Definitely Dead (An Empty Nest Mystery) (8 page)

Loser? True, Sid wasn’t my idea of the perfect date—given his cigars and crude mannerisms, but he didn’t suffer from halitosis or body odor. He didn’t click his dentures or shoot spittle from his mouth when he spoke. His clothes weren’t rumpled or stained, and he didn’t wear a feed cap. Sylvia had not only given him her phone number, she’d accepted a date when he called her. As did most of the other women I’d introduced to Sid. I chalked it up to that old adage about there being someone for everyone. That and beggars can’t be choosers, given the male to female ratio of the over-sixty set.

“Did one of you become ill?”

Sylvia snorted. “Not me. And he seemed fine until he up and left without any explanation.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “The two of you hit it off when you first met. What happened?”

“I haven’t a clue. We were on our way to dinner. As we passed the solarium, I spotted Blanche and stopped to introduce her to Sidney. You know, show him off? Blanche never dates. With all the women around here, who’d be interested in that sourpuss, right?

“Anyway, Sidney says he needs to use the little boy’s room, so I told him I’d wait for him in the solarium. Only he never came back. The man pulled a Judge Crater on me. At first I thought maybe he’d taken ill, so after about ten minutes or so, I asked Rodney Shapiro to check the men’s room for me.”

“Sid wasn’t there?” I asked.

“Not only wasn’t he there, according to Bert Goldfarb, who spends more time in the john than any five residents put together, he’d been alone in the men’s room for at least twenty minutes.”

“And Sid never called you?”

Sylvia shook her head and sighed. “Haven’t heard a word from the man. Five minutes earlier he’d promised to ring my chimes after dinner.” She sighed again, only this time deeper and accompanied it with a
tsking
noise. “Haven’t had my chimes rung in ages, you know.”

I glanced over at Blake. His cheeks had deepened to a dark rose, and he looked like he wanted to crawl under the card table. My husband is no prude, but I guess, like me, the thought of geriatric sex conjured up an image of our parents getting down and dirty. And who wants to go there?

“Besides,” continued Sylvia, barely coming up for air, “I was looking forward to the key lime pie at Charlie Brown’s. Haven’t had a decent slice of key lime since my last trip to Miami back in January when I went to visit my daughter and that worthless husband of hers. I don’t know how Charlie Brown’s does it, but no one else around here comes close to Florida key lime.”

~*~

“Now that was odd,” I said as Blake and I took our leave of Sylvia Schuster and headed for our car.

“Not to mention a complete waste of time,” said Blake.

“Not necessarily. We confirmed Craft is a phony. He can’t be both FBI and a county detective.”

“Detective Menendez told you Remick and Craft were imposters hours ago.”

“And Sylvia Schuster confirmed it. At least we now know Menendez wasn’t lying to me.”

Blake glanced over at me. He had
The Look
planted firmly on his face.
The Voice
followed. “Why on earth would you think Menendez was lying to you?”

“I remember an episode of—”

“Gracie!”

“What?”

“Real life. This is real life. Not television. Not the movies. Not a mystery novel. Got it?”

“I have two words to say to you, Blake.”

“And they are?”

“New Jersey.”

“New Jersey?”

“Exactly. New Jersey. Home of unscrupulous politicians. Scandal and corruption. Cops on the take. It’s a time-honored tradition. Besides, ever hear the expression, ‘Life imitates art?’ And what about ‘Truth is stranger than fiction?’ I think you need to stop being so logical and start thinking outside the box a bit more if we’re going to solve Not-Sid’s murder.”

Blake chuckled. “And here I thought you wanted me around for my logic.”

He had me there. “All right. For argument’s sake, let’s assume Menendez didn’t lie to me, and Remick and Craft are definitely not FBI or detectives and definitely up to no good. What could that ‘no good’ something be?”

“Got me,” he said.

As we waited to merge into traffic, a late-model black Taurus turned into the entrance of Larchmont Gardens. Looked like Sylvia was about to have a visit from Detective Menendez.

“So where do we go from here?” asked Blake.

I pulled out my list and scanned the names of Not-Sid’s various dates. “Charlene Koltchefsky lives closest. Why don’t we pay her a visit?”

I gave Blake the address. He punched it into our GPS, then headed back over the mountain into Scotch Plains. Ten minutes later we pulled up in front of a nineteen-sixties split-level, an exact copy of every other house on the quiet, suburban street.

Like many New Jersey neighborhoods, this one was probably once a family farm. New Jersey had become the Garden State in name only, even though the motto still adorns our license plates and road signs. Forget Jersey tomatoes unless you grow them yourself in your backyard. Even during the height of summer, most of our tomatoes come from Florida and California. The only thing springing up on Jersey farms nowadays are sub-divisions of million dollar McMansions.

Charlene Koltchefsky’s forest green-trimmed, buttercup yellow split-level home sat behind a manicured lawn adorned with half a dozen birdbaths, a fuchsia gazing ball, and assorted gnome statuary peeking out from behind various low-lying shrubs. A twig wreath with purple and yellow silk pansies hung from the front door. Two yellow and green polka-dot frogs framed a welcome sign nestled within the center of the wreath.

“How much you want to bet she’s got plastic slipcovers?” asked Blake.

“Shh.” I elbowed him in the ribs before ringing the doorbell. “Your Aunt Fran has plastic slipcovers.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s what worries me. One Aunt Fran in this world is enough.”

From inside the house we heard someone yell, “I got it!” A moment later the door swung open. “Professor Elliott!”

Blake’s jaw dropped.

I stared at the young woman staring at my husband. She wore a skimpy black lace camisole over a pair of low-slung black jeans. A gold hoop was inserted through her belly button. Three gold safety pins protruded from each eyebrow. A variety of hoops and studs ran up the length of each ear with chandelier earrings hanging from her lobes. Another hoop hung between her nostrils. A gold stud was set into the dimpled area under her lower lip; a matching one pierced her left nostril. Her spiky jet black hair was dyed vermillion at the tips. The color matched her lipstick.

And then there were the tattoos. Judging from Blake’s reaction, this had to be Tiffany Robeling, but if so, how could Blake have forgotten to mention the tattoos? Images of roses, crosses, and barbed vines covered one arm from her wrist to her shoulder. A full-length portrait of Jesus ran the length of her other arm. Scripture emblazoned the exposed area of her chest, and angels with harps perched on either side of the hoop in her belly button.

Some people wore their religion on their sleeves; this girl had turned her body into a billboard to her faith. However, I’m guessing I wouldn’t find “Thou shalt not steal” anywhere on her body. Or “Practice what you preach.”

I glanced over at Blake. I wanted to ask, “F minus?” but I opted for a bit of diplomacy. “Is this Tiffany Robeling?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” she said, hands on her hips, her chin jutting out. “Who are you?”

Blake cleared his throat and I suppose the cobwebs that had secured his tongue. Ever the gentleman, he proceeded with introductions. “Grace Elliott. Tiffany Robeling.”

“Elliott?” Her lip turned up in a sneer. “Any relation?”

“My wife.”

Tiffany gave me the once over. “What do you want?”

I checked the address I’d written down for Charlene and wondered if I’d transposed the house numbers. “We’re looking for Charlene Koltchefsky.”

Tiffany turned accusing eyes on Blake. “I can’t believe you’re ratting me out! Jeez, Professor, I didn’t think you were such a hard-ass. What’s next? Hauling me off in handcuffs?”

“This has nothing to do with you,” said Blake.

Tiffany stretched out her arms, grabbing hold of the woodwork on either side of the door, as if she thought we’d force our way past her into the house. “Then what do you want with Gram?”

“Charlene’s your grandmother?” I asked.

She jutted her chin out farther. “Yeah, what of it?”

I wondered how a woman who cultivated garden gnomes and painted polka-dot frogs felt about a granddaughter who stuck safety pins through her flesh. “Is she home?” I asked.

Tiffany eyed Blake again. “You sure this isn’t about me?”

“Not in the least,” said Blake. “I’m as surprised to see you as you are to see me.”

Tiffany dropped her hands to her sides. She didn’t look like she believed Blake, but she turned her head and shouted, “Gram! Someone to see you.” Then she motioned us into a plastic slip-covered living room. Behind me, I thought I heard my husband stifle a groan.

“You better not be shitting me,” Tiffany muttered. “Gram’ll toss me out on my ass if she finds out I cheated. She taught high school before she retired.”

“I promise,” I assured her. Tiffany flopped onto one of the plastic covered, gold crushed velvet armchairs, but Blake and I opted to remain standing in the spotless but overly cluttered living room.

Charlene Koltchefsky’s living room looked like an indoor craft fair. An array of floral motif needlepoint pillows rested against the backs of the gold and brown plaid Herculon sofa and each of the three overstuffed chairs. Crocheted doilies covered the arms; knitted afghans were draped across the backs. Painted ceramic plates and figurines lined the bookshelves on either side of the fireplace. An enormous silk floral arrangement in a wicker basket sat on the coffee table, another atop the mantel. The end tables held an assortment of decoupage boxes, bowls of potpourri, and sequin-studded candles. Framed paint-by-number landscapes filled the wall behind the sofa.

Charlene bustled into the room a moment later. She wore a paisley print cotton blend shirtwaist dress in shades of lavender and powder blue. I think I remember Aunt Fran wearing the same dress on one of our visits and wondered if Blake was having the exact thought. I dared not glance over at him for fear of either or both of us breaking out in giggles.

Come to think of it, before she sold her house in Clark and moved to a condominium in Vero Beach, Florida, Aunt Fran had cultivated her share of assorted concrete garden fauna. Although, I don’t remember any gnomes lurking among her hydrangeas and azaleas.

“Well, look who’s here!” said Charlene. “I hope you’ve come to apologize.” Her mouth set into a line as tight as the silver blue pin curls covering her head. Something else she shared in common with Aunt Fran.

“Apologize?” I stared at her, wondering if she had me confused with someone else.

Charlene wagged her finger at me. “You know, young lady, in my day when a gentleman asked a lady out on a date, he picked up the tab. He didn’t stick her with it.”

I glanced at Blake. The shocked expression on his face mirrored my own surprise. Turning back to Charlene, I repeated her accusation, just to make sure I’d understood her. “Sid stuck you with the dinner check?”

“He most certainly did.”

This was not the Sidney Mandelbaum I knew. Sid may have been a bit vulgar, but he certainly wasn’t a cheapskate. At least not when it came to paying me. He never once complained about my fee and always paid up front. And in cash.

Charlene eyed me skeptically. “You didn’t know?”

I shook my head.

She motioned to the couch. “Sit.”

Under the circumstances, I didn’t want to risk insulting her, so I took a seat on the edge of the sofa. Luckily, I’d worn a pair of taupe linen slacks and not a skirt since I eschewed pantyhose whenever possible, even in the dead of winter. And having once worn a pair of shorts to visit Aunt Fran, I knew the hazards of exposing bare flesh to plastic slipcovers. Blake took a seat beside me, but Charlene remained standing.

“I’m sure Sid just forgot his wallet,” I offered. “He’s a very generous man.” I purposely referred to Sid in the present tense because it appeared this time Blake and I had arrived before Craft and Remick or Detective Menendez. Charlene didn’t strike me as the kind of woman who would complain about the cost of a dinner if she knew Sid was now pushing up daisies.

She glared at me. “So you think all old people are forgetful?”

“I didn’t mean—”

She held up her hand. “Don’t bother. I had the same thought. At least the first time.”

“The first time?” My stomach felt like one of her garden gnomes had taken up residence.

“You mean to say he stiffed you more than once?” asked Blake.

Charlene nodded. “I didn’t think much of it the first time,” she said as she paced back and forth in front of us like a school marm lecturing a recalcitrant classroom of students. “We’re all getting old.” She waved her hand in a dismissive manner. “Could happen to anyone, I suppose. And to his credit, your Sidney acted mortified.”

“Emphasis on the
acted
,” said Tiffany from her sprawled position across the room.