Dying to Retire (11 page)

A trace of a smile crossed his lips. “It’s more than all right.”

A moment later Seth emerged from the hallway with three women in tow, Monica Kotansky—Snowy growling softly from the safety of his mistress’s arms—her sister Carrie, and a third woman I hadn’t met before but later learned was called Olga Piper. The trio had dressed carefully for their visit, looking more like guests at a party than a cleanup brigade, although two of them held green plastic sacks.

“Everything is sorted into bags now,” Carrie called to Clarence. “They’re all on your bed, and we’re throwing away the garbage.”

“It should be easy for you from here on out,” Olga added. “The twins will bring up your old dresser from storage.”

“Thank you, ladies.”

“Oh, Clarence, I hadn’t realized you weren’t feeling well. I’m so sorry,” Monica said, starting across the room.

Seth made a grab for her elbow but quickly pulled his hand away when Snowy thrust his snout forward and snapped at him.

“Snowy!” Monica chided, wrapping her fingers around her dog’s muzzle. “You be nice to the nice doctor.” She kissed the dog’s nose and smiled coyly at Seth.

“You’re being very kind to Clarence,” he said, guiding her to the foyer but keeping his hands well away. “However, right now what he needs most is rest. I’m sure he’ll be very grateful for all your assistance at a later date.”

“But you and Jessica are staying,” she complained as he held open the door.

“Not for long, I promise you,” Seth said. “See you later.” He gave her his best smile; she turned and blew him a kiss as she followed her friends down the hall.

Seth closed the door behind them, and we could hear their voices growing faint as they descended the stairs to the first floor.

“Bless you,” Clarence whispered. “I didn’t have the nerve to ask them to go, but I’m glad you did.”

“If you’d like to lie down and rest, we’ll go as well,” I said, rising.

“No, it’s fine,” he said. “You’re welcome to stay. I think there’s coffee in the kitchen, if you’d like it. And help yourself to some cake, please. I’ve got enough to open a bakery.” He went to the table in the dining alcove and began removing plastic wrap from the dishes.

“Don’t fuss for us,” I said. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” I asked, heading to the kitchen.

“I would. Black, no sugar,” he said, thanking me again when I returned with three cups and handed him one. He took a sip, savored the taste, and swallowed. “Just before you came, Rosner, the building manager, was here, wanting to know my plans. ‘Am I selling or staying?’ he asks.” He snorted softly. “As if I’ve already made plans. I’m barely awake, but I just can’t sleep.”

“You’re going to lose strength if you don’t get some rest,” Seth said. “I can write you a prescription for a mild sleeping aid if you think you need it, but it would be better coming from your own doctor, who’s familiar with your medical history. Want me to make the call?”

Clarence shook his head. “I’ll be okay. I’m upset, that’s all. It’s been a nightmare since Portia died.” He took another sip of his coffee and put the cup aside. “First the police hold on to her body and I have to postpone the funeral; then they finally release her, and now they’re coming back and questioning me like I’m some criminal. She had a heart attack, for heaven’s sake. She had a bad heart. Everybody knew that. Now the police tell me she was taking diet pills and they caused her heart to fail. That’s news to me, but they don’t believe me.”

“Did you know she was taking diet pills?” I asked.

“She wasn’t. Go look. The bottles are on her dresser. Oh, no, they’re not. They’re probably in some plastic garbage bag. And the Simmons twins took the dressers away.”

“Did you want them to do that?” I asked. “We can ask them to bring them back if you didn’t intend to give them away.”

“No, don’t do that.” He waved one hand wearily. “They were all excited when Monica suggested I give them Portia’s matching dressers. I have my own furniture in storage. Anyway, I don’t need two dressers to hold my things.”

I wondered why Monica was so eager to help dispose of Portia’s furniture, but I didn’t comment on it. Instead I asked, “What kinds of pills did Portia take?”

“Prescriptions?”

“No, the supplements. Do you remember?”

“Of course I remember,” he said. “I helped her fill those damn pillboxes every day. We went over the catalogues together, looked up the drugs on the Internet on places like Healthy Stuff and Pills for Less, before we ordered them.” He looked down at his hands and counted off on his fingers. “She took turmeric, bromelain, flaxseed oil—those are antioxidants—boswellia and nettle for arthritis, glucosamine, calcium, selenium, ginkgo biloba for memory, black cohosh. . . .”

“What was that for?” Seth asked.

“It’s instead of estrogen replacement,” Clarence replied. He’d run out of fingers.

“What’s in it?”

Clarence shrugged. “We could look in the garbage bags for the bottles, if you really have to know,” he said. “They’re empty, however. Monica flushed all the pills down the toilet.”

“Why would she do that?” I asked.

“She said she was afraid Snowy could get ahold of them. I didn’t care. I don’t take those things.”

“But you let Portia take them,” Seth said. I could hear he was making an effort to keep his voice neutral, and not to reveal his disapproval.

“It’s not like you could forbid Portia to do anything she had in mind to do. But yes, I never objected because they really helped her. She used to say she was very healthy with one big exception. She told me she felt terrific, no pain, no shortness of breath. Her eyesight was bad, but she was still hoping for some improvement from the lutein. I don’t know if I gave you all the pills. We can look inside, unless one of those harpies threw the bottles away, too.” He hung his head. “That was nasty. I’m sorry. I know they’re trying to be helpful. I just wish they’d leave me alone.”

“You have to tell them that,” I said. “You have to be a little forceful in protecting your privacy.”

“You’re right,” he said. He was silent for a moment, then heaved a big sigh. “Now the police are on my back. This detective examined Portia’s bottles like he was looking for poison, asking me all kinds of questions. Even took my computer with him.” He stopped and looked up, his eyes going back and forth from Seth to me, his body suddenly rigid. “Are you working for the police?”

“No,” I said. “We’re not.”

“We’re old friends of Portia’s; we told you that,” Seth said. “And I was her doctor for thirty-five years, and—”

“And we’re upset that she died,” I interrupted, fearing Seth would launch into a lecture on the dangers of self-medication and the questionable value of herbal supplements. While I didn’t disagree with him, it was not what Clarence needed to hear at the moment. “You said the police are on your back. Why is that?”

“This detective who came was irritated with me that I couldn’t find all of Portia’s pillboxes. She had three of them, and now one of them is missing. The police want to know where it is. I can’t find it. He’s called twice to ask me about it.”

I glanced at Seth.

“I can answer that question for you,” Seth said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the white pillbox he’d taken from Portia’s dresser.

Clarence looked stunned. “How did you get that?”

“I took it from your bedroom the other night,” Seth said. His face was red, and I knew he was embarrassed. “I found a few pills in it I wasn’t happy to see, and I brought one to the pharmacist to confirm what it was.”

“You stole her pillbox?” Clarence was up on his feet, pacing. “The police have been all over me, suspecting me of God knows what, and all the time you had her pillbox?”

“I apologize,” Seth said. “I’ll call the police and tell them I was the one who took it.”

“You’re darn right you will,” Clarence said, pointing his finger at Seth. “You can call them right now. Wait a minute. What pills? What pills made you unhappy?”

“They were diet pills.”

“How do you know they were diet pills? What did they look like?”

“They were little blue pills,” I said.

“She didn’t have any blue pills,” Clarence said.

“Seth took one from her pillbox and showed it to the pharmacist, who said it was a combination of ephedra and caffeine,” I said. “He also said it would be very dangerous for someone who had a heart condition.”

Clarence fell back on the sofa, his face even paler than when we’d entered. “So it’s true,” he whispered. “Why would she do that? Why would she keep it from me?”

“You didn’t know she was taking diet pills?” I asked.

“No. I still don’t believe it.”

“Did she ever mention to you that she wanted to lose weight?”

“Never.”

“Was she self-conscious about her body?”

“No. I don’t think so. I don’t know. I don’t notice those things. She was no great beauty. She knew that. But it never bothered me, and I never thought she was unhappy about it. It was refreshing for me to be with a woman who didn’t make a fuss about her looks. I told her that. It was one of the things I liked so much about her.” He labored to hold back tears.

I debated asking him about his reputation as a ladies’ man. Two people had remarked on it, and Amelia had even suggested that Clarence had had an affair with Monica while he was married to Portia. Was it true? Or was it just the kind of vicious gossip that people with too little to occupy themselves will indulge in? Was Clarence the kind of man who needed attention from a lot of women? He was certainly good-looking, and it was easy to see he had already attracted a harem, ready to step into Portia’s place.

Portia had been a plain woman, but a warm and kindhearted one, and someone who stood up for what she thought was right. Clarence must have appreciated that. He’d married her. Or had he been looking for something more, someone with enough money to support him, perhaps? No one had mentioned Portia’s will, but she had no other family than Clarence. It stood to reason that he would inherit whatever was hers, the apartment, her pension, perhaps some investments or savings.

I looked into Clarence’s handsome face and strained to divine his true nature. Was he sincere? Or was he putting on a performance for Seth and me? If so, he was an excellent actor. But even the finest actors occasionally forget their lines. I would wait and see.

The recreation building at Foreverglades had been designed with the elderly in mind, whether hale or infirm. Leading to the front entrance was a ramp as well as a short flight of stairs with a metal banister down the center. Inside, the doorways were wide enough to accommodate a wheelchair, and the walls all sported handrails for those unsteady on their feet. The main floor consisted of a wide-open space that could be used for large gatherings—a stretch class was in progress—one end of which was a community kitchen. At the other end, a sign with an arrow pointing downstairs said, THIS WAY TO FITNESS CENTER, LOCKERS, POOL.

I’d passed the busy tennis courts, fenced swimming pool, and concrete patio, where it looked like a chess tournament was in progress, when I’d walked to the rec hall, as Sam called it, from my apartment, trying and failing to find a shady route. Having left my hat on the shelf of the closet, where it did me no good, I moved as quickly as I could to get out of the burning sun, to which the other pedestrians seemed immune. To my surprise, particularly given how hot it was, the pool was nearly empty. One woman in a skirted black-and-red swimsuit and a bathing cap studded with rubber flowers stood at the shallow end, splashing water onto her arms. Other women, their skin tobacco-colored from years in the sun, sat at three tables under umbrellas, smoking and playing mah-jongg. However, from what I could see through its plate glass windows, the gym was crowded with people riding stationary bicycles and jogging on treadmills.

The cool interior of the building was a welcome relief from the blast furnace outside, and I wandered around, exploring the facility while my body temperature slowly fell back to normal. Spurning the elevator, I climbed the stairs to the second floor, poking my head into meeting rooms, a combination game room- computer center, a small library in which a lecture on ancient Egypt was taking place, and at least three studios where elderly people, their hands stained gray from modeling clay or blackened by charcoal pencils, explored their artistic sides, until I found Mark Rosner’s office.

For a big man like Mark, it must have been difficult to work in such a cramped, windowless space with its battered metal filing cabinets, desk piled high with papers, and antiquated computer. A bulletin board on the wall above the desk was so full that I wondered if he ever removed anything once he’d tacked it up. Rosner was on the phone, his white shirt open at the collar, the ends of his bow tie dangling on his chest. He waved me in and pointed to a chair, which I took while waiting for him to conclude his conversation.

“The tennis pro doesn’t have any more hours on Saturday, Mrs. Lazzara, but he has openings on Wednesday. Bridge day. I see. Forgot about that. Maybe you can switch with one of his Saturday students. No, I have no influence with him. You’ll have to talk to him yourself.” There was a long pause. “I can’t help that. Ms. Kotansky pays for her lessons just like everyone else. Try the community bulletin board. That might work.” Another pause. “All right. I’ll talk to him, but I can’t guarantee anything. You’re welcome. Good-bye.”

Rosner hung up the phone and grinned at me. “Everybody wants special consideration,” he said, leaning back in his chair, which squeaked under the pressure. “Wish I could accommodate all the requests, but sometimes . . .” He shrugged. “Maybe I can help you. What are you looking for?”

“I’m Jessica Fletcher, Mr. Rosner.”

“Ah, yes, one of our hotel guests. How do you like the accommodations? Nice, aren’t they? Did you notice how the kitchen has dishes and utensils? I think there’s a couple of pots, too. You don’t need to bring a thing.”