Getting Old Is Murder

by Rita Lakin

  “Maybe if we don’t answer . . .” Evvie says softly.

  “Dream on,” I say.

  From across the parking area, Bella’s third-floor door opens and she peers out. “Am I missing something?” she calls out in her whispery little voice.

  Evvie and I are now on the ground floor tiptoeing to the car. God bless them—they may be half deaf and half blind and well on their way to senility, but they don’t miss a trick.

  Now we pass the Feder apartment, 119, which is two doors away from my parking spot. Esther Feder is at her usual post, sitting in the doorway behind the screen, so the bugs won’t get her. Which is actually a bizarre sight if you think about how she looks with her head pressed against the dark mesh partition. She raps at the screen to get our attention. “Where are you girls going in all this heat?”

  Ida, the acrobat, now hangs over the balcony. “So, what’s the big hurry?”

  Sophie trills, “If you’re stopping at Publix, maybe you’ll bring me a pint of sour cream? I’ll pay you back later.” Which is a joke. Sophie borrows money from all of us, and we’ve yet to get a penny back. Ida calls that the lifestyle of the rich and disgusting.

  The three-ring chorus is getting louder.

  “We can’t just ignore them. We have to tell them something,” Evvie says.

  “You’re the writer. Make something up.” I open the door and turn on the air so I can cool off the car.

  “We’re going out on blind dates,” she calls out.

  “That’s the best you can come up with?” I say.

  “Oh, yeah? They’d have to be desperate to want you old ladies.” And now dear Hy, the snake charmer, comes out of his apartment carrying the garbage, adding his two bits.

  All the clowns are laughing. The idea of us having dates is just too funny.

  Ida especially loves this. “Who’s your matchmaker, Yentl Frankenstein?”

  Esther, excited, now pushes her screen door open so she can see better. “You got dates? Maybe you can fix my Harriet up?”

  There is a loud clatter from inside the kitchen and Harriet appears quickly, wiping her hands on her apron. “Oh, Mom,” she says, embarrassed. “Please!”

  “Well, you told me to sit in the door and spy on them.”

  Harriet turns red in the face. “That’s not funny!” She spins her mother’s wheelchair around sharply. “Go inside now! Eat your lunch. You know I have no time for this. I have to get back to the hospital!”

  “I didn’t mean anything. Don’t hit me.” Esther wheels herself in quickly.

  Harriet looks at us. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Sometimes Mom can be so difficult.” Then she smiles and leans in toward us and whispers. “You really have dates?”

  Evvie whispers back. “Of course not. We’re going to the police station and we don’t want anybody to know. You know what yentas they all are.”

  “Evvie!” I say sharply. “My sister, queen of the yentas.”

  Harriet joins in the conspiracy. “I knew it! You do think there’s a connection between their deaths. Don’t worry, I won’t say a word. Good luck. Let me know how it goes.”

  We get into the car and make our escape, leaving a lot of disappointed faces peering after us.

  “I’m sorry,” Evvie says. “I didn’t think it mattered if I told Harriet.”

  “I just didn’t want anyone to know until we were sure there was a crime. You know how rumors spread.”

  “Yeah, like cream cheese on bagels,” she says with a sigh.

  We leave Lanai Gardens and I make our turn onto Oakland Park Boulevard, and I can finally breathe a sigh of relief.

  “Come to think of it,” Evvie says, “when was the last time you and I had some time alone away from the gang?”

  “When you had to cover that speech by that Israeli fund-raiser. No one else wanted to go. If I hadn’t had to drive you, neither would I.”

  “Oh, yeah. He lectured on ‘Is Israel In Trouble?’”

  “Which YOU slept through. Though I did love your review.”

  Evvie bristles, ready to be insulted. “Why, what was wrong with it?”

  “Nothing, because it was so . . .” I stop. “A senior moment. What’s the word that means ‘short and sweet’?”

  “I don’t know. What’s wrong with ‘short and sweet’?”

  “Because I can’t stand it when I can’t think of the word that won’t come out of my mouth when I want it.”

  “Good? Was the word good? My review was good?”

  “That’s not the word. Never mind.”

  “My review wasn’t good?”

  “That’s not the point. I am talking about my loss of memory.”

  “Now you’ve got me not remembering. I don’t remember what I wrote in that review.”

  “You said, ‘Yes. Israel is always in trouble.’”

  “That was it?”

  “Yes. It was pithy.” Now I get excited. “That was the word—pithy!”

  Evvie points. “There it is. The police station.”

  As I make the right turn from Oakland Park Boulevard into the parking area, I say as sternly as I can, “Evvie, promise me you’ll let me do all the talking.”

  “Mum’s the word.”

  We are finally shown into the office of Detective Morgan Langford, and I’m already exhausted. The waiting seems endless. The paperwork, too. The sergeant at the front desk would not let us go any further until we first explained to him what we wanted. I held my ground. I would only speak to someone in Homicide. Why should I waste my time going through it twice? Finally, I used the “age card” and pretended senility. He was glad to be rid of me. But, I think, as punishment, he sent me to Detective Langford.

  It’s amazing that in all my seventy-five years, I have never really seen or been in a police station. In movies, in books, but not in reality. I have to admit to a little shiver of excitement. I want to yell out, “Hey, Agatha, look at me!”

  Evvie is also all a-twitter in her first police station appearance, but she is off in another art form. She is preparing to become the actress she should have been. Suddenly she has an attitude. She is trying to look sophisticated and worldly. I just hope she doesn’t decide to sing.

  Detective Langford is busy reading the very little information I grudgingly filled in while waiting. This gives me a chance to study him. He’s in his thirties, very, very tall, and skinny. His clothes hang on him. He seems to favor loud checks and plaids. He is very relaxed. Maybe too relaxed.

  “So,” he says, “you insisted on talking to Homicide. Are you planning one, reporting one, or looking for one?”

  And cynical.

  Before I can stop her, Sarah Bernhardt begins to emote. “We are here to report two murders. They are Selma Beller, who kept a very clean house, and Francie Charles, who was the best pastry maker in Fort Lauderdale.”

  “When did these murders occur?” asks long and lanky, trying to keep a straight face.

  “Evvie . . .” I growl, but she ignores me.

  “One month ago and one week ago.”

  “How come they haven’t been reported?”

  “Because nobody knows they were murdered. Everybody says they had heart attacks, but we know better. Only my sister, who is an expert in murder mysteries, and myself, a writer for the Lanai Gardens Free Press, know the truth.”

  “Are you finished yet?” I hiss at her. I notice she doesn’t mention that the “Press” is a throwaway.

  “Would you like to add to this, Mrs. Markowitz?”

  “I’m Gold, she’s Markowitz, my blabbermouth sister. I know this may sound far-fetched to you, but two women did die in our buildings. But their deaths . . .”

  Evvie obviously can’t stand my slow, logical pace. “Too many coincidences. Agatha Christie doesn’t believe in them and neither do we!” Pleased with her pronouncement, she folds her hands, waiting for the detective to take over the case.

  “And what are these coincidences?”

  Evvie blabs, “Tell h
im about the cake Francie never ate and that the girls both died on the night before their birthdays and that Denny had keys to their apartments and they both died reaching for the phone.”

  Hearing the way my sister lays out our case, I could just about imagine Langford’s opinion of us. He is drumming those long bony fingers impatiently on the desk.

  “And these are the devastating facts that make you suspect murder?”

  Evvie, totally missing his sarcasm, blathers on. She gets a brainstorm. “What about the serial killer? He kills old women. What’s his M.O.? That means his method,” she explains to the Homicide detective.

  If his tongue was any farther back in his cheek, he’d choke. He asks dramatically, “Interested in the M.O.’s, are we? Well, our killer sneaks into apartments of women who live alone. Late at night, he creeps up on them when they are sleeping and strangles his victims. Were your victims strangled?”

  “They didn’t look strangled. But then, we’re no experts,” Evvie grandly admits.

  I’ve had it. I reach over and smack my hand over Evvie’s mouth. Evvie, eyes widening, looks at me, horrified. She tries to speak, but I keep my hand firmly pressed on her mouth. I turn to Langford. “Listen. I know none of this sounds incriminating—but there is something wrong with their deaths. Can’t you give it a little time and investigate?”

  Langford gets up—rather, it’s more like unfurling himself—and he is an awesome six foot six or so. Evvie gasps in pleasure amidst her pain. He is moving toward the door, which is his way of moving us to the door—and out.

  “I really would like an autopsy,” I say in desperation.

  “You wouldn’t like it. It hurts like hell,” he says and roars with laughter.

  As firmly as I can, I make my last-ditch stand. “I think they were poisoned. I am a reasonable, rational woman, unlike my sister here.” With that I let go of her, and glaring at her, I dare her to make a sound. “Please do not condescend to me with bad jokes. I do not make such statements lightly. These women were murdered. In my heart I know I’m right.”

  He opens the door. “Well, thanks for dropping in.” And we are dismissed.

  As we head for the door, Evvie, oblivious, punches my arm, delighted with her premiere. “How’d we do, sis?” she asks.

  I tell her she deserves an Academy Award. And I deserve what I got for taking her along.

  All the way home, I simmer. The detective wouldn’t take me seriously because I’m old in his eyes. Well, I’ll show him, that snotty string bean.

  I wake up suddenly, look at the clock. It’s nearly eleven. I must have fallen asleep reading. The light is still on. Suddenly I am jumping out of bed, throwing my robe and slippers on. Scrambling through my junk drawer for my flashlight. I grab my keys and I’m out the door. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to walk around alone at night, but this can’t wait until morning.

  Maybe I should wake Evvie. No. Coward. It’s not the middle of the night. What am I afraid of?

  I know what I’m afraid of.

  I truly believe there is a killer loose around here.

  It’s a beautiful night with a wild, full moon. The kind of moon that once upon a time meant romance, not terror. I walk down the stairs. I tell myself, See, there are a few people still up. I can see the flickering of TV sets. Then I giggle. Maybe I’ll run into Greta Kronk. Maybe she’ll tell me what’s so great about digging around in Dumpsters in the middle of the night.

  So far so good. Now I have to walk around the corner. It seems darker as I make the turn, but that’s silly. Between the moon and the streetlights, I can see what’s ahead. But then again, I can also be seen.

  I curse the memory lapses that come with getting old. Two wasted days to remember what should have clicked the instant I saw it. And now I’m walking around in the dark.

  I jump, startled, then realize it’s a stupid palm tree swaying and what I saw was its shadow. But, finally, I’m at Francie’s apartment. I curse the key. I curse my hands that won’t stop shaking. When the lock finally gives, I go straight for the kitchen. I don’t even turn the lights on, the flashlight will be good enough.

  The proof is in the pudding, I think, giggling with relief that I got here safely. The poison will be in the chocolate. I will bring it to Detective Langford and say, “Here’s your proof.” He’ll have to listen to me!

  I flash the light over the sink. Even as I see it, my mind refuses to accept it. No!!! Damn it, no! The chocolate crumbs are gone! Someone has scrubbed the sink clean.

  I crumple into Francie’s favorite armchair and start to cry. In my mind the heroes and heroines of every murder mystery I have ever read are wagging their fingers at me, shaking their heads ruefully. We taught you so much and you learned nothing. Failure. You had it and you lost it. You old woman, you old failure.

  Whatever courage got me here is gone now. I sit in the armchair all night, just an old lady waiting, trusting in the safety of daylight.

  17

  Canasta

  It’s Sophie’s turn to host the weekly canasta game. Not my favorite place to play cards. First of all, Sophie’s apartment is enough to give me a headache even before we play. Her decor is what Ida calls Early Ongepatshket. This is almost untranslatable, but the closest meaning would be overdone to the max. If there is an empty space, something must be put in it. And something is never enough. Too much is never enough. Why one doily on a couch, when five would be better? If you get my drift.

  In everyone else’s apartment, we get served some nuts and raisins, tea and maybe sponge cake. Not in the home of Sophie, the bountiful. A huge bowl of fruit. Boxes of candy. Later on, coffee and three kinds of pie. Bella calls her generous. Ida calls her a show-off.

  Ida is not here yet. But when she arrives, the battle of the air conditioner will begin. Sophie will want subarctic temperatures. Ida will want the tropics. Speak of the devil. Here she is.

  “Turn down the goddamn air,” she announces before even getting through the door.

  Sophie folds her arms. “No. My house, my rules. In your house we sweat like pigs!”

  Bella, the pacifist, says meekly. “Put on your sweater, Ida dear.”

  The card game begins.

  “So how much do we need to open?” Bella asks.

  “It’s one-twenty. It’s always one-twenty!” Ida snaps at her.

  “I forget.”

  Evvie asks Bella, “Did you bring your hearing aid?”

  “What?” she asks.

  “Never mind.”

  “So, partner, are you ready to open?” Ida asks Evvie.

  “Already, they’re starting. This is a card game, not a discussion group.” Sophie glares at them.

  “I’m close,” Evvie says, ignoring Sophie.

  It is my turn to sit out the game. We play a round robin, alternating who gets to play. Bella would prefer never to touch a card since there are already four of us, but the two sadists insist she can’t just sit and watch. She hates to play as much as they hate playing with her. What can I tell you? This is the way it is. I’m glad I’m sitting out. I don’t think I could concentrate.

  It’s Ida’s turn. She looks at Evvie. Evvie comments ever so lightly, “Have you seen Hy lately?”

  “Yes, indeed I have,” says Ida, putting down a jack. Evvie blows her a kiss.

  Sophie glares. She knows what they’re up to. “Cheater,” she mutters. “As if you give a hoot about Hy Binder!”

  Ida stands up. “How dare you!”

  Sophie says, getting surly, “Next time it’ll be ‘and how is dear old Lo’ and you’ll give her a low card—”

  Evvie throws her cards down on the table. “That’s it! You have some nerve!”

  Bella looks from one to the other thoroughly confused.

  War is about to begin.

  “Girls,” I say, “we need to talk. Girls!”

  They take one look at my face and know something is up. Reluctantly, they throw their cards into the middle of the table, still simmerin
g, except for Bella, who is relieved.

  It takes a few minutes for them to calm down and plump up pillows and generally get comfortable. Finally I have their attention.

  “You all wondered where Evvie and I went the other afternoon, I’m sure.”

  Ida answers huffily. “We certainly did.”

  I drop my bombshell. “We went to the police station. To report the murders of Francie and Selma.”

  For maybe three seconds there is a stunned silence. Then they are all talking at once in a barrage of words. Murder? Francie? Selma? Not possible. Oy gevalt! What are you talking about? You’re kidding, right? Police, really the police? What did you say? What did they say?

  Finally Evvie bangs on the table. “Shah! Be quiet and you might learn something!”

  Slowly they settle down, all eyes glued on me in horror and excitement.

  Bella looks confused. “You mean you didn’t have dates?”

  I say, “No, Bella, no dates.”

  Evvie, of course, jumps in. “Gladdy thinks they were both murdered but that cop wouldn’t believe her!”

  “After he just dismissed us as crackpots, I tried to forget about it, but Francie won’t let me. I keep hearing her in my head: Find out who did it. You have to. It was the crumbs that convinced me.”

  A chorus of “What crumbs?” follows.

  Evvie looks at me suspiciously. “You never mentioned crumbs.”

  “I know,” I say guiltily. “It was the crumbs that Sophie found in Francie’s sink. Chocolate cake crumbs. If Francie didn’t eat the cake she brought home from Continental, where did they come from?”

  Evvie is hurt. “You didn’t tell me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I told you Francie wouldn’t leave a dirty sink! I knew it!” Sophie is delighted with herself.

  “Maybe she didn’t like the cake from Continental,” says Bella. “Maybe she baked a new one.” Then gleefully, “From her new cookbook.” Bella is pleased with her theory.

  “And ate an entire cake herself? Puleeze,” says Evvie disdainfully. “Our health nut who eats tiny portions?” Evvie realizes what she just said. “Who used to eat . . .” She stops, on the verge of tears.