Getting Old Is Murder

by Rita Lakin

  Ida sniffs. “In your dreams.”

  Bella keeps shaking her head. “I just can’t get over it. How could it be?”

  “How could what be?” asks Ida.

  “Harriet, a killer.” Bella reaches for an onion bagel for comfort. “And she was such a nice Jewish girl.”

  As they pile around the kitchen table, digging into the basket of bagels, they plan the day. Ida must go to the bank, Bella to the cleaners. Sophie looks at me, with my head full of curlers. “Looking at you reminds me. I could use a trip to the beauty parlor. I’m thinking, maybe, of dyeing again. I’m fed up with Champagne Pink. What do you think about Strawberry Blonde?”

  “Now that you mention it,” says Evvie, eyeing me suspiciously, “what’s with the curlers?”

  “I’m setting my hair. What does it look like?” It’s starting, I think to myself. I am reminded of Bette Davis’s famous line in All About Eve: “Fasten your seatbelts, it’s gonna be a bumpy night.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since today.”

  Now everybody stops to study me. Ida picks up my hand as if I had leprosy. “Is that nail polish?”

  “Curlers? Nail polish? What’s going on?” Evvie wants to know.

  “I’m giving myself a makeover.”

  “Since when are you a fashionable plate?” Sophie asks.

  “Hey,” I throw at them, “you’re all big-shot detectives now, so detect.”

  With time only to grab a macaroon or two for dessert, they have at it.

  “You’re maybe going somewhere tonight?” Sophie ventures.

  “Yes. Out,” I answer.

  “To the library?” Bella adds.

  “Who wears pink polish to a library?” Ida argues.

  Sophie is now sniffing about the apartment for clues. Evvie is standing with her arms folded. I can tell she doesn’t like this one bit. It feels like it won’t be good news for her. And she’s right.

  Sophie shrieks from the bathroom. “There’s a bottle of Chanel Number Five on the sink!”

  Evvie glares at me. “You haven’t worn perfume since your daughter’s wedding eighteen years ago!”

  By now Ida and Bella have dashed into the bedroom in time to hear Sophie say, “And take a gander at this!”

  Ida calls out. “It’s her best silk shantung.”

  Evvie’s voice is ominous now. “Ditto worn at the same wedding.”

  “Not really,” I correct her. “That was blue. This one’s green. It’s only seven years old.”

  “And her good fake pearls,” Bella now calls. “With the matching teardrop earrings.”

  The girls all converge back in the dining area. Now everyone is staring at me.

  “I detect,” says Ida officiously, “since you’re getting so gussied up, you are going someplace nice.”

  “I also detect,” says Bella, “since you didn’t tell us about it, you’re going by yourself.”

  “Where would you go alone?” Evvie demands to know. “You take me everywhere.”

  I take a deep breath and plunge in. “Who said I was going alone?”

  Silence. Finally, “So . . . who are you taking?” Ida demands.

  “Actually, I’m going on a date.”

  Shock. Surprise. Consternation.

  “Waddaya talking?” Sophie says, irritated. “You haven’t had a date in a hundred years!”

  I smile. “Not quite. It only seems like it.”

  “A date?” Evvie asks, genuinely startled.

  “Really? A date?” Bella asks, grinning.

  “Don’t I speak English? A. Date. With. A. Man!”

  “Impossible,” Evvie says. “What man?!”

  “A man I met a short while ago.” I’m really not trying to torture them. I’m just afraid to tell them.

  “Oy,” Sophie says. “Say it already. This is like having a mammogram from a nurse with icy fingers.”

  Evvie is flabbergasted. “How can you meet anybody? You’re never out of my sight for a minute.”

  I grin impishly. “Well, obviously I was out of your sight for more than a minute. I met him the day Greta soaped my car and flattened my tire. When I went to that bookstore party near the garage.”

  “That was weeks ago. How come you didn’t tell me?” Evvie is now indignant.

  “I was going to, but then Greta got killed and it went right out of my mind.”

  “Oh. So it’s a first date,” says interrogator Evvie.

  “Actually, a second.”

  Evvie is speechless. Ida picks up the grilling. “That slipped your mind, too?”

  “Actually, I was mad at you guys then. You just had Greta cremated.”

  “That’s no excuse!” Evvie says sharply.

  “Excuses, excuses,” singsongs Sophie.

  “Yeah, you just didn’t want to tell us,” Ida says. “Why? Is he ugly?”

  “Actually, he’s very handsome and actually, he lives in Lanai Gardens and actually, you all know him.”

  “Enough with the actuallys already,” says Ida. “So actually, what’s his name already?”

  I take a deep breath. “Jack Langford.”

  Click. Click. Click. Click. Four minds are data-processing.

  “Phase Six,” says Ida.

  “His wife, Faye, passed a few years ago,” remembers Sophie.

  Evvie is stunned. “Langford? You said Langford?”

  Bella claps her hands gleefully. “Morrie’s father!”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” Evvie says, unable to let it go.

  “I guessed,” Bella says proudly. “I saw them dancing last night. Making goo-goo eyes at each other.” She giggles.

  They turn to her, amazed.

  “And you didn’t say a word?” says Evvie, wanting to choke her.

  Bella shrugs. “I forgot.”

  Ida glares at her.

  “So, kill me,” Bella says in a huff.

  Sophie moves in closer to me, conspiratorially. “So, are you having an affair?”

  “Sex?!” Ida spits out the loathsome word. “That’s disgusting! You’re too old!”

  I can’t take anymore. This is torture. “Well, girls, I’m removing the curlers. Five minutes and we go on our errands.” With that I start to leave them in the dining room to stew.

  As I pass them, I try to ignore their expressions. Bella grinning. Ida horrified. Sophie intrigued. And my beloved sister, just plain flummoxed.

  Whew. I’m glad that’s over.

  This evening, as we drive away from the building in Jack’s Cadillac, I look back to see the girls leaning over the third-floor balcony watching us. Boy, do I feel guilty.

  “Don’t look back,” Jack says, smiling. “You’ll turn into a pillar of salt.”

  “I knew we should have met at the Greek restaurant.”

  “No more Greek odysseys. We’re out in the open now. Let the chips fall where they may. You only live once.”

  I poke him in the shoulder. “Any more clichés you want to throw at me?”

  “Just testing to make sure you’re paying attention.”

  “So now what do we do?” I move closer. His aftershave smells so good. He actually dressed in a suit and tie for me. Oh, my, it’s been such a long time. He puts his arm around my shoulder.

  “We negotiate.”

  “I’m not giving up my apartment.”

  “Who asked you to?”

  “Maybe we’ll only get together on weekends.”

  “If that’s what you really want.”

  “Don’t ask me to give up my new profession. The phone is ringing off the hook with people needing private eyes.”

  “I have no problem with you supporting me.”

  “I’m not cooking.”

  “Fine. I’ll cook.”

  “Ha-ha. You’re English. No, thanks.”

  “I am a good cook. Ask Morrie.”

  “Right. And for breakfast you’ll serve bangers and bacon and fried eggs and fried tomatoes and blood sausage. With eno
ugh cholesterol to kill a horse.”

  “Who needs breakfast? We’re gonna live on love.”

  We are both laughing by now. He pulls over, turns off the ignition, takes me in his arms, and kisses me.

  And inside my head I hear aha, aha, aha.

  THE END

  Acknowledgments

  MY EVERLASTING THANKS

  To the women of Hawaiian Gardens, who shared their laughter and their tears: Helen, Arlene, Eva & Snookie

  IN MEMORIAM

  Family at Hawaiian Gardens

  My beloved dad, David, Aunt Rose and Uncle Hy, Aunt Bronia

  THESE TWO I OWE REALLY BIG

  Caitlin Alexander

  Lynn Vannucci

  THIS GANG I ALSO OWE

  My sons, Howard and Gavin, and daughter-in-law, Leslie. Always on my side.

  My wonderful grandchilden, Alison, Megan, James & Amara. For just being themselves.

  Sister Judy and adopted sister Rose. Who tried hard (and failed) to make a bingo player of me.

  Margaret Sampson & the Women Who Walk On Water Book Club of Green Bay & Dykesville, Wisconsin. My first readers and supporters.

  MY SPECIAL READERS—FAMILY & FRIENDS

  Ginger Leibovitz, Harriet Rochlin, Dick Katz, Doug Unger, Dolores Raimist, Jack & Ruth Kay, Guiamar Sandler, Adrienne Goldberg, Sandy Carp, Joan Cohen.

  All characters, though inspired by knowing the women at Hawaiian Gardens, are fictitious. Fort Lauderdale is, of course, real, but I have changed many of the locations for the sake of plot. Continental Restaurant, everybody’s all-time early-bird favorite, is closed, but it remains alive forever here.

  About the Author

  Fate (aka, marriage) took Rita Lakin from New York to Los Angeles, where she was seduced by palm trees and movie studios. Over the next twenty years she wrote for television and had every possible job from freelance writer to story editor to staff writer and finally, producer. She worked on shows such as Dr. Kildare, Peyton Place, Mod Squad, and Dynasty, and created her own shows, including The Rookies, Flamingo Road, and Nightingales. She wrote many movies-of-the-week and miniseries such as Death Takes a Holiday, Women in Chains, Strong Medicine, and Voices of the Heart. She has also written the theatrical play No Language but a Cry and is the co-author of Saturday Night at Grossinger’s, both of which are still being produced across the country. Rita has won many awards from the Writers Guild of America, as well as the Mystery Writers of America’s Edgar Allan Poe Award and the coveted Avery Hopwood Award from the University of Michigan. She lives in Marin County, California, where she is currently at work on her next mystery starring the indomitable Gladdy Gold.

  If you enjoyed

  GETTING OLD IS MURDER

  you won’t want to miss

  Gladdy Gold’s return in

  Getting Old Is the

  Best Revenge

  by

  Rita Lakin

  Available from Dell Books

  in April 2006

  Read on for an exclusive sneak peek— and look for your copy at your favorite bookseller.

  Getting Old Is the

  Best Revenge

  On sale April 2006

  M argaret Ramona Sampson, fifty-four, always said the seventeenth hole would be the death of her and she was right.

  Let’s not mince words. Margaret cheated at golf. After all, being wealthy (inherited, not earned) meant being entitled. It meant always getting what she wanted. And what she wanted was to break the women’s record for the course. Always so close. She had a feeling today would be the day.

  Wrong.

  She was with her usual perfectly coiffed and outfitted foursome. Rich women who played every Friday at the exclusive West Palm Beach Waterside Country Club. It was a beautiful, perfect Florida day. The lawns glistened in the sunlight. The weather not too muggy. She was playing brilliantly. All was right in her world.

  One of Margaret’s techniques for enjoying the game was to golf only with women who played less skillfully than she did, and were easily intimidated.

  She knew her caddy saw through her, but didn’t care. He was the caddy everyone wanted, so she paid triple in order to get him at her convenience. He was worth it. The money bought his loyalty. When things went wrong, she would blame him. He played his role very well, looking sheepish and admitting his “errors.”

  So here was the dreaded seventeenth hole and all she needed was a bogey. Unfortunately, here too was a troublesome serpentine water hazard. She routinely selected her best balls for this hole, but that never helped. Invariably she’d hook the ball before it cleared the water, and it would land in the trees. Today was no different. With angry, imperious strides, she marched into the foliage, leaving behind her the timid catcalls of the gals. “Meggie’s done it again!”

  As her caddy began to follow, she waved him off.

  Yes, Margaret thought, I’ll get out of it! No way would she take a penalty.

  Dismayed, she discovered her ball wedged hopelessly in a clump of decaying turf. Without hesitation, she kneeled to pick it up.

  “Naughty, naughty,” a strong baritone voice chastised.

  Startled, Margaret turned her head to find a pair of snappy argyle socks at her eye level. She got up slowly, preparing her defense. When she saw all of this other golfer, her expression turned to happy surprise.

  “Well, look who’s here. I didn’t know you belonged to our club—”

  Abruptly, he grabbed her, pulling her against him with one hand as he shoved a hypodermic needle in her arm with the other. Moments later, she stopped struggling and sank down onto the dark and mossy rough.

  Her last dying thought was that she should have used the three iron instead of a wood. . . .

  One parting shot was irresistible. “Sorry I’m about to ruin your day, Meggie, old thing. You shouldn’t toy with a man’s game.”

  Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to the pool we go. As soon as they get past the swimming part of the morning, my little ragtag bunch of adventurers will be primed for another mission improbable. Towels at the ready, we cross the parking area, head down the winding brick path, through the small grove of palm trees, over three little bridges, past the clubhouse and the shuffleboard court, all the while avoiding those pesky ducks coming out of the ponds to leave their little droppings.

  And here we are. And there they are—the other early morning so-called swimming enthusiasts. Their lounge chairs parked in their usual spots on the grassy perimeter of the pool, guarding their tiny turf jealously.

  Plump Tessie Hoffman, the only real swimmer among us, is energetically doing her laps.

  Enya Slovak, our concentration camp survivor, has her nose buried in the inevitable book. Always the loner.

  The Canadian snowbirds are gathered together in their familiar clique. They are doing what they love most, lapping up the sun, and reading their hometown newspapers and comparing the weather. Thirty degrees in Manitoba . . . fifteen in Montreal. They chuckle smugly.

  We have new tenants, Karen Wright and Beth Bailey. Bella shudders, still unable to believe anyone would want to live in an apartment where there’d been a murder, but the price was so low these gals found it irresistible. They’ve only recently moved in and it’s nice to have young people around. They’re cousins, in their thirties, originally from San Francisco. They don’t look the least bit alike. Karen is kind of chunky and wears her dark, curly hair very short. Beth is a tall, skinny blonde, and very cute. Karen seems to live in blue jeans, but Beth loves frilly sundresses.

  Next up, our beloved eighty-year-old Bobbsey twins, Hyman and Lola Binder (aka Hy and Lo), bobbing up and down in the shallow water, holding onto each other like chubby teenagers in love. They’ve been married over fifty years. Amazing.

  Hy sees us and greets us as usual with the same inane comment. “Ta-da, enter the murder mavens. Caught any killers lately?”

  Evvie glares at him. “You’re just jealous.”

  Mary Mueller now joins us every morning. She’s li
ving alone since her husband, John, left her. It caused quite a stir, I can tell you, when he was “outed,” (a new modern term we’ve learned). He recently met a guy in a Miami gay bar and fell in love. Boy, that was a first in Lanai Gardens. But Mary is holding up nicely, I’m glad to say.

  Dropping our towels, we kick off our sandals and step carefully into the pool. The girls walk back and forth across the shallow end splashing a lot. I do two laps and I’m done. Such is swimming exercise.

  Pretty Beth addresses Evvie. “So, what movie are you seeing this week? I can hardly wait for the review.”

  Evvie, our in-house critic for our weekly free newspaper, is on a mystery kick since we’ve gotten into the P.I. biz. Last week she did a hilarious review of Hannibal. She was deadly serious; I couldn’t stop laughing. This week she’ll be reviewing a French mystery. Who knows what she’ll do with that.

  “Wait and see,” she chirps. “But I promise it’ll be gory.”

  “Hey, girls, didja hear this one?” And Hy is on us like schmaltz on chopped liver. God help us, he has a new joke off his e-mail. Prepare to be offended.

  “So, Becky and Sam are having an affair in the old age home. Every night for three years, Becky sneaks into Sam’s room and she takes off her clothes and climbs up on top of him. They lay there like two wooden boards for a couple of minutes, then she gets off and goes back to her room. And that’s that. One night Becky doesn’t show up. Not the next night either. Sam is upset. He finally tails her and, waddya know, she’s about to sneak into Moishe’s room. Sam stops her in the hall. He’s really hurt. ‘So, what’s Moishe got that I ain’t got?’ Becky smirks and says, ‘Palsy!’”

  Hy grins at us, thrilled with himself. Affronted as usual, we turn our backs on him and paddle away.

  “What? What’d I do? What?”

  “Schlemiel!” Ida hisses under her breath.

  “Hey, did you read this?” Tessie asks. She’s now drying off on her chaise, her nose deep in today’s Miami paper. She half reads, half condenses: “‘Mrs. Margaret Ramona Sampson, fifty-four, of West Palm Beach, died early yesterday morning on the seventeenth hole at the Waterside Country Club where she was golfing with three friends. Mrs. Sampson, “Meg” as she was known to all who loved her, died suddenly of a massive heart attack.’”