by Rita Lakin
Shirley winces. It’s obvious she would like to slap him, but he still holds the purse strings. “It won’t bring your mother back, Alvin.”
“I need to know the truth!”
The girls are practically panting—it looks like the job is in the bag.
I break in. “We’ll get on the case right away.”
“Done,” he says. “You’ll call when you need more money?”
Shirley closes her eyes. Giving away their money is too painful to watch.
Sophie and Bella pinch each other gleefully. “What can you hope to accomplish?” Shirley says to me, after taking a few long, cleansing breaths to calm down. “Romeo certainly isn’t going to confess to you, that’s for sure.”
“I honestly don’t know. But our first goal is to find out everything we can about Philip Smythe.”
“How long do you think this is gonna take?” She demands a closing date. They can’t support this investigation forever.
Ida jumps in. “There’s no way of knowing.” Evvie says smartly, “We have other clients, you know.”
I say, “We’re on your side, Mrs. Ferguson. We want answers quickly.”
Shirley Ferguson stands. She’s had enough. “Wait,” I say. “Is there anything else either of you can tell me that might shed some light on what could have happened between the two of them? Was Esther’s behavior in any way unusual? Either before or after she met Philip Smythe?”
“Not that I can think of,” Alvin says quickly.
“I can think of something,” says Shirley, after a brief pause.
We all turn to look at her.
Shirley takes a cigarette out of her purse and slips it between her lips. She knows she can’t smoke in here, but I guess it helps her feel a semblance of calm. “She changed her address.”
When she has all our attention, she goes on. “After she met Philip, she wrote and told us that from that date on we were to write her at a P.O. Box number.”
Alvin gives her one of his what-do-yow-know looks. “And that means something to you?”
“Yes,” she says quietly, which she does to irritate him. “It meant that she no longer received her mail at Grecian Villas. Now, why do you think she would have done that?”
“Big deal,” says Alvin.
“I would certainly think so. In Grecian Villas, all she had to do was walk downstairs from her apartment to her box in the lobby and lift out her mail. The new address meant she would have to get someone to drive her to the nearest post office and get her mail there. Why bother?”
This gives Alvin pause. “I never thought about that.”
“She didn’t want Philip to see her mail?” Ida asks.
“I wonder,” I say. “She didn’t want Philip to know she had a family?”
“My feeling exactly,” says Shirley.
“But why?” asks Sophie.
“I don’t really know.” Shirley puts the cigarette back in its pack. Then she smiles wickedly. “Maybe she was ashamed of us.”
“But you mentioned last time that you met him,” I remind her.
“Yes, we did. Once. Only two weeks before she died.”
Alvin adds, “I had business on the East Coast and I thought I’d surprise her.”
“And let me tell you,” Shirley says, “she was surprised all right. And not very happy to see us. But Philip, he was thrilled. He chastised her ever so sweetly for keeping her lovely children from him. I thought he was wonderful.”
“I thought he was smarmy,” says Alvin. “I immediately knew my mother was in danger.”
When the Fergusons leave, a few minutes after admonishing us to get on the case quickly, there is a collective sigh of relief in my living room. Everyone stretches out to get more comfortable.
“What a nosy guy. Like he needed to know my private business?” Sophie is still insulted.
“Poor Shirley,” Bella whispers. “He must be awful to live with.”
“She ain’t no walk in the park, either,” Ida adds.
“Okay, so they deserve each other.” Bella feels better about it now that that’s settled.
“Okay,” comments Ida, “the first check cleared, now we’re official. Where do we go from here?”
I get up and start to clear the tea things. “Directly to Grecian Villas, where the alleged crime took place.”
But while the girls head back to their own apartments to get ready for the drive, I quickly dial Jack’s number. As it rings, I plan what to say. I hear you almost caught the Peeper... Then the answering machine picks up. Suddenly Jack is never at home. Where does he go? Does he have any idea he’s driving me mad? Life is too short to spend it being miserable, so I leave a message this time. I tell him I have to see him.
NINE
GRECIAN VILLAS
We pull up to the front door of the retirement hotel where the ill-fated Esther Ferguson and Philip Smythe (a.k.a. Romeo) lived. We’ve taken the case. Alvin has instructed us to go full steam ahead and not worry about expenses. Music to our ears. Even though Shirley told us otherwise.
The girls have dressed up for their foray into the land of the obscenely wealthy. No flip-flops today. They ooh and ahhh at the sparkling white archways and pillars that grace the front of Grecian Villas’ main building.
Inside, the theme continues. Marble gray-white floors and whitewashed walls hung with paintings of ancient and modern Greece. Furniture in muted tones. Floor-to-ceiling windows everywhere. Well-dressed residents lounging about a huge lobby reading or quietly chatting. Soft music piped in through hidden speakers.
“Elegant,” whispers Evvie.
“Too quiet,” retorts Ida.
“Works for me,” says Sophie to Ida. “I could live in a place like this. It fits my standards of living.”
Bella just stares—up, down, everywhere, her mouth hanging open.
A resident directs us to the office of the general manager, Rosalie Gordon. The room is soothing, the manager elegant. She is tall, in her forties, dressed simply but stylishly. Her assistant, a slightly chubby woman in her twenties, works across the room. She is introduced to us as Myra. Like her boss, she wears muted colors. They blend in with the wall decor, as if even management should be inconspicuous to the residents of this luxury community.
After a few pleasantries about the weather, Mrs. Gordon starts her spiel about the facility. Do we want to know about the amenities first? The health and wellness plan? Which of us is interested in joining the happy Grecian Villas family? She is busily pulling out brochures for us as she speaks.
I stop her quickly by taking out our card and handing it to her. For a moment she studies it, confused. “You’re all private investigators?”
I say, “Yes,” and the gang nods eagerly. “We’re investigating the death of Esther Ferguson.”
She looks even more perplexed, as does her assistant.
“At the behest of her son, Alvin.”
“I see,” says Mrs. Gordon. “It’s not about the missing Oriental rug? I already told him it must have been lost by the movers.”
“It’s not that. It’s about how she died.”
“This surprises me. We’d already spoken to him, and I had hoped I’d allayed his fears about how his mother died.” She pauses. “Obviously not. But I’m afraid there is nothing to investigate, Mrs. Gold. It was a sad occurrence, but not unexpected after a long and comfortable life. Apparently, Mrs. Ferguson was drinking champagne in her bath and fell asleep. She died very peacefully, I should think.”
Myra jumps in. “She was found hours later by that dear Mr. Smythe, her beloved companion.” My ears perk up at “dear.”
“What is your opinion of Mr. Smythe?” I ask.
Myra gushes, “Wonderful, wonderful. The man is a saint.”
“I would have to concur with that,” adds Mrs. Gordon, managing a small smile.
Evvie glances at me. That word saint again. Interesting.
“How long were they together?” Evvie asks.
“Th
ree wonderful months.” Myra lays one hand over her heart. “They met the first week Philip arrived, and it was love at first sight.”
“Where was he when Mrs. Ferguson passed away?” Ida jumps in. I can see that Sophie and Bella are intimidated in this posh environment. They stand stiffly and silently.
“Playing his usual bridge game with the Feig sisters and Alice Brown. You might speak to them. They’ll tell you how enchanting he is.” Myra can hardly hold back her enthusiasm.
Mrs. Gordon is a bit more sedate. “All the ladies here adored him. The man was so generous with himself. On dance night, he took turns dancing with all the ladies. He was a regular Fred Astaire. On shopping days, he escorted a group of them and helped carry their bags. After all, the ratio of women to men here is ten to one, and Mr. Smythe is a very robust seventy-five years of age. Very friendly. Very healthy.”
“Wasn’t Mrs. Ferguson jealous?” Sophie finally gets the courage to speak. “Didn’t it make her mad?”
“Au contraire,” says Mrs. Gordon. “Esther got a kick out of all the other ladies vying for his attention. Everyone knew she was the love of his life.”
“We’re all going to miss him. He was a shining light among us,” contributes Myra.
“Miss him?” I ask quickly.
“Yes,” Myra says mournfully, “he left soon after the funeral. He said he could no longer bear to be in a place where every little thing reminded him of his precious Esther.” With that, Myra’s eyes tear up.
At my request, Mrs. Gordon reluctantly takes us all up to the Smythe-Ferguson apartment. She explains, “I don’t usually do this. So please hurry. Of course, new tenants live here now. All of Esther’s things were taken out by her son.”
I’m not going to find any clues here, but it’s good to get a picture of how they lived.
“Did Mr. Smythe have his own apartment?” I ask.
“Oh, yes, briefly, but soon after they fell in love, Esther insisted they move in together.”
“Who paid the rent?” I ask.
“At first they shared it, but then Esther insisted on taking it over.” Myra giggles. “She practically twisted his arm. He was such an old-fashioned gentleman.”
We look around, suitably awed. Large, spacious, elegant. The girls are obviously shocked by the mirrored bathroom.
“The guests seem to like it.” Now Mrs. Gordon hurries us out. “My tenants are due home shortly. I think we’ve been here long enough.”
Back in her office, I ask Mrs. Gordon if she happens to remember where Mr. Smythe lived before he came to Grecian Villas.
“Of course I do. We who have the upper echelon of retirement resorts know all about one another. He lived at Seaside Cliffs on the other side of the state, in Sarasota, before he came to us.”
“And now? Do you have a forwarding address?”
Indeed she does. “He’s moving the first week in September to one our competitors, Wilmington House in Palm Beach. Lucky them.”
She writes down the address on the back of her card and gives it to me. “When you see him, tell him everyone at Grecian Villas misses him.”
When we are outside, we take a last lingering glance at the spacious Grecian Villas. Bella and Sophie sigh.
“Only five thousand a month,” says Evvie. “A mere pittance.”
“Who cares,” says Ida as she walks quickly toward our car. “I like where we live better.”
“I can’t wait to meet this guy,” says Sophie.
“Me, too,” says Evvie.
“Me, three,” says Bella.
“I can wait. Believe me,” says Ida, our lady of petulance, “no man can be that good.”
Yes, some can. I think of Jack, hoping he’ll have returned my call by the time we get home. I’m anxious to put this fight behind us.
But I admit I’m intrigued about “Romeo” as well. Lover or killer? I wonder. Hopefully we’ll find out soon.
TEN
CASE REVIEW
Ida pours us another round of coffee, all decaffeinated except for mine. We are in her apartment this time around. Shoes off, exhausted from our meeting this morning and lunch on the way home. I need my nap and am dying to check my answering machine, but the girls want to rehash what we know so far.
Ida’s place is sparsely and simply furnished, spotlessly clean. She isn’t into any specific type of decor. Her living room walls are covered with photos of her grandchildren, who live in California. They are very old photos, since she has not heard from her family in years, even though she continues to write to them. It’s obviously heartbreaking for her, but she has yet to tell any of us what caused this terrible rift. Nor are there any photos of her ex-husband—she never talks about him, either.
Her “Florida room”—as enclosed sunrooms are called down here—is for her many crafts. She sews, embroiders, quilts, and knits. Most of which she gives away. She makes stuffed toys for poor children at Christmas. So many things to keep her busy through the lonely nights?
Sophie warms up some macaroons in Ida’s toaster oven. To make them softer, she claims. Once the food and drinks are ready, the meeting of Gladdy Gold and Associates is off and running.
First we discuss the latest Peeper incident with Dora Dooley.
“We should do another follow-up, anyway,” Evvie says, “before we call Morrie again.” The girls all adore Jack’s son, Detective Morrie Langford. Not only because they think he’s cute, but because he’s always willing to help us—after I do a little convincing. Frankly, right now I’m not in any hurry to face Jack’s son with our relationship so up in the air.
“Maybe Dora remembers some details by now. Maybe she did get a look at the Peeper,” adds Ida.
“I’ll do it,” I say quickly. Any excuse to stop by Phase Six and maybe run into Jack. Or casually drop in on him. He has to be home sometime.
Now Ida is ready to give her report as everyone noshes contentedly.
“I got the manager of the Seaside Cliffs Retirement Resort in Sarasota on the phone a few minutes ago, and it was as if I was talking to that Mrs. Gordon at Grecian Villas. Same story. Everybody loved Philip. He was the belle of the ball, so to speak.”
“You mean, beau of the ball.” Evvie can’t resist. Ida ignores her. “The really interesting part is that he had a special lady he lived with who died of heart failure. A Mrs. Elsie Rogers. Same response. He moved out because he couldn’t bear living where everything would remind him of his beloved. Boo-hoo. Everybody cried at the funeral and they cried when Philip Smythe left. Sound familiar?”
We exchange glances. This is a surprise.
“Sure sounds like a pattern to me,” Evvie says as she helps herself from a bowl of strawberries.
Sophie asks, “So what kind of pattern?
Ida, not surprisingly, spouts a caustic opinion about men. “My guess is he picks out a woman in a retirement place. Gets all the sex he wants ’til she drops dead. You know how men are. That’s all they ever think about. Maybe he wears them out, that’s why they die. Then he leaves.”
Bella sighs. “What a way to go.”
Evvie laughs, shaking her head. “Ida, there must be one nice guy in the world.”
Ida stiffens and raises her chin high. “Maybe Mahatma Gandhi... and he’s dead.”
“Nicely put,” I say mockingly to Ida, but she is immune to my sarcasm. Her husband must have been some piece of work to inspire her bleak attitude about men.
“But why leave?” Evvie asks. “He can probably choose his next lady friend from a hundred panting others, since he’s such a great catch.”
“Good question,” Bella says. She suddenly grins. “You know who he reminds me of? Our Peeper. He goes from window to window looking for love.”
“Cheaper than going from retirement home to retirement home,” says Sophie. Everyone laughs.
“Love ain’t what he’s looking for,” says Ida snidely.
“Maybe this Romeo guy would be embarrassed to have another hot chickie in the same place,”
Sophie says, back on track.
“That must be it. Well, what do you expect him to do?” Evvie adds. “Tell all the women to get in line and pick a number. Like at the meat counter?”
“Next!” says Bella playfully, raising her hand and pretending to jump up.
“It also would look peculiar if every one of those same chickies died,” says Sophie.
“But they’re old. Of course they’ll die.” This from always-practical Ida.
“You’re old, too,” Sophie points out. “You’ll die, too.”
“So will you, so shut up. Who asked you? I’m making a point here.”
“Girls, girls...” I say, to no effect.
“Girls, stop fighting,” Evvie says loudly, rapping her spoon on the table.
“Stupid, where’s your logic?” Ida says, glowering at Sophie. “How can he know he won’t die before his lover?”
Bella looks confused. “But isn’t that sweet? He makes one woman happy, then goes off to the next. Like the Pied Piper.”
Sophie pretends to shiver. “Don’t talk about rats. They scare me.”
Evvie sums it up. “So what are we saying here? Philip Smythe is a healthy, active man in his seventies still looking for love?” She grins. “Over and over and over again.”
“Sex!” Ida interrupts.
“Okay, he finds someone to love and have sex.” This she says pointedly at Ida. “She dies eventually of natural causes. He truly feels sad and leaves.”
My turn. “But Esther’s son is sure Philip Smythe killed her.”
Evvie says, “He also admitted that Philip didn’t take any money from her, other than let her pay the rent.”
“Yeah,” agrees Bella. “No motive. Gornisht. Nothing. Nada.”
Evvie gets up and does stretches. We missed our usual exercise today. “You want to know my opinion? I think Ferguson is all wet. His mother died. He’s grieving. Philip Smythe sounds harmless to me.”
Bella says, “Maybe we should tell Mr. Ferguson and give him back his money?”
“Are you crazy?” Sophie asks. “I can’t wait to start spending it.”
Ida has a one-track mind. “I agree with Evvie. Doesn’t sound like much of a case to me, either. This guy, Philip, has nothing better to do in his old age than get laid. For him it beats playing bingo.”