Getting Old Is Très Dangereux: A Mystery (12 page)

I
think I have every halfway decent outfit I own littering the bedspread. I bend down deep inside my closet to dig out a pair of fancy shoes I haven’t seen in who can remember how many years. I hear Evvie walking through the apartment. She calls out to me.

“Where are you?”

“In my bedroom.”

Evvie yells. “I think we have a mystery on our hands with the girls. They’re behaving weirdly.”

I glance up at her as she rushes in. “I can’t see you: What hit this place? A tornado?”

“I’m in the closet trying to find my black satin pumps. But then again, they’ll be too much. What about the girls?”

“Never mind. It will keep. You left a message to get over here ASAP, so here I am and what’s the emergency?”

I drag myself up and out of the closet and throw my weary body on top of my heap of clothes. “I can’t make a decision about what to wear.”

Evvie moves a pile off to one side in order to sit down near me. “Okay, here I am. Tell me, what’s the occasion and where are you going? I thought you intended to stay home tonight and watch your latest DVRs after an exhausting day at the beach.”

“That was my plan, but Jack had another idea. We had a talk about Michelle. He thinks I’m intimidated by her. I think
he
is and won’t admit it. Since she’ll be leaving soon, instead of just calling to say bye-bye he already made plans to have a farewell dinner with her tonight. I naturally wasn’t happy about it, so he decided to take me along.”

“Wow, does that sound like a bad idea. Where is he, anyway?”

I sigh. “He went to a car wash to get the Caddy washed and polished.” I give her a knowing look. She returns it.

“Since when does anyone around here do more than just soap and hose their cars down?”

I sift through the outfits on my bed, looking for inspiration. “When? When it involves going to dinner with a rich, famous, and gorgeous ex-love. He promised me he’d make it short. We’re going to
Nona’s because it’s close by. Inexpensive, so it won’t dent our budget. Casual wear. Simple pasta dishes. They’re famous for their quick turnover. Kill an hour and good-bye Mme. duBois forever.”

“So why are you looking for black satin pumps? In Nona’s you could wear sweats and be considered overdressed.”

“I am going to look my finest, because I know she’s gonna be judging everything about me.”

“Why do you care since she’s leaving anyway?” Evvie shrugs. “That was a dumb question. Okay, what do we have that’s simple yet classy? Subtle yet sexy?” She lifts item after item and quickly discards them all.

“Probably nothing. I can imagine what she pays for her clothes.”

“Why did you agree to this madness? You could have just said no.”

I pick up my beige pantsuit; hold it out trying to decide. “And then let him take her to dinner alone? What is it about that woman that gets my teeth grinding?”

“Because she’s trying to get her fangs into Jack? Because she’s a conniving, controlling overachiever? Because she acts like a bitch? Because she’s a man-eater and has the ego of Marie Antoinette? Little things like that?”

I sigh. “You think?”

We’re quiet for a few minutes. I toss the beige
pantsuit. “And what if she isn’t all those awful things? What if she’s really nice?”

Evvie picks up the beige again and holds a black cotton blouse up in front of it. “Don’t you have anything low-cut?” She shakes her head in mock despair.

“Don’t be ridiculous. At our age?”

“Do you think she’ll behave?”

“No, she’ll pull out her whole bag of tricks.”

Evvie picks up a lavender dress from among the items on the bed. “Hey, I remember this. You wore it to a New Year’s Eve party a few years ago. It’s lovely and simple and sweet.”

I wring my hands. “But what does it say about me?”

Evvie pokes around the cosmetics on my dresser, looks in my mirror and runs her hands through her curly red hair. “That you live in an inexpensive condo and that dress has long since become outdated and you probably haven’t bought anything new in ten years.”

I fall back despondently across the bed. “She’ll look gorgeous and laugh adoringly at every word Jack says. She’ll name-drop all the famous people she knows and tell scintillating anecdotes about them. I’ll sit there like a bumpkin.”

Evvie pulls me up, grabs my shoulders, and shakes me. “Repeat after me,” she says. “No matter what she does or what she says, you will take
the high ground and act like the lady you are. Go on, say it. You will take the high ground.”

I grit my poor abused teeth. “I will take the high ground.”

“Are you ready?” Jack shouts from the entry hall. He hurries into the bedroom and is dumbfounded by the mess on the bed and me still in a robe. He’s dressed gorgeously in a black lightweight suit and a gray silk tie that goes wonderfully with his salt-and-pepper hair.

A suit, by the way, that I’ve never seen before.

Evvie says, “Hello, Jack, and good-bye, Jack.” To me she says, “Go for the lavender. It matches your eyes. And don’t forget your mantra.” She winks at me and leaves.

Jack ratta-taps at his wristwatch. “You’ve got five minutes to get ready. I’ll meet you downstairs.” With that he marches out.

I mutter under my breath. “I will take the high ground.”

I watch Jack, his hands high on the steering wheel, clutching it. His shoulders are hunched. He’s driving faster than usual. He squints in the late afternoon sun. He doesn’t like to be late to anything. Nor do I. We both consider it bad manners. But he is overdoing it. Traffic is moving slowly in the
clogged area around the hotel. He is impatient and frustrated as he tries to reach the entrance.

“We’re only going to be five minutes late, honey. Not a big deal.”

He slows slightly. “I’ll feel bad if she’s just standing there waiting.”

Oh, really? Oh, Jack, what is her hold over you?

It takes two more tries and he pulls into the entrance parking area. Because of the book fair, the revolving doors go round and round, emptying out mobs of people at the end of the day’s activities. Groups on their way to dinner places. Or parties. Still chattering about what they did and what they accomplished. These are people who’ve been enjoying themselves and intend to keep the “high” going. A busy doorman uses his whistle constantly to round up the cabs. We both peer out, searching among the crowd for Michelle. There aren’t too many with her vivid red hair color. But there’s no sign of her.

The activity finally dissipates. Cars, limos, taxis are on their way out. The doorman relaxes, turns to gab with his fellow employees. Still no Michelle. Why would a “star” ever be on time? The name of the game is to make an entrance. I know Jack is not too thrilled, but I won’t say a word about my having had to rush to be on time.

She flies out the door twenty minutes later. Looking both frazzled and gorgeous. She’s talking
on her cell and she waves when she sees us. She is dressed to kill. An appropriate description, I think. She is wearing a stunning lime green silk cocktail dress, off one shoulder and low-cut. She obviously found time to get to the beauty salon. Every man within the entrance area stares at her admiringly. Well, she’ll sure make a splash at lowly Nona’s Spaghetti House.

Jack leaps out of the car to greet her. She aims her usual air kiss next to both his cheeks. My window is open so I can hear them. She signals Jack, with her finger touching his hand, to wait as she finishes her call. I assume long distance since she’s speaking French. Which takes another five minutes. At last we hear,
“Bonsoir, mon ami. À bientôt.”

“I am so very sorry,” she says to the both of us. “But I simply could not get off the phone. Friends back home wanting to know how Colette is. And they want to talk so much.”

Of course I know how that goes. My girls call each other back and forth all day long. Not quite the same as talking to France. And look at my darling. Not the least bit upset with
her
for being so late.

Jack opens the back door. “Not a problem, Michelle. They’re pretty flexible at our restaurant.” He looks surprised as Michelle doesn’t get in.

She looks back toward the door. “It just occurred
to me that I left my laptop upstairs. I never go anywhere without it.”

Jack immediately says, “Give me your key and I’ll run back and get it.” She starts to put her hand in her purse, then looks at me. I’m trying not to show any reaction. Then she turns back to Jack and shrugs. “Oh, never mind, we won’t be gone long.”

“Are you sure?”

She looks deeply into his eyes. “Yes, I don’t want to put you out.”

Again Jack indicates she enter the back door.

Michelle addresses me. “
Gladeze
, I am so sorry. I meant to tell Jacques earlier. I cannot sit in rear seats. I have the chronic back pain and need to be able to sit up front with the seats straight up.”

Jack is nonplussed but I get the message. I climb out of the front and gracefully indicate that she should take my place.

She beams a star’s smile. “Thank you so much for understanding.”

Jack shrugs and so do I. I do so love the way she says my name with her lilting French accent,
Gladeze
. Sounds like the product name of a cheerful fast-working kitchen scrubbing soap.

He helps her into my seat. I start to climb into the back, but I change my mind. Two can play that game. I wait for Jack to do me the same honors.
Which he does and winks at me. Translation: I get it, but you’re still my gal.

As we reach the end of the street, Jack is about to make a left turn. Michelle puts her arm on his. “No, Jacques, turn to the right.” He reacts instantly and changes directions. She half shifts her body so she can address me at the same time. “I was speaking to the concierge and he said I absolutely must try The Excelsior before I go home. He insists it is the best restaurant in the entire city. And the darling man even made the reservations for us.” With her idea of a beguiling smile, she asks, “Is Miami Beach very far from here?”

Jack is uncomfortable. “Well, it is a ways.”

Hah! Only an hour’s drive in rush hour traffic. Not only the farthest but also the most expensive restaurant. No wonder she’s all gussied up.

“Please, Jacques, please. It has been such a tense few days, we deserve a relaxing dinner, don’t we?”

They deserve? What am I, chopped liver?

Jack looks back at me and I answer him sweetly, “You’re the driver.” Meaning the ball is in your court. Do you stick to our plans, or … ?

Well. So much for that. Off we go inching our way south on the congested I-95.

Jack reminds Michelle to fasten her seat belt.

And if Evvie were here she’d be imitating Bette Davis in
All About Eve: Fasten your seat belts; it’s gonna be a bumpy ride
.

*   *   *

The Snake watches as the man’s car pulls away from the curb. He stands at the far end of the hotel, leaning on a wall, pretending to read a newspaper. He is enjoying his new glasses. So good not to have to squint anymore. Another woman is in the car with them. Good. Good. He rubs his hands together. They are dressed up and they will go out to dinner and now is the time to find the manuscript. When the redheaded woman loses that, she will have no more defenses and she will be doomed. He hurries into the hotel
.

MÉNAGE À TROIS (OR DINNER FOR THREE)

T
he Excelsior is an expensive place. Dark gleaming mahogany walls with subtle accents of beige—or would they call it “ecru”? Gilt-trimmed mirrors reflect the diners and the Renaissance-style dark paintings hanging above them. If some wealthy bride and groom happened to arrive, these diners would be perfectly dressed for the occasion. I hear champagne corks popping hither and yon. And those tablecloths—whiter than white. Cloroxed and starched into crackling crispness. Exquisite huge bouquets overwhelm every available surface. Voices are hushed. Chandeliers shimmer, winking down at us with the perfect amount of flattering light. I notice all of this as the maître d’ leads us to our table, a cash register cha-chinging in
my head, calculating how much it will cost us to help keep this place rich and snobbish.

When we reach our table, Jack immediately comes to my chair, to pull it back for me to be seated. At that same moment, we both see Michelle standing, tapping her fingers along the back of
her
chair. I see the indecision on Jack’s face and I practically throw myself into my satin brocaded armchair. Jack rushes to Michelle just as the maître d’ reaches her. A clumsy moment as neither moves away. Finally Jack lets the maître d’ take over and seats himself between us. The maître d’, infatuated with this exotic creature, lifts Michelle’s napkin, snaps it open, and places it delicately on her lap. She thanks him with a dazzling, practiced smile.

As quickly as I can, I toss my napkin onto my lap to prevent this from turning into a scene out of a Charlie Chaplin comedy as both Jack and the maître d’ are about to charge toward me. Whew, that was close. I could imagine them fighting over who gets to play “snap-the-napkin” with me.

A waiter introduces himself as our “wait person, Charles,” as he places the wine list in front of Jack and announces the “specials,” overwhelming us with fancy names and exotic ingredients for twelve different dishes—most of which are covered in heavy sauces and undoubtedly fattening. By the time he gets to “Pompano Papillote with freshly squeezed lime and an
outrageous
spiced mango
sauce, with the slightest drizzle of
aglio e olio
,” my eyes have glazed over. Michelle seems to absorb every word of every delicacy.