uncontrollable shakes, my stomach felt like Mike Tyson had used it for a practice bag. I lowered my head into my lap and continued to inhale a few more deep breaths. “He was a harmless old man, for God’s sake!”
Blake placed his hand on the back of my neck. “Do we really know that?”
I lifted my head and stared into my husband’s deep teal eyes. Blake’s eyes were what first attracted me to him nearly thirty years ago. I was a lowly eighteen-year-old freshman; he was a twenty-four-year-old first year assistant professor assigned to teach English Comp to fifty art majors who wanted to be anywhere but in his classroom.
Luckily for us, there were no rules about student/faculty fraternization back then because a week later I was spending more time at his apartment than my dormitory room.
Teal always was my favorite color.
“Whatever. So maybe we didn’t know all there was to know about Sidney.” Everyone has secrets. I hardly expect my clients to divulge all of them to me when they fill out their application form. Still, Sidney didn’t deserve to end up with a knife in his heart. “We have to find out who did this,” I said, my newfound resolve overcoming my trembling limbs and sucker-punched stomach.
“We?” Blake raised both eyebrows and shot me The Look. “We’re going to let the police handle this, Gracie.”
“But—”
“No buts. I’m serious. This is totally out of your league. Don’t go pulling an Anastasia Pollack on me. We’re not characters in some book or TV show where there’s always a happy ending on the last page or at the end of the hour. This is a real murder with real blood and a real killer.”
“I know that.”
“Good. Then think of me. Think of the twins. What would we do if anything happened to you?”
“The twins are nearly nineteen, off on their own most of the year, and you’d grab one of those Size Two coeds who are always throwing themselves at you.”
Did I mention besides those deep teal eyes, Blake bears an amazing resemblance to Hugh Jackman? Albeit, Hugh Jackman after that sexy shock of hair of his turns silver and his face develops deeper laugh lines around the corners of his eyes and mouth.
Forget all that feminist propaganda about God being a woman. If God were a woman, women would become distinguished as they aged, and men would just grow gray and wrinkled. Between that and women being the ones to suffer through the birthing process and menopause, God has to be a man. Any sensible woman would have figured that out a long time ago.
Blake’s permanent laugh lines deepened into a scowl. “Have I ever given you any indication that I want one of those Size Two asses?”
I raised an eyebrow. Unlike Detective Menendez, I did take the time to pluck out any strays that threatened my perfect arch. “Not even in a fantasy or two?”
He leaned over and planted a kiss on my cheek. “From the moment I set eyes on your ass I wanted it starring in all my fantasies.”
“Even though it’s several sizes larger now?”
He settled back into his seat, started up the car, and shifted into reverse. “Even when you drive me crazy. Like now.”
Of the two of us, Blake is the sensible one, the solid, staid, left-brained academician who analyses situations to death before making a decision. I’m the harebrained, right-brained partner who dives into the deep end head first, even though I can’t swim. He’s George Burns; I’m Gracie Allen—the poster couple for Opposites Attract.
And as much as I love my husband, I’d never been very good at taking orders. Anyway, I had a book to research. Thanks to Mr. Mandelbaum’s untimely demise, my romantic comedy was quickly transforming into a romantic suspense. Now all I had to do was figure out who and why. If I happened to uncover Sidney Mandelbaum’s killer along the way….
I smiled at Blake. “I’ll be good,” I said. And if I couldn’t be good, I’d be careful. Careful not to let Blake know what I was up to.
TWO
After I came up with the idea for Relatively Speaking, I held off mentioning the new business to Blake until I had my first client. When my dear husband calmed down enough to keep from strangling me, he joined the company as a not-so-silent partner, but I knew it wasn’t because he believed in my vision. He could care less about an introduction service for senior citizens. He only wanted to tag along to make sure I didn’t cause a septuagenarian uprising or something. He probably also wanted to keep me away from any designer handbag stores.
“Good thing I have tenure,” he’d said. “The last thing we need is this crazy scheme of yours blowing back on me. One of us out of work is bad enough.”
Tenure or not, I didn’t think the university could fire someone over a spouse’s occupation, but I kept my mouth shut. Blake was the main breadwinner now. Not wanting to jeopardize his career, I’d previously agreed—reluctantly—to write my romances under a pen name because Blake had no idea how the governing board—stuffy old academics that they were—might react to my sensual romances. For that reason, no one would ever know that Emma Carlyle, romance author, was actually Gracie Elliott, faculty wife.
Luckily, tenured senior professors also have fairly flexible hours because my work hours tend to be afternoons and early evenings. Most of my clients need several hours each morning to find their teeth and lube their creaky joints, not to mention deal with lower GI necessities. And they call it a night by eight o’clock. This schedule also gave me my mornings to write. I was making progress on my book and earning enough to keep us out of that apartment above the auto repair shop. At least one of us was happy with the situation.
Up until about an hour ago, I’d pooh-poohed Blake’s concerns over what he had taken to calling “one of Gracie’s more harebrained ideas.” I, on the other hand, considered it one of my more brilliant, creative solutions, considering my growing waiting list of clients. Besides, how much trouble could I get into posing as some old geezer’s daughter or niece or third-cousin-twice-removed?
Then Sidney had to go and get himself murdered. See what happens when you don’t listen to your inner superstitions? I definitely should have skipped from Client Twelve to Client Fourteen.
After we returned home, I kicked off my mules and headed to the kitchen. Blake headed to the den to tackle a stack of student papers. At the beginning of the fall semester he assigns his first-year graduate students a twenty-five-hundred-word critical essay on how fifties television shaped the counter-culture of the sixties. Blake wrote his doctoral thesis on the subject (hence his knowledge of and fascination with George and Gracie as well as other sitcom families) and was familiar with every posted cyber-essay floating around the Internet. He’d even written a few of them.
Without fail, every one of his students hands in a downloaded essay. After receiving their F’s, the students begin to realize they can’t cheat their way to a master’s degree—at least not in my husband’s classes—and begin relying on their brains instead of Google.
“Well, here’s a first,” Blake said, coming up behind me as I prepared a salad to go with the salmon poaching on the stove. Both of us had passed on the culinary delights of the five-dollar all-you-can-eat early bird special at the Moose Lodge.
“What’s that?” I asked.
With one hand he waved the paper in front of my face while his other hand reached around me to snag a cherry tomato. “Someone actually chose not to steal an essay off the Internet,” he said, talking while chewing.
“Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to talk with your mouth full?” I grabbed a towel and wiped a dribble of tomato juice from his chin.
Blake popped another cherry tomato into his mouth and spoke around it. “Guess I didn’t pay attention to that lecture. Anyway, that’s the good news.”
“And the bad news?”
“The kid took the time to cobble together several posted essays.”
“Maybe you should give him an F+. For effort and creativity.
“Her. Tiffany Robeling.”
“Tiffany?” I snorted as I swatted the hand reaching for a third tomato. “In that case she was sucking up to you. Give her an F-, and leave some tomatoes for the salad.”
Blake managed to secure the tomato anyway. After popping it into his mouth, he planted a tomatoey kiss on my lips. “Trust me, the name doesn’t fit the body. The kid has more piercing than St. Valentine. And those are only the ones visible to the public.”
His comment triggered some painful images in my mind. “Ouch. I’m glad our kids never got into body mutilation.”
“They call it art.”
“Art?” I snorted again. “I went to art school. Trust me. Punching holes in your body wasn’t one of the majors offered back then, and it still isn’t.”
“Self-expression, then. Different strokes, sweetheart. Don’t start sounding like an old fogey.”
I considered myself more free-spirited and creative than most people, but even I had my limits. And my body piercing stopped at a hole in each earlobe. “I wonder how they’ll feel about all that self-expression when they’re pushing fifty.”
Blake laughed. “By then they’ll have wised up and enhanced the coffers of many a plastic surgeon.”
“Maybe I should have become a plastic sur
geon.”
“Right.” Blake coupled The Look with The Voice.
“Could’ve happened. And we’d have a diplodocus-sized nest egg by now.” Back when I chose to major in fabric design, who could have predicted I’d become obsolete at the not-ready-for-the-nursing-home age of forty-eight?
“At least I should have listened to my mother and become a teacher. Or a pharmacist. Maybe an accountant.”
“You?” Blake raised an eyebrow. “Two words, Gracie: left brain.”
“Oh yeah.” Too bad I don’t seem to have one. Never did. Math and science classes always scrambled my neurons. I’m a right-brained girl all the way.
Blake turned to leave but stopped when he noticed the folder on the counter. “What’s this?”
“Sidney Mandelbaum’s file.”
Once again The Look settled across his face.
I turned my back and began slicing a zucchini. “I thought his application and the record of women he met through Relatively Speaking might shed some clues about who murdered him.”
“Gracie…”
I sliced faster. “For the police, Blake. To help in their investigation.” And mine. But I didn’t mention that and kept my back turned to him so he couldn’t read my face. “Go give Tiffany her F-and wash up for dinner.”
*
The next morning while Blake delivered his standard lecture on research, integrity, and the Internet to a roomful of stunned Master’s candidates, I hosted my writing critique group. Myra Fitzgerald, Natalie Davenport, and I had met when I joined Liberty States Fiction Writers. We bonded during a group critiquing session and had been meeting once or twice a week over coffee and manuscript pages ever since.
Like me, Myra and Natalie were both unpublished, but unlike me, both had finished at least one manuscript. Myra even had an agent shopping her work around. In my defense, both had been writing for several years before I ever sat my butt in a chair and placed my fingers on the keyboard to type the first sentence of my first novel. Obviously, I had some catching up to do. They didn’t hold my lack of output against me, mainly because they valued my constructive criticism of their work. They also believed I had talent and encouraged me to keep writing.
