Getting Old Is Criminal (28 page)

Before I knock on Dora Dooley’s door, I can’t help but glance up at Jack’s apartment. Has he been around since I ran into him last time? Or is he still off somewhere? Does he think of me at all? Or am I out of sight, out of mind? I shake my head.

Stop it, that’s not why you’re here.

Dora Dooley takes a while to answer her door. I remember she first has to climb out of her bulky recliner. Okay, she’s at the door. Now for a short interrogation.

“Who’s there?”

“Gladdy Gold.”

“Who?”

She doesn’t have her hearing aid on. I repeat it.

Louder.

“Wadda ya want?”

“May I come in and talk to you?”

“Why?”

I need a shortcut or I’ll be standing out here forever. “I want to talk to you about your favorite soap opera.”

The two locks unlock quickly. Open sesame.

As I walk in the door Dora peers at me closely.

“I know you. Well, he isn’t home.” She continues G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 2 7 9

talking as she turns and makes her way back to her sunroom. “Jackie Langford is my only good neighbor. Nobody else takes out my garbage. You think the rest of them would help an old lady out.” She’s now climbed back up into her recliner.

This time I seat myself on the tiny, rickety chair, the only one in the small, stifling room. The recliner takes up most of the space and the TV set takes up the rest. A game show is on, at high volume. I wait for the commercial; I already know Dora’s rules.

The commercial comes on.

“Is it possible to put the TV on mute? I really need to talk to you.”

“What’s mute?”

I get up and reach for the clicker. Her eyes show panic as I gently take her most important posses-sion from her hand. “I’ll give it back, I promise.” I find the mute button and press it. Blessed silence.

She looks at the soundless screen and then back at me fearfully, as if I were a voodoo witch. Probably terrified I won’t turn it back on again.

Before she can complain, I talk fast. “I want to talk about your favorite soap opera,
World of Our
Dreams.
” A show she told me was filled with stuffy character names. I can’t believe I remembered it, but I’m thankful the brain cells were with me this time.

Once again I’ve said the magic words. Her eyes light up. “Did you know Penelope was pregnant and Sean isn’t the real father?” She cackles. “While 2 8 0 • R i t a L a k i n

Sean was boffing Elizabeth, Penelope was kicking up her heels with Percy.”

“No!” I say pretending surprise. “How shocking!”

“Just wait ’til Sebastian finds out. He’s Penelope’s father. There’s a shotgun in his hall closet.” She grins, toothlessly, happy to be sharing her favorite show with someone. Anyone. I ponder yet again about how lonely people deal with their days and nights. For Dora, the characters on
World of Our Dreams
are her kinfolk, a family she can visit with every day. Always available. Always loyal. Willing to share all their secrets.

“I want to ask you about Philip Smythe.”

Dora looks at me, confused. “Who?”

I feel panic setting in. Was I wrong? It would have been too easy if this had been the show.

“Philip?” Dora asks, interrupting my mental anxiety attack. Then she breaks out in a big smile.

“But he left the show years ago.”

Thank you, God.

“Really? Tell me what happened.”

Now Dora’s eyes sparkle. She might not remember what she had for breakfast, but ask her about
World of Our Dreams
for all the years it’s been on . . .

“It must be years ago, ten, maybe fifteen. Philip Smythe had a nervous breakdown.”

I don’t dare interrupt. Is she talking about the character on the show? Or the actor? Or both? I need to hear everything she knows.

“Oh, at first it was a great story line. Audiences G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 2 8 1

were thrilled and chilled. Eighty-year-old wealthy Moira Atherton was drowned in her gold-plated bathtub, while sexy, wealthy Philip, calling himself Romeo, read her Shakespeare. He made it look like an accident. And Romeo wasn’t suspected because he had no motive. But it was murder.”

Bingo! I can hardly catch my breath.

“Then someone else on the show was killed. He just wouldn’t stop. He needed to kill. More and more. Philip was turning into a serial killer. So the producer fired him. That’s Glory Hill—boy, was she uppity. She’s producing some new show now.

Anyway, the serial killer plot was scaring the viewers. I was never scared. Philip was so gorgeous.”

She stops, satisfied.

Now I’m confused. “This was a part an actor played on the show. The character’s name was Philip Smythe?”

“That’s right.”

“He was killing older women on the show?

Other characters?”

“Right. Oh, those piercing eyes. I would have gladly let him kill me.”

“So why was the actor fired? Couldn’t they just stop playing the murder stories? I mean, if he was so gorgeous, why take him off the show?”

“Here’s the skinny. He and Glory Hill had a big fight. You see, he was also one of the writers of the show. He wanted to keep his character killing, and she didn’t want him killing off all her good stars.

And the stars were complaining, too. They were 2 8 2 • R i t a L a k i n

afraid to open their new scripts, in case they were Philip’s next victim. I read that in a TV magazine.”

“He was also one of the writers? What was his name, this actor-writer?” I hold my breath.

“Writers. Writers. Who ever remembers writers?” For a moment she thinks, then smacks her forehead. “What a dummy. I can’t remember the writer, but I remember the actor.”

I feel like smacking my own head, I’m getting such a headache. “Okay, so tell me the name of the actor, who was also the writer, who made up the character of Philip Smythe, also played by this actor? Have I got it right?”

She grins. “I’m glad you’re paying attention.

Ray Sullivan.”

Ray Sullivan. At last.

Gotcha.

*

*

*

On my gleeful way out of the apartment, after thanking Dora profusely and after telling her I can’t stay until the show comes on in two hours, she calls after me, “While you’re here, you could take out the garbage?”

Walking home from Phase Six I suddenly see a familiar car. It’s Jack’s. It’s coming toward me and instinctively I hide behind the nearest palm tree. I see four people in the car. Another man and two women. He’s on a double date?

I can’t stand it. I am miserable. He’s going to G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 2 8 3

have to move out of Lanai Gardens. Or maybe I will.

Don’t think about him. You’ve just figured out the real name of Romeo/Philip Smythe. You’ve just solved a murder case. Be happy about that. And I am.

FORTY-FOUR

BACK TO GRECIAN VILL AS

Ida and I get out of my car and head for Rosalie Gordon’s office at Grecian Villas. She called me fifteen minutes ago, and there’s no doubt she has something very important to tell us. From Mrs.

Gordon’s tone of voice, I know it’s about Philip.

We told her we’d hurry right over.

I’ve already filled Ida and the girls in on our big break, thanks to Dora Dooley and her soaps.

There’s no doubt in anyone’s mind now. Philip Smythe, née Ray Sullivan, is a killer. We are more than shocked even though we suspected him. It was one thing to feel sure he killed Esther Ferguson. But after hearing what Casey and Barbi told us, it’s the enormity of his crimes. We must believe he is a serial killer. God knows how many women he’s murdered.

G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 2 8 5

I’m aching to rush over to Wilmington House and rip Evvie away from her killer-lover’s arms. I have this fantasy I will face him and call him by his real name and he will fold. Evvie will see the truth and the good guys win. But he is a murderer; who knows what he’s capable of? I will do nothing, not before I have a chance to fill Morrie in and get the police on our side. Which I will do this afternoon.

Believe me, I’m not looking forward to this. He has to know his father and I are kaput.

My instincts tell me to go slow. Stay away from Wilmington House until Morrie tells me how to handle this. According to Casey and Barbi’s calculations, Evvie should be safe for another couple of months.

That doesn’t allay my fears. Evvie has a strong personality. In her emotional feelings for Philip she might admit who and what we are and why we are at Wilmington House. She could accidentally set him off. I can’t take that chance. Until Evvie is out of there, I won’t be able to rest for a moment.

Ida, bless her, has stepped into Evvie’s shoes. She is amazing. She assures me that as soon as Evvie returns from the Twilight Zone, as she keeps calling it, she, Ida, will move back to position number three. I could have kissed her for saying that. In the midst of this trauma, there’s been an unexpected blessing. With Evvie being away, Ida and I have become closer and I’ve learned more about her than I’ve ever known.

It doesn’t take long for Rosalie Gordon and her assistant to fill us in. They are obviously terrified 2 8 6 • R i t a L a k i n

and insist we speak behind locked doors. That’s how we learn that something terrible happened in Tallahassee at their sister business, Roman Villas. Worse. A missing resident, Pearl Mosher, was found dead and buried in their backyard.

Something must have gone wrong and Philip must have been forced to kill his lover ahead of time. It must have driven him crazy to have his schedule spoiled. How arrogant of him to have moved down south and later on stayed at another branch of the Villas. Only a madman would take such a chance.

“Can you help us?” Rosalie asks timidly.

“We’re on our way to see the police today. We have a lot to tell them, and your news is vital.”

“There’s much more than you know.” Ida tries to reassure her. “There will be a strong case against Philip Smythe very soon.”

“But what should we do?” She wrings her hands. Myra stands behind her, equally tense.

“Nothing,” I tell them. “Just wait and we’ll keep you informed. I know it will be hard, but reassure your partners up north and try to keep things calm—business as usual. Discuss this with no one else unless you feel you must talk to your lawyer.”

“But can you keep us out of the spotlight?”

“I don’t know. I’ll ask Detective Langford to do what he can to protect you. Your coming to us will be considered very helpful. Detective Langford is G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 2 8 7

very kind. So don’t be afraid when he calls on you.”

I take down the Tallahassee information, including the name of the detective in charge.

They walk us to the door. The elegant lobby is full as usual. Almost everyone looks up as we appear.

Ida, my mensch, shakes Rosalie’s hand. “Thank you for the tour,” she says grandly. “You have a lovely place. You’ll be hearing from us soon.”

With that, the lobby sitters go back about their own business.

Rosalie manages a small smile and we leave.

I can’t wait to get to Morrie. Is he in for a big surprise.

*

*

*

I call Morrie from our cell phone. I hear the reluctance in his voice. He’s afraid I’m calling about his father.

“Morrie. Listen. I’d like to come in and discuss a murder. It’s a case we’re on.”

“Where is this?” he asks guardedly.

“In Fort Lauderdale. But it’s more complicated than that. I’m concerned he will kill again where we are in Palm Beach.”

Morrie must have his hand over the phone. I doubt that he paid any attention. I can barely hear him talking to someone in his office. Then he’s back to me. “Listen, Gladdy, we’re very busy over 2 8 8 • R i t a L a k i n

here and that’s out of our jurisdiction. Call the police up there.”

“No, you don’t understand.”

He cuts me off. “I really can’t talk now.” And he hangs up.

Thanks for nothing. Morrie still has this annoying habit of not taking me seriously.

I dial the police station again. You don’t get rid of me that easily, I think. I make an appointment to come in and see him.