by Lois Winston
“Did one of you become ill?”
Sylvia snorted. “Not me. And he seemed fine until he up and left without any explanation.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “The two of you hit it off when you first met. What happened?”
“I haven’t a clue. We were on our way to dinner. As we passed the solarium, I spotted Blanche and stopped to introduce her to Sidney. You know, show him off? Blanche never dates. With all the women around here, who’d be interested in that sourpuss, right?
“Anyway, Sidney says he needs to use the little boy’s room, so I told him I’d wait for him in the solarium. Only he never came back. The man pulled a Judge Crater on me. At first I thought maybe he’d taken ill, so after about ten minutes or so, I asked Rodney Shapiro to check the men’s room for me.”
“Sid wasn’t there?” I asked.
“Not only wasn’t he there, according to Bert Goldfarb, who spends more time in the john than any five residents put together, he’d been alone in the men’s room for at least twenty minutes.”
“And Sid never called you?”
Sylvia shook her head and sighed. “Haven’t heard a word from the man. Five minutes earlier he’d promised to ring my chimes after dinner.” She sighed again, only this time deeper and accompanied it with a tsking noise. “Haven’t had my chimes rung in ages, you know.”
I glanced over at Blake. His cheeks had deepened to a dark rose, and he looked like he wanted to crawl under the card table. My husband is no prude, but I guess, like me, the thought of geriatric sex conjured up an image of our parents getting down and dirty. And who wants to go there?
“Besides,” continued Sylvia, barely coming up for air, “I was looking forward to the key lime pie at Charlie Brown’s. Haven’t had a decent slice of key lime since my last trip to Miami back in January when I went to visit my daughter and that worthless husband of hers. I don’t know how Charlie Brown’s does it, but no one else around here comes close to Florida key lime.”
*
“Now that was odd,” I said as Blake and I took our leave of Sylvia Schuster and headed for our car.
“Not to mention a complete waste of time,” said Blake.
“Not necessarily. We confirmed Craft is a phony. He can’t be both FBI and a county detective.”
“Detective Menendez told you Remick and Craft were imposters hours ago.”
“And Sylvia Schuster confirmed it. At least we now know Menendez wasn’t lying to me.”
Blake glanced over at me. He had The Look planted firmly on his face. The Voice followed. “Why on earth would you think Menendez was lying to you?”
“I remember an episode of—”
“Gracie!”
“What?”
“Real life. This is real life. Not television. Not the movies. Not a mystery novel. Got it?”
“I have two words to say to you, Blake.”
“And they are?”
“New Jersey.”
“New Jersey?”
“Exactly. New Jersey. Home of unscrupulous politicians. Scandal and corruption. Cops on the take. It’s a time-honored tradition. Besides, ever hear the expression, ‘Life imitates art?’ And what about ‘Truth is stranger than fiction?’ I think you need to stop being so logical and start thinking outside the box a bit more if we’re going to solve Not-Sid’s murder.”
Blake chuckled. “And here I thought you wanted me around for my logic.”
He had me there. “All right. For argument’s sake, let’s assume Menendez didn’t lie to me, and Remick and Craft are definitely not FBI or detectives and definitely up to no good. What could that ‘no good’ something be?”
“Got me,” he said.
As we waited to merge into traffic, a late-model black Taurus turned into the entrance of Larchmont Gardens. Looked like Sylvia was about to have a visit from Detective Menendez.
“So where do we go from here?” asked Blake.
I pulled out my list and scanned the names of Not-Sid’s various dates. “Charlene Koltchefsky lives closest. Why don’t we pay her a visit?”
I gave Blake the address. He punched it into our GPS, then headed back over the mountain into Scotch Plains. Ten minutes later we pulled up in front of a nineteen-sixties split-level, an exact copy of every other house on the quiet, suburban street.
Like many New Jersey neighborhoods, this one was probably once a family farm. New Jersey had become the Garden State in name only, even though the motto still adorns our license plates and road signs. Forget Jersey tomatoes unless you grow them yourself in your backyard. Even during the height of summer, most of our tomatoes come from Florida and California. The only thing springing up on Jersey farms nowadays are sub-divisions of million dollar McMansions.
Charlene Koltchefsky’s forest green-trimmed, buttercup yellow split-level home sat behind a manicured lawn adorned with half a dozen birdbaths, a fuchsia gazing ball, and assorted gnome statuary peeking out from behind various lowlying shrubs. A twig wreath with purple and yellow silk pansies hung from the front door. Two yellow and green polka-dot frogs framed a welcome sign nestled within the center of the wreath.
“How much you want to bet she’s got plastic slipcovers?” asked Blake.
“Shh.” I elbowed him in the ribs before ringing the doorbell. “Your Aunt Fran has plastic slipcovers.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s what worries me. One Aunt Fran in this world is enough.”
From inside the house we heard someone yell, “I got it!” A moment later the door swung open. “Professor Elliott!”
Blake’s jaw dropped.
I stared at the young woman staring at my husband. She wore a skimpy black lace camisole over a pair of low-slung black jeans. A gold hoop was inserted through her belly button. Three gold safety pins protruded from each eyebrow. A variety of hoops and studs ran up the length of each ear with chandelier earrings hanging from her lobes. Another hoop hung between her nostrils. A gold stud was set into the dimpled area under her lower lip; a matching one pierced her left nostril. Her spiky jet black hair was dyed vermillion at the tips. The color matched her lipstick.
And then there were the tattoos. Judging from Blake’s reaction, this had to be Tiffany Robeling, but if so, how could Blake have forgotten to mention the tattoos? Images of roses, crosses, and barbed vines covered one arm from her wrist to her shoulder. A full-length portrait of Jesus ran the length of her other arm. Scripture emblazoned the exposed area of her chest, and angels with harps perched on either side of the hoop in her belly button.
Some people wore their religion on their sleeves; this girl had turned her body into a billboard to her faith. However, I’m guessing I wouldn’t find “Thou shalt not steal” anywhere on her body. Or “Practice what you preach.”
I glanced over at Blake. I wanted to ask, “F minus?” but I opted for a bit of diplomacy. “Is this Tiffany Robeling?”
“Yeah, that’s me,” she said, hands on her hips, her chin jutting out. “Who are you?”
Blake cleared his throat and I suppose the cobwebs that had secured his tongue. Ever the gentleman, he proceeded with introductions. “Grace Elliott. Tiffany Robeling.”
“Elliott?” Her lip turned up in a sneer. “Any relation?”
“My wife.”
Tiffany gave me the once over. “What do you want?”
I checked the address I’d written down for Charlene and wondered if I’d transposed the house numbers. “We’re looking for Charlene Koltchefsky.”
Tiffany turned accusing eyes on Blake. “I can’t believe you’re ratting me out! Jeez, Professor, I didn’t think you were such a hard-ass. What’s next? Hauling me off in handcuffs?”
“This has nothing to do with you,” said Blake.
Tiffany stretched out her arms, grabbing hold of the woodwork on either side of the door, as if she thought we’d force our way past her into the house. “Then what do you want with Gram?”
“Charlene’s your grandmother?” I asked.
I wondered how a woman who cultivated garden gnomes and painted polka-dot frogs felt about a granddaughter who stuck safety pins through her flesh. “Is she home?” I asked.
Tiffany eyed Blake again. “You sure this isn’t about me?”
“Not in the least,” said Blake. “I’m as surprised to see you as you are to see me.”
Tiffany dropped her hands to her sides. She didn’t look like she believed Blake, but she turned her head and shouted, “Gram! Someone to see you.” Then she motioned us into a plastic slipcovered living room. Behind me, I thought I heard my husband stifle a groan.
“You better not be shitting me,” Tiffany muttered. “Gram’ll toss me out on my ass if she finds out I cheated. She taught high school before she retired.”
“I promise,” I assured her. Tiffany flopped onto one of the plastic covered, gold crushed velvet armchairs, but Blake and I opted to remain standing in the spotless but overly cluttered living room.
Charlene Koltchefsky’s living room looked like an indoor craft fair. An array of floral motif needlepoint pillows rested against the backs of the gold and brown plaid Herculon sofa and each of the three overstuffed chairs. Crocheted doilies covered the arms; knitted afghans were draped across the backs. Painted ceramic plates and figurines lined the bookshelves on either side of the fireplace. An enormous silk floral arrangement in a wicker basket sat on the coffee table, another atop the mantel. The end tables held an assortment of decoupage boxes, bowls of potpourri, and sequin-studded candles. Framed paint-by-number landscapes filled the wall behind the sofa.
Charlene bustled into the room a moment later. She wore a paisley print cotton blend shirtwaist dress in shades of lavender and powder blue. I think I remember Aunt Fran wearing the same dress on one of our visits and wondered if Blake was having the exact thought. I dared not glance over at him for fear of either or both of us breaking out in giggles.
Come to think of it, before she sold her house in Clark and moved to a condominium in Vero Beach, Florida, Aunt Fran had cultivated her share of assorted concrete garden fauna. Although, I don’t remember any gnomes lurking among her hydrangeas and azaleas.
“Well, look who’s here!” said Charlene. “I hope you’ve come to apologize.” Her mouth set into a line as tight as the silver blue pin curls covering her head. Something else she shared in common with Aunt Fran.
“Apologize?” I stared at her, wondering if she had me confused with someone else.
Charlene wagged her finger at me. “You know, young lady, in my day when a gentleman asked a lady out on a date, he picked up the tab. He didn’t stick her with it.”
I glanced at Blake. The shocked expression on his face mirrored my own surprise. Turning back to Charlene, I repeated her accusation, just to make sure I’d understood her. “Sid stuck you with the dinner check?”
“He most certainly did.”
This was not the Sidney Mandelbaum I knew. Sid may have been a bit vulgar, but he certainly wasn’t a cheapskate. At least not when it came to paying me. He never once complained about my fee and always paid up front. And in cash.
Charlene eyed me skeptically. “You didn’t know?”
I shook my head.
She motioned to the couch. “Sit.”
Under the circumstances, I didn’t want to risk insulting her, so I took a seat on the edge of the sofa. Luckily, I’d worn a pair of taupe linen slacks and not a skirt since I eschewed pantyhose whenever possible, even in the dead of winter. And having once worn a pair of shorts to visit Aunt Fran, I knew the hazards of exposing bare flesh to plastic slipcovers. Blake took a seat beside me, but Charlene remained standing.
“I’m sure Sid just forgot his wallet,” I offered. “He’s a very generous man.” I purposely referred to Sid in the present tense because it appeared this time Blake and I had arrived before Craft and Remick or Detective Menendez. Charlene didn’t strike me as the kind of woman who would complain about the cost of a dinner if she knew Sid was now pushing up daisies.
She glared at me. “So you think all old people are forgetful?”
“I didn’t mean—”
She held up her hand. “Don’t bother. I had the same thought. At least the first time.”
“The first time?” My stomach felt like one of her garden gnomes had taken up residence.
“You mean to say he stiffed you more than once?” asked Blake.
Charlene nodded. “I didn’t think much of it the first time,” she said as she paced back and forth in front of us like a school marm lecturing a recalcitrant classroom of students. “We’re all getting old.” She waved her hand in a dismissive manner. “Could happen to anyone, I suppose. And to his credit, your Sidney acted mortified.”
“Emphasis on the acted,” said Tiffany from her sprawled position across the room.
Her grandmother scowled at her. “I believe in giving people the benefit of the doubt, young lady.” Charlene turned back to us and continued. “He made a huge show of patting his jacket and pants, checking all his pockets. Then he turned beet red and apologized profusely.”
“So you paid for dinner,” said Blake.
She nodded. “Luckily, when I was a young girl, my mother insisted I always take some pin money with me on a date. Just in case, you know? The habit was so ingrained in me that in all my forty-eight years of marriage, I never left the house with my dear George without a stash of bills in my purse. Never had to use them, though. Not until my date with Sidney Mandelbaum.”
“And he didn’t offer to reimburse you?” I asked.
“Oh, he offered, all right. Suggested we go back to his apartment, but I wasn’t buying the likes of that excuse. I’m not a loose woman, I’ll have you know.”
I took that to mean Charlene believed in playing hard-to-get—or at least waiting until the second date—because I definitely remember her asking about Sid’s plumbing. Everyone asked about Sid’s plumbing.
“You should’ve taken him up on it, Gram,” said Tiffany.
Her grandmother shot her a menacing look. “In my day nice girls didn’t enter a gentleman’s apartment without a chaperone. Besides, he promised to reimburse me on our next date.”
“But he didn’t,” said Tiffany, speaking to us. “The jerk stiffed her again.”
“Not quite,” said Charlene. “He did remember his wallet on our second date.”
“Yeah, too bad he didn’t remember to fill it,” retorted her granddaughter.
“Anyway, fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me,” said Charlene. “I wasn’t going to get suckered a second time. I’ve heard all about these geriatric gigolos. Modern Maturity had an article about them just last month. I’m not trading my pension and Social Security for a little male companionship, only to have the man up and leave after he’s run through my savings.”
“You tell them, Gram. Men are such jerks.” Tiffany bit her lip when she noticed Blake glaring at her. “Present company excepted, of course, Professor.”
“Professor?” Charlene turned to her granddaughter. “You know this man?”
Tiffany jutted her chin in my direction. “Seems Yenta the Matchmaker here is married to one of my profs. Small world, huh?”
Charlene didn’t answer her, but she did knit her brows together in a way that made me squirm.
“What did you do when Sid didn’t have any money again?” I asked, wanting to steer the conversation back to our reason for coming.
“I walked out. Figured if he had to spend a few hours washing dishes, maybe he’d learn his lesson.”
Blake burst out laughing. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. “How much did he owe you, Mrs. Koltchefsky?”
She waved him away. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I insist.” Blake removed a wad of bills. Have I mentioned what a gentleman he is?
“Take the money, Gram.”
Charlene hesitated for a moment befo
re holding her hand out. “With the tip, dinner came to sixty-eight dollars. He ordered two highballs for himself, and I had a glass of Chablis. And we both had dessert.”
“No need to explain.” Blake handed her three twenties and a ten.
“I’ll get you change,” said Charlene, turning to leave the room.
“No need.”
She hesitated. “You’re sure?”
When Blake nodded, she shoved the money into the pocket of her dress and finally sat down, crossing her slightly angled legs at her ankles and clasping her hands in her lap. Charlene had prim school marm posture down to a science, despite her slightly gnarled fingers and not-so-ramrod-straight back. She looked like a woman who refused to let arthritis and osteoporosis get the better of her.
I can take a hint even when it’s not given. Trying not to appear obvious, I reached into my purse, quietly unwrapped a chocolate-flavored Viactiv and surreptitiously popped it in my mouth.
Tiffany cleared her throat and speared me with an intense grunge-like sneer. “So if you didn’t come to apologize for that creep taking advantage of Gram, why are you here?”
SIX
I turned to Blake, my eyes pleading with him to take over as I worked my teeth free of the chewy calcium square filling my mouth. He gave me The Look, but what was I supposed to do? Talk around the sticky glob and chance chocolate drool running down my chin? Swallow the Viactiv whole and risk needing the Heimlich Maneuver? He could at least show some appreciation. After all, I chomped calcium for him. He didn’t want me to wind up with a dowager’s hump, did he?
By the time Blake had explained Not-Sid’s death and the subsequent events, I’d chewed my way through the Viactiv. I hoped both my husband and my bones appreciated the sacrifices I made for them.
Charlene’s expression hadn’t changed when Blake mentioned Sid’s untimely demise. No gasp. No flinch. No cringe. I thought that was rather odd, but some people don’t believe in showing emotion, especially in front of strangers, and maybe Charlene was one of them. On the other hand, maybe the loss of sixty-eight dollars was enough of an incentive for her to commit murder. A lifetime of reading the daily newspaper had convinced me that people kill for all sorts of bizarre reasons. And often a lot less than sixty-eight dollars.