Getting Old Is Très Dangereux: A Mystery (22 page)

She jumps up, gasping. “Don’t say that. Don’t.”

“I’m so sorry, Michelle, but I can’t stay here anymore. It’s wrong for you, and for me as well.” Jack gets up and reaches for his cell phone. “I need to call Morrie and find someone to replace me.”

He strides to the door, desperate now for some breathing space. “I’ll call from the hallway.”

As he reaches the door, Michelle runs to him and grabs his arm. “Kiss me, Jacques. Please.” She raises her lips to his. “Please.”

For a moment, neither one moves. Then Jack gently pries her away.

He opens the door. “I’ll be just outside, for a few minutes.”

He watches as her eyes tear up. “If there was no Gladdy, would your answer be different?”

He shakes his head and walks out, closing the door behind him.

The Snake watches the woman’s suite as usual. Leaning casually against the wall, near the elevator, gives him a quick exit if he needs it. He holds an open newspaper, his prop. Suddenly, he is hit with a sharp pain in one of his teeth. Now what? A toothache?

But never mind that. Abruptly, he is alert. The
flic
is coming out, punching a number on his cell phone as he does. The Snake quickly presses the elevator button, but the cop looks down the hallway and sees him. It’s too late to turn away. They lock glances with each other and The Snake sees recognition in the enemy’s eyes—a perfect match to the description of the man they are all looking for. He can almost read his mind—should he come after him? But what if he’s wrong? It leaves the woman vulnerable. But the cop thinks he is right. He reaches for his gun—but he’s left his gun inside the room
.

The Snake is in luck. A trio of older women
,
laughing, round the corner and arrive at the elevator. He grins and immediately puts his arm around the waist of the woman nearest him. If she screams or slaps him, he will be a
canard mort,
a dead duck. And he will be forced to press the blade of his knife at the woman’s fleshy neck to take her hostage. Then it will get very messy. Fortunately, his luck holds. She is surprised and delighted at his attention, and her friends smile also. He whispers in her ear, softly, using his French accent charmingly, reassuringly, as the four of them cheerfully enter the elevator. He tells the woman he mistook her for his wife. The door closes on the women’s laughter. At which point he discovers she is wearing a gardenia corsage. He sneezes. Three times. Damn his allergies
.

Jack stands in the hallway, unsure. For a moment he was certain that little guy fit the description of the assassin but it was a false alarm. The man had simply been waiting for his wife. Once again, Jack is upset with himself. How could he have walked out without his gun? Another mistake. What if the man near the elevator had been the wily killer? But, then again, if Jack had gone after him, he’d have put the ladies in the elevator at risk. Argh. He slaps his thigh in frustration. He is too involved to think clearly. He must bring someone else in here quickly,
before his ineptness gets Michelle or someone else killed.

Jack reaches his son on the phone and explains what’s been going on. He listens impatiently as Morrie recites his version of I-told-you-so.

“Never mind the lecture. Get some men over here, fast. In fact, I’m not sure, but I might have just seen the guy—or at least someone who fits the general description.” Just to be on the safe side, when he hangs up, he alerts hotel security.

He unlocks the suite and goes back inside, but Michelle is no longer in the living room. Neither is the bottle of Merlot that had been on the kitchen counter. Her bedroom door is closed. He pauses, then walks over and calls out to her. “Michelle, are you all right?”

For a few minutes there is no answer. He knocks this time.

“Go home, Jacques. Go home to
Gladeze
, where you belong.”

“Come out, Michelle. Please.”

“Enough has been said. Leave me alone.”

He hears the sounds from her portable CD player. French love songs again. He sits down on the couch with his head in his hands, feeling like a rat. And wonders how long it will take for Morrie to find replacements.

He hopes that Gladdy won’t lock him out of her bedroom as well.

BELLA’S GIFT

T
he pain in my ankle is making me restless, so I decide to try sleeping in the rocker in the lanai room, fluffing pillows behind my back for comfort and resting my hurting leg on the ottoman in front of me. But I’m kidding myself. The ice on my ankle helped a bit. So did the Tylenol for the pain. But what can I take for a broken heart?

I close my eyes. I can still hear the bandstand music playing in the park and Michelle asking Jack to dance with her. Did he? Did he hold her in his arms the way he’s held me? Is it time to tell myself the truth? That he wants her and not me. Not that I can blame him. Nonsense! I do blame him.

If he’s that shallow, I tell myself, then he isn’t for
me anyway. He’s just like any other gullible male after all.

Why did he have to come into my life? Life was settled. Easy and comfortable. I have my sister and my friends. I live in a place where we all care about one another. What more should I want? To be jealous at this age is a bad joke.

I cover myself with the colorful afghan that my daughter made for me. Right now I wish my Emily was here to comfort me. I try to relax. My radio plays softly. I have it tuned to the same station all the time—playing all the hits of my teenage years. Swing era, the announcers call it. Well, we’re not swinging anymore. Out of style and out of time. Funny how I can still remember all the words of those hits of the forties and even earlier. I sing along. “‘He’s my man, I love him so … ’”

Ha! I really need to hear that right now. The tissues come out as the sniffles begin. Next they’re playing the Andrews sisters singing “I’m in love with you, you, you. I could be so true … ” Stop already with the love songs! I smile, though, remembering my beloved best friend Francie singing, crooning actually, these same songs, totally off-key. Like everything she did, she did it with gusto and joy. Yes, like the Andrews sisters, she used to accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative. Is it possible it’s nearly two years since she was murdered?

I sigh. “Oh, Francie, why aren’t you here when I need you?”

I hear an unfamiliar sound and my eyes pop open. I look everywhere. There, the curtain rod. It’s coming from the hanging chimes that Bella gave me. They’re ringing? But how? There’s no breeze in here. But they’re ding-donging loud and clear. Ha. Ha. Very funny. Next thing, I’ll see someone dead.

“Dead, but hopefully not forgotten.”

I jump up so fast, I bang my head on the side table lamp and knock it over. Francie is standing there, arms akimbo, the way she so often did. She’s wearing shorts and her favorite sweatshirt, the one her grandkids gave her. “Death by Chocolate” it says.

“What are you doing here?” I back away from this apparition, stupidly acting as if she’s really in front of me.

“That’s a nice way to greet your oldest and dearest best friend.” She plops herself down on the ottoman I just abandoned.

I can’t believe my eyes. “I’m imagining this, right?”

“No, it’s me. You called me and I came.”

“I called you? How did I do that?” I just keep staring at her. She looks exactly the same. Tall, willowy, salt-and-pepper hair mixed with ginger, in her usual pageboy style. Big smile. Wide hazel eyes, still twinkling with humor.

“Bella explained it to you. When you desperately need someone, you only have to say so and poof—here I am.”

I feel foolish and tearful. “You had no right to die and leave me, darn it!”

She shrugs. “Like I wanted to croak? I ate that poisoned piece of chocolate birthday cake and that was the end of me.”

“You could have worn a different sweatshirt.” I regard the prophetic words ruefully.

“Forget the fashion statement. By the way, you and the girls did a hell of a good job figuring out who did me in.”

“Thanks.” What else should I say? I feel a little crazy right now chatting with a ghost.

“So you want to know why I’m here? You’re having a crisis of love and you need my help. You’re thinking of dumping that gorgeous hunk you latched onto. You think the French tootsie got him back? Have I got it right?”

“How do you know all this … if you’re dead?”

Francie waves a hand at me, dismissing the question. “I could explain the chaos theory, but now’s not the time. Stand tall!”

I immediately obey her, though I pay for it with a jolt of pain to my ankle.

“Shoulders back! Where’s your guts, old girl? I remember you as the gal who knew her own mind.
She was wise and witty. Who is this pathetic wimp who took over her mind and body?”

Now I’m getting sore. “This is what I get? You come back just to lecture me?” I want to reach out and shake her. But if my hand goes through her like it happens in the movies, I’m going to faint right this minute. I go along with the craziness. “So, tell me, where are you living these days? I mean where’s your dead zone? What’s it like? I can make history and get rich telling the world I know all about the afterlife.”

“Stop blathering. I don’t have all day for this. Tell me you still trust Jack.”

“You don’t even know him. You never met him.”

“I know everything. Men like him are rare. You’ll be very sorry if you lose him. He’s loving and honest and loyal. And damned good-looking. Don’t worry. The girls will come around”—and here she grins mischievously—“eventually. I know he’s true to you and he loves you madly. Don’t blow it by stupid jealousy. Don’t nag, and no interrogation. Believe every word he says. Love him as much as he loves you.”

I huff. “Thank you, Dear Abby. And by the way, have you met her up there or wherever it is you hang out?” I move a little bit closer. Dare I reach for her? “And while you’re here, tell me how much
time I have left. When do I get to check out and join you?”

I fairly jump when the chimes ring again. “We have more dead people coming?”

My visiting ghost walks over and removes the glittering crystals from the curtain rod and places them on the side table. “My time’s up. You won’t need these anymore. Only one visit to a customer. So, quick, my darling Glad, tell me you won’t screw it up.”

“All right, already. I promise.”

“I love you,” Francie tells me.

“I love you, too.” I bend down to pick up the fallen lamp. When I turn around, Francie is gone and I drop the lamp again.

Someone is shaking me. Is Francie back? I open my eyes slowly, afraid of what I might see.

“I would have left you sleeping, but I thought you’d be more comfortable in our bed. With me.”

It’s Jack, leaning over me. I practically leap out of the rocker and into his arms. “You’re home!”

“For good, if you’ll have me.”

“I’ll have you. I’ll have you!” We kiss and I hope this isn’t a dream, too. When we finally release lips we heave large happy sighs. I continue to hold onto him.

He looks around the room, concerned. “What’s happened around here? Are you all right? You broke your lamp.”

I look down. My lamp is on the floor, in pieces. The shade is hopelessly bent. I quickly glance up at the curtain rod. The chimes are gone. No, they can’t be … Yes, they’re on the table where Francie placed them. It was a dream. Of course it was. It had to be. There is no other possible explanation.

There’s a little hesitation in his voice. “I suppose you want to know what happened tonight.”

My mouth is just about to say You bet I do! Instead, I count to three. “No, not really. If you want to tell me, it can wait until tomorrow.” I take his hand in mine and start to lead him back to our bedroom.

It’s then he notices that I’m limping, and at the same time he sees Bella’s cane. “What’s this? What happened?”

“Just a little thing. I tripped and twisted my ankle. No biggie.”

He is upset. “And I wasn’t here to help you.”

I tug his arm tighter. “You’re here now, and besides, my ankle feels a lot better. Honest. No guilt, please.”

He still frowns.

“I’m waiting for a smile. I’m not moving until I get it.”

He smiles at me then, tenderly. Francie would be proud.

We straighten up the bedroom. Jack helps me remake the bed. When he goes to get clean pillowcases, I murmur, “Thanks, Francie.”

“You’re welcome,” I hear in a faraway whisper.

GLORIOUS MORNING AFTER