Getting Old is Criminal

by Rita Lakin

Morrie is mortified. “You could have told me all this without an audience, you know.”

  “I tried.” I blush. I look around, making sure we are alone now.

  “Morrie, I must tell you something very important.” I pause. This is hard to say.

  “What is it, Gladdy?”

  “It’s Evvie. She’s become involved with this man. She believes he’s innocent. I’m afraid she is in great danger.”

  He returns my serious look. “Got it. We’ll take over now. But you have to promise me you’ll stay away from the case from now on. Do not talk to another person. This man is obviously dangerous. Stay out of it now. Do you hear me, Gladdy?”

  I nod, but my fingers are crossed behind my back.

  It is only after I leave the building that I feel remorse for what I did to poor Morrie. It wasn’t nice of me to take my frustration out on Jack’s son. But I sure feel better.

  FORTY-SIX

  TASK FORCE

  We are in my kitchen discussing my meeting with Morrie.

  “I wish we could get to Evvie and warn her,” Sophie says for about the fifth time in ten minutes. “Yeah,” Bella agrees.

  Everyone is repeating their fears as if, in the retelling, they’ll vanish.

  Ida changes the subject. “Are you really going to see those people, even though Morrie said no?”

  “Yes. His men won’t have time to do everything. I think I’ll handle it better. I really need to see this case through.”

  The phone rings. Bella jumps. Everyone’s on edge, terrified of hearing bad news. It’s Morrie. I immediately switch on the speakerphone, so the girls can listen in. Another of the devices Jack talked me into. Jack... Never mind—no use thinking about him now. Mr. Double Date.

  “Hi, Gladdy. How you?”

  “Fine. How are you?”

  “Still a little shaken after that bomb you set off in my office. I guess you are well beyond finding purses in K mart.”

  “Guess so.”

  “Just want to give you a heads-up on what’s happening. We’re in touch with all the precincts in every city he’s lived in. A task force has already been set up. We’re waiting for the autopsy report on Mrs. Mosher. Maybe we’ll get lucky and pick up some DNA.”

  “Good.” About time he took me seriously.

  “So far, it’s all circumstantial. We have no proof yet. I just want to warn you. Everybody, keep quiet. I mean all you girls.”

  “We hear you,” chorus Bella and Sophie. Ida nods grimly.

  “Talk to no one about any of this. Keep away from Evvie. We don’t want Smythe to get suspicious and run. Or even worse, become dangerous to Evvie and maybe others in that place.”

  “But—” I try to get a word in.

  “Listen.” He interrupts me. “The Palm Beach police have arranged for someone to move into Wilmington House as a new resident. One of their retired officers. Someone who’ll keep his eye on the dangerous Mr. Smythe.”

  “I am so relieved to hear that. But Smythe can be tricky—”

  “Yes, Gladdy...”

  There’s that condescending voice again. “Just make sure he’s very watchful.”

  “I’m sure he will be. I’ve already spoken to Ms. Watson and she is expecting a Mr. Donald Kincaid to arrive today.”

  “How did she take it?”

  “Somewhat upset.”

  “I’ll call her, see if I can calm her down.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Okay, but you better promise to keep in touch with me on my cell phone.”

  I can almost see the smile. “Gladdy Gold, you have a cell? I thought you hated progress.”

  “Never mind that. Just do it.” I give him my number.

  “Gladdy... I’m sorry about you and Dad.” His voice is concerned, but cautious.

  I choke up. “Thanks,” I manage to say.

  Not five minutes later, my cell rings. It’s Hope Watson sounding like she’s on the verge of hysteria. “Is it true? They know for sure he’s a killer?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “How soon will they pick him up?”

  “I don’t know yet. It will take careful planning. I know what you’re going to say next. Don’t tell anyone.”

  “But what about my board? I have to answer to them.”

  “The more people who know, the more dangerous it could be.”

  “I must at least tell the president of the board.”

  “Do what you need to, but it mustn’t leak.”

  I can hear Hope Watson is close to tears.

  I continue, “Hope, you must keep everything as normal as you can.”

  “All right.” She can barely speak.

  No more subterfuge—I need to know. “How is my sister?”

  She sounds startled. “She and Philip are having a wonderful time.” She can’t hide her sarcasm. “They’re everywhere. They’re the fun couple. Everyone wants to be part of their clique.”

  “Good. In fact, try to add some activities that keep them surrounded by people as much as possible. I don’t want anything to upset the status quo. The less they are alone, the better.”

  “I can’t believe this is happening to us.”

  “You’ll feel better having a policeman on the premises at all times.”

  “When are you coming back?”

  “I don’t know. Soon, I think.”

  I don’t intend to tell her about the ladies at the Roman Villas dealing with a dead body found on their premises. It’s bad enough, her having the killer living in her own establishment.

  I pray all these delicate manager ladies won’t fall apart.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  THE NEW MAN

  “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention?” She taps a spoon on a glass. The eating stops momentarily as Hope Watson addresses the dining room group. She smiles a little too brightly.

  Evvie is only half listening; her attention is on Philip chatting with the woman on the other side of him.

  “We have a new resident, Mr. Donald Kincaid. He tells us he’s formerly from Brooklyn. ”

  Donald Kincaid stands and bows. Evvie glances up. This new man is the picture of a jolly roly-poly sixty-year-old, dressed in a rather loud checkered jacket. He gives the impression of an easygoing guy with no worries. “Thanks, Hope. Just to let ya know, I’m single and available. And a good dancer.”

  There is some tittering at that from some of the ladies. Even Evvie smiles.

  “I also spent years as a security guard at WalMart. And I even got to play Santa Claus at Christmas. Lucky I have rich kids who can afford to send me here.”

  More laughter. Evvie notes that he’s coming across as a likable guy. Yet, there’s something about him... She goes back to her meal and joins Philip in his chat with other people at their table.

  “So,” continues cheery, blustery Donald, “if any of you ladies feel like you’re in trouble or something, I have a great big gun, so just dial my extension, five-oh-five. I will be at your apartment in a flash.”

  The seemingly sexual innuendo receives a lot of laughs. Hope pretends to be shocked.

  Evvie looks up from her Dover sole. She’s startled to see Donald Kincaid looking directly at her. “Remember, five-oh-five, if you need me.” He winks, and then quickly glances away.

  Did I imagine it? Evvie thinks. Was he talking to me?

  Evvie wakes up. She imagines she heard something. Something in the hallway. She glances at the clock. One-fifteen A.M. Philip is sleeping, although restlessly. She tiptoes to the door and looks through the peephole. She is surprised to see Hope Watson and the new resident, Donald somebody, who just moved in. The man she imagined had winked at her.

  They are talking softly. And looking at Philip’s door. What does it mean? She and Philip are being watched? Why? The man, Donald, what was it about him? He said he had been a security guard? But he looks like a cop. A real cop. Something in the way he stands there. At attention. Ready for what? Is Watson going to throw them out for mis
behavior? Something’s wrong...

  She is pulled back into the room by the sounds of moaning. Philip is thrashing about, trapping himself in the sheets, seemingly deep in some nightmare.

  He’s mumbling, becoming more and more agitated. “No... go back... you can’t come out... No!” As Evvie leans close to him, his arm whips out, hitting her.

  “Phil! Wake up!”

  His arms flail. “Get back. I didn’t say you could come out… My head... my head...”

  She hears more mumbling, but she can’t make out the words. Once he cries out, “Ray!” and then, “‘To sleep perchance to dream ...’”

  And suddenly it’s over. Philip is sound asleep.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  MISTER TEN PERCENT

  I take the rickety elevator up to the third floor. The building is old and smells of decay, and it is in a warehouse part of Miami I’ve never been to before.

  I walk down the dreary hallway lit by very low wattage. I’d be afraid to walk it at night. I’m not that comfortable during the day, either.

  I enter the office of Herbie Feldkin and Associates, on time for my ten A.M. Monday appointment. I don’t see any associates. I don’t even see Herbie Feldkin. I do look around. It’s a one-man office with a lot of very old furniture and very old faded black-and-white photos on the dingy walls, along with a number of movie posters, equally from long ago. It seems at one time Herbie had a few fairly well-known actors in his stable.

  And there he is, in an old glossy black-and- white: Ray Sullivan, a.k.a. Philip Smythe. I have to touch it to believe it. Next to a photo of a famous movie star.

  “When they make it big, they leave.” Herbie Feldkin, I presume—late sixties, short, bald, and stubby—enters carrying a brown bag. “That’s the nature of the business.”

  He takes out two hot plastic cups of coffee and a couple of Danish and by removing a messy stack of Hollywood Reporters and Varietys, he makes room on a table already decorated with discolored circles from years of hot coffee cups.

  “Cream and sugar?” He indicates the little packets.

  “Thank you, that’s very thoughtful.” I help myself.

  “Don’t get a lot of company, as maybe you already guessed. But I used to be a contenda,” he says imitating Marlon Brando. Evvie would love this guy. They could talk movies forever. With the thought of Evvie, I grow cold. I must get this over with and get home. I feel a clock ticking in my head.

  He sits down behind his scarred desk. I sit in front of him.

  “This is really a set.”

  “What?”

  He indicates the furniture. “I bought the original set of The Maltese Falcon. Actually I’m very rich and retired and live on Fisher Island, but it amuses me to come in once in a while.”

  I don’t know whether to believe him or not, but I like him. He doesn’t take himself seriously. Maybe the shabby suit he wears came from the wardrobe of the same picture.

  “So, Mrs. Gold. You tell me over the phone you want to talk about Philip Smythe. You don’t say Ray Sullivan, so I’m intrigued. I haven’t heard that name in a lot of years. Not since I left my New York office in the nineties.”

  “Probably eleven years.” I hope that stirs something.

  Herbie looks surprised. “That’s about right. Ray left the show—World of Our Dreams—and just seemed to disappear. I tried calling him after he got fired. Maybe I could have gotten him another job either as a writer or actor. I mean, he was still a sexy-looking old guy, but in this business old is dead. Look at me. But then again, he was behaving a bit nutzoid.” He makes a whirling motion with his hand. “You meant it when you said this was a matter of life and death? If it was to get my attention, it did. You don’t look like you’re the police.”

  I hand him Morrie’s card. “If you want to check, call this number. I am helping with a homicide case.”

  Herbie brushes the Danish crumbs off his pants onto the floor. “You’re joshing me, right? You look like you should be living in a condo by the beach and playing mah-jongg every day.”

  “Close enough. But I am investigating a murder nonetheless. It’s a long story; I can’t fill you in completely. I’m sorry.”

  “And Ray is involved?”

  “We think so. For the last eleven years he has been living under the name of Philip Smythe.”

  For a moment, it doesn’t connect. “You’re kidding.” Herbie’s face transforms as he puts things together in his mind. He gets up and removes a file from his old oak filing cabinet. “Here’s something weird. For that same amount of years, I have been getting money orders from Ray. On almost the exact same dates. Ten percent of what used to be his salary. For a while I didn’t cash them, trying to locate him. Figured maybe he was doing some kind of show in some local TV station. But those stations wouldn’t pay this kind of money. Eventually I cashed them and kept the receipts in here. But what’s that got to do with his using his character name from the show?”

  “By any remote chance, did you save the envelopes from where the money orders were sent?”

  “No, sorry, I didn’t think it would be important, but I remembered they were from various parts of Florida. So I figured he retired down here, too. Everybody does, eventually.”

  “The checks came each year at the end of March, July, and November. Yes?”

  “Wow. Either you’re a mind reader or he is in some deep—” He stops himself. “Trouble.” He finds a less vulgar word to use in front of the little old lady from a condo.

  “I need to talk to someone on his old show as soon as possible. The producer, Ms. Hill? Somehow I doubt my calling her will do any good. Could you arrange a meeting? I’d be willing to fly up to New York to see her.”

  His eyebrows lift at the sound of that name. “Like I said—everybody moves down here eventually. She lives in Boca. But I gotta tell you a couple of things. She left the show in New York; or rather they eased her out when she got to a certain age. But that woman could not just spend her money and live the good life. Showbiz was her life.”

  “What are you telling me, Mr. Feldkin?”

  “You ever see a movie called Sunset Boulevard?”

  “Yes, of course. With Gloria Swanson.”

  “Well, that’s this Glory, too. She found some dumpy production company down here and she’s producing a two-bit syndicated tape soap for them. But she still behaves like, like, Gloria Swanson. It’s a weird scene. She’s using her own money for the fancy offices and high salaries. Everybody’s playing parts, playing up to Her Highness. But laughing at her behind her back. And taking as much advantage of her as they can. Still wanna see her?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He picks up the phone. “It’s a done deal.”

  I wait until Herbie speaks to what seems like one secretary after another until he is finally connected to Glory Hill herself. He talks to her as if she were royalty. She seems to be arguing. He uses his charm. “Glory, baby, for your old buddy, please? The woman is a fan. A big fan.”

  I wait eagerly.

  He listens and then looks at me. “Noon, okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  Herbie hangs up fast before she changes her mind. He writes the address on the back of an old envelope he pulls out of the trash and hands it to me. “I gotta warn you, she’s crazy, but still a bitch on wheels.”

  Herbie pulls the photo of Ray Sullivan off the wall, blows the dust off it, and then hands it to me. He walks me to the door. “You were bluffing, weren’t you? About this being a matter of life or death.”

  “No. I’m deadly serious.” I can’t stop staring at the photo of “Philip.”

  Herbie shakes my hand. “Listen, maybe you’ll let me know how this goes down?”

  “You might be reading it in the papers. Even Variety.”

  “Good luck, Mrs. Gold. You’ll need it. She wasn’t called the Black Widow of Daytime for nothing.”

  FORTY-NINE

  THE PRODUCER

  The young, size-six, adorabl
e blond assistant gives me a tour as we wind our way through many hallways, with walls totally covered with huge color portraits of the stars that’ve played on Glory Hill’s very famous former long-running soap opera. I search for Philip Smythe/Ray Sullivan, but no luck. Another wall features the stars of the soap opera Glory is working on now. Of course Bree, as the assistant introduced herself, never calls it by that name. “Daytime serial” is the proper terminology, she instructs me. She walks quickly. I can barely keep up. But then I notice everyone I pass in the halls is moving at a fast pace.

  Doors are open. I get glimpses of actors being made up, but I notice even their feet are tapping, or pacing as they practice lines in their dressing rooms. A woman pushing a hanging rod of costumes fairly runs past me.

  I decide to ask Bree, “Doesn’t anyone move slowly?”

  She looks horrified. “Not on this show! That’s if you want to keep your job.”

  I peer at her, thinking she is kidding, but she is serious. We reach a door that says, in large gilt letters, GLORY HILL, EXECUTIVE PRODUCER.

  Inside, I find three secretaries on different phones, earphones in ears and hands free to busily write down messages. The walls are filled with photos; I assume they must be of Glory Hill, shaking hands with many, many celebrities. There is also a huge glass china cabinet filled with awards.

  At the far end of this large office, someone is sitting with a stack of what look like scripts. She is writing on each of the covers.

  When I listen more carefully, I can tell the secretaries aren’t on business calls but on personal calls, chatting and wasting time, and what they are scribbling on their pads is doodles.

  My tour guide speaks to one of the women who just hung up.

  “Cheryl, this is Mrs. Gold. She has a noon appointment.”

  “The queen is still on her throne.” Mild smirking at that.

  At that moment, a loudspeaker blares in the room and a loud hoarse voice, with a pronounced British accent, is heard. “Get on the horn and get me eight tonight at La Funicular, table for two.”