Getting Old Is a Disaster

Authors: Rita Lakin

About the Author

Fate took Rita Lakin from New York to Los Angeles, where she was seduced by palm trees and movie studios. Over the next twenty years she wrote for television and had every possible job from freelance writer to story editor to staff writer and, finally, producer. She worked on shows such as
Dr. Kildare, Peyton Place, The Mod Squad,
and
Dynasty,
and created her own shows, including
The Rookies, Flamingo Road,
and
Nightingales.
Rita has won awards from the Writers Guild of America, the Mystery Writers of America's Edgar Allan Poe Award, and the coveted Avery Hopwood Award from the University of Michigan. She lives in Marin County, California, where she is currently at work on her next mystery starring the indomitable Gladdy Gold. Visit her on the Web at
www.ritalakin.com.

also by rita lakin

Getting Old Is Murder

Getting Old Is the Best R ev eng e

Getting Old Is Criminal

Getting Old Is To Die For

Getting Old

Is a Disaster

Rita Lakin

A D E L L B O O K

Copyright

GETTING OLD IS A DISASTER

A Dell Book / January 2009

Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York

This is a work of fiction. Names characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Dell is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the

colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

eISBN: 978-0-440-33834-5

www.bantamdell.com

v1.0

Dedication

This book is for Leslie Simon Lakin,

my amazing daughter-in-law,

with Love and Gratitude

Baby Boomers: the Third Act,
or, Encore Careers

Act One:

Even though I didn't know it at the time, I followed every trend.

I was born in 1947.

In the 50's I was the perfect student in school. In the 60's I was the perfect teenager. Then in the 70's the perfect hippie.

Act Two:

By the 80's I became the perfect yuppie. By then I was married. It was all about money and spending.

In the 90's women's rights! I divorced and started my own corporation.

Act Three:

I married the right man. Now the two of us spend our time being useful to others. We began our encore career. We opened a bed-and-breakfast to bring pleasure to people in a beautiful place. I thought I was such a rebel all my life, but now I know I'm just a variation on what 70 million baby boomers have done with their lives.

—Guiamer Hiegert, co-owner with her husband, Gary, of theLost Whale Inn, Trinidad, California

Introduction

to Our Characters

gladdy and her gladiators

Gladys (Gladdy) Gold, 75
Our heroine and her funny, adorable, sometimes impossible partners:

Evelyn (Evvie) Markowitz, 73
Gladdy's sister. Logical, a regular Sherlock Holmes

Ida Franz, 71
Stubborn, mean, great for an in-your face confrontation

Bella Fox, 83
The "shadow." She's so forgettable, she's perfect for surveillance, but smarter than you think
Sophie Meyerbeer, 80
Master of disguises, she lives for color-coordination

yentas, kibitzers, sufferers: the inhabitants of phase two

Hy Binder, 88
A man of a thousand jokes, all of them tasteless

Lola Binder, 78
His wife, who hasn't a thought in her head that he hasn't put there

Denny Ryan, 42
The handyman: sweet, kind, mentally slow

Enya Slovak, 84
Survivor of "the camps" but never survived

Tessie Spankowitz, 56
Chubby, newly married to Sol
Millie Weiss, 85
Suffering with Alzheimer's
Irving Weiss, 86
Suffering because she's suffering

Mary Mueller, 60
Neighbor whose husband left her; nurse

Joe Markowitz, 75
Evvie's ex-husband oddballs and fruitcakes

The Canadians, 30–40-ish
Young, tan, and clueless

Sol Spankowitz, 79
Now married to Tessie

Dora Dooley, 81
Loves soap operas; Jack's neighbor

the cop and the cop's pop

Morgan (Morrie) Langford,
35 Tall, lanky, sweet, and smart

Jack Langford, 75
Handsome and romantic, Gladdy's boyfriend

Oz Washington, 36
Morrie's friend, also a police detective

the library maven

Conchetta Aguilar, 38
Her Cuban coffee could grow hair on your chest

other tenants

Barbi Stevens, 20-ish
and

Casey Wright, 30-ish
Cousins who moved from California

Yolanda Diaz, 22
Her English is bad, but her heart is good

Stanley Heyer, 85
Original builder of Lanai Gardens

Shirley Heyer, 80
His wife

interim tenants phase two

Abe Waller, 85
Stanley's friend

Louise Bannister, 60-ish
Femme fatale of Phase Six, interested in Jack

Gladdy's Glossary

Yiddish (meaning Jewish) came into being between the ninth and twelfth centuries in Germany as an adaptation of German dialect to the special uses of Jewish religious life.

In the early twentieth century, Yiddish was spoken by eleven million Jews in eastern Europe and the United States. Its use declined radically. However, lately there has been a renewed interest in embracing Yiddish once again as a connection to Jewish culture.

bubbala - endearing term for anyone you like, young or old; a tasty egg dish

bar mitzvah - at age thirteen a boy becomes a man after a ceremony accepting responsibility and religious law

kasha varnishkas - cooked groats and broad noodles

kibitzer - one who gives unwanted advice

kvetch - whine and complain

mezuzah - tiny box affixed to right door frame containing parchment with 22 lines of Deuteronomy

nachas - joy, especially from children

nosh - small meal

tsouris - trouble

schmegegi - buffoon, idiot

schlep - drag, carry, or haul sometimes unnecessary things

schmear - to spread like butter

Shabbes - Sabbath

tallis - prayer shawl

Torah - the five books of Moses—Talmud law

yarmulke - traditional skull cap worn at all times by observant Orthodox Jews

yenta - busybody

Prologue

Getting Old

Is a Disaster

T
he construction worker embraced the storm,

letting the torrents of rain sting his face and
soak his denim jacket. His hard hat offered little
protection. His sopping tool belt weighed him
down. But he was content to be the last man on
site. He knew how to finish a job.

The dim work light flickered with the splatter of
the raindrops. Bolts of lightning illuminated the
wooden billboard staked across the construction
site: Lanai Gardens Modern, new one- and two
bedroom garden apartments. Three acres of lawns,
Six Phases pools, recreation rooms. Fort Lauderdale
at its finest. Opening September 1958.

A few more minutes and he'd go home. To a hot
shower, his bottle of whiskey, and the news on the
radio. He was always fascinated by the news in his
reluctantly adopted land.

Meticulous and compulsive, he was annoyed
that he could not find the shovel that he'd last seen
near the tall piles of gravel. He debated whether to
keep searching. Never mind, he told himself. He
would dig it out of the mud tomorrow in the day
light. All he had left to do was tarp over the rest of
the tools that were too large to be put in the shed.
Then, home.

The booming thunder kept him from hearing
the stranger until the man was standing before
him, wrapped in a huge black greatcoat with a
wide-brimmed gray felt hat obscuring much of his
face. The construction worker startled, his boot
clanging into a pile of pipes. Then he relaxed.
Probably someone lost, needing directions.

The stranger didn't move as he watched the con
struction worker lay the last corner of the tarp
down.

"Are you lost?" the construction worker finally
asked.

For a moment the stranger didn't answer. "No, I
am not lost."

The construction worker straightened, bracing
himself, forming his huge hands into fists. He al
ways had a knack for smelling danger. "What do
you want?"

"I want you to die," the stranger said with
unchecked bitterness. "Now."

A huge bolt of lightning lit up the site and at the
same moment they both saw the hard staff and
sharp blade of the missing shovel less than five feet
away, sticking up in the mud. The two men lunged
for it. The stranger got to it first and raised the
shovel high, preparing to charge, but the construc
tion worker was too quick for him. He grabbed at
the shovel, twisting it, pulling it away, using his
more massive body to throw the stranger off bal
ance. The stranger held tight, desperate to regain
control.

Lightning and thunder were as witnesses to this
dance of death. Huge earth movers stood as silent
observers as well. The stranger grappled mightily
in his battle to keep standing. But he fell. Then the
construction worker fell. Rolling, tumbling, nei
ther losing his grip on the shovel. Mud blinded
them, covered them, slowing their movements, but
hatred and the realization that only one of them
would survive kept them going. Raw animal cries
belched from their throats.

* * *

Several minutes later, the victor lifted his eyes to
the sky so that the rain would rinse them. When he
could see, he bent down and stared at the dead
man's face. He smiled grimly, then glanced around,
determining his next move.

The work light barely silhouetted the killer as he
ripped off his clothes and exchanged them with
the victim's. It was a difficult, tedious job. The
clothes were soaked. The fit was bad. Carefully
he searched his own pockets, making sure not to
leave any evidence.

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