Rita Lakin_Gladdy Gold_01 (11 page)

I flash the light over the sink. Even as I see it, my
mind refuses to accept it. No!!! Damn it, no! The chocolate crumbs are
gone! Someone has scrubbed the sink clean.

I crumple into Francie's favorite armchair and start to
cry. In my mind the heroes and heroines of every murder mystery I have
ever read are wagging their fingers at me, shaking their heads ruefully.
We
taught you so much and you learned nothing. Failure. You had it and you
lost it. You old woman, you old failure.

Whatever courage got me here is gone now. I sit in the
armchair all night, just an old lady waiting, trusting in the safety of
daylight.

17

Canasta

I
t's Sophie's turn to host the
weekly canasta game. Not my favorite place to play cards. First of all,
Sophie's apartment is enough to give me a headache even before we play.
Her decor is what Ida calls Early
Ongepatshket.
This is almost
untranslatable, but the closest meaning would be overdone to the max.
If there is an empty space, something must be put in it. And something
is never enough. Too much is never enough. Why one doily on a couch,
when five would be better? If you get my drift.

In everyone else's apartment, we get served some nuts and
raisins, tea and maybe sponge cake. Not in the home of Sophie, the
bountiful. A huge bowl of fruit. Boxes of candy. Later on, coffee and
three kinds of pie. Bella calls her generous. Ida calls her a show-off.

Ida is not here yet. But when she arrives, the battle of
the air conditioner will begin. Sophie will want subarctic
temperatures. Ida will want the tropics. Speak of the devil. Here she
is.

"Turn down the goddamn air," she announces before even
getting through the door.

Sophie folds her arms. "No. My house, my rules. In your
house we sweat like pigs!"

Bella, the pacifist, says meekly. "Put on your sweater,
Ida dear."

The card game begins.

"So how much do we need to open?" Bella asks.

"It's one-twenty. It's always one-twenty!" Ida snaps at
her.

"I forget."

Evvie asks Bella, "Did you bring your hearing aid?"

"What?" she asks.

"Never mind."

"So, partner, are you ready to open?" Ida asks Evvie.

"Already, they're starting. This is a card game, not a
discussion group." Sophie glares at them.

"I'm close," Evvie says, ignoring Sophie.

It is my turn to sit out the game. We play a round robin,
alternating who gets to play. Bella would prefer never to touch a card
since there are already four of us, but the two sadists insist she
can't just sit and watch. She hates to play as much as they hate
playing with her. What can I tell you? This is the way it is. I'm glad
I'm sitting out. I don't think I could concentrate.

It's Ida's turn. She looks at Evvie. Evvie comments ever
so lightly, "Have you seen
Hy
lately?"

"Yes, indeed I have," says Ida, putting down a jack.
Evvie blows her a kiss.

Sophie glares. She knows what they're up to. "Cheater,"
she mutters. "As if you give a hoot about Hy Binder!"

Ida stands up. "How dare you!"

Sophie says, getting surly, "Next time it'll be 'and how
is dear old
Lo'
and you'll give her a
low
card--"

Evvie throws her cards down on the table. "That's it! You
have some nerve!"

Bella looks from one to the other thoroughly confused.

War is about to begin.

"Girls," I say, "we need to talk. Girls!"

They take one look at my face and know something is up.
Reluctantly, they throw their cards into the middle of the table, still
simmering, except for Bella, who is relieved.

It takes a few minutes for them to calm down and plump up
pillows and generally get comfortable. Finally I have their attention.

"You all wondered where Evvie and I went the other
afternoon, I'm sure."

Ida answers huffily. "We certainly did."

I drop my bombshell. "We went to the police station. To
report the murders of Francie and Selma."

For maybe three seconds there is a stunned silence. Then
they are all talking at once in a barrage of words.
Murder?
Francie?
Selma? Not possible. Oy gevalt! What are you talking about? You're
kidding, right? Police, really the police? What did you say? What did
they say?

Finally Evvie bangs on the table. "Shah! Be quiet and you
might learn something!"

Slowly they settle down, all eyes glued on me in horror
and excitement.

Bella looks confused. "You mean you didn't have dates?"

I say, "No, Bella, no dates."

Evvie, of course, jumps in. "Gladdy thinks they were both
murdered but that cop wouldn't believe her!"

"After he just dismissed us as crackpots, I tried to
forget about it, but Francie won't let me. I keep hearing her in my
head:
Find out who did it. You have to.
It was the crumbs that
convinced me."

A chorus of "What crumbs?" follows.

Evvie looks at me suspiciously. "You never mentioned
crumbs."

"I know," I say guiltily. "It was the crumbs that Sophie
found in Francie's sink. Chocolate cake crumbs. If Francie didn't eat
the cake she brought home from Continental, where did they come from?"

Evvie is hurt. "You didn't tell me."

"I'm sorry."

"I told you Francie wouldn't leave a dirty sink! I knew
it!" Sophie is delighted with herself.

"Maybe she didn't like the cake from Continental," says
Bella. "Maybe she baked a new one." Then gleefully, "From her new
cookbook." Bella is pleased with her theory.

"And ate an entire cake herself? Puleeze," says Evvie
disdainfully. "Our health nut who eats tiny portions?" Evvie realizes
what she just said. "Who
used
to eat . . ." She stops, on the
verge of tears.

"I don't understand," Ida says. "Who would want to kill
them? They didn't have enemies."

"And why? Why would anyone hurt them? They never hurt a
fleabag," Sophie insists.

"It was the coincidences," my sidekick informs them.
Evvie proceeds to list my suspicions.

"If it wasn't heart attacks," Sophie asks me, "what made
them dead?"

"I think poison."

There is a group gasp at this as each of the girls tries
to absorb this momentous information.

"I went back to Francie's apartment. I went to get those
chocolate crumbs. It could have been the proof we needed. . . ."

Evvie gets it first. "Oh, no. The cleaning girl was there
after we left."

"Gone," I say. But was it the cleaning girl? Or did the
killer get there first?

"Why are you telling us this?" Ida asks softly.

"I want you all to help me find the killer."

There is a long moment as they digest the
earth-shattering things I have been saying. Bella and Sophie reach out
and hold hands. Ida jumps up, needing to move around.

Bella sighs. "How can we? A killer could be anywhere."

"Yeah," says Ida, "maybe he's the serial killer."

"The serial killer is a strangler, the cops told us,"
Evvie informs them.

"You're not saying . . ." Sophie begins.

"I am saying. I think the killer lives here or comes
here, somebody we probably know or have seen hanging around."

"
A
choleria!
A plague on him! I can't
believe such a thing," Sophie cries out.

"I'm never going out of my apartment again," wails Bella.

"They were both killed
in
their apartments," Ida
says with evil relish.

"Vay iz mir,
I'm dying!" Bella is in tears.

Sophie screeches, "Whose birthday is next?"

"Does anybody know when it's my birthday? I can't
remember," asks Bella plaintively.

"We don't know for sure if that means anything," I say,
trying to calm them.

Evvie takes a stronger tack. "Snap out of it!" she says,
the movie critic paying homage to
Moonstruck.

"I really do need help," I say. "I want us to go around
and talk to everybody. Find out if they saw anything unusual the nights
of the murders."

Again, silence as this is absorbed. Finally Sophie sighs.
"Oy,
I wish I were only seventy-eight again!"

Ida pats her on the back. "Don't worry, Princess, you'll
find the strength. We all will, for Francie's sake."

"I don't know," Sophie says. "Maybe we're opening up a
can of snakes."

Bella whimpers. "Maybe you'll make the killer mad and
he'll come after us."

"God forbid," Evvie says.

"I'm more worried we'll scare a lot of people, but it has
to be done," I reply. More silence.

"Everybody in?" I ask.

I get a chorus of "in's."

"Then, hopefully, we'll get real information, so the cops
will believe us and take over."

The girls get up and start clearing the cards off the
table. We always help the hostess clean up.

"You should have told me about the crumbs," Evvie says
accusingly.

"I know," I tell her. "I know."

"I
would have remembered!"

"I know! Don't keep rubbing it in!"

Suddenly we hear sirens very close. Ida runs and flings
open the door. "Police cars! Coming in here!"

"Murder! Another murder!" Sophie screams.

And Bella faints.

I feel very guilty. What have I unleashed?

18

Old-Timer's Disease

W
e don't even wait for the
elevator. In spite of our age, and the possible damage we can do to our
bodies, we are running down the three flights of stairs and across the
parking area to where two policemen, and a small group of our neighbors
in a varied assortment of sleepwear, are gathering. The flashing lights
from the police car zigzag across the watchers like strobe lights at a
"happening." Something is happening all right and we are terrified.

All the activity is centered at Millie and Irving's
apartment. The police are pounding at their door. Thoughts crowd my
head. Making assessments. It's after nine
P.M.
They must be asleep. It's not an ambulance, thank God, so Irving didn't
call the paramedics. So, why are the police here? Please, God, don't
let anyone be hurt. The officers keep hammering. No one is answering.

We arrive at the door, hearts throbbing with fear and
overexertion. Throwing questions at them, although we are so out of
breath we can barely speak.

"What is it?"

"Why are you here?"

"What's wrong?"

"Please talk to us. We're their friends."

The taller policeman with an orange mustache tells us
they got a 911 call.

The short, stubby one says, "The woman was screaming that
she was being raped and someone was trying to kill her."

The girls breathe a collective sigh of relief. "Boy, have
you got the wrong address," Evvie informs them.

By now the group is beginning to look like a crowd. Hy
and Lola, in matching robes, peer over the balcony right above our
heads. Peripherally, I am aware of Harriet, tying her robe, as she
hurries across the parking area. Tessie is not far behind her.

On this side of the building, Denny pokes his head out of
his apartment. He looks disheveled, wild-eyed. . . . When he sees me
looking at him, he turns and scurries back in. The expression on his
face is pure fright. Poor thing. After having discovered both Selma's
and Francie's bodies, I don't blame him for not wanting to be witness
to yet another fearful situation.

All eyes turn as the door squeaks open to just the barest
sliver. "Who is it?" Irving whispers.

"Open up. Police." Orange mustache is very forceful.

The door opens slightly farther. Irving is in his
pajamas, his eyes sleep-encrusted and barely open, still not really
awake. I sigh in relief. He looks at his visiting assemblage with
alarm. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"We're here on a nine-one-one. Did you phone the police?"

"No," he says, still befuddled.

"I did," says a raspy voice behind him. The door is flung
wide open.

How can I describe what Millie looks like? We all stare
in awe. She can hardly move because she is wearing so many layers of
clothes. I would guess she tried to put on everything in her closet and
finally stopped when no more would fit. After the eye has absorbed
that, the real horror seeps in. Millie has a huge pair of scissors in
her hand which then makes you notice that most of her clothes have been
mutilated. I hear someone moaning behind me.

Then there is the makeup. Millie's face is layered with
cosmetics. And her hair! There are ribbons wildly tied to every
possible strand. As I wonder where she got ribbons from, I realize they
are the cut portions of her clothes.

Millie hits Irving on the back with her fist. "Rapist!"
she shrieks. "Sodomist!" Where did she ever learn that word?
"Assassin!" Irving freezes, mortified, standing there letting the blows
fall on his bent shoulders.

I am vaguely aware of someone quite tall pushing his way
forward through the growing crowd. But I can't take my eyes off Millie
and Irving.

"She's ill," I finally say to the two policemen. "She
doesn't know what she's doing."

"Irving wouldn't hurt a hair on her head," I hear Sophie
say behind me.

"This is all a terrible mistake," Evvie says.

The short one speaks kindly to us. "Can you handle it
from here, or do you need our help?"

"We'll manage," Ida says.

Millie's fit is already lessening. She now leans her head
on Irving's shoulders, dropping the scissors as she does. He reaches
behind and holds onto her. Taking charge, Ida hurries in to help him.

As Ida closes the door, the crowd begins to disperse. The
patrolmen walk to their cars, but stop to greet someone. "Detective," I
hear one say, and I wheel about. And there's Morgan Langford.

I hurry over to him, Evvie following right after me, with
Sophie clutching her arm.

"What are you doing here?" I ask.

He bends as if in greeting and smiles. "Mrs. Gold. Mrs.
Markowitz."

"Such a good memory," Evvie marvels.

"Just call
me
Sophie," Sophie says, pushing her
way in front of Evvie.

By now Harriet has joined us and she introduces herself
as well. Evvie pointedly explains to Sophie and Harriet, "This is the
cop we talked to, the one who wouldn't believe us when we told him
about our murders."

"Enough, Ev," I say. "He's here now."

"I heard the police call," Detective Langford says. "I
thought I'd check it out."

"Then you did believe me!" I am feeling vindicated.

"I didn't say that," he answers mildly, bursting my
balloon.

"Morrie!" I hear an excited voice coming up behind me.

To my astonishment, there's Bella, obviously recovered
from where we left her resting, hurrying over as fast as she is able.
And then, standing as high as she can on her toes (all four foot eleven
of her), which still only brings her up to his belt buckle, she reaches
up (as Langford leans way down to accommodate her) and gives Detective
Morgan Langford a big, gushy kiss. Good thing he didn't pick Bella up,
she could have gotten a nosebleed.

Morrie?

"You know him?" Evvie asks, beating me to it.

Bella grins. "This is Jack Langford's son from Phase Six.
You remember, I was in Hadassah with his mother, Faye, until she
passed, aleha ha-shalom, may she rest in peace."

Langford smiles way down at her. "So, you're one of these
troublemakers, are you?" Bella looks confused.

Ida rushes up to join us, worried she is missing
something. "Millie's back in bed," she reports. "And who is this tall,
handsome stranger?" she gushes. Next she'll start to bat her eyes.

Evvie fills her in. Ida, being Ida, immediately leaps in
where fools would fear to. "How dare you not believe Gladdy!"

"Hey, whoa. Easy, ladies."

"Lay off," I growl at Ida. Making an enemy of Detective
Langford is not smart.

"Look," he says to me, "just find me a shred of something
to go on, then I promise to get involved."

"Fair enough," I say, thinking guiltily of the cake
crumbs I let get away.

"But, Mrs. Gold, be very careful. If there really is a
killer, he's smart. He hasn't made any mistakes. That makes him very
dangerous. Do not, I repeat, do anything foolish. If anything comes up,
call me!"

Langford leaves and everyone voices an opinion.

"Gorgeous," breathes Ida.

"Ooh, so tall," says Sophie.

"Wow!" says Harriet. "Next time take
me
to the
police station.

"I'm reserving judgment," says Evvie.

"Such a
shayner boychick,"
says Bella. "I know
him since he was this tall." Her hand moves up and down trying to
measure the man as boy. If we believe Bella, Lanky was six feet tall at
two years old.

I smile. So, he's Jewish? Well, what do you know!

You've heard of the immovable object and the irre
sistible force. . . . Well, that's stubborn us seated in a row in the
Weiss living room, facing even more stubborn Irving. After all the
excitement, we went back to check on Millie and found Irving in tears.

"Enough, Irving," I say. "No more discussion. Things have
to change."

"I never heard her get up."

"It could have been worse," Evvie says, shuddering. I
know she is thinking about the scissors.

"All right. I'll unplug the phone. I'll hide it before I
go to sleep."

"She'll think of something else," Ida says. "Remember how
she got out of the apartment that night and wandered down to Oakland
Park."

"I put double locks on the doors. I hide the keys. She
doesn't get out any more."

"No, she calls the cops in," says Bella.

"No more putting off, Irving," says Sophie. "If you're in
a hole, you better start digging."

"It's time to get real help. Full-time help," I say.

"Around the clock," adds Evvie.

"No," Irving says. "I have no room for a stranger to
sleep."

"You can't stay up all night and watch her."

"I'll nap during the day if someone is here."

"Irving," Ida says carefully. "You know she'd be better
off in managed care."

Irving puts his hands over his ears. "No! I won't hear
this."

I get up. I feel so weary and so helpless. Through the
bedroom door, I can hear Millie softly snoring. "All right, dear. We'll
try hiring someone. But if that doesn't work . . ."

Irving turns his back on us.

We all tiptoe into the bedroom and take a look in at
Millie. She is curled up with her thumb in her mouth. She looks almost
young lying there, as though the Alzheimer's has made her face soften
as she gives up her worldly cares. Her eyes open and she smiles slyly
at us. Almost like she knows what havoc she causes and it tickles her.

We take turns kissing her good night. Suddenly Millie
says pleadingly, "Where's Francie? Why doesn't she visit me anymore?"

My precocious granddaughter, Lindsay, when she was
younger, mispronounced Millie's illness as old-timer's disease. As we
watch Millie's suffering and try to remember happier days to offset our
reality, maybe that's a gentler way to put it.