Retirement Can Be Murder

by Susan Santangelo

  He smiled. “But at least I still have my job. And the talk with Sheila Carney went well. I’ll tell you and Jenny all about it after I change. Thanks for the support, honey. Oh, I tried to call you a few times today on your cell phone. I left you a few messages. Did you get them?”

  “I was here all day. In fact, Nancy, Mary Alice and Claire came over for lunch. Why didn’t you call me on the home phone?”

  “I’ve told you before that I never know where you are during the day,”

  Jim said impatiently. “You’re always out somewhere or other. That’s why I got you the cell phone. Didn’t you have it on?”

  To tell the truth, I didn’t have the faintest idea where my cell phone was at that moment. But I certainly wasn’t going to admit that. I’d worry about finding it later.

  “I didn’t think to put the cell phone on, because I was home all day,”

  I replied in an even tone. “You should have tried here first, like you usually do. Next time you need to reach me, leave a message on the home voice mail, too, ok?”

  Jim gave me an inpatient look. “I don’t have time to leave two messages all the time. I don’t see why you can’t use your cell phone the way everyone else in the twenty-first century does.”

  I was not about to fight that battle again. “Why don’t you get changed and I’ll tell you about my lunch today, dear?” I asked. “I think you’ll be interested at the news.”

  Jenny wandered back into the kitchen, the phone in her hand and a little smile on her face. “Well, that was a surprise. Mark asked me to meet him for coffee tomorrow afternoon. Do you think that counts as a date?”

  “I think that counts as two old friends getting together to catch up on their lives,” Jim said. “And if you could manage to put in a good word for your old man at the same time, that would be a bonus.

  “And now,” he announced, “I am really going upstairs to change.”

  Dinner was pleasant enough, all things considered. I was glad I had cleared the air with Jim, so we could enjoy being together as a family. For once.

  Jenny chattered happily about her classes, and appeared to be looking forward to her coffee “date” with Mark Anderson. I filed that thought away to chew on when I was a little less distracted. If I ever were a little less distracted.

  She didn’t mention our conversation about Jeff, and neither did I.

  Naturally, we couldn’t entirely avoid talking about the Davis Rhodes situation.

  I was burning with curiosity about whether the Wake Up New England fiasco had come up at the office, but when I asked Jim about it, he was deliberately vague. “I finessed it, Carol. Everything is fine. The details aren’t important.”

  What the heck did that mean? Women lived for details, and men never wanted to share them. I hoped that Jim’s “finessing” hadn’t involved more out-and-out lying. I made a conscious decision not to obsess about that. Easier said than done.

  My Beloved did deign to share some of the details of his conversation with Sheila Carney with Jenny and me.

  “You know, Sheila really was the brains behind the Retirement Survival Center, and Rhodes didn’t give her any credit at all. She’s the one who came up with the whole strategy, and was the book’s ghostwriter. But Rhodes told her it would be threatening to men if she appeared to have so much control, and it would be much better if he was the front man for the Center. Because most of their clients are men facing retirement, not women. And men relate better to other men. It made sense to me.”

  Of course it made sense to you, I thought. You always were a sucker for blondes.

  But I didn’t buy the story Sheila had told Jim for one minute. After all, now that Rhodes was dead, couldn’t Sheila take credit for anything she wanted? Who would be around to dispute her? I made a mental note to go online later, just for the heck of it, and check the Center’s web page.

  I wondered if busy little Sheila had doctored it to promote herself and downplay Rhodes.

  “What did she say about the Wake Up New England appearance, Dad?”

  Jenny asked. “Did you ask her about that?”

  “She had a perfectly logical explanation. Apparently, before I ever met Rhodes, Sheila had done a mailing of advance copies of the book and a press release to all the major news outlets in the area. The Wake Up New England producer called Rhodes, and they set up a date for him to appear on the show. Rhodes never thought to mention it to me. It didn’t occur to him that I would see it as a problem.”

  I thought that sounded like a very weak explanation, but Jim had bought it, hook, line and sinker.

  “What about now, Jim?” Since he had finally begun to open up a little, I was bound and determined to weasel as much information out of him as I could. “Did Sheila ask you about continuing your professional relationship with the Center?”

  Jim nodded. “She really wants my help in promoting the Retirement Survival Center. And before you say anything else, I talked to Mack about it. There’ll be a written contract which all parties will sign. With a retainer.

  It’ll all be on the up and up. Sheila said Rhodes felt comfortable cementing deals with just a handshake, but we both agreed a written contract was essential to protect all our interests and prevent any potential misunderstandings.”

  “I hate to be ghoulish, Dad,” said Jenny, “but did you ask Sheila if the police had been around to question her about Rhodes’s death? Is she considered his next of kin? How does she think he died?” Way to go, Jenny. Keep those questions coming.

  “She did say the police had been around the Center today, but we didn’t get into specifics. And we certainly didn’t speculate about how he died, since neither one of us has the faintest idea what caused it.”

  He pushed back his chair from the kitchen table, cutting off the interrogation. Rats. Just when we were getting somewhere.

  “If you two have clean-up under control, I’m going to use the computer for a while. And I’m going to bed early tonight. For some reason, I didn’t sleep too well last night.”

  You could have fooled me. I was the one who didn’t sleep well. Still, I figured that finding a dead body can wreak havoc with sleep patterns, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

  Three hours later, when I was lying in bed listening to Jim snoring, I realized I’d never told him about Mary Alice’s retirement announcement.

  * * *

  * * *

  Chapter 16

  Q: What’s the best time to start thinking about your retirement?

  A: Before your boss does.

  Both Jim and Jenny left the house early the next morning, so I was on my own with no specific plans for the day. I sent up a silent prayer, asking that the day be less stressful than yesterday, and resolved not to turn on the television or read any newspapers all day.

  Instead, I went online to see if the Retirement Survival Center web page had changed since Rhodes’s death.

  “Whoa! Take a look at this,” I said to the dogs. Have I mentioned before how computer literate they are?

  “The whole site has been reworked. How did Sheila do that so quickly?”

  Lucy barked once, but clearly she didn’t have the answer any more than I did. Ethel curled herself into ball and went to sleep.

  Instead of the picture of Davis Rhodes that had greeted me the first time I’d logged on, now there was a picture of both Rhodes and Sheila on the web site’s home page. Although both of them were smiling, it was pretty clear from the body language and the way they were posed that Sheila was the dominant force in the twosome. Hmm. I had heard that photos could be manipulated on the computer somehow. Had that happened here?

  There was also a new icon on the home page which read: “Click Here for Details of Davis Rhodes Memorial Service.”

  Another tap of the computer mouse and I was reading a sanitized synopsis of Rhodes’s tragic death (home page’s words, not mine), a quote from Sheila concerning the future of the Retirement Survival Center which translated to “The show must
go on, and it’ll be even better with me in charge,” and an additional statement from her that a service to honor The Great Man’s memory would be held one week from today at 2 p.m. at the Center.

  Sheila’s statement continued: “This will be a public tribute to Dr. Rhodes, an opportunity for the countless people whose lives he touched to honor him. According to his wishes, there will be no funeral. Anyone interested in participating in the ceremony is asked to e-mail us a brief paragraph summarizing their tribute by this Friday. All tributes will be posted on the Center’s web page, and a limited number will be chosen to be read at the service.”

  “According to his wishes?” I repeated to Lucy. “I doubt that he left Sheila instructions about this.” Somehow I couldn’t imagine Rhodes taking time out from his clients—to say nothing of his cookie baking—to outline his wishes in the event of his untimely death. The whole thing sounded like a marketing ploy from Sheila to get big publicity for the Center. And herself.

  Ohmygod. I suddenly realized that Jim would probably be involved in this memorial service. I wondered if Sheila had already asked him to help organize it. She was wasting no time taking control of the Center. Made her look like a prime suspect to me. I wondered if the police agreed.

  Then I mentally scolded myself. You seem to be the only one who’s worried about appearances, Carol. If Jim’s not concerned about working with Sheila, why should you be?

  Because I’m the only one around here with basic common sense? No, that was too harsh.

  Because I always see the dark side of every situation? Maybe.

  Because I worry so much about everything that goes wrong that Jim doesn’t have to?

  Yes, that was it. I thought back to when the kids were younger and one of them was late coming home from a party. Who waited up in the dark living room, straining for the sound of a car turning into the driveway?

  Not him.

  Who made bargains with the Lord? “I swear I’ll be more patient, understanding, clean the bathrooms with a smile on my face, whatever You want, if You’ll just this once bring my child home safely. And soon. Please, please, please.”

  That was also me, of course.

  All during these crises, where was Jim? He was upstairs doing one of the things he does best—sleeping.

  Suddenly, I resented all the sleepless nights I had gone through. I resented being the one who’d willingly shouldered the burden of worry for the entire family for years.

  I wasn’t going to do it this time. No siree. I was turning over a new leaf.

  If Jim was acting like all was hunky dory, so would I. If he thought working with Sheila Carney was a great idea, I did too. If he was going to orchestrate Davis Rhodes’s memorial service, that was ok with me. No problemo.

  Move along, Carol. It was time for me to focus on my freelance work again. There might even be an editing assignment for me if I took the time to check my e-mail.

  Unfortunately, no new job opportunities had magically appeared.

  Which was probably just as well.

  I admitted I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to concentrate on work.

  I’d allowed my professional motivation to go out the window, and it was going to be very tough to get it back again. Depressing, but true.

  I sat at the computer and my mind wandered all over the place. I had no plan for how to spend the day. Even worse, I had no plan for my life.

  I was just drifting along aimlessly.

  Mary Alice was probably going to face many times like this after she retired. I wondered how she would cope.

  Then, in a flash, I had a brilliant idea. I would do something for Mary Alice to celebrate her retirement. I’d give her a party. A fabulous party.

  No, not a party. A shower! Where everyone would be encouraged to bring unique gifts to mark this auspicious occasion. At last I had something positive to focus on.

  And I knew just who to call to help me plan it. She even had the perfect place to hold the shower.

  I got out the phone book and looked up the number for Maria’s Trattoria.

  “This is a great idea you have for a party, Carol,” said Maria. Luckily, when I called, she had an hour to spare that afternoon. We were sitting in a corner booth near the kitchen, and Maria was making some notes in a big three-ring binder while we talked.

  “When I retired from teaching,” she remembered, “my send-off was in the school cafeteria, with soggy sandwiches and warm sodas. I’d insisted that my students be included in the party, and because of liability issues, the event had to be held on school property. It was a wonderful, meaningful party for me because of the kids. But the food was terrible.

  “I want to provide a real feast for Mary Alice’s retirement shower. It’s a great opportunity for me to show that we can cater private parties, too.

  Most people don’t think of us for that.”

  I was thrilled at her enthusiasm. And a little surprised, too. While I was driving over to the restaurant, I’d had second thoughts about planning the party with Maria. I remembered that she’d been an excellent teacher, but she ran her classroom like a general on the battlefield. And she didn’t tolerate suggestions, which she interpreted as interference, from parents. I wasn’t sure I wanted to work with her so closely.

  But this was the new Maria Lesco, ready to lend her expertise and creativity to make my shower idea the fabulous party that Mary Alice deserved.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the restaurant this quiet,” I said, sipping from a glass of chilled Pellegrino water with lemon.

  “Three to four o’clock is pretty much down time for us,” said Maria.

  “Too late for lunch and too early for dinner. But about four-thirty, the take-out business starts to pick up, and then we’re really busy till around ten o’clock every night.” She pointedly looked at her watch. I got the message. I needed to move this conversation along.

  “Mary Alice’s last official day of work at the hospital is the Friday before Labor Day,” I said, “which is about five weeks away. I know that Labor Day weekend may not be the best time to have a party because lots of people are still on vacation, but I’d like to schedule the shower as close as possible to the time when she actually retires.”

  After discussing a few possible dates, Maria suddenly said, “I’ve just had a great idea. The restaurant is usually closed on Mondays. How about if we have the shower on Labor Day afternoon? What could be more appropriate than that?”

  “I love it!” I exclaimed. “That’s absolutely perfect. I’ll make some calls to a few close friends and give them a head’s up on the date right away.

  Will you come up with a suggested menu? I’m planning on about thirty people, if some of Mary Alice’s co-workers from the hospital are invited.

  Do you want a deposit?” I reached in my purse for my checkbook.

  “No deposit necessary. Don’t worry about it. Give me a few days to think about what to serve and then I’ll be in touch with you, all right?

  I’ve never planned a party like this before, and I’m going to have to do a little research. This is going to be such fun for me.”

  She rose and walked me to the restaurant door.

  “By the way, wasn’t that a terrible thing about Davis Rhodes? I couldn’t believe it when I read about his death in the paper.”

  I stiffened. Easy, Carol. Don’t overreact. It was an innocent remark.

  “It certainly was,” I said. “I suppose he must have had a heart attack, poor man.”

  “From the way he ate every time he came in here, I’d say he wasn’t worried about his cholesterol,” Maria said. “He loved his red meat and cheese, and never passed up the opportunity for a fattening dessert.”

  Whoa. New information. I had to find out more.

  “Did he come in here often?” I asked, as casually as I could.

  I was dying to hear more details. The Miss Lesco I remembered from the kids’ school days was no gossip. But maybe the Maria from Maria’s Trattoria was.
I decided to bait the hook a little more and see how she responded.

  I let my eyes fill up just a little (I confess I’m pretty good at that), then said, “You may not know that Jim and I had gone to Rhodes for retirement counseling. His sudden death has been a personal blow to both of us.” If she only knew how much of a blow.

  Maria looked at her watch again, then said, “You know, I think I have time for a cup of cappuccino. Would you like one, too, on the house?”

  I tried not to appear too eager. “I’d love a cup, if you’re sure you have the time.”

  “My pleasure.”

  We settled down at the corner booth again with two steaming cups of cappuccino, and I waited to hear if she would share more information about Rhodes. I’d read in mystery stories that the police often find silence to be a good method of interrogation, and I decided to try it. I needn’t have worried about getting her to talk. Maria needed no prompting from me.

  “I know it’s not professional to gossip about the customers,” she said, leaning toward me and speaking in a low voice. “I’d probably fire one of my staff for talking like this, but Rhodes is dead and who can it hurt now?”

  I said nothing. Just looked interested, and took a sip of the cappuccino. Yum. Delicious.

  “Rhodes was one of the worst customers we’ve ever had. He treated all the servers like personal lackeys, and was a stingy tipper to boot. Nothing was ever cooked to his liking. He sent things back to the kitchen all the time. It got so that none of the servers wanted to wait on him. When he’d come in, we’d draw straws to see who would get him. Loser won, if you know what I mean. And it was disgraceful the way he treated that lovely assistant of his. The last time he brought her in here, they had an awful argument.”

  Maria leaned back in her chair. “You know, it feels good to get this out. I don’t ever talk about customers this way, but at least he won’t be coming in here any more.”

  I took a sip of my cappuccino and sent up a silent prayer. “Thank you, God. I know this is You at work. Please don’t let me screw this up now by saying the wrong thing.” I had to keep her talking.