by Rita Lakin
The Canadian snowbirds are gathered together in their familiar clique. They are doing what they love most, lapping up the sun and reading their hometown newspapers and comparing the weather. Thirty degrees in Manitoba, fifteen in Montreal. They chuckle smugly.
We have new tenants, Casey Wright and Barbi Stevens. Bella shudders, still unable to believe anyone would want to live in an apartment where there’d been a murder, but the price was so low these gals found it irresistible. They’ve only recently moved in and it’s nice to have young people around. They’re cousins, originally from San Francisco. Barbi must be in her twenties, Casey in her thirties. They don’t look the least bit alike. Casey is kind of chunky and wears her dark, curly hair very short. Barbi is a tall, skinny blonde, and very cute. Casey seems to live in blue jeans, but Barbi loves frilly sundresses. They told us that they had a small business of their own and handed us all cards. All the cards said was “GOSSIP? Call Casey & Barbi. We know everything!” along with a phone number to call for an appointment. One of these days I must ask them what their business is about.
Next up are our beloved eighty-year-old Bobbsey twins, Hyman and Lola Binder (aka Hy and Lo), bobbing up and down in the shallow water, holding on to one another like chubby teenagers in love.
Hy sees us and greets us with his usual inane comment. “Ta-da, enter the murder mavens. Caught any killers lately?”
Evvie glares at him. “You’re just jealous.”
Mary Mueller now joins us at the pool every morning. She’s living alone since her husband, John, left her. It caused quite a stir, I can tell you, when he was “outed” (a new modern term we’ve learned). He had met a guy in a Miami gay bar and fallen in love. Boy, that was a first in Lanai Gardens. But Mary is holding up nicely, I’m glad to say.
Dropping our towels, we kick off our sandals and step carefully into the pool. The girls walk back and forth across the shallow end, splashing a lot. I do two laps and I’m done. And I’m out. Such is swimming exercise.
Pretty Barbi addresses Evvie. “So, what movie are you seeing this week? I can hardly wait for the review.”
Evvie, the in-house critic for our weekly free newspaper, is on a mystery kick since we’ve gotten into the P.I. biz. Last week she did a hilarious review of Hannibal. Evvie wrote: “The monster who likes to eat people is back again. Maybe he should do a cookbook.” She sounded deadly serious; I couldn’t stop laughing. This week she’ll be reviewing a French mystery. Who knows what she’ll do with that.
“Wait and see,” she chirps. “But I promise it’ll be gory.”
“Hey, girls, didja hear this one?” And Hy is at us like schmaltz on chopped liver. God help us, he’s learned a new joke off his e-mail. It will be offensive as usual.
“So, Becky and Sam are having an affair in the old age home. Every night for three years, Becky sneaks into Sam’s room and she takes off her clothes and climbs up on top of him. They lay there like two wooden boards for a couple of minutes, then she gets off and goes back to her room. And that’s that. One night Becky doesn’t show up. Not the next night either. Sam is upset. He finally tails her and, waddaya know, she’s about to sneak into Moishe’s room. Sam stops her in the hall. He’s really hurt. ‘So, what’s Moishe got that I ain’t got?’ Becky smirks and says, ‘Palsy!’”
Hy grins at us, thrilled with himself. Affronted as usual, the girls turn their backs on him and paddle away. I look down and concentrate on my crossword puzzle.
“What? What’d I do? What?”
“Schlemiel!” Ida hisses under her breath.
“Hey, did you read this?” Tessie asks. She’s now drying off on her chaise, her nose deep in today’s Miami Herald. She half reads, half condenses: “‘Mrs. Margaret Dery Sampson, sixty-four, of West Palm Beach, died early yesterday morning on the seventeenth hole at the Waterside Country Club where she was golfing with three friends. Mrs. Sampson, “Meg” as she was known to all who loved her, died suddenly of a massive heart attack.’”
The group reacts with shocked surprise. The heiress is well-known. Our group has followed her colorful rich-girl antics for years. She married into the famous Dery shipbuilding dynasty. It was one of Florida’s most extravagant weddings.
Reading the society news around the pool is a daily ritual. I only half listen. I am stuck on 33-across.
Tessie continues. “‘Mrs. Sampson, an active member of Florida society, was known for her charitable works. She was an avid sportswoman and a bridge enthusiast. Widowed three years ago, she is survived by her second husband, Richard Sampson.’”
“What a pity,” says Evvie. “You’d think with all that exercising she’d be in perfect health.”
“Never mind that. Think of all that money she didn’t get to spend,” Ida adds.
“But she left a nice, rich widower,” says Sophie. She picks up a tube of sunblock off the ledge of the pool and slathers her face and shoulders. “Maybe he’d like to meet a nice, poor widow. Like me.”
Ida takes the sunblock from her as Sophie turns to let Ida do her back. “Dream on.”
Sophie twists around. “What? I’m not good enough for him?” She pushes Ida’s hand away. “You’re making me into a greaseball.”
Ida slaps the tube back into her hand. “Do it yourself. As if a rich guy like that would even look at a nobody like you.”
Sophie hands the tube to Evvie. “And you know what? If he’s old and ugly I wouldn’t want him anyway.”
Evvie applies cream to Sophie’s back. “What’s old, anyway? Look at us.”
This gets my attention. “Bernard Baruch, the famous statesman, said, ‘Old is always fifteen years older than you are.’”
“Hello?” It is a wobbly little voice, and the Canadians, who still have all their hearing, are the first to glance up.
“Over here.” The voice manages to rise a decibel or two.
Now everyone responds. An elderly wisp of a woman stands at the pool gate, seeming almost too fragile to hold on to her metal walker. Her back is hunched slightly, and she looks as if a strong wind would carry her away. She’s dressed completely in black, including the kerchief on her head. She must be sweltering in that outfit. “I’m looking for Gladdy Gold.”
All eyes automatically turn to me as I put down my puzzle and walk toward her. “I’m Gladdy.”
Needless to say, the girls climb out of the pool and line up behind me, my little ducklings all in a row.
“Your neighbors told me where I could find you.”
“They would,” Ida mutters into my back. “Ask them when we go to the toilet. All our neighbors know that, too. Yentas!”
I ignore Ida. “What can I do for you?”
“I am looking for a detective,” the woman says, and then adds worriedly, “if the price is right.”
In a flash, Hy is at our side, dragging one of the plastic pool chairs. “Here, missus, have a seat,” he offers, helping the woman into the chair. He positions himself right next to her. An instant later, here comes Lola, gluing herself onto her husband as she leans in.
Everyone around the pool shifts slightly to the left. My unofficial staff. Unwanted. Uncalled-for. The other inhabitants of Phase Two, determined to get into the act whenever they can. Tessie, ever so casually, moves her chaise a little closer. Mary puts down her crocheting. Barbi and Casey openly stare. Even the Canadians have folded their newspapers. All gape and listen intently.
The little woman puffs out her chest and grips the arms of the chair. She shouts, “I’m eighty-two years old and I don’t need this agita in my life! My old man, maybe he’s cheating on me! And I want to know who the puttana is!”
Ahhh …I hear a collective sigh of recognition behind me. A problem they can all relate to after years of watching Oprah, Sally, Geraldo, and the rest.
“Hah!” says Hy with great delight. “The old man is dipping his wick somewheres else!”
The woman stares up at him. “What did this fool say?”
“Hy! Butt out,” I say.
>
He shrugs, feigning hurt. “I’m trying to lend a hand here.”
“Maybe he’s lonely,” Lola contributes.
“Maybe he’s not with a woman,” says Mary darkly. She’s still pretty traumatized over John.
I have to nip this group intrusion in the bud. Now.
“Shall we go to my office?” I say to the woman in black. Helping her out of the patio chair, I reposition her behind her walker and firmly move her out the pool gate.
As we leave, my girls scamper to keep up. I hear another sigh in the background. This one of disappointment. Followed by a buzz of complaints from the neighbors left behind and pointedly being left out.
Tessie whines, “Didn’t I ruin my best bathing costume chasing after our murderer? Where’s the gratitude?”
“Wait a while,” says Hy complacently. “She’ll figure out she can’t do without us.”
“Right,” adds Mary. “She owes us. Big time.”
I tell you, it’s not easy being a star.
5
The Case of the Little Old
Lady from Plantation
We are in my dining room, which I suppose I can now officially call my conference room. My minuscule kitchen, because it has a phone, is the office. Such are our business quarters.
The girls were so excited I could hardly contain them. This may be our first case with some zip to it. The lady in black, who has introduced herself as Mrs. Angelina Siciliano from Plantation, also seemed about to burst a blood vessel.
Obviously whatever’s been bothering her has been building up for quite a while. I sent the girls home to get out of their wet bathing suits. And I excused myself to put on dry clothes and left Mrs. Siciliano drinking chamomile tea. It would calm her down. I hoped.
The girls were back in a flash. I’ve never seen them change clothes so fast. Bella, always fastidious, is in one of her usual beige tailored pantsuits with tan sneakers. Evvie, always the optimist, wears a favorite pair of bright aqua capri pants with a matching Hawaiian-style shirt. Ida, she of the morose personality, wears a dark-colored plain sundress—always with sensible flat shoes. Sophie, ah Sophie, that queen of color coordination, is swathed totally in lavender. Lavender polyester slacks, lavender blouse, lavender sandals, and, the crowning touch (pun intended), a lavender ribbon in her hair.
I opted for comfortable and am wearing my usual light cotton pants, T-shirt, and white sneakers.
The girls swarm around Mrs. Siciliano, chattering in her ears.
I delegate. “Evvie, please take notes. Sophie, get the cups and plates. Ida, bring another chair to the table. Bella, stop hovering. Thanks.”
We are all finally seated and sipping tea. I face our visitor and introduce the girls to her.
She looks puzzled. “You’re all detectives?”
“Yes,” the girls say in unison.
“They’re my associates,” I tell her.
“Just find out who my husband is humping!”
First, they are scandalized by Mrs. Siciliano’s frankness, but they get over that fast. Then they all jump in.
Ida: “How do you know he’s doing it?”
Sophie: “Do you have proof?”
Bella: “Did you catch him in the sack?”
Evvie to Bella (shocked): “Bella! Shame on you.”
“How can I catch him? Look at me. In this walker?” The woman glares indignantly at Bella. “If my five brothers were still alive, they’d find him with that puttana and string him up by the coglioni!”
Bella throws Evvie a dirty look. “And you think I talk dirty!”
Evvie says, “What’s it mean?”
Bella shrugs. “Who knows, but it sounds terrible.”
Mrs. Siciliano slaps her teacup down. Hard. “You want proof, I’ll give you proof. My husband, Elio, he plays poker with the men from St. Anthony’s Benevolent Society every night after dinner. Forty years he comes home when the clock strikes ten. Now, one night he’s twenty minutes late. Then forty. Once, even an hour.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Sophie comments. “Maybe he has to clean up the cigarette butts or something.”
“Sure. He always has an excuse. Dom’s car broke down. He had to drive him. Dom is a mechanic. His car don’t dare break down. Vinny had a headache. He had to drive him, too. Fifty years I know Vinny. He never had a headache in his life. Sal’s aunt Costanza died. He was too broke up to drive. Sal hated his aunt Costanza. Now I question everything. Is he really playing bocce on Saturday? Is he really sitting home with the ball game on TV when I go to mass?”
I interject as delicately as I can, “Has your husband a habit of, well, seeing other women?”
Angelina smacks her old, black cracked leather pocketbook hard on the table. “Never! He wouldn’t dare!”
“Then why do you think he’s doing it now?”
I hear the scrape of their chairs as the girls lean in closer, fascinated by this most unusual personality.
“I’ll tell you why. Because every time he’s late he comes home smelling from Johnson’s talcum powder, that’s how I know!”
Sophie scrunches up her forehead, which tells me she’s puzzled. “Maybe he’s diapering a baby somewhere?”
Angelina glares at her. “That’s like perfume! A woman has her own smell. I use a little vanilla extract, myself. My cousin Josephine, before she got rich, she put a dab of virgin olive oil behind her ear. But this one! She uses talc! That’s how I know!”
I pour her another cup of tea, but Angelina remains agitated. “If I only was seventy again, I’d go catch them myself.”
I’m still trying to calm her. God forbid she has a stroke in my apartment. “A little history, please. How long have you and Mr. Siciliano been married?”
“Fifty years. We have six children,” she adds proudly.
“How old is Mr. Siciliano?”
“Eighty-five.”
Evvie is in awe. “And he still shtups?”
“Shtups?” Angelina grimaces, confused.
“Yeah, like you said—humps,” Sophie translates.
I ask one more question. “If we do find out that Mr. Siciliano is having an affair, what do you intend to do about it?”
The old woman raises herself up from her chair and hangs on to the table for support. “What do you think?! Mia famiglia is from Sicily. You heard of Sicily? When I catch that bastardo, he’s kaput!”
Angelina sits down again and sips her tea, apparently feeling much better now that she got it all off her chest. “Now let’s talk about a senior discount.”
6
The Meeting Is Called to Order
I’m still not sure we should take this case,” I say to the girls as they swarm about my kitchen. A few minutes ago, it was the office; now it’s the cafeteria. They’re busy organizing their contributions to a communal lunch.
We put Mrs. Siciliano in a taxi an hour ago and we’re still debating as the five of us squeeze in and out of that tiny space preparing and carrying food.
Evvie’s smart. She’s staying out of the crush by standing in the hallway, looking in. “But she gave you her word that she won’t knock him off.”
Ida huffs as she walks past, carrying her casserole dish into the dining room. “And you believe her? She may be eighty-two, but I wouldn’t like to meet her in a dark alley. She scares the hell out of me. And that black outfit! She dresses like he’s dead already.”
“Oy,” cries Bella as if she is in agony.
“What now? What’s taking you so long?” demands Sophie impatiently. Bella has been in and out of the kitchen a dozen times, and still no food.
She stands in front of the stove pathetically looking at the boiling water. “You wanna know how often I eat hard-boiled eggs?” she asks poignantly. “Every time I make soft-boiled.”
From the hallway Evvie shakes her head. “I told you a million times. You can’t leave a stove when you’re old.”
“Get out of my way,” Ida snaps, pushing past Evvie on her way back in
to the kitchen for another plate.
“Let’s eat,” says Sophie, now placing napkins on the table, adding her two cents. “I’m starving!”
“All right already,” I say. “Grab your food, and everybody out of the kitchen.” I shake my head at the disaster they’ve left me. The counter is littered with paper bags, plastic wrap, and odd remnants of food; the sink is a mess from all the chopping and slicing and peeling.
We’re going to have to get a real office soon, or I’ll go wacko.
Finally all the lunch contributions are on the dining room table. Since everyone brought over what they had left in their refrigerators, we are having smorgasbord.
Evvie passes me her chopped liver. “I say take the case. It was an empty threat.”
Sophie serves her cottage cheese and vegetable salad. “I say it was a full threat. We catch him doing it, he’s a yunich.”
Evvie corrects her. “That’s eunuch.”
Sophie makes a downward-slashing gesture. “Yeah. Bye-bye, balls.”
Bella serves her now hard-boiled eggs. “She looks like she goes to church a lot, so she has to forgive him.”
Ida sneers into her strawberry Jell-O mold. “Yeah, sure, first she’ll do a couple of Hail Marys, following which she’ll put a knife in his heart. Then she’ll cut off his schmuck.”
“Right,” Bella chimes in. “And then Jesus will forgive her for icing him.”
I must pause to mention that ever since we started the business, the only things the girls read or watch on TV are mysteries, so they’ve picked up a lot of jargon.
I contribute my onion bagels and cream cheese. “I think we owe it to the husband to confront him if we catch him in the act. It might save his life.”
Bella giggles. “Or at least his coglioni.”
I suggest we get down to our business meeting. Sophie immediately waves her hand wildly in the air. “I thought of a name for us.”
Ida moans. “We already agreed on a name. And not one word about T-shirts.”
Sophie ignores her. “What about ‘Glad’s Girls’?”
“Forget it,” says Evvie.
