Rita Lakin_Gladdy Gold_01 (16 page)

27

Digging up the Dirt?

I
'm practically living by my
phone. Maybe one of these days I'll give in to progress and get an
answering machine. But who knows. One thing could lead to another. I
might get tempted to buy a car phone, then a beeper or cable TV or, God
forbid, a computer. I've managed to live this long keeping life simple.
. . . Ignore me, I'm rambling. This waiting is driving me crazy. I've
been trying to get an appointment with Detective Langford but he's been
away for two days at some cop conference in Miami. I know he's back
today. I've already left three messages.

Speaking of the phone, it hasn't been ringing off the
hook as is usual. Where are the girls? I'm grateful, because I would
have to get them off the line pronto. And they'd insist on knowing why.
And if I tell them, Evvie especially would demand to go with me, and
there is no way I'll put myself through
that
again. But what
are they up to? I wonder. Mah-jongg is over by now. Curious.

The phone rings. It's Langford at last. I beg to see him
as quickly as possible. Can't I tell him over the phone? No, I insist.
It's too important. I can hear the weariness in his lethargic voice.
Too many mai tais on the beach? Too many blond shiksas around the piano
bar? Miami Beach can be a dangerous place. Reluctantly, he tells me if
I can get over there in five minutes, he'll fit me in. Beggars can't be
you-know-what. I'm out the door as fast as I can grab my car keys.

As I start to pull out of my parking space, I catch a
glimpse of movement across the way in P building. Bella is tiptoeing
into Greta Kronk's apartment behind Sophie. Can the others be far in
front? Now I recall hearing something about Evvie, as a member of our
condominium board, giving herself the authority to look through Greta's
papers. Since there aren't any relatives that we know of, maybe there's
a will, or something. Evvie tells me this has never happened before,
that there isn't some person to contact. So yes, we do need to do
something. About her remains, for one, poor thing. And the apartment
and her possessions. Having just seen what she looked like, I shudder
to think what her apartment looks like.

Naturally, the gang isn't about to be left out of that
juicy adventure, so I see she's taken them along and I can imagine them
drooling over the prospect of uncovering Greta's secrets. Four yentas
in search of dirt. What a concept! Or five. I think Harriet has started
her vacation today. Now I know why they didn't call. They don't want me
spoiling their fun by being the voice of their consciences.

Morrie (I can't think of him as Morgan anymore) Langford
is a man of his word. He doesn't keep me waiting, but the fact that he
stands in the middle of his office tells me he intends to make this
short. And I intend to be there as long as it takes to convince him. So
I sit down.

I go through it all, Selma to Francie to Greta, step by
step. I am proud of my logical presentation. Finally,
he
sits
down.

"Wait a minute." He stops me. He rifles through the
papers on his desk. "I have the officers' report on Mrs. Kronk."

"Save your eyesight," I tell him. "It will say probably
natural causes." Now I'm behind him, reading over his shoulder. "But
note where he says there was food in her mouth--"

Langford moves away from my prying eyes. "Do you mind?"

"Sorry."

"The police do not make assumptions on how a person died.
They merely report what they see. If violence has obviously occurred,
it becomes a crime scene and they call it in. If nothing looks
suspicious, their job is over after the body is picked up by the
coroner's office." He sees my frustration. "Look. She could have been
hungry."

"Nobody's that hungry. She had money for food."

"You know that for a fact?"

"She had money for rent, for condo fees, for gas,
electric. . . . Those things I know for a fact. And besides, she had
delivery people bringing her bags of groceries."

"What is it you want?"

"Once you speak to the coroner, you'll see that I'm
right. I want to know what the autopsy said. I tried calling them but
they wouldn't give out that information. I need you to call up for me."

"What makes you think they did an autopsy?"

"Don't they always?"

"Not if the death seems natural." He looks at the report
again. "The woman is what--in her eighties? Seemingly emaciated?"

"The woman was found near a Dumpster, for God's sake.
Isn't that suspicious enough? Please call."

"Being found near a Dumpster, rather than in it, may not
necessarily seem suspicious."

He looks at me for a long moment.

"In your board members' many earlier complaints to the
police department about Mrs. Kronk harassing people, they refer to her
as a possible mental case."

Boy, is he thorough. The man has done his homework. Over
the last five years, as Greta's behavior escalated, we complained
plenty. But, funny, he doesn't mention how many times we were ignored.
Bring proof, they demanded of a spirit that moved invisibly in the
night. Call us if she hurts somebody. Yeah. Right. When it will be too
late. Well, now somebody hurt
her.
Permanently. I pull myself
out of my dark thoughts.

"Crazy people might eat garbage," he insists.

"Then again, they might not."

"Her death might be considered bizarre, but there's
nothing--"

I don't let him finish. "The poem on the door--wasn't that
bizarre?"

"It doesn't prove that whoever wrote the poem killed her.
You say she alienated just about everybody in your buildings with her
nasty poems. Somebody could have seen her dead body and then written
the poem as a mean prank."

"Puleeze. It would mean reacting to the fact she was
dead, getting this cruel idea very quickly, and then finding her paint
can and rushing up to her third floor apartment and composing the poem
in her style and painting the poem, returning the paint can to the
Dumpster, and then getting away without being seen. Two things come to
mind. Do you know how many people live right there in those two
buildings? Who are forever snooping out their windows? Besides, eighty
percent of them are way too old to be able to move that fast. For a
prank? Not likely."

"But possible."

"Not probable. C'mon, Morrie. Excuse me. Detective
Langford. The only person vicious, devious, and fast enough to do all
that has to be the killer. Please call. They must have finished the
autopsy by now."

Langford picks up the phone and dials a number. I hold my
breath. He gives them the relevant information and waits. I can hardly
sit still. I feel like I'm jumping out of my skin. He thanks them and
looks at me.

"Well? Well!" I shout. "What's with the suspense? Tell me
what they found."

He takes a deep breath. "Do you have any idea how many
dead bodies show up at the morgue every day?"

I'm beginning to get a bad feeling about this. "I don't
know and I don't care. I only want to hear about Greta."

"They signed her death certificate and she's been
released to a mortuary. Natural causes, Mrs. Gold."

Befuddled, I ask, "You mean the autopsy didn't find any
poison?"

"I mean they didn't see any need for an autopsy."

I cannot believe this. I cannot! "Detective Langford.
Hasn't anything I've said to you today given you cause to believe there
is at least the possibility of foul play? Come on!"

"Let me give this some thought."

"Think fast. Please. Before she's plowed under and you'll
have to dig up the dirt again."

I start out the door.

"Mrs. Gold?" This is a softer tone of voice.

I turn.

"My father mentioned he met you recently. . . ."
Obviously he's trying to lighten my black mood. I see the beginnings of
a smile on his face as he watches mine looking for a reaction.

He's caught me off guard. I think I am blushing. I hope
I'm not. "Nice man," I mumble. And I rush out.

I have murder on my mind. How can I think of men?
Especially a sexy, good-looking older gent with a twinkle in his eyes.
Then again, I must be a fool not to. I need all this aggravation like I
need the heartbreak of psoriasis.