Dying to Retire Page 9

  “No,” I said. “We’re not.”

  “We’re old friends of Portia’s; we told you that,” Seth said. “And I was her doctor for thirty-five years, and—”

  “And we’re upset that she died,” I interrupted, fearing Seth would launch into a lecture on the dangers of self-medication and the questionable value of herbal supplements. While I didn’t disagree with him, it was not what Clarence needed to hear at the moment. “You said the police are on your back. Why is that?”

  “This detective who came was irritated with me that I couldn’t find all of Portia’s pillboxes. She had three of them, and now one of them is missing. The police want to know where it is. I can’t find it. He’s called twice to ask me about it.”

  I glanced at Seth.

  “I can answer that question for you,” Seth said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the white pillbox he’d taken from Portia’s dresser.

  Clarence looked stunned. “How did you get that?”

  “I took it from your bedroom the other night,” Seth said. His face was red, and I knew he was embarrassed. “I found a few pills in it I wasn’t happy to see, and I brought one to the pharmacist to confirm what it was.”

  “You stole her pillbox?” Clarence was up on his feet, pacing. “The police have been all over me, suspecting me of God knows what, and all the time you had her pillbox?”

  “I apologize,” Seth said. “I’ll call the police and tell them I was the one who took it.”

  “You’re darn right you will,” Clarence said, pointing his finger at Seth. “You can call them right now. Wait a minute. What pills? What pills made you unhappy?”

  “They were diet pills.”

  “How do you know they were diet pills? What did they look like?”

  “They were little blue pills,” I said.

  “She didn’t have any blue pills,” Clarence said.

  “Seth took one from her pillbox and showed it to the pharmacist, who said it was a combination of ephedra and caffeine,” I said. “He also said it would be very dangerous for someone who had a heart condition.”

  Clarence fell back on the sofa, his face even paler than when we’d entered. “So it’s true,” he whispered. “Why would she do that? Why would she keep it from me?”

  “You didn’t know she was taking diet pills?” I asked.

  “No. I still don’t believe it.”

  “Did she ever mention to you that she wanted to lose weight?”

  “Never.”

  “Was she self-conscious about her body?”

  “No. I don’t think so. I don’t know. I don’t notice those things. She was no great beauty. She knew that. But it never bothered me, and I never thought she was unhappy about it. It was refreshing for me to be with a woman who didn’t make a fuss about her looks. I told her that. It was one of the things I liked so much about her.” He labored to hold back tears.

  I debated asking him about his reputation as a ladies’ man. Two people had remarked on it, and Amelia had even suggested that Clarence had had an affair with Monica while he was married to Portia. Was it true? Or was it just the kind of vicious gossip that people with too little to occupy themselves will indulge in? Was Clarence the kind of man who needed attention from a lot of women? He was certainly good-looking, and it was easy to see he had already attracted a harem, ready to step into Portia’s place.

  Portia had been a plain woman, but a warm and kindhearted one, and someone who stood up for what she thought was right. Clarence must have appreciated that. He’d married her. Or had he been looking for something more, someone with enough money to support him, perhaps? No one had mentioned Portia’s will, but she had no other family than Clarence. It stood to reason that he would inherit whatever was hers, the apartment, her pension, perhaps some investments or savings.

  I looked into Clarence’s handsome face and strained to divine his true nature. Was he sincere? Or was he putting on a performance for Seth and me? If so, he was an excellent actor. But even the finest actors occasionally forget their lines. I would wait and see.

  Chapter Nine

  The recreation building at Foreverglades had been designed with the elderly in mind, whether hale or infirm. Leading to the front entrance was a ramp as well as a short flight of stairs with a metal banister down the center. Inside, the doorways were wide enough to accommodate a wheelchair, and the walls all sported handrails for those unsteady on their feet. The main floor consisted of a wide-open space that could be used for large gatherings—a stretch class was in progress—one end of which was a community kitchen. At the other end, a sign with an arrow pointing downstairs said, THIS WAY TO FITNESS CENTER, LOCKERS, POOL.

  I’d passed the busy tennis courts, fenced swimming pool, and concrete patio, where it looked like a chess tournament was in progress, when I’d walked to the rec hall, as Sam called it, from my apartment, trying and failing to find a shady route. Having left my hat on the shelf of the closet, where it did me no good, I moved as quickly as I could to get out of the burning sun, to which the other pedestrians seemed immune. To my surprise, particularly given how hot it was, the pool was nearly empty. One woman in a skirted black-and-red swimsuit and a bathing cap studded with rubber flowers stood at the shallow end, splashing water onto her arms. Other women, their skin tobacco-colored from years in the sun, sat at three tables under umbrellas, smoking and playing mah-jongg. However, from what I could see through its plate glass windows, the gym was crowded with people riding stationary bicycles and jogging on treadmills.

  The cool interior of the building was a welcome relief from the blast furnace outside, and I wandered around, exploring the facility while my body temperature slowly fell back to normal. Spurning the elevator, I climbed the stairs to the second floor, poking my head into meeting rooms, a combination game room- computer center, a small library in which a lecture on ancient Egypt was taking place, and at least three studios where elderly people, their hands stained gray from modeling clay or blackened by charcoal pencils, explored their artistic sides, until I found Mark Rosner’s office.

  For a big man like Mark, it must have been difficult to work in such a cramped, windowless space with its battered metal filing cabinets, desk piled high with papers, and antiquated computer. A bulletin board on the wall above the desk was so full that I wondered if he ever removed anything once he’d tacked it up. Rosner was on the phone, his white shirt open at the collar, the ends of his bow tie dangling on his chest. He waved me in and pointed to a chair, which I took while waiting for him to conclude his conversation.

  “The tennis pro doesn’t have any more hours on Saturday, Mrs. Lazzara, but he has openings on Wednesday. Bridge day. I see. Forgot about that. Maybe you can switch with one of his Saturday students. No, I have no influence with him. You’ll have to talk to him yourself.” There was a long pause. “I can’t help that. Ms. Kotansky pays for her lessons just like everyone else. Try the community bulletin board. That might work.” Another pause. “All right. I’ll talk to him, but I can’t guarantee anything. You’re welcome. Good-bye.”

  Rosner hung up the phone and grinned at me. “Everybody wants special consideration,” he said, leaning back in his chair, which squeaked under the pressure. “Wish I could accommodate all the requests, but sometimes . . .” He shrugged. “Maybe I can help you. What are you looking for?”

  “I’m Jessica Fletcher, Mr. Rosner.”

  “Ah, yes, one of our hotel guests. How do you like the accommodations? Nice, aren’t they? Did you notice how the kitchen has dishes and utensils? I think there’s a couple of pots, too. You don’t need to bring a thing.”

  “The apartments are lovely,” I said. “We’re not cooking, so we haven’t taken advantage of your kitchen.”

  “Lots of people like to cook, though. Saves a lot of money, especially if you’re here for a long spell.”

  “That’s what I’d like to talk to you about.”

  “You know the units you and your friends are in just came
on the market. I have a few brochures you can take with you.” He reached into the top drawer of his desk.

  “Well, actually, we weren’t interested—”

  “Here you go. This one talks about the financing available. And this one details all the services we have here. You won’t find a better buy in all of south Florida.” He made a little pile of pamphlets in front of me.

  “I’m sure that’s true, but—”

  “They won’t last, these units. Inventory is tight. Usually sell out in a couple of days when they come on the market. I sold one last week to a couple from Michigan.”

  “Thank you, but I’m really not interested in moving to Florida.”

  “It’s an opportunity to get in on the ground floor. The prices will only go up, you know. Good-sized rooms, lots of services included—no extra charge—beautiful views.”

  “You’ll probably lose those views when the proposed development goes up, won’t you?” I said, thinking maybe that would halt his sales pitch long enough for me to get a few words in.

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “There’s a sign advertising luxury towers down at the beach.”

  He made a face. “Shouldn’t be there.”

  “Even if it weren’t,” I said, “many people have mentioned it to me since I arrived. It sounds as if your residents are very upset about the proposal.”

  “There are great views right now,” he said. “Those buildings aren’t there yet. You never know about those things. What if they never go up? You might miss out on a great buy. Foreverglades is still a bargain. You know the old saying, ‘Gotta strike while the iron’s hot.’ Don’t worry about what’s not here.”

  I envisioned the disappointment of the couple from Michigan when they found out their view would be obliterated by three high-rise buildings. Apparently truth in salesmanship was not Mr. Rosner’s strong point.

  “Do you think our rental units will still be available next week?” I asked. “Dr. Hazlitt and I plan to go down to Key West tomorrow, but I’m hoping to stay here again when we return. I’d like to make the arrangements now.”

  He tapped his fingers on the desk. “I don’t know. We might sell the apartments by then.”

  “If you think that’s the case, perhaps you can recommend a hotel or motel nearby,” I said, gathering the brochures he’d piled in front of me and handing them back to him.

  “Keep those. I’m sure we can work something out. Since it’s you, I’ll make the sale contingent on accommodating guests for a week or so. How does that sound?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want to inconvenience your buyers.”

  “No problem. I’ll deal with it.” He studied my expression. “Sure you don’t want to buy a unit?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Yeah, well, no hard feelings. Can’t blame a guy for trying. Gotta earn my commission somehow.” He hesitated, then said, “These are prime units, you know. They’ll go fast.”

  I nodded but said nothing, fearing any words would launch him into a new sales pitch. I had a feeling there were many more empty apartments in his inventory than the three Seth, I, and the Metzgers had occupied, but didn’t voice that opinion. I gave him my credit card number for the deposit and left.

  As I walked back down the hall, Minnie Lewis came around the corner.

  “Hello, Jessica. You’re just the person I want to see. Are you exploring our facilities?” she asked.

  I explained my reason for being there.

  “I’m giving a cooking class in a half hour,” she said, “but thought I’d e-mail my grandchildren first. Have you seen our computer room?”

  “I saw it in passing,” I said, “but didn’t go in.”

  “Do you have a minute? I’ll show you around.”

  “I do,” I said.

  “I’ve also been meaning to ask you something.”

  “Yes?” I said.

  “Let’s wait till we can close the door,” she said in a low voice.

  The computer center, unlike most of the other rooms, was empty. It consisted of a long lopsided counter, held up on one end by a chair that had been wedged underneath. Perched on the slanting top were two large desktop computers of the same vintage as Mark Rosner’s. Attached to each was a combination printer, scanner, and fax machine. Lying next to each monitor and keyboard was a thick instruction book, set in large type, and a credit card device to pay for using the Internet. A bookshelf at the far end of the room held an assortment of board games—chess, Scrabble, checkers, Monopoly—as well as decks of playing cards, and a caddy holding poker chips. Four square tables and a stack of chairs were pushed against the wall.

  Minnie closed the door behind us and pulled two chairs over to the counter.

  “These are pretty old,” she said, gesturing toward the computers. “Then again, so am I. I’d better not complain.”

  I laughed. “It’s still a nice convenience for the residents.”

  “It is for me,” she said. “A lot of people have their own computers. Portia did. That’s why the management didn’t bother to put too many in here, and doesn’t update them. But Sam did business for fifty years with an adding machine, paper, and pen, so we didn’t see the point in buying a computer at our age.”

  “That makes sense.”

  She fussed with her handbag, pulling out a handkerchief. “Speaking of technology,” she said, her voice shaky, “I understand the results from the laboratory tests on Portia came back.” She looked at me, waiting to see my reaction. “Do you know anything about that?”

  I nodded.

  She cleared her throat. “Tell me it didn’t say that she died from a heart attack brought on by diet pills.”

  “Where did you learn that?” I asked.

  “Foreverglades is very small, and there’s no such thing as a secret. Helen called me. I don’t know where she heard it—her beauty parlor, probably. Is it true? Do you know?” She dabbed her mouth with her handkerchief.

  I wondered how Helen had come to that conclusion. I hadn’t mentioned the autopsy report when I’d visited her, but she might have guessed, based on my questions. Or perhaps Clarence had confided the results to someone, and the Foreverglades grapevine had taken care of the rest.

  “Yes. It’s true,” I said.

  “They make mistakes sometimes, don’t they? They could have mixed up two people, maybe.”

  “Everyone makes mistakes,” I said, “but in this case it’s highly unlikely the results are from someone else and not Portia.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.” She shivered. “That’s not good, not good at all.”

  There was a knock on the door, and Minnie and I turned to see the Simmons twins march in one behind the other. They wore matching canvas carpenter’s aprons around the waists of their overalls. Hammers and screwdrivers hung from loops at their hips. They pushed up the peaks of their orange baseball caps and nodded at us in unison.

  “Here to fix the counter,” said Earl. I’d noticed he was slightly heavier than his brother, a clue to his identity.

  “Fix the counter,” Burl echoed.

  The pair busied themselves with their project. It was interesting to see that they needed little or no verbal communication to coordinate their efforts. Together they wrestled out the chair that had been propping up the counter, and while Burl held up the end, Earl crawled underneath and started hammering, the racket especially loud in the small room.

  Minnie covered her ears with both hands and stood. “I guess I’ll have to use the computer later,” she shouted over the noise. She waved for me to follow her.

  Out in the hall she walked quickly, pulling me along to a broom closet, where she flipped on a light and closed the door behind us. “I don’t want us to be heard,” she said in a low voice. “No one will interrupt us here.”

  “I understand,” I said, thinking Sam was not the only eccentric in the family.

  “Listen, Jessica, Portia was my best friend. I would have known if she was taking diet
pills.”

  “People sometimes keep secrets, Minnie, even from their best friends.”

  “You’ll never convince me,” she said, pacing in the small space. “If Portia died from taking diet pills, then someone poisoned her.”

  “Do you know what you’re suggesting?” I asked.

  Tears filled her eyes, and she wiped them away angrily. “Yes, and I didn’t sleep half the night thinking about it.”

  “Let’s look at this logically,” I said. “How could someone put a tablet in Portia’s pillbox without her noticing?”

  “Clarence filled her pillboxes every day,” she replied. “I’d hate to think he would do that, but he certainly could have smuggled an extra pill into her regimen without her realizing. She trusted him. She would just pour out a handful of pills and swallow them down. She never even looked at them, much less counted them.”

  “How many pillboxes did she have?” I asked.

  “One for each mealtime, I guess,” she replied. “I don’t know if she had more than that. I do know she carried one with her in her bag in case she wasn’t home when it was time to take the next dose.”

  The closet door was flung open to reveal matching expressions of shock on the faces of the Simmons twins.

  “Pardon us,” I said, squeezing by them, Minnie close on my heels. “Where now?” I asked her.

  We hurried down the staircase and Minnie guided me into the kitchen, where her class would soon be held. She closed the door and leaned against it. “They won’t come in here.”

  “Let’s say it wasn’t Clarence,” I said, trying to gather my thoughts. It was hard to carry on an interview on the move. “How could someone else sneak another pill into her supply?”

  “Oh, it would have been so easy.” Minnie said, dabbing at her eyes. “She was very careless about her handbag. She never remembered where she’d left it. When the Residents’ Committee would meet, she’d just drop it on some table and go off buttonholing people, urging them to vote on whatever issue she was working on. Plus, her vision was terrible. I can’t tell you how many times I had to help her hunt for her bag after a meeting. Sometimes it was just sitting on a table in the hallway, or on the floor by her seat. Once I found it here, in the kitchen. She’d brought in some snacks, stopped to put them on a plate, got distracted, and forgot all about her bag.”