by Warren Adler
"He has always read them," she had complained to her friends. "But now he devours them like potato chips."
"It'll keep him out of trouble," Harriet Feldman said. Harriet was a widow and could be suspected of selfish motives. To her, men were a nuisance. Better to keep them busy somewhere. That way they couldn't interfere with the lives of her married girl friends. Marcia Finkelstein, on the other hand, had another view.
"They develop crazy ideas in their retirement," she confided one day over the mah-jongg table. "Mr. Magaziner, who lives upstairs in my section, was a cutter in the garment center for nearly fifty years. Now he's a fisherman. Every day he goes to the beach and sits there in a chair a fishing pole."
"Does he catch anything?"
"Once in a blue moon. And when he does, his wife says it stinks up the whole place. As a matter of fact, even Mr. Magaziner is beginning to stink from fish."
"And the case of Morris Greenberg, Rose's husband," Judy Stein interjected. "He sold insurance, came home, watched television, slept on the couch. That was his whole life. Now he's a birdwatcher. Every day he gets up at five to watch the birds."
"Better watching birds that fly than birds that flounce," Bernice said.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Harriet Feldman said. She was very sensitive about references to predatory females. Jokes and sly references about widows inflamed her.
"I'm not referring to you, Harriet." Bernice called her tile and they all paused for concentration. "Sometimes we have to protect our men."
"Who would want those alte cockers?"
"They may not be what they used to be." Bernice smiled. "But sometimes they rise to the occasion." The women snickered. "You'd be surprised at some of these dirty old men."
Seymour could have been a fisherman or a birdwatcher, or a philanderer or a cardplayer or a what not, Bernice thought, not without some odd sense of security, since she could always be sure that her husband would be predictably contented with his nose in a mystery book, or poking around in bookstores and libraries looking for more. Occasionally, though, this activity of her husband exasperated her. Unless there was a discussion of mystery books, their writers and characters, Seymour Shapiro made a boring companion. At the frequent gatherings of her friends, the mah-jongg players from her afternoon game, the canasta players from her thrice-weekly games or her cronies from around the pool, and their husbands, those that had them, Seymour would sit in a corner and mope. In the midst of animated conversation he would pick up a mystery book and turn the pages, but she would always pluck it out of his hands, although she was careful to save her admonishment until later.
"It's impolite to do that in company," she scolded.
"I was bored."
"Be bored," she said. "But don't be impolite. These are my friends."
He nodded docility, knowing she was right. Reading mysteries hadn't always been an addiction. Actually he hadn't had that much time before. Teaching high-school physics had absorbed his energies for nearly forty years in the Englewood, New Jersey school system. Because he was conscientious, some said dedicated, he had taken examinations home with him for marking and he had spent long hours tutoring his pupils in the mysteries of light and sound waves, the displacement of water and air, and other scientific phenomena. It was only when he arrived in Sunset Village that he had acquired this new passion, mostly out of a need to escape from the isolation, the lack of daily purpose, and as he characterized them, the inanities of most of his wife's friends. At first Bernice had been offended, openly upset with him, yet fearful that she had pushed him to make the wrong decision on her choice of their place of retirement. She loved Sunset Village. She loved her friends and the pace of life there, and she could pursue her interests in an atmosphere that she genuinely enjoyed. Except for the sun, the life she led was not much different from that in Englewood. But Seymour had had his work in Englewood.
"This is one place where you can't be antisocial," she told him. "Force yourself to make friends. You are a bright person. Surely there are some friends you could find, some hobby to pursue. You don't even like the pool or the activities at the clubhouse."
"It's just not my cup of tea."
"Then what is?"
"I'll find something," he promised, feeling the void created by the absence of his old life--the school, the children, the exams. But what he really felt he kept inside of himself. He did not want Bernice to share the burden of his rootlessness. Nor did he dare convey to her his feelings about her life, her friends. Maybe he was a bit of a snob, he thought. He hated games, and he could find nothing in the conversation of her friends or their spouses that could engage his interest. The women were empty-headed yentas and he could not find any common denominator among the men. Yet he did enjoy the idea of his wife's contentment and happiness, although he despaired when he contemplated the future, the squandering of precious time, the prospect of more rot in the physical sense and the ever-present specter of death.
Perhaps it was the idea of death that got him hooked on mystery books in the first place. In mystery books, death was an irrevocable presence, a necessary device, the central focus of the plot. And he was intrigued by the puzzle the author presented. Why did death come? What motivated the death? Death was far more challenging in the mystery books than in Sunset Village, where it arrived on creaky wheels, an agonizing process of hurry up and wait.
"Are you sure you didn't eat the tuna fish?" Bernice called from the kitchen, disturbing his concentration again.
"Why would I do that?" he called back, annoyed that he had to part company so frequently with the irascible Lew Archer.
"I know it was here," she said, coming out to the screened porch. "Now we'll have to have peanut-butter sandwiches or egg salad."
"Too much cholesterol in egg salad," he said, returning to his book.
He had hardly given any attention to the incident, knowing his wife's absent-mindedness, but she was a whiz at memorizing mah-jongg hands and, by her own admission, had a photographic memory at the card table. He had forgotten the incident until a few days later.
"I know I had frozen hamburger," she said. He heard the clomp of frozen packages on the formica tabletop in the kitchen. Again he spread-eagled a book on his lap.
"We had hamburgers a few days ago," he said.
"I know that. I'm really not losing my mind." She was testy. Looking up, he could see her anger. "I had hamburger right here." She slammed more frozen packages on the formica table.
"Don't look at me," he said. "I'm not the culprit."
"Well, I had it," she squealed. "I know I had it."
"It's gone the way of the tuna fish," he said, wondering if the humor might set her off. It did.
"To you it's a big joke. I'm telling you I had the hamburger." She put her hands on her ample hips and glared at him. "And I had the tuna fish."
"It might have slipped out of the shopping bag when we transferred it to the car," he said, seeking some logic in her dilemma.
She became thoughtful. "Maybe." She sighed.
"Or the woman at the check-out counter palmed it."
"The hamburger?"
"And the tuna fish."
Instead of hamburger they had veal that night, but the next time they went to the supermarket, they watched the clerk at the check-out counter put each item into the bags, checking it off on the sales slip. Then they carefully moved the metal cart to the trunk of the car, sure that not a single package had been waylaid. When they got home, they checked everything again and put it in the appropriate places in the cabinets and the refrigerator.
"Who knows how much has been lost by our not paying attention?" he said.
"Everybody's trying to get something for nothing," Bernice agreed. "Years ago nothing like this would ever have happened. Nor would it occur to us to take such strict precautions."
"Let the buyer beware," he said, sitting down on his favorite chair on the screened porch and dipping into his latest mystery with joyful expectation.
> Bernice's games were played in varied sites. Sometimes at the card tables in the cavernous clubrooms. Other times in her friends' condominiums. But, mostly, the games were held at their place, since it gave her the illusion of not leaving her husband alone. Actually, Seymour was as isolated as ever, sitting in the easy chair in the bedroom, lost in the world of the Poirots, or the Archers, the Spades, the Maigrets, Father Brown, and Ellery Queen, among others.
Because she was being gregarious and generous, Bernice's door was always open and her friends were forever poking into their living room to pass the time. Despite the annoyance of the constant interruptions in his other world, he was proud of his wife's popularity. She was a good woman, he had concluded long ago. He had, indeed, been lucky in his choice of a wife.
One afternoon she came rushing in from the swimming pool. He was sitting on the porch in his familiar pursuit.
"Sorry I'm late, Seymour," she called from the kitchen.
He hadn't noticed.
"Some new person from Washington was chewing my ear off."
"And you didn't want to be impolite?" he mumbled.
"So we're only going to have sandwiches for dinner. Hope you don't mind?"
He grunted, hoping that she would settle down until he finished the chapter he was reading.
"The bread?" she cried. "Where is the bread? She came out to the screened porch. "Did we eat all the bread?"
He put the book down with irritation, looking up at her. She was agitated.
"Are you sure we had some left?"
"Of course I'm sure."
"Well, it couldn't just walk away."
He got up and followed her to the kitchen, searching inside the cabinets, the refrigerator, the oven.
"It wouldn't be in there."
"Sometimes you can absent-mindedly put it in a ridiculous place."
"I'm not absent-minded."
When he had satisfied himself that the bread was nowhere to be found, he leaned against the wall and stroked his chin.
"The tuna fish, the hamburger, the bread," he said quietly, watching his wife's face.
"What are you saying?"
"We're either going crazy or being systematically robbed."
"Robbed?"
"It's either that or we're going nuts."
"I can't believe it."
"Then how would you explain it."
She appeared thoughtful, then shrugged her shoulders. "Maybe I am becoming absent-minded," she concluded, not daring to contemplate the implications. "You're reading too many mystery stories."
"Well, you've got to admit that it is a mystery."
"I'll open a can of salmon. We'll have a salmon salad."
He felt a strange exhilaration. Reality suddenly had more fascination than his mystery books. He felt the thrust of his mind reshaping itself into the cast of one of his mystery heroes, as if he were picking up the rhythm of their thought processes.
"We are being cleverly burglarized," he said.
"That's ridiculous."
"Well then, offer another explanation."
She paused, interrupting the chore of opening the salmon can. "Who would want to steal food?" She sighed, resuming the opening of the can.
"Perhaps it's not only food," he said. Putting the can down, she rushed into the bedroom and opened her jewelry box. The necklace was her single valuable possession. He had bought it for her for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Seymour had followed her, reaching upward to the top closet shelf, where he kept cash in a cigar box. It held three hundred dollars. He counted the bills with precision.
"All there."
"Do you think we should put a double lock on the door? We have been careless." She became thoughtful. "I thought we left all that behind us up north." They would never dare leave their apartment in Englewood without first locking the doors and checking the locks. There, robberies were to be expected, a way of life. But here, in Sunset Village?
"Should we call the police?" she asked.
"The police. Do you think they'd come out here on the basis of what we've lost? One can of tuna fish. One pound of hamburger. One loaf of bread."
"It does sound silly."
After supper, he went back into the bedroom to read his book and Bernice prepared the bridge table and snacks for the impending canasta game.
"Don't say anything to the girls," he called from the bedroom. He had not been able to concentrate on his book.
"You don't think it's any of my friends?" she asked, a touch of indignance in her tone.
"Everyone is a suspect," he told her, coming into the living room. He imagined how Hercule Poirot might say it. Going over the list of suspects in his mind, he concluded that there must be at least twenty-five, not including the maintenance people. And, of course, there was always the possibility of someone simply breaking in while they were away or asleep, an idea that frightened him. Although it had never happened, he had vowed that he would feign sleep if he ever heard a prowler roaming around inside their place at night. That was one of the advantages of having little of value, he had thought. Let them take it.
Forcing himself to stay awake until after the canasta game was over, he padded to the kitchen in his bare feet and started to open the cabinets. She came into the kitchen, and stood beside him.
"Notice anything missing?" he asked.
She looked at him and shook her head.
"They are my three best friends."
"Is there anything missing?" Be cool and dispassionate, he told himself. Disregard emotion. He watched Bernice go through the refrigerator, checking its contents.
"Really, Seymour. This is ridiculous. I don't take an inventory. I only know something's missing when I need it."
"Then we'll have to take inventory."
The next morning, they did so. Then they stocked up again at the supermarket and when they got home he wrote down each item on a yellow pad, which he kept in his drawer with his socks and underwear. It wasn't until a week later that he had use for it again.
"I could swear I bought two Philadelphia cream cheeses."
He put down his book and brought out the inventory.
"Don't swear. It's all in here. We did buy two cream cheeses."
"And I'm sure we ate one."
He realized then that the inventory only recorded what they had purchased, not what they had eaten.
"Is it possible we ate two?" he asked.
"Possible. But not probable. I would know if we did. You know, Seymour, a woman does know her own kitchen. It's an instinctive sixth sense."
"But hardly scientific," he said pompously.
She looked at him strangely. "You sound like Sherlock Holmes."
"Hercule Poirot."
"Who?"
"Forget it," he said testily. "Let's just assume that the cream cheese is missing."
When she had gone, he carefully checked the inventory, trying to remember what they had eaten during the past week. He noted that two cans of asparagus tips had disappeared and he could not remember having eaten them.
"Did we eat asparagus tips last week?" he asked when she had returned.
She thought for a moment. "No. I was saving them for a Sunday dinner."
"Then they're missing."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure." He stroked his chin. "Someone has developed a cunning system for robbing our food. It's disgusting. Money out of our pocket."
She sat down on one of the kitchen chairs and watched him.
"And it has to be one of your friends," he said.
"How terrible," she responded.
The idea of it, the mystery of it, sent joyous shivers through Seymour Shapiro.
"I think it's an absolute disgrace," Bernice mused. He could see her anger mount, her face flush.
"You mustn't jump to conclusions," he said, feeling the hollowness of his attempts at placation while his mind revved up with ideas to force a solution. He needed a plan, a trap.
"You don't think abou
t it," he said. "I'll work on it."
"How can I not think about it." She sighed, not daring to fix suspicion on any one person, yet reviewing in her mind the playing habits of her friends. Did any of them cheat at canasta or mah-jongg? she wondered. But they would have to be clever to get past her. Surely it could not be any of them, her closest friends.
As his mind became absorbed in the solution of the mystery of the food disappearances, his concentration on his mystery books faltered, and he would daydream over them, his mind groping for details of all the people that came in and out of his house, the suspects. Bernice's closest friends were her regular mah-jongg players--Judy Stein, Marcia Finkelstein, and Harriet Feldman. Then there were the husbands--with the exception of Harriet--and then the clique from the pool and the casual friends from the clubhouse. They were all Bernice's friends and acquaintances. Unfortunately he had never observed them with any real interest. They were simply shadows in his conscious life, passing in and out of his vision, like birds floating across the sky, barely noticeable.
But he noticed them now, finding the habits of his earlier time, before the thefts, a useful tool. He could sit around with his nose in a book quietly observing his wife's friends as they came and went. He no longer read in the bedroom, but planted himself instead in the big easy chair in the corner of the living room while they played their games and observed. He tried to catalogue them in his mind, tried to separate them as individuals and imagine their motivation.
"How can you concentrate, Seymour?" someone would invariably ask him, turning from the bridge table for the inquiry.
"Practice," he would say pleasantly, coolly observant, taking the opportunity to drink in the details and mannerism of the person that asked the question. His eye scanned their pocketbooks, measuring their size, noting that the bread would simply have been too big to fit in any of them. As for the men, they rarely brought anything along that could be used for transport. No one who entered their condominium was free from observation. Many of them took the sudden interest for sociability on his part.
