How I Spent My Summer Vacation

by Gillian Roberts

  “Amanda,” I said.

  She sat down and switched topics. “I just this minute got off the phone,” she said. “I can hardly believe what I heard. Oh, boy, could I tell you things….”

  She was a Pushmi-Pullyu conversationalist. “Ah, please, Belle,” we were supposed to whine. “Tell us.” Well I, for one, didn’t.

  “Do you know what she’s talking about?” Lala asked me.

  I shook my head.

  “We don’t mean to be rude.”

  “Who wouldn’t know?” Belle asked.

  “What if a person down here for a good time was too busy yesterday to pick up a local paper!” Lala snapped.

  “I heard it on the car radio on Tuesday,” Belle muttered. “Just that I’m not so good about names, but faces—”

  “So there,” Lala said. “So somebody might not know. The hotel is certainly keeping mum about it. Listen, darling, I don’t want to upset you, but a man was killed in this hotel Monday, night before last. In one of the rooms. Murdered.”

  “Oh, that. Yes. I heard.”

  “Of course!” Lala slapped the side of her head. “My own Tommy told you yesterday. I was there!”

  I raised my eyebrows and looked pleadingly at the waitress who hovered nearby.

  “No place is safe anymore. You come to a nice hotel, meet somebody, expect…” Lala shuddered. “It makes me mighty happy to be out of the dating game. You never know.”

  “You take your life in your hands. Literally,” Belle agreed.

  “A bagel,” I told the waitress. “Toasted.”

  “And a smear?” she asked.

  I nodded. “And coffee.”

  Lala and Belle paused from their death and doom lip-smacking long enough to order French toast and a crew-sant with a side of prunes, respectively.

  Then Lala leaned over and patted my wrist. “I hope you find somebody like my Tommy, too, but until then, I hope you’re always very careful.”

  “And not only with your body,” Belle said, intimations of disaster hanging off every word. “They talk about safe sex, but what about safe money, I want to know.”

  “They already have that,” Lala said. “You ever hear of banks?”

  “My condominium has a social club,” Belle said. “But at first, I didn’t connect that to his face.”

  “She means she wasn’t sure of who had died until she saw the dead man’s photograph in the paper,” Lala explained. I felt like Alice, perhaps, in the company of Tweedledum and Tweedledee.

  Belle nodded. “Then I made the connection. He spoke to our group a year ago. I remember the face, even though I didn’t invest with him. I have my pension, my Social Security, and some C.D.’s, but I went to hear what he had to say. About protecting yourself. Especially single women. Widows. Besides, it was a night out. A little entertainment. So yesterday, I called Myrna Myers. I said did you see in the paper? Jesse Reese, that man who talked to the social club, was murdered. And she started spluttering and carrying on like I couldn’t believe!”

  Lala leaned over the table and wagged her finger in front of her cousin. “Do you remember how angry Grandma would get with you? ‘Get to the point!’ she’d shout.”

  “Huh?” Belle said.

  “What about Myrna Myers, Belle?”

  Belle sat up straighter and spent a moment pouting, then got on with it. “She hadn’t seen the item. It was only a little notice, a little photo, on the second page of the Inquirer. I was surprised, frankly. I thought he was such an important man. Maybe that’s just what they tell social clubs, so we’ll feel like our speakers are top quality.”

  Second page. Small photo. Perhaps the whole story was so inconspicuous as to be passed over by most people. Perhaps it wouldn’t include any mention of Sasha or me. Perhaps not a single relative would see it or worry over it or think to share the concern long-distance with my parents.

  “Honestly, Belle!” Lala snapped. “Get to the point!”

  Belle slowly pulled off a greasy corner of her croissant and stalled before speaking again, reestablishing control of her tempo, delivery, and news. “So I told her what happened, and Myrna gets all crazy, saying he wouldn’t give her the time of day for such a long time, and now, finally, when she thought it was settled, she’ll never get her money. Makes no sense to me, and before she can explain, she says she’s got to tell the others, has to tell everybody. A couple hours later she calls me back. You know how she is, she went knocking door to door, all the club members, the ones she remembered had gone to hear him speak, especially one or two.”

  “This better be good,” Lala grumbled.

  “See, at least ten people had invested with him. Some gave him everything they had.” She sipped delicately at her tea.

  “So what? That’s what he did. Invest money.”

  “Maybe yes, maybe no.”

  Lala raised a warning finger, then shook her head. “You’re impossible. These people who invested with him, did they make out all right? Yes or no.”

  “Well, they got dividends right away, so everything seemed fine unless you had an emergency and wanted your real money back. The capital, as they say. That’s the problem. What happened to the big money is a mystery.”

  Being with Belle was as good as a session at the gym upstairs. My pulse had reached near-aerobic speed and I could almost hear my heart pound. She was talking about a motive, one of the best—money. A motive Sasha Berg did not possess.

  “It turns out that three months ago, when Myrna’s son had that auto accident,” Belle continued, “there were things the insurance didn’t cover, like baby-sitters, because his wife had to go back to work and he was in no shape to—they have twins, you know—”

  “Get to the point!”

  Belle folded her hands and glared. We’d reached an impasse.

  But it was an old game between them, and only after Belle had punished Lala a sufficiently annoying length of time did she clear her throat and continue. “So she asked for the capital. To liquidate her account. I think it’s a bad idea to give your son everything, even if he had an accident, especially a son that hadn’t exactly been the most self-sufficient type, but—” She looked at her cousin. “Okay, okay. Like I said, that was three months ago. She still can’t get her money back. They stalled, said she’d be losing money, said it was unwise, said that she’d wind up paying too many taxes. She kept saying she needed it. It’s her right, you know. It’s her money. But they did this and they did that—and in the meantime, another woman in the social club—she’d seen Myrna at the laundry—heard what was going on and she got nervous, too, and also asked for her money, and what do you think happened?”

  “Nothing?” Lala whispered.

  Belle nodded. “Exactly. One excuse after another about funds being tied up and Mr. Reese being unavailable. And Mr. Perrillo, too, he tried. His wife has the Alzheimer’s now and he’s not exactly too swift himself, and they convinced him that he had almost nothing in the account. He just gave up and said he must be confused. But even without him, by last week Myrna was boiling. Couldn’t get a straight answer. Called the District Attorney’s office and they said it would take time, did she have any evidence, Myrna’s in Pennsylvania and Reese is in Jersey…you know the runaround. Let’s be honest—who wants to help an old lady? Especially a poor one.”

  Lala nodded and twisted her new diamond ring. Her hand shook a bit as she did so, and I understood how tenuous her hold had been on security—at least until Tommy gave her some. I tried to be less judgmental about how she’d chosen to avert a poverty-stricken old age.

  Meantime, Belle continued her agonizingly slow and convoluted trip through every trivial detail of the lives of everyone who’d come near her orbit. Her ideal audience would be an archeologist, used to patiently sifting through tons of detritus for one shard of value. I, however, practice a less patient profession.

  I pulled a small piece off my bagel and dropped it on the plate, only to pull off another piece. What definite bits of informati
on had I gotten from the woman’s meandering conversational path? Mostly that Jesse Reese had taken old people’s money and had possibly done something wrong with it, or at least wouldn’t readily return it.

  And during the months or weeks before he died, some people were aware of his shenanigans with the money, or were at least suspicious.

  Belle had derailed and was now describing a gall-bladder operation, slowly reciting each symptom and stitch. For a moment there was some question of whether the patient had lived through it, then I realized we were still talking about Myrna. The operation had been a year ago.

  How many people had been alerted to Jesse Reese’s hanky-pank? I wondered. How effective were the condominium tom-toms? To how many people had Myrna directly expressed her confusion, irritation, and concern over the last three months—and to whom had those people spoken?

  “The poor woman,” Belle said. “She’s finally over that, and now the whole business made her so upset, her angina started up. Almost every single cent she had saved in her whole life—twenty-four thousand six hundred and fifty dollars—was tied up with that man. As if she didn’t have enough troubles with her son and his lazy wife and those twins, now. But then, finally, they tell her to come to the office on Wednesday. That there will be a check for all the money waiting, and Mr. Reese will explain everything. Sorry for the delay. Wednesday, so you understand why she was upset about his dying on Monday? I told her it will just take a little longer, that’s all. She’ll get her money. Maybe the check’s already signed and waiting for her. It’s like I always say. The squeaky wheel gets the worm.”

  I always said that, too. But right now I said, “I wonder if you’d be willing to make a few more phone calls, find out who Myrna talked to about Jesse Reese during the past few months, people at other condominiums, or people who go to churches that Jesse Reese addressed. Then try to reach those people and find out whether they talked to Jesse Reese themselves and what happened.” I needed to know how much pressure had been on Jesse Reese these last few months.

  “Why?” Lala asked. “Why do you care about old people?”

  I tried to look indignant. “I’m hoping to be one someday. Besides, it’s the right thing to do.”

  “A regular do-gooder,” Belle said, but with admiration, not contempt.

  “If we can find enough people with stories like Myrna’s,” I said, “then maybe they’d have a class action suit, get more respect from the D.A.’s office.” I had no idea whether what I was saying made any sense postmortem. “Keep notes. I’ll meet with you later today and we’ll go over everything together.”

  Belle nodded. “So like I was saying, when Myrna’s angina started, she called the doctor, and who does he turn out to be but Selma’s son-in-law, you know—married to the daughter with the funny teeth?”

  At this point I did not care for whom Belle told. I put my share of the breakfast costs on the table and stood up.

  “Hon,” Lala said as I said goodbye, “do you realize it’s long-distance to Philadelphia? Tommy has a calling card, but—”

  “Use it. You’ll be reimbursed.”

  “Honey, it’s peak hours, you understand?” Lala said.

  “No matter.” I nearly gagged getting that one out. One medical monologue of Belle’s all on its own was beyond my financial capacity, but it was important to know what kinds of pressures, from where, had been on Jesse Reese in the last few weeks of his life.

  “A lot of money,” Lala murmured, but then she nodded, and seemed to trust me.

  It was worth the risk. I’d find the money somewhere.

  This was probably precisely the way the late Jesse Reese had thought, and look where it had gotten him.

  Fourteen

  I WALKED THROUGH THE LOBBY ticking off the day’s obligations and thinking as well about the data Lala and Belle had provided. There was a new and interesting light on everything. I was consumed by the idea of a horde of angry and frightened senior citizens, worried, possibly with cause, that they’d been taken.

  What had Reese really done, if anything, and what was facing him, and how much did it matter to him?

  There was, of course, the possibility that Belle and her friends were on the wrong track. I didn’t understand finance, let alone its nuances, so perhaps there were real reasons Reese couldn’t or shouldn’t liquidate the old people’s accounts. Maybe he’d been in the right, protecting their funds.

  On the other hand, was it possible that the small man seen by the witness was one of the elderly and enraged? And if so—who was his Sasha-look-alike cohort? An able-bodied child? A would-be heir avenging the evaporation of her inheritance?

  But—in my hotel room? Why on earth?

  It wasn’t clear whether any legal action against him had been begun, either. It would be nice to think it had, that Reese was in immediate danger of exposure, but it would take Belle and Lala a while to find that out.

  I sighed and thought about more tangible issues. Mackenzie’s luggage still needed retrieving, and he and Sasha both needed revisiting. I’d never gotten to Reese’s ex-partner Palford, and I wanted to talk with Poppy and/or Holly again, probe the inconsistencies in Poppy’s story.

  I did such a good job of ticking and thinking that I forgot to take the elevator down to the parking garage, and found myself, instead, standing at the boardwalk railing.

  I breathed deeply of the beautiful June day surrounding me, and looked longingly toward the beach. It was not yet bikini weather, but it would have been a fine day to lie inert as a dead battery being recharged after a winter’s worth of dimness.

  If only it weren’t for details like my best friend’s being in prison and my whatchamacallit’s being in the hospital. As the only ambulatory member of the trio, I had obligations. I stood at the railing, trying to savor and prolong the moment.

  I looked out to sea while trying to organize my various errands geographically. Each of them would take me to a different part of the city. Picking up Mackenzie’s suitcase at his hotel seemed a good first stop. Then down to the hospital, and back to the county jail and Sasha. Palford, then Poppy and Holly.

  Maybe the police would give me more time with Sasha, even without Mackenzie’s intervention. Maybe her cousin would be there. Maybe she’d even be released this morning.

  I gasped, because just then, far down on the beach, I saw Sasha. She had been released and she was here, on the hard-packed sand near the water, the horrendously out-of-style brown hair that belonged on a country singer or a go-go girl an extravagant tangle, a tan cape swirling around her as she moved. I called her name, but the sounds floated away long before they reached her. I felt giddy with relief. Sasha was free! Case closed!

  Unless, of course, I applied a modicum of logic, which against my will I began to do. It was June, and even if it wasn’t setting heat records, it wasn’t the frigid temperatures that called for Sasha’s wool cape. Which wasn’t tan, anyway. And which Sasha hadn’t brought to the beach.

  And which, therefore, she couldn’t now be wearing.

  The figure near the surf wasn’t Sasha at all, but a creature of my wish-fulfillment. The woman on the sand turned toward the boardwalk and picked her way up. Not Sasha in the least, except for the hair. Another person with liberated locks, that was all.

  Back to square one. I might as well get going to the dungeon to retrieve the car. I took one last sniff of salt air and turned.

  “Hey! Where you going? I was coming up here to you, didn’t you see?”

  I swiveled back. The wild mass of curls had completely altered Georgette’s appearance, subtracting years and creating a whole new persona.

  “Didn’t recognize you,” I said as she approached. “You’re looking very fancy.”

  Her missing teeth gave her laugh a melancholy note. “You like?” She patted her hair. “When I was a kid, I thought if I had curls, lots of thick hair, oh, then I’d be completely happy.”

  “Well, now you have them.”

  “A few problems l
eft, though,” she said with another smile. She seemed altogether buoyant today.

  “Nonetheless, my compliments to your beautician.”

  “You mean the Dumpster on Pacific, behind Trump’s. Got a pair of high heels there yesterday, can you imagine? Perfectly good shoes, and somebody throws them away.” She patted her head again. “Just as good as the ones Zsa Zsa advertises. Or is it her sister? Where’s the cute boyfriend?”

  “He’s—I never said he was my boyfriend.”

  “Well if he isn’t, you’re the dumb one.” She giggled and looked almost coy. “Unless he’s no good, that is. Some are. Maybe most. So be careful.” And like that, the merriment was gone. Her eyes deadened, her mouth curled downward. I wondered whether she was on medication, or should be.

  “Wish my son…if I had curly hair and a house somewhere for my son…only wanted to be ordinary.” She looked at me. “If wishes were horses, right?” And then she sat down on the steps up from the sand and cried, rubbing a hand across her eyes.

  I walked down to where she was and sat beside her, hoping my presence would provide comfort, since I had no idea what to say.

  “Kurt Junior. He…” She shook her head with its heavy brown curls. “Drunk one night after his father died, and drove away and crashed and…” She exhaled and shook her head again.

  “And Big Kurt.” She waved her arms at the empty air. “Out of work, no insurance, then he gets sick. Dies, but the money, the money, it thinks I’m dead, too. Except for my sister.”

  I patted her hand, gloveless today. The cape, its former life as a well-used tablecloth recognizable up close, slipped off her shoulders. She wore a reindeer-patterned cardigan over a blouse with a round collar, and two skirts that I could see.

  “I worked, you know, when he got so sick. Waited tables, but I couldn’t always…after my son…headaches all the time. Couldn’t sleep. My sister said not to worry, just get well, and as long as she had a roof over her head… And even after. Happily ever after, like in stories.” She breathed in raggedly and looked at me. “Who is your boyfriend, then, if Mack isn’t?”