Getting Old Is Criminal (15 page)

“We don’t have to tell you how we do our job.”

Evvie is indignant.

“Days go by. You don’t call,” Ida chastises us.

Evvie snarls. “We’ve only been here three days!”

“If we had something to report, you’d hear from us.” That’s me.

“You could ruin our cover.” Evvie is furious.

“Just get yourselves home.”

“What? And miss the free lunch? It’s part of the tour.” Sophie crosses her arms in protest.

Bella giggles. “We should visit every retirement place and get a free lunch every day. Let’s do it.”

Now I feel guilty. They are having such a good time and I’m spoiling it. What’s the harm? I look at my watch and calm down. “Then get inside.

Lunch is about to start.”

“And don’t you dare look at us or talk to us,”

Evvie demands.

Sophie is annoyed. “Yeah, we got it. We’ve never seen you before.”

“Will you drive us home afterward? In the Caddy?” Bella pleads.

Suddenly a snazzy red Mercedes convertible whips past us.

G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 1 4 5

“It’s him!” Evvie whispers excitedly. “With three women!”

Almost as if on cue, we duck down behind our shrubbery. We are actually close enough to hear any conversation.

Philip opens the car doors for each of his passengers. The women pile out, pulling many shopping bags along with them, all bearing designer store logos. They’ve obviously been hitting Worth Avenue.

His passengers are practically drooling over Smythe.

A sixty-ish blonde, whose gray is showing, sim-pers, “Phil, you are such a darling to take us shopping. So patient.”

“And the lunch at Bice was exquisite.” The others gurgle their syrupy thanks as well.

Philip doffs his Marlins baseball cap and bows.

He’s dressed in at least five hundred dollars or more of very casual wear. “My pleasure, pretty ladies.” The parking attendant takes his car. Philip and the shoppers happily make their way inside.

A moment of silence, and then the girls and I all pile out of our silly hiding places.

“Hmph,” Evvie sniffs. “Talk about corny acting.”

“Wow!” says Sophie. “He can put his slippers under my bed anytime.”

That about sums it up.

*

*

*

1 4 6 • R i t a L a k i n

My cell phone rings as I am getting into my paja-mas. I rush to get from the bedroom to the living room where I left it. For a moment I fantasize it’s Jack calling. To apologize and make up.

“Hi, it’s only me.” Evvie laughs. “Just like home.”

“I almost broke my neck running to answer.

Why didn’t you use the house phone or just walk through our adjoining door?”

“No reason. I like to respect your privacy. Want an update on tonight’s mah-jongg?”

I shrug, trying to hide my disappointment that it wasn’t Jack. But then again, if he did call, it would be on my home number and he’d get the machine.

Jack doesn’t know I have a cell. Damn him, I think. Foolish me. Why can’t I admit it’s over and stop tormenting myself?

Which makes me wonder—how am I going to get any of my messages from home? I still haven’t learned how to access them.

“Why not? Your place or mine?” I say, without much enthusiasm.

“I’ll come through.” With that, Evvie enters from the interior door, carrying something wrapped in a napkin. “Leftover cookies from the game. Put on some tea.”

I do so as she places the chocolate chip cookies on a plate and sits down to wait for the tea.

“Mah-jongg was a hoot. I can’t get over how dressed up they get just to play games! Don’t they ever relax around here? Anyway, remember the G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 1 4 7

blonde from Philip’s shopping spree? Well, she was at my table, and all the women wanted to know what Philip was like. Lucky she’s a gusher. She went on and on about how cute he is, how gallant, how patient, as he schlepped them from store to store. Where they shopped. What new gowns they bought to wear for the mixer.”

“He didn’t pay for their stuff, did he?”

“No, but everyone was impressed that he treated them to a very expensive lunch. At a very expensive restaurant.”

“Did she mention if he said anything personal about himself? This was a good opportunity to do some sleuthing.”

“I tried asking direct questions, but she was all about adjectives. How dashing, how clever, how sweet, blah-blah-blah. She’s obviously set her cap for him.”

Now her eyes light up. “And guess what? A little later Philip walked by where we were playing.

He smiled at everyone. Kibitzed a bit. You know—

stuff like, How come you beautiful gals don’t have dates tonight? Talk about a line of jazz. And then he wandered away. Probably to flirt with the bingo players, too. Women are such suckers.

Everyone was so sappy, making goo-goo eyes at him. When he looked back, I could swear he winked at me.”

I pour the tea. Evvie chomps away at the cookies.

“How can you be hungry after all the food we 1 4 8 • R i t a L a k i n

eat around here? You’re going to blow up like a blimp.” I’m grumpy and I can’t help it. Cut it out, I tell myself.

Evvie stops eating the cookies. “This is all so exciting. It’s gonna be some competition to capture the only lively guy in the place. This sure beats having to do stakeouts in the car.”

She gets up, yawns. “Well, time for beddy-bye.

One thing Betty, the blonde, did comment on, was that he carried a wad of money in his wallet. She figured he was filthy rich.”

“So what? So is everyone else around here.”

“Except us.” Evvie sighs as she puts her cup in the sink and throws the napkin in the trash. “Why did I have to go and marry Joe? If I’d married a rich guy, I could have ended up living in a place like this. Where I really belong.

“Woulda, coulda, shoulda.” I remind her of one of our favorite phrases.

As she goes through her door, she grins. “Tomorrow night’s the big mixer. I can hardly wait to catch the action. Wanna bet he makes his move?

Some lucky gal is gonna get a shot at romance with Romeo.”

TWENTY

THE MIXER

Iwait downstairs for Evvie to finish dressing and join the group. We’re all in the clubhouse. What a difference from the one we have at Lanai Gardens. This looks like a large, fancy nightclub.

And they have a band, a real live band. We’re lucky if we can get someone to spin records. If I thought the women in this place were always dressed—well, it was nothing like what I’m seeing tonight. Much fancier cocktail dresses and evening gowns. Subtle colors, obviously very expensive.

The men aren’t in tuxedos, but I’ll bet they are wearing their best suits and ties. I am in basic black. Figure that would fit in anywhere. I’ve dressed it up with a scarf and earrings. I look pretty good. Actually it’s fun to have an excuse to dress up.

1 5 0 • R i t a L a k i n

Every woman’s been to the beauty salon. I’ve now learned the hard way, when it’s mixer night you call way ahead for an appointment. Or go into town for a do, or it’s hot rollers in your own bathroom. Evvie managed to snag the last appointment on the premises. I haven’t seen her since I spotted her walking into the shop at three.

A bar with champagne cocktails is being set up by a bartender. Such an air of excitement. Even the rather staid men seem to have perked up. Since it’s not a holiday, there’s no theme, but the entertainment committee put up balloons, colored stream-ers, and whirling lights to make it festive.

The band plays the music of our youth: Benny Goodman, Frank Sinatra, Artie Shaw. I have to admit, it’s lovely. There must be rules of behavior, since all the men take turns dancing, then changing partners.

I have been watching Philip Smythe cruise the room. His method seems to be that he makes a point of dancing with every woman who is single.

Not hard, since every one of them is eagerly waiting her turn. It’s amusing to note that the men are putting a stiff upper lip on it, but they are visibly jealous. This new guy’s cramping their style. Not only that, he’s an excellent dancer, he looks great in his tuxedo (the only man wearing one), and his energy is making the others try harder, something I think they aren’t used to.

There is a buzzing sound from the crowd near the door. I turn around. And there’s my Evvie mak-G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 1 5 1

ing one heck of a grand entrance. She’s wearing the low-cut scarlet red cocktail dress and matching boa from our thrift shop shopping spree. Her hair—now colored back to its original auburn—

and makeup are stunning. And, oh, my, she’s wearing the dazzling fake diamond necklace.

Well, well, Evvie, look at you.

The other women are wearing jewelry, but nothing as startling as hers. And Evvie is carrying it off, behaving as if a person with her demeanor would only wear real jewelry. Even I’m amazed and impressed with my sister. She is noticed, by one and all, as she enters the ballroom.

The next song is a waltz. I am actually surprised.

Seymour Banks, my dinner tablemate, leaves the edge of the room where he has been playing wall-flower, bows, and asks me to dance.

To my unasked question, he tells me why.

“Because you sit at my table.”

As if that makes us members of the same not-so-glee club. Nevertheless, I get up and he gracefully whirls me around. He’s not too bad.

“It’s like falling off a bicycle,” he tells me, spinning me again.

Lo and behold, Philip has Evvie in his arms. He didn’t waste any time. Put a redhead before the bull? Or something like that. They are breathtak-ing to watch. I had forgotten how good a dancer Evvie was. All those years of lessons she made Papa pay for so she could become a star.

Every so often, as Seymour and I clumsily dip 1 5 2 • R i t a L a k i n

and turn, I catch the tiniest snatch of conversation from Evvie as she is dazzling Philip.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you look like a movie star?” Evvie says.

“My dear, you flatter me.”

I can’t help but smile. The woman who would be Doris Day now has the role she’s waited for all her life. I hope she gets Smythe to reveal something that will help our case.

Seymour actually tries to engage me in conversation. He speaks yet again about his dead wife.

Believe me, I’m sympathetic. How well I remember the rut that widows and widowers find so hard to get out of. Myself included. Playing grief over and over again, as if that could make it come out differently. I want to repeat the oldest and truest of all clichés—this, too, shall pass. But he isn’t ready to hear it. Who am I to preach—did I ever get over my own loss?

Right now, though, I want to get closer in order to hear everything Evvie and Philip are saying. I find myself leading poor Seymour. And here we are again, spinning our way around dancers to get to the most popular couple on the floor. There isn’t a woman on the floor who isn’t watching them.

Evvie’s hand moves up his back to touch the black and silvery hair. “Oh, yes, Philip dear, I’m a widow.”

Philip,
dear
? A widow? Her very alive ex-husband, Joe, would have a fit if he heard that.

Another turn, as she swirls her red skirts sexily G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 1 5 3

and bats her fake eyelashes. “Poor little me. I’m all alone in the world.”

As we nearly collide at the bar area, on purpose I might add, I try to poke her. Evvie ignores me as she manages crocodile tears for dear Philip. She lowers her voice, but I hear her anyway. “. . . six months to live, but oh, how I intend to enjoy them . . .”

Oh, Evvie, what are you doing? Our plan was to see which woman he picks so we can study his M.O.: it’s not supposed to be you!

The waltz is over. Seymour says something to me, but I don’t hear him. I can’t stop staring at the magic couple. Philip is not leaving Evvie’s side. She continues to talk and smile and flirt outrageously.

He takes her by the arm and picks up another glass of champagne for her at the bar. She smiles endearingly up at him. He whispers something to her. She nods. They walk out onto the terrace. I swear, every woman’s eyes still follow them. The emotions range from curiosity to prurient interest to downright jealousy. The die is cast. No doubt about it. Romeo has picked his Juliet.

I’m going to kill my sister when we get back upstairs.