Rita Lakin_Gladdy Gold_01 (10 page)

15

Making a Decision

I
am waiting for Evvie in her
apartment. She's getting ready for swimming. We had dinner together
last night and breakfast this morning because she wanted to talk about
the bombshell I threw at her yesterday, and we are still talking. If
you call going around in circles talking.

"I'm almost ready," she calls from the bedroom.

"No hurry," I call back. I am on her sunporch skimming
through one of her many movie magazines. While my apartment is a study
in simplicity with a few nice antiques, a small collection of prints,
and too many books, Evvie's place is a cluttered tribute to showbiz. If
my sister "missed the boat," as she is fond of saying, she has
certainly kept up with the ebbs and tides of her lost profession. Evvie
wanted to be Doris Day. But Doris Day didn't have Joe Markowitz for a
husband, who insisted she stay home and be a proper wife and cook and
clean and care for the children. She had her one-week shot as a torch
singer, performing in a small club in Jersey, and she was pretty good.
(She swears Doris sang there, but I doubt that.) But then the war
ended, and the guy she had met and married on a romantic weekend,
before he shipped out for Korea, came home. That was the end of her
career.

But the memories and dreams live on in her movie posters
and recordings of Doris Day.

"I still don't think it was murder," she says as she
comes out, rubbing on suntan lotion. She's only said that eleven times
by my last count.

"But it is a possibility," I say, feeling like a broken
record myself.

"It can't be anyone who lives here."

"I didn't say it was. I only said it might be."

We walk out her door and head down the stairs.

"I refuse to accept the possibility it could be Denny!"

"I never said it was."

"But he does have all the keys and he was the one who
found them both."

"It could be a coincidence--"

"Which you don't believe in."

"But it could be."

We say our usual hellos to the usual gang and make our
way down the path, passing our ducks in their pond, carefully avoiding
the poop on the path.

"Look." Evvie grabs me. "There's Denny in his garden."

"So? He's usually in his garden at some time or other
during the day." Denny sees us and waves.

"Does he look like he could kill anyone?"

"No, Ev, I don't think he could. But the truth is, anyone
is capable of murder if provoked, or if they believe they have a strong
enough motive."

"Or is crazy."

"He's retarded, Ev, not crazy."

"The Kronk is crazy."

"We don't know that she's crazy. Maybe she's just
eccentric." Evvie has forced me into this role of devil's advocate and
now she's driving
me
crazy.

"Is she dangerous? Is she capable of murder?"

"Who knows? Nobody has even seen her in years."

"But she might be. She could be a raving maniac by now."

We arrive at the pool. I shush her. "Quiet. Drop the
subject now. I don't want anyone else to know what we're talking about."

We greet everyone, drop our towels and pool shoes, and
wade into the pool. I'm glad I didn't tell Evvie about the chocolate
crumbs. I'd never hear the end of that discussion. But I do feel I have
to do something about my suspicions.

"Hey, girls, c'm'ere, I've got another great joke," calls
Hy as he and Lola bounce up and down together at three feet deep.

Evvie whispers to me as she starts to get in. "Well, if
the murderer has to be one of us, I hope it's Hy. I would love to see
him in Alcatraz."

"Alcatraz is closed."

"Whatever."

Of course Hy has to "playfully" splash us before he
begins his joke. "There's these three guys standing in a bar boasting
of how great they are in the sack. The Eye-talian says he rubs olive
oil on his wife before sex and she screams with pleasure for an hour.
The Frenchie says he pats butter on his wife and she screams for two
hours. The Jew says he schmears chicken schmaltz on his wife and she
screams for
six
hours. The Eye-talian and the Frenchie are
impressed. 'How did you get your wife to scream for six hours?' 'Easy,'
he says, 'I wiped my hands on the drapes!' Didya get it, didja?"

A few of us actually laugh.

I glance over at Enya sitting in her usual place. When Hy
is most vulgar I look at her, hoping she isn't listening to him. She
seems oblivious.

Tessie swims by me. Chubby as she is, in water she's as
buoyant as a sponge. She does her usual laps. I get an idea. I wait
until she is through and I follow her out to where her chaise is parked
between the Feders and the Canadians.

I speak very softly. "Listen," I say, "you cleaned out
Selma's apartment after she died, didn't you?"

She responds to my seriousness. "Yes, I did. Why?"

"I'm just curious about something. Do you recall seeing
anything at all that was odd or unusual in the apartment?"

"Not that I can remember." She pauses. "You think there's
something wrong?"

"I'm not sure, but I do want you to give this some
serious thought. We'll talk later."

As I pass Harriet, she gives me the smallest of nods and
an OK sign as if she guessed what I said to Tessie and was giving me
her approval. I start to walk toward her, then stop. Esther is tugging
at Harriet's arm.

"Sweetheart," she says, "I think I need more lotion."
Since she is covered up to the neck, this seems unnecessary, but
Harriet gets out the cream and works it into her mother's face.

"No," she says, "on my shoulders. I feel the sun through
my robe, pull it down."

"Mom," Harriet says with a patience beyond Job's, "you
can't get a burn through clothes."

Esther looks toward me, slyly. "You don't want them to
see the marks." Harriet throws me a weary look over her mother's head.
Her glance says,
See what I put up with.
Mine says,
You
have
my deepest sympathy.
I change my mind about approaching. She has
enough to deal with. "Talk to you later," I tell her and jump back into
the pool.

Evvie paddles over to me. "What was that all about?"

"Later," I say to her, too. I am putting everyone on hold
until I can figure out what to do.

Evvie says, "Irving didn't bring Millie down today. I
think we better check."

"Good idea," and we both leave the pool.

"So, where are you going?" Ida calls after us.

"We're gonna look in on Millie."

"OK."

You may have noticed by now that everybody keeps tabs on
everybody else. The Lanai Gardens FBI is always on the alert; God
forbid somebody should miss something. Especially since our behavior is
so predictable that any small deviation is cause for complete attention
by a mob of people--especially the girls.

We arrive at Millie's. When we walk in we immediately see
how frazzled Irving looks. He is sitting at the dining room table, the
remains of breakfast still there, his head in his hands.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"She had a bad night. I was up until maybe four
A.M.
"

"What was she doing?"

Irving looks embarrassed. "She was yelling at the
children."

Poor Irving. He's been living with Millie's
hallucinations so long, he talks about them as if they were real.
They're real to Millie, so he goes along.

"Why was she yelling?" Evvie asks.

Irving shakes his head, and turns red.

"They want to do disgusting things with him and I won't
let them." Millie shambles into the living room, her hair disheveled,
her robe a mess. Looking coy one moment and furious the next, she bends
over her husband. "Don't they, lover boy?" She runs her fingers wildly
through the few strands of his hair.

Irving has always been a very shy man. Millie used to
tell us funny stories about how he would undress in the closet when
they were first married. He's never used a curse word in his life and
now his demented wife is talking unashamedly about sex in front of
other people.

"The children like to fuck!"

Irving pulls away from her and hurries out to the
kitchen, holding his hands over his ears. Millie laughs as she watches
him go. It is more like a cackle. Alzheimer's is a horrible disease.
The Millie we are looking at bears no resemblance to our old friend.

Then once again, that peculiar symptom--suddenly, the
light goes out in her mind and the catatonia returns. She starts to
fall down, but Evvie catches her. Balancing her between us, we walk her
back to bed and tuck her in.

We join Irving in the kitchen. He is standing at the
stove with a tepid cup of tea.

I start carefully. We've been down this road before and
he always cuts us off at the pass. "Irving. Maybe it's time--"

"No."

"Maybe you need someone to come in during the days."

"You all help . . . ."

"You need more. You have to be able to sleep. You can't
watch her twenty-four hours."

He says what he always says. "I'll think on it."

We start for the door. "We'll get one of the girls to
come and spell you, so you can take a nap," I say.

He nods and we leave.

"I can do it," Evvie volunteers.

"No," I tell her. "I have other plans for us."

16

Keystone Kops and Nosy Neighbors

D
o you think we can make our
getaway without anybody noticing?" Evvie is whispering, as if that
would help.

We are walking very quietly down the stairs from my
apartment on the third floor. "Ha ha," I say, "fat chance."

Ida's door flings open and she steps out onto the
walkway. She sees us round the second floor stairwell and calls down to
us over the banister. "Where are the Siamese twins off to now? First it
was dinner, then breakfast. Now out to lunch I suppose?"

"Here we go," I say. "Send in the clowns!"

Evvie sighs. "If three-nineteen is out, can
three-fourteen be far behind?"

And sure enough, Sophie's head pops out of her kitchen
window. "So where is everybody off to?" she calls out.

"Maybe if we don't answer . . ." Evvie says softly.

"Dream on," I say.

From across the parking area, Bella's third-floor door
opens and she peers out. "Am I missing something?" she calls out in her
whispery little voice.

Evvie and I are now on the ground floor tiptoeing to the
car. God bless them--they may be half deaf and half blind and well on
their way to senility, but they don't miss a trick.

Now we pass the Feder apartment, 119, which is two doors
away from my parking spot. Esther Feder is at her usual post, sitting
in the doorway behind the screen, so the bugs won't get her. Which is
actually a bizarre sight if you think about how she looks with her head
pressed against the dark mesh partition. She raps at the screen to get
our attention. "Where are you girls going in all this heat?"

Ida, the acrobat, now hangs over the balcony. "So, what's
the big hurry?"

Sophie trills, "If you're stopping at Publix, maybe
you'll bring me a pint of sour cream? I'll pay you back later." Which
is a joke. Sophie borrows money from all of us, and we've yet to get a
penny back. Ida calls that the lifestyle of the rich and disgusting.

The three-ring chorus is getting louder.

"We can't just ignore them. We have to tell them
something," Evvie says.

"You're the writer. Make something up." I open the door
and turn on the air so I can cool off the car.

"We're going out on blind dates," she calls out.

"That's the best you can come up with?" I say.

"Oh, yeah? They'd have to be desperate to want
you
old ladies." And now dear Hy, the snake charmer, comes out of his
apartment carrying the garbage, adding his two bits.

All the clowns are laughing. The idea of us having dates
is just too funny.

Ida especially loves this. "Who's your matchmaker, Yentl
Frankenstein?"

Esther, excited, now pushes her screen door open so she
can see better. "You got dates? Maybe you can fix my Harriet up?"

There is a loud clatter from inside the kitchen and
Harriet appears quickly, wiping her hands on her apron. "Oh, Mom," she
says, embarrassed. "Please!"

"Well, you told me to sit in the door and spy on them."

Harriet turns red in the face. "That's not funny!" She
spins her mother's wheelchair around sharply. "Go inside now! Eat your
lunch. You know I have no time for this. I have to get back to the
hospital!"

"I didn't mean anything. Don't hit me." Esther wheels
herself in quickly.

Harriet looks at us. "I'm sorry," she says. "Sometimes
Mom can be so difficult." Then she smiles and leans in toward us and
whispers. "You really have dates?"

Evvie whispers back. "Of course not. We're going to the
police station and we don't want anybody to know. You know what yentas
they all are."

"Evvie!" I say sharply. "My sister, queen of the yentas."

Harriet joins in the conspiracy. "I knew it! You do think
there's a connection between their deaths. Don't worry, I won't say a
word. Good luck. Let me know how it goes."

We get into the car and make our escape, leaving a lot of
disappointed faces peering after us.

"I'm sorry," Evvie says. "I didn't think it mattered if I
told Harriet."

"I just didn't want anyone to know until we were sure
there was a crime. You know how rumors spread."

"Yeah, like cream cheese on bagels," she says with a sigh.

We leave Lanai Gardens and I make our turn onto Oakland
Park Boulevard, and I can finally breathe a sigh of relief.

"Come to think of it," Evvie says, "when was the last
time you and I had some time alone away from the gang?"

"When you had to cover that speech by that Israeli
fund-raiser. No one else wanted to go. If I hadn't had to drive you,
neither would I."

"Oh, yeah. He lectured on 'Is Israel In Trouble?'"

"Which YOU slept through. Though I did love your review."

Evvie bristles, ready to be insulted. "Why, what was
wrong with it?"

"Nothing, because it was so . . ." I stop. "A senior
moment. What's the word that means 'short and sweet'?"

"I don't know. What's wrong with 'short and sweet'?"

"Because I can't stand it when I can't think of the word
that won't come out of my mouth when I want it."

"Good? Was the word good? My review was good?"

"That's not the word. Never mind."

"My review wasn't good?"

"That's not the point. I am talking about my loss of
memory."

"Now you've got me not remembering. I don't remember what
I wrote in that review."

"You said, 'Yes. Israel is always in trouble.'"

"That was it?"

"Yes. It was pithy." Now I get excited. "That was the
word--pithy!"

Evvie points. "There it is. The police station."

As I make the right turn from Oakland Park Boulevard into
the parking area, I say as sternly as I can, "Evvie, promise me you'll
let me do all the talking."

"Mum's the word."

We are finally shown into the office of Detective Morgan
Langford, and I'm already exhausted. The waiting seems endless. The
paperwork, too. The sergeant at the front desk would not let us go any
further until we first explained to him what we wanted. I held my
ground. I would only speak to someone in Homicide. Why should I waste
my time going through it twice? Finally, I used the "age card" and
pretended senility. He was glad to be rid of me. But, I think, as
punishment, he sent me to Detective Langford.

It's amazing that in all my seventy-five years, I have
never really seen or been in a police station. In movies, in books, but
not in reality. I have to admit to a little shiver of excitement. I
want to yell out, "Hey, Agatha, look at me!"

Evvie is also all a-twitter in her first police station
appearance, but she is off in another art form. She is preparing to
become the actress she should have been. Suddenly she has an attitude.
She is trying to look sophisticated and worldly. I just hope she
doesn't decide to sing.

Detective Langford is busy reading the very little
information I grudgingly filled in while waiting. This gives me a
chance to study him. He's in his thirties, very, very tall, and skinny.
His clothes hang on him. He seems to favor loud checks and plaids. He
is very relaxed. Maybe too relaxed.

"So," he says, "you insisted on talking to Homicide. Are
you planning one, reporting one, or looking for one?"

And cynical.

Before I can stop her, Sarah Bernhardt begins to emote.
"We are here to report two murders. They are Selma Beller, who kept a
very clean house, and Francie Charles, who was the best pastry maker in
Fort Lauderdale."

"When did these murders occur?" asks long and lanky,
trying to keep a straight face.

"Evvie . . ." I growl, but she ignores me.

"One month ago and one week ago."

"How come they haven't been reported?"

"Because nobody knows they were murdered. Everybody says
they had heart attacks, but we know better. Only my sister, who is an
expert in murder mysteries, and myself, a writer for the Lanai Gardens
Free
Press,
know the truth."

"Are you finished yet?" I hiss at her. I notice she
doesn't mention that the
"Press"
is a throwaway.

"Would you like to add to this, Mrs. Markowitz?"

"I'm Gold, she's Markowitz, my blabbermouth sister. I
know this may sound far-fetched to you, but two women did die in our
buildings. But their deaths . . ."

Evvie obviously can't stand my slow, logical pace. "Too
many coincidences. Agatha Christie doesn't believe in them and neither
do we!" Pleased with her pronouncement, she folds her hands, waiting
for the detective to take over the case.

"And what are these coincidences?"

Evvie blabs, "Tell him about the cake Francie never ate
and that the girls both died on the night before their birthdays and
that Denny had keys to their apartments and they both died reaching for
the phone."

Hearing the way my sister lays out our case, I could just
about imagine Langford's opinion of us. He is drumming those long bony
fingers impatiently on the desk.

"And these are the devastating facts that make you
suspect murder?"

Evvie, totally missing his sarcasm, blathers on. She gets
a brainstorm. "What about the serial killer? He kills old women. What's
his M.O.? That means his method," she explains to the Homicide
detective.

If his tongue was any farther back in his cheek, he'd
choke. He asks dramatically, "Interested in the M.O.'s, are we? Well,
our killer sneaks into apartments of women who live alone. Late at
night, he creeps up on them when they are sleeping and strangles his
victims. Were your victims strangled?"

"They didn't look strangled. But then, we're no experts,"
Evvie grandly admits.

I've had it. I reach over and smack my hand over Evvie's
mouth. Evvie, eyes widening, looks at me, horrified. She tries to
speak, but I keep my hand firmly pressed on her mouth. I turn to
Langford. "Listen. I know none of this sounds incriminating--but there
is something wrong with their deaths. Can't you give it a little time
and investigate?"

Langford gets up--rather, it's more like unfurling
himself--and he is an awesome six foot six or so. Evvie gasps in
pleasure amidst her pain. He is moving toward the door, which is his
way of moving us to the door--and out.

"I really would like an autopsy," I say in desperation.

"You wouldn't like it. It hurts like hell," he says and
roars with laughter.

As firmly as I can, I make my last-ditch stand. "I think
they were poisoned. I am a reasonable, rational woman, unlike my sister
here." With that I let go of her, and glaring at her, I dare her to
make a sound. "Please do not condescend to me with bad jokes. I do not
make such statements lightly. These women were murdered. In my heart I
know I'm right."

He opens the door. "Well, thanks for dropping in." And we
are dismissed.

As we head for the door, Evvie, oblivious, punches my
arm, delighted with her premiere. "How'd we do, sis?" she asks.

I tell her she deserves an Academy Award. And I deserve
what I got for taking her along.

All the way home, I simmer. The detective wouldn't take
me seriously because I'm old in his eyes. Well, I'll show him, that
snotty string bean.

I wake up suddenly, look at the clock. It's nearly
eleven. I must have fallen asleep reading. The light is still on.
Suddenly I am jumping out of bed, throwing my robe and slippers on.
Scrambling through my junk drawer for my flashlight. I grab my keys and
I'm out the door. I don't want to do this. I don't want to walk around
alone at night, but this can't wait until morning.

Maybe I should wake Evvie. No. Coward. It's not the
middle of the night. What am I afraid of?

I know what I'm afraid of.

I truly believe there is a killer loose around here.

It's a beautiful night with a wild, full moon. The kind
of moon that once upon a time meant romance, not terror. I walk down
the stairs. I tell myself,
See, there are a few people still up.
I can see the flickering of TV sets. Then I giggle. Maybe I'll run into
Greta Kronk. Maybe she'll tell me what's so great about digging around
in Dumpsters in the middle of the night.

So far so good. Now I have to walk around the corner. It
seems darker as I make the turn, but that's silly. Between the moon and
the streetlights, I can see what's ahead. But then again, I can also be
seen.

I curse the memory lapses that come with getting old. Two
wasted days to remember what should have clicked the instant I saw it.
And now I'm walking around in the dark.

I jump, startled, then realize it's a stupid palm tree
swaying and what I saw was its shadow. But, finally, I'm at Francie's
apartment. I curse the key. I curse my hands that won't stop shaking.
When the lock finally gives, I go straight for the kitchen. I don't
even turn the lights on, the flashlight will be good enough.

The proof is in the pudding,
I think, giggling
with relief that I got here safely. The poison will be in the
chocolate. I will bring it to Detective Langford and say, "Here's your
proof." He'll have to listen to me!