Dying to Retire

by Jessica Fletcher

  “We liked her,” said Earl, or maybe it was Burl. His brother stood by his side, nodding. “She was a nice lady. Whenever we did work for her, she tipped us real good.”

  “Real good,” his brother agreed.

  There was a ripple of laughter from the audience.

  The speaker pushed his brother aside and leaned into the microphone. “And she never made fun of us,” he said.

  The twins sat down and others took their place.

  I had thought of Portia Carpenter—that was her maiden name—as a quiet woman, self-confident, yes, but never particularly outspoken on issues. Unmarried, she had been Judge Ralph Mackin’s secretary for many years. The judge was a man who appreciated efficiency and frowned on ostentation. Portia had suited him perfectly. Conservative in dress, appearance, and demeanor, she had run his office like a well-oiled machine, retiring only when her failing eyesight made it too difficult to read the fine type in the law books for the citations required by the judge. At her funeral, I discovered another Portia, one I was sorry I hadn’t known before. Her new friends praised her leadership, her energy, her fortitude in the face of tremendous odds against her.

  “Portia was never one to leave the fight to others.” The speaker was Minnie Lewis, Sam’s wife. She was taller than her husband, her short steel-gray hair carefully coiffed and her pale blue eyes enlarged by thick glasses.

  “When the management threatened to evict Gertie Joule if she didn’t get rid of her cats, Portia challenged the no-pets rule and won. When Portia discovered that some of our seniors weren’t eating properly, she organized the Lunch Club, recruiting those of us who still cook to demonstrate how to make delicious, healthy meals. That’s where I met Portia, and that was the beginning of our Resident Wisdom program.”

  As I listened to Minnie’s eulogy, another sound caught my ear. Monica Kotansky, in a sleeveless black dress, Snowy perched on her lap, lifted a handkerchief to her eyes, her gold bangle bracelets jangling as they slid into each other. She had seated herself in the first row, across the aisle from the new widower, Clarence, who sat alone. The soft clatter of her bracelets caused Clarence to glance over at Monica, who gave him a wan smile and wiggled her fingers at him. Clarence lowered his eyes. Carrie, who had been helping out in the kitchen at Clarence’s apartment and now sat next to Monica, tugged on her arm and whispered something in her ear, causing Monica to straighten in her seat and lift her chin, assuming an attitude of interest in the speaker. The dog struck the same pose.

  I wondered if Monica Kotansky had been one of the women Helen Davison had said pursued Clarence before he married Portia. If so, how long would it be before she again tried to gain his interest? I looked around at the roomful of mourners. Were there others here already thinking of Clarence as a potential husband now that his wife was dead? Had Portia worried about holding on to Clarence? Had she tried to lose weight, thinking she would make herself more appealing to him? If so, she may have paid a terrible price for vanity. I hoped that wasn’t the case, but the presence of a dangerous diet drug among her daily pills was disturbing. Of course, the autopsy would tell us more, if we were able to get a copy of the results. I made a mental note to suggest to Mort that he check with the police to see when the report was expected back.

  “Portia was an inspiration, and I was proud to call her friend,” Minnie continued. “I can think of no better tribute to Portia than for us to follow in her foot-steps and take up the torch she has had to lay down. If we accomplish that, we will have honored her memory in the most significant way.”

  The eulogies were succeeded by a final prayer, and the minister announced that Portia had requested a private cremation. Friends were invited to the Shelby apartment for a luncheon in her memory. In addition, the Residents’ Committee would meet in the boardroom the next afternoon to discuss a fitting tribute. All those interested were welcome to attend.

  “What a lovely service,” Maureen said, fanning herself with a program as we slowly followed the crowd up the center aisle of the chapel. “People said such nice things about Portia. I never knew she was such an activist, did you?”

  “She was on the chamber of commerce committee that raised money to buy our new squad car,” Mort said. “I remember that.”

  “She may have wanted to get involved with other community projects,” I said, “but just didn’t have the time. She took care of her mother for so many years. And Ralph kept her pretty busy managing his office and doing research for his cases.”

  “Just as well,” Seth said, shrugging off his jacket. “She had a weak heart. Too much stress might have done her in. Maybe that’s the trouble down here. Too much stress and heat.”

  “I thought retiring meant less stress,” Maureen offered.

  “Might be the opposite,” Seth said, wiping sweat from his face. “All this heat can make you crazy.”

  Just then Earl and Burl pushed passed us, barreling up the aisle, so close to each other that the stomach of one pushed into the back of the other.

  Seth raised his eyebrows at me as if to indicate that here was a case in point.

  We’d almost reached the back row when a man standing off to the side caught my attention. Arms folded, he held a baseball cap by its peak, and leaned against the wall, studying each of us as we made our way up the aisle. Younger than the others attending the funeral—except for the twins—he had the shadow of a heavy beard on his face, and was dressed in a rumpled jacket, tie askew. There was something world-weary in his expression, some combination of watchfulness, endurance, and resignation.

  “He looks like a policeman,” I said, more to myself but loud enough for Mort to hear.

  “Who does?” he asked.

  “That man over there.”

  “What makes you say that, Mrs. F?”

  “There’s a look people in law enforcement get,” I said.

  “What kind of look?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it comes from being exposed to the worst of human frailties. It’s hard to explain, but I recognize it.”

  “Do I look that way?” Mort asked. “If you didn’t know me, would you know I was a sheriff?”

  I laughed. “I certainly wouldn’t know your title.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher! Mort!” Sam Lewis had joined the man with the baseball cap, and was waving to us. “Over here.”

  “Go ahead,” Seth said. “It’s too hot in here for me. I’ve got to get some fresh air.”

  “We’ll catch up with you outside,” Maureen said, taking his arm. “Please don’t be too long, Mort. You know me and the sun.”

  “I’d like you guys to meet my friend Zach,” Sam said when Mort and I had joined them.

  “I understand you’re friends of Mrs. Shelby’s from Maine,” Zach said. He extended his hand and I took it. He looked to be in his midforties, with dark hair and even darker eyes.

  “That’s right,” I said. “I’m Jessica Fletcher. This is Mort Metzger. He’s our sheriff back home in Cabot Cove.”

  The men shook hands. “Name’s Zach Shippee.”

  “Zach’s a detective with the Foreverglades Police Department,” Sam said. “We work together on a lot of cases.”

  A policeman! I resisted giving Mort a smug glance, but he winked at me. “I’m surprised a place as small as Foreverglades has a police department of its own,” he said to Zach.

  “We’re actually a division of the Miami-Dade Police Department. Foreverglades is in Dade County, so it falls under the MDPD’s supervision.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “Zach’s a big fan of your books, too, Mrs. Fletcher,” Sam said. “In fact, he said he’d lend me one.”

  “Actually, it’s the wife who’s the big fan,” Shippee said with a pleasant smile. “She’s read all of your books. I’ve read a couple of them, though. Sam didn’t know that you’re a famous author.”

  “I don’t know about being famous,” I said, “but it’s nice of you to say so.”

  “Just wanted to make sure you guy
s met,” Sam said. “I’ve got to go now. I’m the designated driver for Clarence.”

  “Has he been drinking?” Mort asked, looking at his watch.

  “No, no. What I mean is I’m supposed to drive him somewhere. He doesn’t have his car here.”

  “I’ll come out with you. Maureen’s probably getting impatient. Says she wilts in the sun. Nice meeting you, Zach.”

  “Same here,” Zach said. He turned to me. “Our friend Sam there would make a great character for one your books,” he said. “He could be your lead character, the one who always manages to solve the crime before the cops do. I wish we could work that fast.”

  “You could,” I said, “if you had to meet my publisher’s deadlines.”

  He laughed.

  “May I ask why you came to Portia’s funeral?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “It’s a small town. The department likes to pay its respects.”

  “Does that mean you send a representative to everyone’s funeral? Given the average age of the residents of Foreverglades, I imagine you could spend a lot of time at memorial services.”

  He gave me a wry smile, but didn’t respond.

  “Would your presence here have anything to do with the results of the autopsy on Portia?” I asked.

  “There’s a little matter of privacy here, Mrs. Fletcher. I can’t very well discuss the deceased with you, especially not before I’ve spoken with her husband.”

  “I can be trusted not to reveal the results, but I agree. You need to notify Portia’s husband first.”

  “Appreciate your discretion.”

  “When will you give him the autopsy results?” He scratched his jaw where the beginnings of whiskers were evident, although it couldn’t have been more than four or five hours since he’d shaved. “I didn’t exactly say that’s what I was going to talk about with him, did I?”

  “No, but the police did release the body for the funeral, so you must have obtained whatever information you were looking for.”

  “Some of it, anyway,” he said. “I’m not really sure when I’ll talk to Mr. Shelby. I might not get ’round to it till tomorrow or the next day. We don’t want to be accused of being insensitive.”

  “I’ll have to check in with Clarence then, to ask when you’ve spoken with him.”

  “Good idea.” The chapel was empty and he pushed off the wall and started toward the door, indicating I should precede him. “Let’s go outside. You must be hot. This place is like an oven.”

  “Feels good, after the winter we’ve been having in Maine.”

  “A lot of the Northerners say that.”

  “I guess that’s why so many move to Florida.”

  “It’s really nice now, but you wouldn’t like it quite so much in the summer,” he said, opening the door for me. “Everybody stays indoors. Too hot and too humid.”

  “Ironic, isn’t it? We stay indoors in the winter and you stay indoors in the summer.”

  A lovely breeze greeted us as we stepped out onto the portico. The chapel was located halfway up a gentle rise with a clear view of the sparkling water. I took a deep breath and let it out. “Portia said she loved it here. I can see why. Had you ever met her?”

  “Um-hmm,” he said, suppressing a smile. “Your friend was a really feisty lady.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean she wasn’t afraid to make waves. Always calling us on some infraction by the management. She must have lived with the contract under her pillow. Drove the guys down at the station house crazy. But she got that developer to bow down every once in a while. Course, now she can’t get in his way anymore.”

  “Are you hinting at something, Detective?”

  “Not at all. Just making an observation. I’ve got to run. It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ll have something good to tell my wife at dinner. She’s always complaining that I never talk about my work.”

  “Glad to be of service,” I said.

  “Will you be staying long?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “If you plan to stick around Foreverglades for a few days, I could bring you one of my wife’s books and you could autograph it for her. Would you mind?”

  “It would be my pleasure. My friends and I came down for the funeral together. We’re all staying at Foreverglades, number twenty-three. I’m on the top floor, two B.”

  “I’ll try to get over there, but if I miss you, you have a good trip back north.” He smoothed down his dark hair, damp from the heat, put on his baseball cap, and trotted down the steps.

  “Thanks,” I called after him.

  Portia’s friends stood talking in small clusters in the courtyard of the chapel. Helen waved me over and introduced me to Sam’s wife, Minnie Lewis, and to Amelia Rodriguez, who worked in Helen’s beauty shop. Amelia was younger than her companions, and wore her ebony hair in an elaborate style, partly pinned up with wispy curls around her face. Apparently another customer of the cosmetics counter at Weinstein’s Pharmacy, she was heavily made up, but with a far more deft hand than Monica Kotansky’s more obvious efforts with eye shadow and mascara.

  “Can you believe how hot it was in there?” Helen asked. “If I hadn’t used half a can of hair spray on Olga Piper, her beehive would have been tilting to one side.”

  “My hair held up pretty well,” Minnie said, patting the back of her head. “You did a nice job.”

  “Thanks,” Helen said, turning her friend around so she could inspect her work. “It still looks good.”

  “Never mind hair. Did you see who was inside?” Amelia asked, a frown on her face. “What cojones, if you’ll excuse me for saying so. I don’t know how he has the nerve to show his face.” She spoke in rapid-fire English with a distinct Spanish accent. “If Portia was alive, she’d drop dead all over again, seeing him here.”

  “Who are you talking about?” I asked.

  “DeWitt Wainscott,” Minnie said. “He’s a real estate developer.”

  “He’s trying to build on the property between Foreverglades and the bay,” Helen said. “Portia was spearheading our opposition to the project when she died.”

  “That’s him over there,” Amelia said, pointing to a man in a dark gray suit talking to a stout woman I’d seen somewhere before. He was of medium height with a paunch hanging over the waistline of his trousers. He wore a light green bow tie, and when he pushed back the side of his jacket to pull a handkerchief from his pocket, I spotted a set of chartreuse suspenders with little flowers embroidered on them. “I don’t know how my sister-in-law can stand working for the man,” she added.

  “Is that your sister-in-law he’s talking to?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Sí, that’s Marina, mi cuñada.”

  Amelia’s sister-in-law was as tall as her boss, her red hair neatly pinned in a bun. She wore a gray suit, and held an open briefcase from which she handed him a sheet of paper.

  “How long has she worked for him?” I asked.

  “Too long. Look at her. She even dresses like him. He built Foreverglades. That’s how we came here. We lived in Miami before, but he promised my brother a job on the construction site, and then he hired my sister-in-law as his secretary. He tried to hire me, too, but I wouldn’t work for him.”

  “What did he want you to do, style his hair?” Minnie laughed.

  “He’s barely got any left to do a comb-over,” Amelia said, giggling.

  “It sounds to me like he’s been good to your family,” I said.

  “Good? This is a man who makes all kinds of promises and never keeps them. The only one who ever earns any money when he’s around is DeWitt Wainscott. My brother has been laid off so many times, his head is spinning. But now that Marina works for the pig, she don’t want to move anywhere else. My brother went back to Miami, and they’re getting a divorce.”

  “When Wainscott built Foreverglades, he gave his word he’d never put up anything between our development and the water,” Minnie said. “Now he’s talking about
building three high-rise buildings, which will completely block our views. People are already leaving Foreverglades.”

  “So much for his word of honor,” Helen said. “Look at that.” She swept her arm toward the expanse of blue water. “It’ll be gone. I didn’t come down here to see big buildings all the time. I could have stayed in Chicago for that.”

  “Fullero!” Amelia spat. “Cheater! And then, if that’s not insult enough, he’s going to put a fence around it with a guard at the gate. We won’t be able to get to the beach from the village. We’ll have to go all the way down to a new road that’s not even built yet.”

  “Plus, if you’re not careful, you could run into an alligator going that way,” Helen said. “Did you hear about the woman up in Perrine who lost her foot? Came out of her house in the afternoon to cut some key limes for a pie and there it was, crossing her lawn on the way to her pool. The thing was about five or six feet long, and—whomp!—bit her on the ankle, going clear through to the bone.”

  “How dreadful,” Minnie said.

  “We should sue him for breach of promise,” Amelia said.

  “Who?”

  “Wainscott.”

  “I think you mean breach of contract,” I said, trying to keep up with the ricocheting conversation. “Did he have a contract with you stating his intentions not to build?”

  “We thought so,” Amelia said. “Naturalmente, his lawyers say it doesn’t really promise anything. They say it’s all in the little print or something.”

  “You mean the fine print?” I asked.

  “Try standing in a shop all day without a foot,” Helen muttered.

  “Sí. That’s it.” Amelia nodded at me. “ ‘Can’t stop progress,’ he says. The big crook.”

  “Croc? No, they’re alligators. Girl, I tell you, I’m looking out for alligators every time I walk to the bay,” Helen said. “They really scare me.”

  “Portia wasn’t scared. She was the bravest person I ever knew,” Amelia said, sniffling.