Sleuthing Women

by Lois Winston

  Brother.

  According to Jim, Sheila had met Rhodes while she was in graduate school studying for a Master’s degree in Psychology. Rhodes was one of the school’s guest lecturers. Sheila told Jim that Rhodes was impressed with her intelligence—the actual words Jim quoted were, “He was dazzled by a brilliance far beyond my years”—and convinced her to leave school and come and work with him. That was several years ago, and she had been worshipping at the Rhodes altar ever since.

  The concept of the Re-Tirement Survival Center had supposedly been a joint one between Rhodes and Sheila. Jim was slightly hazy on who thought of it first. Perhaps Sheila hadn’t made that very clear to him.

  But she insisted that Rhodes always intended to acknowledge her contribution to the Center, and together they had planned to tweak the website and feature a picture of both of them. The fact that the website had been changed today, immediately after Rhodes’s death, was purely a coincidence, or so Sheila said.

  The whole thing sounded fishy to me, but the only two people who had been involved in the birth of the Center were Sheila and Davis Rhodes, and he was certainly in no position to contradict anything she said.

  “I’ve really got to admire the way Sheila is dealing with this trauma,” Jim said. “Very controlled. Very professional. But I can tell that, underneath, she’s really grieving. She and I went over some details for the memorial service next week. But plans won’t be finalized until she sees which clients respond to the invitation to pay tribute to Rhodes. Oh, speaking of invitations, Sheila wants me to invite the mayor of Westfield, and the president of the chamber of commerce, and any other local big wigs I can come up with.”

  Jim stopped to make a few notes to himself. “I guess it’s too late to get it on the governor’s schedule. Too bad.”

  I couldn’t resist. “Did the governor go to Rhodes for retirement counseling?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Carol.”

  I was being ridiculous? I wasn’t the one who was still in complete denial about being in big trouble. Who did he think he was kidding, anyway?

  Pardon the pun, but I guess “de Nile” isn’t just a river in Egypt.

  NINETEEN

  Q: Why don’t retirees mind being called Seniors?

  A: Because it comes with a 10 percent discount.

  I was counting on Nancy and her network of real estate agents to come through with information that could get Jim off the hook and put somebody else, preferably Sheila, on it instead. Or even the mystery woman, Grace. Hell, I wasn’t picky. Anyone but Jim would do just fine.

  When I hadn’t heard anything from Nancy via phone, text or email by ten the following morning, I called her cell phone and left a desperate message. She responded within minutes.

  “Carol,” she whispered into the phone, “don’t bug me. I know how upset you are. I’m doing the best I can. I’m at a Realtors’ open house right now for a new listing, and one of the agents here thinks she remembers Grace. I’m trying to get her to stay a little longer so I can pump her for more information, but there are ten more houses on the tour today and I can’t push her. I’ll call you back as soon as I can. Oh, you might want to check today’s paper. There’s another story about you-know- who on page five.”

  Another newspaper story? Not good. I poured myself a cup of industrial strength coffee for courage and opened the paper.

  Yup, there was the story, on page five, but this time in a more prominent position, “above the fold,” as Jim would say.

  Foul Play Suspected in Retirement Guru’s Death

  A spokesman for the Westfield Police Department has confirmed that a preliminary toxicology report on the body of Dr. Davis Rhodes, prominent local retirement coach, has revealed that Rhodes died as a result of a fatal drug interaction. The spokesman refused to speculate as to whether the drug interaction was accidental or the result of foul play. “We are looking at all possibilities, and are ruling nothing out at this stage of the investigation,” the spokesman said.

  Rhodes was found dead in the kitchen of the Re-tirement Survival Center three days ago by an unidentified client of the Center.

  The police spokesman refused further comment at this time.

  Oh, boy. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, there it was in black and white. The possibility of foul play—read “murder”—in Rhodes’s death was now public knowledge. And how much time would it take, I wondered, for “an unidentified client of the Center” to become named as Jim Andrews of Fairport? I didn’t see how Jim could trivialize this, but knowing him, he’d accuse me of overreacting again.

  I was at a stalemate until I heard from Nancy. After running the dogs in the back yard, I decided to tackle one of the household jobs I hate the most—cleaning the silverware. Not that I was expecting to host a large formal dinner party in the immediate future. Although perhaps when Jim was released from prison, I would.

  Stop that, Carol.

  The only good thing about cleaning silver is that you can see what you’ve accomplished. It’s extremely satisfying, in a basic kind of way. I was admiring the gleam I’d put on a sterling silver tray we’d received for a wedding present—and never used—when the phone finally rang. It was Nancy.

  “Want to take a ride with me?” she asked. “We’re going to meet the mystery woman. She’s expecting us at one o’clock.”

  “What? You found out who she is?”

  “Of course I did. How could you ever doubt me? That agent I told you about earlier turned out to be a gold mine of information. She rented a house in Westfield to a woman matching your description of Rhodes’s wife. I called the phone number the agent gave me, and the woman couldn’t have been nicer. Her name is Grace Retuccio. I’ll tell you more when I pick you up. Now, get moving. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. We can pick up lunch on the way.”

  ~*~

  “I admit it. I am very impressed,” I said, talking louder than usual to be heard above the wind blowing me to bits. Nancy and I were in her red Mercedes convertible with the top down, speeding along Route 15 toward Westfield. She’s forever reminding me that one of the perks of being a real estate agent is having a great car, which, conveniently, can also be taken as a tax deduction.

  “Who is she, where is she from, and how did you get her to agree to see us?”

  “When you’re a real estate agent, you can do almost anything,” bragged Nancy. “I gave her a cock and bull story about how real estate agents always want to be sure their clients are happy in their new home. That part is true. When a client buys a house, we always give them a gift. But we never bother to do that with people who rent.”

  Nancy turned her head and gave me a wicked grin. “That is, until now. I stopped at a florist to get a bouquet for her. I told Grace that her rental agent had asked me to deliver it. That’s all it took to get us into the house. After we’re inside, you’re on your own.”

  ~*~

  Grace whatever-her-name-was lived in a small Cape Cod style house whose rear yard backed up to the Re-tirement Survival Center. I could actually see the kitchen windows of the Center from the driveway of the rental house. It was a perfect place to keep tabs on someone without that someone knowing about it. I wondered if Davis Rhodes had realized that Grace was living so close to him. Or if he cared. Maybe that was one of the things they’d argued about at Maria’s.

  All of a sudden, as Nancy cruised to a stop in front of the house, I realized that visiting this mystery woman on the spur of the moment was a very bad idea. What were Nancy and I doing there, anyway? Who the heck did I think I was? I didn’t have the faintest idea what to say.

  Nancy knows me too well. She could sense I was chickening out. “Come on, Carol, get out of the car. You have that hesitant look on your face that I absolutely hate. We have to go through with this. She’s probably already looked out the window and seen us in the driveway.”

  Nancy got out of the car and slammed her door. “Come on,” she said again. “This was all your idea.
Let’s go.”

  Reluctantly, I followed Nancy onto the front porch. She rang the doorbell. I heard some footsteps. Rats. No time to back out now.

  The woman who answered the door was short and round. Certainly not a glamour girl, but comfortable looking. Like everybody’s favorite cousin. Her most striking feature was her beautiful white hair, which framed a face with remarkably few lines. Her eyes looked red. Had she been crying? We really were intruding.

  Unlike me, Nancy never lets anything stop her when she’s on a mission. She positioned her body in front of mine and flashed Grace a winning smile. “Hello, Grace. I’m Nancy Green from Dream Homes Realty. We spoke on the phone a little while ago. And this is my friend Carol Andrews. We’ve come to welcome you to Westfield, and deliver this bouquet of flowers to you. May we come in?” She thrust the flowers into Grace’s hands and ever so slightly inched her way into the foyer.

  What else could the poor woman do? She had to invite us inside. “Of course you can come in. Forgive my manners. This is so kind of you. I’m Grace Retuccio. But of course, you know that already.”

  The woman hesitated for a minute, then made a decision. “Why don’t you follow me into the kitchen and I’ll put these flowers in water? The place is still pretty unorganized,” Grace said, indicating moving cartons that were scattered around the entryway. “I’ve had a death in my family, and…” She paused to dab her eyes with a tissue. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know you. And here I am, breaking down in front of you.”

  Nancy and I both rushed to assure Grace that she had nothing to apologize for. “In fact,” Nancy said, “we should probably apologize to you. Barging in here like this and disturbing you. We had no idea.” She shot me a look which translated to, “You take it from here.”

  I felt guilty about taking advantage of the poor woman’s grief, but she had given us a golden opportunity to ask her some questions about Rhodes.

  “Nancy and I are so sorry for your loss,” I said as we sat down at the kitchen table. More than she knew. “Was it someone close to you?”

  Grace sipped a little water from a glass Nancy had poured for her. “It was someone close. But I hadn’t seen him for a while.”

  “A dear friend?” I asked. “Or a family member? It’s obviously someone you cared about a great deal.”

  “I don’t know how you’d describe our relationship,” said Grace. “Legally, he was family to me. But friend?” She shook her head. “Not a friend. Not lately anyway. He was my husband.”

  I felt guilty that she was being so open with us. Was this what the police called “entrapment”?

  I hesitated, and Nancy jumped in with more questions. “You were separated? How sad. I know more women who have gone through separations. It’s such a traumatic thing.” She patted Grace’s hand. “If it will make you feel better to talk about him, Carol and I would be glad to listen. But if you’d rather we left, we’ll do that too. Sometimes, talking to perfect strangers, rather than close family and friends, can be easier at a time like this. At least, that’s what Dr. Phil says.”

  Grace jumped at the chance to talk. “I’ve felt so alone,” she confessed. “I really don’t know anybody here. Except Dick. Our marriage has been unusual, to say the least. Even though we didn’t see each other on a regular basis, we were in frequent touch via phone or email. We were involved in a joint business venture which was just about to become very successful.”

  I nodded at her sympathetically and didn’t say anything. As I’d done with Maria. I was finally learning that silence often gets a person to open up.

  “Dick and I were involved in the Re-tirement Survival Center. The office is on the next street. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

  Nancy gave me a sideways look.

  “What an amazing coincidence,” I replied. “Yes, I certainly have heard of the Center. In fact, my husband and I went there for retirement counseling recently. We were both very impressed with the services the Center offered. We saw someone named Davis Rhodes, though, not Dick. Your husband mustn’t have been there when we had our consultation.

  “I’m sorry, I guess I’m a little confused,” I continued. “I did read in the newspaper that Rhodes died a few days ago. I put my hand to my mouth in apparent shock. What a bad actress I was. “Was Davis Rhodes your husband? Oh, my God, I can’t believe it. But who’s Dick?”

  Grace nodded her head. “You must have talked to my husband, then. Dick.”

  I felt like I was in the classic Abbott and Costello skit, “Who’s On First?” I was getting more and more confused, no kidding.

  “You see,” Grace explained, “Dick’s professional name was Davis Rhodes. We both felt the name Dick Retuccio was too ethnic to appeal to a broad number of clients, so Dick used this other name when he was working. He and I are both lifestyle coaches, and I was the one who developed the whole retirement strategy for baby boomers. I guess I should say he was a coach. I just can’t come to grips with the fact that he’s dead.” She took a paper napkin that was on the table and began shredding it. The poor woman was becoming even more agitated.

  “Wow,” I said out loud. I used more colorful language to myself, but never mind that. Jim was never going to believe any of this. I wasn’t sure I did. In fact, if Nancy hadn’t been sitting right there in the same room, I’d swear I was imagining the whole conversation.

  I started to ask Grace another question, but there was no need. She was on a roll now. “We had an unconventional marriage,” she said, “but it worked for us. We led separate lives, on two different coasts, but we were still connected. Part of it was our joint work developing the Re-tirement Survival Center, of course. We never bothered to get divorced. There was no need to. And we talked on a fairly regular basis.

  Grace flushed. “Two months ago, things changed. Dick was not nearly as forthcoming about the clients he was seeing as he had been. I think he began to believe that he didn’t need me anymore. Then he called to tell me he wanted a divorce.”

  Grace’s anger was evident by her completely shredded napkin. The grief we had seen earlier was gone. “I refused, of course,” she said. “I’m sure both of you understand why. I wasn’t about to be cast aside after all these years. Especially not now, when my concept, that he was taking complete credit for, was finally becoming successful. No way. I even gave him the recipe for those damn chocolate chip cookies! I was the one who told him to do his preliminary client intake in the kitchen to put people at their ease. He never would have thought of any of that by himself. So I hopped on a plane and came east to see for myself what was going on. I counsel most of my clients by phone, so I can work from anywhere.”

  Grace smiled. This one was not a friendly smile. “Was he ever surprised when I showed up on his doorstep a few weeks ago.”

  I didn’t know what to say. And I could tell that, for once, Nancy didn’t either.

  “Finding this short-term rental was pure luck,” Grace said. She looked at Nancy. “Your office was so helpful. Thank you so much for coming by with the flowers.”

  Grace seemed to realize she had told us too much. She stood up, and we followed. It was pretty clear that our little chat was over. It was also pretty clear that Mrs. Grace Retuccio had a dandy motive for getting rid of her husband.

  ~*~

  On the way home, Nancy and I talked of nothing else.

  “It’s really classic,” said Nancy. “The aging wife, who’s stood by her man for years, dumped by her Lothario husband when he becomes successful.”

  “We don’t know Rhodes was a Lothario,” I pointed out. “Or should I say we don’t know if Dick Retuccio was one? This is all so mixed up. Yesterday, Sheila Carney told Jim that she and Rhodes had come up with the Re-tirement Survival Center idea together. It looks like she was lying. Or Grace is. God! Grace seems to have at least two of the necessary ingredients for murder—motive and opportunity. I don’t know about the means, though.”

  “How about this?” Nancy suggested. “Maybe Rhodes had a pre-ex
isting medical condition that made a lethal drug interaction easy? His wife would certainly know about that, right?”

  “That’s good,” I said. “Very plausible. So, now that we’ve found out all this, what are we going to do about it? Should I call the police and suggest they do some checking on Grace and Rhodes and the whole fantastic story she told us? Is my interfering only going to make things worse for Jim? It sure would be easier to talk to Mark alone than with that horrible partner of his.” I rummaged in the bottomless depths of my purse. “I think I have his card in here somewhere.”

  Nancy turned the corner onto my street and immediately slammed on the brakes, throwing me forward toward the windshield.

  “Hey, watch it,” I yelled. “Are you trying to get me killed? What’s the matter with you?”

  “Carol,” Nancy said, “you’d better decide right now what you’re going to say. There’s a police car parked in front of your house.”

  TWENTY

  Q: What is the biggest gripe retirees have?

  A: There’s not enough time to get everything done.

  “Ohmygod! I’m not ready to talk to them yet. What am I going to do?”

  “Try telling them the truth,” said Nancy dryly.

  “Very funny,” I snapped. “You know what I mean. Can you tell how many people are in the car?”

  Nancy craned her neck a little. “I think it’s only one person, but I can’t be positive. Listen, do you want me to come in the house with you? Maybe it’ll be easier for you to deal with the police if you’re not alone.”

  I jumped at Nancy’s offer. “What a pal you are. I won’t be as nervous if you’re there, plus you can hear the questions they ask me. Maybe you’ll have something to add. Or subtract. You have my permission to kick me under the table if you think what I’m saying isn’t helping Jim.”

  I took a deep breath. “I’m ready now. Let’s drive up to my house before the police wonder why we’re spending so much time stopped at the corner.”