by Rita Lakin
Bella giggles. ‘Don’t let her fool you. She really wants to shop in The Dollar Store over there. She loves dollar stores.’
I am on to that ploy. Sophie’s slogan is: ‘I never met a sale I didn’t love.’
Sophie huffs. ‘Is that so terrible? I’ll only be inches away. If Izzy shows up, which I personally think is doubtful, I can run back fast.’
‘Not a good idea,’ I say. ‘If you see Izzy, he’ll see you. And with your problem legs, running is not an option. You’ll never get back into the car in time.’
Bella sighs. ‘I also wouldn’t mind a quick peek in The Dollar Store. They have such great bargains.’
Ida perks up. ‘I say we vote,’ sure it will be three to two. Away from Tori, she’s reverted back to her usual grumpy, opinionated self.
Knowing her devious plan, I say, ‘Don’t bother. As boss of this operation, my rule is no distractions on stakeouts.’ It reminds me of that great line in that all-girls’ baseball movie, when Tom Hanks yells, ‘There is no crying in baseball!’ I’m just as firm. I can’t resist. I borrow the line, showing them I mean it. ‘There is no shopping on stakeouts!’
‘Killjoy,’ whispers Sophie, loud enough for me to hear.
Another dreary hour goes by. Dramatic complaints about sweating, and failure of deodorants. Worries that our water supply will be gone. I doubt it, since they brought eight gallons. Also that the water is getting warm. They insist they can only drink ice water. I know better. Next up will be the necessary bathroom breaks. I tune the mumbling out. I am a cruel taskmaster. It’s a matter of been there, done that, with them. Ya give ’em a hand, they take an arm.
To pass away the waiting time, Evvie and I have been taking turns reading books. I read, she watches. She reads, I watch. Now I’m reading. Another great British mystery written by Agatha Christie.
Evvie is the one on duty, and suddenly she elbows me. ‘Look. Up. There.’ I glance to where she’s pointing. Across the vacant lot to Izzy’s place. There he is in his back yard.
We’ve been out-ed? Yup. Our stakeout has failed.
I turn the air-conditioning on full blast. And start the engine. I announce, ‘Stakeout aborted.’ Which wakes up my three useless private eyes, snoring in the back seat. ‘Nap time over.’
We park in front of Izzy’s house and I remind them again, our cover story is – we were in the neighborhood and we decided to drop in. I want to feel him out as to why he didn’t go for the steal today.
Evvie says, ‘Logic check. What if he asks why would we be in this neighborhood? Off our regular beaten path?’
‘Why?’ I can’t resist. ‘Because we love dollar stores.’ I smirk.
Behind me I hear angry snorts.
‘Delighted that you dropped in today, being that you were in my neighborhood.’ He knows that we know.
‘So, you want to hear about how does my garden grow?’
We are in Izzy’s back yard, next to his garage and adjoining metal shed. Our backs are to the stores we just came from. Izzy is dressed in what he is presenting to us as a gardener’s outfit. Denim overalls, plaid cotton shirt, dirty boots, and straw hat. With rake in hand. And an unlit corncob pipe in his mouth. The very model of a ‘gentleman farmer.’ I can’t wait to see him at Christmas-time in his Santa costume. I bet the minute he spotted us he put on this theatrical costume, sneaky guy. He knew we would be coming after him. But I’m on to his tricks.
‘You will laugh,’ he continues. ‘I told you of a new hobby. This is it. I am mad about succulents. Yuccas really turn me on.’ He points at his pots ready to plant. Evvie pretends avid interest. The trio is still half-asleep, sitting on a scrolled iron bench, fanning themselves because of the heat. I watch Izzy’s performance with cynical admiration. He should have been an actor, that phony.
Instant-farmer Izzy points and narrates. ‘Here’s my aloe vera. Anytime you girls want a skin cream, I’ll squeeze some out for you. Do admire the perky Yucca baccata. And how about my tall and spiky San Pedro cactus? There’s my Barbary fig. I threw in some lavender to give me pretty flowers and a wonderful aroma. The pokeweed is definitely my favorite.’
I wonder how long it took him to memorize the names on the tags.
‘The best part is how little water my babies need. Energy-saving, yes? What do you think – leave them in their original clay pots or plant? I’m trying to decide.’
‘That important decision must be yours,’ I say, tamping down the sarcasm. I let him ramble on a bit more, and then I insist we must be off to home.
Suddenly we all jump. Bells, loud bells are clanging. Almost deafening.
‘What’s that?’ I ask Izzy, needing to shout to be heard. The girls cover their ears.
‘You can set your clocks on such a noise. Every Sunday, right at noon. The church down the street rings those bells. No sleeping past noon with that racket blasting. Makes sure everybody gets to church on time.’
Over the bells, I yell, ‘Well, time to head out.’
We race, ears covered, to the front of his house to get away from the noise.
As we drive away, he waves and calls, ‘Drop in anytime. Mi casa es su casa.’
I smile sardonically, thinking – I’ll get you yet, Señor Diablo. The costume you’ll wear then will be one with gray stripes.
TWENTY-TWO
At the Cop Shop
Evvie and I stare at the chart on Morrie’s wall. By now, we’ve convinced him that Grandma Bandit is good old Grandpa Bandit, in drag this time. He’s definitely the one we caught last time around, robbing every SunTrust branch. And we know for sure, this time around, he’s the one hitting all the Starbucks.
Morrie points out that every robbed Starbucks is circled in red. Plus there are other red circles. Morrie explains. ‘We had men at many of the Starbucks. He hits a couple of them on a Wednesday, but we guessed wrong. So we send men to another one on the next Wednesday and what does he do? He doesn’t go to a Starbucks, he hits Storks Coffee Shop. Pick another pattern day and he’s been to Gran Formo Café or 11th Street Annex. He’s always one step ahead of us. We’re beginning to be laughed at. Especially in all the coffee shops in the county. This weird old “lady” holds them up and where are we? Somewhere across town at the wrong coffee shop. The ones he’s already hit are mad at us for not figuring it out.’
‘There’s only one Starbucks left in all of Broward County,’ Morrie shows us by pointing to the one black circle on the chart.
Evvie grins. ‘And we know exactly where that is – right in his own back yard. He’s saving the last for best. He’s playing with you.’
Morrie shrugs, ‘And he’s practically right in my own back yard, since this station is four blocks from where Izzy lives.’
I say, ‘We tried to second-guess him, too. We were on stakeout, but he was on to us. This time I know we can nab him. And we’ll walk him right down here for you to meet and greet, then you can show him to his new home in his very own comfy jail cell.’
Morrie folds his arms. ‘It’s a guess what day he’ll choose this next time.’
I shake my head. ‘He’s too smart. He’ll smell you a mile away, and he’ll go elsewhere. We know exactly how to get him, using his own old tricks. Let us take over.’
‘But what if he’s armed?’
Evvie and I giggle. ‘Not likely,’ I say. Remember his “weapon” last time?’
Morrie laughs, too, remembering the fake gun in the deli sandwich. ‘He’s upped his class. This time he’s using a baguette.’
Evvie can’t resist. ‘If he isn’t at the coffee shops, he’s busy gardening.’
That cracks both of us up. ‘Come on, Morrie, let us be the ones laughed at if we’re wrong.’
‘Okay, I’ll give you one shot at it. Better not embarrass me by failing.’
‘Not a chance.’
‘And afterwards, I want no soft-hearted “let him out on bail”. I know you girls.’ Morrie walks us to the door. ‘How are you doing on you other “case”, the m
ysterious Tori and Grandma Ida?’
‘Slow but steady,’ comments Evvie.
‘Mostly slow,’ I grumble. ‘She’s still wandering around and we haven’t a clue why or what or who she’s looking for. Driving Ida crazy.’
‘And what about my dad?’
I smile. ‘He’s keeping away, leaving us to work it out.’
‘By the way,’ Morrie can’t resist chortling, ‘about your pal, Izzy, again. Hope you guess the right day for his next heist. Maybe you should see a gypsy and get a reading.’
Even though I know he cares, my son-in-law still treats us as if we’re cute, silly little old ladies. He considers us playing at being private eyes, even though he knows all our successes. I guess it’s just a male thing. I adore him anyway.
With all the information on Izzy’s chart in hand, we are shown out on to the street. He’ll eat his words when we solve his case.
Wait till I tell Jack we are partnered with Morrie. He’ll get a kick out of it.
TWENTY-THREE
The Retirement Home
Tori stands outside the door of this small stucco house in the area called Sunrise. She looks around making assumptions. There was an attempt at a lawn and garden that failed. A few straggly daisies tried to push their way through some grass and cement. No one named Woodley who is living here has gardening skills. A child’s broken tricycle lies near the front step. The house needs painting. A home in trouble.
She thinks this means disappointment. Young child, young parents. Probably no older folks. But, anyway, she’s here, and this Woodley is next on her list. She had tried calling, but kept getting the answering machine.
She rings the doorbell. Hears chimes inside. She waits. Nothing. Tries knocking. Nothing. Assumes no one is home. But she rings one more time.
The front door opens slightly. A small shape peers out at her.
‘Hello. My name is Tori. May I talk to you?’
The door widens slightly. ‘You’re already talking to me.’
She faces a small child, maybe seven or eight. Curly reddish hair, bright blue eyes and with what looks like jam on his face. Cute little guy. Clothes on backward. Socks don’t match.
‘Is your mother home?’
‘No.’
‘Your father?’
‘He doesn’t live here anymore.’
Oops. Divorce? Is Woodley Mom’s married or single name? How do I find out?
‘Maybe Grandma?’
‘She’s dead.’
The child hops from leg to leg, his hand still on the doorknob.
Oops again. What does she do now? ‘How about your grandfather?’
‘He’s at Place of Peace.’
Oh, oh, another dead relative. Then, realizing; ‘Are you home all alone?’
‘I have a babysitter.’
‘Oh, where is she?’
‘She’s in the living room; she’s very busy with her friends on her Facebook.’
This is a waste of time. ‘Your last name is Woodley. Right?’
‘Yup.’
‘Could you tell me your mother’s first name?’
‘Ask her yourself. She gets home at four.’ He’s now jumping in place.
She’s losing this kid’s interest. One last try. Would this child even know? ‘What’s your grandparents’ first names?’ Has she found the right Woodley family too late?
‘Grandma was Betty and you can ask Grandpa yourself.’
‘How can I do that if he’s at his place of peace?’
‘You just go to room 311. But it’s a waste of time. He won’t remember you. When I go to see him he calls me Don, but that’s my uncle’s name.’
Aha! Not dead. A retirement home.
‘Thanks, not Don. But you shouldn’t open doors to strangers.’
‘Okay.’
With that he slams the door in her face.
Place of Peace is in Plantation off of University Drive near West Broward. Not too far from Lanai Gardens and her not-so-beloved Grandma Ida.
Good name for it. A lot of peace and quiet. Large lawn, too well-kept, with nobody out on it. She walks up the driveway to an all-white building. Silence everywhere. Even the birds seem to keep away. Too depressing?
Tori decides not to ask anyone anything. Just walk in like she belongs there and see what happens. Since there’s only one floor, she’ll follow the number 3s till she finds Grandpa Woodley.
So far, so good. Inside, and no one is paying any attention to her. Nurses busily moving back and forth. Wheelchaired seniors lining the walls doing nothing, some dozing. I hope Grandpa is in his room.
There is a kind of odor everywhere. Sprayed stuff to hide old-age smells? She is not sure she ever wants to get old. Grandpa and Grandma Steiner were so disgusting; what’s the point?
Here’s the room. She looks in. Good. Only one bed, one person, and surely the old guy lying there watching TV must be Mr Woodley.
She knocks lightly and walks in.
‘About time you got here. Did you bring the corned beef?’ He grumps at her.
Guess he thinks I’m family. ‘Sorry, I forgot.’
He looks puzzled. ‘Or was it pastrami?’
A nurse stops at the door, and glares at her. ‘How could you break the rules? You need to wear the uniform at all times! Or don’t bother to come.’
A young girl of about sixteen walks past and Tori sees her dressed in a red and white outfit. And she gets it. She’s a candy-striper – a high school volunteer.
‘Sorry. I forgot; I’ll remember next time,’ Tori tells the nurse, lying easily.
The nurse huffs and walks off.
Tori smiles at the elderly man. ‘Hello, Mr Woodley.’
He lifts up a book on his side table. ‘Read! Read! About time you got here.’
She takes the book and pretends to look puzzled. ‘But I forgot your first name.’
He grins. ‘Hey, that’s my routine. I remember everything damn well, but they expect me to be senile, so I don’t disappoint them.’
They smile at one another. ‘I promise to keep your secret.’
‘Who are you? You aren’t Susie, my usual candy-striper.’
‘My name is Tori Steiner and I’m trying to find a Mr and Mrs Woodley who were friends with my parents, Fred and Helen Steiner. They used to live in Florida, then moved to California. I’m looking for a couple who would be in their fifties or so. A daughter or son, perhaps? Are they in that age group?’
‘I’m Dick Woodley. My son, who left my daughter-in-law and his child, and whom I shall never forgive, is Stuart, and his unhappy wife is Polly. They are in their thirties and I need to disappoint; I’m sure they never knew your parents.’
Tori can’t hide her frustration. ‘I’m so sorry I bothered you.’ Tori starts for the door.
Mr Woodley asks, ‘Does that mean you won’t read to me?’ He winks at her.
Tori returns, smiling, and pulls a chair to sit on next to the bed. She opens the book. ‘My pleasure,’ she says, smiling, and starts reading.
TWENTY-FOUR
Sophie and Bella go Shopping
Sophie waves her cane eagerly at the glistening turquoise car making its way toward them. ‘Here he comes,’ she says, poking Bella’s arm.
‘His car matches my sneakers,’ Bella says happily.
They are waiting at what used to be their special getaway place, at the front gate of Lanai Gardens. Far enough away so that they won’t be seen by Gladdy or Evvie or Ida. A place to wait, when they want to do something that maybe the others wouldn’t approve of. Like today.
For a moment, they see no one at the wheel. Is the car driving itself? No, it’s just short, funny-looking Izzy, as expected. Their driver pulls up and jumps out, with a dazzling bow from the waist practically to the cement. A car so big and a driver so little.
Bella pinches Sophie. ‘Look how dressed up Izzy is?’ She giggles every time she does an ‘Izzy is’ comment. ‘He’s wearing splats on his black-and-white shoes.’
&nb
sp; ‘I think those are called spats. Wonder where he got those old styles.’
Bella claps her hands. They can hear music blasting from his radio. ‘“Oh! My Papa”! I love that song. I hope he leaves that Eddie Fisher on.’
‘Forget the music,’ Sophie says, sounding like a person who would carry a whip. ‘We are going out on a serious mission.’
Bella sighs. ‘You always have to be a party pooper.’
Sophie pretends a great interest in cars, as if she knows anything about that subject. ‘Love your wheels,’ she says, wanting to sound hip. ‘Is it new?’
Izzy grins. ‘You are looking at a piece of history. This is a gen-u-wine Ford Edsel V-8 coupé I purchased in 1959. Color, Light Aqua, a beauty. People laughed when I bought it.’
He waits for a response; the girls have no idea what he expects them to say.
Izzy gives them a short auto lesson. ‘It was Henry Ford’s first and only failure. Named for his son. His timing was off. I paid two thousand bucks brand new and they were glad to be rid of it.’
The girls, unmoving and clueless, are waiting for a punch line.
‘Guess. Guess how much it’s worth today?’ He snaps his fingers.
Sophie tries. ‘Two thousand, five hundred?’
Izzy is peacock proud. ‘Not even close, babe. It’s now an antique. I’ve already been offered forty-one thousand!’
‘Wow!’ both girls say dutifully. In awe, but they don’t know why, really.
With another gallant bow, their snazzily outfitted chauffeur opens the door for them. ‘Hop in and let’s take care of those hurting legs.’
On their way to Miami Beach, Izzy asks, ‘How come you didn’t call for an Uber? Or Lyft? They are everywhere and cheaper than a taxi. Not that I mind driving you, as long as it isn’t next Tuesday, when I’m gonna be busy.
‘What’s anuber?’ Bella asks.
‘You know. You hit the app on your iPhone …’
‘What’s an ap? And we don’t got any of those phones.’
‘Never mind. Forget I asked.’
Izzy pulls into the garage at what looks like a high-rise fancy hotel, within a row of many luxurious hotels along the famous beach. The girls are surprised.