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  Copyright

  This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

  This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Getting Old Is A Disaster

  Copyright © 2008 by Rita Lakin

  Ebook ISBN: 9781943772483

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  NYLA Publishing

  350 7th Avenue, Suite 2003, NY 10001, New York.

  http://www.nyliterary.com

  Praise for THE GLADDY GOLD MYSTERIES

  “This is one sassy and smart series with a colorful gang of senior sleuths.” —Mystery Scene

  “Beyond the skillful blend of Yiddish humor, affectionate characters and serious undercurrents... picks up speed and flavor with some twists worthy of Agatha Christie’s archetypal dame detective, Miss Marple.” —Publishers Weekly

  “What gives the book its warmth is the way Lakin has turned this group of friends into a family who are there not only for the fun and laughter but also for the heartbreak and tears.” —Romantic Times

  “Young and old, Jewish, Protestant, atheist, all will love this tale told with clarity, wit and interesting characters. This is a must-read mystery.”—iloveamysterynewsletter.com

  “An entertaining cozy mystery series with a set of lovable and oddball characters. The mystery has a puzzling plot with twists and turns that will surprise readers Retirement takes on a new meaning after spending time with Gladdy and her gladiators!”—Freshfiction.com

  “Rita Lakin shows a real flair for comic mysteries.... The plotting is expert, but the background color of life among older retired people is wonderful (and sometimes very poignant).” —Connecticut Post Forum “This is a funny, warm, absolutely delightful tale... a must read.” —Mysterious Women

  “An unforgettable romp... Lakin’s characters are zany, her writing is witty and crisp, and anyone who’s ever visited one can attest that her peek at life in a Jewish Florida retirement center is portrayed both accurately and tastefully.” —Cleveland Jewish News

  “Wonderful dialogue and a touch of romance enlivens this delightful breeze of a tale.”—Kaw Valley (KS) Senior Monthly

  “Sassy, funny and smart... Lakin sprinkles humor on every page, but never loses respect for her characters.” —New Hampshire Senior Beacon

  “It is a tribute to Lakin’s talent that she is able to mingle comedy and murder successfully.”

  —Dade County Jewish Journal

  “If getting old is this much fun, maybe I won’t mind! Miss Marple, move over... Rita Lakin’s witty romp through a Florida retirement community is just the thing for what ails you!”—Parnell Hall, author of the Puzzle Lady mysteries

  “So who knew a retirement community could be so dangerous—and so much fun Lakin handles her characters with dignity, compassion and love, while allowing them the full extent of their eccentric personalities.” —Vicki Lane, author of Old Wounds

  “A truly original voice. Great fun from start to finish. Plan to stay up late.” —Sheldon Siegel, New York Times bestselling author of The Confession

  Dedication

  This book is for Leslie Simon Lakin,

  my amazing daughter-in-law,

  with Love and Gratitude

  Baby Boomers: the Third Act, or, Encore Careers

  Act One:

  Even though I didn’t know it at the time, I followed every trend.

  I was born in 1947.

  In the 50’s I was the perfect student in school.

  In the 60’s I was the perfect teenager.

  Then in the 70’s the perfect hippie.

  Act Two:

  By the 80’s I became the perfect yuppie. By then I was married. It was all about money and spending.

  In the 90’s women’s rights! I divorced and started my own corporation.

  Act Three:

  I married the right man. Now the two of us spend our time being useful to others. We began our encore career. We opened a bed-and-breakfast to bring pleasure to people in a beautiful place. I thought I was such a rebel all my life, but now I know I’m just a variation on what 70 million baby boomers have done with their lives.

  —Guiamer Hiegert, co-owner with her husband, Gary, of the Lost Whale Inn, Trinidad, California

  Introduction to Our Characters

  GLADDY AND HER GLADIATORS

  Gladys (Gladdy) Gold, 75 Our heroine and her funny, adorable, sometimes impossible partners:

  Evelyn (Evvie) Markowitz, 73 Gladdy’s sister. Logical, a regular Sherlock Holmes

  Ida Franz, 71 Stubborn, mean, great for an in-your- face confrontation

  Bella Fox, 83 The “shadow.” She’s so forgettable, she’s perfect for surveillance, but smarter than you think

  Sophie Meyerbeer, 80 Master of disguises, she lives for color-coordination

  YENTAS, KIBITZERS, SUFFERERS: THE INHABITANTS OF PHASE TWO

  Hy Binder, 88 A man of a thousand jokes, all of them tasteless

  Lola Binder, 78 His wife, who hasn’t a thought in her head that he hasn’t put there

  Denny Ryan, 42 The handyman: sweet, kind, mentally slow

  Enya Slovak, 84 Survivor of “the camps” but never survived

  Tessie Spankowitz, 56 Chubby, newly married to

  Sol Millie Weiss, 85 Suffering with Alzheimer’s

  Irving Weiss, 86 Suffering because she’s suffering

  Mary Mueller, 60 Neighbor whose husband left her; nurse

  Joe Markowitz, 75 Evvie’s ex-husband

  ODDBALLS AND FRUITCAKES

  The Canadians, 30-40-ish Young, tan, and clueless

  Sol Spankowitz, 79 Now married to Tessie

  Dora Dooley, 81 Loves soap operas; Jack’s neighbor

  THE COP AND THE COP’S POP

  Morgan (Morrie) Langford, 35 Tall, lanky, sweet, and smart

  Jack Langford, 75 Handsome and romantic, Gladdy’s boyfriend

  Oz Washington, 36 Morrie’s friend, also a police detective

  THE LIBRARY MAVEN

  Conchetta Aguilar, 38 Her Cuban coffee could grow hair on your chest

  OTHER TENANTS

  Barbi Stevens, 20-ish and

  Casey Wright, 30-ish Cousins who moved from California

  Yolanda Diaz, 22 Her English is bad, but her heart is good

  Stanley Heyer, 85 Original builder of Lanai Gardens

  Shirley Heyer, 80 His wife

  INTERIM TENANTS PHASE TWO

  Abe Waller, 85 Stanley’s friend

  Louise Bannister, 60-ish Femme fatale of Phase Six, interested in Jack Gladdy’s

  Glossary

  Yiddish (meaning Jewish) came into being between the ninth and twelfth centuries in Germany as an adaptation of German dialect to the special uses of Jewish religious life.

  In the early twentieth century, Yiddish was spoken by eleven million Jews in eastern Europe and the United States. Its use declined radically. However, lately there has been a renewed interest in embracing Yiddish once again as a connection to Jewish culture.

  Bubbala…endearing term for anyone you like, young or old

  bar mitzvah…at age thirteen a boy becomes a man after a ceremony accepting responsibility and religious law

  kasha varnishkes…c
ooked groats and broad noodles

  kibitzer…one who gives unwanted advice

  kvetch…whine and complain

  mezuzah…tiny box affixed to right door frame containing parchment with 22 lines of Deuteronomy

  nachas...joy, especially from children

  nosh…small meal

  schmegegi…buffoon, idiot

  schlep...drag, carry, or haul sometimes unnecessary things

  schmear…to spread like butter

  Shabbes…Sabbath

  Shakshuka…a tasty egg dish

  Tallis…prayer shawl

  Torah…the five books of Moses— Talmud law

  tsouris...trouble

  Yarmulke…traditional skull cap worn at all times by observant Orthodox Jews

  Yenta…busybody

  Getting Old Is a Disaster

  The construction worker embraced the storm, letting the torrents of rain sting his face and soak his denim jacket. His hard hat offered little protection. His sopping tool belt weighed him down. But he was content to be the last man onsite. He knew how to finish a job.

  The dim work light flickered with the splatter of the raindrops. Bolts of lightning illuminated the wooden billboard staked across the construction site: Lanai Gardens Modern, new one- and two- bedroom garden apartments. Three acres of lawns, Six Phases pools, recreation rooms. Fort Lauderdale at its finest. Opening September 1958.

  A few more minutes and he’d go home. To a hot shower, his bottle of whiskey, and the news on the radio. He was always fascinated by the news in his reluctantly adopted land.

  Meticulous and compulsive, he was annoyed that he could not find the shovel that he’d last seen near the tall piles of gravel. He debated whether to keep searching. Never mind, he told himself. He would dig it out of the mud tomorrow in the daylight. All he had left to do was tarp over the rest of the tools that were too large to be put in the shed. Then, home.

  The booming thunder kept him from hearing the stranger until the man was standing before him, wrapped in a huge black greatcoat with a wide-brimmed gray felt hat obscuring much of his face. The construction worker startled, his boot clanging into a pile of pipes. Then he relaxed. Probably someone lost, needing directions.

  The stranger didn’t move as he watched the construction worker lay the last corner of the tarp down.

  “Are you lost?” the construction worker finally asked.

  For a moment the stranger didn’t answer. “No, I am not lost.”

  The construction worker straightened, bracing himself, forming his huge hands into fists. He always had a knack for smelling danger. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to die,” the stranger said with unchecked bitterness. “Now.”

  A huge bolt of lightning lit up the site and at the same moment they both saw the hard staff and sharp blade of the missing shovel less than five feet away, sticking up in the mud. The two men lunged for it. The stranger got to it first and raised the shovel high, preparing to charge, but the construction worker was too quick for him. He grabbed at the shovel, twisting it, pulling it away, using his more massive body to throw the stranger off balance. The stranger held tight, desperate to regain control.

  Lightning and thunder were as witnesses to this dance of death. Huge earth movers stood as silent observers as well. The stranger grappled mightily in his battle to keep standing. But he fell. Then the construction worker fell. Rolling, tumbling, neither losing his grip on the shovel. Mud blinded them, covered them, slowing their movements, but hatred and the realization that only one of them would survive kept them going. Raw animal cries belched from their throats.

  Several minutes later, the victor lifted his eyes to the sky so that the rain would rinse them. When he could see, he bent down and stared at the dead man’s face. He smiled grimly, then glanced around, determining his next move.

  The work light barely silhouetted the killer as he ripped off his clothes and exchanged them with the victim’s. It was a difficult, tedious job. The clothes were soaked. The fit was bad. Carefully he searched his own pockets, making sure not to leave any evidence.

  Then suddenly he saw it. And with a shudder, he understood. He stared at the man’s body as if memorizing something.

  He dragged the dead man along the sodden gravel until he came to a plywood-framed trench. His rage returning, he kicked the body, edging him closer and closer to the hole, until the dead man tumbled and fell in. He picked up the shovel. Over and over, he pitched mud and gravel in on top of the dead man, and finally, anger spent, his body heaving with exhaustion, he stopped. He spit into the dirt and walked away.

  Home

  The airport van pulls up between the Phase Two buildings of our Lanai Gardens condominium complex. It’s a mild September evening with just a bit of drizzle coming down. I’m home at last.

  I sigh happily, getting out of the van. We are back from New York and I’m so glad to be on home ground again. At the same moment I wonder—where will we all go from here?

  The girls and Jack pile out. I call them girls although there’s not one of them under 73—my sister, Evvie, and our three friends, Bella, Sophie, and Ida. They’re also my partners in our three-month-old private eye business.

  My on-again-off-again boyfriend Jack Langford, now definitely on for good, graciously pays the van driver; since the girls manage to fumble through their purses long enough, with sheepish smiles, for Jack to take up the slack. He’s immediately commandeered into lugging suitcases for each one of them. Suddenly my girls are helpless? Next year’s birthday presents should be smelling salts in case they decide to take up fainting. But Jack good-naturedly carries Bella’s bags, along with my sister Evvie’s, up the elevator in the P building, to their second-floor apartments. Then he’s down again and racing across the courtyard to schlep Sophie’s and Ida’s things up to the third floor of building Q. The girls are always one step in front of him, rushing to unlock their doors—their idea of being helpful.

  I wait downstairs for the troop movements to cease. I can foresee that there will have to be some rules and regulations as to how much they use and abuse my guy now that we are officially an item. What a relief that the girls are finally happy about our relationship, after fighting it for so long. Or are they? We shall see.

  Tiny Bella is all atwitter. “It’s so nice to have a man around the house,” she trills off-key, hanging over her balcony and waving down to me.

  “I could get used to it,” Sophie calls out from across the way, patting her skirt down, trying to smooth the creases out of her lime-green velour traveling outfit as Jack lugs her stuff into her apartment.

  Ida insists on carrying one of her own bags, so she picks up her small carry-on. “I’m not helpless. Yet,” she tells Jack as she grudgingly allows him to wheel the other case—which, from the way it is listing to one side, looks like she packed an elephant inside.

  Some of our neighbors stick their heads out to see what’s going on. Not a surprise. They always stick their noses into anything anyone does at any given moment. Newlyweds Tessie and Sol Spankowitz pop out of Tessie’s apartment on the second floor of Q. Is it my imagination? The reluctant husband, Sol, looks like he shrank since he got married. Not like the Sol we knew as The Peeper who scared all the women with his lecherous snooping. Super-sized Tessie looms over him, eating pistachio ice cream from a gallon carton.

  Naturally Mr. Know-it-all, Hy Binder, appears in a flash, on the second-floor balcony of P. And right behind him is his parrot. I mean his wife, Lola.

  “Look who’s finally blown back into town,” he calls out. “So how was the Big Apple? Anybody get mugged?”

  “Yeah,” mimics Lola, “anybody get mugged?” Bella, standing two doors away, beams at the two of them. “No, but we were in a parade and got a medal. We had a fabulous time.”

  Sophie has to chime in, calling across, “And look who we met up with in New York. Our very own Jackie.”

  Uh-oh, here they go. My entire life will now be spilled out of th
e girls’ eager mouths into our neighbors’ ever-inquiring minds. But what can I do? I love them even though sometimes I want to paste duct tape across their lips.

  Years ago, our husbands all dead—or in Evvie’s case, divorced—we formed a new family unit sworn to care for one another through thick and thin. Mostly it’s more thick than thin. We are an odd combination—mixed nuts is what Evvie calls us. My smart, fast-talking sister is also my best friend. Then there’s Bella, our sweet, diminutive shadow, who follows us everywhere; roly-poly Sophie, who sees herself as a fashionista, mad about clothes; and last but definitely not least, Ida, our curmudgeon and self-proclaimed man-hater.

  Bella is breathless in the face of everyone’s attention. “Have we got a big announcement to make.”

  Even Ida is grinning.

  By now Jack is at my side, puffing a bit, and as the new male alpha dog of our little pack, he decides to nip this bud off quickly. “Ladies,” he calls out. “We’ve all had a very busy day. Time to get some rest.”

  “Yes,” Evvie says with a tad of sarcasm, “let’s get some rest.” I can’t believe my eyes. Immediately they scamper inside their own apartments, waving cheery good nights as they do. Doors one, two, three, and four—closed and not opened again. I hold my breath in case one of them changes her mind. Jack and I stand there and wait. And finally the looky-loos retreat, too. It seems as if the show is over. But I know better. They’ll all be peering from behind their Venetian blinds to see what we do next.

  My very tall darling bends down to whisper to me, “I can feel their eyes burning holes in me.”