Getting Old Is Murder

by Rita Lakin

  As I start to pull out of my parking space, I catch a glimpse of movement across the way in P building. Bella is tiptoeing into Greta Kronk’s apartment behind Sophie. Can the others be far in front? Now I recall hearing something about Evvie, as a member of our condominium board, giving herself the authority to look through Greta’s papers. Since there aren’t any relatives that we know of, maybe there’s a will, or something. Evvie tells me this has never happened before, that there isn’t some person to contact. So yes, we do need to do something. About her remains, for one, poor thing. And the apartment and her possessions. Having just seen what she looked like, I shudder to think what her apartment looks like.

  Naturally, the gang isn’t about to be left out of that juicy adventure, so I see she’s taken them along and I can imagine them drooling over the prospect of uncovering Greta’s secrets. Four yentas in search of dirt. What a concept! Or five. I think Harriet has started her vacation today. Now I know why they didn’t call. They don’t want me spoiling their fun by being the voice of their consciences.

  Morrie (I can’t think of him as Morgan anymore) Langford is a man of his word. He doesn’t keep me waiting, but the fact that he stands in the middle of his office tells me he intends to make this short. And I intend to be there as long as it takes to convince him. So I sit down.

  I go through it all, Selma to Francie to Greta, step by step. I am proud of my logical presentation. Finally, he sits down.

  “Wait a minute.” He stops me. He rifles through the papers on his desk. “I have the officers’ report on Mrs. Kronk.”

  “Save your eyesight,” I tell him. “It will say probably natural causes.” Now I’m behind him, reading over his shoulder. “But note where he says there was food in her mouth—”

  Langford moves away from my prying eyes. “Do you mind?”

  “Sorry.”

  “The police do not make assumptions on how a person died. They merely report what they see. If violence has obviously occurred, it becomes a crime scene and they call it in. If nothing looks suspicious, their job is over after the body is picked up by the coroner’s office.” He sees my frustration. “Look. She could have been hungry.”

  “Nobody’s that hungry. She had money for food.”

  “You know that for a fact?”

  “She had money for rent, for condo fees, for gas, electric. . . . Those things I know for a fact. And besides, she had delivery people bringing her bags of groceries.”

  “What is it you want?”

  “Once you speak to the coroner, you’ll see that I’m right. I want to know what the autopsy said. I tried calling them but they wouldn’t give out that information. I need you to call up for me.”

  “What makes you think they did an autopsy?”

  “Don’t they always?”

  “Not if the death seems natural.” He looks at the report again. “The woman is what—in her eighties? Seemingly emaciated?”

  “The woman was found near a Dumpster, for God’s sake. Isn’t that suspicious enough? Please call.”

  “Being found near a Dumpster, rather than in it, may not necessarily seem suspicious.”

  He looks at me for a long moment.

  “In your board members’ many earlier complaints to the police department about Mrs. Kronk harassing people, they refer to her as a possible mental case.”

  Boy, is he thorough. The man has done his homework. Over the last five years, as Greta’s behavior escalated, we complained plenty. But, funny, he doesn’t mention how many times we were ignored. Bring proof, they demanded of a spirit that moved invisibly in the night. Call us if she hurts somebody. Yeah. Right. When it will be too late. Well, now somebody hurt her. Permanently. I pull myself out of my dark thoughts.

  “Crazy people might eat garbage,” he insists.

  “Then again, they might not.”

  “Her death might be considered bizarre, but there’s nothing—”

  I don’t let him finish. “The poem on the door—wasn’t that bizarre?”

  “It doesn’t prove that whoever wrote the poem killed her. You say she alienated just about everybody in your buildings with her nasty poems. Somebody could have seen her dead body and then written the poem as a mean prank.”

  “Puleeze. It would mean reacting to the fact she was dead, getting this cruel idea very quickly, and then finding her paint can and rushing up to her third floor apartment and composing the poem in her style and painting the poem, returning the paint can to the Dumpster, and then getting away without being seen. Two things come to mind. Do you know how many people live right there in those two buildings? Who are forever snooping out their windows? Besides, eighty percent of them are way too old to be able to move that fast. For a prank? Not likely.”

  “But possible.”

  “Not probable. C’mon, Morrie. Excuse me. Detective Langford. The only person vicious, devious, and fast enough to do all that has to be the killer. Please call. They must have finished the autopsy by now.”

  Langford picks up the phone and dials a number. I hold my breath. He gives them the relevant information and waits. I can hardly sit still. I feel like I’m jumping out of my skin. He thanks them and looks at me.

  “Well? Well!” I shout. “What’s with the suspense? Tell me what they found.”

  He takes a deep breath. “Do you have any idea how many dead bodies show up at the morgue every day?”

  I’m beginning to get a bad feeling about this. “I don’t know and I don’t care. I only want to hear about Greta.”

  “They signed her death certificate and she’s been released to a mortuary. Natural causes, Mrs. Gold.”

  Befuddled, I ask, “You mean the autopsy didn’t find any poison?”

  “I mean they didn’t see any need for an autopsy.”

  I cannot believe this. I cannot! “Detective Langford. Hasn’t anything I’ve said to you today given you cause to believe there is at least the possibility of foul play? Come on!”

  “Let me give this some thought.”

  “Think fast. Please. Before she’s plowed under and you’ll have to dig up the dirt again.”

  I start out the door.

  “Mrs. Gold?” This is a softer tone of voice.

  I turn.

  “My father mentioned he met you recently. . . .” Obviously he’s trying to lighten my black mood. I see the beginnings of a smile on his face as he watches mine looking for a reaction.

  He’s caught me off guard. I think I am blushing. I hope I’m not. “Nice man,” I mumble. And I rush out.

  I have murder on my mind. How can I think of men? Especially a sexy, good-looking older gent with a twinkle in his eyes. Then again, I must be a fool not to. I need all this aggravation like I need the heartbreak of psoriasis.

  28

  Where Did Everybody Go?

  I am so wound up from my visit with Langford that it takes me three tries ’til I can get my car parked properly.

  I am beyond depressed. I was so sure there’d be an autopsy. How could they look at that poor body and not know something was very wrong? Just to look into those dead, tortured eyes. The terror, the knowledge that she was about to be killed. Couldn’t they see that?! We were so close to finding out the truth. . . .

  I decide to stop at the mailbox. I never did get my mail while waiting for the phone to ring.

  “Gladdy, hold up.”

  I reluctantly turn, knowing the owner of the voice. Sure enough Leo, the Sleaze, is rapidly bearing down at me.

  “Do you know where Evvie is?”

  My answer is snotty. “Am I my sister’s keeper?” Truthfully, I am, but I’m not about to tell that to Slezak. “Anyway, isn’t she in her apartment?”

  “No, I just came down. No answer. Then I figured she was in with one of the other girls, but no soap.”

  It annoys me Leo Slezak is so informed about our lives, who we pal around with, our whereabouts. Another yenta living in our midst.

  “She wasn’t at Bella’s?” Be
lla being her next-door neighbor made it a fair guess. The two of them were forever visiting back and forth.

  “Not Bella. Not Sophie. Not Ida. I didn’t see your car so I guessed you drove them somewhere, but here you are and where are they?”

  I hide my own surprise. This is atypical. “What’s the big rush to talk to my sister anyway?”

  He at least has the decency to blush. “Well, since it don’t look like Greta Kronk has relatives, I thought Evvie, being on the condo committee, would know who has the right to sell her apartment. . . .”

  Why did I bother to ask? As Sophie might say, vultures don’t change their feathers. “While we are on the subject of real estate, Mr. Slezak—”

  “Leo, please,” he interrupts.

  “Leo. What’s the news on Francie’s place? I haven’t seen any action around there.”

  “Well, business is slow. . . .”

  “And Selma?”

  “Equally slow.”

  “The Canadians are here. I don’t see you hustling.”

  “The Canadians are not buying. I thought I explained to you about that.”

  “Something’s rotten and it’s not in Canada, Slezak.”

  Slezak makes a gesture with his hand to say he is through with this discussion and walks away from me. Without turning, he calls back. “Tell her to call me. I’ll make it worth her while.” He gets into his car and drives off. I stick my tongue out after him, knowing how childish I’m being and glad of it.

  Tessie Hoffman passes me. I have to ask. “Tessie, have you seen the girls?”

  She starts toward the elevator. “No, but there’s some function in the clubhouse. Maybe they’re there.”

  “What is it, a lecture?”

  “You know—that klezmer group from Israel. It started forty minutes ago. Me, I personally hate klezmer.” With that she disappears into the elevator. Tessie doesn’t like much of anything. Except food.

  What have I got to lose? I might as well check it out. I walk down the brick path. It is starting to get dark, but the overhead lights illuminate my way. The ducks, as usual, have dirtied the path, so I have to watch my step. Out of the corner of my eye, I sense movement. Sure enough, there’s Denny in his garden. I can tell by his posture that he is digging hard at something. I wonder how he is able to see in the failing light. Walking over to him I call out, so as not to startle him.

  “Denny. Hello.”

  His back springs up and he turns toward my voice. I am close enough to see his face now. He’s sweating and he looks angry. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s only me. Gladdy.”

  “Waddya want?”

  So unlike Denny, my mind is telling me. I don’t want to hear this. Where is our gentle giant? Who is this angry man?

  “I’m just on my way to the clubhouse and I saw you digging. Just came to say hello.”

  He stands very still, waiting. I want to ask what’s wrong, but I don’t dare.

  “Have you seen my sister, Denny?”

  “No.” Abrupt. Cold.

  The garden glitters in the near darkness. There is a profusion of a beautiful white flower I do not recognize, not that I know much about plants anyway. I suddenly realize I have not seen this garden in a very long time.

  When Denny started out, he began with a very few little beginner shoots. We encouraged him by buying him a variety of different kinds of seedlings, and his confidence grew. He planted simple little rows of pretty colored foliage and shared this beauty with all of us. Now the garden is overgrown. And no longer orderly. It’s wild, almost haphazard, and out of control. Like Denny himself? I wonder. Is he going through some kind of personality change and his garden reflects this?

  “It’s getting pretty dark,” I comment mildly, trying to hint that perhaps he should go home.

  “I don’t care! I don’t want to go inside.”

  I am startled. Is this why he stays outdoors most of the time? He no longer feels comfortable in his apartment? Something is wrong with him and I must stop pretending there isn’t.

  “Why not?” I ask carefully.

  “They wanna get me. If I stay out they won’t get me.”

  “Who, Denny? Who wants to get you?”

  But he is shoveling again, ferociously, his thick hair falling over his face, covering the rage and fear. I walk away quietly, wondering what to do about this.

  The klezmer concert is ending and the residents are exiting, many humming the catchy tunes. But there is no Evvie. Or Bella. Or Ida. Or Sophie.

  Just as I reach our building, Harriet’s van pulls up and all the lost ladies pile out. I see from their shining, excited faces, they’ve had a big adventure and they are dying to tell me. Believe me, I’m dying to hear it.

  Everyone starts talking at once.

  29

  My Worst Nightmare

  Since they are all chattering at once I have to extricate their words as I would unravel a tangled line of knitting.

  Ida: “You wouldn’t believe the day we had!”

  Sophie: “Oy, I’m starving. We haven’t had a bite.”

  Harriet: “I have to leave you girls. I must get Mom her dinner. Fill Gladdy in.” With that she gaily waves and leaves us.

  Evvie: “Where were you? You should have gone with us! You missed such a day!”

  Sophie and Bella slap high fives.

  Bella: “Are we good or are we good?”

  Evvie: “You wouldn’t believe what we found.”

  Ida: “Or what we got done. What a team!”

  “Stop!” I say. “Start at the beginning.”

  Evvie grabs my arm. “Right. We got to do this in order. First come up with us to the Kronk’s apartment.”

  “You’re not going to believe,” says Bella, eyes glittering, as she pulls on my other arm.

  “I got to eat or I’ll perish,” cries Sophie.

  “So go eat,” says Bella. “We’ll go without you.”

  Sophie considers this for a moment, but hell would freeze over before she’d miss anything. “I’ll eat a cookie at Greta’s. She wouldn’t mind.”

  I must admit I am curious about the condition in which they found Greta’s apartment. Ten or more years of all of us speculating on the mystery of Greta’s existence, never able to get into her apartment, never invited, blinds always shut, no way to snoop. Ten or more years of Greta never speaking to anyone except on the phone to order in supplies. Undoubtedly going to her mailbox in the middle of the night to get her Social Security checks.

  I remember how many times we wondered if we should call the Board of Health. God knows what was crawling around in there. Even when we sicced the police on her, she never let them in. She stood inside her doorway to talk to them. When we got the social worker to visit, she did get in, but afterwards told us Greta’s file was confidential. Then turned down our request to remove her from the premises to some kind of health care facility, without saying why. Am I dying of curiosity? You bet!

  Evvie unlocks the door, reaching in to turn on the lights. And wonder of wonders—I walk around inside taking it all in—the place is immaculate.

  Evvie looks at me and grins. “Surprise!”

  So, Greta prowled all night and scrubbed all day. Wow! The furniture was as I remembered it; she’d bought nothing new. But it was polished to a shine. Every surface gleaming. The windows spotless. A condition worthy of House & Garden.

  Again the girls are grabbing and pushing me.

  “The best is yet to come,” says Ida. And I am pulled into the sunporch where a small table lamp is lit.

  Here it is: testimony and only witness to the result of Greta’s late night wanderings. Newspapers are carefully spread all over the floor and covered end to end with an astonishing collection of . . . things. In awe, I examine what Greta Kronk was able to create out of garbage. There must be nearly a hundred of these objects, these remarkable sculptures. Every size and shape imaginable. Everything we threw out as useless, Greta reinvented. Dancing costumes made from paper
doilies, tissue, and wrapping paper. Dolls from wire, wooden sticks, and bits of metal like silverware and such. Damaged lamps, chairs, torn books, pots, and pans all recreated into other forms. Broken dishes and tiles had been reglued into vases of her own design. There was some craziness in the designs, but mostly they were unique and highly imaginative. And touching. How lonely she must have been.

  Sophie is jumping up and down from excitement. “Look at the walls!” She turns on the overhead fixture and the entire room lights up. Bella and Ida join Sophie in crowding me to watch the expression on my face. “You coulda knocked us down with a feather bed when we saw!”

  I stare incredulously at the collection of picnic paper plates lining the walls. Sketches in pastel, crayon, and acrylics of the residents of Lanai Gardens. Primitive as they are, they are each pretty good likenesses of us. If there was any doubt who they were, you only needed to read the poems she wrote beneath them. The same poems she matched to the doors. And there they are, all twenty-seven of them! I have to call Barney and Conchetta at the library tomorrow. They must see this.

  The women are babbling behind me. “How about this!” “Look at that!” But I tune them out. I have to think.

  Suddenly I am getting excited. Did she . . . did she paint one of the murderer? A picture to identify, a poem to accuse? I race my eyes up and down the rows, reading and recalling each and every one. No such luck. Except . . . except . . . the very last row. There’s a nail hole. I glance down. The nail is lying on the floor behind a chair. I pick it up and hold it up to the light. I can see the tiniest trace of white cardboard still stuck to it. Again! Damn it! The killer is always one step ahead of us.

  “What are you looking for, Glad?”

  “The killer was here before us. He took his poem.”

  Bella looks around fearfully. “Oy gevalt! Maybe he’s still here!”