Dying to Retire (10 page)

“I’d love some.”

Over green tea and biscotti, long Italian cookies Helen told me were sold at Portofino, I guided the conversation around to what she knew about Portia’s pill-taking habits.

“She used to take them by the handful, at least three times a day,” Helen said, “gulping them down with a glass of water. I once asked her what they all were, but she only said they were a combination of her prescription drugs and supplements. Some were supposed to help her vision, I remember, but apparently they didn’t work very well. She still needed Clarence to help fill the pillbox for her.”

“Why was that?” I asked.

“Well, she couldn’t read what was written on the bottles; her eyesight was that bad. Took her forever when she had to use a magnifying glass to check each pill, and then if she got them confused, she had to start all over again. She was grateful when Clarence offered to help her.”

“Did she ever talk to you about taking diet pills?” I asked.

“Diet pills!” Helen laughed. “That woman didn’t need diet pills. She was no Lana Turner, but her body suited her. Why would she ever want to take diet pills?”

“Sometimes when a woman has a new husband,” I said carefully, “she may be more conscious of her looks.”

“She never wore a drop of makeup or changed her hairstyle—and believe me, I tried to convince her to do that. ‘I’m fine as I am,’ she would tell me. You have to admire that kind of self-confidence. I seriously doubt she’d be interested in losing weight just to please Clarence, even if he’d had the nerve to say something, which I doubt he ever would. He’s not my favorite person, Jessica, but he seemed genuinely fond of Portia.”

“Why isn’t he your favorite person?” I asked.

“Girl, you ask a lot of questions,” she said, getting up to pour us more tea.

Before I could probe further, Helen’s husband, Miles, leaning on two canes, joined us in the kitchen, and the conversation drifted away from Portia to Miles’s passion, jazz.

Later that day, back in my apartment, I reread the autopsy report while waiting for Seth to pick me up for dinner. The medical examiner had ruled that Portia Shelby died from acute myocardial infarction, sometime around ten P.M., the heart attack most likely brought about by the presence in her system of ephedrine alkaloid and caffeine, two powerful stimulants known to cause ventricular arrhythmia and cardiac arrest. There was no ruling on the manner of death, since it could not be determined if the fatal combination was caused by an intentional overdose or an accidental one.

“I read the report, too,” Seth said. “And I’m still not convinced she was murdered. However, I will withhold judgment until you come up with more evidence.”

“I just think Portia was too smart a woman to have made that kind of mistake,” I said, leaning over my portion of linguini with Bolognese sauce. “She would have known the danger of taking diet pills in her condition. Did she ever discuss her weight with you? Was it a concern?”

“Not that I recall.” He made another attempt to wind the spaghetti around the fork, this time holding the tines against a spoon, but when he opened his mouth and lifted the fork, the pasta slipped away again. “I’d have to look up her medical records to be certain. I can call Dr. Jenny tomorrow and have her pull the file.” He stabbed at a single strand of spaghetti, but missed. He looked up. “How the devil are you supposed to eat this stuff?”

I demonstrated my proficiency with fork and spoon on my own dish. Seth tried again, but without success. Disgusted, he picked up a knife, cut the pasta into small pieces, and used his spoon to scoop it up.

“Her medical record would be helpful,” I said. “We need to gather as much information as we can before we approach Detective Shippee with our suspicions.”

“Now hang on a minute, Jess. It’s possible—I’ll even say likely—that Portia did herself in with all those supplements.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“Ayuh, I do. People do foolish things at times, even those who are conscientious and intelligent. Mistakes get made, and there are consequences. You have to ask yourself why anyone would want to kill Portia.”

“That’s the question I can’t answer,” I said.

“You see? That’s because she wasn’t killed. She made a mistake and she died as a result.”

We were silent for a while as we finished our meal. Seth sat back and eyed me.

“I’m for leaving for Key West tomorrow afternoon, next morning, the latest,” he said. “Just for a long weekend. I’d appreciate if you’d come along.”

“Have you heard from your friend?”

“Truman? I have, and he says he can’t wait to see us. I told him we had friends visiting down there. Said to bring Mort and Maureen by; the more the merrier. He’ll show us around.”

“How thoughtful,” I said. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“Must’ve been twenty years out from medical school, at a reunion, but he hadn’t changed a bit. Regular fellow, maybe a bit stiff. He’s a conservative type—never caught without a tie, as I remember. Hailed from Boston. That might explain it. Took over his father’s practice—he was a doctor, too. Haven’t seen him in as many years now, but we exchange cards and the occasional phone call.”

“It’s nice to keep up with old friends. Is he still seeing patients?”

“He keeps his hand in, consulting a bit, but for the most part, I think, he’s retired. Big house in town. Said he’s got more bedrooms than he knows what to do with, and he’s wantin’ us to stay there. I couldn’t turn him down.”

“He sounds very nice,” I said.

“Well, will you come?”

“I promised myself I’d help Clarence pack up Portia’s things, if he needs me,” I said. “Let’s see how it goes.”

“From what I see, Portia has lots of friends who can help Clarence. But if you’re bound to do it yourself, I can’t stop you.”

I hated to disappoint Seth. He’d spoken for years about this old friend of his who’d retired to the Keys. The opportunity to visit hadn’t arisen—till now. But Portia’s death was worrying me, and I knew I wouldn’t rest until I’d learned more about Foreverglades and discovered who might have wanted to see her dead. Maybe I could do both, accompany Seth to Key West, and return to Foreverglades to look into Portia’s death.

“Let me talk to Mr. Rosner tomorrow,” I said.

“Which one’s that?”

“The manager of Foreverglades. You met him at Portia’s. He’s the one who talked to you about the twins who work in maintenance.”

“I remember now. Beefy guy. Looked like a boxer.”

“I booked our accommodations through him. If I can arrange to stay here again when we come back from Key West, I’ll come with you.”

“Good enough,” Seth said, smiling. “Can’t see why they couldn’t hold the rooms.” He picked up the menu, which had been tucked behind the napkin dispenser. “Think they make good desserts in this place?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

I looked around at Tony Colombo’s business. Portofino was a combination pizza parlor, restaurant, and Italian deli. To reach the dining room we’d walked past a long counter. Behind it a young man dressed in white pressed a mound of dough into a round for the crust. He tossed it in the air to stretch it—to the admiring oohs of those waiting for a table—spooned on tomato sauce, sprinkled cheese over it, and slid the pizza onto a long paddle used to transfer it to the stacked ovens. Opposite the counter were stainless-steel racks filled with Italian foodstuffs: bottles of olive oil and wine vinegar, jars of red peppers, mushrooms, olives, and tomato sauce, packages of different shapes and colors of pasta, paper bags of biscotti and other kinds of cookies. Hanging from strings tied to the ends of the shelves were long salamis and balls of wax-covered cheeses. As I was taking in my surroundings, the proprietor walked through the swinging door from the kitchen in the back, stopping at each table to greet his customers.

“Nice to see you again, Mrs. Fletcher,” Tony Colombo said when he reached us. “Did you try the salad?”

“Perhaps next time,” I said. I introduced the men to each other.

“Enjoy your dinner?” Colombo asked.

“Very tasty,” Seth replied.

“It’s going to get even better. My cousin’s got a chef coming down from New York who makes the best saltimbocca
alla romana
this side of the Atlantic.” He kissed his fingers and hummed.

“Afraid I’ll have to miss it,” said Seth. “I’m driving down to Key West to see an old colleague. Been trying to convince my friend here to join me. We could both use a bit of relaxation.”

“Key West is a great place,” Colombo said to me. “Very popular with artistic types. Ernest Hemingway used to live there. ‘Papa,’ they called him. Sounds like he should have been Italian.” He laughed. “He wrote a lot of books. You ever hear of him?”

I assured him I had.

“You really should go, especially since it’s so close.”

“I’ll take that into consideration,” I said.

He turned to Seth. “Don’t let her tell you no. Gotta be forceful with these ladies.”

I raised my eyebrows at my old friend.

“Any suggestions for dessert?” Seth asked, quickly changing the topic.

“Got the best spumoni in Florida,” Colombo replied.

“I’m glad to hear it. I love spumoni,” Seth said.

Colombo excused himself and moved on to the next table.

“Seems like a nice enough chap,” Seth said when Colombo was out of earshot. “What was it he said I should try?”

“Spumoni.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a kind of ice cream.”

“Sounds good to me.” He looked around for the waiter.

 

The leading edge of the heat wave that Amelia had predicted was evident the following morning when Seth and I went to see Clarence. The air outside was very still and moist, with a noticeable odor of mold. Even though I’d just walked out of a cool apartment, the humidity enveloped me, immediately making the light linen dress I wore cling to my back. Seth, who’s never bothered by the cold but has little patience for hot weather, was not pleased with the change in temperature.

“I trust Truman’s house is air-conditioned,” he said, escorting me across the lawn to Portia’s building. “Never thought to ask him. Course, Key West is surrounded by water. Ought to be lots of ocean breezes, don’t you figure?”

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” I said. “It’s not as if we don’t have summer in Cabot Cove. You’ve managed well enough when it’s hot in August.”

“Not the same,” he said. “It’s a shock to the system coming into the heat down here from the cold back home. Takes some getting used to.”

“Well, here’s our opportunity,” I said, laughing.

Seth opened the door to the vestibule, and waited for me to enter.

“Hold that door for us, please,” a pair of voices called. It was the Simmons twins, Earl and Burl. Dressed in matching denim overalls, yellow shirts, and their Day-Glo-orange caps, they struggled to maneuver a maple dresser—one of Portia’s, if I had to guess—around a bend in the staircase.

“Thanks,” they chorused. They lugged the piece of furniture down the last steps, through the door, and out of view.

Upstairs I pressed on the doorbell and heard a series of sharp barks. Clarence opened the door. Monica’s white dog stood between his feet barking and growling ferociously—or as ferociously as a ten-inch dog can muster—confident he could scare away the intruders. “Snowy! Get back,” Clarence said, shooing the dog away. Snowy retreated to the hall where the bedroom was.

Clarence sighed. He looked tired. The skin on his face was drawn and pale, contrasting with the dark patches under his red-rimmed gray eyes. It was obvious he wasn’t sleeping well. Fleetingly, I wondered if a guilty secret was keeping him awake. I then chided myself for such an unkind thought. He was suffering, a feeling I understood only too well. How many nights had I lain awake after Frank died going over our last conversations, regretting our disagreements, mourning the time I’d spent away from his bedside, jealous of anyone who’d shared his attention when I’d selfishly wanted his dying days all to myself? Sudden death, as Portia’s was, is a terrrible shock. But even if you know death is imminent, even if you think you’re prepared, the loss of a spouse is a terrible blow to bear. The world as you knew it is never the same again. Your compass is gone, and you wander lost and afraid. Years later, when life has gone on, and in many ways has been wonderful, there’s always this little hole in your heart that never heals.

“I hope we’re not disturbing you,” I said.

“You wouldn’t be the first,” Clarence replied.

“We were hoping we might have a word with you.”

He looked unsure whether to invite us inside, jingling change in his pocket while deciding. The sound of loud voices coming from the bedroom caused him to look back into the apartment. He sighed.

“What’s going on?” Seth asked.

“Portia’s friends,” Clarence said, holding the door wide so we could enter. “That’s what they call themselves anyway.” He shuffled into the living room and collapsed on the couch, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. Seth and I took chairs facing him.

“They decided I couldn’t dispose of her things by myself, and elected themselves to take over the task. I hope they’re not planning to be here all day.”

“If this isn’t a convenient time for you, you should ask them to leave,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t apply my suggestion to us.

He raised his head. “It has to be done sometime, I suppose. I guess now is as good as ever.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes.

“No, it’s not,” Seth said, getting out of his chair. “I think you need rest more than you need help packing up. That’s my prescription. Consider me your temporary physician.” He walked out of the room. I heard frantic barking from the tiny sentry.

“What’s he going to do?”

“I imagine he’s going to ask them to leave,” I said. “Is that all right with you?”