Dying to Retire (3 page)

Mort tapped me on the shoulder. “Excuse me, Mrs. F?”

“Yes, Mort. Have you met Helen Davison, a friend of Portia’s?”

“How do, ma’am,” Mort said, extending his hand. “Would you mind if I pulled Mrs. F away from you for a moment? There’s something I think she needs to hear.”

“Now, Mort, sweetie, that’s not polite,” Maureen said.

“I’m sorry honey bun, but it’s important.”

“That’s fine,” Helen said. “You go right ahead. Carrie probably can use some company in the kitchen. She shouldn’t have to be serving all by herself.”

“Why don’t I come help you,” Maureen said.

“Thank you. We can always use an extra hand.”

“I’d like to talk with you again, Helen, if I may,” I said.

“Of course, Jessica, anytime. I live just downstairs, on the first floor.”

Mort, who had been impatiently hopping from one foot to the other, drew me across the room and down the hall to where Sam, our driver, was standing outside the master bedroom.

“Sam, please tell Mrs. F what you told me.”

Sam looked over my shoulder to be sure no one else was coming. His eyes darted between Mort’s and mine. “She trustworthy?”

“Who? Mrs. F? She knows more about crimes and criminals than half the police in . . . well, probably in the country.”

“Mort, that’s quite an exaggeration,” I said.

“Maybe, but not by much,” he conceded. “Of course you can trust her,” he told Sam. “You trusted me, didn’t you?”

Sam coughed. “Yes, but you’re an officer of the law.”

“Well, Mrs. F has been my deputy many a time, I can tell you that. She knows all about murder.” Mort looked at me. “Sam thinks Mrs. Shelby was murdered, and he thinks he knows who did it.”

“Darn it! Let me tell my own story,” Sam said. “I know it better than you. You’re giving away the punch line.”

“An accusation of murder is no joke,” I said gently.

“Aw, I didn’t mean punch line. I meant the meat of the story.”

“Let’s go in here,” Mort said, herding us into the bedroom and closing the door.

The master bedroom was small, but pretty. Flowered wallpaper—pink roses and peonies—covered three of the walls and complemented a patterned rug. The fourth wall was all closets, with mirrored doors. A queen-size bed took up most of the space, and someone—probably Clarence—had made an effort to tidy up, making the bed with an aqua-and-pink-striped spread, which was slightly askew. A pair of maple dressers, covered with medicine bottles, was arranged side by side across from the bed. A green tufted chair was nestled in a corner. Mort pulled over the chair and indicated that I should sit. Sam perched on the edge of the bed.

“Go ahead, Sam,” Mort said.

Sam nodded sharply at Mort and looked at me. “First, I gotta tell you that I’m working for the police.”

“You are?” I said.

“Yup. It’s very common down here. The cops’re always short-staffed and short-funded, if that’s the right word. They use us seniors to man the phones and do the filing and such. They want us because we’re reliable, you understand. No coming in late and giving excuses. I’m no teenager. You can see that for yourself. I’ll be eighty-four next summer, although everyone tells me I don’t look a day over seventy-five. And it’s not volunteer, you know. They pay us, too. Not a lot, of course, but it helps with Social Security so measly. Don’t get me started on that. It’s barely enough to live on, even here in Florida, where the cost of living is a lot lower than in New York. That’s where I used to live before I retired.”

Mort, who’d been pacing behind my chair, stopped. “C’mon, Sam. Get to the story,” he said.

“I’m getting there. Hold your horses.” He looked at me. “No patience, these youngsters,” he said, cocking his head in Mort’s direction. “Everyone’s in a hurry. It’s always rush, rush, rush. In my day, people took their time about things, and—”

“Sam!” Mort was about to explode.

“And had more respect for their elders,” Sam finished. He held up one hand. “Okay. Okay. Where was I?” He leaned down to tighten the Velcro strips on his gym shoes and straightened again. “Oh, yeah. So I work at the station house, answer the phones—there’s also a dispatcher, but that’s a young guy—and I hear these cops talking about Portia.”

“What did they say?” I asked.

“That the medical examiner had ordered an autopsy.”

“Isn’t that common with an accidental death, or one where the circumstances are not clear?”

Sam frowned. “I don’t know. I guess so.”

“Do the police suspect that she was murdered?”

“I think so, and I think I know the guy.”

“Who do you think murdered Portia?”

“Tony Colombo.”

“Who’s Tony Colombo?” I asked.

“He owns the pizza parlor down in the village, but it’s his cousin does the cooking. There’s something suspicious about that.”

“Perhaps he has other business talents,” I said. “Why do you think he murdered Portia?”

Sam squinted at me. “I’ve been keeping an eye on this guy. Let me give you a little history, first. I used to live in New York—I told you that already—and on the news they were always talking about the families. You ever heard of the Colombo family?”

“Are you talking about the Colombo crime family?”

Sam smiled at Mort. “She’s a lot smarter than I thought.”

“I told you,” Mort said.

“Yup, that’s who I’m talking about. The five families.” He counted on his fingers as he named the families. “Bonanno, Lucchese, Gambino, Genovese, and”—he paused for effect—“Colombo. That’s the New York mob. I think this guy is a hit man, sent down from New York to ice Portia.”

I sighed. “Sam, why would the mob want to kill Portia?”

“She must have found out something incriminating about him. Colombo, that is. You may not know this, but Portia was on the Foreverglades Residents’ Committee. She knew a lot about a lot of people.”

“If he’s a hit man, why would Tony Colombo bother to open a pizza parlor?” I asked.

“A cover. Not a bad one either. They make pretty good pizza.”

“But, Sam,” I said, “what evidence do you have that the Tony Colombo who owns this pizza parlor is a member of a crime family? Colombo is a common Italian name. In fact, I know of a famous policeman with that name.”

“Sure, sure. It’s a common name, but this guy is a mobster.”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“I’ve been keeping him under surveillance ever since he got here, and he’s acting very suspicious.”

I glanced up at Mort.

“Sheesh, Sam. You told me the police were watching this guy, not that
you
were watching this guy.”

Sam straightened up. “I work for the police. That’s as good as.”

“It’s not the same thing, Sam,” Mort said, barely controlling his exasperation. “You’re not a cop. You’re a volunteer.”

“A paid volunteer.”

“Yeah. Okay. A paid volunteer,” Mort said, slapping his hands on his hips. “But you told me the cops were watching this guy because he was out to get Mrs. Shelby. That’s not what you’re saying now. I’m sorry, Mrs. F. I thought he had a real inside scoop.”

“I do. I do,” Sam said.

Our conversation was interrupted by a knock on the bedroom door. Seth poked his head in. “There you are, Jess. I was looking for you.”

I stood up. “Well, you found me.”

“Excuse me, Doc,” Mort said, sliding sideways past Seth and escaping into the hall. “I think I hear my wife calling me.”

“Sam,” I said, “I appreciate your telling us the story. I’m not sure we have anything to worry about with Mr. Colombo, but let’s wait to see what the police have to say when the autopsy report comes back. Okay?”

Sam saluted me. “Right you are, chief,” he said, grinning.

“And Sam,” I called after him as he walked into the hall. He turned. “In the meantime, let’s keep this just among the three of us. I think the police would prefer that, don’t you?”

“You don’t have to worry about me. It’ll be top secret.” He ran his fingers across his lips as if zipping them up. “My lips are sealed. It’ll just be the three of us.”

“Thank you.”

“What the devil was that about?” Seth asked, walking over to the bureau and surveying the items arrayed across the top.

“I’m afraid Sam has an active imagination,” I replied, “and if he’s not careful, he could get himself sued for slander.”

“That bad, huh?”

“That bad.”

Seth picked up a brown bottle and squinted at the label. “You know the big guy we saw talking to the twins?”

“Yes?”

“That was Mark Rosner.”

“Oh. The manager. I’ll have to go and say hello.”

“It’ll have to be tomorrow. He’s already left.” He put the bottle down and picked up another one. “Told me about the twins—Nuts and Bolts, he calls them. Real names are Earl and Burl Simmons. They’re maintenance people here. One of them is a bit slow, he said. They’ve never been separated. Live together next door to the post office, and both work for the development.”

“You certainly found out a lot about them in a short time.”

“Ayuh. Always wear matching clothing.”

“Their mother must have dressed them alike as children and they’ve kept up the habit,” I said.

“He said they’re very reliable, really run the place.” His voice trailed off.

“What are you looking at so intently?”

“Portia’s pills.”

I joined Seth in front of one of the dressers. I’d noticed the bottles, but hadn’t examined them. Two rows of prescription medicines and nutritional supplements in various-size bottles were lined up across the top. On a mirrored tray in front of them, along with her watch, earrings, eyeglass case, and wedding band, was Portia’s white plastic pill organizer with sections designated for each day of the week, two of which were open and empty. Seth flipped up the lid for Wednesday, and peered at the array of pills and capsules.

“See anything of interest?” I asked.

“I’m just wonderin’ about these ones here,” he said, poking his finger into the compartment. “Can’t imagine why Portia would be taking this with a bad heart.”

I heard a metallic jingling sound before a deep voice from behind us said, “Excuse me. Is there something you need?”

Clarence stood in the doorway, a scowl on his face, one hand rattling the change in his pocket.

“Hello, Clarence. We met earlier,” I said, going to the green chair and pushing it back into the corner Mort had taken it from. “I’m Jessica Fletcher, one of Portia’s friends from Cabot Cove, and this is Seth Hazlitt.”

“I know who you are. What I don’t know is what you’re doing in my bedroom.”

Seth put a hand under my elbow and pushed me toward the door. “Mrs. Fletcher was feeling a mite peaked,” he said, his Maine accent thickening, “what with the flight and the long ride from the airport. So we ducked in heah so she could set a spell. She’ll be right as rain in a bit. No need for you to worry.”

“Why did you tell him I was sick?” I asked when we were back in the living room.

“Got us out of the room without having to explain, now, didn’t it?”

“It did,” I said, “but I think we may want to look around again sometime.”

“Not necessary,” Seth said, giving me a secret smile. “I’ve got what we need.”

“You do?”

“Ayuh.” He pulled his hand halfway out of his jacket pocket, his fingers wrapped around Portia’s white pillbox.

“What are we doing with that?”

“Thought I might stroll down to the local drugstore and ask the pharmacist about a couple of Portia’s pills.”

“Is that really necessary?”

“Well, I just can’t understand why a woman like Portia would be taking something athletes used to use. If I’m right, that is, about what kind of pills I saw.”

“Portia? Taking pills that athletes use?”

“Used to. Not anymore.”

“Why not anymore?”

“Probably because it killed them.”

“Harry, Mrs. Rodriguez is coming in for the insulin. Where’d you put it?”

“It’s under W in the prescription box.”

“And where’s the Saint-John’s-wort?”

“Aisle three, second shelf. Who wants it, Ronnie?”

“Mrs. Lazzara.”

“If she’s taking any diet meds or antidepressants, tell her she can’t have it. There could be a danger of interaction.”

“Okay.”

“And if she buys it, tell her no red wine, aged cheese, or chicken livers.”

“What was that again, Harry?”

“Hang on a minute. Let me come talk to her.”

Seth and I had gone to Weinstein’s Pharmacy in Foreverglades Village, ostensibly to find sunglasses for me and extra razor blades for him, but as Sam probably would have put it, we were “casing the joint.” The pharmacist, Harry, was filling prescriptions behind the counter in the back, while a cherubic man named Ronnie and his daughter, Sandy, handled the customers out front. Fully half the store was a gift shop, overflowing with a wide variety of attractive items. I could have done all my Christmas shopping there without walking out the door. The other half was a drugstore, a small portion of which was stocked with traditional products like shampoo and foot powder, electric toothbrushes and headache remedies. But by far the largest section was devoted to vitamins, minerals, herbs, and other nutritional supplements, some with exotic names like hawthorn, ginseng, goldenseal, and feverfew.

“I might like those on you,” Seth said, “if the label didn’t cover your nose.”

I looked at myself in the mirror and grimaced. The sunglasses I’d chosen to try on, like all the ones on the display rack, had a green label tied to the nosepiece.

“Isn’t it silly?” Sandy said. “That’s the way they come in, and there’s nothing we can do about it.” The young woman handed me another pair and I tried them on. In addition to the label dangling between the lenses, there was a round sticker on one lens with the letters UV in red.