Getting Old Is Criminal (35 page)

“You love to read.”

“Of course I do. I just want to be surprised
some time.”

“Remember what your daddy says about
books?”

“Yes, I do.” She mimicked, “Books are the
windows of the soul. With books you’ll never
be lonely.”

She jumped down and raced to the window
again. “I think I see Daddy coming. I recognize how he swings his briefcase. Now my
party can start.”

Gladdy smiled, relieved. She walked over to
the window to join Emily. Jack always waved
to them before he came up. She didn’t want to
miss it. She reached out and gently guided a
wisp of Emily’s hair behind her ear.

Jack had named their daughter after the
poet Emily Dickinson, hoping his beautiful
child might one day be a poet, too.

Suddenly, a Dickinson quote popped into
her head.

Because I could not stop for death, He kindly stopped for me;

It was then Gladdy heard the scream.

FATHER & SON NIGHT

“I should be getting home,” Jack Langford says to his son, Morrie.

“It’s only ten o’clock. What are you worried about? You’ll turn into a pumpkin?”

“Very funny.”

The two men are clearing the table in Morrie’s small stucco house in a suburb of Fort Lauderdale. The kitchen and dining room are one unit, which makes it easy—perfect for a bachelor. “Too bad you’re such a good cook,” Jack comments, setting their plates in the sink.

“That’s an odd thing to say, ungrateful even, since you polished off every bit of my beef Stroganoff.”

“Maybe if you went hungry every night, you’d finally pick some nice girl and settle down.”

“Now you sound like mom.” The two men pause and smile in memory of Faye, wonderful wife and mother.

“You’re pushing forty, sonny boy.”

“I might remind you, you didn’t marry until you were forty.”

Jack grins, enjoying the banter between father and son. “That’s different. In those lean days I needed to earn more money before I could settle down.” He reaches across the table for his wine glass and take a sip.

“And what about Lisa?” Morrie rolls up his cuffs, turns on the hot water in the sink and squeezes soap onto a sponge. “My sister didn’t marry early either. She wanted her career first.

So, there you are; late marriage runs in the family.”

Ignoring his futile argument, Jack plunges on, still smiling. “What was wrong with that beautiful redhead, Annie? I liked her.”

“She was a micro-manager, needed to know where I was every minute of the day. What I was thinking every moment. Not good for a cop’s wife.”

“And Lynn? You told me she was perfect.”

“She was. For someone else. That’s what she said when she returned my ring.”

“Oops. You never told me that part.”

“Hey, maybe I’m just unlucky in love.”

“Or too picky. Keep looking. You better watch out or the guys in the station will think you’re gay.”

“Or smart. Especially the disillusioned divorced ones.”

It’s a running joke between Morrie and his father, a retired cop himself, since Morrie’s fellow detective and best friend—and former partner—Oz Washington is gay. But everyone knows Oz is a rotten cook. So much for stereotypes.

“You should talk.” Morrie hands his dad a towel while he washes the plates. “What about Micheline? Why didn’t you marry her.

You were soooo in love. When was it when you took that trip to France?

Jack is startled. He hasn’t thought about Micheline in a long time. He’d written off their time together as a month’s fantasy. The beautiful, sexy Frenchwoman and the lonely American. The perfect vacation. The perfect love affair. Why had he been so afraid to bring her home to Florida with him? Wasn’t he tempted to stay with her, to live in Paris? No, he couldn’t be so far from his children, even now that they were all grown. Not that he was so sure Micheline would have come to America, either; she was famous in Paris, with her own television talk show. And she was much younger. But Jack had never even asked her—he was so sure Micheline would turn him down.

“I should never have even mentioned it.”

Morrie grins, mimicking, “ ‘Mentioned it’?

you mooned around for months, drove us all crazy. ‘Should I go back? Should I call?’ ”

“No use crying over something that’s long gone.” Jack sighs. Fantasy, all fantasy. But every person should have one once in their lives.

“And now, Mr. Authority on Commitment, why haven’t you swept Gladdy Gold off her feet yet? I eagerly look at my mail every day waiting for my invitation to the wedding.”

Jack shakes his head. “Gladdy hasn’t emotionally buried her late husband yet. She thinks she has, but she hasn’t. And so she clings to her sister and her friends, afraid to move on.”

“But she was finally willing to go away with you after getting her off the cruise ship. To a secret island. Another perfect vacation?”

Jack swats his son with the damp towel.

“Don’t remind me. If she really wanted to be alone with me, she wouldn’t have told Bella where we were going. I suspect she was relieved to get the fax that forced us to come home early. On an unconscious level, that is.”

“Thank you, Dr. Freud.”

“She’d deny it, but I think I’m right.”

By now all the dishes had been washed and dried, so the two men headed for the door.

“Eat and run, you’re that kind of guy,” says Morrie, punching his father gently on the shoulder.

“I guess I’m always hoping to get home and find a message from Gladdy on my machine.”

“Hey, Dad, the phone works two ways. You could call her.”

“No.” Jack shakes his head. “She needs the time alone to work it out in her own mind.”

“So your plan is to wait until she comes to you?”

“I’m working on a different plan, actually.

I’m thinking of going up to New York for a while.”

“And . . . ?”

“Visit your sister and Dan and the kids.”

“And? Stop stalling. I know you’re up to something.”

“Visit some of my old cronies in my old precinct . . .”

“And? More ‘ands’?”

“And try to reopen Gladdy’s case and see if I can find out who murdered her husband.”