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Authors: Getting Old Is Murder

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If you
enjoyed
GETTING OLD IS MURDER
you won't want to miss
Gladdy Gold's return in

Getting
Old Is the

Best
Revenge

by

Rita
Lakin

Available
from Dell Books
in April 2006

Read on
for an exclusive sneak peek--
and look for your copy at your favorite bookseller.

Getting
Old Is the

Best
Revenge

On sale
April 2006

M
argaret Ramona
Sampson, fifty-four, always said the
seventeenth hole would be the death of her and she was right.

Let's not mince words. Margaret
cheated at golf. After all, being wealthy (inherited, not earned) meant
being entitled. It meant always getting what she wanted. And what she
wanted was to break the women's record for the course. Always so close.
She had a feeling today would be the day.

Wrong.

She
was with her usual perfectly
coiffed and outfitted foursome. Rich women who played every Friday at
the exclusive West Palm Beach Waterside Country Club. It was a
beautiful, perfect Florida day. The lawns glistened in the sunlight.
The weather not too muggy. She was playing brilliantly. All was right
in her world.

One
of Margaret's techniques for
enjoying the game was to golf only with women who played less
skillfully than she did, and were easily intimidated.

She
knew her caddy saw through
her, but didn't care. He was the caddy everyone wanted, so she paid
triple in order to get him at her convenience. He was worth it. The
money bought his loyalty. When things went wrong, she would blame him.
He played his role very well, looking sheepish and admitting his
"errors."

So
here was the dreaded
seventeenth hole and all she needed was a bogey. Unfortunately, here
too was a troublesome serpentine water hazard. She routinely selected
her best balls for this hole, but that never helped. Invariably she'd
hook the ball before it cleared the water, and it would land in the
trees. Today was no different. With angry, imperious strides, she
marched into the foliage, leaving behind her the timid catcalls of the
gals. "Meggie's done it again!"

As
her caddy began to follow, she
waved him off.

Yes,
Margaret thought, I'll get
out of it! No way would she take a penalty.

Dismayed, she discovered her ball
wedged hopelessly in a clump of decaying turf. Without hesitation, she
kneeled to pick it up.

"Naughty, naughty," a strong
baritone voice chastised.

Startled, Margaret turned her
head to find a pair of snappy argyle socks at her eye level. She got up
slowly, preparing her defense. When she saw all of this other golfer,
her expression turned to happy surprise.

"Well, look who's here. I didn't
know you belonged to our club--"

Abruptly, he grabbed her, pulling
her against him with one hand as he shoved a hypodermic needle in her
arm with the other. Moments later, she stopped struggling and sank down
onto the dark and mossy rough.

Her
last dying thought was that
she should have used the three iron instead of a wood. . . .

One
parting shot was
irresistible. "Sorry I'm about
to ruin your day, Meggie, old
thing. You shouldn't toy with a man's game."

H
eigh-ho, heigh-ho, it's
off to the pool we go. As soon
as they get past the swimming part of the morning, my little ragtag
bunch of adventurers will be primed for another mission improbable.
Towels at the ready, we cross the parking area, head down the winding
brick path, through the small grove of palm trees, over three little
bridges, past the clubhouse and the shuffleboard court, all the while
avoiding those pesky ducks coming out of the ponds to leave their
little droppings.

And here
we are. And there they
are--the other early morning so-called swimming enthusiasts. Their
lounge chairs parked in their usual spots on the grassy perimeter of
the pool, guarding their tiny turf jealously.

Plump
Tessie Hoffman, the only real
swimmer among us, is energetically doing her laps.

Enya
Slovak, our concentration camp
survivor, has her nose buried in the inevitable book. Always the loner.

The
Canadian snowbirds are gathered
together in their familiar clique. They are doing what they love most,
lapping up the sun, and reading their hometown newspapers and comparing
the weather. Thirty degrees in Manitoba . . . fifteen in Montreal. They
chuckle smugly.

We have
new tenants, Karen Wright and
Beth Bailey. Bella shudders, still unable to believe anyone would want
to live in an apartment where there'd been a murder, but the price was
so low these gals found it irresistible. They've only recently moved in
and it's nice to have young people around. They're cousins, in their
thirties, originally from San Francisco. They don't look the least bit
alike. Karen is kind of chunky and wears her dark, curly hair very
short. Beth is a tall, skinny blonde, and very cute. Karen seems to
live in blue jeans, but Beth loves frilly sundresses.

Next up,
our beloved eighty-year-old
Bobbsey twins, Hyman and Lola Binder (aka Hy and Lo), bobbing up and
down in the shallow water, holding onto each other like chubby
teenagers in love. They've been married over fifty years. Amazing.

Hy sees
us and greets us as usual
with the same inane comment. "Ta-da, enter the murder mavens. Caught
any killers lately?"

Evvie
glares at him. "You're just
jealous."

Mary
Mueller now joins us every
morning. She's living alone since her husband, John, left her. It
caused quite a stir, I can tell you, when he was "outed," (a new modern
term we've learned). He recently met a guy in a Miami gay bar and fell
in love. Boy, that was a first in Lanai Gardens. But Mary is holding up
nicely, I'm glad to say.

Dropping
our towels, we kick off our
sandals and step carefully into the pool. The girls walk back and forth
across the shallow end splashing a lot. I do two laps and I'm done.
Such is swimming exercise.

Pretty
Beth addresses Evvie. "So,
what movie are you seeing this week? I can hardly wait for the review."

Evvie,
our in-house critic for our
weekly free newspaper, is on a mystery kick since we've gotten into the
P.I. biz. Last week she did a hilarious review of
Hannibal.
She
was deadly serious; I couldn't stop laughing. This week she'll be
reviewing a French mystery. Who knows what she'll do with that.

"Wait and
see," she chirps. "But I
promise it'll be gory."

"Hey,
girls, didja hear this one?"
And Hy is on us like schmaltz on chopped liver. God help us, he has a
new joke off his e-mail. Prepare to be offended.

"So,
Becky and Sam are having an
affair in the old age home. Every night for three years, Becky sneaks
into Sam's room and she takes off her clothes and climbs up on top of
him. They lay there like two wooden boards for a couple of minutes,
then she gets off and goes back to her room. And that's that. One night
Becky doesn't show up. Not the next night either. Sam is upset. He
finally tails her and, waddya know, she's about to sneak into Moishe's
room. Sam stops her in the hall. He's really hurt. 'So, what's Moishe
got that I ain't got?' Becky smirks and says, 'Palsy!'"

Hy grins
at us, thrilled with
himself. Affronted as usual, we turn our backs on him and paddle away.

"What?
What'd I do? What?"

"Schlemiel!"
Ida hisses under her
breath.

"Hey, did
you read this?" Tessie
asks. She's now drying off on her chaise, her nose deep in today's
Miami paper. She half reads, half condenses: "'Mrs. Margaret Ramona
Sampson, fifty-four, of West Palm Beach, died early yesterday morning
on the seventeenth hole at the Waterside Country Club where she was
golfing with three friends. Mrs. Sampson, "Meg" as she was known to all
who loved her, died suddenly of a massive heart attack.'"

The group
reacts with shocked
surprise. The heiress is well-known, because reading the society news
around the pool is a daily ritual. I only half listen as I work on my
crossword. Tessie continues. "'Mrs. Sampson, listed as one of the
twenty-five richest women in the state, was a noted member of Florida
society, known for her charitable works. She is survived by her
husband, Richard "Dickie" Sampson.'"

"What a
pity," says Evvie. "All that
money she didn't get to spend."

"But she
left a nice, rich widower,"
says Sophie. She picks up a tube of sunblock off the ledge of the pool
and lathers her face and shoulders. "Maybe he'd like to meet a nice,
poor widow. Like me."

Ida takes
the sunblock from her as
Sophie turns to let Ida do her back. "Dream on."

Sophie
twists around to stare at Ida.
"What? I'm not good enough for him?" She pushes Ida's hand away.
"You're making me into a greaseball."

Ida slaps
the cream into her hand.
"Do it yourself. As if a rich guy like that would even look at a nobody
like you."

Sophie
hands the cream to Evvie. "And
you know what? If he's old and ugly I wouldn't want him anyway."

Evvie
continues working on Sophie's
back. "What's old anyway? Look at us."

I look up
from my puzzle. "Barnard
Baruch, the famous statesman, said, 'Old is always fifteen years older
than you are.'"

"Yoo-hoo
. . .?" It is a wobbly
little voice and the Canadians, who still have all their hearing, are
the first to glance up.

"Over
here." The voice manages to
raise a decibel or two.

Now
everyone looks up. A tiny elderly
wisp of a woman stands at the pool gate, seeming almost too fragile to
hold on to her metal walker. Her back is humped slightly. She looks as
if a strong wind would carry her away. She's dressed completely in
black, including the kerchief on her head. She must be sweltering in
that outfit. "I'm looking for Gladdy Gold."

All eyes
automatically turn to me as
I make my way out of the pool and reach for my towel. "I'm Gladdy."

Needless
to say the girls get out,
following right behind me, my little ducklings all in a row.

"Your
neighbors told me where I could
find you."

"They
would," Ida mutters into my
back. "Ask them when we go to the toilet. All our neighbors know that,
too. Yentas!"

I ignore
Ida. "What can I do for you?"

"I am
looking for a detective," the
woman says, and then adds worriedly, "if the price is right."

In a
flash, Hy is at our side,
dragging one of the plastic pool chairs. "Here, missus, have a seat,"
he offers, helping the woman into the chair, and then positioning
himself right next to her. A minute later, here comes Lola, gluing
herself onto her husband, leaning in.

Everyone
around the pool shifts
slightly to the left. My unofficial staff. Unwanted. Uncalled for. The
other inhabitants of Phase Two, determined to get into the act,
whenever they can. Tessie, ever so casually, moves her chaise a little
closer. Mary puts down her crocheting. Beth and Karen openly stare.
Even the Canadians have folded their newspapers. They all gape and
listen intently.

The
little woman puffs out her chest
and grips the arms of the chair. She shouts, "I'm eighty-two years old
and I don't need this
agita
in my life! My old man, maybe he's
cheating on me! And I want to know who the
puta
is!"

Ahhh . .
. I hear a collective sigh
of happiness behind me. A problem they can all relate to after years of
watching Oprah, Sally, Geraldo, and the rest.

"Hah!"
says Hy with great delight.
"The old man is dipping his wick somewheres else!"

The woman
stares up at him. What did
this fool say?

"Hy! Butt
out," I say.

He
shrugs, feigning hurt. "I'm trying
to lend a hand here."

"Maybe
he's lonely," Lola contributes.

"Maybe
he's not with a
woman,
" says Mary darkly. She's still pretty traumatized over John.

I have to
nip this group intrusion
right in the bud. Now.

"Shall we
go to my office?" I say to
the woman in black. Quickly helping her out of the patio chair, I
reposition her behind her walker and firmly start moving her out the
pool gate.

As we
leave, my cohorts scampering to
keep up, I hear another sigh in the background. This one of
disappointment. Followed by a buzz of complaints.

I hear
Tessie whining. "Didn't I ruin
my best bathing costume chasing after our murderer? Where's the
gratitude?"

"Wait
awhile," says Hy complacently.
"She'll figure out she can't do without us."

"Right,"
adds Mary. "She owes us. Big
time."

I tell
you, it's not easy being a
star.

GETTING OLD IS MURDER
A Dell Book / November 2005

Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York

This is a work
of fiction. Names,
characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.

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