Getting Old Is Très Dangereux: A Mystery Read online

  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.

  21

  BELLA’S GIFT

  The 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.

  22

  GLORIOUS MORNING AFTER

  Still in my bathrobe, I sip my morning coffee and can’t stop smiling. My guy has come back to me. All’s well with my world again.

  I hear a pounding on my door. Evvie rushes in without waiting for me to answer.

  She bends down to hug me. “I just saw Jack getting into his car. He was whistling and looked so happy. He’s back. For good?”

  “For good.”

  “No more Michelle?”

  “Well, at least he’s no longer ‘guarding’ her.”

  Evvie helps herself to coffee. “So where is he going?”

  I pass her the plate of whole wheat toast and the cream cheese. “He’s off to see Morrie to describe the old man he saw last night. Jack’s sure he’s the bad guy. The police artist will do a sketch.”

  “Did he tell you how he managed to escape Michelle?”

  “He said it’s a long story and he’d tell me later in some romantic setting, just the two of us. Sounds like he wants me in a good mood.”

  Evvie chomps on her toast. “I can’t believe you were able to wait and that you didn’t drag it out of him last night.”

  “Francie advised me on how to behave.”

  Evvie rightly looks puzzled. “Who’s Francie?”

  “Our dear Francie. She came to me in a dream. At least I think it was a dream. And that’s another long story. Maybe I should save it for when all the girls can hear it. Especially Bella.”

  “I can hardly wait.” Evvie pulls her chair closer to me. That isn’t very far in my tiny kitchen. She’s very excited. “Listen, I have an idea. Let’s get married as soon as possible.”

  I blink my eyelashes and make my voice gooey. “Why, darling, I didn’t know you cared.”

  She gives me a playful shove. “Our double wedding, as fast as we can get it together.”

  I’m in such a playful mood. That’s what pure joy does to you. “Why? What’s the rush? Are you pregnant? Ha-ha.”

  She laughs. Then smirks. “You must have had one heck of a welcome home party last night.”

  I blush. “Never you mind.”

  Evvie turns suddenly serious. “Because I want it for Joe. Sure he’s in remission now, but for how long? Being married again with the chance to do it right this time would mean the world to him.”

  I reach over and hug her. “That’s reason enough. Why don’t we all elope? The four of us could go to city hall and then go on a honeymoon somewhere.”

  She shakes her head. “I want Joe to have our families there. And all of our friends. It might be the last time he’ll see them. And on a happy occasion instead of … ” The tears start to fall. I reach over and brush them away.

  I jump up. Ouch. I remember my ankle a little late. “Okay, call Trixie. Once and for all we have to tell her we are doing this on our own. We can’t keep stringing her on.”

  “Hah!” says Evvie. “Are you gonna be the one to break the news to her?”

  “I was kind of thinking of letting you have the honor.”

  “Thanks for nothing.”

  “We’ll do it together—but remember we have to be strong. Meanwhile I’ll get dressed.”

  Jack leans over the police artist’s shoulder. “The nose should be a little longer and sharper.”

  Lee Shiller, a slim, relaxed young man, works at a table over to the side of Morrie’s desk. He makes the change with a few short strokes of his pencil. “Like this?”

  Jack nods. “Better.” Jack is surprised he still has the knack. He used the same method in the old days, when in his mind he photographed mental pictures of the suspect.

  Morrie is at his desk, shuffling through papers. “Now where did I put that French inspector’s phone number?”

  Jack glances at him. “What time is it in Paris now?”

  “Six hours difference. It’s four P.M. Ah, here it is.” He walks over to Jack and Shiller. “So that’s what he looks like?”

  “Pretty close.” Jack tells the artist, “Make the gray hair shaggier, like he doesn’t do much combing—or cutting, for that matter. The cheeks slightly more hollow. And set the eyes a little closer.”

  After Lee does so, Jack takes the rendering and gives it to Morrie to examine. “I think that does it, Lee, and thank you.”

  The artist gets up. “You’re welcome.” He picks up his gear and leaves the room.

  Morrie shakes his head at the sketch in his hand. “This old guy looks like a strong wind could knock him over. He must be about ninety. You sure it’s him?”

  “Maybe that’s why he’s never been caught. Nobody ever pays attention to him. There was something about his eyes. In the way he looked at me. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I saw just the slightest flicker of arrogance in his expression. Like he was daring me to recognize him. And when he put his arm around the woman, there was the smallest moment of hesitation on her face, as if she was deciding whether to go along with the guy or not. I’ll bet he seemed harmless to her. Then she smiled.”

  “Well, I’m making copies for the hotel security. And I’ll fax this to Paris. Let’s give them another call now. Maybe with you on the line as well, he won’t think I’m a nutcase.”

  “Might as well.”

  Morrie grins at his father as he picks up the phone. “So Gladdy took you back.”

  “No comment.”

  “Did you tell her about Michelle’s passionate pleas?”

  “Not yet. I’m working up to it. Hopefully, I can leave out that part.” Jack worries about sounding foolish to Gladdy. That a young woman would throw herself at him. He’s kidding himself. She’ll want to know why he left Michelle in such a hurry.

  Morrie can’t resist. “Maybe Michelle could become interested in a younger man. Like myself. She’ll think I’m debonair. There’s a good French word.”

  Jack shoots hi
m a dirty look.

  “Just think, if I get lucky, you can have her as a daughter-in-law.”

  The father pretends to raise his hand to his son. “You’re not too old to spank.”

  Morrie smirks. “Yeah, right. You never laid a paw on me as a kid—too late now.”

  “Never too late to pull off the old leather belt and whack you.”

  “You don’t wear a belt.”

  Jack shrugs. “You’ve got a point.”

  The two men laugh and reach out to hug each other.

  “All I can say, Pop, is you’re quite a Romeo. Who’d have imagined? Well, I guess if you can be a hottie at your age, maybe we can believe in the possibility of a very old killer.”

  “Never mind that. Go make the phone call.”

  Morrie, still grinning, hits the speaker button and dials the long international number. After a few rings, the phone is answered.

  The man is abrupt. “Bonnard ici.”

  Morrie tries out his French haltingly. “Bonsoir, Inspector. Je suis Detective Morgan Langford. Fort Lauderdale dans Florida.”

  The inspector rattles off some French to whoever is in the room with him: “It’s the crazy American again; the one who called to tell us Madame duBois is being stalked by an ancient assassin. Now he’s trying out his bad French again.”

  Morrie hears laughter in the background. “Peut-être … ” He gives up on the French.

  The arrogant inspector chuckles, then in a heavy accent he answers, not even hiding his sarcasm. “Don’t bother. I will speak only in English. We are all forced to take it up in school for just such an occasion as this—when some crazy American calls.”

  Morrie refuses to get aroused by his attitude. “I’m here with another detective.” Jack introduces himself. “Jack Langford. Formerly from New York City. Retired.”