Getting Old Is a Disaster (8 page)

  We all gawk at Bella. The pencil! Grandpa's disguise was the old man pretending to be without legs, and Bella spoke with him!

  "What did he say to you?" Evvie demands.

  "Who?" Bella doesn't understand why we're all staring at her.

  Sophie practically yells, "You were talking to Grandpa!"

  "How could I talk to my grandpa? He died in 1937."

  "Oy," says Evvie. "Grandpa Bandit sold you your pencil."

  Bella now takes it out of her purse and looks at it in amazement. "He did?"

  My turn to ask a question. "The two of you had a conversation. He said something to you. What was it?"

  She thinks for a moment. Short-term memory is a problem for her. Ask her all about that grandpa who died in '37, and I bet she'd have a volume to tell.

  "I said . . . I said, 'I don't want to take your pencil. Save it for your next customer.' And he said, 'No, please take it, and maybe you want some more for your friends.' "

  "Double oy," Evvie says.

  Grandpa knew she's one of us. And knew where we were hiding. All the while, he was laughing at us.

  Bella is unhappy. "I didn't want to give him more money so I didn't take any more—" She stops at the expressions on all our faces. "What?"

  Ida is a study in aggravation. "Why didn't you tell us? We would have had him."

  "At least describe him for us," I say.

  Bella thinks. "I couldn't take my eyes off the folded pants with no legs. And he had that big hat. I never looked at his face."

  Ida is disgusted. "Never mind. Let's go home."

  We all plop into the car. Bella is still mulling it over. "So how can he rob banks without legs?"

  No one bothers to answer her.

  She huffs in her own defense. "Anyway, I can always use another pencil."

T
oday is library day—might as well go while

    the sun is briefly out, since threatening clouds hang overhead yet again. Even though my girls love to read, somehow they are always too busy to come with me and pick out their own books. So I find myself overloaded with their books to return and a list of what they want next.

  I drop Sophie off at the nail place along the way. She chipped a few bits of polish while we were on the stakeout for Grandpa Bandit yesterday. I still find it amazing that whole stores devote themselves to applying nail polish—and where was it I read that now nail polish is supposed to be bad for you?

  Evvie is at home working on a survey article about hurricane shutters, for her community newspaper. Should residents buy their own or should Lanai Gardens order them for all?

  Bella is at her knitting group at a neighbor's apartment. Ida is teaching a class on pie-baking in the club room. So I'm on my own. Which, frankly, I enjoy.

  I asked Jack if he wanted to join me, but he was busy with the men at Phase Six, dealing with building problems. They are taking roof measurements for the roofer, who they hope will be coming soon.

  That's equally fine with me, since I'll get to visit with my librarian friend, Conchetta.

  When I arrive, Conchetta is busy with an elementary school group on a field trip. I wave and head for the stacks to gather books. Another Carl Hiaasen for me—his Florida comedy mysteries are hilarious. He sure does have a monopoly of this state's underbelly of weird characters. Another Sandra Brown for Sophie. Another Catherine Coulter for Bella. Ida loves Michael Connolly. And Evvie, that frustrated entertainer, gets to read an autobiography of Marnie Nixon.

  Amazing how these writers keep churning new books out every year. I wonder how they can do that!

  I stop in my tracks at the bank of computers. One of these days I'm going to have to give in and learn how to work the darn things and keep up with the rest of the world.

  I stack my take-out books on a reading table, glance at the instructions posted on the desk, and poke a couple of keys. The screen goes black. So much for my foray into cyberspace.

  Conchetta comes to my rescue. "
Pobrecita,
the machine chewed you up and spit you out?"

  I smile. "Something like that." We hug. Sweet, chubby Conchetta is a huggy kind of person. "Did I break anything?"

  She plays with the keys, and like magic the screen comes to life again. "Let's say you put it to sleep."

  I tell her, "I always have that effect on machines."

  "What were you trying to find?"

  What the heck. Might as well. The machine's here and I have someone who can work it. "How would you look up Grandpa Bandit?"

  "First, I Google—" She looks at me. "You're kidding? Grandpa who? Wait a minute, I did read something about that name. He robs banks?"

  "That's the very grandpa I mean." I fill her in on our new client as she listens incredulously.

  She claps her hands. "I love it! He wants you to catch him. I wonder why."

  I hazard a guess. "Maybe he feels guilty but can't turn himself in? Reminds me of a movie where the killer scrawled on a mirror, 'Stop me before I kill more.' You think Grandpa wants us to stop him from stealing?"

  I tell her about yesterday's adventures.

  While we talk, I watch Conchetta whiz along the keys. She says, "Let's check out some articles. Maybe pick up a clue. Here's one."

  I look over her shoulder as she clicks on an arti cle from a local paper, featuring an interview with a Ms. Sarah Byrne, of Plantation, who was the bank teller Grandpa held up in the Wachovia East Broward Boulevard branch robbery. The reporter on the scene comments that "Ms. Byrne was in such a state of hysteria from the horrific experience that she was sent home immediately to recover. She was unable to give the police any details about the notorious bandit, who has been plaguing local banks for the last six months. This was the sixth bank held up by the man the police call Grandpa Bandit. Many descriptions have been given by onlookers, but no two people have agreed on what he looks like other than that he is old and gray-haired."

  I smile. "Well, next step for Gladdy Gold and Associates is to attempt an interview with the young, frightened bank teller."

  "And of course you will report everything you learn to me?" Conchetta says.

  "Naturally."

  The elementary school kids are now charging the desk with their chosen books, their shiny new library cards out and ready. The two librarians behind the desk have their hands full.

  "Sorry to leave you," Conchetta says, "but I better help out."

  "You've already helped me." I wave good-bye and head for the door.

  I hear an imperious voice call after me, "Just a moment, Mrs. Gold." It's Conchetta, putting on a tone of authority in front of the gawking children. "The moment you walk out you will set off the alarm."

  Oops. I forgot to check out my books. I look with chagrin at the mob at the desk and dutifully go to the back of the line.

T
he five of us face the very young Sarah Byrne

    as we all sip lemonade. We have our most solicitous expressions on in respect for Ms. Byrne's recent painful encounter.

  "I hope you're feeling better." This from Evvie.

  "And not crying a lot anymore." Bella offers her sympathy.

  "Are you under a doctor's care?" asks Sophie.

  Our witness perches daintily on a small tapestry bench opposite us. We are sitting on flowery chintz couches and spindly antique chairs. Her house is charming and beautifully kept up. Sarah, herself, is petite and pretty and nicely dressed, in white slacks and a black tee. Her curly blond hair is tied back in a white ribbon. And she is barefoot.

  After we found her address—in the phone book, amazing these days—we called her. We explained who we were and what we wanted. She said she was more than happy to have us come and visit.

  Now she stares at us in confusion. "What are you talking about? Why would I need a doctor?"

  "Was it because of the shock of being robbed?" Ida wants to know.

  A smile forms on Sarah's face.

  She's smiling? Odd. "We read the newspaper account of your leaving the bank in hysterics," I tell her.

  She walks over and refills our lemonade glasses. "That's a good way of putting it! Hysterics? Oh, yes, I left in hysterics. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both."

  Now we're the ones looking puzzled.

  "You know why I invited you ladies over? Because I'm upset about losing my job. Because I miss my work. Because none of my old friends at the bank have the guts to call me. The bank fired me. I didn't push the panic button fast enough."

  "Was that because you were frightened by being in danger?" I ask.

  "Danger? But was I really in danger? I'm not sure. This was the weirdest thing that ever happened to me in my whole life." She pauses as she rolls her head in a stretch. "Are you really private eyes? You're really looking for Grandpa?"

  Evvie answers Sarah's question with dignity. "We certainly are private eyes. Who did you think we were when you gave us permission to come over?"

  "I didn't know and I didn't care. I wanted the company. I thought you were a bunch of old ladies who were bored and nosy. And, by the way, thanks for the pineapple upside-down cake."

  "Hmph," mutters Ida, baker of said cake.

  Sarah drops to the floor in front of us. "Mind if I do a little yoga? I missed my class today."

  Why not, I think. This is turning into a bizarre little episode. Next thing, she might want us to do push-ups with her.

  "Start from the beginning," I say. "Please. The whole robbery incident."

  We all lean forward as she twists her legs around in a way that I never thought possible outside of the circus.

  "Okay," she says. "It was an ordinary day, maybe a little quiet. This old guy comes to my window."

  Fashionista Sophie interrupts immediately. "Do you remember what he was wearing?"

  "Honey, I remember every little thing about him."

  I tap Sophie, indicating that she shouldn't interrupt.

  Sarah twists into another improbable position, resembling something like a figure eight. "He was about five foot four, thin, wearing gray pants and shirt and a Miami Dolphins baseball cap. He had on huge sunglasses with white rims, making it very difficult to see his face. He had kind of a Groucho Marx bushy mustache. Looked like a paste-on to me. And a big Spider-Man Band-Aid on his cheek. I only realized later that all that stuff was to keep me from really seeing anything of his looks other than the tufts of his gray hair sticking out."

  Bella pulls her chair even closer so as not to miss a word of this amazing story.

  Sarah continues, "He carried a small tote with the SunTrust Bank logo on it. He opened it up and pulled out a bag from Mickey's Deli, the one that's right across the street from where I work."

  We are listening with open mouths. Her attention to detail is fascinating.

  "He took out a rye bread sandwich and unwrapped it."

  Now Sophie can't stand it. "He was going to eat his lunch?"

  Sarah shakes her head. "He then tells me he got turkey but told them to hold the mayo so it wasn't too messy."

  Bella is gaga over what she hears. "What wasn't too messy?"

  "His gun, wrapped up in the sandwich," Sarah says. "He insisted it was a real gun, but frankly, I wasn't sure."

  "You gotta be joking," Ida says. "He's holding up a bank with a gun wrapped in a turkey sandwich?"

  "I kid you not," Sarah says, giggling. "Here I am being robbed by an old guy dressed like a clown, carrying a gun in rye bread. I didn't know what to think. I was so weirded out, I didn't know whether this was a joke or serious."

  We're all giggling now.

  Ida pours herself more lemonade. "Then what?"

  "Then he says, 'Give me five hundred and fifty dollars and forty-six cents or I shoot.' My hands were shaking; I could barely count out the money. He tossed it into the sandwich bag, thanked me, and tipped his baseball cap."

  We are speechless. Finally Evvie says, "That's it?"

  "Oh, I almost forgot. He dug out a small green feather and said, 'Robin Hood's my name, robbing banks is my game.' "

  Sarah does another complicated yoga move then gracefully stands up and stretches.

  Bella and Sophie applaud.

  I've heard some strange stories in my lifetime but this takes the cake. "Did you tell all of it to the police?"

  "I did indeed, but I don't think they believed me, what with all my nervous laughing."

  I have to ask. "Why did you give him the money?"

  She thinks for a moment. "That's a good question. Maybe it's because I thought he was adorable. Maybe because he reminded me of my grandpa. And because maybe he was loony enough to be carrying a real gun. I tell you, ladies, I was a nervous wreck."

  She performs another long stretch. "And when I finally remembered to hit the panic button, he was already racing out of the bank."

P
allie Finchum is a very different experience

    from Sarah Byrne. No laughing here. This one's a straitlaced bank teller who reminds me of an old-fashioned schoolmarm. Maybe it's the tight brown bun perched on the top of her head or her starched black suit. She's in her fifties, thin-lipped, and very unfriendly. She, too, had been mentioned in an article after one of Grandpa's robberies. We called her. She refused to speak to us, so today Evvie and I track her down at lunchtime. The others stay home because I tell them five of us stalking her would be ridiculous.