She’s stunned. “They kept millions of dollars in cash in their home?”
“That’s what the cops think.”
“I get nervous if I have more than a hundred dollars around the house.” She hands me half a pumpernickel bagel, scooped, burnt, with a smear of low-fat chive cream cheese. Eat your heart out Sheldon. “Why wouldn’t they keep the money in a bank account?”
“Some people don’t trust banks. Remember Uncle Mooxie?”
“That was the depression. Everyone lost their money.”
“Some people never got over it.”
She works this around a bit. “Those people could have put the money in the stock market.”
“So they could lose half of it overnight?”
“Not necessarily. A good financial advisor –”
“Like a Stanford or Rothstein? The way things are going, stashing cash in a home safe doesn’t seem like such a stupid idea. Even the man who installed the Lucas safe testified he’d never heard of that model being stolen.”
“A few million?” says Bitsy. “That must have been one huge safe.”
“Considering the amount, the hole in the wall didn’t look that big.”
Bitsy opens her laptop. Fingers flying, she searches things like: “What does a million dollars look like?” “Million Dollars, measure.” She conjures You Tube videos at lightning speed. We watch a group of twenty-somethings cut paper into the size of hundred dollar bills, bundling them up until they have a faux million dollars. “This weighs about twenty pounds,” they say. Another site shows a million dollars neatly bundled into a large silver briefcase. A couple of million into a duffel.
“I thought a million would be…bigger,” says Bitsy.
“Me too.” These bundles would easily fit inside the Lucas safe. Which means whoever ripped it out of the wall – the missing Mel Lucas, the accused Joseph Galdino, the Grinch – wouldn’t have trouble traveling with the cash once they got it out of the safe. “The killer could have packed the money into a few suitcases and flown anywhere.”
“Doesn’t the law say you have to declare carrying anything over $10,000.”
“I think that’s international travel. Besides, what makes you think a vicious murderer cares about the law?”
“What about lost luggage? Carrying that much seems taking quite a risk.”
“So is murder.”
She studies the stacks of money on the computer screen. “It seems more logical, and less risky, to transport the money yourself.”
The timer dings and I bend over the kitchen sink while Bitsy rinses out the dye. “What happened with the man who came to look at your boat?” she asks.
“He seemed to like it.” My face heats up. Bitsy massages in conditioner and rinses it out. “He’s coming back to take another look.” My cheeks are on fire. It must be the steaming water or a perimenopause hot flash. It could be anything, anything at all. Except my heart jerks oddly off-tempo. She wraps a towel around my head, twisting it into a turban. “Do I tip you?” I ask.
“Just keep your promise.”
“Which is…?”
“You, me, bathing suits at the front door in half-an-hour.”
I totally forgot. “Don’t make me do this.”
“Stop whining. You promised. Half-hour, sharp.”
The pool attendant has already set up two chaises with pads, a small table, extra towels and one of the coveted umbrellas. There are perks to traveling with The Queen of the Schmear who always plans ahead and makes impeccable arrangements. If Bitsy were starting out today, unencumbered by a male chauvinist culture and plate-glass ceilings, she’d be running a major corporation instead of organizing my life.
“Come on,” says Bitsy, kicking off her sandals.
I stick a toe in the water. “You could cook lobsters in here.”
But we do go in, draping our arms over Styrofoam noodles, seeking relief from the 300-degree day. We paddle around the pool, a huge meandering design like three kidneys in search of a body, a tiny water slide anchoring the wading end. The east side of the pool deck borders the Intracoastal waterway. A deep horn sounds as a large yacht glides up to the pool pier. She’s a sleek-lined beauty built for long voyages to romantic places. Michael sometimes pulled the Go Bears up to the pool’s pier to pick me up for a sail. “Direct Water” the realtors call it. This is not to be confused with “Direct Ocean View” which requires leaning dangerously out over your balcony while adjusting birder-strength binoculars on a distant patch of the Atlantic. A crewman jumps off the yacht and ties up.
Bitsy’s noodle bumps mine. “Sheldon is sick,” she says. The Plague I think, but don’t say. “The kids called. Something with his prostate.”
“Cancer?”
“They aren’t sure.” We paddle some more. “They say he broke up with his girlfriend.”
She’s trying to sound casual, as if none of this is really important. I don’t like where this conversation is heading. “I hope you told them you aren’t interested in Sheldon’s life or his girlfriend or the price of cumquats in Kansas.”
“They say he’s sorry. That he wants me back.”
“I’ll bet he does.”
A group of teenaged boys suddenly swarm the edge of the pool, pushing and shoving each other into the water by way of flirting with a bevy of bikinied girls. The girls pretend not to notice, which makes the boys wilder. “Hey,” yells Bitsy, trying to protect her hair from bodies splashing nearby. One boy hoists a friend over his head, twirling him around toward the pool, nearly colliding with a lithe young woman striding across the deck. She moves with a kind of effortless grace, Cyd Cherese, Audrey Hepburn. I squint against the sun. It’s Caprice Galdino, her hair tucked up under an oversized hat, her silky caftan billowing behind her. A stubby young man wheels a large ice chest hurrying to keep pace at her side. He looks familiar. Maybe he’s the upstairs neighbor she’s staying with.
They stop at the gate that opens to the Intracoastal pier and try to get out. This gate doesn’t open until you punch a code into the pad, a safety measure designed to keep small children in and pirates out. The crewman tries to open it from the other side. I climb out of the pool and go over. “Here,” I say, punching in the code, swinging the door open.
She smiles. “Thank you so much -- Laura, isn’t it?”
“Good memory.”
“Sorry, I didn’t know about the code.”
“It’s one of the joys of condo living,” I say, ‘codes and rules and …” and I’m about to add a Chicago friend’s line: ‘A condo’s like prison with privileges’ but catch myself in time. The humor might be lost on a girl whose father’s on trial for murder. “It’s a beautiful day for a sail.”
“Yes. Thanks again.”
She follows her sidekick to the yacht. The crewman, his taupe and white uniform matching the yacht’s canvas covers, extends his hand, escorting Caprice onboard. Unlike the Lucas kids’ party on the Dandy Brandy, there is no loud music, no crowd of young people drinking and smoking and livin’ la vida loca. The yacht sails off and I wonder if it’s owned by someone Caprice knows from visiting her aunt and uncle up at the Tradewinds Marina. I’m happy she has friends here. A nice day at sea is a perfect panacea for the depressing courtroom. I dive into the pool and swim back to Bitsy. “That was the defendant’s daughter,” I say.
She doesn’t answer, has her sour face screwed on. “Aren’t you going to say something?” she asks.
“About?”
“Sheldon wanting me back?”
Ah, Sheldon-the-penitent kneeling at the feet of St. Bitsy. What happened? Did he discover that the reason the grass is greener on the other side is because it’s full of shit and worms? I know what she expects me to say, but I won’t. Instead, I tell her, “Yes, dear sister, I think you should go back to him.”
She looks confused. “You do?”
“Absolutely. He says he’s sorry. He says he wants you back.”
“That’s what the children told me …”
“And now that he’s sick, now that his girl toy isn’t interested in cooking chicken soup and fluffing pillows and driving the old guy to doctor’s appointments and changing dressings and taking in dry cleaning – why, of course he wants you back. It’s so hard to find good help today. Especially for free.”
“You are so mean.”
“No. ‘Mean’ is what Sheldon did to you.”
“I’ve had enough.” She swims to the ladder, stiff-necked, holding her carefully coiffed hair high and dry. I sink under the water, feeling ashamed and rotten and five-years-old. Sister-guilt is a pisser. That was mean. But I can’t believe she considered going back to Sheldon for even one single nanosecond. The chlorine burns holes in my eyeballs. I swim to the side and haul myself out.
Wendel, resplendent in a beige Cabana Suit, stretches out on my chaise, talking to Bitsy. I drip over, searching for my towel. He’s moved my stuff off the chaise – clothes, magazines, towel -- and tossed everything in a heap onto a small side-table. Or maybe Bitsy-the-tidy did it, pissed as she is. She deigns to look at me. “Laura, you remember Wendel.”
“Good to see you again, Laura.” He flashes a few thousand dollars worth of veneers. “I really can’t believe we never met before Bitsy came. But that’s probably because I’m in Building Five,” which is our complex’s shorthand for ‘My apartment’s newer and twice as big as yours.’
Stop it. Make nice. You owe it to Bitsy for being such a brat. I stretch out on a nearby chaise, sunning myself as Wendel regales Bitsy with building gossip. This is good. A handsome, attentive man is just what Bitsy needs to remind her not to go back to Sheldon. Breezes rustle the palm leaves. Boats putter softly along the Intracoastal.
“Laura? Laura?” Bitsy’s voice wakes me. “What do you think?”
“Sorry?”
“Wendel and I were talking about boats -- ”
“I used to have boats,” he says. “Last one was a seventy-two footer--”
“How big is yours?” Bitsy asks me.
“Foot,” I say, “foot-and-a-half.” She gives me a look.
“I had a five man crew,” says Wendel, “cruised the islands, shipped it to Nice in spring. But Hurricane Wilma got her in ‘05, shredded her to toothpicks.” His eyes go sad. “It was my fault. My captain warned me not to bring her back here so early. Lord and Lady Reuben, my guests in Nice, implored me not to cross until November.”
I flunked one-upmanship. Do I counter with the King and Queen, Tsar and Tsarina, Ben and Jerry? “What kind of boat do you have now?” I ask.
He shakes his head as if remembering the death of a friend. “I haven’t had the heart to replace her.”
“I was telling Wendel about your boat,” says Bitsy, blushing, smiling, much too eager. She should take lessons from the teen girls on the other side of the pool, driving the boys crazy with their indifference. “I was thinking it might be nice if we could take it out.”
“Now?”
“No rush,” says Wendel.
“No,” I say, “I mean, yes, of course. I’ll call Quincy, have it gassed up and ready. Go, enjoy.”
Bitsy flashes me an ‘All is forgiven’ smile as she and Wendel leave to get ready for an afternoon on the water.
I call Quincy, then reclaim my real chaise, pick up the new Elaine Viets, and read myself to sleep. I wake to a scorching sun which long ago moved past the protective umbrella and burned my skin to blisters.
Upstairs, I take two aspirin, Michael’s cure for sunburn pain, and peel off my suit. I’d parboiled on my boat yesterday with Sam Parker, and today I turned extra-crispy in the pool with Bitsy. I fill a bowl with ice cubes and sit at the kitchen table smoothing the cubes over my blistering arms and chest. The basket of old mail waits patiently on the sideboard. Gone is the Summons for Jury Duty and the bills Bitsy paid. That leaves condolence cards, expired invitations, notes from friends.
“You need to take grief one day at a time,” Rabbi Musselman had said by way of comfort, as if living a life without Michael was like giving up booze. It was odd, some of the stupid and hurtful things well-meaning people said. “At least he didn’t suffer.” “You’re young, you’ll remarry.” I received a small library of books on grief written by the TV gurus of the moment, none of which I could bear to read.
The phone rings. “Laura? This is Lucille. From the courtroom?”
“Yes, of course. How are you?”
“That depends if you ask me or the doctors. But I did want to call and thank you for warning me about the court being closed. And I’m calling to return the favor. Weezee, a friend who works at the courthouse, says they’re still mopping up the water, but our courtroom is one of the ones that will be open next session. I thought you’d like to know.”
“Great. I’ll be there. Oh, and I saw the defendant’s daughter going out for a sail on a boat today.”
“Well, isn’t that nice. Lord knows that girl needs a break from all that heartache. See you tomorrow.”
As I hang up, the afternoon sun shines on the basket of mail. I pull out a lime green card decorated with crayoned scribbles and glittering stickers. It’s from Bitsy’s granddaughter, a no-nonsense three-year-old who had walked right up to me at Michael’s Shivah and hugged me and kissed me and told me she was sorry I was sad. The sun glints off a Tinkerbell sticker. I know a sign when I see one. “All right, then,” I say, opening the flap, pulling out the crayoned drawing, “all right.” One letter at a time.
I turn in early, sipping a glass of wine, watching mindless TV. All in all it’s been a good day. My newly-dyed hair is a lovely color, marginally less red than my toasted body. I made a dent in answering my mail. And I’ve sent my sister off on a romantic adventure. I’m asleep before the news comes on.
“Laura!” Bitsy is shaking me awake. “Laura. Wake up.”
“Ouch!”
“What?”
“Sunburn.” I squint at the clock-radio. Midnight? “What’s wrong?”
She turns on my nightstand light, her hand shaking as she holds out a sheet of paper. “I found this,” she says, ashen, “slipped under our front door.”
14
Even without my glasses I can read the bold black letters scrawled across the paper:
KEEP OUT OF WHERE YOU DON’T BELONG!
STAY AWAY! OR ELSE!!!!
“What is this?” I say.
“What do you mean, ‘what is this’? This is a warning. This is someone warning you to stay away from that murder trial.”
I try to shake off my sleeping pill, reread the note. “How do you get that from this?”
“Look,” Bitsy plops next to me smelling of sea air and vodka tonic, “you have to stop going to that horrible trial. Someone – and I’m not saying it’s that murderer’s daughter—”
“Accused murderer.”
“ – but someone obviously knows where you live.”
“A lot of people know where I live. I’m not hiding. This has nothing to do with the trial or Caprice or the lunar alignment.”
“Don’ joke.” Her words slur. Her eyes have an aspic glaze. “There are all sorts of kooks out there.”
“You’re schicker.”
“Killer kooks. Who knows what they’re thinking?” She rips the note from my hands, waves it in my face. “This is murderers giving you fair warning.”
I roll out of bed and pull on sweats and a tee shirt. Bitsy tries to get up but the booze weighs her down. “Where you going?”
“Downstairs to talk to Harry.”
“You can’t go by yourself. It’s too dang’rous.”
“I’ll be fine.” I lift her legs onto the bed and pry the note from her fingers. “You rest a while. I’ll be up soon.”
The slap of my flip-flops echoes through the marble lobby. The electronic piano which hammers off-key and off-tempo twelve hours a day, stands blissfully silent. I pass a klatch of teens sprawled over the furniture, their bodies draped like Dali clocks. Harry’s not at the front desk. I find him outsi
de in the sultry night, elegant in a double-breasted navy jacket with matching tie and pocket scarf. He is sweeping the front steps.
“Hey, Harry,” I say.
“Mrs. Marks!” surprised to see me at this hour…at any hour. “Something wrong?”
I hand him the piece of paper. “Someone slipped this under my door.”
He reads it, frowns. “Oh, for the love of—”
“Has anyone you don’t know come into the building tonight?”
“Not that I saw,” he says, ushering me inside, “but I did have to leave the desk a couple of times to attend to…he glances at the teens….this and that.” Harry’s ‘this and that’ runs the gambit from picking up a dropped candy wrapper to escorting a SWAT team breaking down a drug dealing tenant’s door. “Let’s take a look.”
He swivels one of the security camera monitors toward me and clicks the digital replay, fast-forwarding through the evening’s security show. The images flitting by capture the unbridled excitement of palm leaves blowing in the wind. “Summers are dead, dead, dead,” he says. “Most of my people go up north.” The speeded up images -Keystone Cop jerky -- show a scatter of cars picking up and dropping off, people walking rat-sized dogs. “I know all these folks,” says Harry. “They’re residents, friends of residents, family members like your sister.” On cue, Bitsy fast-forwards out of a strange car and enters the lobby. The car pulls away. I would have thought Wendel, a gent of our generation, would have the courtesy to walk her in. Is it possible he’s too cheap to tip the valet?
The security images catch up to real time. “Nope,” says Harry, “not a stranger in the group.” That means the note came from someone who belongs here. I feel sick. Harry catches my look. “Would you like me to call the police?”
A cell phone blares something Metallica through the lobby. The Persistence-of-Lethargy teens jolt upright. In seconds, they whoop past us, high-fiving as they race out through the sliding glass doors. I hear Harry’s teeth grind. “Excuse me one minute,” he says, picking up the walkie-talkie, alerting the complex’s security patrol to the marauding pack.
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