Dying to Retire Page 5

  “He looks so sad, doesn’t he?” Minnie said, handing Amelia a tissue.

  “Quién?” Amelia asked, blowing her nose.

  “Clarence.”

  Clarence, who stood by the door of Sam’s pink Cadillac, shook hands with the minister, and accepted the sympathies of several of his neighbors before climbing in the backseat.

  “Where is he going?” I asked.

  “Probably to the place where they do the cremation,” Minnie said. “The undertaker has a hearse for the coffin, but no limousines. So Sam fills in when a limo is needed. He’s supposed to charge for the car service, but he never has. ‘Not for funerals,’ he says, ‘and not for friends.’ ”

  “That’s very kind of him,” I said.

  “He’s such a mensch,” she said fondly. “That means ‘good guy’ in Yiddish. He started the service as a way to earn a few extra dollars—the nearest limousine company is over in Florida City—but he’s such an easy target for a sob story that I don’t think he’s earned a penny yet. Anybody gives him a good excuse, or even a terrible one, and he drives them for free. I wouldn’t care except that gas guzzler is going to break us if it doesn’t earn its keep. Parts for that old heap are not cheap.”

  “Ooh, Minnie, you made a rhyme,” Amelia sang out, smiling.

  “I did?”

  “Who’s going over to the Shelbys’?” Helen asked.

  “Everyone,” Minnie said, rummaging around in her handbag.

  “Amelia and I have to get back to the shop,” Helen said. “We probably have ten people waiting by now.”

  “Well, come by when you’re done,” Minnie said, pulling out her sunglasses.

  “What time do you figure Clarence will be back?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Carrie has the key, but she’ll need help setting up. I’m going over there now.”

  “Okay, see you both later,” Helen said, and she and Amelia crossed the street and started up the hill toward her beauty parlor.

  “Would you like my help, too?” I offered.

  “Oh, no, no,” Minnie said. “You’re a guest. Bring your friends by in about an hour or so and we’ll feed you.” She walked off toward Foreverglades.

  The crowd in front of the chapel had dispersed. My friends were nowhere in sight. But the vista of Biscayne Bay from this vantage point was captivating. The day was clear and the sun shot little sparks of light off the choppy water. I dug my new sunglasses out of my bag and put them on. Portia had loved this view. She had been fighting hard to keep it so everyone in Foreverglades could see the water, walk along the shore, and enjoy the beauty of nature. How sad that what is called “progress” by some was going to spoil it for others. Detective Shippee had characterized Portia as a “feisty lady.” Had her heart given out because of her determination to keep this beautiful view unblocked?

  Chapter Five

  I originally intended to follow Minnie back to Foreverglades, but when I reached the intersection at the base of the hill, I gave in to the lure of the water, and set my steps toward the shore. Tall grasses lined one side of a concrete sidewalk that wound its way to the bay alongside an unpaved road, which ended in a small, pebble-strewn parking lot. An L-shaped dock jutting into the water was anchored to concrete slabs sunk into the mud. Two dozen boats were tied up to the dock. An aluminum dinghy, its lines looped around a piling, was available for owners of boats moored offshore to reach their vessels.

  At the head of the dock, down a short flight of steps, a narrow boardwalk veered off to the left, back in the direction of Foreverglades. Sand had been dumped in a long crescent-shaped section to create a man-made beach, but the thick vegetation had not been kept in check, and tendrils of green crept under the low boardwalk as though trying to reclaim the land. Farther down, the sand ended, palm trees rose from the thick grass, and the boardwalk, with a waist-high railing, curved out over the water, ending in a circular gazebo. A large white sign had been braced in the damp earth about ten yards off the boardwalk. On it was the message: SITE OF THE FUTURE WAINSCOTT TOWERS, A NEW GATED COMMUNITY. TWENTY-ONE-STORY BUILDINGS, FEATURING RESIDENCES OF DISTINCTION. Someone had circled Wainscott’s name with red spray paint and scrawled Liar above it, the thick paint dripping down from the letters like blood.

  Beyond the sign, I could see the pink buildings of Foreverglades, and sympathized with their tenants’ plight. The construction would not only block their view and cut them off from the waterfront, but it was bound to destroy the peaceful existence they currently enjoyed. Residents of three high-rise buildings would probably double the local population. They would crowd the shops, create traffic congestion with their cars, and overwhelm the small beach and the boardwalk on which I stood. I thought of Portia, and how much she loved the place she had found for herself in Florida. Change is difficult for many of us, but for people who have spent years planning for their retirement and carefully selected the environment they wanted, it’s harder still to have threats made against their long-anticipated lifestyle.

  Deep in contemplation, I meandered down the rough planks of the boardwalk—the footwear I’d worn for the funeral was not conducive to walking in the sand—and made my way toward the gazebo. As I approached the weathered wooden structure, I realized I wasn’t alone. A figure stepped away from the railing he’d been leaning over. At first I thought he was holding a fishing rod, but then I realized it was just a long stick he’d been playing with in the water.

  “What are you looking at?” I asked.

  “Someone threw some litter in the water. I hate to see that,” Detective Shippee said, leaning his stick against an upright and sitting on a bench, his back to the bay. “It’s so beautiful out here, isn’t it?”

  “Spectacular.”

  “The best part is how quiet it is. You can sit here sometimes and the only sounds you’ll hear are those made by nature—the birds, the insects, the water lapping up against the pier.”

  “I know,” I said. “There’s something about being on the water that soothes the soul.”

  He smiled sadly. “It’s a pity it won’t last.”

  “You’re talking about the development?”

  He nodded.

  “I can understand why my friend fought against it,” I said. “It’s going to change the whole character of the area.”

  He frowned and crossed his arms. “Yeah, well, money talks, and Wainscott walks all over anyone who gets in his way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The local zoning commission caved in to everything he proposed.”

  “Weren’t the Foreverglades residents there?”

  “Oh, yeah. They held public hearings, and you better believe those were well attended. Your friend Mrs. Shelby was a very persuasive speaker.”

  “But not persuasive enough?”

  “She could rally the troops, but she didn’t have the wherewithal to finance the war. She came pretty close, though. Wainscott must’ve spent a fortune on lawyers after she got started, but he’s probably used to it.”

  “Has he done this before?”

  “Many times, I’m sure. He has more lawyers than the local municipalities can ever hope to mount a defense against.”

  “But he still has to comply with the law.”

  “The law can be very flexible, especially when it has an arsenal of lawyers aimed at it.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “He did the same thing in Key West. The city was opposed to a development that he proposed. He’d already bought the land and was damned if they were going to stop him. So he made them all kinds of promises. He was going to protect the environment, open shorelines to the public, stuff like that. Of course, once he broke ground, he broke all his promises, too.”

  “Couldn’t the government sue him?”

  “They could, but he had a secret weapon.”

  “His lawyers.”

  “Yup. By the time Wainscott’s lawyers got through, they would have been tied up in court for years. It would have cost
the citizens of Key West a fortune in taxes to pay for it.”

  “So the government gave in?”

  “I’m sure Wainscott made a few concessions just to mollify them, but this is not a man you want to buck. There was an accident down there I’m still not sure about.” He stood up and leaned over the railing, looking down into the water. “But accidents happen. Anyway, it’s in the past. We can’t recapture that, can we?”

  He seemed distraught, and I wondered if Portia’s death had truly saddened him. “My friends must be wondering where I am,” I said. “I should get back to Foreverglades. Portia’s husband is hosting a luncheon for her friends. Sounds to me like you fit that description. Why don’t you come with me?”

  “Maybe another time,” he said.

  We walked back toward the dock together. I scanned the landscape around us, thinking about Portia’s evening constitutionals.

  “Looking to see where your friend died?” Detective Shippee asked.

  “Actually, I was.”

  “One of the boaters saw her lying in the sand and called the shore patrol. They found her over here.” He pointed to where the tall grass ended and the artificial beach began. “Luckily there were no alligators around at the time, or it would have been a mess.”

  “Are there alligators here?” I asked.

  “Yes. See those tracks?” He pointed to some markings on the sand.

  “You mean they come right out on the beach?”

  “We’re trespassing on their property, not the other way around,” he said. “There are alligators all over Florida. They’ve been here for thousands of years.”

  “Yes, but I would have thought—”

  “They usually come out at night. I keep telling that to the folks who like to stroll on the boardwalk in the evenings. We’ve got an old bull around here the animal control people have been trying to trap for a year, but he always gets away.”

  I pictured Portia lying on the beach, ailing, and shuddered at the thought of her so vulnerable to attack.

  Detective Shippee did not ease my mind when he said, “They prefer to catch their prey in the water, but they are meat eaters and they’re not averse to—Well, never mind.”

  “Then she wasn’t alive when they found her.”

  “No.”

  “How long had she been dead?”

  “Don’t know for sure. She died sometime during the night.”

  “Heart attack?”

  “You’re pushing into classified territory, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. But I get the feeling that something about Portia’s death is bothering you.”

  He snorted. “Don’t let my captain know. He’ll have a fit.”

  “Detective Shippee, is it possible Portia’s death was not from natural causes?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that someone killed her, perhaps because she fought the development.”

  Detective Shippee stared out at the water for a long time before he answered. Then he hunched his shoulders and looked back at me. “People have been killed for a lot less, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  Detective Shippee took his leave, but I remained on the boardwalk instead of returning to Foreverglades as I’d intended. I retraced my steps to the gazebo and sat inside, protected from the heat and glare of the sun, listening to the lapping of the water and thinking about Portia. What a sad end to a life filled with purpose and sacrifice. She had found her true calling here in Florida among the other retirees. She had captured the leadership role that life and circumstances had denied her when she’d lived in Cabot Cove. In Foreverglades she took charge; she was a heroine to those she championed, but her body could not keep up with her ambition. She would have wanted to go down swinging. Instead, she collapsed on the beach she was trying to save for her fellow residents.

  But can we ever choose how we die? And if we could, what would we want? To die in our beds, surrounded by loved ones? My husband, Frank, had left this world that way. I wasn’t sure his death was any easier given knowledge of its approach. We mourned his death together for months before it occurred. Perhaps Portia had departed quickly without pain or even consciousness of life ebbing away. I hoped so, for her sake.

  I stood up slowly in the way we have when our thoughts sit heavily on our shoulders, and wandered back down the boardwalk to the place in the sand where Portia had died. The sun’s rays were blinding even with the protection of my new sunglasses, and I shaded my eyes with my hand, peering out at Foreverglades, visible beyond the expanse of tall grasses and tangled vines. A movement in the undergrowth next to the boardwalk caught my eye. I looked down. Two yellow eyes with black vertical pupils stared back at me. The head of the creature was huge, its broad, flat snout rounded at the end, its eyes twin bulges in the bumpy black hide. For a few seconds we stared at each other, both frozen at the unexpected intrusion into a private moment. Then it opened its jaws and hissed.

  I forgot the heat of the sun as a chill crept over my body. Goose bumps rose on my arms and I felt as though my hair stood straight out from its roots. As my heart pounded in my ears, I tried desperately to remember the rules for encountering a wild animal. In Maine, the newspapers annually print advice on what to do when confronted by a bear or moose. Pretend this is a moose, Jessica, I told myself. What are the rules? You should do . . . what? Rule number one: You should stay at least fifty feet away. Well, it’s too late for that now. Rule number two. What was rule number two? Oh, yes. Never get between a mother and her calf.

  I glanced around quickly to see if a baby alligator was nearby, but from the size of the creature in front of me, I was guessing this was no mother, but a bull alligator, and one that was close to twelve feet long. I shivered, my breath coming in short spurts. So I wasn’t between a mother and a calf, but I was between the alligator and the water. That was probably its goal. The black hide I’d always seen pictured in photographs as shiny and wet was neither. It was dusty-looking, with streaks and patches of dried mud.

  It must want the water; it’s hot. Unless, of course, it’s not hot. What if it’s hungry? You’d make a tasty meal, I thought, gulping, my throat as dry as the alligator’s back. Would Seth come looking for me? What would he find if I couldn’t get out of this? I’d gotten out of many dangerous situations in the past. But how long could my luck hold? No, don’t think that way, I chided myself. The rules. What were the rest of the rules? Don’t yell. That was rule number three. Loud noises and wild gestures might startle the animal into attacking. Not that I could yell at the moment. I was too breathless. The real question was, Could I move at all?

  I started inching my way back down the boardwalk, trying to hum softly, but the sound came out more as a grunt than a hum. I maintained eye contact with the alligator until the heel of one shoe caught on a plank, and I stumbled.

  The alligator hissed again. It had been crouched in the grass. Now it rose up on its legs; even its long, heavy tail was completely off the ground. The boardwalk was an easy step up for an animal this size. Would it climb onto the wood and chase after me?

  Quick, what is the next rule? Run! That’s it. Rule number four is run. And get behind a tree. You can run around a tree faster than a moose can.

  But I couldn’t run in these shoes, and the only trees around were behind the alligator. Carefully I raised my foot and reached to remove one shoe, and then did the same with the other. At worst, I reasoned, I can fling them at the alligator if it follows me.

  In my stocking feet I moved away slowly, putting feet and then yards between us, praying that I was near the railing, which began only when the boardwalk bowed out over the water. If the alligator followed me that far, I could vault over the side and escape. But where? Into the water, where his companions might wait?

  The alligator placed one leg on the planks and then the other, hauling its heavy body onto the boardwalk, its belly sliding across the wood, one eye keeping me in view at all times. It lurched forward, flopped onto the beach, and lumbered toward the
water, its massive tail making waves in the sand.

  I felt the adrenaline drain away and began to shiver. My knees buckled and I sank gratefully onto the rough boards. Still, I stared transfixed, watching its progress, until the beast slithered silently into the water, and the knurls on its back and long pointed tail slipped below the surface.

  Chapter Six

  “Did he say he suspected foul play?”

  “No, but I got the distinct impression he was thinking along those lines.”

  “And he wouldn’t tell you what the autopsy report said?”

  I shook my head. “He wants to talk with Clarence first, and I respect that, of course.”

  It was the day after the funeral and the weather was delicious. The skies were sunny overhead; a warm breeze off the water ruffled my hair as Seth and I had breakfast in an outdoor café in the village. Even though the Foreverglades apartments we’d settled in had full-sized kitchens, they were not stocked with food. We’d debated whether or not to stop at a market, but since we had no idea how long we’d be staying, we’d decided against it.

  “The likelihood is that she died of congestive heart failure, Jess.”

  “I know.”

  “She was being treated with digoxin for many years, but if she was dosing herself with supplements, she could have been compromising its effectiveness.”

  “True.”

  “She wouldn’t listen to me,” he said, his voice rising. “I warned her about those things.”

  “Yes. You did.”

  “And on top of that, if she’d been taking those darned diet tablets, she could have unwittingly committed suicide.” He pounded his fist on the table and the silverware jumped.

  Several people turned around to see who was disturbing the peace. Seth seemed startled by their reaction. “Well,” he said to me in a lower voice, “I’m just not a fan of all these pseudomedications.”

  It was our first opportunity to talk privately. We’d spent the previous afternoon at Portia’s apartment, but there had been so many people crowded into the three rooms—not to mention the group of women who’d monopolized Seth’s attention all afternoon—that conversation of this nature had been impossible. When I’d managed to squeeze past people in the hall and walk into Portia’s bedroom, I’d found a lively political debate in progress among a half dozen of her friends. There was no way I could peruse the bottles on her bureau, which I’d hoped to do, with an audience watching me.