by Rita Lakin
The group reacts with shocked surprise. The heiress is well-known, because reading the society news around the pool is a daily ritual. I only half listen as I work on my crossword. Tessie continues. “‘Mrs. Sampson, listed as one of the twenty-five richest women in the state, was a noted member of Florida society, known for her charitable works. She is survived by her husband, Richard “Dickie” Sampson.’”
“What a pity,” says Evvie. “All that money she didn’t get to spend.”
“But she left a nice, rich widower,” says Sophie. She picks up a tube of sunblock off the ledge of the pool and lathers her face and shoulders. “Maybe he’d like to meet a nice, poor widow. Like me.”
Ida takes the sunblock from her as Sophie turns to let Ida do her back. “Dream on.”
Sophie twists around to stare at Ida. “What? I’m not good enough for him?” She pushes Ida’s hand away. “You’re making me into a greaseball.”
Ida slaps the cream into her hand. “Do it yourself. As if a rich guy like that would even look at a nobody like you.”
Sophie hands the cream to Evvie. “And you know what? If he’s old and ugly I wouldn’t want him anyway.”
Evvie continues working on Sophie’s back. “What’s old anyway? Look at us.”
I look up from my puzzle. “Barnard Baruch, the famous statesman, said, ‘Old is always fifteen years older than you are.’”
“Yoo-hoo . . .?” It is a wobbly little voice and the Canadians, who still have all their hearing, are the first to glance up.
“Over here.” The voice manages to raise a decibel or two.
Now everyone looks up. A tiny elderly wisp of a woman stands at the pool gate, seeming almost too fragile to hold on to her metal walker. Her back is humped slightly. She looks as if a strong wind would carry her away. She’s dressed completely in black, including the kerchief on her head. She must be sweltering in that outfit. “I’m looking for Gladdy Gold.”
All eyes automatically turn to me as I make my way out of the pool and reach for my towel. “I’m Gladdy.”
Needless to say the girls get out, following right behind me, my little ducklings all in a row.
“Your neighbors told me where I could find you.”
“They would,” Ida mutters into my back. “Ask them when we go to the toilet. All our neighbors know that, too. Yentas!”
I ignore Ida. “What can I do for you?”
“I am looking for a detective,” the woman says, and then adds worriedly, “if the price is right.”
In a flash, Hy is at our side, dragging one of the plastic pool chairs. “Here, missus, have a seat,” he offers, helping the woman into the chair, and then positioning himself right next to her. A minute later, here comes Lola, gluing herself onto her husband, leaning in.
Everyone around the pool shifts slightly to the left. My unofficial staff. Unwanted. Uncalled for. The other inhabitants of Phase Two, determined to get into the act, whenever they can. Tessie, ever so casually, moves her chaise a little closer. Mary puts down her crocheting. Beth and Karen openly stare. Even the Canadians have folded their newspapers. They all gape and listen intently.
The little woman puffs out her chest and grips the arms of the chair. She shouts, “I’m eighty-two years old and I don’t need this agita in my life! My old man, maybe he’s cheating on me! And I want to know who the puta is!”
Ahhh . . . I hear a collective sigh of happiness behind me. A problem they can all relate to after years of watching Oprah, Sally, Geraldo, and the rest.
“Hah!” says Hy with great delight. “The old man is dipping his wick somewheres else!”
The woman stares up at him. What did this fool say?
“Hy! Butt out,” I say.
He shrugs, feigning hurt. “I’m trying to lend a hand here.”
“Maybe he’s lonely,” Lola contributes.
“Maybe he’s not with a woman,” says Mary darkly. She’s still pretty traumatized over John.
I have to nip this group intrusion right in the bud. Now.
“Shall we go to my office?” I say to the woman in black. Quickly helping her out of the patio chair, I reposition her behind her walker and firmly start moving her out the pool gate.
As we leave, my cohorts scampering to keep up, I hear another sigh in the background. This one of disappointment. Followed by a buzz of complaints.
I hear Tessie whining. “Didn’t I ruin my best bathing costume chasing after our murderer? Where’s the gratitude?”
“Wait awhile,” says Hy complacently. “She’ll figure out she can’t do without us.”
“Right,” adds Mary. “She owes us. Big time.”
I tell you, it’s not easy being a star.
GETTING OLD IS MURDER
A Dell Book / November 2005
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2005 by Rita Lakin
Map and ornament illustrations by Laura Hartman Maestro
Dell is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 0-440-33568-X
www.bantamdell.com
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