Dying to Retire Page 7

  I glanced at my watch. At precisely half after the hour, the double garage doors lifted up, and a black BMW backed out of the garage, down the driveway, and onto the street. I couldn’t see the driver through the tinted windows of the sedan, but I was sure he’d seen us. Since we were the only car parked on the street, it was hard to keep from noticing a vintage pink Cadillac with chrome trim, driven by a short man in a cowboy hat whose head barely made it over the top of the steering wheel. Not to mention the crazy lady from Maine who’d agreed to accompany him.

  The black sedan backed down the street until the car was parallel to ours. Then the passenger-side window rolled down, revealing the driver, a chubby man in his thirties with a prematurely receding hairline, wearing a short-sleeved tan shirt. He leaned across the seat and said, “Mornin’, Sam. Got a girlfriend today, I see. Morning, ma’am.”

  “Good morning,” I called back.

  “I didn’t write out my itinerary for you, Sam, but I have to stop at the post office; then I’m driving over to the farm stand to see what they got that’s fresh, and then I’ll be opening the restaurant. Got that?”

  Sam, who’d been looking straight ahead, gave a sharp nod.

  “Don’t lose me now,” the driver said. He rolled up his window and drove off.

  “What just happened?” I asked as Sam pulled away from the curb and stayed a few car lengths behind the sedan.

  “He knows I’m keeping an eye on him.”

  “So I gathered.”

  “So he helps me out sometimes.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I told you already.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah. The other day at Clarence’s.”

  “Is that . . . ?”

  “Yup. Tony Colombo. The hit man.”

  “The man you suspect of being a hit man, you mean.”

  “That’s the guy.”

  “Are the police aware of what you’re doing? Do they know you follow this man?”

  “Sure. He tried to stop me in the beginning—complained to the lieutenant—but I wouldn’t give up. So now he sees how dedicated I am. He won’t pull any more fast ones with me on his tail.”

  “And did he ‘pull a fast one’ before?” I asked.

  “He got to Portia. I can’t keep him in my sight twenty-four hours a day, and she insisted on walking down by the water after dark. I’m in bed by nine. I told her I couldn’t protect her if she kept doing that, but she pooh-poohed me all the time. Now see what happened.”

  “Then you told Portia of your suspicions.”

  “Of course. She wouldn’t listen to me. Portia was the stubbornest woman I ever met. She never listened to anybody once she got something in her brain to do.”

  “I’ve heard that before,” I said. “Then again, her persistence was sometimes helpful to the residents of Foreverglades, wasn’t it?”

  “I’ll give you that. She did a lot of good. But in the end it killed her. I warned her not to walk alone at night. She insisted there were always other people around. But there wasn’t anyone around to save her the night she died.”

  The BMW pulled into the parking lot of the Foreverglades post office, and Tony Colombo, holding a handful of envelopes, got out of the car and entered the building. Sam backed into another space in the lot and left the engine idling.

  “Broke my Minnie’s heart when Portia died. She was her closest friend. If it weren’t for Helen, she would have gone completely to pieces.”

  “It’s always sad to lose a friend.”

  “And they’re not easy to make down here,” Sam said, looking at me through his silver lenses and tapping the steering wheel. “Lots of people, but lots of cliques, too. This one doesn’t like the way that one dresses, or her accent, or his golf game. That one accuses another of cheating at cards. The other day there was a fight over whose turn it was to dance with the building manager. It’s like high school all over again.”

  “Uh, Sam,” I said, trying to interrupt his tirade.

  “I get so aggravated with them. That’s why I decided to work at the police station. These guys are dealing with important things, not how warm the temperature should be in the pool or how many times you can use the tennis courts in one day.”

  “Sam? You’re forgetting something.”

  “What? What am I forgetting?”

  I pointed at Colombo’s car, which was exiting the parking lot and making a right turn onto the road.

  “Shoot! Why didn’t you tell me?” He released the brake and we jerked forward.

  “I just did.”

  Catching up with Tony Colombo was not a problem. He drove slowly, and Sam drove like a madman, swerving around cars and trucks until we were back on Colombo’s tail well before he turned onto the road leading to the farm stand, which turned out to be a building unlike any other farm stand I was familiar with. Rather than an open shed by the side of the road, this farm stand was a warehouse with boxes of produce piled on tables, and a line of cars and trucks backed up to one side of the building.

  “A lot of people come up from the Keys for this,” Sam explained. “The restaurants and food stores all buy from here.”

  We followed Colombo inside.

  While Sam got waylaid, bargaining with a man selling tangerines, I wandered the aisles, watching as Colombo continuously consulted his shopping list and examined the fruits and vegetables in the boxes, choosing what he would buy and cook that day. Testing green peppers with his thumb, he pulled out individual boxes and placed them near the door on one of the many red wagons—I had a similar one as a child—available to customers to bring purchases to their cars. He hoisted a net bag of onions over his shoulder and deposited it next to his stack of boxes. A carton labeled LIMES held small round fruit with mottled yellow-and-green skin.

  In the middle of the market was a row of tables holding different kinds of lettuce and other salad greens, although many of them were not green at all. I was admiring all the different-shaped leaves and colors when I heard a voice next to me.

  “Listen, if you’re going to follow me around, the least you can do is be helpful,” Colombo said, giving me his shopping list, along with two large bags of mixed greens. He lifted a tray of radicchio, which looked like a box of Christmas ornaments with the round red lettuces nestled in green paper, consulted the list I held—tomatoes for sauce, it said—picked up a bushel of beefsteak tomatoes, and headed toward the door.

  I helped Colombo bring the vegetables to his wagon and waited while he argued with a vendor over prices. He pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and, after removing the rubber band around it, counted off what he owed, paid the man, and turned to me.

  “You playing detective with Sam today?” he said, pocketing his cash.

  “I’m just along for the ride,” I said. “Has he been doing this a long time?”

  “Who? Sam? Yeah. Ever since I opened Portofino—that’s my restaurant, mine and my cousin’s, anyway—he’s been hanging around. Thinks I’m a member of the mob.” He shook his head and laughed.

  “So he’s told me.”

  “Some people just hear an Italian name and assume the worst. You know what I mean? It’s all because of the Godfather movies, and the books, too. I’ll tell you something, that program on HBO, The Sopranos? Know it? That hasn’t helped either. So here’s little Sam, learns my last name, and thinks I’m going around whacking people like they do on television. But he likes our pizza, so I can’t be all bad.”

  I laughed, too.

  Colombo smiled back. “At least he isn’t sitting home like my uncle Jimmy, who’s retired now, and all he does is send corny jokes all over the Internet.”

  “Sam said you tried to stop him in the beginning.”

  “I didn’t know who he was at first. I told the cops some wacko was following me. I wanted to know if he was dangerous. I’m gonna be moving my wife and kids down here eventually. Don’t want no trouble, and don’t want to have to worry about them. Know what I mean? But the
cops say he’s harmless—Sam, that is—just playing at being a detective. So I kid him along. No skin off my nose.”

  “That’s very understanding of you.”

  “Yeah. Well, he’s all right. I’m Tony Colombo, by the way, although I bet you already know that.” He held out a beefy hand.

  I shook it. “Jessica Fletcher. Nice to meet you.”

  “Same here. You new to Foreverglades?”

  “I don’t live here,” I said. “I only came down for the funeral of an old friend.”

  “Mrs. Shelby?”

  “That’s right. Did you know her?”

  “Everyone knew her. She was hard to miss.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She was a pain in the neck, if you don’t mind my saying so. Don’t get me wrong. She was a nice enough lady. Not like that husband of hers. What a cold son of a gun he is. She was okay. I even catered a couple of meetings up there in her apartment recently. But she got in my way.”

  “How could she do that?”

  “How? Easy. There’s supposed to be a new development going up by the water. She don’t want it, and she stirs up all her neighbors. Tied up the project for more than a year now.”

  “I take it you’re not opposed to high-rise buildings going in there.”

  “Opposed? I’m waiting forever for that. They promised us they would be up and occupied by now. That’s why we came down here in the first place. You don’t think we’d move thirteen hundred miles for the old turkeys in Foreverglades, if you’ll pardon my expression. No! We got bigger plans. And we almost lost our deal with the landlord for the property next to the restaurant, thanks to your friend Mrs. Shelby. Soon as they break ground on those buildings, we’re expanding. We got a no-compete deal with the village. They can’t let another Italian restaurant in as long as we’re there. Speaking of . . .”—he looked at his watch—“I gotta get back and start cracking the whip. We open at noon, and there’s always people waiting. Tell Sam I’ll see him later. Come by sometime. I’ll give you a slice on the house. Best pizza in southern Florida. We make our own sauce. Everything fresh. See?” He pointed to the wagon piled high with produce as he pushed open the door.

  I looked around for Sam. He was perched on a stool next to the table with the yellow limes, eating a tangerine and watching highlights from a basketball game on a portable TV. A man in a white apron stood next to him, cutting the limes and working a juicer.

  “Mr. Colombo left, Sam,” I said. “Do you want to go now?”

  “Just a second,” he replied. “I want to see them make this shot.” He whooped when a player on the screen passed the ball to another player, who stuffed it in the basket, hanging for a split second from the rim. “That’s the Miami Heat,” he told me, hopping off the stool. “Their coach used to coach the Knicks in New York. I was real happy when he came down here.”

  “He ain’t doin’ so great this year,” Sam’s companion said.

  “They’ve got a lot of injuries, but they’ll get better. See you, Arthur.” He waved to the man in the apron and we walked toward the door.

  “Wait, Sam. You forgot your juice,” Arthur said, running after him and handing him a bottle.

  “Oh, boy. You saved my life. Minnie would have had my hide if I forgot this. Thanks.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Fresh key lime juice. Arthur juices the limes for me. They look like little lemons, but they’re actually key limes. It’s a different fruit from regular limes. Anyone ever gives you green key lime pie, you tell them it’s a forgery. Key limes are yellow.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “Minnie uses the juice for pie. There is nothing better in the world than Minnie’s key lime pie. You could go from Key West to Key Biscayne and never find a better one.”

  We walked outside. The day was heating up, the contrast with the coolness inside the farm stand making the warm temperature more noticeable. The Cadillac was parked in the sun. Sam unlocked and opened the door for me, and a whoosh of hot air escaped the interior. “Give it a minute,” he said. “Don’t get in. I’ll put on the AC and it’ll cool down in two shakes.”

  He slid into the driver’s seat, making yelping noises when his legs came in contact with the hot leather. Five minutes later, in cool comfort, we were on our way back to Foreverglades.

  “So what did you guys talk about?” Sam asked when we were on the road.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “You and Colombo. What did he tell you?”

  “Nothing much,” I replied. “He’s planning to bring his family down here soon.”

  Sam snorted. “I’ll bet he only told you that to soften you up.”

  “He also said that Portia was organizing against the development, but that he’s in favor of it.”

  “See? There’s your motive.”

  “Just because he disagreed with Portia doesn’t mean he wanted to kill her. Anyway, Portia died of a heart attack.”

  “There are ways to make it look like a heart attack,” Sam said somberly.

  “Well, I hope you’re wrong,” I said. “He seemed like a pretty nice fellow to me.”

  Sam dropped me off in front of number twenty-three. He was going home for lunch and then off to a Residents’ Committee meeting in the afternoon. A fitting tribute to Portia was the main topic on the agenda.

  I climbed to the second floor, put my key in the lock, turned it, and pushed the door open. I heard a scraping sound and looked down to see a white envelope with my name on it in Mort’s recognizable scrawl. I picked it up, opened the flap, and pulled out five sheets of paper. At the top of the first page, it read, Metropolitan Dade County, Office of the Medical Examiner, District 11. Name of deceased: Portia Shelby. Seth had affixed a sticky note to the page. On it he’d written, Damn those diet pills!

  Chapter Eight

  “I think we need to talk with Clarence,” I said.

  Seth and I sat in the back room of Portofino having our dinner. We’d decided to eat early to avoid the crowds, but the place was filled to capacity, and we’d been fortunate to get the last table for two. A long line behind us waited to be seated. A box on the menu offered an explanation. We were just in time for the “early-bird dinner,” which featured reduced prices on certain dishes for those who sat down before six o’clock.

  Seth nodded as he twirled spaghetti around his fork. “You’ve been saying that since we got here, Jess. We can go over in the morning.” He lifted his fork but the slippery strands of pasta slid back into his bowl. “I’m not sure it’ll do any good,” he added.

  On the way to the restaurant I had briefed Seth on my visit to the Davisons earlier in the day.

  I’d stopped by Helen and Miles Davison’s apartment, which was on the first floor of Portia’s building and across the courtyard from the unit where I was staying. Helen opened the door at my knock. She was clad in a white leotard with a towel slung around her neck. I could hear the plaintive wail of a jazz saxophone being played in the background.

  “Have I caught you at a bad time?” I asked.

  “Not at all,” she said, drawing me inside.

  “I wasn’t sure I’d find you at home, but the lady who answered the telephone at your shop said to try.”

  “The Residents’ Committee meets every Thursday afternoon, and that’s a popular event,” she said, wiping her brow with a corner of the towel. “I take advantage of the drop in clientele to take some time for myself.”

  “And I’m treading on it.”

  “Not at all.” She beckoned me to follow her. “Your timing is perfect. I’ve just finished my yoga routine, and was about to make some green tea. I’m told it’s full of antioxidants. I have no idea what they are, but they’re supposed to be good for you. Would you like some?”

  “I’d love some.”

  Over green tea and biscotti, long Italian cookies Helen told me were sold at Portofino, I guided the conversation around to what she knew about Portia’s pill-taking habits.
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br />   “She used to take them by the handful, at least three times a day,” Helen said, “gulping them down with a glass of water. I once asked her what they all were, but she only said they were a combination of her prescription drugs and supplements. Some were supposed to help her vision, I remember, but apparently they didn’t work very well. She still needed Clarence to help fill the pillbox for her.”

  “Why was that?” I asked.

  “Well, she couldn’t read what was written on the bottles; her eyesight was that bad. Took her forever when she had to use a magnifying glass to check each pill, and then if she got them confused, she had to start all over again. She was grateful when Clarence offered to help her.”

  “Did she ever talk to you about taking diet pills?” I asked.

  “Diet pills!” Helen laughed. “That woman didn’t need diet pills. She was no Lana Turner, but her body suited her. Why would she ever want to take diet pills?”

  “Sometimes when a woman has a new husband,” I said carefully, “she may be more conscious of her looks.”

  “She never wore a drop of makeup or changed her hairstyle—and believe me, I tried to convince her to do that. ‘I’m fine as I am,’ she would tell me. You have to admire that kind of self-confidence. I seriously doubt she’d be interested in losing weight just to please Clarence, even if he’d had the nerve to say something, which I doubt he ever would. He’s not my favorite person, Jessica, but he seemed genuinely fond of Portia.”

  “Why isn’t he your favorite person?” I asked.

  “Girl, you ask a lot of questions,” she said, getting up to pour us more tea.

  Before I could probe further, Helen’s husband, Miles, leaning on two canes, joined us in the kitchen, and the conversation drifted away from Portia to Miles’s passion, jazz.

  Later that day, back in my apartment, I reread the autopsy report while waiting for Seth to pick me up for dinner. The medical examiner had ruled that Portia Shelby died from acute myocardial infarction, sometime around ten P.M., the heart attack most likely brought about by the presence in her system of ephedrine alkaloid and caffeine, two powerful stimulants known to cause ventricular arrhythmia and cardiac arrest. There was no ruling on the manner of death, since it could not be determined if the fatal combination was caused by an intentional overdose or an accidental one.