The Stiff and the Dead (5 page)

Goldie was a cosmetics whiz, as evidenced by his looks. I'd tried to learn from him in the past how to brighten my ever-so-pale complexion and make my gray eyes stand out. I often thought I looked too Polish. But now, leaning near for a few seconds, I had to blink past the wire-rimmed glasses he'd stuck on my nose.

“I look ancient.” My heart thudded at the thought that this was how I was going to look in fifty years. Not even a computer could have enhanced this kind of image. All I could think of was, I better get married before all this happens. In the meantime, though, I'd decided to become a career woman. Still, I'd tuck this image of myself in the back of my mind in case the marriage thing became a desire.

Goldie turned to give me a high five. “Perfect.”

“I'm not sure I can go through with this.” I stepped closer. “Don't you think someone will recognize me?”

“Do you?”

“Recognize myself or think someone else—”

“Yeah, recognize yourself.” He leaned back, tugged at the belt of his gold and black paisley robe and tapped a finger to his lips. “I wouldn't.”

After copious nudges from Goldie to leave and a half glass of chardonnay followed by a Budweiser, I found myself standing in the doorway of the Hope Valley Senior Citizens Center, looking very much, I hoped, not like myself.

I heard a shuffling sound and turned to see Mr. Richardson, whose prostate I hoped had shrunk, and Benny, the usher from the movie theater, coming up the sidewalk. The building was level with the sloped walkway, and so there weren't any front steps.

They both stopped—and stared.

I gulped loudly and tried to smile, although the makeup Goldie had pasted onto my face was nearly ready to crack. Suddenly I thought of Robin Williams in
Mrs. Doubtfire.

“Hello, sweetie,” Benny said.

I couldn't distinguish the tone. At first I thought he used it as if I were a thirty-something dressed for Halloween. Then he winked.

There is a God.

Mr. Richardson scuffled forward. “You're new around here.”

As if I had dementia and didn't know that. I nodded.

“Come on, sweetie,” Benny said, taking my hand from the door. He paused.

I looked down. Goldie had forgotten my hands! They didn't look over seventy. Then again, my eyesight had to be a thousand times better than the folks who came here. Benny was in motion again, opening the door for me.

“We'll introduce you and get you a nice, warm cup of coffee.” He stepped aside. “With those hands, you look used to having someone take care of you.”

I sighed.

“Passed away, did he?”

He who? Oh, my husband. “Several years ago,” I replied.

Once inside, it looked as if the world were running in slow motion. Men sat at tables playing cards, chatting and laughing. A group of women sat in rows of chairs ever so slowly doing arm exercises instructed by a young guy in a black leotard. Maybe I could have come here as that? But no, I stood between the two elderly gentlemen, disguised as an aged female, yet felt as if I stood out like a tick on a white dog.

I was introduced to everyone, fed melba toast sans butter, sugar-free cookies, and dried prunes. All was washed down with very weak coffee laden with Equal and nondairy creamer. My stomach flipped several times as I cruised the room by myself.

There in the back row of the exercise ladies sat Sophie Banko, rolling her arms as if she thought the slabs of fat hanging off would tumble to the ground. At least I thought it was her. I had to lift up my fake glasses to be sure. Looked just like the photo in my file.

Bingo.

I'd introduce myself as soon as her arms thinned. I swung around in time to see Uncles Walt and Stash walk in like an Oreo cookie with a Helen Wanat filling sandwiched between the two.

Suddenly I had to get out of there. I started to hurry, and then got a suspicious look from Benny. No one in this room except maybe Mr. Leotard traveled at that speed. I slowed, shuffled and tried to get to the door. Benny grabbed my arm and yanked me toward my uncles!

“Hello, fellas. Meet our new member.” He turned toward me with a look of horror on his face. I readied for him to say, “Your niece,” but all he said was, “I never got your name, sweetie.”

“Pau . . . Peggy. Peggy—” I felt the fake sagging boobs Goldie had fashioned sag a bit more. “—Doubtme. Peggy Doubtme.” I pronounced it “Doubtmay” as if I were French. “Real name is Margaret, but I go by Peggy,” I rambled nervously. “My mother, God rest her soul, refused to call me Peggy and when someone would call on the phone asking for Peggy, Mamma would say, ‘You mean
Margaret
.'” I chuckled. Alone.

Uncle Stash took my hand and shook it vigorously. He winked and said, “Nice to meet you, Peggy.”

I tried to ease backward so Uncle Walt wouldn't get a direct look at me. He stood there staring.

Oh, boy.

Suddenly he took my hand from his brother's and said, “Very nice to meet you. I hope you enjoy yourself here, and don't hesitate to ask me anything. Anything at all.” He dropped my hand.

I gulped.

He smiled.

Did he know?

Helen leaned in close. “Keep your distance, Doubtme.” The words came out slowly, nearly silently and without her lips moving.

Benny interrupted with, “Get her another coffee, light and sweet, Walt. Peggy's a widow and used to being waited on.”

Uncle Walt gave a slight bow and moved away, followed by Uncle Stash. I leaned against the wall and shut my eyes.

“Call 911! Call 911!” Benny shouted.

My eyes flew open in registered nurse mode. “What? What's wrong?”

He shook his hands as if to erase his words. “Holy mackerel, Peggy. I thought you was gonna pass out on us.”

Oh, boy, again. I really had to have my wits about me in this place. Doing surveillance on Sophie to see how unhealthy she really was and did she need all the meds she got and trying to find the truth about Mr. W's death was a hell of a lot harder than tailing a workers' comp case.

After an hour, I had forced down the third cup of coffee Uncle Walt had brought me, played six games of gin rummy with a mixed group of seniors, and watched my Uncle Stash flirt with every woman in the room. All the while, I made up a fake family of three married children, six male grandchildren, and a dead husband who had been a math schoolteacher all his life.

Then, I set my sights on Sophie.

Thank goodness my uncles didn't seem to recognize me. I said a silent thanks to Goldie and my favorite saint, Saint Theresa, although I knew I should be mentioning something to Saint Jude, the patron saint of hopeless causes.

Sophie walked to the food table, but not before several men came up to her to chat. Geez. Maybe size doesn't matter. She sure seemed popular with the males.

I wove my way through the gang now dancing the polka. Before someone could commandeer me to dance, I sidled up to Sophie. “Nice place this here is.”

She turned, looked at my waistline. Goldie had stuffed some old sweaters into my underwear to make a wonderful elderly potbelly, but I was still only a size nine. Sophie was in double digits.

“Yeah, good cookies.”

I made small talk with her until the cookie tray was empty and my stomach ached. I swore I wouldn't eat desserts for weeks even if my mother made my favorite homemade chocolate cake with one-inch-thick frosting and eight ounces of cream cheese in it.

I leaned nearer to her. “So, any of these guys capable of any action?”

At first she hesitated, then she turned to me. “If they aren't, things can be fixed.”

I readied to ask what she meant when I felt a hand on my arm. I turned to see Joey the Wooer. Great.

His smile nearly melted the last sugar cookie I held in my hand.

“So, Sophie, who's-a the new bellisima?”

Sophie introduced us and then split. I tried to get away, but found myself alone with Joey. Who would have thought a woman the size of Sophie could disappear so fast? Maybe she and Joey were in cahoots. Maybe they were working on the Viagra scam. Maybe he helped her commit prescription fraud.

But he looked so damned dapper compared to every other man in there.

Before I could think of a question to trip him up, he said, “
Bellisima,
will you do me the honors?”

Before I knew it, I was polkaing across the room in the arms of Joey the Wooer, all the while thinking I might be in the wrong profession.

Also, how I was insane to come here.

And, Joey smelled good.

Damn good.

What the hell?

Polkaing in the senior citizens center in Joey the Wooer's arms was not like any nursing job I've ever worked on.

If it weren't for the fact that I had little knowledge of what to do to investigate Sophie Banko, this wasn't a bad gig. But in my Polish stubbornness, I intended to investigate till I
did
know what to do.

I inhaled Joey's cologne.

My insides tingled. What? I yanked myself free. Just because my body
looked
older, I shouldn't be finding myself attracted to him! “I . . . my . . . I have to go. Go. Yes. Go.”

Damn, but my body was confused.

Joey gave me a polite smile and gestured toward the hallway. “Second door on the left.”

“Hmm?”

“Ladies' room?”

As I nodded and scurried away from Joey, I wondered if my red-hot complexion showed through the layers of pancake makeup and fake wrinkles. I had to look ruddier than feverish Goldie.

I didn't know what was more humiliating, my reaction to an old man or his thinking I was a candidate for adult diapers. That crossed my mind as I ran down the hallway and into the ladies' room. With my bladder only a third the age of most women at the center, I really didn't need to be in here as Joey assumed, but when I got a look at myself in the mirror, I was damn glad he'd gotten confused.

The “wrinkles” Goldie had fashioned with some tape and pancake makeup were sliding to the side of my face. Gave my eyes an Asian flavor. Oh, boy. I hoped no one noticed. Then again, most of these folks had vision that ran in the triple digits. I convinced myself I was safe. Then I hurried into a stall and grabbed a handful of toilet tissue. Back at the mirror, I wiped the sides ever so gently so as not to yank the wrinkles off.

The door opened.

My hand froze.

I turned around in time to see Helen lighting a cigarette. No wonder the deep voice. Her head flew up, our gazes locked, and I'm not sure who was more embarrassed, she or I.

When she looked at the tissue, I decided it was me.

Then I noticed the huge “NO SMOKING” sign on the wall to the left. Gotcha. I squinted at her—and then began to cough my brains out.

“Shit.” She nonchalantly headed to the sink, took one long pull on the cigarette, then ran water over it and dumped it into the trash.

Suddenly I remembered the wrinkles and figured if I coughed too hard, they'd end up on my droopy chest. After a quick peek in the mirror showed me my wrinkles would pass for now, I started to turn.

“So, where the hell did you come from anyway?” she asked.

I'm guessing Helen was not known for being tactful. “Excuse me?” I tried to make my voice sound like my grandmother's, but truthfully, I sounded more like a thirty-four-year-old trying to sound over seventy. Helen didn't seem to notice or if she did, she didn't care. She was more concerned about where I had come from and how long I'd be here.
Cutting into your territory, Helen?
I wondered.

She pushed past me and headed into one of the stalls. I could make my getaway now, but that would be rude. I didn't want to be a rude elderly widow. Helen seemed to have that label down pat.

Two other women came in and nodded. One went into the other stall and the other went to wash out her dentures. Damn. I found my tongue running across my teeth, thankful they didn't come out.

“Where'd you come from and how long you gonna be in Hope Valley?” Helen asked.

Feeling foolish talking to her feet, I turned and looked at myself in the mirror. The woman without her dentures leaned closer. “Stay out of the sun, honey, and give Botox a try,” she said with her tongue slapping at her gums.

Hmm, she had darn smooth skin. “Thanks.” I sighed and turned enough so she couldn't see my slipping wrinkles anymore. “I'm here, visiting my nephew, Helen. Dear boy.”

The toilet flushed. The door opened and she walked out still zipping up her slacks. “How long?”

“Well, maybe a month or two.”
Or until your buddy Sophie is locked up.

“Month or two.” She came closer.

I backed up.

Didn't stop her as she nearly stepped on Mrs. Honeysuckle's shoe. “Keep away from Walt and Stash.”

My elderly hackles rose. “Well, I never. If I want to dance with any of those gentlemen—”

“Then you'll have to deal with me, old lady.” With that she turned and walked out.

“Your breath smells like smoke,” I called out after her, then turned to see the toothless woman grin. What a stupid thing to say, yeah, I knew it. But at least the toothless woman found it humorous. Me, I needed to slink out of there and get back to being myself.

This case might prove much more complicated than I thought.

After my run-in with Helen, I tried to stay clear of her. For as much as I wanted to head back to my condo and change, I hadn't really accomplished anything here yet. Goldie had said I needed to “hang out” around this place more, and I knew he was right. He always gave me the best advice to learn how to do my job, and I had yet to give up even when reality hit me in the face. I'd always been that stubborn kid who persisted when everyone else quit.

Pretending I couldn't see a wave from my Uncle Stash, who, I'm guessing, wanted to dance, I turned to look around the room. Hey, the poor vision of old age had its benefits, and I drew the line at dancing with either uncle—and not because of Helen's threat. There at the snack table stood Sophie. Mental note to myself: When looking for Sophie, find food.