Retirement Can Be Murder

by Susan Santangelo

  Before they both started going too far down memory lane, I interrupted them. I still had lots of questions that I wanted answered, and, as I have already admitted, I am not a patient person.

  “Jim, what kind of questions did the police ask you? Did they want to know why you were at Rhodes’s office? Did they ask what your relationship was with him?”

  “I told the police that Rhodes and I had a client relationship, Carol.

  He was a retirement coach, after all.”

  “But Jim,” I persisted, “did you clarify that Rhodes was your client, not the other way around?”

  “I didn’t feel it was necessary to go into details,” Jim said impatiently.

  “The police didn’t ask me for any clarification, and I didn’t give them any.”

  “That amounts to lying to police,” I screamed at him. “Are you crazy?”

  “Now who’s overreacting?” Jim shot back at me.

  Some of his old bravado was coming back. I think I liked him better when he was less sure of himself.

  “Larry says the police have to do an autopsy on Rhodes because no doctor was present to certify cause of death, but it was probably a heart attack or stroke or something like that,” Jim continued, ignoring my outburst. “He told me to come home and not worry. Good advice for all of us, Carol.”

  I swear, I wanted to grab him by his shoulders and shake him until his teeth rattled. How can men be so stupid?

  * * *

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  Q: What do you call an intelligent, good-looking, sensitive man?

  A: A rumor.

  Jim lay next to me in our dark bedroom, snoring away without a care in the world. Between his snoring and that damn retirement clock, ticking away like a time bomb, I lay there so wired and wide awake I felt like I’d drunk an entire pot of black coffee. Maybe two pots.

  I tried counting sheep. No dice.

  For some obscure reason, I remembered an old Bing Crosby song, when he promised you’d fall asleep if you counted your blessings. Bing was wrong this time. I counted a lot of blessings, and I still couldn’t fall asleep.

  I knew I was going to be bleary-eyed and the bags under my eyes were going to be suitcases in the morning if I didn’t get to sleep soon. After you reach a certain age, no amount of cover-up can mask those dark circles or puffiness.

  What I finally ended up doing to get to sleep was to count our problems. I had enough of those to choose from, God knows.

  Hmm, let’s see.

  In the past 12 hours Jim had been betrayed by a “client” he never really had. The “client” was set to go on a major television show and do a live interview which would probably make him a household name. Jim had no idea the interview was scheduled until I told him. It was a pretty safe bet that his boss would find out Jim had lied about his relationship with said “client.” Jim could lose his job. At the very least, Jim would lose a huge amount of credibility at the agency. So, in a desperate attempt to save his bogus “client relationship” and his job, as well as his ego, My Beloved Husband went to the “client’s” office. And found his “client” dead. The police were called, and Jim lied to them.

  Did I leave anything out? Could things get worse?

  Sure, I felt sorry for Jim. But he was handling the situation all wrong, damn him. The more I thought about that, the madder I got.

  I imagined Jim coming home tomorrow night, a broken man, and confessing that he’d lost his job. Oh, that’s harsh, Carol. But, fantasies are harmless, right?

  Let’s continue. How about Jim coming home, a broken man, confessing he’s lost his job, and the police arrive on our doorstep wanting to talk to him again. Ooh, even better.

  The snoring beside me continued mercilessly. As did the ticking of that blasted clock. But so did my fantasizing.

  How about this one? Jim is questioned again and again by the police because they are suspicious of his story. It turns out that—oh, yes!—

  Rhodes was murdered! Oh, boy, this was getting really good now.

  Jim breaks down and confesses he’s lied. Against his lawyer’s advice, he tells the police the whole ugly story. And promptly gets himself arrested for murder, the big jerk!

  When I visit him in his jail cell, he begs me through his tears to help him. “Carol, you’re the only one who can save me now! Please, honey, help me!”

  God, I was so loving this fantasy!

  I was deciding what to wear to Jim’s arraignment when I must have fallen asleep.

  Jim left for the office the next morning before I had a chance to talk to him again. He was probably afraid I was going to try and talk some sense into him, and didn’t want to deal with me.

  Jenny left for school early, too. But at least we had time for a quick mother-daughter bonding session over cups of tea and bowls of cold cereal, where we assured each other that there was really nothing to worry about, blah blah blah.

  I don’t think she believed me any more than I believed her, but at least we were there for each other. And for Jim, of course. Needless to say, I didn’t share my late-night fantasy with Jenny. She probably would have a pretty low opinion of her mother if she knew I was fantasizing about her father going to jail. And the fun of having him beg me to save him.

  I tried very hard to avoid turning on the television. I was afraid of what I might hear on the news. But finally, I couldn’t stand the suspense any longer and I clicked on the television remote. I just couldn’t help myself.

  I surfed through channels, trying to control my curiosity. Then, I gave in—well, I hadn’t really tried so hard to resist, to be honest—and there they were: Dan Smith and his co-host, Marni Barker, outside the Wake Up New England studio with hundreds of screaming fans jumping up and down behind them.

  I checked my watch. It was 7:50 a.m. Almost time for them to cut away for the regional weather, then to local stations for a brief update. But this was also the time to give viewers a little teaser about what was coming up in the next hour on the show, to entice folks to stay tuned. Had they acknowledged Rhodes’s death? Had I missed it?

  Then I heard Marni say, “Before we get to the weather, I want to tell viewers about an exclusive story we’re following.”

  She gazed solemnly into the camera.

  “You may remember that Dr. Davis Rhodes, pioneering retirement guru for the baby boomer generation, was scheduled to be a guest on this broadcast this morning. Dr. Rhodes was going to discuss his revolutionary approach for making the best out of the third portion of life.”

  She paused dramatically.

  Dan stepped in to assist. “That’s right, Marni, and we were all looking forward to his appearance. But tragically, last night Dr. Rhodes died, under mysterious circumstances, at his office in Westfield, Connecticut.

  Police are investigating.”

  A picture of Rhodes, taken from the dust jacket of his book, flashed onto the screen.

  “However,” Dan continued, “we are very grateful that Sheila Carney, Dr. Rhodes’s trusted associate, has graciously agreed to be interviewed.

  We’ll be talking to Sheila live from her office at the Retirement Survival Center, and getting her unique perspective, both on the great Dr. Rhodes as a person and as a pioneer in his field, coming at fifteen minutes past the hour. Don’t miss it. Now, here’s the weather.”

  I pressed the mute button. I had hoped that the media would ignore Davis Rhodes’s death. Now I realized how ridiculous that idea was. In death, Rhodes was being transformed by the media into a legend. No, more than that, an icon. The New Elvis!

  I took a sip of coffee and grimaced. Ugh. Cold. Time to replenish the cup, or better yet, throw out the old stuff, which tasted like paint remover now, and make a fresh pot. Activity always soothes me and this was certainly mindless enough.

  Have I mentioned how much I love throwing out things like ketchup or shampoo bottles that have just a little bit left in the bottom? It may sound silly, but it’s one of the guilty pleasures
I give myself when My Beloved isn’t around. He’s forever going into the recycling bin and saying, “Carol, why did you throw away this bottle of hair conditioner?

  There’s plenty left in the bottom. I’ll use it up. I’m not made of money, you know.” I just had to be sure I rinsed the bottles thoroughly when I got rid of them, so he wouldn’t catch on.

  Oh, how I missed those week-long business junkets to the West Coast he used to take back in the 80s. It was the only time I got to clean out the refrigerator.

  I didn’t want to miss a single word of Sheila Carney’s interview, so I set the timer on the microwave for five minutes, then tossed out the old coffee and put together a fresh pot to brew. Half decaf, half regular coffee. I’ve read some studies that say decaf is healthier, and seen others which claim regular coffee and all that caffeine won’t hurt you. I figured I’d cover myself either way.

  While I was at it, I let Lucy and Ethel out for a quick run so they wouldn’t interrupt me with doggie needs, and filled their bowls with fresh water. Then, I poured steaming coffee into my favorite mug, the one that shows an elderly couple in wedding attire with a caption underneath that reads, “Daddy always said the first fifty years are the hardest.”

  I settled myself into the family room couch again and the dogs hopped up beside me. I let them snuggle in close. What the heck, I could always vacuum off the dog hairs later, and right now I needed all the empathetic company I could get. I even had a ballpoint pen and lined pad handy, in case I decided to make a few notes during the interview. Con-trary to other people’s opinions, I can be organized, when I set my mind to it.

  I was especially curious to see if Wake Up New England had sent a reporter out to interview Sheila, which would make Rhodes and his death a really important story. No, when the story began, it was obvious a local camera crew was at the Center with Sheila, and the interview was going to be conducted via remote.

  I strained to see where the conversation was taking place, and realized Sheila was in the elegant living room of the Center. Dressed impeccably in a basic black dress (widow’s weeds?) with the obligatory pearl choker at her throat and tiny pearl stud earrings, her blonde hair was flowing over her shoulders. She looked very fragile.

  “Ms. Carney, first of all,” said Dan, “please accept the condolences of all of us on Dr. Rhodes’s tragic passing. We were looking forward to our interview with him this morning so much.” Marni nodded her head in agreement.

  “Thank you,” replied Sheila, graciously accepting their condolences.

  “And it’s Dr. Carney, not Ms. Carney.” Her hands fluttered to her pearls.

  “But you both may call me Sheila.” She smirked, just a little, into the camera.

  Whoa, I thought. I was surprised Sheila was acting so bitchy to Dan and Marni. Didn’t she care how she came across on camera? This prima donna wasn’t the professional woman I’d met when I visited the Center with Jim for that first meeting. I wondered what the relationship had been between Sheila and Davis Rhodes. Professional? Personal? A little bit of both?

  I made a note on my pad to check that question out.

  Both Dan and Marni looked startled at Sheila’s response, but quickly recovered, pros that they are.

  “Well, Sheila,” Marni put just a little emphasis on the name, “I’m sure this has been a terrible shock to you. Dr. Rhodes’s re-treading approach to retirement was certainly revolutionary, and I’m sure millions of baby boomers would have benefited from his wise counsel. It’s very premature, I’m sure, but has the staff of the Center given any thought as to how, and by whom, his great work will be carried on?”

  Sheila smiled insincerely into the camera, revealing a dazzling set of teeth in a shade so white that it couldn’t possibly be natural.

  “Why, Marni, of course the work of the Retirement Survival Center will go on. How could we not go on? The Center will be a lasting tribute to Dr. Rhodes and his pioneering work, a memorial, if you will. And as far as someone to lead the Center, why,” her blues eyes widened, “since I worked so closely with Dr. Rhodes in developing the re-treading method, of course I will now be the Center’s director.”

  Her eyes widened even further, if possible, and she stared directly into the camera. Her lip quivered slightly.

  “It’s the least I can do to honor a genius whose work will impact the lives of millions of baby boomers in the coming years.”

  Sheila was certainly giving an Academy-Award-winning performance.

  How well I remembered the interaction Jim and I had witnessed, when Rhodes treated Sheila like a flunky in front of us, not a professional colleague. Hmm. I made another note on my pad.

  “That’s truly wonderful news to all Dr. Rhodes’s clients,” said Dan.

  “How selfless of you to devote your life to such a noble cause. Now tell us….” He leaned forward in his chair. “Has there been any progress in determining the cause of Dr. Rhodes’s death? Are the police still on the premises doing some investigating? Will any public memorial service be scheduled, and if so, when?”

  Sheila leaned back in her chair, as if to ward off this new line of questioning.

  “Dan, as you know, Dr. Rhodes only died last night. We’re waiting for the final determination of the cause of his tragic death, pending the autopsy results. This will take several days, I’m told by the police. Of course, we will have a public memorial service to honor his memory when the time is right, but in the meantime, the Retirement Survival Center is open and ready to serve our clients. That, of course, is the most significant memorial of all to the important work Dr. Rhodes and I pioneered together.”

  The interview ended on that note.

  I flicked off the television and my imagination went into overdrive.

  Probably as a result of reading too many mysteries. But what if it turned out that Rhodes really was murdered? And that Sheila had murdered him to gain control of the Center?

  Now, that would really be something.

  * * *

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  Q: Why do retirees count pennies?

  A: They’re the only ones who have the time.

  I had just begun to scribble a few more notes to myself when the phone rang.

  I checked the caller I.D. It was Jim. Probably calling to tell me he’d either been fired or arrested.

  I took a few deep cleansing breaths to calm myself, then answered the phone. “Hi dear. How’s everything?” Are you being measured for a prison jumpsuit? I didn’t say that last part, of course.

  “So far, so good,” he assured me. “Did you see Sheila Carney’s interview on Wake Up New England just now? Wasn’t she great? I think it’s fabulous that she plans to keep the Re-tirement Center open as a tribute to Dave. I’m wondering if I should give her a quick call and express my condolences. And also congratulate her on how well she handled herself on the air. What do you think?”

  I was completely flabbergasted. In our 36 years of marriage, My Beloved had never asked my advice about anything work-related.

  “Well, Jim,” I said, hedging my response, “that could be a kind thing for you to do. I’m sure Sheila is feeling very upset and emotional right now over Rhodes’s death. It must be horrible for her.” Not that she seemed all that heartbroken in the interview. More like she couldn’t wait to get on with her role as new director of the Center.

  “But maybe it’s not a good idea for you to contact her so quickly,” I cautioned. “After all, you found Rhodes’s body, and the police haven’t released the cause of his death. You may still be under some suspicion.”

  “Carol, you’re exaggerating my involvement. After all, I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It could have been anybody who discovered Dave’s body. It was just a fluke that it was me,”

  Jim said defensively.

  “I don’t think I’m overreacting to this. The police may want to question you again. What if they find out that he was supposed to be your client, not the other way arou
nd? And how angry you were about Rhodes doing a major television appearance behind your back? Jim, don’t you get it? The fact that you went to his office to have it out with him makes it look like you could have killed him.”

  There, I’d said it. My deepest fear was that Rhodes had been murdered, and the police would think Jim was responsible.

  “That’s just ridiculous,” said Jim, his voice rising slightly. “Leave it to you to over-dramatize the situation. That’s why I asked you to call Larry last night. He assured me that all those questions were standard police operating procedure, because I found the body. And I don’t see why calling Sheila to express my condolences is going to raise any suspicions with the police about me. Your imagination is really working overtime again, Carol.”

  “But Jim,” I persisted, “what if Sheila had something to do with his death? Who would have had a better opportunity to harm Rhodes than Sheila? And he treated her like a secretary, not a partner, from what we observed, remember? I saw her on television this morning too, and she sure didn’t seem that broken up about Rhodes’s death to me.”

  “That’s a horrible thing to say.”

  He paused, then said more gently, “Honey, I know you’re worried about me, and I appreciate that, even though I don’t think it’s necessary.

  I have to go. I’ll keep you posted.”

  Well, maybe My Beloved Husband had deluded himself into thinking everything was hunky dory, but I certainly had my doubts. I remember when we were first married. One of the reasons I was so attracted to Jim was that nothing seemed to throw him. No matter how trivial or how important the problem, Jim always seemed to know exactly what to do to make things right.

  I admit that I have panicked in certain situations, especially ones involving the kids. There was that time when Mike was three and fell off his tricycle in the driveway and hit his head. God, the blood! I was absolutely paralyzed. Then I started screaming. Jim came running out of the house, took one look at the situation and immediately ran inside for a cold cloth to stop the bleeding. He picked Mike up and pressed the compress to his head for a good five minutes, all the while comforting him, and me. When the bleeding stopped, it turned out to be just a small cut on Mike’s forehead. Only needed two stitches to close the wound, and Mike doesn’t even have a scar today.