by Rita Lakin
“Clear as mud,” Evvie says. Then she smiles. “Okay, lady detective, let’s detect.”
We pass the Deerfield Beach pier, so I know we are getting close.
“Look at the map; the Boca turnoff is pretty close now. Just find me the way to get to the cemetery.”
We walk quickly up the slope of the Holy Order Catholic Cemetery. I can see that the funeral is already in progress. The priest is speaking of the deceased in low, seemingly heartfelt tones.
“Look at how they’re dressed,” Evvie whispers. “Like they’re going to a cocktail party.”
“Now you get to see how rich folks live.”
“Look at all those gorgeous hats. And the fantastic wreaths! They must have bought out every flower shop in Boca Raton!”
“Pretty impressive.”
“What’s the plan?”
“Just hover in the background, try to listen to any conversations, and don’t be obvious.”
“I wonder which one is the husband.”
“Look next to the priest,” I suggest.
Evvie looks. “Nah, can’t be. That guy is young. And what a build! But on the other side of the priest is a woman, so it must be him.”
If that’s Robert Martinson, he is a looker! He seems to be in his early forties, dressed in an elegant black summer-weight suit. Probably cost more than my car. He’s got on a black straw Panama hat tilted at a rakish angle that covers some of his almost platinum blond hair and most of his face. The “shades” cover more. If the face is like the rest of him—poor Josephine, having to leave that behind.
Evvie has moved from my side. She is now practically leaning into a couple who are talking quietly. I hiss at her. “Subtle!”
She waves her hand at me as if to say yeah, yeah.
I amble about, now nearing a couple whose backs are toward me. They are both dressed in black, and the woman is holding on to a walker. They seem to be arguing softly. I get close enough to hear the man say, “Leave her alone already. At least she died happy…”
Suddenly I start to back away, fast. I recognize those two backs, now both in profile. I can’t believe my eyes. Angelina and Elio Siciliano!
I almost trip on a tombstone as I try to get Evvie’s attention. She sees me but shakes her head, annoyed. She’s busy. I finally get over to her and pull her by the arm.
“Move!”
A few people glance at us, annoyed, but I get her away from there as quickly as I can. Out of the corner of my eye I see Angelina now turning and glancing toward us.
I pull Evvie behind a tree. “Just get over to the nearest grave and pretend we’re visiting it.”
“All right, but don’t break my arm.”
“We need flowers.” I’m looking every which way for something floral.
“I see a bunch,” Evvie says.
“Grab them!”
Evvie quickly reaches down in front of one of the stones and removes a small vase of flowers. She hurries after me.
We are now out of sight of the Martinson funeral party, and we are both out of breath.
“What was that all about?”
“You’ll never believe who’s here. What’s that mess?” I say, staring at the pathetic wilted stems in Evvie’s hand.
“You said grab something. I didn’t have time to go shopping.”
“Mrs. Gold? Is that you? I can’t believe my eyes.”
I see Angelina Siciliano moving briskly toward us in spite of the walker and the uneven ground.
“Oh, boy,” Evvie whispers, getting it now. “What do we do?”
“Wing it.”
Angelina reaches us. We smile phony smiles.
“Mrs. Siciliano, what a surpise,” I say, and believe me, I mean it.
“What are you girls doing here?”
“Oh,” I say in my best winging-it voice, “just paying respects to our uncle.”
Angelina, Evvie, and I automatically glance down at the stone beneath us. It reads “Sum Wang Ho” in both English and Chinese.
Evvie, thinking fast, says, “I told you we went down the wrong aisle. This isn’t Uncle Charlie!” And seeing the expression on Angelina’s face at the sight of our bouquet, she says airily, “Isn’t it a disgrace the way they leave flowers lying around in this condition? Now, where is that trash basket?”
I jump in at high speed before Angelina has time to wonder why we Jewish women have an uncle in a Catholic cemetery, let alone one who’s Chinese. “This is your cousin’s funeral?”
Evvie pipes up, piecing together the various things Angelina has told us. “The one who put olive oil behind her ears?”
Angelina dabs at her eyes. “My cousin Josephine. What a tragedy. She is married to Dominic Dano for twenty-five years. Such an angel, he was. Up from nothing, he makes a fortune in sheet metal. When he dies he leaves her very rich. Not that she ever shares a penny with her relatives.”
Evvie is about to say something. I tug at her sleeve to stop her.
“Then what does she do? Does she sit around and get old and die with the rest of the widows? No. Rich old women get very stupid. She marries a dancer. Robs the cradle. Who can make money dancing? Not that he bothers to work after he marries her. She marries beneath her. A disgrace to la famiglia. I hate to be catty about my own cousin, but she was no beauty. All the spas in the world didn’t turn her into pretty.” She shrugs. “Faccia brutt’. Some tough life she had. Bridge games, cocktail parties, cruises…Did she ever invite me? Hah!”
“Angelina, where did you go to?” someone shouts.
We turn to see Elio, standing on a knoll, squinting down at us. Evvie and I turn our heads away quickly.
Angelina waves impatiently. “The man never gives me a minute’s peace.”
“Better go, Mrs. Siciliano. We don’t want him to see us.”
“Right. Right.” She smiles conspiratorially. “Talk to you after the next stakeout.”
We watch her trudge back to him. I wait until they are out of sight, then I hug Evvie. “You were brilliant! ‘Down the wrong aisle! Uncle Charlie! Where’s the trash can?’”
She smiles modestly. “It was nothing.”
“You deserve a raise.”
“Hah! I’ll settle for a salary.” Evvie breaks out laughing. “I really think we owe Uncle Sum Wang Ho a better bouquet than this one.”
16
Sophie Gets Lucky
It’s Sophie’s turn to host our weekly canasta game. It’s pouring outside and the afternoon sky is black, a typical Florida rainstorm with crashing thunder and flashes of lightning. But not to worry, we are cozy inside. Sophie has dozens of lamps, all brightly lit. Then again, our hostess always has too many of everything. Too many pillows on the couch. Too many doilies, too many little tchotchkes, like her salt and pepper shaker collection and her miniature doggies collection. Our hostess, as usual, outdoes herself with the food, as well. Not only is there a sponge cake, but rugallah—not just chocolate, but raspberry and prune, too. And with coffee later, there will be pie, three different kinds—cherry, apple, and pineapple cheese. Everybody complains, it’s too much! But that doesn’t stop us from wolfing it all down.
The game is going as well as can be expected, and it’s war. Two killer players, Evvie and Ida, determined to win at any cost. One indifferent player, me. One in there pitching, but seldom a winner, Sophie. And poor Bella. She hates to play. She has never understood this game and never will. She’d rather watch, even do dishes or scrub the toilet, anything but take the other players’ abuse.
It’s my turn to sit it out and I end up as referee.
“Gimme a deuce,” Ida prays as she picks from the deck with her eyes closed. “Yesss,” she hisses happily at Evvie. Evvie answers back with a high five.
“Oy, I’ve got bubkes,” Sophie moans through a mouthful of raisins.
“I just picked up a joker,” Bella says cheerfully to her partner, Sophie.
“Shah!” says Sophie. “Keep it to yourself.”
“Big deal,�
�� Ida comments. “She wouldn’t know what to do with it anyway.” She clenches her fists. “Why do we put up with her?”
“For the same reason we put up with you,” Sophie says with venom.
I try to calm things down by talking a little business. “That was really good work you girls did yesterday, finding two other women who saw Peeping Toms.”
Sophie says, “And we only got through Phases Four and Six. There could be more.”
Evvie slaps down a card and says, “You know who really surprised me? Eileen O’Donnell in Four. She’s always the big complainer, but not a peep out of her about her peeper.”
I suggest we start a chart, but no one is listening to me because Evvie cries out, “Everybody shut up. I’m going down.” With that she flamboyantly starts unloading her hand.
“Way to go, partner,” Ida congratulates her.
“Now watch out, Bella; they’re down, so don’t let them get the deck,” Sophie warns her.
Bella shivers. “I don’t know what to play.”
“If you got a jack, play it. Their jacks are already in fifth position,” Sophie reminds her.
Bella sighs. “Thank you.”
“Why don’t you just look in all our hands and save yourself the trouble!” Ida yelps.
Sophie gets huffy. “You two should talk. You cheaters!” She looks from Ida to Evvie.
“Sore loser,” says Evvie indignantly.
“And you gloat when you win and that makes you a sore winner!” parries Sophie.
“Girls, girls,” I say. Here we go. It’s spinning out of control.
“How do we cheat?” Evvie demands to know, standing up, hands on hips.
Sophie mimics them with a vengeance. “‘Nu, have you seen Hy lately,’ when you want Evvie to throw you a high card, and ‘So, how’s Lo,’ when you want a low one.”
Now, trying to hide my smile, even I can’t resist. “Or suddenly you want to discuss Queen Elizabeth.”
“Or King Hussein,” adds Sophie.
Bella braves up enough to hum “Three Blind Mice.”
“‘Tea for two…’” Sophie also hums maliciously.
Bella whispers, “Oh, boy, do I need sex!”
“You have one hell of a lot of nerve!” Evvie shouts.
Ida gets up and throws her cards against the wall. “That does it! I quit!”
The doorbell rings.
Saved by the bell. Everybody freezes, ashamed of their outbursts.
“Maybe it’s time for pie,” Sophie suggests as she goes to the door.
The girls get busy making space, removing the cards and setting out the cups and plates.
Sophie looks through the peephole. “Who is it?” she trills.
“Registered letter. I need you to sign,” a voice answers.
Sophie leaps away as if she were shot.
“What’s wrong?” Evvie asks, alarmed.
“Someone died! I don’t want to know about it. Go away,” she shouts at the door.
Sophie starts keening. Bella flops onto the couch, fanning herself.
We’re aware of an envelope and a piece of paper being pushed under the door. “Just sign it and slip it back. OK?” the delivery man calls. Obviously he’s dealt with hysterical old ladies before.
Sophie, Bella, and Ida stare at the envelope as if it were a rattlesnake.
Evvie, disgusted with the bunch of them, goes and picks it up. She signs the receipt and pushes it back under the door.
Sophie covers her eyes with both hands. “I never in my life got a registered letter.”
Evvie tries to hand it to her. “Are you going to open it or should I?”
“You!”
Evvie takes the letter out of its envelope and reads. “Oh, boy!” She starts jumping up and down. “Oh, boyohboyohboy!” Now she starts to twirl, holding the letter high.
“What is it already?” Ida hits her on the arm.
“We won! We won the free trip on the bingo cruise!”
Now the girls are jumping up and down, singsonging “We won!” as Sophie pulls out of her panic attack.
“Let me see that!” She grabs the letter out of Evvie’s hands.
There is a long, pregnant silence as the girls grin, now excitedly holding their breath.
Sophie’s hands go to her hips. “Waddaya mean, we?”
The grins disappear; grimaces replace them.
“Waddaya mean, ‘waddaya mean, we’?” asks Bella plaintively as she nibbles nervously on her prune rugallah.
Evvie grabs the letter and waves it in Sophie’s face. “We’re all going!”
Sophie grabs it back. “Fine. Go buy tickets! I’ve got mine and I’m gonna take my own sweet time to pick a roommate! And it might not be any of you!”
Ida tries to grab the letter from her, but Sophie isn’t going to fall for that again; she holds on tightly. Ida shrieks, “Since when aren’t we partners?”
“Since now!”
I look at this heavy-breathing, fist-clenching, glaring foursome and I think, This is bad. Very bad.
17
Yet Another Stakeout
We’re once again at Salvatore’s Bar and Grill in Plantation. A very different mood permeates the old Chevy tonight. No card playing, no eating, no gossiping. Nothing but silence. No one is speaking to anyone since the free cruise raffle brouhaha. The girls are staring straight ahead out the windshield. All day long, it’s been arguments and threats and words spoken that hurt to the very bone.
Sophie has made it clear she won’t be picking a companion from this group unless the behavior improves. Bella has been vying for that favor, more than willing to beg if necessary, but the other girls demand that they remain a united front.
Evvie, with her long experience as secretary of the Condo Association, has spelled it out for us: We all get to go. Five tickets would cost five thousand dollars. But if we subtract Sophie’s two free tickets, then we only have to pay for three tickets. So, if everyone chips in for the three thousand, it will only cost each of us six hundred dollars, a savings of four hundred each. And we can all afford that.
Everyone but Sophie agrees. I can’t blame her for being sore. She’s getting her ticket free; why should she chip in six hundred dollars? But since we’ve all shared any good fortune in the past, even I have to admit that Evvie’s way is fair for all.
Not that I’m looking forward to a bingo tournament, but the travel part sounds like fun. All those pretty ports along the way to Cancún. I start to think back on all the places my husband and I planned to visit, places we never did get to see. But I stop myself and turn my attention back to the here and now, where we are at an impasse.
“Elio and the guys should be coming out pretty soon,” I say, hoping to break the tension.
Nothing.
Bella, always in the middle in the backseat, squirms to get more comfortable.
“Stop that wiggling!” says Ida angrily.
Bella freezes.
“I was thinking,” says Evvie, turning to look at the backseaters, “that we girls might take a bus trip to, say, Key West. That is, when Miss Penny-pincher is on her cruise, alone.”
Ida jumps right in. “I was thinking along the lines of Disney World. I hear they’ve added some new attractions.”
Bella looks alarmed. “What are you talking about? I want to go on the bingo cruise!” She turns to Sophie. “Are you sure my one dollar didn’t give me the winning ticket?”
Sophie finally speaks. “No! It was my ticket!”
Now the rage bubbles over again.
“Either you chip in with the rest of us and we all share the expenses or you die alone!” Ida is shrieking.
“Damn straight!” says Evvie. “You can be on your deathbed yelling for help and nobody will come to you!”
“I might,” Bella says timidly.
“No, you won’t!” both Ida and Evvie shout at her.
“They’re coming out,” I announce.
All eyes swivel toward the men exiting the
bar.
We watch in silence as Elio gets into his car and starts the engine. I turn on my ignition, as well.
As usual, Ida leans anxiously over my shoulder and Sophie leans over Evvie’s.
Evvie pushes her back. “Get away from me, traitor!”
Sophie falls back deep into her seat, suffering.
I follow Elio, but he doesn’t make the right turn at his home street. This time, he turns left.
“This is it! Don’t lose him,” Evvie says excitedly.
“Yeah, stay on his tail,” Sophie adds.
“Shut up,” Ida says to her. “As far as we’re concerned, you no longer exist!”
Two blocks later, Elio pulls up in front of a small pink stucco house with a dim light over the door. I drive past, then stop and park.
We all watch as Elio gets out of the car carrying a couple of bags with a logo we all know well—from good old Publix supermarket. He walks up to the front door, takes out a key, and lets himself in.
Bella gasps. “And two blocks from his own house.” She shakes her head. “Shameless!”
“I knew it!” says Ida gleefully.
“Okay,” I tell them, “here’s the plan. We all go in a different direction and pick a window to look into. See what you can and then get back to the car, fast. Got it?”
“Am I allowed to go?” Sophie whimpers. No one answers her. I feel sorry for her by now, but I can’t intercede. What, and get that gang on my back, as well?
Everyone spreads out toward a different window. Sophie follows timidly.
We don’t recognize the hissing sound until it’s too late. The night sprinklers come on. Instantly we are all drenched. We run back across the lawn as fast as our poor old legs will let us. The dog next door hears us and starts barking.
Breathlessly we throw ourselves back into the car and I careen off, the tires squealing.
We’re sitting in the Flamingo Road Media Café, still damp. The towel I keep in my trunk to wipe windows is all we have to dry us off, and it barely does the job.
