Getting Old Can Kill You (25 page)

We’re forming a convoy. Nine cars are in our parade, carrying four to six people each. The neighbors from all of the Phases are up early, busily making signs to wave and attaching balloons to each auto.

Yesterday a man arrived at Phase Three with what looked like his girlfriend. Why that assumption? He was obviously rich and old and driving a Rolls-Royce. She looked like a Vegas showgirl. We doubted it was his daughter. They came to pick up Joyce’s Jaguar and had the key and ownership papers to prove it was his. The papers were signed by none other than Kenneth Ryan. The showgirl moved over and drove their Rolls-Royce. He climbed in and took the wheel of his brand-new Jaguar.

Of course it reminded Hy of a joke. Very off-color, but the punch line was something like, Get out, you and the horse you rode in on.

After they drove off, that renowned cynic of Phase Two, our very own Ida, commented, “He’s definitely a doctor. A surgeon for sure.”

We had a good laugh at that.

Anyway, we’re finally ready. Jack, Evvie, and I are in the lead car. Jack’s car. Not a Jag, but his very old (he calls it vintage) Caddy. The girls are riding along with Hy and Lola. Third car, Tessie and Sol, Irving and Mary. Even some Canadians have joined us. Fatima and Elaine and Frances are with us, after sheepish apologies. Sandra rides with them.

Just about everyone is carrying a bouquet of flowers.

Jack leans his head outside our car window. “Ready,” he calls out, waving his arm to signal the line of cars behind him.

A chorus of “Ready!” floats back at us.

Hy has to put his own spin on it. “Wagons ho!” he calls out.

We arrive at the Fort Lauderdale jail. We wait. Some stay in their cars, with the air conditioners on; others step out carrying their signs.

The jail door opens. There she is. Arlene is free. Morrie is with her. Horns honk. Signs are being waved. “Welcome home, Arlene!” Women bring her their bouquets, hugging her and filling her arms with flowers.

Arlene cries. Everyone cries. She is overwhelmed by an ocean of happy tears.

Hy meanders over to where Jack, Evvie, and I are standing. He puffs out his chest and says, “Too bad she lost all those millions. I was hoping she’d spring for dinner.”

W
e are sound asleep. The phone rings. Jack, eyes still closed, groggily reaches for it. He answers.

“Yeah, hello?” He yawns.

What time is it? I squint at the clock: 6
A.M
.!

I jump up into a sitting position and grab his arm. Any calls at odd hours must mean something’s wrong. With someone somewhere.

“Who is it?” I pull at his arm. He slides himself up. “Will I accept charges on an international call? Where? Dubai?”

I hit him on that same arm. “Say yes!”

He might be too groggy to remember, but I bet I know who’s calling. Who else could it be? We don’t know of anyone else in Dubai. I lean into him and he lowers the receiver so I can hear, too.

“Yes, I accept.” We wait through static and foreign languages until we hear a familiar voice.

“Mr. Langford?” he asks.

Early as it may be, Jack’s sense of humor is awake. “Mr. Kenneth Ryan, I presume?”

Kenneth is all business. “Get a pen and paper,” he orders.

“What time is it where you are?” Jack asks, waving at me, trying to make me hurry. I scramble for something to write on.

“Two
P.M
.,” he says. “Cut the small talk.”

I run my hands through whatever is on my bedside table. What I come up with fast is a bookmark holding my place in my bedtime reading. Then I scuttle through the drawer for something to write with.

“How’s the weather?” Jack asks, stalling. “Hot. It’s always hot,” Kenneth answers, annoyed.

“Come on back home and we can make it even hotter for you.”

I punch Jack again. “Don’t make him mad, he’ll hang up,” I whisper.

“Write this down.” Another order.

Pencil gripped tightly, I write whatever Jack repeats. It’s an address.

“You took your inheritance too soon,” Jack says. “Your scheme didn’t work.”

“It worked well enough for me.”

“You now owe Arlene Simon eleven million dollars, rounded out.”

“Not gonna happen.”

“You can never come home again. Ever.”

Kenneth hangs up.

“Stay cool,” Jack says sarcastically to the dead air.

“Oh, no! Why didn’t we ask him where Seymour was?”

Then we look at each other and start moving. Fast!

I’m already out of bed and grabbing the first outfit I can get my hands on. Jack’s right behind me. It’s got to mean what we think it means.

“Where the heck is Mariposa Street?” I ask.

“Morrie will know. I’m calling him as soon as I’m dressed.”

I’m ready. I don’t care what I look like. I run my fingers through my hair. That’s good enough.

“I’ll make some coffee,” I call out to him even as I’m running down the hall.

Morrie is used to getting up at all hours. He picks us up in about twenty minutes. We ride with him in his car, each holding a coffee cup to help wake us up.

I thought I knew our neighborhood, but I don’t know this street even though it is only ten minutes from where we live.

It’s an old neighborhood with small stucco houses. We’re holding our breath, not knowing what to expect. I pray it isn’t a dead body. Somehow, even though Joyce and Kenneth were willing to destroy Arlene’s life, I hope they couldn’t commit an actual murder.

The house is in the middle of the block. Rundown, peeling paint, shutters broken off, needing a lot more than just a new paint job. It looks abandoned, but we know it’s not.

We move slowly behind Morrie, who is looking every which way, observing everything, to be ready for whatever might happen. It’s a cop thing. His hand is on his gun holster, but he hasn’t snapped it open.

The shades are all drawn in the front. We tiptoe into the backyard, pushing open a squeaking, broken chain-link gate. Those windows there are covered, too. We return to the front and climb up the three steps leading to the door. Morrie tries the knob. It’s locked. We search around the obvious places for a hidden key. Kenneth didn’t oblige us with that information. Nothing under a flowerpot with a dead plant in it. Jack feels along the top of the door frame, another possibility. Nada under the tattered doormat.

Morrie shrugs. “Might as well ring the bell.”

A few minutes go by. Morrie is groping in his pocket for the tool he carries that will open the lock when we hear a voice from inside.

“Who’s there?”

I breathe a sigh of relief. He’s alive.

Jack nudges me to answer. A woman’s voice would be less threatening.

“Seymour, is that you?”

A pause. “You’re not Joyce.”

“No, I’m not. Joyce couldn’t come.” Well, that’s not a lie.

“Where’s Kenny?”

Kenny? We look at one another. A nickname for a kidnapper? He knows both their names. In mystery books, kidnappers wear masks and hide their identity. If a mask falls off, their victim is a dead duck.

They never meant to kill him.

“Kenny couldn’t come, either. He had to go on a trip.” That’s close enough to the truth.

“Who are you? Are you from the show?”

What’s that about?

“It’s Gladdy. Gladdy Gold, your neighbor from Lanai Gardens.”

Silence. I can almost hear him thinking as he processes what this means.

Finally, “You didn’t bring my sister, did you?”

His voice is tremulous.

“No, Leah is still at home. But I’m here with Jack … and his son, Morrie.” No need to use the cop word. Yet.

We hear the turning of locks. One. Two. Three and the door is opened.

And here’s Seymour. At long last.

S
eymour, dressed only in baggy shorts and a not-too-clean undershirt, walks us through the apartment. Very little in the way of furniture. A musty smell from a house that hadn’t had windows opened in a very long time. The fifties-style kitchen is sparse. Pockmarked linoleum. A portable mini-fridge only. No stove, but a small microwave. A plain wood table. One chair.

We pass the bedroom. Just as sparse. A cot. Period. Seymour’s few clothes are in a neat pile on the floor.

And then we get to the living room. What a difference.

There is a video camera. Now we know where the death scene played by Lady Macbeth was taped. A screen covers one wall. On another, a backdrop hangs from ceiling to floor, featuring—lo and behold—a rear projection of the Sydney Opera House in Australia.

There’s also a TV and many DVDs stacked on a table along with props, such as a fishing net and baseball caps, from four different countries.

How did they ever get him to stay here?

Seymour asks poignantly, “Did you bring any food? I’ve run out. Kenny was supposed to go shopping today.”

Well, Kenny won’t be doing any more shopping in the future, either.

What good chocoholic wouldn’t have a couple of Hershey’s Kisses in her purse? I offer my small supply to Seymour, who rips the silvery paper off and eats them hungrily.

Morrie contributes a Power Bar he keeps in his pocket for those times on duty when he can’t get any food. It, too, is grabbed. “Shall we sit down and talk?” he suggests.

Seymour climbs into his moldy-looking recliner chair, the one in front of the TV set.

I sit gingerly on a scratchy, ratty-looking couch.

Jack takes the one plain wooden chair from the kitchen. Morrie stands.

This house reminds me of Seymour’s apartment, only worse.

Which finally helps me remember what I was trying to recall a few days ago. Except for a few clothes, Joyce had nothing. Even her purse had been emptied. Kenneth’s office was cleared out as well. They wanted to leave nothing behind. The two of them knew they were going away, permanently. How ironic. They both moved on to a place from which they can never return!

Seymour looks at Morrie. “You look familiar. Were you on one of the shows? Maybe the bachelor one where you got to pick a wife?”

Morrie says no.

Jack smirks at his still-unmarried son. “Don’t I wish.”

Morrie throws him a dirty look.

“Then are you another producer of our show?” Seymour asks Morrie.

“What show is that?” Morrie asks, feeling his way.

“Why, our new reality show.”

Now it all clicks into place. Seymour’s scrapbook in his apartment. All those DVDs. They lured him in with his passion.

“Would you excuse me for a minute?” Jack asks Seymour. “I have to make an important call.”

Seymour is magnanimous. “Go ahead. You showbiz people are always busy.”

I grin at him, knowing what my kind husband is going to do. Attaboy, Jack, call Leah and tell her her brother has been found.

Jack nods and walks back outside with his cellphone.

I ask, “Tell us, how did you meet Joyce?”

He brightens. “I was taking my usual walk in Lauderdale Park and this very nice lady comes up to me and hands me her card. I still have it here.” He reaches into the pocket of his shorts and hands me a crumpled business card.

I read it aloud for Morrie. “ ‘Joyce Smith.’ ” Smith? Well, that would work for a made-up name. I continue to read. “ ‘Producer Survivor Productions. Hollywood, California.’ ” No address listed. No email. No phone number. They had him at
Survivor
.

Seymour is animated. “My very, very favorite show! Do you know it? These lucky people get to travel all over the world and have adventures!”

I remember turning it on once for thirty seconds where some grungy-looking people dressed like bad Tarzan imitations were eating fried ants. That was enough for me.

Seymour continues, wringing his hands in excitement, “She wanted me to try out as a contestant for her new show. Me, Seymour, going on TV!”

Morrie moves it along. “So she brought you here …?”

“Yes. It was Kenny who picked me up that night. Kenny Jones.” He grins, proudly. “In his fancy Jaguar.”

They sure did choose original names. Smith and Jones. Poor Seymour. Because it was an expensive car, he got in with a stranger. The joke was on him and he didn’t get it.