Getting Old is the Best Revenge (2 page)

Sophie grumbles. "I still don't know why we have to exercise. All we'll do is die healthier."

"I like jogging," says Bella helpfully. "It's nice to hear heavy breathing again."

And so we begin our daily fifteen-minute version of exercise. We head downstairs, walk around the apartment building once or twice, each at her own speed. It's not much, but, as my darling Francie used to say, something is better than nothing. It was she who encouraged us to exercise to keep healthy. She was my best friend. Francie died two months ago and I still cry for missing her.

Today, like every day, the girls and I walk. We talk. We rest. We walk and talk some more. And nowadays there are only two topics that hold the girls in thrall: Jack, and our new private-eye biz.

"You're not doing too badly for a start-up company," Jack told me. "It's looking good." He was kissing me long and hard at the time he said that, so all I could do was mumble my agreement. Gee, is this man sexy . . . but I digress.

Business. Last month we found a lost pocketbook for a hysterical senior in Wilton. We retraced her steps and found it where she left it, hanging with all the other purses in the handbag department at Kmart.

We solved the mystery of the elderly cousin from Sunrise who disappeared. Turns out the relatives had a fight and she spitefully didn't tell them she was going to the Bahamas for the weekend. Like that. And more of the same. It's really nice helping people, but I'm waiting for a case that gets the heart racing.

We have a business meeting every morning after exercise and swimming. Need I say, it's what the girls live for. So, naturally, they try to rush through the exercise part.

"Is it time to quit yet?" Ida asks, puffing away, her flip-flops flapping.

"Yeah,
oy,
am I exhausted." This from Sophie, who has hardly flexed a muscle.

"Me, too," Bella, the jogging
maven,
adds as she sways daintily along.

The girls begin their cool-down exercises. Sophie halfheartedly bends. She complains, "If God wanted us to touch our toes, he would have put them near our
pupiks." T
wo bends, she's done.

Four sets of eyes look up at me hopefully.

"Swimming first," I remind them.

"Do we have to?" Pouting, Sophie repeats this every time.

But they disperse, hurrying back to their apartments to get into their bathing suits.

So here they are, my girls. My business associates. I already have nicknames for them--my private eye-ettes: my sister, Evvie Markowitz, a regular female Sherlock Holmes; Ida Franz, Miss Stubborn, great for in-your-face confrontation; Bella Fox, the Shadow, dressed always in pale beige or grays, hardly anyone ever notices her. Perfect for surveillance. And last, but certainly a major player, Sophie Meyerbeer, our Master of Disguise. She lives for color coordination.

I dread today's meeting. Jack said he was dropping by with a present for me.

That should make the fur fly.

4

More Swimming

A
nd here we are at the pool. And there they are,

the other early morning so-called swimming enthusiasts. Their lounge chairs parked in their usual spots on the grassy perimeter of the pool, guarding their tiny turfs jealously.

Plump Tessie Hoffman, the only real swimmer among us, is energetically doing her laps.

Enya Slovak, our concentration camp survivor, has her nose buried in the inevitable book.

The Canadian snowbirds are gathered together in their familiar clique. They are doing what they love most, lapping up the sun and reading their hometown newspapers and comparing the weather. Thirty degrees in Manitoba, fifteen in Montreal. They chuckle smugly.

We have new tenants, Casey Wright and Barbi Stevens. Bella shudders, still unable to believe anyone would want to live in an apartment where there'd been a murder, but the price was so low these gals found it irresistible. They've only recently moved in and it's nice to have young people around. They're cousins, originally from San Francisco. Barbi must be in her twenties, Casey in her thirties. They don't look the least bit alike. Casey is kind of chunky and wears her dark, curly hair very short. Barbi is a tall, skinny blonde, and very cute. Casey seems to live in blue jeans, but Barbi loves frilly sundresses. They told us that they had a small business of their own and handed us all cards. All the cards said was "GOSSIP? Call Casey & Barbi. We know everything!" along with a phone number to call for an appointment. One of these days I must ask them what their business is about.

Next up are our beloved eighty-year-old Bobbsey twins, Hyman and Lola Binder (aka Hy and Lo), bobbing up and down in the shallow water, holding on to one another like chubby teenagers in love.

Hy sees us and greets us with his usual inane comment. "Ta-da, enter the murder
mavens
. Caught any killers lately?"

Evvie glares at him. "You're just jealous."

Mary Mueller now joins us at the pool every morning. She's living alone since her husband, John, left her. It caused quite a stir, I can tell you, when he was "outed" (a new modern term we've learned). He had met a guy in a Miami gay bar and fallen in love. Boy, that was a first in Lanai Gardens. But Mary is holding up nicely, I'm glad to say.

Dropping our towels, we kick off our sandals and step carefully into the pool. The girls walk back and forth across the shallow end, splashing a lot. I do two laps and I'm done. And I'm out. Such is swimming exercise.

Pretty Barbi addresses Evvie. "So, what movie are you seeing this week? I can hardly wait for the review."

Evvie, the in-house critic for our weekly free newspaper, is on a mystery kick since we've gotten into the P.I. biz. Last week she did a hilarious review of
Hannibal.
Evvie wrote: "The monster who likes to eat people is back again. Maybe he should do a cookbook." She sounded deadly serious; I couldn't stop laughing. This week she'll be reviewing a French mystery. Who knows what she'll do with that.

"Wait and see," she chirps. "But I promise it'll be gory."

"Hey, girls, didja hear this one?" And Hy is at us like
schmaltz
on chopped liver. God help us, he's learned a new joke off his e-mail. It will be offensive as usual.

"So, Becky and Sam are having an affair in the old age home. Every night for three years, Becky sneaks into Sam's room and she takes off her clothes and climbs up on top of him. They lay there like two wooden boards for a couple of minutes, then she gets off and goes back to her room. And that's that. One night Becky doesn't show up. Not the next night either. Sam is upset. He finally tails her and, waddaya know, she's about to sneak into Moishe's room. Sam stops her in the hall. He's really hurt. 'So, what's Moishe got that I ain't got?' Becky smirks and says, 'Palsy!' "

Hy grins at us, thrilled with himself. Affronted as usual, the girls turn their backs on him and paddle away. I look down and concentrate on my crossword puzzle.

"What? What'd I do? What?"

"Schlemiel!"
Ida hisses under her breath.

"Hey, did you read this?" Tessie asks. She's now drying off on her chaise, her nose deep in today's
Miami Herald.
She half reads, half condenses: " 'Mrs. Margaret Dery Sampson, sixty-four, of West Palm Beach, died early yesterday morning on the seventeenth hole at the Waterside Country Club where she was golfing with three friends. Mrs. Sampson, "Meg" as she was known to all who loved her, died suddenly of a massive heart attack.' "

The group reacts with shocked surprise. The heiress is well-known. Our group has followed her colorful rich-girl antics for years. She married into the famous Dery shipbuilding dynasty. It was one of Florida's most extravagant weddings.

Reading the society news around the pool is a daily ritual. I only half listen. I am stuck on 33across.

Tessie continues. " 'Mrs. Sampson, an active member of Florida society, was known for her charitable works. She was an avid sportswoman and a bridge enthusiast. Widowed three years ago, she is survived by her second husband, Richard Sampson.' "

"What a pity," says Evvie. "You'd think with all that exercising she'd be in perfect health."

"Never mind that. Think of all that money she didn't get to spend," Ida adds.

"But she left a nice, rich widower," says Sophie. She picks up a tube of sunblock off the ledge of the pool and slathers her face and shoulders. "Maybe he'd like to meet a nice, poor widow. Like me."

Ida takes the sunblock from her as Sophie turns to let Ida do her back. "Dream on."

Sophie twists around. "What? I'm not good enough for him?" She pushes Ida's hand away. "You're making me into a greaseball."

Ida slaps the tube back into her hand. "Do it yourself. As if a rich guy like that would even look at a nobody like you."

Sophie hands the tube to Evvie. "And you know what? If he's old and ugly I wouldn't want him anyway."

Evvie applies cream to Sophie's back. "What's old, anyway? Look at us."

This gets my attention. "Bernard Baruch, the famous statesman, said, 'Old is always fifteen years older than you are.' "

"Hello?" It is a wobbly little voice, and the Canadians, who still have all their hearing, are the first to glance up.

"Over here." The voice manages to rise a decibel or two.

Now everyone responds. An elderly wisp of a woman stands at the pool gate, seeming almost too fragile to hold on to her metal walker. Her back is hunched slightly, and she looks as if a strong wind would carry her away. She's dressed completely in black, including the kerchief on her head. She must be sweltering in that outfit. "I'm looking for Gladdy Gold."

All eyes automatically turn to me as I put down my puzzle and walk toward her. "I'm Gladdy."

Needless to say, the girls climb out of the pool and line up behind me, my little ducklings all in a row.

"Your neighbors told me where I could find you."

"They would," Ida mutters into my back. "Ask them when we go to the toilet. All our neighbors know that, too. Y
entas!
"

I ignore Ida. "What can I do for you?"

"I am looking for a detective," the woman says, and then adds worriedly, "if the price is right."

In a flash, Hy is at our side, dragging one of the plastic pool chairs. "Here, missus, have a seat," he offers, helping the woman into the chair. He positions himself right next to her. An instant later, here comes Lola, gluing herself onto her husband as she leans in.

Everyone around the pool shifts slightly to the left. My unofficial staff. Unwanted. Uncalled-for. The other inhabitants of Phase Two, determined to get into the act whenever they can. Tessie, ever so casually, moves her chaise a little closer. Mary puts down her crocheting. Barbi and Casey openly stare. Even the Canadians have folded their newspapers. All gape and listen intently.

The little woman puffs out her chest and grips the arms of the chair. She shouts, "I'm eighty-two years old and I don't need this
agita
in my life! My old man, maybe he's cheating on me! And I want to know who the
puttana
is!"

Ahhh . . . I hear a collective sigh of recognition behind me. A problem they can all relate to after years of watching Oprah, Sally, Geraldo, and the rest.

"Hah!" says Hy with great delight. "The old man is dipping his wick somewheres else!"

The woman stares up at him. "What did this fool say?"

"Hy! Butt out," I say.

He shrugs, feigning hurt. "I'm trying to lend a hand here."

"Maybe he's lonely," Lola contributes.

"Maybe he's not with a
woman,
" says Mary darkly. She's still pretty traumatized over John.

I have to nip this group intrusion in the bud. Now.

"Shall we go to my office?" I say to the woman in black. Helping her out of the patio chair, I reposition her behind her walker and firmly move her out the pool gate.

As we leave, my girls scamper to keep up. I hear another sigh in the background. This one of disappointment. Followed by a buzz of complaints from the neighbors left behind and pointedly being left out.

Tessie whines, "Didn't I ruin my best bathing costume chasing after our murderer? Where's the gratitude?"

"Wait a while," says Hy complacently. "She'll figure out she can't do without us."

"Right," adds Mary. "She owes us. Big time."

I tell you, it's not easy being a star.

5