Retirement Can Be Murder

by Susan Santangelo

  I put myself together as quickly as I could. No time for meditating in the shower today. Luckily, I found a pair of khaki pants and a white polo shirt that were freshly ironed. Probably too casual, but adding a blazer brought the outfit up a notch. I wasn’t out to make a professional impression on anyone today.

  I didn’t even bother to blow my hair dry. When you have short hair like I do, you can sometimes get away with letting it dry naturally, and then add a little gel to it for some body and shape. I frowned at myself in the bathroom mirror. Were those new wrinkles on my face? Yuck. And no cover-up cream could mask the bags under my eyes. Double yuck.

  My hair looked a little too spiky for my taste. And I couldn’t get it to behave without taking another shower. My hairdresser, Deanna, would never approve. How could she run her hands through my hair and make it look great, and when I tried to do the exact same thing, it looked like I was suffering the after-effects of an electrical shock?

  I shrugged. It was the best I could do and it would have to be good enough.

  Looking at myself in the bathroom mirror and fooling with my hair started me on a chain of thoughts that seemed to come out of nowhere.

  My hair. Deanna. The hair salon. Mary Alice in the chair. Nancy coming into the hair salon announcing to everyone that Davis Rhodes was going to be on Wake Up New England the following day. Linda Burns being rude to me and leaving. And my cell phone ringing. Jim was on the phone. I remembered that I didn’t answer that call because at that moment, I didn’t want to talk to Jim.

  And then, I went into the changing room at the salon to listen to the voice mail message in private. I could visualize myself sitting on the hamper of used smocks, listening to Jim talk. Telling me how angry he was at Rhodes for making arrangements about Wake Up New England behind his back, and saying he was going over to the Center to have it out with him.

  Was that the last time I used my cell phone? Had I lost it at the hair salon? Did it fall on the floor, or maybe fall inside the hamper? Had Deanna found it and…what? Sent it to the police anonymously, to get Jim into trouble? Why? That made no sense at all. Linda Burns was at the hair salon that day, I reminded myself. But she left before Jim called. As much as I liked Linda in the role of First Murderer, that part didn’t fit either.

  But what about Deanna? I thought she was my friend, but how well did I really know her? Yes, she’d been doing my hair, and the hair of my three best friends, for at least five years now. Yes, we exchanged gossip and harmless secrets and laughs every time I had an appointment. But, come to think about it, I was doing most of the confiding and Deanna was doing most of the listening.

  Was it possible she was a blackmailer, or even a murderer? What did I know about her life before she came to Fairport? Oh, get a grip, Carol.

  You’re getting way out of control here.

  Well, there was only one way to find out. I had an hour to kill before I was supposed to meet Claire at the Trattoria. And my hair looked like hell.

  I was going to get myself over to the hair salon and see if Deanna could fit me in for a quick styling. And maybe, if I was very clever, I could get her to answer some of those troubling questions, too.

  “This is hysterical,” I said when I walked into Crimpers. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming here first before you met me at Maria’s?”

  Claire sat in Deanna’s styling chair, her hair covered with noxious smelling glop. “You should have figured it out yourself. You knew I’d been away for more than a week. And you were the one who commented the last time I saw you, that my white roots were showing.”

  “True. But I said it with love.” I leaned down and gave Claire a quick peck on the cheek, being careful not to disturb her hair. “I’ve missed you.

  Welcome back.” I studied myself in the mirror under the harsh fluores-cent lights. “Boy, I thought I looked bad at home. Under these lights I look like I’m a hundred years old. I need a quick hair fix. Where’s Deanna?”

  I looked around the hair salon and saw two of the hair dryers were occupied. “Who else is here?” I asked Claire. “Anyone we know?”

  “Deanna’s in the back mixing up a color treatment for a client, the one who’s under the dryer on the right,” answered Claire. “I don’t know who she is, but she’s here for a glazing, whatever that means. And the other woman looks a little familiar, maybe from church, but I don’t know her name. Unfortunately, that happens to me a lot these days. Forgetting people’s names, I mean. I don’t think either of them can hear you right now. Those dryers are loud. And they both look like they’re absorbed in their magazines.”

  I headed to the back of the shop to find Deanna and throw myself on her mercy. I didn’t need to explain my problem to her. She took one look at me and said, “What on earth have you done to your hair?” She sur-veyed me critically. “It’s all spiked up like someone in a rock band.”

  “Deanna, I hate to ask you this,” I pleaded, “but I have an important dinner tonight and I just can’t get my hair to look right. No one else can make it look as good as you do. Do you have time to just give me a little tweaking? The dinner’s with Jim’s boss. I really need to look good.” I wasn’t proud of myself, but I was getting better and better at lying. My mother used to say that practice made perfect, though I doubt this is what she was encouraging me to practice.

  “That’s one of the things I’m best at, dealing with emergencies for favorite clients like you,” said Deanna. “You sure know how to make me feel needed. I’ll just spritz you down with some water and re-do you.

  Won’t take a sec. But you may have to wait a little while. I’m sort of backed up.” She gestured around to the other clients. “I hired a new shampoo girl last week, and she called in sick today. On top of everything else. I guess I have to think about hiring another stylist, too. I’m getting too popular.”

  “It’s a good problem to have,” I said, making myself comfortable in the chair next to Claire’s. “I was meeting Claire for lunch today at Maria’s Trattoria. Since we’re both here now, we’ll leave together. Works out perfectly.”

  I picked up the latest issue of People magazine. “Don’t mind me. I’ll just sit here and get caught up on all the gossip until you can fix me.” I pretended to glance through the magazine while I tried to figure out how to introduce the subject of my cell phone.

  “So, have things calmed down at all at your house?” Deanna asked me. “The last time you were here, you seemed pretty upset about your husband and Davis Rhodes, remember? And then, that night, Rhodes was found dead. I couldn’t believe it when I read about it in the paper the next day. It must have been awful for you.”

  A timer rang, and Deanna motioned Claire to follow her to the sink, where the gunk would be rinsed off her hair. I followed them both, so we could continue the conversation.

  “It was very scary,” I admitted. “Poor Jim. He was so upset. That whole day and night are like a blur to me. As a matter of fact,” I continued, “ever since that day, I haven’t been able to find my cell phone anywhere. Could I have left it here? I’m lost without it, and I don’t want to have to buy a new one.”

  “Why, Carol, didn’t you get it back?” Deanna asked me. “I found a cell phone in the used smocks hamper in the changing room the morning after you were here. I figured it must be yours, because I remembered you’d gone in there to hear a private message from Jim. You must have accidentally dropped it inside the hamper and didn’t realize it.” She furrowed her brow. “But I’m sure I gave it to someone to return to you the next day. That’s why I didn’t call you. I thought it was all taken care of.”

  It took every ounce of self-control I could muster not to scream at Deanna, “Who did you give it to? Don’t you realize how important this is?”

  Instead, I waited for Deanna to continue. My new interrogation style.

  “You need to sit under the dryer for ten minutes, Claire,” Deanna said. She checked her other two customers and, satisfied that they were doing fine, beckoned
me to her styling chair. She started to mist my hair down so she could re-style it.

  “It’s kind of hard to remember that far back. So many people come in and out of here. And sometimes, the days just seem to run together. Of course, that day was different, because everyone who came in was talking about Rhodes’s death.”

  Deanna stopped misting my hair for a minute and was deep in thought. “There were a few people in that morning who knew you. I think one of them was Maria Lesco, from the Trattoria.”

  This was news. “Did you give her my cell phone?”

  Deanna shook her head. “No. I was going to, because she said it was no problem for her to drop it off at your house. But then…” She snapped her fingers. “I remember now. Linda Burns came in to buy some hair conditioner and overheard our conversation. She said that your daughter was teaching at the college now, and she was going to see her that afternoon.

  “I gave Linda the phone to return to you.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Chapter 27

  Q: What’s another definition of retirement?

  A: Twice as much husband on half as much money.

  “You’re jumping to conclusions again,” Claire said. “Just because Deanna gave Linda your cell phone to return doesn’t prove that Linda’s the person who mailed it to the police.”

  It had turned out to be a beautiful day with low humidity—rare in Connecticut during the summer—and Claire and I had decided to leave our cars in the salon parking lot and walk the five blocks to Maria’s Trattoria. Though lots of other people were out enjoying the beautiful day, nobody paid us the slightest attention. One of the perks of being card-car-rying members of the AARP generation.

  “You’ve been living with Larry too long,” I said. “That business about being innocent until proven guilty doesn’t apply here. I’m sure Linda’s the one who sent the phone to the police. And she also has to be the person who planted those Enalapril pills in our medicine cabinet. The big question is, why? What does she have against Jim and me? What did she have against Davis Rhodes? Do you think I should call Mark Anderson and let him know what I’ve figured out?”

  Claire stopped dead in her tracks and I nearly tripped over her. “So far, this is just a series of coincidences,” she said.

  I started to protest that these were more than coincidences but Claire continued unfazed. “As far as we both know for certain,” she emphasized the last three words, then repeated them to be sure I understood her point, “know for certain, this is just a series of unfounded, unproven coincidences.”

  “But don’t you think I’m right, Claire? You do, don’t you?” I was practically jumping up and down on the sidewalk in front of her.

  “Whether I think you’re right or not isn’t the issue. It’s much too soon to call Mark. We have to find the link between Linda and Davis Rhodes.

  And then we have to figure out what Linda’s motive for harming Rhodes could possibly be. That’s the only way we’re going to convince Mark.”

  I was encouraged, at least, that she’d used the words “we have to find the link.” That meant she was willing to help.

  “Here we are at Maria’s,” I said. “And I’m starving. I don’t think we should talk about this inside. You never know who’ll overhear conversations in a place like this.” Like Maria, overhearing Davis Rhodes, for instance. “If either of us gets a bright idea, let’s write it down so we don’t forget it. My short term memory isn’t what it used to be.”

  “I have a better idea,” responded Claire, as she opened the door to the noisy restaurant. “It looks like we’ll have to wait for a table. Why don’t we get takeout and eat it on the way to the Center. Here.” She handed me her phone. “Call Sheila now and see if she’s there. Tell her you’re on your way over. I’ll take care of ordering our lunch.”

  Sheila was apparently screening calls and didn’t recognize Claire’s cell phone number. I started to leave a message on the voice mail, but as soon as I identified myself, she came on the line. Gone was her pseudo Jackie Kennedy persona. This time she sounded more like a real human being.

  “Carol, thank God you called. Please tell me you haven’t sent out the e-mail invitations to the memorial service yet.”

  She paused and I heard a hiccup. Had she been drinking? Or was she crying? Either way, she sounded desperate. I briefly wondered if she’d parlay this latest incident into another television appearance, then chided myself. For the time being, Sheila and I were allies. She had information that I needed. So I willed myself to be well behaved.

  “Don’t worry,” I replied, trying to be soothing as well as professional.

  “When I heard about the break-in, I had the office put a hold on the invitations.” Only a technical fib, because I knew Jim would have done that first thing when he got to the office, and we were a team, right? “Are the police still at the Center?”

  I didn’t give her a single second to answer. Just plunge ahead, Carol.

  “Do you need any help cleaning up? My friend Claire and I can both be there in less than half an hour.”

  Sheila seemed to welcome my offer of help. Just to be on the safe side, though, in case she changed her mind once we got there, we added extra desserts to our lunch order. No chocolate chip cookies, though.

  “Dollar for your thoughts, Carol.” Claire’s voice broke into my food-induced reverie.

  “A dollar?” I asked. “What happened to a penny?”

  “Inflation,” Claire responded. “Everything’s going up. So, what’s the drill when we get to the Retirement Survival Center? We’re almost there.”

  “I don’t worry about you,” I said, wiping my hands with a napkin. “You weren’t a psychology major for nothing. You’re always good at feeling people out and making them open up to you. Besides, Sheila’s a real talker. I don’t think we’ll have any trouble getting information out of her.”

  “Well, I hope you’re right because we’re here.” Claire eased her car into the Center parking lot and shut off the motor. “You go first. It’s more natural that way. I’m just a friend who happened to have lunch with you, ok?”

  Claire slammed the car door shut and looked around. “I don’t know what I was expecting, but this sure isn’t it. Looks like a fancy home, not an office.”

  “Wait till you see the inside,” I said. “The living room is to die for.”

  I rang the bell and Grace Retuccio opened the door.

  She peered out at me and said, “Do I know you?”

  I stood there like a complete idiot for about half a second, then realized I had to say something or she’d shut the door in my face.

  “Grace, hi,” I said. Brilliant, Carol. Keep going.

  I stuck out my hand. “I’m Carol Andrews. We met a few days ago when Nancy Green from the real estate office dropped off some flowers to you.”

  Ignoring her lack of response, I peered around her into the Center’s hallway. “Is Sheila here? She’s expecting me. I’m helping her organize the memorial service for Davis Rhodes. I mean, Dick Retuccio. I brought my friend Claire McGee along with me.”

  I hoped I wasn’t babbling again. I also hoped, fervently, that Grace had not put two and two together and realized the coincidence of Nancy’s and my visit to her home and the subsequent arrival of the police to question her.

  I heard Sheila call out from inside, “Carol, is that you? I’m in the office. Close the door and come on back. You’re letting hot air in.”

  I could hear Claire snort behind me, and I knew she was thinking that I was the hot air. Fortunately, she didn’t say it out loud.

  We followed Grace down the hallway toward the back part of the building. So far, it didn’t look like anything had been disturbed. But when we reached the office, which was right off the kitchen, it looked like a bomb had hit it. There were papers, files, and books strewn all over the place.

  Sheila, wearing a shocking pink sweat suit, was sitting on the floor in the middle of the chaos. She waved her
arm around the room. “Isn’t this awful? What a mess. It’ll take days to get it all straightened out. And the police expect me to tell them right away if anything is missing. How the hell am I supposed to know?”

  She rose to her feet in one fluid movement. I tried hard not to hate her, but I knew I would have had to roll over onto my hands and knees in order to get up from that position. And I certainly could never do it gracefully.

  Sheila looked quizzically at Claire, and I hurried to introduce them.

  “I’m glad you brought extra help, Carol.” She sighed dramatically. “I wish I could figure out what the burglar was looking for.”

  Claire, always Ms. Perfect Manners, expressed her condolences about Rhodes’s death. “I never met him,” she said, “but Jim and Carol spoke so glowingly about him. It sounds like he was a wonderful man. His death is such a tragedy, and now this.” She gestured around the office, indicating the shambles all around us.

  “He was quite a guy, all right,” said Grace. “I never realized until very recently what a busy guy he really was.” She turned to me. “I’ll bet you didn’t expect me to open the door.” I guess she remembered me after all.

  I wasn’t sure how to respond. I couldn’t understand how Sheila would allow Grace inside the Center, especially since she blamed Grace for keeping her and Rhodes apart. But since it was totally out of character for me to remain silent for long, I heard myself saying, “You’re right, I was very surprised. Under the circumstances. After what you said to Nancy and me the other day.” Boy, this was awkward.

  “Sheila called this morning and asked me to come over,” Grace said.

  “To say I was flabbergasted would be a major understatement. I almost hung up.”

  “You did hang up the first time I called, remember?” Sheila inter-jected. “I called you back again. I can be very persistent when I want to be.”

  “I finally decided we should clear the air between us, Sheila,” Grace said. “I know you and Dick had a relationship. Of course, he was ‘Dave’ to you. For the sake of simplification, I suppose we should call him ‘Dave.’ ”