I must admit I am curious about the condition in which
they found Greta's apartment. Ten or more years of all of us
speculating on the mystery of Greta's existence, never able to get into
her apartment, never invited, blinds always shut, no way to snoop. Ten
or more years of Greta never speaking to anyone except on the phone to
order in supplies. Undoubtedly going to her mailbox in the middle of
the night to get her Social Security checks.

I remember how many times we wondered if we should call
the Board of Health. God knows what was crawling around in there. Even
when we sicced the police on her, she never let them in. She stood
inside her doorway to talk to them. When we got the social worker to
visit, she did get in, but afterwards told us Greta's file was
confidential. Then turned down our request to remove her from the
premises to some kind of health care facility, without saying why. Am I
dying of curiosity? You bet!

Evvie unlocks the door, reaching in to turn on the
lights. And wonder of wonders--I walk around inside taking it all in--the
place is immaculate.

Evvie looks at me and grins. "Surprise!"

So, Greta prowled all night and scrubbed all day. Wow!
The furniture was as I remembered it; she'd bought nothing new. But it
was polished to a shine. Every surface gleaming. The windows spotless.
A condition worthy of
House & Garden.

Again the girls are grabbing and pushing me.

"The best is yet to come," says Ida. And I am pulled into
the sunporch where a small table lamp is lit.

Here it is: testimony and only witness to the result of
Greta's late night wanderings. Newspapers are carefully spread all over
the floor and covered end to end with an astonishing collection of . .
. things. In awe, I examine what Greta Kronk was able to create out of
garbage. There must be nearly a hundred of these objects, these
remarkable sculptures. Every size and shape imaginable. Everything we
threw out as useless, Greta reinvented. Dancing costumes made from
paper doilies, tissue, and wrapping paper. Dolls from wire, wooden
sticks, and bits of metal like silverware and such. Damaged lamps,
chairs, torn books, pots, and pans all recreated into other forms.
Broken dishes and tiles had been reglued into vases of her own design.
There was some craziness in the designs, but mostly they were unique
and highly imaginative. And touching. How lonely she must have been.

Sophie is jumping up and down from excitement. "Look at
the walls!" She turns on the overhead fixture and the entire room
lights up. Bella and Ida join Sophie in crowding me to watch the
expression on my face. "You coulda knocked us down with a feather bed
when we saw!"

I stare incredulously at the collection of picnic paper
plates lining the walls. Sketches in pastel, crayon, and acrylics of
the residents of Lanai Gardens. Primitive as they are, they are each
pretty good likenesses of us. If there was any doubt who they were, you
only needed to read the poems she wrote beneath them. The same poems
she matched to the doors. And there they are, all twenty-seven of them!
I have to call Barney and Conchetta at the library tomorrow. They must
see this.

The women are babbling behind me. "How about this!" "Look
at that!" But I tune them out. I have to think.

Suddenly I am getting excited. Did she . . . did she
paint one of the murderer? A picture to identify, a poem to accuse? I
race my eyes up and down the rows, reading and recalling each and every
one. No such luck. Except . . . except . . . the very last row. There's
a nail hole. I glance down. The nail is lying on the floor behind a
chair. I pick it up and hold it up to the light. I can see the tiniest
trace of white cardboard still stuck to it. Again! Damn it! The killer
is always one step ahead of us.

"What are you looking for, Glad?"

"The killer was here before us. He took his poem."

Bella looks around fearfully.
"Oy gevalt!
Maybe
he's still here!"

"I doubt it," I say. Bella calms down.

Amazing. All of it amazing.

We go back into the dining area and the girls press me
into sitting down. Sophie is hovering. I can tell she wants to raid the
pantry and find something to eat, but she is having second thoughts
about touching what belonged to the dead.

"Wait 'til you hear the rest," Evvie says.

"You have my undivided attention," I say.

"You have to admit, it was my duty to come up here. After
all, with no relatives, we had to find out if she left a will."

"Absolutely," I tell her.

"And sure enough she had papers--"

Sophie interrupts, cutting to the chase. "Boy, were we
surprised. She made Evvie her executor!"

Evvie beams and nods. "She had a paper she wrote by hand
saying if anything happened to her, I should be in charge."

Sophie pouts. "I still don't see why she picked you."

Evvie puts her hands on her hips. "Why not me? I was
always nice to her and besides, I'm on the board."

"No heirs?" I ask.

"Nobody. All her stuff goes to any charity we pick. Her
bankbook has a few hundred dollars in it. That goes to some starving
actors' fund. And she left a letter authorizing me to dispose of her
remains as she asked."

Bella pipes up. "So that's what we were doing today."

Ida continues. "We called the coroner and they wanted to
know what mortuary to send the body to, but first we had to prove Evvie
had the right to say so."

"We needed you, but we looked everywhere for you, and you
were gone," Sophie adds.

"Thank God we had Harriet. She did the driving."

"Lucky for you," I mutter. What turncoats.

"She knew just what to do about everything," Ida says.
"We were already over the twenty-four-hour period for burial, so were
we ever rushing."

Sophie continues. "We had to go to the bank and get it
notarized who Evvie was, and make copies of Kronk's final instructions,
then we had to run it over to the morgue and then we had to arrange it
with the mortuary."

Bella grins, fanning herself. "I don't know how we ever
got it all done in one day, but we did it!"

"Thank God for Feinberg's," continues Sophie. "Since
everyone we know goes to Feinberg's when they die and they know us
there, when we rushed them a copy of the death certificate they ran to
pick up the body."

"And the cremation is," Evvie looks at her watch, "just
about over now."

Everyone looks up at me, smiling, waiting for my words of
congratulation for an impossible job well done. Instead, I scream,
"What
cremation?!"

"That's what the Kronk wanted."

I am hyperventilating now. I sputter. "Jews don't get
cremated. It's against Jewish law."

Evvie grins. "Guess what. That's the joke. We did all
that running around just to get everything done today because we
thought the Kronk was Jewish."

Ida laughs. "We always think everyone is Jewish."

"Feinberg, of course, won't have anything to do with a
cremation," Evvie continues. "He insists there must be some mistake. So
we reread the papers again, and there it is. Turns out, after all that,
that the Kronk was Catholic, so Feinstein ships her to O'Brien's right
down the street on Sunrise."

I get up. My face must be purple. If I had high blood
pressure I'd be having a stroke right now. I smash my fist down on the
kitchen table so hard they all jump.
"Do you idiots know what
you've
done!!"

I see the bright eyes dim and the smiles turn to frowns
of resentment.

"Do you know why you couldn't find me?" I shriek.
"Because I was at the police station demanding an autopsy on Greta so
we could find poison in her body! You cannot find poison in a charred
hamburger! You cannot find poison in a jar full of ashes! You knew the
only way we'd ever prove Francie and Selma were murdered was if we
could find poison in a body!!! And we had Greta's body!
What the
hell were you thinking!
"

It slowly sinks in, and one by one they realize what I am
saying. And what they have done. They cringe.

"Whose idea was it to do all this today! Who!"

"Well, we thought we had to hurry because of Jewish law .
. ." Bella whimpers.

"Well, Harriet said since she had the car and she wasn't
busy . . ." Sophie adds.

"Quick," I say, going over to Evvie and shaking her,
"give me O'Brien's number."

Evvie fumbles though all the papers in her purse, then
she looks at me, stricken. "I don't have it. Feinstein made the call."

I look through Greta's kitchen drawers until I find her
phone book. "Maybe Jews have to hurry, but what was O'Brien's rush? Why
would O'Brien need to cremate her so fast? Don't they go through their
own kind of funeral service, like a viewing of the body or a wake or
whatever Catholics do?"

Evvie's voice was practically whimpering. "Since there
were no relatives . . . And . . . the crematorium had a cancellation. .
. ."

With my back deliberately turned away from them, I find
the number and dial. I get voice mail which I hate the most of all
these so-called modern improvements. I wade through all the
instructions to press all the right numbers and after an endless wait
on hold I finally get an operator who has to find someone who knows the
phone number of the crematorium. The crematorium also puts me on hold,
and an electronic voice tells me someone will answer in (pause) four
minutes, and then I have to listen to an advertisement about the
Neptune Society and be reminded to stop in their gift shop to see their
large assortment of attractive urns. Finally I get a receptionist who
makes me wait some more until she can find someone with an update on
the disposition of the deceased. After too long, I hear what I prayed
not to hear. The cremation is over. But if I'd like to come over and
light a candle . . . and don't forget to stop at the gift shop. . . .

Through it all, the girls haven't moved. They sit
rigidly, practically holding their breath. When I hang up they can tell
by my face that the news is not good.

I walk stiffly to the door, turn, and face them.

I know I'm being melodramatic, but I can't help myself.
"On behalf of the murderer of Selma, Francie, and Greta, I thank you."
With that I walk out on them.

The way I feel right now, I may never speak to any of
them again.

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