Dying to Retire (8 page)

“Remember the detective we met in the chapel yesterday?” I asked.

“Zach something, right?”

“Right,” I said. “Zach Shippee.”

“Couldn’t believe it when Sam said he was a detective. You were on the mark there, Mrs. F, pegging him as a cop. Did he say something after I left?”

I related my conversation with the detective about Portia, and my encounter with him again at the beach before my infamous incident, pausing only when the waitress delivered Mort’s and Maureen’s breakfast. Gossip is common currency in a small community. I didn’t want my misgivings overheard, and certainly didn’t want Clarence hurt by any unsubstantiated rumors.

“I don’t know how much credence they give professional courtesy down here,” Mort said, taking a sip of his coffee, “but it won’t hurt to ask at the station house for a copy of the autopsy. I’ll say it’s for her doctor from back home.” He nodded at Seth.

“Good point,” Seth said. “She was my patient for thirty-five years. Guess that would give me a right to see the report.” He wiped at the crumbs on his chest with his hand but only succeeded in smearing the powdered sugar.

“I appreciate that, Mort.”

“No problem, Mrs. F. I’ll find out where the station house is and stop by.”

“You’d better go soon, Mort,” his wife said, shooting him a look.

“No need to go rushing off right away,” Seth said, dipping the corner of his napkin in a glass of water and dabbing at the sugar. “Finish your doughnut.”

Mort pursed his lips. “Maureen’s right. We thought we’d leave for the Keys today. I’ll help her back to Foreverglades with the packages and find Shippee after that.”

“I hope that’s not a problem,” Maureen said to me. “It’s only a little over three hours from here to Key West if you drive straight through, but we don’t want to do that. It’s supposed to be a gorgeous route, and we thought we’d take our time and maybe see a bit of the other Keys. If we wait till tomorrow, we might get caught up in weekend traffic. The trip’ll be a lot longer, and not as much fun.”

“And I don’t have my siren or bullhorn with me to order the other cars out of my way,” Mort said, laughing.

“You know, I could go to the police station myself,” Seth said.

“No, no. Let me do it,” Mort said. “It won’t take that long.”

Our conversation was interrupted by a voice calling, “
Buenos días,
Jessica.”

I looked up to see Amelia waving at me from the door of the beauty shop, Helen’s Curly Locks. She was wearing a pale blue smock over tight capri pants, and high-heeled slip-on shoes. Her hair was pulled smooth on one side of her face, with a cascade of curls hanging down the other. I waved back and she hurried across the street to join us, sliding her feet along the pavement so as not to lose her shoes. Seth and Mort stood when she approached.

“
Cómo está?
The shop hasn’t opened yet, and I was going to get a Coke at the deli when I spotted you,” she said.

“Why don’t you join us for breakfast?” I said. “Have you met everyone?”

“You were all at the funeral,” she said, “but we weren’t formally introduced.”

Seth did the honors. Amelia smiled at everyone. “I’ll stay, if I won’t be intruding. I don’t want to interrupt anything.”

“Not at all,” Mort said, giving up his seat after Maureen nudged him with her elbow. “Watch out for the packages,” he said. He pulled the last chair from the table next to us and, setting it slightly behind Maureen and me, reached between us to snag his doughnut.

“We were just talking about traffic,” Seth said, sitting down again. “Nothing that can’t be put aside.”

“I saw you at Clarence’s,” Amelia said to him, “but we didn’t have a chance to meet.” She sat up straight in her chair and beamed at him.

Seth cleared his throat. “Well, it’s nice to meet you now,” he said, coloring and absently brushing the front of his shirt with his hand. “Would you like some coffee?”

“
Sí, gracias.
That would be very nice.”

He left his seat to find the waitress, and Maureen’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “It was quite a crowd there, wasn’t it?” she said to Amelia.

“Dónde?” Amelia looked confused.

“At the funeral, and later at the apartment,” Maureen replied.

“Oh, that. Portia was very popular,” Amelia said. “And now, with Clarence single again, there are a lot of ladies in Foreverglades who would like to comfort him, if you know what I mean. I heard three of them in the shop yesterday discussing what he likes to eat.
Caramba!
Can you give the woman a chance to get cold in her grave? Of course, she’s not in a grave, since she was cremated. Irregardless, that Monica Kotansky has already been cooking meat loaf, lamb stew, and stuffed peppers—although she still owes Helen for her last haircut. If she didn’t spend so much money on clothes, she could pay it. But anyway, we’re getting a heat spell tomorrow, and it’ll be too hot for stew,
s
í?”

If Maureen had thought to coax Amelia into talking on the chance the beautician might be reticent about joining our conversation, she was quickly disabused of that notion.

“Of course, they’re not exactly strangers to each other, so I guess he won’t mind,” she continued.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Didn’t she tell you? Monica was Clarence’s girlfriend before he married Portia, so it’s not surprising if he kept Monica on the side. Portia didn’t like her, but can you blame her? She kept a pretty tight leash on Clarence, but I heard he managed to slip away from time to time.”

“How awful for Portia,” Maureen said.

“There are a lot more women down here than men, if you haven’t noticed. My sister-in-law says that men are always cheating on their wives anyway. Can you believe her? I think it’s just guilt speaking, because she’s divorcing my brother. Plus, she’s got a crush on her boss, although why anyone would be attracted to that ugly
cochino,
I don’t know. She even comes to all the Residents’ Committee meetings just to spy for him.”

Seth returned with coffee for Amelia, who kept up a steady stream of gossip about her customers, her neighbors, her family, the staff at the development, and seemingly everyone she’d ever met since moving to Foreverglades. The rest of us at the table began to feel shell-shocked.

“Did you meet Mark Rosner yet?” she asked. “He’s the new manager at the development. Big muscles. He’s supposed to be a social director, but he looks like a construction worker, and he can’t dance to save himself. He runs the socials at the rec hall, and he’s not happy unless he’s got everyone on their feet moving. The ladies love to flirt with him. He’s the only one they can count on to entertain them while their husbands are on the golf course. Frankly, I think he may do more than just talk, especially with the single ones, but I will not say any more about that.”

Jumping into the pause in Amelia’s torrent of chatter, Maureen looked at her watch and gasped. “Oh, gosh, will you look at the time? We’ve got to get on the road—and soon.” She hoisted her new tote bag onto her shoulder. “Will you excuse us, please? I’ve got to pack and Mort has to run an errand. Amelia, it was so nice to meet you.” She gave me and Seth a peck on the cheek. “We’ll call when we get there to let you know the phone number where we’re staying.”

“I’ll find you before we leave, Mrs. F.” Mort winked at me. “Nice meeting you,” he said to Amelia as he pulled the shopping bags out from under the table.

“I think I’ll join Mort on his errand,” Seth said, hastily throwing some money on the table and grabbing a bag out of Mort’s hands. “Let me help you with those packages.”

“I can handle them, Doc,” Mort said, immediately recanting when he saw Seth’s desperate look. “Oh, sure, take this one.”

The men walked quickly after Maureen, who had all but sprinted down the block.

“There seems to be quite a social life down here,” I said to Amelia after they’d left.

“It’s a regular soap opera,” she said, sipping her coffee, which must have grown cold. “He’s very handsome.”

“Who?”

“The doctor. Is he attached? I wouldn’t want to step on your toes or anything.”

I assured her she wouldn’t be, but told her that Seth would have to speak for himself about his attachments.

“I hope you don’t mind my telling you, but you could use a few highlights,” she said, studying my hair. “Helen does a great job with blondes, and I do, too, if I say so myself. I could give you a couple of platinum streaks across the top. It would really brighten up your face. Why don’t you come by the shop and make an appointment?”

“I may just do that,” I said, patting my hair, “but I’ve got a busy schedule today. Anyway, this was nice, but we must have kept you too long. Won’t Helen miss you?”

“Oh, she doesn’t care,” she said, just as the woman under discussion leaned out the door to the shop and called to Amelia.

“Please give her my best,” I said, waving at Helen.

“What do I owe you for the coffee?”

“Nothing at all. It’s our treat,” I said.

Amelia clopped across the street to the beauty shop in her backless shoes, and I put on my new sunglasses. I left the waitress a generous tip—we had occupied her table for a long time—and after a quick glance at my reflection in the café window—I don’t think platinum streaks are for me—I strolled down the hill, intending to stop by Clarence’s apartment to talk with him. My visit was postponed, however, when I saw Sam getting into his pink Cadillac. He was wearing a black shirt, a cowboy hat, and silver reflective glasses, along with his usual khaki shorts and purple sneakers.

“Hi, Sam,” I said when I came abreast of the car. “Where are you off to today?”

“Shhh,” he replied, frowning. “How’d you know it was me?”

“Oh, wasn’t I supposed to recognize you?”

“I’m working undercover today,” he said, settling the hat low over his brow and checking himself in the rearview mirror. “Surveillance.”

“Don’t you think the pink car is a bit of a giveaway?”

“Nah. Lots of people in Miami have pink cars.”

I didn’t say that Foreverglades was a far cry, not to mention a far piece, from Miami, and that his giant Cadillac stood out like an elephant on a fishing boat.

“Wanna come along?” he asked.

“Where to?”

“Can’t tell you here. Someone might be listening.”

I looked up and down the block. “We’re alone, Sam. I don’t see anyone nearby.”

“They’ve got spies everywhere. There could be a camera on us right now, plus one of them loudspeaker telephones.”

“Do you mean microphones?”

“Yeah. Those. Well, get in if you’re coming. I know you mystery writers like to hang out with the cops and see how it’s done.”

“I can’t resist an offer as good as that, now, can I?” I said, walking around to the passenger door.

“You gotta be discreet, though,” he said through the open window.

“Scout’s honor,” I said, raising my right hand.

Sam made a U-turn on the street and drove by the main shopping area of Foreverglades, screeching to a halt at every red light. We passed through the outskirts of the village till we reached another residential section where private homes, a mix of Spanish-style ranches and stucco bungalows, sat on small pieces of property. Anywhere else, it might have been an ordinary neighborhood. But the tall palms and lush tropical plantings gave the place an exotic quality to my eyes, accustomed to winter’s leafless trees and the gabled architecture of New England.

“Is this still Foreverglades?” I asked.

“No. This is Bayview Heights,” he said. “But it was built around the same time as Foreverglades.”

Whoever named Bayview Heights was either overly optimistic, or had an ironic sense of humor. Most of the houses didn’t have a view of the bay, and the land was as flat as the pancakes in Mara’s Luncheonette back home.

Sam found the address he was looking for, a single-story, pink-roofed house with a double-car garage that took up most of the front of the property. He checked his watch and then slowly drove around the block, stopping two houses down from his surveillance target.

“It’s almost ten-thirty. Watch this,” he said. “You can set your clock by this guy.”

“Who are we waiting for?” I asked.

“Shhh.”

Sam adjusted the cowboy hat. It was too large, and kept slipping down to rest on the frame of his sunglasses.

I glanced at my watch. At precisely half after the hour, the double garage doors lifted up, and a black BMW backed out of the garage, down the driveway, and onto the street. I couldn’t see the driver through the tinted windows of the sedan, but I was sure he’d seen us. Since we were the only car parked on the street, it was hard to keep from noticing a vintage pink Cadillac with chrome trim, driven by a short man in a cowboy hat whose head barely made it over the top of the steering wheel. Not to mention the crazy lady from Maine who’d agreed to accompany him.

The black sedan backed down the street until the car was parallel to ours. Then the passenger-side window rolled down, revealing the driver, a chubby man in his thirties with a prematurely receding hairline, wearing a short-sleeved tan shirt. He leaned across the seat and said, “Mornin’, Sam. Got a girlfriend today, I see. Morning, ma’am.”

“Good morning,” I called back.

“I didn’t write out my itinerary for you, Sam, but I have to stop at the post office; then I’m driving over to the farm stand to see what they got that’s fresh, and then I’ll be opening the restaurant. Got that?”

Sam, who’d been looking straight ahead, gave a sharp nod.

“Don’t lose me now,” the driver said. He rolled up his window and drove off.

“What just happened?” I asked as Sam pulled away from the curb and stayed a few car lengths behind the sedan.

“He knows I’m keeping an eye on him.”

“So I gathered.”