Getting Old is the Best Revenge (13 page)

Connie, using what little strength she has, hugs her back. "Angelina," she bawls, "I shoulda broke down the door and made you talk to me."

"I shoulda got down on my hands and knees and begged you to come back in my life!"

"All those years. What I went through. I had to hide in the back of the church for the baptisms and the confirmations. I had to miss every celebration. Christmas. Easter. We had to exchange gifts behind your back. I missed how we always went shopping together. The cooking together. But most of all I missed my sister."

"
Mamma mia,
I missed you every day."

"Me, too."

Now there's a lot of blubbering going on around the room. And hugging. Everyone talking at once.

I beckon the girls. Time to leave. Nobody notices us walk out.

When we reach the front yard, Ida, Evvie, Sophie, Bella, and I are also hugging and blubbering.

"Italians are so emotional," Bella says.

21

Death by Pirate

T
he yearly Orphans' Play Day, held by the ex

clusive Sarasota Springs Women's Club, was a
major social charity event. This year the women
had chosen Happyland Fantasy Park as their destination. This colorful amusement park was a great
favorite of the orphans. The girls, from eight to
twelve years old, excitedly walked in pairs, each
line of six following its own individual leader.

Photographers clicked after them everywhere
they went.

The Pink Poodle group was led by wealthy socialite Elizabeth Hoyle Johnson. At fifty-nine she
was still considered a beauty. Her platinum blond
hair was styled forever the day she had her first
sight of Kim Novak in Hitchcock's film V
ertigo.
She was dressed in a luscious pink backless sundress with matching straw hat and white strappy
sandals. Pink was her girls' color, so it was hers, as
well. Her girls were all dressed in brand-new rayon
dresses and matching ballerina slippers, a gift from
the charity.

They were babbling happily away as they
skipped from ride to ride, every spot a photo opportunity. Girls eating pink cotton candy. Girls
screaming with pleasure as they rode the Fantasy
Chip and Dip ride. Mrs. Johnson was a good sport:
she went on the rides with them and pretended to
be frightened, too. But she only went on the gentle
ones. Her severe asthma kept her away from the
more demanding rides.

Every once in a while the Pink Poodles met up
with the other groups--the Purple Puppies and the
Blue Bassets--and there was much happy chatter
back and forth. Even the socialites were calling out
to one another and having a good time. It was a
day they could let down their hair and pretend to
be young again.

When the Pink Poodles arrived at the Pirate
Cave, they were so far ahead of the other groups
they had even left the photographers behind.

Elizabeth, holding back her giggles, told the
girls to be scared, very scared. "If the pirates get
hold of you . . ." She made a strangling motion with
her hands. The girls squealed and held on tightly to
their buddies.

The empty gondolas pulled up on the rail
tracks, and from around a corner came the operator of the ride. He was dressed in an elaborate pi
rate costume. Elizabeth gasped. He had a parrot on
his shoulder. She could feel her throat constrict. As
long as she could remember, she'd had a phobia
about birds. Years of therapy and it had never gone
away. But she hid her fear. She didn't want to spoil
the ride for her girls. They giggled as they tumbled
into their seats and the mean-looking pirate pretended to be menacing. The girls squealed and
laughed at his big mustache and huge gold hoop
earrings and big black hat and black eye-patch.
The noisy bright green parrot on his shoulder cackled, "Don't go in there, dearie . . ."

Elizabeth was about to join the last two girls in
their gondola, but the muscular pirate stopped her.
For a moment she held her breath as the parrot
leaned close to her. The pirate led her to a seat by
herself in the next gondola back. A moment later
she was disappearing into the pitch-black tunnel
after the girls.

Deafening screams came from all sides of the
cave and whizzing lights zigzagged every which
way. Pirate dummies popped out to have vicious
cutlass fights with each other, and bats seemed to
swarm down all around them. The girls kept ducking their heads and laughing, gripping the edges of
their gondolas.

They passed a huge, gleaming treasure chest
squatting on the ground, its dazzling make-believe
jewels piled high. And on the top, a skeleton wearing pearls around its neck was sitting and grinning
at them. It was so close, the girls could have
touched it, but they reared their bodies as far back
as possible and screamed in terror as their gondola
careened around a curve in the track into the next
frightening pirate scenario.

At that moment Elizabeth Hoyle Johnson was
pulled off her seat by the wicked-looking pirate.

He kicked the skeleton out of his way and
pushed her down against the chest.

"What . . . why . . ." she stuttered. "What are
you doing?"

To Elizabeth's surprise, the pirate yanked off
his mustache and eye-patch. "Why, it's you," she
said, upset. "What are you doing here? This is not
a funny way to say hello . . ."

"Not hello, Beth. Good-bye. No more toys
for you."

He released the parrot and on command it
dived down at her, over and over again, screeching. Elizabeth clutched at her throat as an asthma
attack came on full-strength. She was unable to
breathe. Her hands groped for her purse, where
her inhaler was kept. The satisfied pirate shoved
the purse out of her reach. She looked into his eyes
and saw no mercy there. The pirate waited as her
eyes grew big, then closed. He felt her pulse and
smiled.

When the little girls' gondolas exited the cave, they
were surprised to find themselves alone. For a few
minutes they sat, bewildered, as shadows darkened
around them and clouds eclipsed the sun. Then one
of the littlest orphans gave in to her fright and began to cry.

Where was Mrs. Johnson?

I put my Carl Hiaasen novel on my night table, along with my reading glasses, prepared to fall asleep. But sleep is not following its usual pattern. I can't help thinking about Angelina and her family. So I click on the TV for some late-night news to distract me. What I see immediately knocks the sleepiness right out of me.

The footage is of wealthy socialite Elizabeth Hoyle Johnson at a charity function at Happyland Fantasy Park in Sarasota Springs. She is beautifully dressed all in pink and surrounded by a little group of girls, also in pink, on their Orphans' Day outing. The next footage shows a still, covered figure on a stretcher, being carried out of some kind of cave. The camera then shifts to a bench where several little girls sit crying, and an older woman, also crying, says, "Everything happened so fast. She was on the ride with her girls and she never came out of the cave. We knew she had severe asthma, which must have weakened her heart, but . . ." Here she breaks down. In the background I hear the children chattering about the "mean pirate and his funny parrot, who hosted the ride."

The newscaster gives a brief report about Mrs. Johnson and her many charitable works, ending with the same phrase that every reporter seems to use to sum up a woman's life, "She is survived by her husband, Thomas Johnson."

As the news shifts to the latest city council meeting, I turn the set off.

Number three. Why am I not surprised? I told them so, didn't I?

22

A Romantic Evening

E
ven though the salsa band in Jose Aragon's

open-air tapas bar is very loud, even though the surf pounding the beach a few hundred feet away is near deafening, even though the rowdy group of young men just back from a successful fishing trip are seven beers to the wind, Jack and I are aware of nothing but one another.

Another sip of my Mai Tai, another sweet kiss, then I ask him again, "So, what's the surprise?"

"Not yet, oh impatient one. I'm working up to it. What's new on the P.I. front? Caught the peeper yet?"

"Still very elusive, that sly guy."

What is this big secret he is teasing me with? He keeps grinning, so he thinks I'm going to like it. It's certainly something
he
likes. I smile. Probably has to do with sex. That's a look I remember from way back. Oh, no. Is he going to propose again? Or want us to officially get engaged? He's driving me crazy. I wish he'd tell me already. I can't stand the suspense.

"Earth to Gladdy," he says.

"I'm here. Honest."

We munch some more of the cold papaya and pineapple chunks. And sip more of our drinks.

"How's your bridge tournament going?" I ask.

"Lucy and I are in second place. But we're closing fast."

"You better watch out for that Lucy. She's gunning for you."

"Nonsense, all she lives for is bridge."

"Yeah. Right."

We both laugh. Jack pulls me closer to him. We snuggle for a few moments, blissfully looking out across the barely lit beach toward the hammering surf. This is romantic. This is very romantic.

"Now?" I ask.

"Not yet."

"You're such a tease."

After another few moments of comfortable si lence, I decide to tell Jack about my theory. I want his feedback. "There's been another one. Just a few days ago."

"Another what?"

"A very rich society lady who died suddenly and unexpectedly. I saw it on the news."

Then, incredulously, "You're not still on that?" he asks.

"Well, I just find the similarities meaningful. I don't really believe in coincidences."

"If I remember correctly, the similarities were that the women were very rich. Period."

"Three of them in less than three weeks? Just as I said it would happen."

He looks at me. "Now you're clairvoyant?"

"They were all middle-aged and seemingly in very good health. Three supposed heart attacks."

"And that's your similarity? Your mind works in mysterious ways, my dear Glad."

I punch him on the cheek gently. I sense he is getting annoyed at me. "You are trying to make me lose my train of thought."

"You're right. And you know what? Take this 'train' to Morrie's station and drive
him
crazy. That's what he gets paid for. This is one of the few nights we've been able to slip away, and now all we're talking about is business."

Why isn't he taking me seriously? This is important to me. Besides, he's the one who brought my business up. And I'm about to tell him so. But I think to myself, Not so fast. He wants his romantic woman, not this busybody private eye. Should that make me mad at him? This man loves me. I should shut up and enjoy the moment.