Getting Old Is Très Dangereux: A Mystery Page 9

  Merrill lectures on. “The odds are that the guy picking on you knows you are old and assumes you are creaky and an easy mark and doesn’t think he’ll need a weapon. Victims, hold onto your canes as you were taught.”

  Sol, Joe, and Hy grin at each other, ready to have fun. Ida smirks again. Any chance to lord it over their women. Tessie, Evvie, and Lola give each other the eye. They are prepared to play hardball.

  Sophie and Bella partner up. Ida partners with a friend from her cooking class, Patricia Drew. Her nickname is Pat “Nancy” Drew because she loves mysteries the way Gladdy does.

  “Everybody ready?” Nods and yeahs. Merrill aims his next words at the married couples. “Since this is a practice and not reality, please do not take any aggression out on the person you live with. I know you’ll be tempted. All attacks are pretend.”

  Hy can’t resist. “Spoilsport.”

  Lola, who thinks every word out of her hubby’s mouth is a pearl instead of the grit of sand it really is, smiles mischievously at him. “I promise not to hurt you, poochy.”

  Merrill scratches his buzz cut and says, “Okay, victim, turn your back. Bad guy, sneak up behind. Put your hands around vic’s neck and pull her toward you.”

  Again giggling and fooling around. And major overacting. Mostly from Sol and Hy.

  Merrill says, “Victims, he’s got you by the throat. You’re frightened and you know you have to think fast. What do you do?”

  Lola, who must have been one of those prissy kids in school who always shot her hand up first, as she does right now, says, “I know. I know. Don’t fight, let your body go limp.”

  “Very good,” the instructor comments. “Your bad guy won’t expect that.”

  Sophie and Bella begin to tiptoe out of the circle, with Sophie’s hands still around Bella’s neck. They are trying to be inconspicuous.

  Ida, who never takes her eyes off them, calls out. “Hey, class isn’t over yet.”

  “Gotta go,” Sophie announces. She drops her arms and makes a show of looking at her wrist to read a watch she isn’t wearing. “Previous pressing engagement.” She pulls Bella quickly along with her.

  Ida waits to see which direction they take. No longer paying attention as the victims twist about ready to counterattack, Ida breaks away, too. She apologizes to Pat Nancy. “I’m off.”

  Pat Nancy says plaintively, “Don’t go. I need to attack you.”

  “Next time,” Ida promises.

  Evvie calls after her, wanting to know what’s going on. “What?”

  “Later.” And Ida hurries after the two culprits.

  She turns at the same corner they took. She can’t believe her eyes. They’re gone. They knew she was going to follow them and they’ve taken a different route.

  Ida is flummoxed. What the heck are those two ninnies up to?

  The chimes ring out. It is a delicate tinkling sound. Sophie watches as every woman in the room stiffens with anticipation and awe. Bella pinches her arm in excitement. A dead husband is calling out to be heard. Their guru is attentive and ready to let the voice of the dearly departed speak to them, from the other side, through him.

  So far, in the three times they’ve been there, he’s contacted half a dozen dead husbands for the widows. Each one was such an emotional experience. Sophie is eagerly waiting for their turn to be called. The room is utterly silent as Baba Vishnu tilts his shining blond head to one side as if to listen better.

  The chimes stop. Their guru is connected. He reminds them once more, “Don’t ask for a description of heaven or hell. They’re not allowed to tell.” His voice lowers. “Arlene, I wish to speak to Arlene Simon.”

  Arlene, a lovely blond woman in her eighties, who looks no older than sixty, stands up from her seat. She waves her arms up and down, thrilled to be called. “It’s me, Ronnie, I’m here.”

  “How’s it going, Arles?”

  She turns to the group, blushing. “He always called me that.” Then, to her dead husband, “I’m good, but I could be better.”

  “What would make you feel better?” Ronald asks, his voice abrupt, as if his wife had always annoyed him with her “wants.”

  Now Arlene’s voice hardens. “You know.”

  “I don’t know.”

  The suspense is building. Sophie is fascinated as every woman wiggles to the edge of her seat. They stare, back and forth, from Arlene to their guru, whose face contorts to fit the harsh personality of dead Ronald Simon.

  Arlene frowns. “I looked everywhere, Ronnie. Where did you put it? You always hid your winnings under the mattress, but I couldn’t find anything. Were you allowed to take it with you?”

  A few women giggle. Sophie has to pull Bella’s hands away from her arm or Bella will pinch her black and blue.

  Ronald answers her with an oily lying voice. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I lost plenty on those nags at Hialeah. But most of it went on the tables in Vegas. That’s what caused my heart attack, when I dropped dead in my two-hundred-dollar-a-night suite in Harrah’s. The kids have plenty of money. Get it from them.”

  Arlene chokes up. “They won’t give me a penny, those ungrateful brats.”

  Silence. “Ronnie?” she asks.

  Baba Vishnu shakes his head. He straightens up as if he’s been in a trance. “We’ve lost contact, Mrs. Simon.”

  Mrs. Jerry comes quickly to Arlene’s side, handing her a small slip of paper. As they were forewarned, the phone calls to heaven or hell are considered long distance and cost seven dollars a minute.

  The chimes ring again. All eyes look up front except for Mrs. Simon, who stares into space, disappointment written on her face.

  Baba Vishnu listens again. “Bella Fox?”

  Bella gasps. Sophie leans toward her. “This is it. Now, don’t cry. You always cry when anyone mentions your precious Abe.”

  Baba asks again. “Mrs. Bella Fox? Identify yourself.”

  Bella waves her hands; her throat is already choked up. She can’t speak. Her eyes widen in frustration. Sophie raises her hand, and points at the now dumbstruck Bella. “Here she is.”

  All eyes turn to this next lucky widow.

  “Bella, it’s your Abe.” Abe speaks through the guru.

  Sophie pokes her. “Say something.”

  Bella starts to whimper. Then sniffles, which turn into cries which accelerate into sobs. Her body heaves, tears pouring down her paralyzed face.

  The group can’t stand it. Someone yells, “Say something already.”

  Bella is frozen to her seat. No words can come out of her mouth.

  Sophie stands up. “May I speak for my friend?”

  “Speak away,” says Abe through Baba.

  “Why do you always make her cry? Did you used to beat her or something?”

  Shocked silence fills the room. Bella manages to gasp. Silence from Abe.

  Baba Vishnu speaks. “Contact disconnected.” He rises gracefully from his pillow. “Session is over.” He bows and leaves the room through his private door.

  Mrs. Jerry heads for Bella, waving a bill. Sophie negotiates. “Since she didn’t say anything, you shouldn’t charge her.”

  Mrs. Jerry is haughty. “Crying counts.” And she shoves the little piece of paper into Bella’s shaking hands. Sophie notices that they are the very same order pads used by Jerry for his customers in the deli.

  The room empties out. None of them look at the woman who blew her phone call from heaven. Or hell.

  Humiliated, Bella sobs again.

  Sophie pushes her toward the back exit. “It’s all right, bubbala. Maybe he’ll call again.”

  11

  GETTING READY

  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?