Getting Old Is Criminal (10 page)

“Yeah, those mamzers come down here to bleed us seniors dry,” Tessie adds.

“Not all doctors are here to cheat us. There are some fine ones, too.” Mary is the voice of reason.

“You have to learn how to protect yourself,”

Ida comments.

“I’ll drink to that.” With that, Tessie downs the rest of her bottle of Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray tonic.

“How?” Ellie squints as she tries to thread her needle. “What about that couple I read about? His wife died because she accidentally took his pills and the dosage was too high for her. They were both taking the same pills for the same illness. It could happen to any of us. Our pills change so 9 0 • R i t a L a k i n

often and the dosages change, too. Half the time I don’t know what I’m doing.”

They look to Mary for some advice from a professional. She thinks for a moment. “I’ve got an idea. We form a group and take care of one another. For example, how many of you can still see pretty good?”

A smattering of hands go up. “Okay. I do, too.

So we now are the medications group. Especially call me and I’ll help anyone who has trouble figur-ing out their pills.”

“Good idea,” adds Evvie, one of the well-sighted ones. “We can make charts in very big letters and with black felt pens so you know when to take what, and also write the names of each prescription in very large black letters on the bottles so you know which is which.”

There is applause at that.

“You can call yourself the Pill Poppers,” suggests Sophie, who always has to name everything.

I find myself thinking about Philip Smythe and Esther Ferguson again. Were they taking any pills?

Is it really possible she was overdosed? I remind myself to look into this later.

“Where do we sign up?” asks Jean Davis. “I can barely see the writing on those little bottles. Every morning I pray that I take the right ones.”

“I’m always scared I took them already, so sometimes I don’t take them at all. I need help,”

Chris Willems adds.

“We can work out a system where you keep all G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 9 1

the bottles in one basket or on one shelf and after you take one, you move the bottle into another basket or shelf and that way you can keep them straight,” Mary suggests.

Ida instructs them, “Call me. I’ll keep a list of who’s available. And send someone up to help.”

“And what about picking doctors? How do we know we’re not getting a quack?” Chris asks.

Evvie answers excitedly. “We ask Barbi and Casey. They know how to find out anything on their computers. They can do a search for us and get recommendations. And also find out the doctors who get sued a lot.”

“Who’s Barbi and Casey?” asks Flo. “I never met them.”

“They’re the young ones who live in our building,” Bella answers shyly.

I hold my breath waiting to hear one of my girls say more. But they don’t. My eyelids are beginning to close. I am so tired. As they continue their plans I find myself dozing off. The stress has exhausted me.

*

*

*

I feel a hand shaking me. It’s Evvie. “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. The sewing bee has ended. All medical problems have been solved and the rain has stopped. Care to go home?”

THIRTEEN

WILMINGTON HOUSE

As usual, Evvie is my copilot. Her lap is filled with maps and whatever else she thought necessary to bring with us on the hour drive up north to Palm Beach, home of the posh Wilmington House. We’ve dressed up as best we could this morning with our limited “better” wardrobe. Torn between pantsuits and skirts, we ended up wearing dresses. The ones we usually save for weddings.

Though we hated to have to wear stockings.

I’ve even had my old Chevy wagon washed for the occasion.

Evvie reads to me. “ ‘Palm Beach is twelve miles long and three quarters of a mile wide, home to some of the richest families in America and their biggest dirty secrets. The famous Rush Limbaugh G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 9 3

drug arrest. William Kennedy Smith’s rape case . . .’ ”

“What are you reading?”

“An old gossip magazine I found in the laundry room.” She flips through the pictures. “Juicy stuff.

Everybody who’s anybody’s been here. Even John Lennon once was, and the Trumps still go there.”

“You know, sister? Maybe this isn’t going to be as easy as I expect. The rich are not so easy to deal with.”

“Nonsense. When we explain why we’re here,
no problema.
”

As we drive down the area’s main artery, the lavish Worth Avenue, Evvie continues her trave-logue. “Wow, look at the stores: Tiffany and Cartier, Armani. Look at the cars—Ferraris, Bentleys, Rolls-Royces. Look at those wardrobes, double wow! And look at those old guys with young girls.”

“Maybe they’re nurses.”

“I doubt it. I can see the diamonds sparkling from here.”

Finally we arrive at Wilmington House and it’s as imposing as the town around it. I recognize the style of the architecture as Art Deco. The cars in the parking area are equally impressive. I search for a spot that’s far from the entrance, hoping to hide my pathetic old wreck among those of the working staff.

A young man hurries out to take our car. He 9 4 • R i t a L a k i n

looks puzzled. As we march past him, Evvie murmurs, “Taxi.”

Once inside, we are meant to be awed by the luxury around us. The Art Deco colors, olives and grays, are muted and restful. A tall, thin, forty-ish brunette stands before us quivering with officious-ness. She introduces herself as the manager, Hope Watson. She wears a navy blue suit with a tailored white blouse and is as stiff as the starch in her shirt. Ms. Watson is disappointed. We weren’t what she expected when she gave us this appointment a couple of days ago.

“May we speak to you privately?” I say in my best modulated voice. Evvie immediately straightens her shoulders and holds her head higher.

I can tell by the look in Ms. Watson’s eyes as we are ushered into her office that she knows we shop at Target and not at Saks. And she knows exactly what we paid for our outfits.

“May I ask your business here?” Hope Watson takes a stance, arms folded, behind her desk in her simple but lavish office. “I hope you haven’t come to sell something. We have a purchasing depart-ment that handles that.”

“No, we’re not sales reps,” I begin.

“Where do you come from?” she asks.

“Fort Lauderdale,” Evvie informs her.

“Where in Fort Lauderdale?”

I know what she’s fishing for and I am tempted to lie, but that would be a mistake with the likes of her.

G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 9 5

I answer. “In Lauderdale Lakes, actually. West Oakland Park Boulevard.” Might as well give her what she’s already guessed. “In the fifties.” Which tells her we’re nowhere near the beach, or anything else expensive.

“We have a gigantic Publix supermarket,” Evvie offers as a possible honor. “And we’re not too far from the Inverarry golf course.”

“I see,” she says icily.

I’m sure she does.

I try to bring her back to the point of our visit.

“We have been hired by a Mr. Alvin Ferguson—”

Rudeness comes with the snobby attitude. She interrupts me. “I’ve never heard of him.”

I jump back in. “He comes from Seattle. His mother, Esther, was living in Grecian Villas in Fort Lauderdale until she died at the end of July.”

Hope glances down at her appointment book, trying either to annoy me or ignore me.

I keep on. “She died there, but Mr. Ferguson thinks his mother was murdered.”

I was hoping to lead up to this subject in a more subtle manner, but subtlety would be lost on this tough bird. I decide shock is more likely to get Ms.

Watson’s attention back.

It does. She looks up. “Whatever in the world has any of this to do with Wilmington House?”

Evvie jumps in, always less patient and even less subtle than I. “The man they think murdered his mother is coming here to live as of September first, in three days. Philip Smythe is his name. We really 9 6 • R i t a L a k i n

must move quickly.” I’m sure Evvie would have liked to add “so, there!” but resisted the tempta-tion.

“What!” Ms. Watson blanches, then hurries to her door, opening it wide, as if she’s suddenly discovered lepers in her office.

Evvie finishes her sentence as fast as she can.

“And we were hired to investigate him. That would mean moving in here for a while. We’re private eyes.”

Ms. Watson’s eyebrows shoot up. Now she finally bothers to really look at us, and what she sees infuriates her. She stalks back to her desk and picks up the phone. “Security. In my office immediately.”

She slams the receiver down and screams at us, her face blotchy with rage. “Do you know where you are? You are in Palm Beach, for God’s sakes!

Palm Beach! Go back to where you belong. To that . . . that . . . slum.”

*

*

*

In my car, with the air turned up high, Evvie and I, still panting from having scurried out of Wilmington House, stare at each other incredulously.

“That went well,” she says, then bursts into laughter.

And so do I.

We laugh until we are almost in tears.

“That phony bitch,” Evvie rants. “The nerve of G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 9 7

her. She can’t hide that Brooklyn accent from me.

And what’s she got to be so snobby about? It’s not her money. She probably makes
bubkes.
”

I’m starting to hiccup. My side hurts from laughing so hard.

“Boy, did she steamroll us.” Evvie tickles me and I tickle her back. A childhood thing we used to do when we were having a good time. “We shoulda worn our tiaras. La-di-da!”

“All she was missing was a bouncer at the door.

She should hang a sign up—no hoi polloi allowed.” I lift the sun screens off the windshield, getting ready to leave.

“She hates us, she really hates us.” Evvie parodies Sally Field’s famous Oscar speech.

I start the motor. “Well, since we’re out already and have time to spare, anyplace you want to stop on our way home?”

“Wait a minute.” Evvie puts her hand on my hand holding the keys. “Hold on just one minute.”

“What?”

“Are we going to let her get away with that?”

“What are we supposed to do? She threw us out.”

“What are we, wusses or gladiators? Are we going to give up without a fight?”

“I’ll call Alvin Ferguson and let him get in touch with their board. Let him handle her.”

“Then Shirley will want their money back for our not doing the job. No way.”

“You want to go back?”

“Yeah. I’m not afraid of her.”

9 8 • R i t a L a k i n

“We’ll only get thrown out again.”

“Hey, we’re PI’s, right?”

“Yes, PI’s without credentials. So far none of our clients have ever asked to see them. One of these days we’re going to have to do something about that.”

“You should ask Jack’s advice.”

Yes, I think bitterly. Next time I run into him. It suddenly occurs to me—will he move out of Lanai Gardens just so he won’t have to ever run into me again? I look at my sister. I need to tell her about Jack leaving me. Then I glance at her eager face and I can’t bring myself to spoil her day.

“Well, I want another shot at her.”

I grin. “You sound so hard-boiled. Just like a Mickey Spillane.”

She gets out of the car and jabs, boxerlike, with her fists, her short legs pumping. “It’s our turn to do a little steamrolling.”

I shrug. “We’ve come this far. Why not?”

*

*

*

We find Ms. Watson in the large lobby near the entrance, chatting with guests. I note that they are in pantsuits, so I guess frilly dresses were the wrong choice. And their hair: Fresh out of the beauty salons, all of them. Oops, didn’t think about our washed-out, non-coiffed colors. No wonder Hope Watson wasn’t fooled. When she sees us now, she excuses herself and comes directly at us at a fast clip, teeth bared.

G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 9 9

Evvie takes the offensive and she intends to keep it this time. “Calm down, not in front of the guests. We need to talk to you again. Believe me; you won’t want us to cause a scene.”

Teeth clenched, Ms. Watson forces herself to take a deep breath. She strides back down the hall to her office with us following close behind.

Of course her first act is to dial the phone. Evvie reaches over and disconnects her. Ms. Watson is stunned.

“You call Security again and we call the local paper and give their gossip columnist an item about what alleged murderer is moving into what formerly first-class retirement hotel.”

The woman is stymied and actually speechless.

I’m pretty speechless, myself, at this new Evvie. If I were Ms. Watson I’d start screaming at the top of my lungs for help. Luckily she just plops down on her desk chair and stares at us.

Evvie is on a roll. “Here’s the scoop. Just listen and ask questions later. We want to use a spare apartment here, hopefully for a short while. We need to find out as much as we can about Philip Smythe. We want to do this quietly and without a fuss. When we’ve learned all we can, we will leave just as quietly as we came in.”