Getting Old Is Criminal Rita Lakin

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THIRTEEN

WILMINGTON HOUSE

A s usual, Evvie is my copilot. Her lap is filled

with maps and whatever else she thought necessary to bring with us on the hour drive up north to Palm Beach, home of the posh Wilmington House. We've dressed up as best we could this morning with our limited "better" wardrobe. Torn between pantsuits and skirts, we ended up wearing dresses. The ones we usually save for weddings. Though we hated to have to wear stockings.

I've even had my old Chevy wagon washed for the occasion.

Evvie reads to me. " 'Palm Beach is twelve miles long and three quarters of a mile wide, home to some of the richest families in America and their biggest dirty secrets. The famous Rush Limbaugh drug arrest. William Kennedy Smith's rape case . . .' "

"What are you reading?"

"An old gossip magazine I found in the laundry room." She flips through the pictures. "Juicy stuff. Everybody who's anybody's been here. Even John Lennon once was, and the Trumps still go there."

"You know, sister? Maybe this isn't going to be as easy as I expect. The rich are not so easy to deal with."

"Nonsense. When we explain why we're here, no problema."

As we drive down the area's main artery, the lavish Worth Avenue, Evvie continues her travelogue. "Wow, look at the stores: Tiffany and Cartier, Armani. Look at the cars—Ferraris, Bentleys, Rolls-Royces. Look at those wardrobes, double wow! And look at those old guys with young girls."

"Maybe they're nurses."

"I doubt it. I can see the diamonds sparkling from here."

Finally we arrive at Wilmington House and it's as imposing as the town around it. I recognize the style of the architecture as Art Deco. The cars in the parking area are equally impressive. I search for a spot that's far from the entrance, hoping to hide my pathetic old wreck among those of the working staff.

A young man hurries out to take our car. He looks puzzled. As we march past him, Evvie murmurs, "Taxi."

Once inside, we are meant to be awed by the luxury around us. The Art Deco colors, olives and grays, are muted and restful. A tall, thin, forty-ish brunette stands before us quivering with officiousness. She introduces herself as the manager, Hope Watson. She wears a navy blue suit with a tailored white blouse and is as stiff as the starch in her shirt. Ms. Watson is disappointed. We weren't what she expected when she gave us this appointment a couple of days ago.

"May we speak to you privately?" I say in my best modulated voice. Evvie immediately straightens her shoulders and holds her head higher.

I can tell by the look in Ms. Watson's eyes as we are ushered into her office that she knows we shop at Target and not at Saks. And she knows exactly what we paid for our outfits.

"May I ask your business here?" Hope Watson takes a stance, arms folded, behind her desk in her simple but lavish office. "I hope you haven't come to sell something. We have a purchasing department that handles that."

"No, we're not sales reps," I begin.

"Where do you come from?" she asks.

"Fort Lauderdale," Evvie informs her.

"Where in Fort Lauderdale?"

I know what she's fishing for and I am tempted to lie, but that would be a mistake with the likes of her.

I answer. "In Lauderdale Lakes, actually. West Oakland Park Boulevard." Might as well give her what she's already guessed. "In the fifties." Which tells her we're nowhere near the beach, or anything else expensive.

"We have a gigantic Publix supermarket," Evvie offers as a possible honor. "And we're not too far from the Inverarry golf course."

"I see," she says icily.

I'm sure she does.

I try to bring her back to the point of our visit. "We have been hired by a Mr. Alvin Ferguson—"

Rudeness comes with the snobby attitude. She interrupts me. "I've never heard of him."

I jump back in. "He comes from Seattle. His mother, Esther, was living in Grecian Villas in Fort Lauderdale until she died at the end of July."

Hope glances down at her appointment book, trying either to annoy me or ignore me.

I keep on. "She died there, but Mr. Ferguson thinks his mother was murdered."

I was hoping to lead up to this subject in a more subtle manner, but subtlety would be lost on this tough bird. I decide shock is more likely to get Ms. Watson's attention back.

It does. She looks up. "Whatever in the world has any of this to do with Wilmington House?"

Evvie jumps in, always less patient and even less subtle than I. "The man they think murdered his mother is coming here to live as of September first, in three days. Philip Smythe is his name. We really must move quickly." I'm sure Evvie would have liked to add "so, there!" but resisted the temptation.

"What!" Ms. Watson blanches, then hurries to her door, opening it wide, as if she's suddenly discovered lepers in her office.

Evvie finishes her sentence as fast as she can. "And we were hired to investigate him. That would mean moving in here for a while. We're private eyes."

Ms. Watson's eyebrows shoot up. Now she finally bothers to really look at us, and what she sees infuriates her. She stalks back to her desk and picks up the phone. "Security. In my office immediately."

She slams the receiver down and screams at us, her face blotchy with rage. "Do you know where you are? You are in Palm Beach, for God's sakes! Palm Beach! Go back to where you belong. To that . . . that . . . slum."

* * *

In my car, with the air turned up high, Evvie and I, still panting from having scurried out of Wilmington House, stare at each other incredulously.

"That went well," she says, then bursts into laughter.

And so do I.

We laugh until we are almost in tears.

"That phony bitch," Evvie rants. "The nerve of

her. She can't hide that Brooklyn accent from me. And what's she got to be so snobby about? It's not her money. She probably makes bubkes."

I'm starting to hiccup. My side hurts from laughing so hard.

"Boy, did she steamroll us." Evvie tickles me and I tickle her back. A childhood thing we used to do when we were having a good time. "We shoulda worn our tiaras. La-di-da!"

"All she was missing was a bouncer at the door. She should hang a sign up—no hoi polloi allowed." I lift the sun screens off the windshield, getting ready to leave.

"She hates us, she really hates us." Evvie parodies Sally Field's famous Oscar speech.

I start the motor. "Well, since we're out already and have time to spare, anyplace you want to stop on our way home?"

"Wait a minute." Evvie puts her hand on my hand holding the keys. "Hold on just one minute."

"What?"

"Are we going to let her get away with that?"

"What are we supposed to do? She threw us out."

"What are we, wusses or gladiators? Are we going to give up without a fight?"

"I'll call Alvin Ferguson and let him get in touch with their board. Let him handle her."

"Then Shirley will want their money back for our not doing the job. No way."

"You want to go back?"

"Yeah. I'm not afraid of her."

"We'll only get thrown out again."

"Hey, we're PI's, right?"

"Yes, PI's without credentials. So far none of our clients have ever asked to see them. One of these days we're going to have to do something about that."

"You should ask Jack's advice."

Yes, I think bitterly. Next time I run into him. It suddenly occurs to me—will he move out of Lanai Gardens just so he won't have to ever run into me again? I look at my sister. I need to tell her about Jack leaving me. Then I glance at her eager face and I can't bring myself to spoil her day.

"Well, I want another shot at her."

I grin. "You sound so hard-boiled. Just like a Mickey Spillane."

She gets out of the car and jabs, boxerlike, with her fists, her short legs pumping. "It's our turn to do a little steamrolling."

I shrug. "We've come this far. Why not?"

* * *

We find Ms. Watson in the large lobby near the entrance, chatting with guests. I note that they are in pantsuits, so I guess frilly dresses were the wrong choice. And their hair: Fresh out of the beauty salons, all of them. Oops, didn't think about our washed-out, non-coiffed colors. No wonder Hope Watson wasn't fooled. When she sees us now, she excuses herself and comes directly at us at a fast clip, teeth bared.

Evvie takes the offensive and she intends to keep it this time. "Calm down, not in front of the guests. We need to talk to you again. Believe me; you won't want us to cause a scene."

Teeth clenched, Ms. Watson forces herself to take a deep breath. She strides back down the hall to her office with us following close behind.

Of course her first act is to dial the phone. Evvie reaches over and disconnects her. Ms. Watson is stunned.

"You call Security again and we call the local paper and give their gossip columnist an item about what alleged murderer is moving into what formerly first-class retirement hotel."

The woman is stymied and actually speechless. I'm pretty speechless, myself, at this new Evvie. If I were Ms. Watson I'd start screaming at the top of my lungs for help. Luckily she just plops down on her desk chair and stares at us.

Evvie is on a roll. "Here's the scoop. Just listen and ask questions later. We want to use a spare apartment here, hopefully for a short while. We need to find out as much as we can about Philip Smythe. We want to do this quietly and without a fuss. When we've learned all we can, we will leave just as quietly as we came in."

Of course, Ms. Watson can't wait. "Are you telling me you know Philip Smythe is a murderer?"

Now that she's paying attention, I speak. "We don't know that he is. My client may be wrong. We would like more than anything to clear him if we can. But a woman died. There is a bereft son. He needs to know the truth about his mother's death."

"Why doesn't he go to the police?" she asks, finally pulling herself together.

"Because he has no proof. He wants a private investigation before he can seek out help from the police."

"This is your problem, not mine. Give me one good reason I should put up with this nonsense."

"Because I think you believe in right and wrong and integrity and honesty. Because if this man killed a helpless woman, he deserves to be brought to justice. Because if we don't clear him, you will never be sure whether your elegant residence is harboring a murderer. You will never have a comfortable day."

Evvie nails it home. "Imagine what that will do to your reputation."

Evvie has her fingers crossed. I know she's thinking, will we pull it off? I pinch her arm to make sure she doesn't say anything right now. Let it sink in.

Hope Watson hesitates. We wait.

"If one word leaks out—"

"It won't," insists Evvie. "No one will ever know why we're here."

"You promise there will be no upsetting of our routine? There is no way I will allow you to wreak havoc in my well-run facility."

Evvie jumps in. "You'll hardly even know we're here." She makes a zipping motion with her finger across her lips. "We'll be as quiet as little mice."

Hope Watson sighs. "I shall have to bring this up before the board. I cannot make such a decision on my own."

"We understand, and we'd be glad to go before the board to explain if you wish. As would Mr. Ferguson."

"That won't be necessary. I am quite capable of explaining your mission."

She walks us quickly to the outer lobby. "Should you be given permission," which she says in a doubtful tone, "I would suggest you look around and see how we live here at Wilmington House. It is a place of peace and decorum. You will mind your manners."

"Yes, we will," I say dutifully.

"But don't think you shall have the run of the place. You will be watched constantly. By me."

"Agreed."

As she opens the door for us, Hope Watson has the final word. "And do something about your abominable taste in clothing!"

And we're thrown out again.

* * *

Driving home after our victory, Evvie is elated. "There's so much we need to do. Somebody's got to pick up our mail. We gotta make sure we leave the air on low. What'll we do with all the food in our fridges? Wait til Hy hears we get to live with the rich folks!"

"You're so sure we're getting in?"

"Positive."

"You know there's a gossip columnist on the Palm Beach paper?"

She shrugs, grinning. "How should I know? I made it up. Besides, we could never reveal anything that Philip Smythe might read about."

"Whatever got into you? Talk about bossy!"

Evvie is delighted with herself. "Who knows? PMS? The frustrated actress in me? Maybe it's just sexual frustration. It is definitely time for me to meet a guy again. And be happy like you."

Evvie leans back in her seat. "Now, aren't you glad you picked me as your partner?"

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