Untitled (2 page)

I
t's eight a.m. and my girls will be stirring. I walk outside my apartment and do my warm-ups. Evvie, perky and raring to go as usual, pops out of her apartment door across the courtyard, one floor down. I see her glance very quickly at my door and just as quickly avert her eyes, and I know what she's thinking. Is my new boyfriend, Jack Langford, in there? Falling in love has complicated my life. But not to worry, I will tell all. I won't leave out a single juicy detail.

    I call out to her, "Morning, Ev. How goes?"

    "Same old, same old," she calls back to me.

    Thanks, Evvie, for not asking the question I know you're dying to ask.

    Some sisters can look at one another and it's like staring in a mirror. Not the two of us. I've got Dad's looks, with straight brown (now gray), boring hair. I inherited his ways of thinking, too— logical and conservative and bookish—and his temperament—easygoing.

    Evvie takes after our dramatic, excitable, emotional mother, as do her fiery red curls. She was always addressed as "my pretty one." Thanks a lot, Mom. I was pretty, too. So just because you were always mad at Dad, you ignored me?

    I traveled down here from New York because Evvie's husband, Joe, was leaving her and she needed my support. I never intended to stay, being a dyed-in-the-wool New Yorker. But I needed a change of pace. I'd allowed myself to wallow in the tragedy of my life much too long. I could not shake the horrific circumstances of my husband's death and I was sick of my own self-pity. Even my daughter, Emily, told me to go, though it was very hard leaving her and my grandchildren.

    I was sure I'd miss New York, but I never looked back. Instead, I became a stuck-in-theswamp retiree, taking care of a bunch of gals in their second childhood who insist they need me. They drive me crazy sometimes, but I do love them.

    Speaking of the gals, here comes Ida, sprinting down the walkway behind me. She has this way of shooting out of her apartment like a rocket, her tight, skinny body ramrod-straight, her stiff gray bun bobbing.

    "Is
he
here?" she snaps in that snippy tone of hers. No subtlety with Ida. She has no problem staring at my door as if she has X-ray eyes.

    I always ignore the question. But that doesn't stop the asking.

    Next, Bella, our dear, oldest member, with her wispy silvery hair always elegantly coiffed, barely squeezes open her door to make sure Evvie is already on the landing, then tiptoes out. Taking little mincing steps, she walks behind Evvie. Bella's my only ally. But she joins the Jewish Greek chorus anyway. Smiling at me sweetly, she calls in her little, wavering voice, "Where
is
he, that darling
mensch
of yours?"

    Sophie is always last. In the old days, preprivate-eye business, she had to be bandbox perfect before she'd let one exquisitely shod tootsie step out her door. Now she's so afraid of being left out of any new development, she's less careful. There might be only one eyebrow penciled in, or one cheek rouged. Her hair, this month's color, Wild Strawberry Blonde, is flying every which way. But she will make it to exercise on time.

    With hands on hips, Sophie takes her turn to confront me. "So where's Jack? Did he sleep over last night?"

    Sleep over? I feel like I'm fifteen again and all my teenage friends are jealous because I have a boyfriend and they don't. I met Jack at the grand opening of a new mystery bookstore while waiting to have my car fixed. I took one look at him and tried not to drool. Wow! Tall and elegant, waves of salt and pepper in his gray hair. Eyes that you could sink into and never come back. And he admitted he'd lusted after me years ago when he saw me at a New Year's Eve party in Lanai Gardens. Instant fireworks!

    When I got home I was too chicken to tell the girls that some good-looking guy had picked me up. A man who lived in Phase Six! I knew how they'd
kvetch
and I didn't want to hear it. Now that they know, boy, have they been laying on the guilt trip. Not that I don't have enough guilt of my own.

    Yet, how can I be mad at them? Their men are gone. Just about all the men around here are gone. We lost three more last year, and three more lonely widows joined the rest of us.

    On the other hand, what am I supposed to do? For the first time in many years, I find myself feeling something for a man. And yet, I'm still torn. How can I love again, even now?

    "Nice day," I say pointedly.

    "Let's get the show on the road," says Evvie, trying to move us along.

    Sophie grumbles. "I still don't know why we have to exercise. All we'll do is die healthier."

    "I like jogging," says Bella helpfully. "It's nice to hear heavy breathing again."

    And so we begin our daily fifteen-minute version of exercise. We head downstairs, walk around the apartment building once or twice, each at her own speed. It's not much, but, as my darling Francie used to say, something is better than nothing. It was she who encouraged us to exercise to keep healthy. She was my best friend. Francie died two months ago and I still cry for missing her.

    Today, like every day, the girls and I walk. We talk. We rest. We walk and talk some more. And nowadays there are only two topics that hold the girls in thrall: Jack, and our new private-eye biz.

    "You're not doing too badly for a start-up company," Jack told me. "It's looking good." He was kissing me long and hard at the time he said that, so all I could do was mumble my agreement. Gee, is this man sexy . . . but I digress.

    Business. Last month we found a lost pocketbook for a hysterical senior in Wilton. We retraced her steps and found it where she left it, hanging with all the other purses in the handbag department at Kmart.

    We solved the mystery of the elderly cousin from Sunrise who disappeared. Turns out the relatives had a fight and she spitefully didn't tell them she was going to the Bahamas for the weekend. Like that. And more of the same. It's really nice helping people, but I'm waiting for a case that gets the heart racing.

    We have a business meeting every morning after exercise and swimming. Need I say, it's what the girls live for. So, naturally, they try to rush through the exercise part.

    "Is it time to quit yet?" Ida asks, puffing away, her flip-flops flapping.

    "Yeah,
oy,
am I exhausted." This from Sophie, who has hardly flexed a muscle.

    "Me, too," Bella, the jogging
maven,
adds as she sways daintily along.

    The girls begin their cool-down exercises. Sophie halfheartedly bends. She complains, "If God wanted us to touch our toes, he would have put them near our
pupiks." T
wo bends, she's done.

    Four sets of eyes look up at me hopefully.

    "Swimming first," I remind them.

    "Do we have to?" Pouting, Sophie repeats this every time.

    But they disperse, hurrying back to their apartments to get into their bathing suits.

    So here they are, my girls. My business associates. I already have nicknames for them—my private eye-ettes: my sister, Evvie Markowitz, a regular female Sherlock Holmes; Ida Franz, Miss Stubborn, great for in-your-face confrontation; Bella Fox, the Shadow, dressed always in pale beige or grays, hardly anyone ever notices her. Perfect for surveillance. And last, but certainly a major player, Sophie Meyerbeer, our Master of Disguise. She lives for color coordination.

    I dread today's meeting. Jack said he was dropping by with a present for me.

    That should make the fur fly.

A
nd here we are at the pool. 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 turfs 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.

    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, Casey Wright and Barbi Stevens. 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, originally from San Francisco. Barbi must be in her twenties, Casey in her thirties. They don't look the least bit alike. Casey is kind of chunky and wears her dark, curly hair very short. Barbi is a tall, skinny blonde, and very cute. Casey seems to live in blue jeans, but Barbi loves frilly sundresses. They told us that they had a small business of their own and handed us all cards. All the cards said was "GOSSIP? Call Casey & Barbi. We know everything!" along with a phone number to call for an appointment. One of these days I must ask them what their business is about.

    Next up are our beloved eighty-year-old Bobbsey twins, Hyman and Lola Binder (aka Hy and Lo), bobbing up and down in the shallow water, holding on to one another like chubby teenagers in love.

    Hy sees us and greets us with his usual 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 at the pool 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 had met a guy in a Miami gay bar and fallen 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. And I'm out. Such is swimming exercise.

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

    Evvie, the 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.
Evvie wrote: "The monster who likes to eat people is back again. Maybe he should do a cookbook." She sounded 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 at us like
schmaltz
on chopped liver. God help us, he's learned a new joke off his e-mail. It will be offensive as usual.

    "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, waddaya 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, the girls turn their backs on him and paddle away. I look down and concentrate on my crossword puzzle.

    "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 Herald.
She half reads, half condenses: " 'Mrs. Margaret Dery Sampson, sixty-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. Our group has followed her colorful rich-girl antics for years. She married into the famous Dery shipbuilding dynasty. It was one of Florida's most extravagant weddings.

    Reading the society news around the pool is a daily ritual. I only half listen. I am stuck on 33across.

    Tessie continues. " 'Mrs. Sampson, an active member of Florida society, was known for her charitable works. She was an avid sportswoman and a bridge enthusiast. Widowed three years ago, she is survived by her second husband, Richard Sampson.' "

    "What a pity," says Evvie. "You'd think with all that exercising she'd be in perfect health."