Getting Old Is Criminal (29 page)

FORTY-FIVE

MORRIE AND GL ADDY

AND OZ

Morrie is finishing up a call. Cops walk by his open door, recognize me sitting there, and wave and smile. I don’t know whether it’s because they think I might become his stepmother or whether I’m considered that weird old broad who thinks she’s Agatha Christie and solves crimes.

Not that they know who Dame Agatha is, so maybe I’m seen as just that neighborhood busybody. Ida was dying to come with me, but she’d promised Sophie she’d go to her new doctor with her. It’s her first real visit with Dr. Reich, so Ida said she’d accompany her.

A terrific-looking guy comes by in a very flashy plaid jacket, stops, sees Morrie on the phone, and walks in. He’s about forty, medium height, light chocolate brown skin with very short-cropped 2 9 0 • R i t a L a k i n

black hair; he looks like he works out in the gym a lot and has a smile that could make strong women weak. He walks over to me and shakes my hand.

What a firm handshake. He introduces himself.

“Hi, I’m Oz Washington, or even Ozzie. Really Oswald, but please never call me by that name. I was Morrie’s former patrol partner. Now we’re both detectives.”

Oy, is he a charmer. “Oz, like in wizard of?”

He grins. “Yeah, I get that a lot. I’ve heard about you.”

Morrie finishes his call and walks toward us.

I address this at him. “Seems everybody around here knows who I am. Morrie must be some chat-terbox.”

“I resent that,” Morrie says, as he joins us. Now I have two gorgeous men hovering over me. Oh, to be forty years younger.

Oz laughs. “We actually see you as the one who solves most of his cases. He’d be lost without you.”

Morrie hits him playfully on the shoulder.

“Funny.”

I say, “The Peeper case is closed.”

“That’s good news. Anybody we know?”

“Sol Spankowitz, who is in desperate need of a wife. And Tessie will marry him. And nobody’s pressing charges.”

He thinks about that for a moment and smiles.

“So why are you here?” He’s already forgotten my phone call.

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Oz asks, “Have you another case you’ve already solved for him to take credit for?”

“You’re pushing your luck, feller.”

“Mind if I sit in? I might learn something. That is, if Mrs. Gold will let me.”

Ask me anything,
bubbala;
you only have to blink those long eyelashes. “Sure, why not.”

Morrie reiterates with sarcasm. “Sure, why not, you need to learn
something.
Even if it’s only manners.”

The guys grin at each other. Cop banter.

Actually I think Morrie is relieved. Does he really think I would bring up the subject of his father?

Never again. I have my pride. I take a sheet of paper out of my purse.

“I wrote it all down so I wouldn’t forget. I’m on a case that now needs the police to get involved.

Namely, you, Morrie, I mean Morgan.” Maybe he’s more formal around here.

“We’re all ears,” says his former partner, gleefully.

I read from my list. “A Mr. Alvin Ferguson hired us to check on a man named Philip Smythe who lived with Alvin’s mother until she drowned in her bathtub. Mrs. Esther Ferguson was ninety-five. Mr.

Smythe is seventy-five. They shared an apartment at a retirement complex, Fort Lauderdale’s Grecian Villas. Mrs. Shirley Ferguson, Alvin’s wife, told us Philip adored Esther, had no motive to kill her. He was not after her money. Yet her husband, Alvin, 2 9 2 • R i t a L a k i n

insists on believing Philip Smythe murdered his mother.

“We find out Philip Smythe moved from Grecian Villas immediately after Esther died and is now living in Palm Beach at Wilmington House. My sister Evvie and I went undercover to see what we could find out about him. She’s still there.”

Don’t think I miss the sniggering exchange of glances as the two hardened detectives think of us old dames undercover. But I persevere.

“Further investigation on our part led us to the surprising news that Philip has spent the last eleven years going from one retirement community to another, staying the exact same amount of time in each place, following an identical schedule.

Three months there. Finding a lover, and leaving on exactly the same date each time. I might add, at that point, the woman he had been sleeping with”—I see their eyebrows go up at my naughty words—“had conveniently died of seemingly natural causes.”

By now I’m aware that other police staff have been entering the room and standing in the back quietly listening in. I also see something glitter in Oz’s eyes, but I can’t figure out what he might be thinking.

“Investigation now indicates that Philip Smythe is a false name. He leaves an eleven-year-old trail, which ends abruptly at that time. He doesn’t seem to have existed before that.”

G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 2 9 3

I keep expecting one of them to interrupt, but they stay very still, paying attention. So I soldier on.

“Further investigation leads me to learn his real name is Raymond, or Ray, Sullivan, and that he was an actor and writer on a daytime soap opera in New York City for many years. Until he was fired—eleven years ago! As a writer, Ray Sullivan came up with the story line of a man who keeps murdering older women in retirement complexes.

As the actor, Ray played the part of Philip Smythe, the serial killer. Putting one and one together: Right after being fired, he began acting out his TV

role in real life.

“Which brings us up to this very morning. I have only just learned that a year ago, last September, in Roman Villas, a retirement complex in Tallahassee, Philip romanced a lady named Pearl Mosher. She ostensibly had a fight with him, and it was presumed she left the premises in the middle of the night. Her murdered body turned up this week in the gardens on said property.”

I pause and take out another sheet of paper.

“Here is the list of every retirement facility in which Philip Smythe, a.k.a. Ray Sullivan, lived, and the names of all his dead lovers. I also have the names of all the managers of these places. I also have the name and number of the investigating officer in Tallahassee. He is awaiting your call. Oh, and tomorrow I’m going to be checking in with 2 9 4 • R i t a L a k i n

some showbiz types. The rest of the answer lies there.”

There is a very long silence. Morrie looks flum-moxed. Oz is grinning. Suddenly there is a burst of applause from everyone in the room. Except Morrie.

Oz shakes my hand. “Have you thought of en-rolling in our police academy? We need detectives like you.”

He winks at Morrie. “Take over, champ. This senior citizen here needs your help desperately.”

With that, he exits the room, laughing out loud.

The others file out with last admiring looks at me and amused glances at Morrie, who is still in mild shock. The room is at last empty.

Morrie is mortified. “You could have told me all this without an audience, you know.”

“I tried.” I blush. I look around, making sure we are alone now.

“Morrie, I must tell you something very important.” I pause. This is hard to say.

“What is it, Gladdy?”

“It’s Evvie. She’s become involved with this man. She believes he’s innocent. I’m afraid she is in great danger.”

He returns my serious look. “Got it.

“We’ll take over now. But you have to promise me you’ll stay away from the case from now on.

Do not talk to another person. This man is obviously dangerous. Stay out of it now. Do you hear me, Gladdy?”

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I nod, but my fingers are crossed behind my back.

It is only after I leave the building that I feel re-morse for what I did to poor Morrie. It wasn’t nice of me to take my frustration out on Jack’s son. But I sure feel better.

FORTY-SIX

TASK FORCE

We are in my kitchen discussing my meeting with Morrie.

“I wish we could get to Evvie and warn her,”

Sophie says for about the fifth time in ten minutes.

“Yeah,” Bella agrees.

Everyone is repeating their fears as if, in the retelling, they’ll vanish.

Ida changes the subject. “Are you really going to see those people, even though Morrie said no?”

“Yes. His men won’t have time to do everything.

I think I’ll handle it better. I really need to see this case through.”

The phone rings. Bella jumps. Everyone’s on edge, terrified of hearing bad news. It’s Morrie. I immediately switch on the speakerphone, so the girls can listen in. Another of the devices Jack G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 2 9 7

talked me into. Jack . . . Never mind—no use thinking about him now. Mr. Double Date.

“Hi, Gladdy. How you?”

“Fine. How are you?”

“Still a little shaken after that bomb you set off in my office. I guess you are well beyond finding purses in K mart.”

“Guess so.”

“Just want to give you a heads-up on what’s happening. We’re in touch with all the precincts in every city he’s lived in. A task force has already been set up. We’re waiting for the autopsy report on Mrs. Mosher. Maybe we’ll get lucky and pick up some DNA.”

“Good.” About time he took me seriously.

“So far, it’s all circumstantial. We have no proof yet. I just want to warn you. Everybody, keep quiet. I mean all you girls.”

“We hear you,” chorus Bella and Sophie. Ida nods grimly.

“Talk to no one about any of this. Keep away from Evvie. We don’t want Smythe to get suspi-cious and run. Or even worse, become dangerous to Evvie and maybe others in that place.”

“But—” I try to get a word in.

“Listen.” He interrupts me. “The Palm Beach police have arranged for someone to move into Wilmington House as a new resident. One of their retired officers. Someone who’ll keep his eye on the dangerous Mr. Smythe.”

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“I am so relieved to hear that. But Smythe can be tricky—”

“Yes, Gladdy . . .”

There’s that condescending voice again. “Just make sure he’s very watchful.”

“I’m sure he will be. I’ve already spoken to Ms.

Watson and she is expecting a Mr. Donald Kincaid to arrive today.”

“How did she take it?”

“Somewhat upset.”

“I’ll call her, see if I can calm her down.”

“Good idea.”

“Okay, but you better promise to keep in touch with me on my cell phone.”

I can almost see the smile. “Gladdy Gold, you have a cell? I thought you hated progress.”

“Never mind that. Just do it.” I give him my number.

“Gladdy . . . I’m sorry about you and Dad.”

His voice is concerned, but cautious.

I choke up. “Thanks,” I manage to say.

Not five minutes later, my cell rings. It’s Hope Watson sounding like she’s on the verge of hysteria. “Is it true? They know for sure he’s a killer?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“How soon will they pick him up?”

“I don’t know yet. It will take careful planning.

I know what you’re going to say next. Don’t tell anyone.”

“But what about my board? I have to answer to them.”

G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 2 9 9

“The more people who know, the more dangerous it could be.”

“I must at least tell the president of the board.”

“Do what you need to, but it mustn’t leak.”

I can hear Hope Watson is close to tears.

I continue, “Hope, you must keep everything as normal as you can.”

“All right.” She can barely speak.

No more subterfuge—I need to know. “How is my sister?”

She sounds startled. “She and Philip are having a wonderful time.” She can’t hide her sarcasm.

“They’re everywhere. They’re the fun couple.

Everyone wants to be part of their clique.”

“Good. In fact, try to add some activities that keep them surrounded by people as much as possible. I don’t want anything to upset the status quo.

The less they are alone, the better.”

“I can’t believe this is happening to us.”

“You’ll feel better having a policeman on the premises at all times.”

“When are you coming back?”

“I don’t know. Soon, I think.”

I don’t intend to tell her about the ladies at the Roman Villas dealing with a dead body found on their premises. It’s bad enough, her having the killer living in her own establishment.

I pray all these delicate manager ladies won’t fall apart.