Rita Lakin_Gladdy Gold_01, page 22
part #1 of Gladdy Gold Series
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If you enjoyed
GETTING OLD IS MURDER
you won't want to miss
Gladdy Gold's return in
Getting Old Is the
Best Revenge
by
Rita Lakin
Available from Dell Books
in April 2006
Read on for an exclusive sneak peek-- and look for your copy at your favorite bookseller.
Getting Old Is the
Best Revenge
On sale April 2006
M argaret Ramona Sampson, fifty-four, always said the seventeenth hole would be the death of her and she was right.
Let's not mince words. Margaret cheated at golf. After all, being wealthy (inherited, not earned) meant being entitled. It meant always getting what she wanted. And what she wanted was to break the women's record for the course. Always so close. She had a feeling today would be the day.
Wrong.
She was with her usual perfectly coiffed and outfitted foursome. Rich women who played every Friday at the exclusive West Palm Beach Waterside Country Club. It was a beautiful, perfect Florida day. The lawns glistened in the sunlight. The weather not too muggy. She was playing brilliantly. All was right in her world.
One of Margaret's techniques for enjoying the game was to golf only with women who played less skillfully than she did, and were easily intimidated.
She knew her caddy saw through her, but didn't care. He was the caddy everyone wanted, so she paid triple in order to get him at her convenience. He was worth it. The money bought his loyalty. When things went wrong, she would blame him. He played his role very well, looking sheepish and admitting his "errors."
So here was the dreaded seventeenth hole and all she needed was a bogey. Unfortunately, here too was a troublesome serpentine water hazard. She routinely selected her best balls for this hole, but that never helped. Invariably she'd hook the ball before it cleared the water, and it would land in the trees. Today was no different. With angry, imperious strides, she marched into the foliage, leaving behind her the timid catcalls of the gals. "Meggie's done it again!"
As her caddy began to follow, she waved him off.
Yes, Margaret thought, I'll get out of it! No way would she take a penalty.
Dismayed, she discovered her ball wedged hopelessly in a clump of decaying turf. Without hesitation, she kneeled to pick it up.
"Naughty, naughty," a strong baritone voice chastised.
Startled, Margaret turned her head to find a pair of snappy argyle socks at her eye level. She got up slowly, preparing her defense. When she saw all of this other golfer, her expression turned to happy surprise.
"Well, look who's here. I didn't know you belonged to our club--"
Abruptly, he grabbed her, pulling her against him with one hand as he shoved a hypodermic needle in her arm with the other. Moments later, she stopped struggling and sank down onto the dark and mossy rough.
Her last dying thought was that she should have used the three iron instead of a wood. . . .
One parting shot was irresistible. "Sorry I'm about to ruin your day, Meggie, old thing. You shouldn't toy with a man's game."
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it's off to the pool we go. As soon as they get past the swimming part of the morning, my little ragtag bunch of adventurers will be primed for another mission improbable. Towels at the ready, we cross the parking area, head down the winding brick path, through the small grove of palm trees, over three little bridges, past the clubhouse and the shuffleboard court, all the while avoiding those pesky ducks coming out of the ponds to leave their little droppings.
And here we are. And there they are--the other early morning so-called swimming enthusiasts. Their lounge chairs parked in their usual spots on the grassy perimeter of the pool, guarding their tiny turf jealously.
Plump Tessie Hoffman, the only real swimmer among us, is energetically doing her laps.
Enya Slovak, our concentration camp survivor, has her nose buried in the inevitable book. Always the loner.
The Canadian snowbirds are gathered together in their familiar clique. They are doing what they love most, lapping up the sun, and reading their hometown newspapers and comparing the weather. Thirty degrees in Manitoba . . . fifteen in Montreal. They chuckle smugly.
We have new tenants, Karen Wright and Beth Bailey. Bella shudders, still unable to believe anyone would want to live in an apartment where there'd been a murder, but the price was so low these gals found it irresistible. They've only recently moved in and it's nice to have young people around. They're cousins, in their thirties, originally from San Francisco. They don't look the least bit alike. Karen is kind of chunky and wears her dark, curly hair very short. Beth is a tall, skinny blonde, and very cute. Karen seems to live in blue jeans, but Beth loves frilly sundresses.
Next up, our beloved eighty-year-old Bobbsey twins, Hyman and Lola Binder (aka Hy and Lo), bobbing up and down in the shallow water, holding onto each other like chubby teenagers in love. They've been married over fifty years. Amazing.
Hy sees us and greets us as usual with the same inane comment. "Ta-da, enter the murder mavens. Caught any killers lately?"
Evvie glares at him. "You're just jealous."
Mary Mueller now joins us every morning. She's living alone since her husband, John, left her. It caused quite a stir, I can tell you, when he was "outed," (a new modern term we've learned). He recently met a guy in a Miami gay bar and fell in love. Boy, that was a first in Lanai Gardens. But Mary is holding up nicely, I'm glad to say.
Dropping our towels, we kick off our sandals and step carefully into the pool. The girls walk back and forth across the shallow end splashing a lot. I do two laps and I'm done. Such is swimming exercise.
Pretty Beth addresses Evvie. "So, what movie are you seeing this week? I can hardly wait for the review."
Evvie, our in-house critic for our weekly free newspaper, is on a mystery kick since we've gotten into the P.I. biz. Last week she did a hilarious review of Hannibal. She was deadly serious; I couldn't stop laughing. This week she'll be reviewing a French mystery. Who knows what she'll do with that.
"Wait and see," she chirps. "But I promise it'll be gory."
"Hey, girls, didja hear this one?" And Hy is on us like schmaltz on chopped liver. God help us, he has a new joke off his e-mail. Prepare to be offended.
"So, Becky and Sam are having an affair in the old age home. Every night for three years, Becky sneaks into Sam's room and she takes off her clothes and climbs up on top of him. They lay there like two wooden boards for a couple of minutes, then she gets off and goes back to her room. And that's that. One night Becky doesn't show up. Not the next night either. Sam is upset. He finally tails her and, waddya know, she's about to sneak into Moishe's room. Sam stops her in the hall. He's really hurt. 'So, what's Moishe got that I ain't got?' Becky smirks and says, 'Palsy!'"
Hy grins at us, thrilled with himself. Affronted as usual, we turn our backs on him and paddle away.
"What? What'd I do? What?"
"Schlemiel!" Ida hisses under her breath.
"Hey, did you read this?" Tessie asks. She's now drying off on her chaise, her nose deep in today's Miami paper. She half reads, half condenses: "'Mrs. Margaret Ramona Sampson, fifty-four, of West Palm Beach, died early yesterday morning on the seventeenth hole at the Waterside Country Club where she was golfing with three friends. Mrs. Sampson, "Meg" as she was known to all who loved her, died suddenly of a massive heart attack.'"
The group reacts with shocked surprise. The heiress is well-known, because reading the society news around the pool is a daily ritual. I only half listen as I work on my crossword. Tessie continues. "'Mrs. Sampson, listed as one of the twenty-five richest women in the state, was a noted member of Florida society, known for her charitable works. She is survived by her husband, Richard "Dickie" Sampson.'"
"What a pity," says Evvie. "All that money she didn't get to spend."
"But she left a nice, rich widower," says Sophie. She picks up a tube of sunblock off the ledge of the pool and lathers her face and shoulders. "Maybe he'd like to meet a nice, poor widow. Like me."
Ida takes the sunblock from her as Sophie turns to let Ida do her back. "Dream on."
Sophie twists around to stare at Ida. "What? I'm not good enough for him?" She pushes Ida's hand away. "You're making me into a greaseball."
Ida slaps the cream into her hand. "Do it yourself. As if a rich guy like that would even look at a nobody like you."
Sophie hands the cream to Evvie. "And you know what? If he's old and ugly I wouldn't want him anyway."
Evvie continues working on Sophie's back. "What's old anyway? Look at us."
I look up from my puzzle. "Barnard Baruch, the famous statesman, said, 'Old is always fifteen years older than you are.'"
"Yoo-hoo . . .?" It is a wobbly little voice and the Canadians, who still have all their hearing, are the first to glance up.
"Over here." The voice manages to raise a decibel or two.
Now everyone looks up. A tiny elderly wisp of a woman stands at the pool gate, seeming almost too fragile to hold on to her metal walker. Her back is humped slightly. She looks as if a strong wind would carry her away. She's dressed completely in black, including the kerchief on her head. She must be sweltering in that outfit. "I'm looking for Gladdy Gold."
All eyes automatically turn to me as I make my way out of the pool and reach for my towel. "I'm Gladdy."
Needless to say the girls get out, following right behind me, my little ducklings all in a row.
"Your neighbors told me where I could find you."
"They would," Ida mutters into my back. "Ask them when we go to the toilet. All our neighbors know that, too. Yentas!"
I ignore Ida. "What can I do for you?"
"I am looking for a detective," the woman says, and then adds worriedly, "if the price is right."
In a flash, Hy is at our side, dragging one of the plastic pool chairs. "Here, missus, have a seat," he offers, helping the woman into the chair, and then positioning himself right next to her. A minute later, here comes Lola, gluing herself onto her husband, leaning in.
Everyone around the pool shifts slightly to the left. My unofficial staff. Unwanted. Uncalled for. The other inhabitants of Phase Two, determined to get into the act, whenever they can. Tessie, ever so casually, moves her chaise a little closer. Mary puts down her crocheting. Beth and Karen openly stare. Even the Canadians have folded their newspapers. They all gape and listen intently.
The little woman puffs out her chest and grips the arms of the chair. She shouts, "I'm eighty-two years old and I don't need this agita in my life! My old man, maybe he's cheating on me! And I want to know who the puta is!"
Ahhh . . . I hear a collective sigh of happiness behind me. A problem they can all relate to after years of watching Oprah, Sally, Geraldo, and the rest.
"Hah!" says Hy with great delight. "The old man is dipping his wick somewheres else!"
The woman stares up at him. What did this fool say?
"Hy! Butt out," I say.
He shrugs, feigning hurt. "I'm trying to lend a hand here."
"Maybe he's lonely," Lola contributes.
"Maybe he's not with a woman, " says Mary darkly. She's still pretty traumatized over John.
I have to nip this group intrusion right in the bud. Now.
"Shall we go to my office?" I say to the woman in black. Quickly helping her out of the patio chair, I reposition her behind her walker and firmly start moving her out the pool gate.
As we leave, my cohorts scampering to keep up, I hear another sigh in the background. This one of disappointment. Followed by a buzz of complaints.
I hear Tessie whining. "Didn't I ruin my best bathing costume chasing after our murderer? Where's the gratitude?"
"Wait awhile," says Hy complacently. "She'll figure out she can't do without us."
"Right," adds Mary. "She owes us. Big time."
I tell you, it's not easy being a star.
* * *
GETTING OLD IS MURDER
A Dell Book / November 2005
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 (c) 2005 by Rita Lakin
Map and ornament illustrations by Laura Hartman Maestro
Dell is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
www.bantamdell.com
v1.0
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Getting Old Is Murder, Rita Lakin_Gladdy Gold_01
