Dying to Retire

by Jessica Fletcher

  Truman was halfway down the path when we climbed out of the car and took in our surroundings. The back of the house had a second-floor balcony that looked down on an overgrown but charming garden. Enough of the overhead foliage had been cleared to allow a little pool of sunlight to reach a stone patio, where a wrought-iron table and chairs—and a canvas hammock on a stand—created an inviting area to relax. A young woman in a long, gauzy dress was doing precisely that. She was stretched out on the hammock asleep, an open book on her chest, one forearm resting across her eyes, shielding them from the sun, a little black dog curled at her feet.

  “Let me see what you look like, Boomer,” Truman said, grabbing Seth by the shoulders and turning him around.

  “Boomer?” I said, noting the blush rising into Seth’s cheeks.

  “Got quite a front porch there,” Truman teased, poking a finger into Seth’s abdomen, “but you’ve got more hair than I do. Good for you.” He gave Seth a bear hug, and turned to me with outstretched arms. “I’ve heard so much about you, I feel like we’re old friends.”

  I was the recipient of another hug, and then Truman, beaming at both of us, ushered us up the path toward his home.

  “Oh, wait,” I said, rushing back to the car.

  “I’ll get Benny to bring in your luggage later.”

  “It’s not the luggage I want,” I said, opening the back door on the passenger side. “We brought you a key lime pie. I think it may need to be refrigerated.”

  “How wonderful. My favorite.”

  “I hope it’s not like bringing coals to Newcastle,” I said.

  “Not at all,” Truman said, reaching for the pie. He lifted a flap on the box to peek inside. “Must be the original, authentic recipe.”

  “How did you know?” I asked.

  He laughed. “There are probably a hundred places down here that boast that their key lime pie is the original, authentic recipe.”

  “You mean it’s not?” I was crestfallen. The young man whose pie I’d sampled had seemed so sincere, and I’d purchased this one on his recommendation.

  “Don’t worry,” Truman said, taking my arm as we walked to the house. “I haven’t tasted a bad key lime pie in thirty years. It’s always good, just a little different every time. Some are chiffon; some are custard; some are frozen. Use meringue; don’t use meringue. Pastry crust, graham-cracker crust, cookie crust. Every baker has another idea of what’s authentic. And they’ll swear their grandmother invented the recipe.”

  I nodded and sighed. “It’s not often I’m taken in, but I was.”

  “Don’t think twice about it. Making key lime pie is a competitive sport down here. I’ll take you over to La-Te-Da on Duval. The baker makes theirs with chocolate ganache. Delicious, but definitely not authentic. At Louie’s Backyard, it has a gingersnap crust and is served with a raspberry sauce.”

  “What is the authentic recipe then?” Seth asked.

  Truman shrugged. “I’ve no idea,” he said. “But I’ll tell you a little secret. You have to swear not to reveal it or my reputation will be ruined in Key West.” He winked.

  “I think your secret will be safe with us,” I said.

  “My favorite key lime pie isn’t made in the Keys at all. The one I love best is made in South Beach at a restaurant called Joe’s Stone Crab. But as a freshwater conch, I don’t dare reveal my preference.”

  “And a freshwater conch would be someone who wasn’t born here?” I asked.

  “Exactly. A true conch would never prefer the pie of an off-islander. There must still be some Boston in my bones.”

  “Not much,” I heard Seth mutter.

  Truman laughed. “Gave you a start, huh, Boomer? Not exactly the Dr. Truman Buckley you knew and loved.” He grinned at Seth. “We’ll have to catch up later, but let’s get you settled first. I’ll show you to your rooms and then we can have lunch.”

  If Seth had thought Truman was living on a limited income, that impression was corrected as soon as we entered French doors leading into the back parlor. The house may have had Victorian origins, but someone in the past twenty-five years—and I suspected it was Truman—had put a large fortune into renovating the interior. Marble floors and whitewashed plaster cooled the air in the old house, which was filled with antiques and reproductions of antiques that any decorating magazine would have been proud to display on its pages.

  Truman led us through the parlor to the front hall and up a broad staircase, which had elaborately carved newel posts and spindles.

  “The house dates to the late eighteen-hundreds,” he explained. “It was a mess when I got it, the plaster falling down, floors all rotted. I ripped them out and replaced them with marble. It’ll never rot in this humidity, and it feels delicious underfoot in the summer on days when you can barely move because it gets so damned hot.”

  “Very nice,” Seth said, pausing to catch his breath and look back at the stained-glass transom over the front door, and the crystal chandelier hanging from the end of a long chain.

  Upstairs, Truman led us to guest rooms at opposite sides of a carpeted hallway. Seth’s was at the front of the house, looking out on the street. Mine faced the rear, with French doors leading to the balcony I’d seen earlier.

  “I’ll give you guys a few minutes to unwind,” Truman said. “Find your way to the kitchen when you’re ready.”

  He closed the door behind me and I looked around. The room wasn’t large, but it had an iron four-poster bed hung with yards of white gauze, and an Eastlake Victorian chest with a rolltop desk above the drawers, on which was a telephone, pad, and pen, just like in a hotel. At the foot of the bed was a blanket chest with an inlaid design of birds and vines. A wing-back chair and small ottoman completed the furniture. Two doors side by side took up half one wall. I opened the first to reveal an empty closet except for a folded luggage rack and an array of hangers. The other door led to a private bath. It had been restored but maintained its old-fashioned appearance, with small octagonal white tiles on the floor with a line of black tiles set as a border, pedestal sink, claw-footed tub, and a commode with a pull chain of a type I hadn’t seen since my grammar school days.

  The sound of a knock drew me back to the bedroom. I opened the door. A young man, attired in crimson from hair to shirt to shoes, stood in the hallway with our two bags. He had tattoos on both arms and more piercings than I could comfortably look at.

  “Hi, I’m Benny. Which one is yours?”

  “That one.” I pointed to my bag. “I’m Jessica Fletcher. It’s nice to meet you. Do you work for Dr. Buckley?”

  “Work for Truman? No. I just hang out here. We do favors for each other. Today I’m his bellboy.”

  “Oh.”

  “But you don’t have to tip me,” he said. “This must be his, huh?” He pointed to Seth’s bag and cocked his head at the door across from mine.

  “Must be,” I said, smiling.

  He turned and knocked on Seth’s door.

  I pulled my bag into the room, not waiting to see Seth’s reaction to the “bellboy,” and unpacked the things I would need for our stay, changing into a fresh blouse and khaki skirt. I washed my hands and face using the fluffy washcloth and towels Truman had provided, went into the hall, and knocked on Seth’s door. “I’m going downstairs,” I called through it. “I’ll see you there.”

  There was a muffled reply I didn’t catch.

  “This is like a lovely hotel,” I told Truman when I found him in the kitchen. “How do you ever persuade houseguests to go home?”

  “I enjoy the company,” he said, clearing off the clutter on a marble-topped island to make room for a tray of crackers. He gathered newspapers and unopened mail and piled them in one corner, and pushed a portable telephone out of the way. It was one of two in the kitchen.

  “Can I help with anything?” I asked.

  “I’m just about done, but thanks for the offer.” He unwrapped a package of Brie, placed it on the tray with the crackers, and pressed the bl
ade of a knife into the wedge of cheese. He picked up the tray and I followed him into the back parlor through which we’d entered the house.

  It was a peaceful room, the upholstered furniture all in beige silk with cushions soft enough for comfort, but not so soft as to hinder getting up. In the corner by a window, a round table, covered in a white cloth, was already set for lunch with a platter of sandwiches and a bowl of fresh fruit salad. Truman had placed three tall glasses of iced tea on coasters on top of the coffee table, and he slid the tray of cheese and crackers next to them. I sat on the sofa while he took one of the armchairs. It was interesting to see that this decidedly informal man chose to relax in such a formal setting.

  “It’s the Boston influence,” he said, reading my thoughts. “I can’t quite shed it, but I’ve been trying to for years.”

  “You’ve been here for thirty years, you said?”

  “Just about. Not full-time, of course, at least not in the early years. You know, President Truman had his summer White House here. There’s an avenue named for him, although I tease the kids and tell them it was named for me. Maybe it was fate that brought me here.”

  “It must have been quite a change from what you were used to.”

  “I liked Key West precisely for that reason. It was such a departure from my life in Boston. I’d joined my father’s practice right out of medical school; never had a chance to look around and see what else was available. It was just by chance I came here. My first wife had a cousin who lived about three blocks away and we came down for a visit.” He stopped, smiling at the memory.

  “And you were charmed,” I said.

  “Charmed? I was overwhelmed. I couldn’t believe the freedom of it. Key West has always been a place for free spirits. It was so accepting, so nonconformist, so totally opposite everything I knew and had been raised to value. There were artists and writers and musicians. Philosophical discussions in the cafés. Creativity virtually shimmered in the air. It was like Paris in Picasso’s day—at least I thought so.”

  “Is it still that way?”

  “Good question. I’d have to give you a provisional yes. We’ve come close to being ruined by our best qualities. The tourists are rampant. The chain stores and the cruise ships have moved in. There’s a lot more glitz these days, a lot more money going into bourgeois construction, whether it’s a resort or housing. I must sound like a terrible snob, but it saddens me to see the changes. But there’s still an independent spirit. And the gay community here really supports the arts. I’ve been to more plays and concerts than I ever went to in Boston.”

  “Are you artistic yourself?” I asked.

  “Not in the least,” he replied. “My main talent is living well, which I have a knack for. But money has always come easily to me, with little effort on my part.”

  “Pretty fancy digs, Truman,” Seth said from the doorway. “You’ve put a lot into it, I can see.”

  Truman looked over his shoulder at Seth. “My inheritance at work. Come sit down, buddy, and join us. We’re talking about my love affair with Key West.”

  Seth had changed into a white golf shirt and tan slacks. He looked ready to attack the links, a goal I knew he harbored. “Nice place to retire,” he said. He sank down on the sofa next to me and leaned forward to spread some cheese on a cracker.

  “Retire? Who’s retired?”

  “But you gave up your practice in Boston.”

  “I did. My son took it over. His specialty is internal medicine. I told him he didn’t have to. There’s a wide world out there, but unlike his father, he actually wanted to stay in Boston. I moved here permanently with the intention of consulting every now and then. But little by little the practice has grown.”

  “Have we interrupted your office hours?” I asked.

  “Not at all. The weekends are mine. I like being lazy.”

  “Ever get out on the golf course?” Seth asked.

  “Not really my game. Do you play?”

  “Oh, yes. Great sport. Good exercise,” Seth said, neglecting to mention that he was relatively new to the activity.

  “There aren’t many courses. Land down here is at such a premium. But there’s a new private club several miles up. I can probably arrange a tee time for you, if you like. I know some people.”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t impose,” Seth said, “at least not unless you’d join me.” He looked at his host hopefully.

  Truman would have had a hard time missing the hint. He smiled. “If you insist.”

  Seth sat back, satisfied. “What’s your handicap?”

  “Don’t know. It’s been a while since anyone forced me onto a course. Are you sure you want to play with a rank novice like me? You might prefer more of a challenge. I can make some calls to see if you can make up a foursome with experienced players.”

  Seth rushed to head him off. “Not necessary at all. I want to spend my visit with you. We can take our time. I’ll give you a few pointers if you get in trouble,” he said, happy in the knowledge that Truman was likely a worse golfer than he was. “Only problem is I didn’t bring my clubs.”

  “I’m sure you can rent them,” Truman said. “I don’t have any of my own, either.” He turned to me. “Jessica, would you like to play?”

  “No, thank you,” I said. “But please go ahead without me. I’m sure I can find lots to do while you two get your exercise.”

  Truman stood. “It’s a little late for today, but let me see what I can do for us for tomorrow. I’ll give Wainscott a call and see what he can arrange.”

  “Wainscott?” I said.

  “Yes. He’s a real mover and shaker down here. I’m sure he’ll know someone on the board of the new golf course. Have you heard of him?”

  “I have,” I said.

  “He built Foreverglades, where our friend Portia lived,” Seth added.

  Truman snapped his fingers. “Right. That’s what brought you to Florida in the first place. I’m sorry. I never gave you my condolences.” He shook his head. “That’s what happens when you have a poor memory. I must have forgotten to take my gingko biloba. Let me make that call before I forget again.” He ambled into the kitchen, and I followed.

  “Just out of curiosity,” I said, “how do you know Wainscott?”

  “Hmmm?” He was rummaging through the newspapers.

  I plucked the phone out from under the pile and handed it to him.

  “Ah, thank you. What was it you said?”

  “Wainscott,” I repeated. “How do you know him?”

  “DeWitt? He came to my office.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes. He’s one of my new patients.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The crowd that gathered to view the sunset at the docks behind Mallory Square was young, cheerful, and loud. There was a carnival atmosphere to the occasion, a tradition Truman insisted we had to experience at least once or we wouldn’t be able to hold our heads up back home and say we’d really visited Key West.

  “Fortunately, there are no cruise ships in port tonight,” he said, “so we might actually get to see the sun go down. But even if all you can see is the sky above, it’s worth the visit.”

  We had walked to Mallory Square from Truman’s home, about ten blocks away, and had already experienced the “happy hour” atmosphere of Duval Street, with its myriad bars including Sloppy Joe’s, its name illuminated in neon, and reputed to be Ernest Hemingway’s favorite watering hole, and the nearby Captain Tony’s Saloon, the original location of Sloppy Joe’s in Hemingway’s day.

  In front of one bar, a rapt audience assembled to watch two long-haired men taking bodybuilding poses to show off the muscles of their chests, arms, and necks. They were shirtless, perhaps the most incongruous part of their show, given that there were more T-shirts offered for sale on Duval Street than I had ever seen in one place before.

  We’d made a detour to buy stone crab claws from a fisherman friend of Truman’s, whom we’d found sitting on a wooden lobster trap b
ehind a restaurant—tubs filled with shaved ice and heavy plastic bags of fish arrayed around him—and selling his catch to the proprietor.

  “How’s it going, Gabby?” Truman asked after the restaurateur disappeared with his purchase. “Got anything left for me?”

  “Always save something for you, Doc,” Gabby replied, pulling out a plastic bag and lining it with fistfuls of shaved ice. He was a man of indeterminate age. The sun had tanned his hide to a burnished bronze and bleached his hair to a color somewhere between brown and gray. It stuck straight out from his head and jaw like that of a cartoon character who’d poked his finger into an electric socket.

  Truman introduced us, then squatted down to inspect the claws and select the particular ones he wanted for our dinner.

  Seth leaned over to watch the process. “What happened to the rest of the animal?” he asked.

  “We throw ’em back,” Gabby said. “We only take one claw. Don’t want to leave the little fellers defense-less. They’ll grow a new one, and we get to eat good. Works out for everyone.” He grinned up at Seth, two gold front teeth gleaming.

  “Don’t think we ever tried that in Maine.”

  “Might not work with your lobsters,” Gabby said. “Florida lobsters got no claws. That’s why we catch these guys. I ate one o’ your lobsters once. Ours are sweeter.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” Seth said, straightening, his home state pride ruffled.

  “Didn’t mean to offend. Takes all tastes, o’ course. But you try my stone crab claws tonight and come back tomorrow and tell me what you think.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Truman filled the bag with claws and dickered with Gabby on the price. “Don’t go charging me what you twist out of those fancy-pants down at Wainscott’s development,” he said.