Getting Old Is a Disaster (24 page)

  "I'm glad you didn't. Would you please bring them to my apartment? I want to look closely at them. Perhaps there's something we've missed."

  We reach my building. I'm about to go upstairs and Stanley is starting to head for Phase Six, when we run into Abe again. He's standing at his mailbox. He must be eager for something to arrive. The mail doesn't come for another hour.

  Abe asks Stanley, "Is there a problem?"

  Stanley pats him on the shoulder. "Everything is under control, old friend. This brilliant lady doesn't give up easily."

  Abe gives me a bright smile. "That is good news indeed."

W
e're seated around my dining room table eat

      ing lunch. Everyone's a little nervous. This is the first time the girls have gathered in my apartment since Jack moved in. They are on their best behavior. Sitting up tall, like elegant ladies, eating slowly, positively dripping with good manners. Jack is cramping their natural style.

  "Would you please pass the salt?" Sophie asks ever so politely. Their usual behavior is boardinghouse style—reach over and grab.

  Bella daintily lifts the salt shaker with pinky held high and passes it to Evvie, who gives it to Ida, who places it in Sophie's outstretched hand. What a performance.

  Jack smiles and mimics them. "Glad," he says, "would you do me the honor of handing me the pepper?"

  "Sure," I say. I lift the shaker and toss it to him. He grabs it and I smile back at him. For a moment, the girls are bewildered, but then they get it and start to relax.

  By now I've filled everyone in and we're waiting for Stanley.

* * *

Stanley is excited. He can hardly contain himself. He comes in waving a tattered old envelope. "You are so smart, lovely lady. I never paid attention. The Christmas card to a Lucy Blake came with an envelope. And an address." His hands are shaking as he passes the envelope to me.

  I scan it quickly and read, " 'Lucy Blake, P.O. Box . . .' " And I stop, chagrined. "Oh, Stanley, it's a fifty-year-old post office box number!"

  The girls get it immediately. Then Stanley's smile fades. "I didn't think."

  I pace for a few moments, exchanging glances with Jack. "Hold on, maybe all is not lost. Maybe she'd remember her old number."

  Evvie isn't convinced. "You really expect that Lucy woman to remember a post office box number she used almost fifty years ago?"

  Sophie chirps, "I remember the first phone number I ever had, when I was twenty. Tivoli two four eight five . . . three."

  Ida says, "I lived at thirteen forty-five Manor Avenue, apartment four-J, in the Bronx, until I was sixteen."

  "Come to think of it," Evvie says, "I remember the first driver's license number I ever had." She gets up and pours coffee for all of us.

  "Okay, okay," I stop them. "You made your point. Maybe she'll remember and maybe she won't. We'll soon find out."

  Bella giggles. "But don't ask me what I just ate for breakfast." Then she says, "I still don't get it. This boy, Johnny, dies because a man kills him for his identity, so why isn't the bad guy the skeleton?"

  Jack says, "Let me try to explain, Bella."

  Bella practically bats her eyes at him. She's his number-one fan in my motley group of P.I.'s. I know Sophie also adores Jack, and Evvie finally is happy about my relationship with him, acknowledges it as the real thing. I watch for Ida to respond. Is she going to be my only holdout in accepting Jack, who seems to be infiltrating our investigating team? Not a hint does she reveal on her face. Her arms are crossed, however.

  Stanley says, "You've obviously done some thinking. Fill me in."

  Jack attempts to simplify it. "Lucy Blake told you, her brother Johnny was on a ship coming from South America. A bad guy, probably trying to get into our country illegally, steals his papers and kills him. With me so far?"

  Bella practically gurgles.

  "The bad guy throws Johnny overboard near shore. Does it just before they dock. The authorities insist Johnny left the ship with all the others. The fake Johnny uses the confusion of docking and rushes off the ship as fast as he can, flashing the stolen papers. After the real Johnny's body washes up, the police figure he must have fallen off the dock. His sister doubts it."

  Evvie has to jump in. "Okay, so he wanders around as Johnny Blake and ends up working on Lanai Gardens. It was a dark and stormy night." Evvie smiles; she's imitating a classic mystery novel beginning. "Someone comes to the construction site. And ends up murdered and thrown in the hole."

  Bella raises her hand. "Stop. That's what I don't get. How do we know it wasn't the phony Johnny Blake that died?"

  My turn. "I'm making that assumption. The bones found do not match the description that Stanley's foreman gave of the man he hired as Johnny Blake. Also, we now realize the impostor has already committed one murder. My supposition is, whoever came upon him that stormy night was the one killed. The bad guy already murdered one man; it wasn't a big jump to suppose he could murder another. Besides, the bones describe a much smaller man."

  Good. Here comes Ida, joining in at last. Her curiosity overcomes her misgivings. "But why?"

  I lean back and sip my coffee. "That's the big question."

  Sophie offers, "A robber came to rob him or to steal building supplies?"

  Ida says, "Doubtful. What with how bad the weather was that night."

  Jack says, "Perhaps it was someone who was looking for him and finally found him."

  I add, "And they had a fight?"

  Evvie shakes her head. "So if that's true, now we have two unknown men. The bad guy and the mysterious stranger. How can we possibly figure out who they were?"

  Ida says, "Sounds like another dead end."

  I say, "I'm hoping Lucy will recognize the post office box number. If so, it will be definite proof the bad guy is connected to this Johnny Blake. We need to narrow that fact down."

  Stanley looks at me doubtfully and shrugs.

  "It's all we have to go on." I hand him my phone and I turn on the speaker so we can all hear. He takes a card from his pocket and dials Lucy's number.

  We're in luck, Lucy's home.

  After Stanley explains why we're calling, he repeats the number on the old, crumpled envelope.

  For a moment, she's surprised. Then I can almost hear the smile in her voice. "Funny you should ask," she says, "I happen to be very good with numbers. I had that box number for years. Why do you want to know?" But she speaks before we can answer. "The man you found had Johnny's belongings, didn't he?"

  Stanley says, "We think so. There was a Christmas card with your name and that post office box number."

  "I knew it," Lucy says. "I was sure somebody killed my brother. Please," she begs frantically, "promise me you'll find him, so my brother can have justice."

  Stanley looks at me and I nod. "We promise. We will do everything we can to find him."

  He hangs up and I'm exhilarated. "Now we have proof!"

  Stanley says wryly, "All you have to do is solve the crime. Identify the other dead man and a murderer who's gotten away with it for fifty years."

  Everyone looks to me, as usual.

  Jack raises his eyebrows. I know what he's thinking. "What has his Gladdy gotten herself into this time?"

F
irst rainy day we've had since the hurricane.

     It's the three D's out there. Dreary, dark, and depressing. I have every light on in the apartment to chase away the gloom.

  I wait for Jack to come home. He's late tonight. Though things have calmed down, I guess there are still many neighborhoods that are far from being repaired and that's where the extra police still guard for trouble.

  It's my night to cook. Jack has made our cooking evenings a fun contest. Surprise Night: "I'm not telling you what I'm making, see if you can guess by the way the kitchen smells." No White Food Night; not a bad thing, leaves out lots of starches. Or Competition Night; "Who makes the best lasagna?" Not that we have lasagna two nights in a row. The competition is two weeknights apart.

  Instead of
having
to cook, cooking has become fun.
Fun
is the operative word. And he is a fun companion. Why, oh, why did I wait so long? I could have had this life a year ago. Why didn't I follow my own rule of
If not now, when?
I was so afraid to give up what I had in favor of the unknown.

  The key turns in the lock and I hear, "Honey, I'm home." He is determined to say that silly thing every time. And I meet him at the door with a kiss and say, "Hard day at the office, dear?" A new tradition.

  And of course he heads directly for the kitchen. It's Soup from Scratch Night, and I have a hearty vegetable soup on the stove. To be served with a French bread and Brie. The secret of my vegetable soup is to sprinkle grated Parmesan cheese on it when serving. Jack lifts the lid, takes a spoonful, and smiles his approval.

  "You're late. Any problems?"

  "Nope. I had to make a stop."

  He goes into the living room, where the table is elaborately set. BJ (before Jack), a tacky placemat, paper napkins, and any old silverware. AJ, need I say Martha Stewart would be proud?

  He lights the candles in my fancy silver-plated candelabra, which had gathered dust for ten years in the hall closet until now.

  And then he places a small box on my plate.

  There should be a crash of cymbals. The first four notes of Beethoven's Fifth at least. Something. I examine the box from every angle. It looks like a small ring box. "Is this what I think it is?" I ask.

  "It is," he replies. "Exactly what you said you wanted. A garnet instead of a diamond."

  "This is it, then?" I ask, stalling.

  He removes the ring from the box and places it on my finger. "Last chance to run. I would get down on my knees, but you'd have to pull me up." He beams. "Hope you like the design I picked. You can always get it reset, though."

  It's beautiful, but what engagement ring isn't beautiful? I can't believe how corny I feel. There must be something of a universal subconscious that prompts this response in women when they get "the ring." Tears in my eyes, a blush on my cheeks.

  He kisses me. "I'm only marrying you because you love to cook."

  I burst out laughing. "You're trapped, too."

  "I hope forever."

  I bask in the joy of the moment. I wish everyone I love could be so happy.

* * *

They sit on the couch, side by side. Joe eats a TV dinner: roast beef, mashed potatoes, green peas. Evvie eats home-cooked lemon chicken with Brussels sprouts and a salad. They watch
Jeopardy!
Evvie calls out the answers when she knows them. Joe stares ahead and seems to be watching. But he is thinking.

"Evvie," he says. "Can't we divide up the

chores? I can cook one night, and maybe you the next."

  "Hah," she says. "When did you learn to cook?"

  "I manage."

  "You just want me to wait on you hand and foot, like I used to. And that's not going to happen."

  He sighs. "I wish we could try to make things pleasant."

  "Maybe your apartment will be fixed soon, so this'll be a moot point."

  He picks up her plate and his aluminum foil wrapping and brings them into the kitchen. He washes up what little there is. He calls to her, "Want me to go out and get some ice cream?"

  "It's raining," she calls back.

  "So what?" he says, "I won't melt."

  "All right," she says grudgingly. "Make it chocolate almond fudge."

  "I know. I know what you like." He grabs his raincoat from the hall closet. And like an eager puppy dog, he races out.

  Evvie tries to concentrate on the TV show. She calls out an answer. "Spain." She's wrong. It's Portugal. She shakes her head, disgusted with herself. Why am I so damned stubborn? Why can't I bend a little? He's trying so hard. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

* * *

Enya wakes up, disoriented, not knowing where she is. The room is dark. She reaches for the lamp and turns on the switch. She shakes her head to clear it. She had fallen asleep on the couch. Getting up slowly, she makes her way into the kitchen. From her window she sees Joe hurrying past. He is smiling. She puts up the kettle for tea.

  Glancing at the clock she realizes it's past dinnertime. What does it matter, she's hardly ever hungry these days. She tells herself she must eat. But what for?

  It's the nightmares. They won't stop. Eyes everywhere. The eyes of her husband and the children. Eyes pleading. Eyes filled with dirt and crying. Eyes dying; the light going out. Eyes of an assassin who terrorizes her.

  She can't stand it, but what can she do? She needs to talk to someone. Throwing a shawl around her shoulders, she walks outside. She hesitates at Evvie's door. Then, not wanting to disturb her, on impulse she turns next door and rings Abe's bell. Immediately she regrets her action.

  Abe, wearing a tallis, his praying shawl, answers and is startled to see her. "Mrs. Slovak, do you need something?"

  She moves away, shaking her head. "A bad idea." She goes back into her apartment. How could she think of even going to that man? He's a stranger. And she realizes something about him makes her nervous. She drinks more tea and stares at her white kitchen wall, hoping for serenity.

  Fifteen minutes later Abe knocks at her door. This time, he is wearing a jacket. He tells her, "You came to me in need and I should have helped you then and there. Forgive me."

"I'm all right. It was a moment of weakness."