Getting Old Is Criminal (7 page)

Alvin tries to save face. “Money is no object, as I’ve said before.”

Shirley winces. It’s obvious she would like to slap him, but he still holds the purse strings. “It won’t bring your mother back, Alvin.”

“I need to know the truth!”

The girls are practically panting—it looks like the job is in the bag.

I break in. “We’ll get on the case right away.”

“Done,” he says. “You’ll call when you need more money?”

5 8 • R i t a L a k i n

Shirley closes her eyes. Giving away their money is too painful to watch.

Sophie and Bella pinch each other gleefully.

“What can you hope to accomplish?” Shirley says to me, after taking a few long, cleansing breaths to calm down. “Romeo certainly isn’t going to confess to you, that’s for sure.”

“I honestly don’t know. But our first goal is to find out everything we can about Philip Smythe.”

“How long do you think this is gonna take?”

She demands a closing date. They can’t support this investigation forever.

Ida jumps in. “There’s no way of knowing.”

Evvie says smartly, “We have other clients, you know.”

I say, “We’re on your side, Mrs. Ferguson. We want answers quickly.”

Shirley Ferguson stands. She’s had enough.

“Wait,” I say. “Is there anything else either of you can tell me that might shed some light on what could have happened between the two of them?

Was Esther’s behavior in any way unusual? Either before or after she met Philip Smythe?”

“Not that I can think of,” Alvin says quickly.

“I can think of something,” says Shirley, after a brief pause.

We all turn to look at her.

Shirley takes a cigarette out of her purse and slips it between her lips. She knows she can’t smoke in here, but I guess it helps her feel a semblance of calm. “She changed her address.”

G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 5 9

When she has all our attention, she goes on.

“After she met Philip, she wrote and told us that from that date on we were to write her at a P.O.

Box number.”

Alvin gives her one of his what-do
-you-
know looks. “And that means something to you?”

“Yes,” she says quietly, which she does to irritate him. “It meant that she no longer received her mail at Grecian Villas. Now, why do you think she would have done that?”

“Big deal,” says Alvin.

“I would certainly think so. In Grecian Villas, all she had to do was walk downstairs from her apartment to her box in the lobby and lift out her mail. The new address meant she would have to get someone to drive her to the nearest post office and get her mail there. Why bother?”

This gives Alvin pause. “I never thought about that.”

“She didn’t want Philip to see her mail?” Ida asks.

“I wonder,” I say. “She didn’t want Philip to know she had a family?”

“My feeling exactly,” says Shirley.

“But why?” asks Sophie.

“I don’t really know.” Shirley puts the cigarette back in its pack. Then she smiles wickedly.

“Maybe she was ashamed of us.”

“But you mentioned last time that you met him,” I remind her.

6 0 • R i t a L a k i n

“Yes, we did. Once. Only two weeks before she died.”

Alvin adds, “I had business on the East Coast and I thought I’d surprise her.”

“And let me tell you,” Shirley says, “she was surprised all right. And not very happy to see us.

But Philip, he was thrilled. He chastised her ever so sweetly for keeping her lovely children from him. I thought he was wonderful.”

“I thought he was smarmy,” says Alvin. “I immediately knew my mother was in danger.”

*

*

*

When the Fergusons leave, a few minutes after admonishing us to get on the case quickly, there is a collective sigh of relief in my living room. Everyone stretches out to get more comfortable.

“What a nosy guy. Like he needed to know my private business?” Sophie is still insulted.

“Poor Shirley,” Bella whispers. “He must be awful to live with.”

“She ain’t no walk in the park, either,” Ida adds.

“Okay, so they deserve each other.” Bella feels better about it now that that’s settled.

“Okay,” comments Ida, “the first check cleared, now we’re official. Where do we go from here?”

I get up and start to clear the tea things.

“Directly to Grecian Villas, where the alleged crime took place.”

But while the girls head back to their own apartments to get ready for the drive, I quickly dial G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 6 1

Jack’s number. As it rings, I plan what to say.
I
hear you almost caught the Peeper . . .
Then the answering machine picks up. Suddenly Jack is never at home. Where does he go? Does he have any idea he’s driving me mad? Life is too short to spend it being miserable, so I leave a message this time. I tell him I
have
to see him.

NINE

GRECIAN VILL AS

We pull up to the front door of the retirement hotel where the ill-fated Esther Ferguson and Philip Smythe (a.k.a. Romeo) lived. We’ve taken the case. Alvin has instructed us to go full steam ahead and not worry about expenses. Music to our ears. Even though Shirley told us otherwise.

The girls have dressed up for their foray into the land of the obscenely wealthy. No flip-flops today.

They
ooh
and
ahhh
at the sparkling white arch-ways and pillars that grace the front of Grecian Villas’ main building.

Inside, the theme continues. Marble gray-white floors and whitewashed walls hung with paintings of ancient and modern Greece. Furniture in muted tones. Floor-to-ceiling windows everywhere. Well-dressed residents lounging about a huge lobby G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 6 3

reading or quietly chatting. Soft music piped in through hidden speakers.

“Elegant,” whispers Evvie.

“Too quiet,” retorts Ida.

“Works for me,” says Sophie to Ida. “I could live in a place like this. It fits my standards of living.”

Bella just stares—up, down, everywhere, her mouth hanging open.

A resident directs us to the office of the general manager, Rosalie Gordon. The room is soothing, the manager elegant. She is tall, in her forties, dressed simply but stylishly. Her assistant, a slightly chubby woman in her twenties, works across the room. She is introduced to us as Myra.

Like her boss, she wears muted colors. They blend in with the wall décor, as if even management should be inconspicuous to the residents of this luxury community.

After a few pleasantries about the weather, Mrs.

Gordon starts her spiel about the facility. Do we want to know about the amenities first? The health and wellness plan? Which of us is interested in joining the happy Grecian Villas family? She is busily pulling out brochures for us as she speaks.

I stop her quickly by taking out our card and handing it to her. For a moment she studies it, confused. “You’re all private investigators?”

I say, “Yes,” and the gang nods eagerly. “We’re investigating the death of Esther Ferguson.”

6 4 • R i t a L a k i n

She looks even more perplexed, as does her assistant.

“At the behest of her son, Alvin.”

“I see,” says Mrs. Gordon. “It’s not about the missing Oriental rug? I already told him it must have been lost by the movers.”

“It’s not that. It’s about how she died.”

“This surprises me. We’d already spoken to him, and I had hoped I’d allayed his fears about how his mother died.” She pauses. “Obviously not. But I’m afraid there is nothing to investigate, Mrs. Gold. It was a sad occurrence, but not unexpected after a long and comfortable life.

Apparently, Mrs. Ferguson was drinking champagne in her bath and fell asleep. She died very peacefully, I should think.”

Myra jumps in. “She was found hours later by that dear Mr. Smythe, her beloved companion.”

My ears perk up at “dear.”

“What is your opinion of Mr. Smythe?” I ask.

Myra gushes, “Wonderful, wonderful. The man is a saint.”

“I would have to concur with that,” adds Mrs.

Gordon, managing a small smile.

Evvie glances at me. That word
saint
again.

Interesting.

“How long were they together?” Evvie asks.

“Three wonderful months.” Myra lays one hand over her heart. “They met the first week Philip arrived, and it was love at first sight.”

“Where was he when Mrs. Ferguson passed G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 6 5

away?” Ida jumps in. I can see that Sophie and Bella are intimidated in this posh environment.

They stand stiffly and silently.

“Playing his usual bridge game with the Feig sisters and Alice Brown. You might speak to them.

They’ll tell you how enchanting he is.” Myra can hardly hold back her enthusiasm.

Mrs. Gordon is a bit more sedate. “All the ladies here adored him. The man was so generous with himself. On dance night, he took turns dancing with all the ladies. He was a regular Fred Astaire. On shopping days, he escorted a group of them and helped carry their bags. After all, the ratio of women to men here is ten to one, and Mr.

Smythe is a very robust seventy-five years of age.

Very friendly. Very healthy.”

“Wasn’t Mrs. Ferguson jealous?” Sophie finally gets the courage to speak. “Didn’t it make her mad?”

“Au contraire,”
says Mrs. Gordon. “Esther got a kick out of all the other ladies vying for his attention. Everyone knew she was the love of his life.”

“We’re all going to miss him. He was a shining light among us,” contributes Myra.

“Miss him?” I ask quickly.

“Yes,” Myra says mournfully, “he left soon after the funeral. He said he could no longer bear to be in a place where every little thing reminded him of his precious Esther.” With that, Myra’s eyes tear up.

At my request, Mrs. Gordon reluctantly takes 6 6 • R i t a L a k i n

us all up to the Smythe-Ferguson apartment. She explains, “I don’t usually do this. So please hurry.

Of course, new tenants live here now. All of Esther’s things were taken out by her son.”

I’m not going to find any clues here, but it’s good to get a picture of how they lived.

“Did Mr. Smythe have his own apartment?”

I ask.

“Oh, yes, briefly, but soon after they fell in love, Esther insisted they move in together.”

“Who paid the rent?” I ask.

“At first they shared it, but then Esther insisted on taking it over.” Myra giggles. “She practically twisted his arm. He was such an old-fashioned gentleman.”

We look around, suitably awed. Large, spacious, elegant. The girls are obviously shocked by the mirrored bathroom.

“The guests seem to like it.” Now Mrs. Gordon hurries us out. “My tenants are due home shortly.

I think we’ve been here long enough.”

Back in her office, I ask Mrs. Gordon if she happens to remember where Mr. Smythe lived before he came to Grecian Villas.

“Of course I do. We who have the upper eche-lon of retirement resorts know all about one another. He lived at Seaside Cliffs on the other side of the state, in Sarasota, before he came to us.”

“And now? Do you have a forwarding address?”

Indeed she does. “He’s moving the first week in G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 6 7

September to one our competitors, Wilmington House in Palm Beach. Lucky them.”

She writes down the address on the back of her card and gives it to me. “When you see him, tell him everyone at Grecian Villas misses him.”

When we are outside, we take a last lingering glance at the spacious Grecian Villas. Bella and Sophie sigh.

“Only five thousand a month,” says Evvie. “A mere pittance.”

“Who cares,” says Ida as she walks quickly toward our car. “I like where we live better.”

“I can’t wait to meet this guy,” says Sophie.

“Me, too,” says Evvie.

“Me, three,” says Bella.

“I can wait. Believe me,” says Ida, our lady of petulance, “no man can be that good.”

Yes, some can. I think of Jack, hoping he’ll have returned my call by the time we get home. I’m anxious to put this fight behind us.

But I admit I’m intrigued about “Romeo” as well. Lover or killer? I wonder. Hopefully we’ll find out soon.