Rita Lakin_Gladdy Gold_01 (13 page)

21

Kronk Strikes Again

Y
olanda--the Spanish dancer, as
Irving refers to her--seems to be working out. Sort of. Millie is
thrilled with her. Irving is less than thrilled. He is finding all
kinds of things to nitpick about. Too many taco-and-refried-bean
dinners instead of his favorite cholesterol killers, steak and
potatoes. Too much hot salsa in everything. Suddenly Millie, who never
ate Hispanic food in her life, is scarfing down any food whose name has
an
a
or
o
at the end of it. Irving now lives on Tums.
I
try to calm him, promising I will give Yolanda a weekly menu to follow.
"But, isn't it worth it? Millie is better than she's been in a long
time."

"Ulcers, I'm getting," Irving whines.

He grudgingly agrees, but he doesn't understand why he is
upset. Suddenly Yolanda is telling him to go outside and get some air
and smoke his cigars, or go play cards, she'll watch Millie. So used to
being tense every moment of every day, how can he let down his guard?

We all like Yolanda. She smiles a lot and hums when she
works. And takes time to talk to Millie. She doesn't speak much
English, so her communication skills are part Spanish, part English,
part pointing, and part miming. Millie thinks this is all being done to
entertain her. Yolanda makes her laugh. We haven't heard Millie laugh
in a long time. Millie was right to make her own choice.

The Gladiators are hard at work. Carrying their newly
bought clipboards with attached pens, they are canvassing the
buildings. Dutifully making notes when people aren't home, so they'll
remember to call back. In protest, because we wouldn't let them have
T-shirts, Sophie and Bella are wearing their bingo shirts.

So much for the lecture on keeping cool. Pandemonium has
struck. Everyone wants to know everything. The suggestion of two
murders churns up all the neighbors, either with fear or excitement,
and everyone is comparing birthdays, wondering who will be next--even
though we try to assure them that probably no one will be next. I think
we are spreading hysteria more than gathering information. Eileen
O'Connor in the R building is having a birthday next week. She has
suddenly decided to leave tomorrow for a visit to her sister in Boca
Raton. She has not made any plans for returning.

Esther Feder's birthday is in two weeks. She has been
quoted as saying, "I have only one word to say to that killer--he better
not mess with me!"

More and more, I feel guilt-ridden about having opened
this Pandora's box. We haven't seen this much excitement since the
uproarious Florida election of 2000.

"Who could forget?" Ida comments. "It took thirty-seven
days! We got a president, and by then, who cared?"

Sophie scowls. "They didn't have to insult us in the
newspapers." She mimics: "If you think we can't vote, wait 'til you see
us
drive
!"

"I never did get what 'electile dysfunction' means."
Bella says, mutilating the pronunciation.

Evvie puts an arm around her. "Don't even ask!"

I am sitting in the kitchen doing my least favorite
chore--the monthly bills--before going outside for our morning workout.
It already feels like another scorcher. Suddenly I hear a piercing
shriek and my heart starts pounding. I remember Detective Langford's
warning. Has our snooping forced the killer to strike again? Running
out onto the walkway I see Ida, first one out, leaning over the rail
and pointing, her hand shaking. Following its direction, I see my car.
Its windows are covered in soap.

As Ida and I hurry downstairs, the other girls are not
far behind us.

"That damned crazy Kronk!" swears Evvie.

I sigh. I guess it was finally my turn.

We stare at the words that are soaped on the windshield.
You
know. I know two.

"I'll get water and a rag," Sophie volunteers, hurrying
back to the elevator.

"That miserable pain in the neck. When will we ever get
rid of her?!" Evvie asks angrily. "I'm taking it up at the next board
meeting again. Enough is enough!"

"Oh, hell." The others react to the tone of my voice. I
am looking down at my front right tire. It's been slashed. Too late, I
remember needing to replace the faulty spare.

"What does she mean?" Ida says, trying to decipher this
latest Kronk poetry-in-code. "'You know'? Know what?"

Sophie adds, "Maybe crazy Kronk's really the killer and
she's confessing. Like 'I killed two.'"

"How come no one ever sees her!" Bella cries, stamping
her feet in frustration.

When the tow truck arrives, I convince the girls that
since there is only room for one person alongside the driver, I'll go
alone. I decide that since I'm taking the car in, besides buying a new
tire, I might as well get it lubed and attend to all the other things
I've neglected to fix. Maybe I'll even splurge and detail it.

"Who did that to your windows?" the driver asks after
practically ripping my arms out of their sockets as he pulls me up into
the seat next to him.

"It's a very long story," I tell him.

The girls wave as we head out.

In all the excitement I didn't give any thought to the
meaning of Greta's scribblings on my car. I would be very sorry later.

22

Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe

T
he repair department said
give them a couple of hours. Usually I have a book in the trunk. All I
need is a coffee shop and the time will fly by. Hmm. No book. I guess I
forgot to leave one.

So, I decide to walk. Even though this is an industrial
area, maybe I'll find something of interest. I find myself relaxing. A
few hours to myself. What a luxury. To my surprise, I see a bookstore
sign up ahead and that gets my attention.

A huge red banner announces the Grand Opening Today: J.
Marley's For Mysteries. The proclamation under it defiantly states
"Who's afraid of Barnes & Noble?" I move closer to read all the
captivating information splashed across the window in Day-Glo paints.
Party! Free! Exciting Panel Discussion! Special Famous Mystery Guests!
Come as your favorite sleuth! And indeed, cheerful participants are
crowding in wearing a wide array of costumes. Apparently I'm just in
time and I join the throng.

A jovial and diminutive gent, dressed in a costume right
out of a Dickens novel and wearing a name tag--J. Marley,
Proprietor--stands at the doorway waving us in.

Once inside, I admire this charming little shop, done up
as a classic Victorian English gentleman's library with wonderfully
uncomfortable horsehair sofas and high-backed wing chairs slipcovered
with hunting scenes. A drop-leaf oak side table set up in front of the
small gaslit fireplace holds the makings of a proper English
tea--crumpets, cucumber sandwiches, scones, trifle--all of it looking
delicious. I look closer. Alas, not real.

Seats are being set up for the panel discussion in a
large adjoining conference room and I am lucky to get one of the last
chairs. There is much friendly banter as strangers get acquainted by
guessing one another's identities. I sigh happily. How lucky to have
accidentally found this place. I am prepared to have a very good time.

J. Marley moves up to the front podium. He makes a
delightful welcoming speech which not only lauds his own bravery for
opening up an independent shop, but also the courage of those who come
here willing to pay retail! "Those megawarehouses that call themselves
bookstores don't scare me. True book lovers will gather where others of
their ilk assemble, and you here today are proof of that." This gets a
round of applause. He grins mischievously. "I do hope you're not only
here for the free punch and entertainment. You
will
buy
something."

Marley now turns to the group seated onstage. "Today's
guest speakers, the world's greatest detectives, will address the
intriguing subject of 'How To Solve A Murder.' And allow me to admit
what trouble it was getting them here, since they all exist only in the
febrile imaginations of some of the greatest mystery writers of all
time."

There is a nice round of applause.

"How fortunate I was to find this amazing group of
players who swear they are being channeled by their literary originals."

Marley indicates a delicate elderly lady in a modest
print dress and very sensible black laced shoes, who all the while has
been attending to her knitting. With a flourish he introduces, "Miss
Jane Marple!"

Miss Marple smiles primly. "I bring you a message of
regards from St. Mary Mead."

"And now, Monsieur Hercule Poirot," says Marley with
vivacity.

Poirot stands up, tips his bowler and bows stiffly.
"Bonjour.
I, too, wish to extend salutations. From Hastings and, of course, Miss
Lemon."

Miss Lucy Pym is next and she is all atwitter. "Oh, I do
appreciate the applause. It's because of my new book, isn't it? You
readers do want some new thing, don't you?" With that she quickly sits
back down, blushing.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes, yes," he says intolerantly, "if we must exchange
these tiresome greetings, then I shall, of course, mention Dr. Watson,
who even as we speak is chasing my deerstalker hat which the winds blew
from my head." This brings much laughter and Holmes sneers nicely at it.

"Last, but not least, Lord Peter Wimsey."

Lord Peter wipes his monocle, then smiles. "Regards, of
course, from her ladyship, the former Harriet Vane. And Bunter would be
sorely tried if I neglected to mention him. A pleasure to be here in
the Colonies again."

The discussion begins with amusing questions from the
floor, answered wittily by the sleuths. But I hear nothing because of
the roaring in my ears as I listen to person after person chat about
murder.

A pathetically weak voice calls out, "I have a question."

To my astonishment, I am rising, and although I don't
recall doing it, I am the one who spoke. I stand transfixed. What am I
doing? All eyes are on me. I can hear my own breathing, and suddenly, I
blurt out: "I'm investigating a
real
murder! Two murders,
actually. And I desperately need help!"

The audience holds its silence for a moment before
bursting into appreciative applause. Marley, chortling, says, "And what
a clever opening gambit from the lady sitting next to Charlie Chan."

It's as if everything that has been troubling me has
surfaced without my permission. To my horror, I am the center of
attention.

Miss Pym pipes up. "Well, best left to the police, dear,
I always say."

"But they don't believe me. And I think the murderer
lives among us."

"Madam. Don't let's shilly-shally here. Where is your
proof?" Holmes says with disdain.

"That's just it. I don't have any."

"Dastardly clever, the killer, eh, what?" comments Lord
Peter.

"Yes. He hasn't made any mistakes yet."

"He will eventually. They all do," says Miss Marple
sagely, not even missing a stitch.

"You must use the little gray cells, Madame, and all will
be revealed." Hercule Poirot plays with his thin, waxed mustache.

"Suspects. Who are the suspects? Do not waste our time
with frivolity!" Holmes bullies me.

"Well, there's Denny, our handyman . . ." I say
hesitantly.

There is a burst of rude laughter from both audience and
panel.

"Yeah, and he lives in the Bates Motel!" screams someone
from the audience.

"And his dead mother done it," howls another.

"You better not take a shower, lady," shouts another.

"Order. Order," says Marley, clapping his hands to calm
the waves of laughter.

Holmes tamps down the tobacco in his pipe, chortling.
"He's as much a cliche as the 'butler who done it.'"

I try to keep my voice steady. "There's also the
real-estate man who goes after the property of the deceased."

Miss Marple tut-tuts. "Quite nearly as bad as the janitor
person."

"Is there a redheaded man on a bicycle?" asks Holmes
snidely.

"No."

"Perhaps a vicar who's had a bit too much port?" asks
Miss Marple.

"Of course not."

"A headmaster who has absconded with school funds?" asks
Miss Pym.

"No. No. No."

"I say--surely the bloke left a weapon? A croquet mallet?
A spade? A lead cosh?" Lord Peter winks at me.

Now everybody is hooting with appreciation for what they
think is my impassioned playacting.

I stand up, furious. "Stop it. This is real!"

"But
they
aren't," snickers someone in the
audience.

"But did the dog bark?" adds another wag in the crowd.

I can't believe it; I'm actually starting to cry.

Marley wipes his tears, too--of laughter. However, he
decides that I have taken up enough of the panel's time. He interrupts,
making an assumption. "Well, good luck with your novel, lady. Any other
questions?"

I am briefly applauded and then forgotten. The panel
continues on.

I look around befuddled. I run out of the conference room
and back into the quiet library section and throw myself down into one
of the armchairs.

Shaking and crying, I just sit there unable to move.
Whatever got into me to do that!

I am handed a handkerchief. I look up to see a tall man
peering down at me. He's in his seventies, with a full head of hair,
the colors of iron and steel, and a lovely smile.

"I believed you," he says.

"Why? No one else did!"

I use his handkerchief gratefully.

"May I?" he asks indicating the chair next to me.

He has a gentle, deep voice with just the faintest touch
of an English accent. Still snuffling, I nod.

"I'm sorry they upset you," he says. "But I don't think
they were making fun of you."

"I know. It was all a game and I was spoiling it." I look
up into his eyes. Such twinkling blue eyes. "What am I going to do
about my murders? Someone has to find the killer."

He takes my hands and holds them gently. "If I were a
mystery writer, I'd suggest that you look for someone who is behaving
out of character. Who is behaving in a way that is alien to his or her
personality?"

The man smiles at me, and for a moment I think I know
him. "Thank you," I whisper gratefully.

"And don't forget," he says, now grinning, "the killer is
always the one least suspected. As Holmes would say, 'It's elementary.'"

I get up, and return his handkerchief, then head for the
door.

"Gladdy?" the velvety voice calls after me.

I turn, startled. How does he know my name?

"It is Gladdy Gold, I presume? May I buy you a cup of
coffee?"