Dying to Retire

by Jessica Fletcher

  Sam heaved a dramatic sigh, picked up the remote, and clicked off the TV.

  “I’m all ears,” he said.

  I had to suppress a smile, because he was—all ears, that is. They jutted out from the side of his head, making him look something like Yoda from the Star Wars film.

  “Sam, the police suspect Clarence of having an affair with Monica, and that’s why they’re alleging he killed Portia. I’m trying to find out who gave them that information, and whether it’s true.”

  “I told you this was a gossipy place, Jessica. That’s why I like volunteering down at the station house.”

  “He goes again tomorrow,” Minnie added helpfully.

  “Do either of you know if the rumor is true?”

  “I don’t know,” Minnie said. “Helen and I aren’t very fond of Clarence. Frankly, we didn’t see what Portia saw in him. But perhaps we were influenced by all the talk.”

  “Where did you hear it first?”

  “From Helen, no doubt,” Sam put in. “Her shop is a fountain of news.”

  “I think you mean fount, Sam,” I said.

  “Whatever. That’s where you go if you want the latest gossip.”

  “Then I guess that’s where I’ll go. Thanks so much. You’ve both been very helpful.”

  “Do you think they arrested the wrong man?” Minnie asked as she escorted me to the door.

  “Possibly,” I said. “That’s why I’m trying to separate the truth from the rumors.”

  “Will we see you tomorrow at the Residents’ Committee meeting? Portia’s memorial is on the agenda.”

  “I thought it was on the agenda of the last meeting.”

  “It got tabled. No one could agree on a proper commemoration.”

  “I’ll try to make it,” I said.

  Helen’s shop was abuzz with activity and talk until, that is, I walked through the door. Then it was as if someone put a muzzle on all the ladies. They stopped talking and stared at me, watching my every move as if I were about to deliver the Sermon on the Mount.

  Helen was standing at her reception desk with a phone to one ear while she mixed a goopy gray concoction in a plastic bowl. “No, dear, I don’t know any more than that. Listen, I’ve got two roots to do and a half head of highlights. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Helen, do you think I could talk to you a moment—in private?” I asked when she’d hung up.

  “Amelia!” she shouted. “Where is that woman? She’s always disappearing on me.”

  A young woman who’d been sweeping hair on the floor into a neat pile came over to Helen and whispered over her shoulder, “Amelia went to the drugstore.”

  Helen shrugged, handed the young woman her bowl, and said, “You keep stirring this till I come back. Do not let it separate, hear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “C’mon, Jessica. We can step into my office for a moment. That’s all I can spare.”

  “Thank you, Helen. I promise not to keep you long.”

  “Don’t worry. You won’t.”

  Her office was really a storage room with a table piled high with boxes of hair products, an electric sterilizer, and an old washtub sink covered in spots and drips of permanent hair color.

  I asked her the same questions I had of the Lewises.

  “Told you I was never fond of Clarence. There’s just something so cold and calculating about him,” she said. “Now someone heard him threaten Portia. I’m not surprised.”

  “Who overheard that argument, Helen? It wasn’t you.”

  “No. I never saw them argue. If anything, he was too passive, I thought. You can’t trust a man who never talks.”

  “Isn’t that a bit of a generalization?” I said.

  “I guess. I just never got comfortable with the man. Couldn’t see with all Portia had to offer why she settled on such a milquetoast.”

  “But she was happy with her choice, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes. I have to admit she was.”

  “Did she ever confide in you that she thought Clarence was unfaithful?”

  “No, she never did.”

  “Then it’s possible the rumors aren’t true at all.”

  “Anything’s possible, I suppose.”

  “So who told you Clarence was having an affair? And who overheard him threaten Portia?”

  “Well, I never got any names, but I must’ve heard it in the shop. This place runs on gas.” She laughed at her own joke. “Ask Amelia. She’s the queen of scandal. Knows them all and tells them all.”

  “Thanks, Helen. I’ll go find her.”

  “You don’t think Clarence did it, do you?” she asked, sobering.

  “No,” I said. “I think he may be the innocent victim of a smear campaign.”

  “If that’s true, I’m very sorry,” said Helen. “I know my shop is the center of gossip in this town. If you find out the truth, let me know and I’ll set everyone straight.”

  “I’ll do that. In the meantime, if you find out who started the rumor, I’d appreciate knowing who that person is.”

  Weinstein’s Pharmacy had received an order of decorative items for Easter and Passover—even though those holidays were almost two months away—and the aisles were clogged with boxes of silk flowers, chocolate matzoh, marshmallow bunnies, spring-themed cocktail napkins, hand-painted glassware, flower-scented talcum, and china hens and chicks.

  I found Amelia and her soon-to-be ex-sister-in-law, Marina, talking with Weinstein’s saleswomen, Donna and Sandy, as they unpacked a new shipment of honeycomb candles.

  “And she died from taking diet pills,” Amelia was saying as I approached.

  “Isn’t it amazing what a little blue pill can do?” Marina said.

  “Thank God we don’t carry ephedra anymore,” Sandy said. “Harry was smart to get rid of it.”

  “I’ve been on the Atkins diet,” Donna added. “It works better than pills, anyway.”

  “They’ve got her husband in jail now,” Amelia said.

  “They say he might have murdered his first wife, too,” Marina said.

  “No sabía. You didn’t tell me that,” Amelia said. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

  “Well, I’m telling you now.”

  “Hola, Jessica,” Amelia said when she spotted me.

  “Hello,” I replied. “I’m sorry to interrupt the conversation.”

  “No problem,” said Sandy, stacking the boxed candles on a shelf.

  “I was hoping you to talk to you, Amelia,” I said. “Can you spare me a minute?”

  “Si. Qué desea? What do you want?”

  “I have a question about my hair.”

  “Of course. Hasta luego, ladies. This is business.” Amelia left the others and followed me to a bench outside the front door, where we both sat.

  “Just a little lightening up here will do it,” Amelia said to me, running her fingers over the top of my head. “And maybe a touch here, too.”

  “You really think so?”

  “You could go a bit darker on the sides. It’s the contrast of dark and light that makes it attractive.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “By the way, I couldn’t help hearing you talk. It was Portia and Clarence you were discussing, wasn’t it?”

  “Jessica, you were there when he was arrested. Helen never cared for him. I always thought he was the strong, silent type. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the faithful type, and now look at what he is. Un asesino.” She shook her head.

  “Amelia, did you ever see Clarence with anyone other than Portia?”

  “Me? Nunca! He was always very attentive in public.”

  “Then how do you know he was having an affair?”

  “Well, everyone said . . .”

  “Yes, but who told you the first time?”

  “No estoy seguro. I’m not sure. Let me think.”

  Marina Rodriguez pushed through Weinstein’s door.

  “Marina!” Amelia said.

  “What?” Marina said, getti
ng angry. “Are you gossiping about me?”

  “Sentarse. Sit down. Jessica was asking me where I heard about Clarence and Monica. I can’t remember. Can you?” Amelia moved over to make room for Marina.

  I leaned forward to talk to Marina. “Do you know who saw Clarence threaten Portia?”

  “You told me about that,” Amelia said to Marina.

  “It’s true,” Marina said. “I saw it with my own eyes, and I told the police, too.”

  “The Shelbys came to Marina’s office to look at the apartments,” Amelia said.

  “She was so high and mighty about opposing our development,” Marina said, “but her husband liked the idea. That’s when it happened.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “He threatened to kill her.”

  “Ooh, Marina, are you going to take the witness stand?” Amelia asked.

  “Of course I am.”

  “When did this take place?” I asked.

  “About three days before he killed her.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I marked it on my calendar. I even showed it to the police. I told them he sounded so threatening, I thought I should write it down in case anything happened to her. And you see? Wasn’t I smart?”

  “Poor Portia,” Amelia said. “And he was so handsome, too.”

  “You can’t trust men,” Marina said.

  “You’re talking about my brother again, aren’t you?” Amelia said. “I don’t want to hear anything bad about him.”

  “You only want to hear bad things about everyone else.”

  “That’s not true. Eso no es verdad.”

  “Well, thanks for your help,” I said, standing. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Seth had begged off dinner that evening, saying he was too tired, and I called him the next morning to see how he was feeling. He groaned when he answered the phone.

  “Seth, are you all right?” I asked.

  “No. I am not all right.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I am starving to death. That’s what’s the matter.”

  “I’m not surprised. You skipped dinner last night. Why don’t you go to the café in the village and get some breakfast?”

  “I would, if I could get out of bed. I wrenched my back on those darned machines yesterday.”

  “How awful. I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t you dare laugh, Jessica.”

  “I’m not laughing,” I said. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Yes! You can bring me something to eat.”

  “Tell me what you want and I’ll be over as soon as I can.”

  Seth’s door was unlocked. I knocked, called out, and walked in carrying a brown paper bag, which held an egg-and-cheese sandwich and a cup of coffee. I’d elected not to bring him the jelly doughnut he’d also requested, and had substituted a container of fruit, knowing I was risking a tongue-lashing.

  Seth was sitting up in bed, the covers neatly arranged, watching television when I entered.

  “You picked a good day to stay in bed,” I said. “It’s raining out. I’m just going to put this on a plate and I’ll be right back.”

  “Mort stopped by after you phoned,” he called out as I walked into the kitchen.

  “I see that,” I said, noting the crumpled paper bag in the garbage pail and empty dish with powdered sugar on it in the sink. I put the sandwich on a plate, the fruit in a bowl, and the coffee in a mug. I even found a tray to carry them in to the patient.

  Seth consumed his second breakfast, and I politely refrained from asking which machine it was he’d injured himself with, or where his athletic instructor was in his time of need.

  “Feeling better?” I asked.

  “Much. Just a bit sore, that’s all. I’ll be up and around in a trice.”

  “A back injury is nothing to take lightly,” I said. “You should rest today.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Fletcher. I guess I know what’s wrong with me, thank you very much.”

  I held up both hands and feigned innocence. “Far be it from me to tell the great Dr. Hazlitt what to do,” I said.

  “Dang it, Jessica. I’m uncomfortable enough as it is. Don’t rub it in.”

  “I never said ‘I told you so,’ now, did I? I’m just concerned about you, Seth. I know back pain is no picnic. I don’t want you to injure yourself further, that’s all. You tell me how I can help, and that’s what I’ll do. And I won’t say another word about it.”

  “I’m not sure it’s the back at all,” he said, mollified. “I hurt all over.”

  “Would you like me to run you a hot bath? That might relax your muscles and make you feel better. I can also stop in Weinstein’s and pick up some liniment, if you tell me what you want.”

  After grumbling some more, Seth agreed that a bath would be therapeutic. I ran the water, testing it with my wrist so it wouldn’t burn him. I offered to help him to the bathroom, but he stoutly refused and sent me off instead to Weinstein’s with a shopping list. I was certainly getting my exercise this morning, walking to and from the village.

  When I returned from the drugstore with various bottles of painkillers, plus a tube of capsaicin cream—something Harry had recommended—Seth was dressed and had propped himself on the couch with pillows on either side. The color was back in his cheeks and he looked far more relaxed than when I had left. But he was upset about something. I brought him a glass of water. He took two pills and sighed.

  “I’m sorry, Jessica.”

  “What are you sorry about?” I said, taking the armchair next to the couch.

  “I yelled at you and made you go out in the rain.”

  “I don’t melt. And you were in pain when you cranked at me. I didn’t pay it any mind.”

  “No, I was embarrassed.”

  “There’s no need for that.”

  “Yes, there is. I feel like an old fool trying to act like a young buck, running around a gym showing off. And this is what it got me.”

  “A very wise friend once told me that people do foolish things at times, even people who are conscientious and intelligent.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m paying the consequences today.”

  “But you’re feeling better now?” I said.

  “I am. The bath was just the thing. By the way, I forgot to tell you I called the office. Assured Dr. Jenny and everyone else that the police were not looking for me in Key West.”

  “Good old Sam and his police work.”

  “Remember I’d asked her to look up Portia’s chart?”

  “Yes. And what did you find out?”

  “Portia was practically the same weight for thirty-five years. I never prescribed a diet. She never asked about losing weight.”

  “It’s good to hear, even though we no longer need to convince the police a murder has taken place. Although if you ask me, the evidence against Clarence is skimpy. Still, your records seem to confirm what we thought all along, that Portia didn’t take those diet pills on purpose.”

  “Or even know she was taking them.”

  “True.”

  “Must be someone with a mighty strong reason for wanting to see her dead to go to all this trouble to kill her.”

  “I agree,” I said.

  “Do you know who did it?”

  “Maybe. I’ll know better at the Residents’ Committee meeting this afternoon. Think you’ll be up to coming?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “Where is everyone?” Seth asked as we took seats next to Mort and Maureen. “I thought the residents’ meeting was a popular event.”

  The chairs in the meeting room were arranged in two banks, with an aisle up the center. Less than half the seats were full, most occupied by people who’d become familiar faces by now: Monica Kotansky and her sister Carrie; their friend Olga Piper; Helen and Miles Davison; Minnie and Sam Lewis; Earl and Burl Simmons, and Amelia Rodriguez. Marina, who was there as Wainscot
t’s designated representative, sat in the back row, a steno pad and pen on her lap. I looked for Mark Rosner, but didn’t see him.

  “The tennis tournament had to be postponed this morning because of the rain,” I heard Minnie say. “By the time the sun came out and dried up the courts, the tournament and this meeting overlapped.”

  “They’ll be here,” Sam said loudly, referring to the tennis players. “We’ve got food. If you want to fill a meeting, that’s what you’ve got to do. They always come for the food.”

  Tony Colombo came through the back door, wearing a white apron and carrying a large cooler, followed by a younger man, also in white, wheeling an aluminum cart on which were two foil-covered chafing dishes. I’d seen the younger fellow making pizzas at Colombo’s restaurant when Seth and I had dinner there. I presumed he was Colombo’s cousin and partner.

  At the sight of the food being set up, the Simmons twins started getting out of their seats.

  “No refreshments till the end of the meeting,” Sam called out.

  “Well, then, let’s get started. It’s already past the hour,” someone said.

  Sam looked at his watch. “Give ’em another five minutes, Minnie; then start.”

  “Hi, Seth,” Monica called from across the aisle, waving to him, her bracelets jingling. Snowy, perched on her lap, bared his teeth.

  Seth gave her a wan smile.

  “Does she know how sore you are from yesterday’s workout?” I whispered.

  “No. And don’t you tell her.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me,” I said. “But I do need to ask her a question. Excuse me.” I moved across the aisle to the seat next to Monica.

  A few minutes later, after more people had drifted in and the room began to fill up, I rejoined Seth. Minnie closed the front door, went to the officers’ table, and pounded a gavel on a little block of wood.

  “The meeting of the Residents’ Committee of Foreverglades will come to order,” she announced. “May we dispense with the reading of the previous minutes?”

  “So moved.”

  “All in favor?” Hands went up. “Opposed? Good. I hate it when people oppose things. Now, we have two items on our agenda today—a suitable memorial for Portia Shelby—that subject was tabled at the last meeting—and the closing of the beach.”