Sleuthing Women II

by Lois Winston

  Now Ida turns to me, Whispering, concerned. “Can they even pay?”

  I touch my finger to my lips, shushing her.

  The Wassingers lead us into their kitchen. I haven’t seen an old, avocado colored fridge and stove like that since the fifties, maybe forties? The whole room looks like a day out of a past Saturday Evening Post cover. I imagine the rest of the house is similarly furnished.

  “Please sit down,” Louie points. “She is Sadie.”

  “Please sit down,” she says. “He is Louie.” She goes to the stove, where a kettle is turned up high, steam hissing.

  I go through the routine of introducing, and everyone takes a seat, albeit an aged ladder back, rickety one. Except for Sadie, Sadie is advancing from the stove with the boiling hot kettle to pour water into tea cups. We watch, with apprehension. Her hands tremble; we expect disaster any moment. But somehow the cups are filled and we busy ourselves, being good guests, with milk and sugar and dunking tea bags, (they look used!) and drinking… tepid tea.

  To make conversation, since my girls are silently in distress, I ask the Wassingers how they found us.

  Louie says, “We read your ad…”

  Sadie says, “…In the newspaper. We loved your…”

  Louie says, “slogan.”

  They both giggle. Sadie, sips tea, gets to recite. “Never trust anybody…”

  Louie pokes Sadie in glee. “Under…”

  “Seventy-five.” Sadie finishes it.

  Louie takes charge. He hits his fist lightly on the utterly scarred and wobbly, wooden table. “Let the meeting come to order. First, we welcome our guests.”

  Sadie. “Very welcome.”

  “Thank you,” we respond.

  Sadie pushes at him. “Tell them it’s not true.”

  “I know dear, it’s not.”

  “About Robert, did you know Robert?”

  Evvie says, “No, because we don’t live here.”

  That’s a mistake. They now want us to take a left turn and describe where we came from. I try to keep it short. “Fort Lauderdale.” Then I try to get them back on track. “Tell us what we need to know about Robert.”

  She rotates her head, back and forth. Shaky, like her hands. “He was our only hope.”

  Louie adds, “They’ll take it away, that’s what they’ll do.”

  Evvie asks. “Who wants to take it? Who wants to take what?”

  Sadie looks at her, eyes tearing. “Why, our house. That’s why they killed him.”

  Louie shows anger. “Make the police believe we’ve lost our marbles. Robert’s lawyer partners will put us away in some nut house. Sell it out from under us. That’s their plan. And what will happen to Papa?” He pounds on the table again.

  Papa? These two people are in their nineties, surely they don’t have an older parent?

  Sadie is gone. Down memory lane far, far away. “Do you know how many hurricanes Grey Lady has been through?”

  Ida asks, “Grey Lady?”

  Louie, “You know, our beloved house.”

  Sadie comments, “Almost got us in ’51 when Easy hit.”

  Louie disagrees. “Worse in ’66 when Inez really packed a wallop.

  Now Sadie, “Betsy in ’65 was worse than Inez. You know that.”

  Sophie whispers. “Why are they talking about hurricanes?”

  “I don’t know.” We’ve lost them to ancient history. The girls are looking to each other, puzzled.

  Louie, “Floyd in ’57 beat Betsy.” Now it’s an argument, with quaking voices.

  Sadie, “Donna in ’60!” With trembling lips, as well.

  They are working themselves into a tizzy. I knock gently on the table to bring them back. This time the table shakes. I hope it won’t collapse. “Louie, Sadie, how can we help you?”

  They stop, out of breath, and pull themselves together. “Sorry,” Sadie says.

  Evvie says, “We were given to believe Robert’s death was an accident.”

  Louie, upset, tries to get up, totters, changes his mind and sits back down. “Robert, he was the good guy, not like the others. He protected us. They won’t.”

  “And we know that for sure it was murder.” Sadie says, firmly.

  Ida pipes up, “How?”

  Louie again. “Shakespeare was right. ‘Kill all the lawyers.’”

  The Wassingers grin at that.

  “How do you know?” I need to get them on point again.

  Louie says, grandiose now, “Because we…

  And sure enough. Sadie completes the job “…have a witness!”

  Louie. “…who saw everything.”

  Sadie. “Everything.”

  Evvie asks, “Did he go to the police?”

  Sadie, uncomfortable now. “Of course, not. They both snicker.

  I ask, “Who is your witness? We ought to talk to him. Or her.”

  Sadie. “Louie, I know I’m right and you are wrong, sweetheart. Donna nearly got us. Shattered windows, made us run for our lives, poor Snow White, number three, was terrified. Or was she number four…?”

  Louie. “Wrong, Floyd!”

  Sadie. “Not Floyd, Donna!”

  Uh oh, lost them again.

  I get up. The girls quickly do the same, pushing their chairs back under the table.

  “It’s getting late and I’m sure everyone needs to have dinner. Perhaps we can come back in the morning?”

  The Wassingers rise and look confused. They head, house shoes skating the floor, inch by inch, again, for the front door as we follow.

  Much shaking of hands. Louie says. “Yes. Tomorrow. For coffee. Sadie prepares a lovely coffee.”

  Like the tea?

  ~*~

  Once outside, we stand next to my car for a few minutes. Numb. Sophie is making a big deal out of breathing fresh air. Bella has stopped looking upward. Ida brushes her dusty clothes, says it all. “What the hell was that all about?

  EIGHT

  Lost Appetite. Eat Anyway. Get Help.

  We never got around to “Margaritaville” or any typical Key West restaurants. We weren’t going to watch the sunset tonight with a hundred people, or so. We hop into the nearest coffee shop and order hamburgers and real tea. Gladdy Gold and her Associates are flummoxed and exhausted from keeping up with the Wassinger rigmarole.

  We had asked questions with no answers.

  Was there really a cat inside? Sophie needed to know.

  Did anyone see any spiders?” Bella asked worriedly

  What was that business about lawyers?

  What really was the worst hurricane? Did we care?

  Who was the witness?

  Where does their Papa live?

  We never had a chance to ask about my mystery letters.

  We need to talk to someone who makes sense. I drive us back to our Bed and Breakfast, and hope Teresa is still awake.

  NINE

  Clarity. Jasmine Tea. And Real Facts.

  Teresa is glad we came back and looked for her. She apologizes for her strange behavior earlier. She invites us for tea and feels she needs to explain.

  This time we are served jasmine in the lobby. “Feast or famine,” Evvie comments, as we, yet again, sip; this time enjoying a much-improved tea served with lemon cookies.

  “You really are private eyes?” Teresa asks, looking us up and down, more closely now, wondering how this is possible.

  “Yes, we are. And have been for three whole years.” Evvie chimes in.

  Ida preens. “With one hundred per cent closed cases.”

  Bella and Sophie nod, twin-like.

  Teresa, relieved, takes a breath and begins. “Well, good for you. I should say something up front. You’ve made this trip needlessly. Let me start from the beginning and perhaps you’ll understand. I’m well aware how worried Louie and Sadie are. And rightly so.”

  Sophie interrupts. “You know them?”

  Teresa nods. “Of course. For ages. They were the Wassinger Travel Agency. Helped tourists plan trips,
here and around the world. Very successful. Until they retired at sixty-five. Traveled a while to enjoy the trips they had suggested. But, as Louie would say, and has said many times, they lived too long. They were aging relaxed, in their lovely house. She gardened. He belonged to the historic society, which helped restore and protect famous homes that had become national treasures.”

  “But?” Evvie commented, “There’s a but.”

  Teresa pours them more tea. “But they eventually ran out of money. They couldn’t keep the house up. Decade after decade they watched its demise. They’re almost senile now and I worry about them. They aren’t afraid of dying, but they are afraid for their house.”

  Ida jumps ahead. “That’s where this Robert Strand came in?”

  “Yes, as partner in the law firm, Strand, Smythe and Love, Robert was getting close to his retirement. He stayed on to keep the Wassingers as clients. He promised them he’d get the house listed with the historic society and it would be preserved.”

  “They have no heirs?” Sophie asks.

  “None.”

  “Now Robert is gone,” Ida continues, refusing a third cup of tea.

  I comment, “I think I see where this is going.”

  Teresa smiles. “And they fear the house will be sold to a company that might tear it down. There is a company that is already sniffing around.”

  I ask Teresa, “What do you think happened to Robert?

  She waits for a moment, as if in battle with herself. Finally, sadly, she shakes her head. “It was a freak accident.”

  Evvie follows through. “That’s why the Wassingers need to think Robert was murdered.”

  Teresa nods, again. “They are the only ones who do and are adamant and won’t let go. The police are absolutely sure it was an accident.”

  “The coroner?” I ask.

  “An accident,” Teresa answers.

  “The law officers?” Ida next.

  “An accident.”

  Evvie raises her hand, as if in school

  “I have a funny question to ask. If they don’t have any heirs, where is their Papa?”

  Teresa stares, like the proverbial deer in the headlights, then yawns. “Bed time. I think I’ve bored you enough.” She gets up. Sleep well.” And walks away.

  We stay silent for a moment, the Ida smirks. “What a phony yawn.”

  Obviously that question shut her down. But why?

  TEN

  Back to the Grey Lady. Wow!

  Back we return the next morning, and of course we are offered coffee. We inform our clients we already had breakfast, thanks anyway. To avoid any more side trips to hurricanes, being business-like I get right to the point. “Shall we visit Papa?”

  They are startled. I sense they intended to waffle some more. Why?

  They beckon us toward that barely lit, gloomy staircase.

  Sadie proves me right, still stalling. “I have some lovely antiques you might like to see first.”

  Louie chimes in, of course. “Vintage china. Patchwork quilts?”

  Evvie stops them. “Maybe, later.”

  The couple exchange nervous glances, then shrug, as they give up on the delays. They lead the way. The stairway has steep steps. Papa lives here?

  Sadie chuckles. “Three flights.”

  Louie chuckles, too. “Quite a hike. Hope you wore your climbing shoes.”

  Again, they move very slowly, as if each step were a mile. I’m amazed that they can do this every day.

  The girls look pained. They find it difficult. We live in easy access, easy stairs, and we still take the elevator.

  I hear Sophie mumbling behind me, in a monotone. “I’m getting older by the minute. I’ll be ninety by the time we get there.”

  Evvie. “Shhh, keep going.”

  Louie, calls to them behind him, “Some rules. Papa is quite moody. We must be wary.”

  Sadie. “After all, he is famous.”

  Louie. “Speak only when spoken to.”

  By the second flight, the girls are panting, and clutching the banisters. The Wassingers, still moving steadily at their pace.

  At the third flight landing, the girls and I stop. And gasp for air.

  Sadie, sweetly. “We’re not there yet. Papa enjoys sitting on his favorite chair in the sunshine.”

  Louie. “So up we go. To the widow’s walk.”

  With dismay we manage to clamber up behind them on an old creaky iron circular staircase. Sadie calls behind to Louie. “Did you remember your homework?”

  Louie. “I dassent forget.”

  Finally we are on the roof. We look around and down. We seem very high up. There is a short picket fenced-in area approximately six feet by six feet. In the center, a beautiful white wicker chair, with lovely colorful pillow. Next to the chair, a small white table with a glass of what looks like a frosty southern rum drink, with a number of limes. Next to it, an empty box labeled Cigars from Cuba. No one is seated in the chair. We search for their Papa. No one is on the roof but us. Huh?

  Louie and Sadie stand in front of the enclosed area and stare at the wicker chair. Louie bows. “Good morning, sir. I hope your daiquiri is to your liking.” They listen.

  Sadie. “Thank you, sir.” She points. “That’s them. The ones we hired.”

  The girls and I are stumped. What is going on? They look to me, their uneasy leader, so I plunge in.

  “May I ask to what or to whom you are speaking?”

  Sadie, proudly. Why, it’s Ernest Hemingway, the world-famous writer. Known to all as ‘Papa.’”

  Louie, quickly, “And brave soldier, explorer and boxer; so many things he is famous for. That’s his nickname.”

  I, carefully, “And how come we can neither see nor hear this, famous dead writer-hero?”

  Louie and Sadie smile at the empty chair. “Yes, sir, our Gladdy Gold group. They just arrived.” They listen. Then laugh and laugh some more.

  Ida asks, “What’s so funny?”

  They’re embarrassed. Slowly, Louie says, “Papa doesn’t think much of you as detectives. He used the word, ‘pitiful.’” I can tell there is more, but Louie restrains himself. But more of what? Are they hallucinating?

  Ida, “I get it. An invisible man is making fun of us. Really? Well, the hell with him. Or It. Ectoplasm man. Whatever that thing is.”

  Louie and Sadie jump as if they were hit. “Shh, Papa is angry now, by your lack of respect.”

  Evvie. “Are you saying you are talking to a …ghost?”

  Again they are startled. Louie. “He doesn’t like it when he’s being talked about when he’s right here.”

  I glance over to the girls. “Looks like we’ve made a huge error. We should leave.”

  Suddenly, Bella chuckles.

  Sophie says, annoyed. “What’s so funny?”

  Bella puts her hand over her mouth. “He said a naughty word. I don’t want to repeat it.” She waves gaily at the empty bench.

  Four mouths open wide. Finally, I manage to find my voice. “Bella. You can see someone? You hear him?”

  She is pleased. “Of course I can. He is very handsome.” She’s in stitches now as she looks at the chair. “He just said I’m cute.” She bows. “Why, thank you, sir.”

  Is insanity catching?

  “I say, and I can’t believe I’m saying it. “What does Mr. Hemingway look like?”

  Bella, stuttering with delight, “He’s a big guy with a bushy white beard and mustache. He still has all his hair! He’s wearing light brown shorts and a jacket. . .”

  Sadie interrupts. “His favorite safari jacket. And straw fedora.”

  Louie calls us to attention. Just as well, we can neither speak, nor move.

  “I have to do my recitation now. Every time I visit Papa, I recite some of his very famous words. This is from A Farewell to Arms. Louie emotes with feeling. “The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken place, but those who that will not break, it kills.”

  Louie bows. Sadie
claps at his performance.

  “Ooh, she says, pointing at Bella. It’s for you.” As if she were pointing at a telephone.

  Bella listens as we continue to gape. She blushes.

  Ida, with venom, asks, “And what did Papa just say to adorable you?”

  Bella smiles, “He recited lines to me from the same book.” She tilts her ear, to listen again. “I am not…brave anymore, darling…” Touched by his words. “I’m all broken. They’ve broken me.”

  Evvie whispers to me, “I read that book. I think the lines are right.”

  I whisper back. “I read it, also. I remember those lines.”

  Sophie asks, “What do we do now?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Evvie can’t resist. “Bella, ask your new friend if he sent us letters back home?”

  Bella turns, miffed. “I don’t have to ask him. He’s not deaf. He heard you.”

  Ida, grim. “And what was his answer?” She faces the chair. If looks could kill. But then, again, he’s already dead.

  Bella, reporter par excellence…. “Of course he sent it. Louie stamped and mailed it. Didn’t you read it?”

  Evvie, hands on hips, “Empty pages?”

  Bella listens again, then head bowed. “He said what kind of detectives are you? You should have known how to figure it out.”

  Evvie, annoyed. “And how were we to do that?”

  Bella, repeating, “Any kindergarten kid knows if you put lemon juice on invisible writing…It was an invitation to come up here… He thinks we are. . . ‘dumb.’”

  Louie and Sadie are glowing. Happy that Papa, at least, likes one of us.

  Louie now jumps in. “Don’t you see why he can’t be a witness? That’s why we hired you. To make the others understand. Papa saw the whole thing. He knows what really happened. As if a fish could kill!”

  Sadie adds, worriedly. “He’s been our house guest since 1961. If, after we’re gone, they tear down this house, where can he go? He used to live in his own mansion around the corner, but they turned it into a museum…”