We pull up to the front door of the retirement

      hotel where the ill-fated Esther Ferguson and Philip Smythe (a.k.a. Romeo) lived. We've taken the case. Alvin has instructed us to go full steam ahead and not worry about expenses. Music to our ears. Even though Shirley told us otherwise.

  The girls have dressed up for their foray into the land of the obscenely wealthy. No flip-flops today. They ooh and ahhh at the sparkling white archways and pillars that grace the front of Grecian Villas' main building.

  Inside, the theme continues. Marble gray-white floors and whitewashed walls hung with paintings of ancient and modern Greece. Furniture in muted tones. Floor-to-ceiling windows everywhere. Welldressed residents lounging about a huge lobby reading or quietly chatting. Soft music piped in through hidden speakers.

  "Elegant," whispers Evvie.

  "Too quiet," retorts Ida.

  "Works for me," says Sophie to Ida. "I could live in a place like this. It fits my standards of living."

  Bella just stares—up, down, everywhere, her mouth hanging open.

  A resident directs us to the office of the general manager, Rosalie Gordon. The room is soothing, the manager elegant. She is tall, in her forties, dressed simply but stylishly. Her assistant, a slightly chubby woman in her twenties, works across the room. She is introduced to us as Myra. Like her boss, she wears muted colors. They blend in with the wall décor, as if even management should be inconspicuous to the residents of this luxury community.

  After a few pleasantries about the weather, Mrs. Gordon starts her spiel about the facility. Do we want to know about the amenities first? The health and wellness plan? Which of us is interested in joining the happy Grecian Villas family? She is busily pulling out brochures for us as she speaks.

  I stop her quickly by taking out our card and handing it to her. For a moment she studies it, confused. "You're all private investigators?"

  I say, "Yes," and the gang nods eagerly. "We're investigating the death of Esther Ferguson."

  She looks even more perplexed, as does her assistant.

  "At the behest of her son, Alvin."

  "I see," says Mrs. Gordon. "It's not about the missing Oriental rug? I already told him it must have been lost by the movers."

  "It's not that. It's about how she died."

  "This surprises me. We'd already spoken to him, and I had hoped I'd allayed his fears about how his mother died." She pauses. "Obviously not. But I'm afraid there is nothing to investigate, Mrs. Gold. It was a sad occurrence, but not unexpected after a long and comfortable life. Apparently, Mrs. Ferguson was drinking champagne in her bath and fell asleep. She died very peacefully, I should think."

  Myra jumps in. "She was found hours later by that dear Mr. Smythe, her beloved companion."

  My ears perk up at "dear."

  "What is your opinion of Mr. Smythe?" I ask.

  Myra gushes, "Wonderful, wonderful. The man is a saint."

  "I would have to concur with that," adds Mrs. Gordon, managing a small smile.

  Evvie glances at me. That word saint again. Interesting.

  "How long were they together?" Evvie asks.

  "Three wonderful months." Myra lays one hand over her heart. "They met the first week Philip arrived, and it was love at first sight."

  "Where was he when Mrs. Ferguson passed

away?" Ida jumps in. I can see that Sophie and Bella are intimidated in this posh environment. They stand stiffly and silently.

  "Playing his usual bridge game with the Feig sisters and Alice Brown. You might speak to them. They'll tell you how enchanting he is." Myra can hardly hold back her enthusiasm.

  Mrs. Gordon is a bit more sedate. "All the ladies here adored him. The man was so generous with himself. On dance night, he took turns dancing with all the ladies. He was a regular Fred Astaire. On shopping days, he escorted a group of them and helped carry their bags. After all, the ratio of women to men here is ten to one, and Mr. Smythe is a very robust seventy-five years of age. Very friendly. Very healthy."

  "Wasn't Mrs. Ferguson jealous?" Sophie finally gets the courage to speak. "Didn't it make her mad?"

  "Au contraire," says Mrs. Gordon. "Esther got a kick out of all the other ladies vying for his attention. Everyone knew she was the love of his life."

  "We're all going to miss him. He was a shining light among us," contributes Myra.

  "Miss him?" I ask quickly.

  "Yes," Myra says mournfully, "he left soon after the funeral. He said he could no longer bear to be in a place where every little thing reminded him of his precious Esther." With that, Myra's eyes tear up.

  At my request, Mrs. Gordon reluctantly takes us all up to the Smythe-Ferguson apartment. She explains, "I don't usually do this. So please hurry. Of course, new tenants live here now. All of Esther's things were taken out by her son."

  I'm not going to find any clues here, but it's good to get a picture of how they lived.

  "Did Mr. Smythe have his own apartment?" I ask.

  "Oh, yes, briefly, but soon after they fell in love, Esther insisted they move in together."

  "Who paid the rent?" I ask.

  "At first they shared it, but then Esther insisted on taking it over." Myra giggles. "She practically twisted his arm. He was such an old-fashioned gentleman."

  We look around, suitably awed. Large, spacious, elegant. The girls are obviously shocked by the mirrored bathroom.

  "The guests seem to like it." Now Mrs. Gordon hurries us out. "My tenants are due home shortly. I think we've been here long enough."

  Back in her office, I ask Mrs. Gordon if she happens to remember where Mr. Smythe lived before he came to Grecian Villas.

  "Of course I do. We who have the upper echelon of retirement resorts know all about one another. He lived at Seaside Cliffs on the other side of the state, in Sarasota, before he came to us."

  "And now? Do you have a forwarding address?"

  Indeed she does. "He's moving the first week in September to one our competitors, Wilmington House in Palm Beach. Lucky them."

  She writes down the address on the back of her card and gives it to me. "When you see him, tell him everyone at Grecian Villas misses him."

  When we are outside, we take a last lingering glance at the spacious Grecian Villas. Bella and Sophie sigh.

  "Only five thousand a month," says Evvie. "A mere pittance."

  "Who cares," says Ida as she walks quickly toward our car. "I like where we live better."

  "I can't wait to meet this guy," says Sophie.

  "Me, too," says Evvie.

  "Me, three," says Bella.

  "I can wait. Believe me," says Ida, our lady of petulance, "no man can be that good."

  Yes, some can. I think of Jack, hoping he'll have returned my call by the time we get home. I'm anxious to put this fight behind us.

  But I admit I'm intrigued about "Romeo" as well. Lover or killer? I wonder. Hopefully we'll find out soon.