by Lois Winston
Ida, “We’re waving and screaming. We look like lunatics.” To Evvie, “You had to mention that harem word!”
“What does that mean—a harem? He has sex with us?” This from Bella, our eighty-three-year-old naïf, “Did we do it and why can’t I remember if we did?”
Ida, yet again, “I’ll murder him.”
Sophie adds, “What a nerve!”
If smoke could come out of their ears, the room would be fogged in by now.
While they are in rage mode, Evvie and I tiptoe into my kitchen. To brew tea. Herb tea, maybe to calm them down. We are just as flummoxed as they are. But I’m not surprised.
The girls follow us into the kitchen and the room being a tiny space, we are a mob scene. “Why?” a chorus wanting to understand.
I wait. They are finally finished venting. I say, softly. “Maybe it was because we were not kind to him. Maybe his feelings were hurt. If we had just included him sometimes…This is his revenge.”
Ida tries to fold her arms across her chest. Too crowded. “Revenge. He wanted revenge. We can show him revenge!”
Bella tries to pat Ida’s shoulder. No way, no room. “Yeah!” Then, “How?”
Evvie sighs. “Maybe an apology would do more good.”
Gloom and doom, though Bella does ask if I have cookies to go with the tea.
The kitchen phone rings. I answer. My girls hear:
“Yes, this is Gladdy Gold of Gladdy Gold and Associates. Yes, we are available. We would be interested in solving your problem if we can. He’s dead and you think it’s murder? You are located in Key West?”
The girls are clapping. And jumping in place. A job again. Hooray. The depression is over.
Evvie and I stare at one another, as I continue to listen to my caller. She mouthes, “Key West? Invisible letters?”
They had us at “murder.” Hy is forgotten.
FOUR
Getting Ready. Shop ‘til We Drop.
Nothing like the smell of success and everything changes. Back to shopping at the mall. We have no idea how long we’ll be away, so the girls insist we can always use some extra outfits.
At Phoebe’s Fine Fashions:
Sophie, glowing, “So much to choose from. I wanna buy out the whole store.”
Ida, smiling, “How nice the salesgirls are.” Ida smiling? Complimenting someone? Wow.
Bella, cheerily, “I like everything.”
Evvie, “It’s three hours already. My feet are killing me. Pick, pay and let’s go to lunch.”
Sophie and Bella have chosen a half-dozen twin color-coordinated outfits. Of course with matching sun hats and sandals. Lavender and peach are faves. Ida has selected one gray pants suit which looks like every other gray pants suit in her closet.
Evvie and I will stick to our already owned clothes.
The happy trio stomps into to the nearest eatery. They are beyond excited. Evvie and I are numb with exhaustion. This time the girls’ every bite of cheeseburger is so yummy. Every dessert is delicious. Life is good. Suddenly everything is coming up rosy. Sophie is singing from Gypsy. Bella now has a mantra, saying over and over, “A road trip. I love a road trip.”
Needless to say they pack too much. Needless to also say they are in and out of each others’ apartments sharing visions of a wonderful time ahead. Key West, that’s like going on a vacation. (Never mind the thousands who come to Fort Lauderdale for what we have daily) Wonderful beaches. (When have they ever gone to our beaches? Never.) Beautiful ocean views. (Ditto.)
When do we leave? Phone calls galore. Three different girls calling each other twice a day. Evvie and I get even more calls because they have dozens of questions, all of them already answered. Do the math. I tell them, we leave on Saturday. I tell them again on Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. Friday, they are packed and raring to go. I won’t even bother to report on how many times they phoned on Friday.
Sometimes I feel like the parent of three rambunctious children, who happen to be in their second childhood. They’re loveable, but draining.
Finally we leave for our road trip.
Making sure Hy is not in sight, we load up quickly and drive off. They have no time for him now. Revenge will have to wait.
FIVE
The Road Trip. Agony and Ecstasy.
At first all is jolly. The gang is revved up for a wonderful time. Except for the fact my Chevy wagon is packed to the gills. Three girls, five extra-large suitcases. Evvie and I share one small, or the passengers wouldn’t be able to get into the car. Sister Evvie always gets to sit next to me; the girls are overcrowded in the back. To say we are totally cramped, is an understatement.
And reminiscent of our stakeouts, we are over-burdened. We are traveling 110 miles, crossing forty-three bridges, granted, for us a long day’s drive. But one would guess we’d be traveling for a month. Name it, we have it packed in what little leg room is available. Drinks. Food. Snacks. Blankies. Bags full of stuff. Comfort? Impossible. I don’t look forward to when eagerness fades and the misery sets in.
The gang can’t agree on what CD’s to listen to as we ride along, ranging from choosing “Oh, My Papa” and other Eddie Fisher favorites (groan) through Great Songs by Liberace. At his piano. With candelabra. (Other groans.) No agreement reached so it is decided (by me) that Evvie will read from a travel handbook she brought along, describing places and facts about our destination.
But first there’s lots of looking out the windows as I drive US 1, the Dixie Highway. Also known as the Overseas Highway, Evvie informs us.
Happy. Until the growing paranoia. The highway is very narrow with the whole Atlantic Ocean on one side and all of the Gulf of Mexico on the other. Bella wants to know if sharks can jump. Out of the water and into a car. No, I swear.
As soon as one car passes us too closely, the terror begins. Can a car bump us into the ocean or the bay? Not likely. However, every time a car does pass, the back-seaters shut their eyes, in anticipation of disaster.
“Gladdy, close your eyes!” Bella cries out to me with hers glued shut.
“If I do, you’ll be sorry. I am the one driving.”
“I forgot.”
A while later a speedboat goes by so fast and close we’re splashed. The girls shriek. There is much clutching of each other, and holding on to their worn-out blankie. Second childhood, remember?
I now have a mantra. We should have gone by plane. We should have gone by plane. We should have…Like an unwelcome tune, it ricochets off my mind.
I suggest they keep their eyes closed, and relax while Evvie reads to us about our upcoming trip.
She starts her travel book lecture. “There are seventeen-hundred islands that make up the Keys. Most only reached by boat. There are about thirty-seven Keys. They are separated into three branches. The Upper Keys, closest to Miami, include Plantation Key, Islamorada Key, Marathon Key, Key Largo…”
A muffled voice, Bella asks if we can stop at Key Largo. “Could I meet Humphrey Bogart? He was so good in that movie.”
Evvie says, “No, stopping, we need to go further.”
Bella says, “Okay.”
“What about bathroom breaks?” ask Sophie.
“We will have them,” I promise.
“And lunch? From Bella.
“Lots of stops to eat, visit a key or two, and to stretch,” I assure them.
Evvie continues her lecture. “The Middle Keys have Big Pine Key, Conch Key, Sunshine Key, Scout Key, to name just a few, The Lower Keys is where Key West is, our destination. It’s the southwest tip of the United States only ninety miles away from Cuba…”
“Maybe we can go to Cuba,” Sophie suggests.
Evvie says, “I doubt it.” She continues her travelogue, “Come to the sunset celebrations every night at Mallory Square. Dancing, dining, spectacular sunsets.”
I nudge Evvie. “They’re asleep, you can stop. You’re better than a Tylenol PM.”
Evvie sighs in relief. “Thanks. Quiet at last.”
; For the next half hour or so, she and I go through our plans once again. I say, “We first stop at the Brown Pelican Inn, a charming Victorian B&B and check in.”
Evvie say, “Hmm, that sounds familiar.”
I smile, “Yes, that’s where Jack and I once went to be alone. And had to leave as soon as we arrived to get home racing a hurricane. I sigh. I never got to see anything. Nor even to spend time with Jack. Oh, well, it might have been wonderful.”
“The good news is that Jack is with you permanently now.”
“Amen to that. Then we head for the Wassinger house and meet Sadie and Louie, our clients and hope to hear about their mystery.”
“And maybe unravel the other mystery- the blank letters.”
“Amen, again.” I send out a silent prayer—and let the girls sleep longer. Please.
SIX
Arrive Key West. Our Adventure Begins.
The enthusiasm returns, even though we’re all exhausted from the trip. Driving through charming Key West, there’s much oohing and ahhing, passing one colorful mansion after another. So many people in the streets, in outdoor cafes, many in bright outfits. Music coming from everywhere. Even dancing merrily in and out of slow-driving cars. What a thrilling place.
Bella asks, “Did we bring the right clothes?”
“Not to worry,” Sophie calms her, “Look at all those stores, one after another. We could always go shopping.”
Ida groans. “Not again.”
Sophie cries out, delighted. “Look at all those palm trees.”
Killjoy Ida reminds her, “We have palm trees everywhere, where we live.”
Sophie, shot down, says, “Well, these look different.”
Following our directions, as well as my memory, we find the Brown Pelican Inn. A shade of subtle, pale yellow building, nothing brown about it.
Evvie, still the travel maven comments, “This is an example of a copy of an English Victorian mansion. Sometimes referred to as ‘gingerbread.’ Beautiful.”
“And charming inside,” I add, remembering.” We enter the Inn, leaving our luggage still in the car.
Inside, the girls are suitably impressed with the antiques and much white wicker furniture, slatted window treatments and charming knick-knacks on the shelves, mostly with ocean themes.
I check in with the pretty forty-ish owner, Teresa LeYung, I still remember the petite lady, with lovely long, dark hair, and slim body. She also remembers me. “You were here when our last hurricane hit. Two years ago.”
Ruefully, I agree. “That was me, Ms. LeYung.”
“Well, not to worry. The weather is perfect this time. And please call me Teresa. We’re pretty casual around here.”
I notice a young man carrying in those heavy suitcases that belong to the girls. Like Teresa, he is also of Asian descent.
Teresa calls out to him. “Jin, say hello to Miss…she hesitates.
I inform her, showing my ring, “Now Mrs. Jack Langford. Gladdy.”
“Congratulations,” she says, meaning it. “Jin, this is Mrs. Langford, meet my nephew, Jin.” Followed with a round of introductions with my group.” Jin looks about twenty-ish. Tall, thin, almost pretty. Black crew cut hair, tight jeans. Ditto tight red and white striped shirt. He is charming. “He helps out at the inn when he’s not at the theatre.”
Her nephew smiles. It’s an appealing smile. He addresses us. “I’m an actor. Singer. So-so dancer. Playing in a musical, down the street. If you like theatre, you might want to take in our show.”
Sophie is eager. “We love musicals. What’s it called?”
“La Cage aux Folles.”
She looks confused. “That sounds French. Is it in English?”
Jin and his aunt exchange amused, knowing looks. “Definitely in English. Translated from a French farce.”
Evvie and I pick up on their meaning. We might have to do some explaining to the girls.
Evvie says to Jin, “I’m sure we would enjoy it.”
I add, “But first we are here on serious business.”
Teresa reacts. “Of course. The Wassingers made your reservations. She and Jin exchange a different set of glances this time. Of worry.
My antenna immediately goes up. Something amiss? “You know the Wassingers?”
“You know what they say about small towns. Everybody knows everyone.”
Jin adds, grinning, “And just about everybody’s business.”
Teresa looks justifiably sad. “You’re here because of Robert Strand’s death. Very unexpected news. Dying on his boat, like that, such a tragic accident.”
Sophie blurts, “But we were told he was murdered!”
Jin inadvertently blurts, “That’s what the Wassingers think. No one else does.”
Teresa and Jin are suddenly rigid. It’s obvious they weren’t told anything about us by the Wassingers.
“I thought you were related,” Teresa says quietly, “here for the funeral.”
I shake my head, no with a chorus of group head-shaking to agree.
“Then why are you here?”
I have a feeling Teresa might know, but hopes she’s wrong.
“We we’re hired to investigate Robert Strand’s death. We’re Private Eyes.”
Teresa is incredulous. “Hired? Oh, no. They didn’t. You? Private Eyes? Really?”
She changes the subject quickly. Very business-like now. “Jin, get the rest of the luggage from the car. She turns to me and hands me two sets of keys. “He’ll show you to your rooms. I must go to my office.”
With that she hurries from the lobby and disappears down a hall.
Uh, oh, what have we gotten ourselves into? Here’s a different kind of mystery.
“Follow me,” says Jin, not looking anyone right now. “After you unpack, I’ll give you directions to the Wassingers.” He, too, is all business.
I have a feeling his aunt will be giving him a lecture while we are unpacking about keeping one’s mouth closed.
We quickly get settled in our rooms. We unpack our one suitcase. Evvie and I are sharing. The girls are down the hall, with one extra folding bed. I imagine a battle later as to who gets to sleep on the cot.
Evvie comments, “She didn’t think much of the fact, we were professionals.”
“I guess not. But don’t forget she’s under seventy-five and we don’t trust their opinions.”
~*~
Jin meets us again downstairs. We have a set appointment and he gives us the simple directions. Teresa has not come back to the lobby. Jin is still uncomfortable.
He stiffly hands us a few brochures, his voice a monotone. “If you like key lime pie, this is where it was invented, and there’s a building plaque to prove it. (Yes, Aunt Teresa did have that chat.) Parasailing? No, I guess not. I recommend the Shipwreck Museum and Harry Truman’s winter home and of course, the mansion, you won’t want to miss…” He stops himself, choking on his words. His face turns red, because once again he’s revealed something; but what?
Jin quickly opens the front door and urges us out. “You don’t want to be late.”
Before the door is completely shut, I hear Teresa’s voice. “Have they gone yet?”
She was hiding from us? What is going on? What don’t they want us to know? Are we going to be sorry we took this trip? Why didn’t I find out more about this case, before I grabbed it so fast? Where was our due diligence? But the girls were so desperate to dispel boredom.
Evvie is aware of the tension we just witnessed; the girls are oblivious. Ready or not, we’re off to meet the Wassingers and whatever they throw at us, we’ll be able to manage. Or will we?
SEVEN
Meet Clients. What Is Happening Here?
According to our map, and directions, we are only three blocks from our B&B. We could have walked. Our plan is to meet and greet, then go out to dinner. We never stopped eating, in the car, on the way up, but they can’t wait to go to “Margaritaville” —whatever that was—and then try some Caribbean seafood. And ma
ybe the key lime pie.
According to Evvie’s travel guide, we are around the corner of a very famous visitor spot. At 900 Whitehead Street. Before she can look up what it is, we’ve arrived at our destination.
After the lovely, well-kept B&B and mansions we’ve passed, this building is a disappointment. It’s shabby, grey clapboard, in desperate need of paint, three stories high with a widow’s walk on the roof. Evvie relates that fishermen’s wives used to wait on that high balcony, looking for their husbands’ ships to come home. Many never did.
The girls aren’t paying too much attention to the history lesson, wondering about this house instead. Ida comments, “It needs a lot of work.”
Sophie adds, “It looks real old.”
The door opens and a couple stands there to greet us. Obviously the Wassingers.
Bella whispers, “So are the owners.
Ida pokes her. “You should talk, alta cocker.”
He says, “Welcome. Come in.” A quivery voice.
She says, “Come in, Welcome.” An equally weak voice.
We follow our clients in who are moving very slowly. Knowing my girls, I can read their minds as we walk through the dark hallway with dim light bulbs hardly doing the job. Bella is already looking at the ceilings expecting spider webs and getting ready to faint. Ida is touching tabletops and moldings for dust. Sophie is sniffing—the house smells of cats. She is allergic to cats. She thinks that, though she’s never been in a house with a cat. She can’t help herself. She asks, “Do you have a cat?”
Sadie and Louie turn, smile sweetly at one another. Sadie says, “We did. Snow White Seven. She was such a dear, she loved to sit on my head…”
Louie finishes it. “…A great mouser. We miss her.”
They continue on their snail pace. Sophie is still sniffing unhappily. Ida’s sleeve is still dusting. Bella continues to glance up.
I need to describe our clients. Both have long, narrow faces, bodies pitifully thin. They wear grey; same shade as their outdoor house paint and hair, he in a drab grey shirt and grey loose pants, no socks and house slippers, she in a grey loose-fitting longish tent-like dress. Heavy grey socks and also house slippers. Both use canes. They seem ancient. I hope the girls are counting their blessings. We are all still able to race around; these folks seem poor and ill.
