MIAMI ICED

by Susan Sussman

  An ample man with a trim white beard sits at a massive desk. The driftwood nameplate says DEKE HAWKINS. I introduce myself and mention Quincy’s name. “Is it all right if we dock while we have lunch?” I ask.

  “As long as you leave come October.” He laughs a hearty no-frills laugh. His watch timer beeps and Deke searches through the mess on his desk unearthing a vial of pills. “Bad ticker.”

  “Quincy mentioned.”

  “Have a seat,” he says, wincing as he wrangles the childproof lid. I recognize the enlarged knuckles of arthritic fingers. When my mother’s knuckles swelled like that before a Chicago storm she could barely pick up a jar let alone open it.

  “They make easy-open pill bottle tops now,” I say, pulling up a chair, “for people who have no kids around to get into things.”

  “This new scrip is twice the strength of my old one. Can’t risk something happening.” His expression says there’s something more he’s not saying. This time he sets the vial on his desk, standing as he presses down on the lid with his palm – Leverage – and pops a pill. “Last heart attack knocked me out a while,” he says, tossing the vial onto a stack of papers. It’s good to be back among the living.”

  I hold up the Jack Daniels. “I probably shouldn’t have brought this.”

  “You just set that right here,” he says, clearing a space. “Doc says a little whisky’s good for the ticker.” A couple of bathroom-sized Dixie cups materialize from his desk drawer and he pours us each two fingers. It’s a little early but I don’t want to seem inhospitable. “Chin-chin,” he says and we toss back our drinks like a couple of old salts. He pours us another, a few fingers higher. “Small cups,” he explains. “Now, what’s my buddy Quincy up to these days?”

  We take our time with the second round, chatting about this and that. After a while I say, “I was wondering,” all casual like, “if the Dandy Brandy still docks here.”

  This surprises him. “Quincy tell you about all that?”

  “I have friends who know some of the people involved,” I say, pulling the truth like taffy.

  “Sad business. That’s her,” jutting his jaw towards the pier, “third from the end, with the big ‘For Sale’ sign.”

  “It’s such a terrible thing,” I say.

  “They were nice people.”

  They. “Their mother’s murder must be so hard on the children.”

  He snorts. “Those two?”

  I lean in, sharing a confidence. “Quincy says they’re spoiled and loud and trouble waiting to happen.”

  He nods agreement. “Brandy and Mel did too much for them. ‘Course, those kids never thought it was enough. They were always hitting their folks up for money, taking their freeloading friends out on the boat. You ask me, Brandy and Mel loved that niece of theirs more than their own kids. They sure were happy whenever she came to visit.”

  “Caprice?” I say.

  He brightens. “You know her?”

  “We’ve met.” Tru dat.

  “Sweet kid. Loving, you know.” He takes a small sip, rolls it around his tongue before swallowing. “Caprice ‘bout worshiped Brandy and Mel, was always doing thoughtful little things for them. She was everything the Lucas kids weren’t.”

  That might explain the Lucas children’s bitterness toward Caprice. They were jealous their parents favored their cousin over them. “Did she visit often?”

  He tilts back in his chair, rocking. “Every few months. When she graduated college, her cousins were off in Europe so Mel and Brandy invited Caprice to come stay with them a few weeks. She always stopped in to say hi. Remind me to take my pills. I tend to forget. Sometimes she came with her mom or her mom and dad.” He reaches back, lifts a photo off the wall, blows off some dust and hands it over. “The brother’s-in-law,” he says.

  Two men stand on the pier posing on either side of a huge sailfish suspended by its tail. Rich Man, Poor Man. Mel Lucas looks like the jovial Captain from Gilligan’s Island except one leg, shriveled from its loosing fight with a crane, is supported in a metal brace. He’s dressed in tattered cut-offs, flip-flops, a loud Hawaiian shirt open halfway down his chest exposing an array of gold chains. Next to him, an unsmiling Joseph Galdino looks pure city: white shirt, long black pants, black socks, black shoes. Mel’s head is thrown back, as if he just heard the world’s funniest joke. Galdino stares deadpan, like he can’t wait to get the hell away from the fish and/or his brother-in-law.

  “That’s Mel,” says Deke, pointing. “Hasn’t been seen since Brandy went missing.”

  “There’s talk,” I say, “Mel might have killed Brandy, then taken off.”

  His eyes flash angry. “Who said that?”

  I hold up my hands. “Not me,” I say. “It’s people who didn’t know Mel like…like we did.”

  “Damn straight.” He pours a couple more fingers while I study the photo. “Mr. Galdino never felt easy here,” says Deke. “Always dressed like he was going to the office. A stiff kind of guy. Not like his daughter.” I try to picture the austere Caprice as a carefree girl. The image won’t come. “From things Brandy said, I think Carpice’s parents raised her pretty strict, real old world. That’s probably why Caprice loved coming down here. She’s a real sweetheart, brings out the good in people, makes you feel like you want to do things for her. Not that she ever asks for anything.”

  “The trial’s been hard on her,” I say.

  “I kinda figured. She stopped in the other day to say hi, see how I was feeling. Helped me look for my pills. I’m always misplacing the damn things. Never did find them. Doc had to call in a reorder.” He squeezes the mouth of his cup into a “V” and drains the last drops.

  I’m handing back the fishy photo of Lucas and Galdino when I notice the kerchiefed dog in the background. “Is this the marina mascot?”

  Deke’s eyes go watery. “Clancy. That dog was a real hambone. Hell, he could smell a photographer at a hundred paces. Never missed a chance to push his way into a shot.” He sniffs. “That mutt ate anything and everything, including my wife’s meatloaf, which takes some doing.”

  “He died?”

  “Yup.”

  “Meatloaf?

  “Nah. A couple of weeks before my heart attack. I was out of the office and he got hold of my medicine. It was one of them easy flip-off caps. Half a bottle. He ate ‘em all.” He pulls out a kerchief the size of a small tablecloth and honks into it.

  “Sorry,” I say, standing to leave.

  “If you see Caprice, tell her I say hi.” His voice goes soft. “I don’t expect she’ll come around when there’s a chance she’ll run into her cousins. But you be sure to tell her I say hi.”

  “Will do,” I say, crossing my fingers behind me.

  I leave the bottle of whisky and head back to the Go Bears. This time I take the long way, detouring past the Dandy Brandy. There’s a group onboard, girls in thong bikinis, boys in baggy swim trunks, a lot of loud music and laughter. If the Lucas kids enjoy the boat so much, why sell it? Are there too many painful memories? Not from the looks of it. More likely the boat’s too expensive to keep. I know a thing or two about that.

  A I pass, the Lucas girl comes up from the galley, a cold beer in each hand. The forensic accountant testified Brandy and Mel didn’t safeguard their millions in insured bank accounts, and there were no signs they invested in ‘sure things’ like Florida real estate, Beanie Babies, or Franklin Mint collectable coins. It seems they stashed everything in the now-missing safe. If the Lucas children weren’t so mean-spirited, I’d almost feel sorry for them.

  “Best seat in the house,” says Parker. He’s set up our picnic on the aft deck overlooking the Intracoastal.

  “This is quite a spread,” I say, eyeing the assorted olives, which I don’t eat, cold asparagus, which I also don’t eat, hearts of palm, goat cheese and other exotic inedibles. “Looks great,” I say. Sea gulls hovering, I stab a small meatball floating in some kind of sauce. If Parker notices me picking through
the food, he’s polite enough not to say. It’s a relief after Bitsy who constantly pushes food on me, worrying about how little I eat.

  Parker is easy people, tells good stories while plying me with chilled Pinot Grigio, which makes a lovely scotch chaser. After a while, I become aware, in a foggy sort of way, that he is probing me about my life. “Where are you from?”

  “Chicago.”

  “What was your life like back there?”

  “Good.”

  “What brought you here?”

  “My husband.” This is all fodder for first dates. Which this isn’t. The fact is, I don’t like talking about myself, never have.

  “And how,” he asks, unwrapping something decadently chocolate, “do you keep yourself busy?” A warning flag unfurls. Don’t mention you’ve been sitting in on a murder trial. I grew up hanging around my Dad’s courtroom. But to most civilians, my sitting in on a murder trial might seem a tad macabre.

  “How do I keep busy?” Until Bitsy moved in I kept busy aiming the clicker at the TV. “My sister moved in with me,” I say, “and I spend a lot of time driving her places. The days just seem to go by.”

  A boat sails past, the music jacked up full volume. It’s the Dandy Brady, the onboard party in full swing as it heads out of the marina. We stop chatting, waiting for the noise to pass. “That can’t be good for their hearing,” he says.

  “What?” I shout.

  “These rich kids,” he says, “not a care in the world. Probably never had to work a day in their lives.”

  “Rich kids are people, too,” I say. “Some good, some bad. Besides, I think trouble has a way of finding everyone.”

  He picks up the bottle of Pinot, “I never asked why you’re selling your boat,” refills my glass which isn’t entirely empty. “Are you looking to buy a bigger one? Or does it remind you of your life with your late husband? Or is it because of finances?”

  “For sure it’s not to buy a bigger boat. And, yes, it does remind me of Michael. It’s also draining my savings.” I see a glint in his eye. “I shouldn’t have told you that. I’m the world’s worst bargainer.”

  “It’s okay, I won’t take advantage.”

  “Said the spider to the fly.”

  It’s late by the time we dock back at the Seaview. “So,” I say, as we close up, “what do you think of her?”

  He eyes me in a way I can’t quite figure. “I like her,” he says, “but I think I felt something off, a slight vibration. Could be a loose mount, could be something else. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to come back with my diving gear, take a look.”

  “Sure. I’ll leave word with Quincy that it’s all right.”

  An unhappy group of condo residents waits at the lobby elevators. An “Out of Order” sign is taped to one elevator and the other is taking its own sweet time on the 31st floor. A constant beeping sound echoes down the shaft. Someone is holding the elevator doors open, probably waiting for someone else to come out of the apartment. There should be a rigorous course in Condo Civility before people are allowed to live in one.

  A man pounds his fist against the elevator doors. “Let’s go!” he shouts. The girl next to him moves a few steps away. I do a double take. Caprice? No. Yes? I can’t see her face but, really, who else has such luxuriant hair? What’s she doing in my building? I push my way to the front, ignoring a rash of dirty looks.

  “Caprice?” She turns, looks around, doesn’t see anyone she recognizes. “It’s me,” I say. She smiles politely. “Ladies room,” I whisper, not mentioning the courthouse in front of all these strangers. “I gave you a pack of tissues.”

  “Ah, yes,” she says, relaxing, “do you live here?”

  “Yes. You?”

  “I’m…staying at a family friend’s place until...until it’s over.”

  I dig around my purse and come up with an old Bed Bath & Beyond coupon. “Here,” I say, jotting my name, apartment and phone numbers. “If you need anything, anything at all, just give me a call.”

  “You’re very sweet.” She takes the coupon and squeezes my hand gently. “Not everyone I’ve met recently has been so generous. Thank you.”

  Generous? A pack of tissues and a phone number? Deke was right. This girl has a sweet nature. If it weren’t so late I’d cook her a cauldron of chicken soup.

  The crowd cheers as the elevator leaves the 31st floor and descends to the lobby. The doors open on a skinny Brazilian couple dressed for a night of clubbing. They shoulder through, chattering away in Portuguese, smelling of cigarettes, annoyed by all these bodies blocking their way. Caprice and I are separated as people push onto the elevator. It’s not until I open my front door that I realize I forgot to ask her the name of the people she’s staying with. Like it makes a difference. King Kong could live here and I wouldn’t know.

  Bitsy taped a note to my bathroom mirror. “Gone to a movie with friends. Don’t wait up.” I pull off the note and am startled by my reflection. No wonder Caprice didn’t recognize me. I hardly recognize me. The swelling around my eyes from this morning’s pre-dawn outing has subsided. But hours spent outside have burnt my face a splotchy red. I lean in, study myself up close and personal. These past months I’d lost all interest in maintenance. It might be time to rethink that. A little makeup couldn’t hurt. And maybe I should revisit my hair color. The few gray hairs I began tweezing in my late thirties have had a population explosion.

  “You have three choices,” I tell myself. “You can tweeze them out, which will leave you pretty well bald. Or, you can go gray,” I shudder. “Or you can embark on a life of messy hair dyes, plastic gloves and chemically burnt scalp.”

  I think of both my grandmothers, old at fifty, one with silver hair, one with white. I yank out an offending strand, hold it up to the light. I have entered the onset of Bubby hair, pure and simple.

  -You are a Bubby.

  -Hey, not so fast Kemo Sabe. I’m not a Bubby yet.

  --Soon

  --I’m nothing like them with their shapeless housedresses, stockings rolled down to their ankles, apron pockets bursting with tissues and hard candies.

  -You are as much like them as they were like their Bubbys who chased chickens around the shtetle and baked matzo in wood-burning stoves. You are a Bubby, just the newest in a long line of--

  I straighten, stare down the blotchy image in the mirror. “I am young and vital,” I tell it, “light years away from the Western Slope. I’m not ready for Bubby-dom. Not yet.”

  It’s time, I reckon, to uncork a bottle of Auburn Redux.

  13

  My sister’s voice is unusually animated. “…and he took me to the cutest little movie house up around Third or Fourth Street – Tilt your head back.”

  I do, feel the nozzle of the dye bottle running cool lines of Sweet Auburn along my scalp. “I think that’s near the courthouse,” I say, tightening the towel around my neck. “I could meet you and your friend for a movie after court.”

  “Honestly, Laura, that’s hardly the sort of thing I’d mention to Wendel.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s the head of the Finance Committee.”

  “So?”

  “Tilt left.” I tilt. “So, he’s a very dignified gentleman. I’m not about to talk to him about how my little sister spends her days in the company of criminals.”

  “It’s not like I’m a criminal.”

  “Still….”

  I don’t see the connection, but I’m not Bitsy. My “What-will-people-think?” sister lives a life governed by a suffocating list of Do’s and Don’ts, Should’s and Shouldn’t’s. She was old at ten. The impish little sister in me comes out. I decide to yank her chain. “I guess you’d better not tell Wendel that someone from the trial is staying in our building.”

  The tip of the dye bottle pauses over my right ear. “Staying here?”

  “The daughter of the man on trial.”

  “The murderer?”

  “Accused murderer.”

  “An
d she lives in this building?”

  “She’s staying with friends during the trial. I ran into her at the elevator last night.”

  “Was she alone?”

  “Alone?”

  “I mean, was she with other people from the trial?”

  “Are you worried we have criminal element moving in?”

  Bitsy tamps the wet line of color with her gloved finger. “Some people at the pool mentioned thefts in the building, items missing from their homes. Wendel suspects a ring of carpet cleaners have been cleaning a lot more than carpets.”

  “Caprice happens to be a charming young woman. This trial has been hard on her. I’m happy she’s staying here, that she has a safe place to come back to after a day in court.”

  “Head straight,” she says, working extra dye into the front. “I’ve been thinking we should get a safe.”

  “For your chicken salad recipes?”

  She twists the timer to twenty-five minutes and peels off her gloves. “I have Mom’s diamond necklace, Bubby’s brooch from Russia, Grandma Horwich’s ruby ring.” Sheldon-the-skinflint didn’t believe in buying jewelry, at least not in wedlock. Even Bitsy’s wedding ring was passed down from Bubby’s mother. “…and legal papers, birth certificate, passport.” She rinses the dye off the gloves and sets them on the sink to dry. “Wendel is putting a group together so we can buy safes at a good price.”

  “Rent a bank safe deposit box.”

  “And if I suddenly decide I want to wear a piece of jewelry on a Saturday night when the bank is closed?”

  “You always know exactly what you’re going to wear a month ahead of time. Besides, a thief could walk off with a safe.”

  “That’s what I thought. But Wendell says a carpenter can build it into the wall. He can get a group rate on that, too.”

  “Let me tell you about wall safes,” I say and, as I pour our coffee, I share all I know about Brandy and Mel and the gaping hole in their bedroom wall.