Rita Lakin_Gladdy Gold_03, page 1
part #3 of Gladdy Gold Series
also by rita lakin
Getting Old Is Murder
Getting Old Is the Best R e v eng e
and
Getting Old Is T o Die F o r
Coming from Dell in spring 2008
Getting Old Is
Criminal
Rita Lakin
A D E L L B O O K
GETTING OLD IS CRIMINAL A Dell Book / May 2007
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2007 by Rita Lakin
Map and ornament illustrations by Laura Hartman Maestro
Book design by Karin Batten
Dell is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-440-33684-6 www.bantamdell.com
v1.0
This book is for Alison with Love from her Grandma
You don't stop laughing when you grow old. You grow old when you stop laughing. —Anonymous
Happy 101st Birthday!
Harold W. (Rudy) Truesdale
Eureka, California
Born 1906, twelve days before the San Francisco earthquake hit.
One of the first commerical pilots ever. Now the oldest living one. Hired by TWA. First airline captain to ever marry a stewardess.
Surveyed the road and pool at Hearst Castle for friend Howard Hughes.
Advice for longevity: a glass of red wine
every night.
—Submitted by Burrille Catamach
"Life is not measured by the number of
breaths we take, but by the moments that
take our breath away."
—George Carlin, 70, comic
Introduction to Our Characters
gladdy & her gladiators
Gladys (Gladdy) Gold, 75 Our heroine and her funny, adorable, and sometimes impossible partners:
Evelyn (Evvie) Markowitz, 73 Gladdy's sister. Logical, a regular Sherlock Holmes
Ida Franz, 71 Stubborn, mean, great for in-your-face confrontation
Bella Fox, 83 The "shadow." She's so forgettable, she's perfect for surveillance, but smarter than you think
Sophie Meyerbeer, 80 Master of disguises, she lives for color-coordination
yentas, kibitzers, sufferers: the inhabitants of phase two
Hy Binder, 88 A man of a thousand jokes, all of them tasteless
Lola Binder, 78 Hy's wife, who hasn't a thought in her head that he hasn't put there
Denny Ryan, 42 The handyman. Sweet, kind, mentally slow
Enya Slovak, 84 Survivor of "the camps" but never really survived
Tessie Hoffman, 56 Chubby, with a big fat crush on Sol
Millie Weiss, 85 Suffering with Alzheimer's
Irving Weiss, 86 Suffering because Millie is suffering
Mary Mueller, 60 Neighbor and nurse, whose husband left her oddballs and fruitcakes
The Canadians, 30–40-ish Young, tan, and clueless
Sol Spankowitz, 79 A lech after the ladies
Dora Dooley, 81 Jack's neighbor, loves soap operas
the cop and the cop's pop
Morgan (Morrie) Langford, 35 Tall, lanky, sweet, and smart
Jack Langford, 75 Handsome and romantic
the library mavens
Conchetta Aguilar, 38 Her Cuban coffee could grow hair on your chest
Barney Schwartz, 27 Loves a good puzzle
new tenants
Barbi Stevens, 20-ish, and
Casey Wright, 20-ish Cousins who moved from California
and:
Yolanda Diaz, 22 Her English is bad, but her heart is good
Gladdy's Glossary
Yiddish (meaning Jewish) came into being between the ninth and twelfth centuries in Germany as an adaptation of German dialect to the special uses of Jewish religious life.
In the early twentieth century, Yiddish was spoken by eleven million Jews in Eastern Europe and the United States. Its use declined radically. However, lately there has been a renewed interest in embracing Yiddish once again as a connection to Jewish culture.
alter kockers - lecherous old men
bubbala (bubeleh) - endearing term
bubkes - trifling, worth nothing
chupeh - bridal canopy
dumkupf - dunce
fahputzed - overly done
feh! - phooey!
gornisht - nothing
haimish - friendly
kibitz - giving unwanted advice
lantsman - countryman, someone from your home area
maven - someone who knows everything
matzo - unleavened bread for Passover
mensch - a dignified person
mishmash - a mess
mamzer - trickster, untrustworthy person
nosh - small meal
pupik - belly button
putz - penis (insult)
rugallah - pastry
schlep - dragging a load
schmear - to spread like butter
tsimmes - fuss
tush - a baby's bottom
yenta - busybody
Getting Old Is
Criminal
SIGH NO MORE, LADY
The Jacuzzi bubbles tickled. Even the champagne tickled as the silvery liquid glided down her eager throat. She looked up at the mirrored ceiling. Then at each mirrored wall. Happily, the bubbles were up to her chin so she didn't have to look at her ninety-five-year-old turkey-wattled neck. Her eyesight was failing, so in the haze of her cataracts, her white hair once again seemed as blond as it had been in her salad days. In her tipsy state, she remembered when she'd been compared to Carole Lombard—or so the boys had said in those courting days when they were trying to get into her bloomers.
What was management thinking? Esther Ferguson wondered. Everyone here was close to pushing up the daisies. Why would they have installed so many mirrors? The first three years she lived here, she had draped all but the mirror over the sink. It was Romeo who'd made her take the fabric down, the better to admire her.
Esther loved Grecian Villas. Close to the heart of Fort Lauderdale, conveniently located near the beach and the chic Las Olas Street shopping area—what more could anyone want? Everything in the deluxe retirement community was first-rate. A fabulous dining room that outdid Las Vegas. Food from a class-act chef. Lush lawns. Indoor and outdoor pools. Views of the ocean. First-run movies any night of the week. Bridge players with their brains still intact. Granted, she paid through the pupik, but she could afford it. Her dead husband, Harry, had left her very, very, very rich. And she had no family except for her rigid son, Alvin, and his annoying wife. They were waiting for her to croak. They'd get the money, all right; they could have whatever was left. But she intended to spend as much as she wanted on herself as long as she lasted.
She giggled. This place alone took five thousand a month. Oops, she thought, and hiccupped, as she spilled a bit of her champagne into the Jacuzzi.
She looked toward the half-open mirrored door. "Romeo, where art thou, snookums?"
A velvety voice replied from the living room bar, where she could hear him tinkling with the glasses, "Coming, my Juliet."
Her lover put on a CD. Tchaikovsky's Romeo and Juliet Overture wafted toward her. How perfect. Who would have thunk it? Mad, passionate love at ninety-five with a gorgeous guy twenty years her junior. Well, not so mad and not all that passionate, either. The body parts didn't move much, no matter how much oiling, but, oh, the romance.
He knocked. "May I enter, m'lady?"
"Need you ask, m'lord?"
"Of course. A gentleman always knocks before he enters his loved one's private chambers."
"Knock away, oh dear one, and bring your gorgeous self right in."
Romeo entered, the diamond stickpin gleaming against his silken white cravat, his red damask robe in dramatic counterpoint. His unshod feet glided toward Esther as all his mirror images reflected and re-reflected. Removing Esther's empty champagne flute, he handed her another and spoke softly to her. " 'Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace.' " He leaned over and kissed her forehead.
For a moment she was confused. What did he say? But then she smiled and raised her glass heavenward. "Thank you, God. Take me anytime you want and I will die happy."
Esther was surprised when Romeo pushed her head gently, but firmly, down into the bubbles. He held her under the water as he whispered into her disappearing ear, " 'Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow.' "
ONE
ALONE AT LAST
Here I am, Gladdy Gold, happily up to my
neck in warm bubbles, soaking in this wooden barrel hot-tub-for-two, drinking piña coladas in front of our fale, which is the Polynesian word for our picturesque private thatched hut. Remarkably, the hut has cement floors, yet is airconditioned. Our bathroom is in the open air and our shower is a waterfall, surrounded by an exotic jungle full of vines with leaves the size of elephant ears. Wow! What bliss. What happiness.
Just a few days ago, the girls—even though we are in our seventies and eighties, my sister Evvie and our friends, Sophie, Bella, and Ida, will always be "the girls"—and I had bee
I sip the last of my piña colada, then lean my head back against the edge of the hot tub and sigh contentedly. The sky is beginning to darken. Dramatic slashes of red illuminate the patchy clouds. Red sky at night, I think, sailor's delight.
I had no idea how much I would like being away from everyone. What's not to like? I look around me.
On the picnic table next to the hot tub, Jack has placed the portable CD player and CD he bought at the Samoa airport when we landed very early this morning. Corny music, but what with the lack of choices in an airport in the middle of nowhere, the well-worn theme from Titanic will have to do. When we landed this morning, there was a crowd of natives greeting the plane. I guess the twice-aweek flights are a big event here.
I have the luggage I took with me on the cruise. Jack has nothing but the suit he was wearing when he showed up at the port. And proud of it. So, he's impulsive; I like that about him. You should see him now, wearing the wraparound skirt called a lavalava, the male version of a sarong, which he bought in the airport gift shop along with a shaving kit and a toothbrush. Winking and leering at me, he told me he wouldn't need anything else. I couldn't resist buying the matching lady's muumuu.
All day today has been prelude to right now. Dressed in our new native attire (and me with an exotic frangipani flower in my hair) Jack and I had an early lunch of island fruits—papayas, pineapple, and bananas—served to us on the porch of our quaint little thatched hut. Then a long, barefoot walk on a beach with the whitest sand I've ever seen, gathering shells and drinking those addictive piña coladas from actual coconuts. Whispering sweet nothings in each other's ears. Mmm, wonderful. Topped off with fresh ahi tuna for dinner, caught by a local fisherman and fixed for us in the intimate candlelit dining room of our charming island hotel.
Jack's waited a long time for us to finally get away from the girls and consummate our love for each other, and he is doing his best to make it memorable.
So the scene is set. A perfect day continuing on into a magical night. Music, drinks, the smell of jasmine all around us—romance everywhere. I can hear Jack whistling Céline Dion as he comes out of the hut with another round of drinks.
But am I ready? I think so. Finally. I hope I've finally put my late husband to rest. I still have little tremors, little qualms about how this will change my life. This is no one-night stand. This is a prelude to moving in together, marriage, and total commitment. I admit it: Even at my age I fear change. I am comfortable with my cozy, circumscribed life. My simple daily routine, answering to no one but myself. Who ever said falling in love was as easy as falling off a log? For that matter, what's so easy about getting on a log, let alone falling off one, and what's a log got to do with love, anyway?
At the sight of Jack coming toward me, wearing that silly, adorable lavalava, I feel my heart go pitter-patter. I instantly shut my mind off. He is so handsome and so sexy. And he wants me.
He bends to me. "Madame, a refill?"
"But of course."
He pours and then gives me a gentle kiss. "Shall I join you?"
I splash as I move to make room for him. I can't take my eyes off him, nor can he stop gazing adoringly at me.
Just as he drops his lavalava and sets one foot into the tub, we hear the muffled, tinny sound of a bugle—three short, shocking blasts. Jack, startled, falls into the tub on top of me. I go under, my mouth filling with bubbles. We scramble up and out of the tub as best we can, reaching for towels to cover ourselves.
"May I approach?" The voice of a native bell boy calls from behind a palm tree. He waits for an answer: The hotel's idea of a subtle way to warn lovers in case they are—well, as we were—in a state of indelicacy.
Jack and I exchange despairing looks. What timing! I shrug. Jack calls out, "Permission granted."
I giggle at his formal pronouncement and squeeze his hand. Our messenger comes forward, eyes suitably lowered at the sight of two wet, embarrassed, towel-clad guests.
The bellboy hands Jack a fax. Naturally, he's the man, so he gets it. The boy doesn't wait for a tip. There are no pockets in towels.
Jack reads it, with me looking over his shoulder.
"What!" we both shout at the same time.
The message is short and to the point: Come home. Sophie is dying.
* * *
We scramble into our clothes; Jack into his one and only suit while I quickly and unhappily choose a traveling outfit. At the reception desk we learn that the fax came from the ship Heavenly. Jack's cell phone is useless, so we have to use the hotel's phone. Jack shrugs at the irony. He found us the most out-of-the-way place to go so we wouldn't be disturbed and now, in an emergency, we can hardly reach anyone on the outside.
After endless tries, with many excuses from the obsequious manager about old equipment, time differences, and that being the charm of getting away from the wearisome world, we do manage to reach Captain Standish on the Heavenly. He informs us that Sophie was airlifted from the ship and was sent back to Fort Lauderdale with her three companions.
"What happened?" I ask him.
"Something about her heart," he informs me.
"Do you know where they took her?"
"I assume she was brought to your local hospital. So sorry."
Now the wires are crackling, or whatever it is that makes any more conversation difficult.
We disconnect from Captain Standish, then try calling the two hospitals nearest to where we live. No Sophie Meyerbeer listed at either of them. No answer in Sophie's apartment. Or Evvie's. Or Ida's. Where the hell can they be?
