Getting Old Can Kill You (12 page)

Rico actually lives in a small house. White clapboard. Neat. Painted. All good signs. Very much like all the rest of the homes.

Ida watches as the girls investigate all six hundred square feet of living space that is Rico’s home. It’s as neat inside as it was outside. The three of them practically fill up all the empty space. All the while Rico is delighted as he examines the stuff they’ve bought in Mike Gatkes’ back room.

“Great choices,” he says as he examines the Kevlar vests.

“Thanks,” Ida says, taking credit.

Rico has graciously allowed them to store their new purchases here as well.

Every inch of this small space is in use. Rico is proud of the fact that he helps support his eight younger sisters and brothers, who live with their mother in Miami. He points to photos of his family on his one small dresser.

The girls are impressed. Not only does he volunteer with the senior driving project, but he holds down three jobs.

He informs the girls of his method. Indicating the computer equipment, he explains how he goes to garage sales and flea markets, buys things, then sells them on eBay. A bicycle takes up most of another wall. This is what he uses to deliver his morning newspapers. He has a steady route that he starts at 5
A.M
.

At night he delivers pizzas.

The girls applaud him for his hard work. They are really getting to like this kid.

While they sip their nonalcoholic Mojitos, with their delicious strawberry daiquiri flavor, they admire Rico’s posters of Cuba on the walls.

Rico congratulates them again on their great buys. He’s sure they’ll find good uses for everything they bought. They are ready for business.

“Ouch,” Bella yelps suddenly. “That hurts!”

Ida and Rico turn to see what’s going on. Sophie has put the cuffs on Bella.

Sophie looks chagrined. “I just wanted to see how tight they can get.”

Bella pouts. “Well, now you know. Loosen me.”

Sophie tries.

“No, you’re going the wrong way! Ouch! Ouch!”

Rico comes to the rescue. He unlocks the cuffs and frees Bella.

Bella rubs her wrists to ease the pain. “Just don’t try out the pepper spray on me,” she warns.

“I’m sorry,” Sophie says, meaning it.

Bella gratefully announces, “I think we should invite Rico to be a member of our new company. At least he knows how to safely handle our gear.”

She glowers at Sophie, who hangs her head, feeling bad about hurting her friend. “I agree,” Sophie adds.

They look toward Ida. Rico eyes her eagerly, holding his breath.

Ida puffs up. “Well, it’s all right with me. But I don’t know how he’ll find the time to work with us.”

Rico is thrilled. “You will love having me. I am so good at everything. Especially high-tech things,” he says, holding the handcuffs up and laughing.

Ida has to make sure of their deal. “You still drive us, cheap.”

“Absotively posilutely,”
Rico says, purposely mangling the words.

They raise their Mojitos for a toast.

Ida says, “To Ida Franz and Associates!”

Bella and Sophie growl, but this time they don’t argue.

“S
o Ida led the rebellion. Ida now has her taste of power.” Morrie laughs.

Jack replies, “And we all know how power corrupts.” He laughs, too.

I add, “I’m sure Sophie and Bella want to come back into the fold, but they dare not cross her.”

We’re sitting in a favorite restaurant of ours. Greek food. Greek music. Yum, my favorite, moussaka. And that delicious lemon soup.

We’re having lunch with Morrie, now officially my stepson. Usually, my new family cop hardly ever has time off during the day, so this is a treat. I always enjoy being with Jack’s handsome son. I look at him and then at his equally good-looking dad and I know exactly how Morrie will look when he gets to Jack’s age. Tall. Salt-and-pepper hair. Big and comfortable, like my teddy bear kind of guy. Lucky Morrie.

We are talking about friendship.

I add, “We hardly see much of the girls anymore. They’re out very early and even when they’re home, they aren’t spending time with us. The most we’ve gotten out of them the few times we’ve actually seen them, Bella mentioned that they’re with this Rico boy, who is driving them around since I was no longer their designated driver. Ida wasn’t happy about her blurting out even that.”

Morrie dips his pita bread into the hummus. “Well, whatever the girls are doing, I hope they’re keeping out of trouble. I’d hate to have to arrest them for breaking and entering or something.”

That gets another laugh.

“Do you want me to do some checking up on this guy? Find out his last name? Make sure he’s legit?”

I answer, “Not yet. What’s that old political expression? Let her swing in the wind for a while. If it sounds dangerous, I’ll let you know. Bella will tell me.”

“So how’s your love life, Morrie?” Jack asks, changing the subject. He’s not one for subtlety, when it comes to his son. “We haven’t seen much of you lately.”

Morrie actually blushes. He sighs. “All right, you twisted my arm. Yes, there is someone. She’s smart. She’s beautiful. She’s funny. But I’m keeping her under wraps until I think she can handle good old Dad’s friendly inquisitions.”

Jack pretends to pout. “Bring her around. I promise to be on my best behavior.”

“Actually, Dad. And Gladdy. We’re very busy becoming good friends. Romance might come later.”

“Good thinking,” I say.

The waiter arrives with our lamb kabobs. We tuck in to enjoy them.

“My turn for quickly changing the subject,” Morrie says, chomping away. “Speaking of friends. What’s the latest with the Arlene and Joyce situation? Have they kissed and made up yet?”

Jack looks to me to fill him in.

“Actually, things are worse. Arlene is falling apart, having Joyce show up in her life. Joyce promised me she’d look around for another place to live. But I don’t get the feeling she’s looking too hard. I think she keeps hoping she can change Arlene’s mind.”

“And Seymour? Still no word?”

“Not a word,” I say.

“Hmm, strange.” Morrie passes the dolmas to me. “What’s your take on the situation?”

Jack jumps in. “Frankly, that ‘I’m looking for simplicity’ line doesn’t ring true. That woman is or was very rich. She could probably live anywhere she wants. I ask myself, Why Lanai Gardens?”

I agree. “She’s a regular windup Chatty Cathy doll with me. She blabs and blabs, throwing out all kinds of unasked-for information. As if by dazzling us with her footwork we won’t notice what’s really going on. As Shakespeare once wrote, ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’

“Wait a minute! Just wait a minute.” I wave my fork full of spanakopita in the air in excitement. “What about this? Which came first, the chicken or the egg?”

“Which means …?” Morrie asks.

“She said it was fate that brought her to that apartment so she could meet Arlene again. What if … what if she knew all along that Arlene lived there and she made it her business to meet Seymour?”

The two men stop eating to listen.

Jack gets it. “So she could replay her past. Joyce needed to live in the apartment underneath Arlene!”

Morrie turns to me. “When did you come up with that?”

“Actually, right now. It just hit me. That would connect the dots. If she wanted to see her old friend that badly again, this rich lady was willing to pay an easily led old man enough money to get him out of his supersafe cocoon. She assumed, and rightly, Arlene still hated her and wouldn’t see her if she tried to call her directly.

“She wanted the opportunity to win her back, so she went to all this trouble to ‘accidentally’ move into our condo.”

Jack says, “Which, unfortunately, is not going too well. Arlene’s anger runs too deep.”

I add, “What if Joyce did all of it with him and for him? It would make sense considering Leah’s description of her brother. Joyce must have taken him to get his passport, helped make the travel plans. That trip, whatever it is, cost a lot. Why else would she give this odd man that much money in order for her to live in that depressing apartment?”

“I think Gladdy’s onto something,” Jack says. “This makes more sense than thinking Seymour could do it all by himself.”

Morrie says, pleased, “Not only does your idea sound feasible, it tells us something else we haven’t yet thought of.”

Now it’s my turn to stare at Morrie.

He takes a sip of his retsina. “This means that Joyce knows very well where Seymour is. I’d bet money on it.”

A
s we drive up to Jack’s appointed parking spot, I see two women waving their hands frantically at us. Jack pulls in. I recognize our neighbors Fatima Baener and Elaine DeKyser, from Phase Three, rushing toward us. They are avid members of the Red Hat Society and as usual they are wearing red and purple. A large group of Lanai Garden residents belong to that unusual women’s club based on a poem written by Jenny Joseph, who wrote that when she got old, she would wear purple.

But why are they running toward us?

They can hardly wait until I get the door open.

Fatima says, “Thank goodness you’re back. We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

Elaine reaches for my hand. “Plenty. All hell has broken loose in our cooking class.”

Fatima talks at the same time. “Arlene’s gone bonkers. I think she’s trying to kill Joyce.”

That’s all it takes. Jack and I are running with the anxiety-ridden women. Elaine is pulling me along.

I’m puffing to keep up. “Tell us more. How did it start?”

Both women start talking, overlapping each other’s words.

Fatima says, “We’re practicing making key lime pies and Arlene is doing okay, even though she thought we were baking lemon meringue today. Then Joyce shows up.”

Elaine says, “Joyce said that she read in our newsletter we were making key lime pies today, and since it’s her favorite, she joined us. She didn’t know Arlene would be there.”

Fatima tells us Arlene is not happy to see Joyce.

Elaine adds that Joyce tries to be nice about it.

Fatima says, “Joyce starts to remind her of how, when they were young, they used to make pies together and had so much fun.”

Elaine adds, “And Arlene reminds
her
, she was baking a key lime pie the day she caught that bitch—excuse the language, that’s the word Arlene used—sleeping with her husband!”

“And she didn’t say ‘sleeping with,’ either,” Elaine adds. “It’s a word I never, ever say.”

“We snuck out when Arlene wasn’t looking. We had to find you,” Fatima says, relieved.

We reach the club room door and hear shouting inside.

What a sight before our eyes as we enter. Fatima and Elaine stay put at the doorway. They don’t dare come in.

I recognize the two other members. Frances Tarvin and Sandra Litzman, both wearing aprons, stand clinging to each other at the far end of the kitchen, holding on to each other in fright.

The room is a shambles. Kitchen pots have been thrown about. A lemon-colored pie lies splattered all over the butcher block. Utensils are scattered. Other freshly baked pies sit on the stove. I’m aware of how good the room smells. How ironic—the scents of vanilla and fear.

Arlene stands at one side of the large chopping block in the center of the room. On the opposite side is Joyce, arms held up as if in submission, perhaps believing she’ll need them to deflect a blow.

What’s frightening is that Arlene is brandishing a huge, serrated bread-carving knife. My God, what’s happened to her? It’s a different Arlene. What’s changed since we last talked? The perfectly put-together lady is a mess. Her clothes and apron are covered with custard and meringue. Her hair is flying about her face and her eyes are wild and unfocused. Dear God, she looks demented.

Arlene sees us. “Gladdy,” she cries out shrilly, “tell her to leave me alone! Make her stop stalking me!”

Jack and I look at Joyce and I can read the pity on her face. She shrugs. She says quietly, “I don’t know what she’s talking about.”

Arlene screams, “Liar! Liar!” She slams the knife handle in her fist on the wooden block, sending pie crust bits into the air.