Retirement Can Be Murder (A Jake Russo Mystery) Read online

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Phil Edwards

  Published for the Kindle by Harrison-Mills Media

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This Kindle edition book is a premium edition 2011.

  Created and designed in the United States of America

  For more information about the author, visit PhilEdwardsInc.com.

  BOOKS BY PHIL EDWARDS

  Jake Russo Mysteries

  Retirement Can Be Murder

  Death By Gumbo

  Dead Air Can Kill You

  The Show Must Go Wrong

  Thrillers

  Cloud Crash: A Technothriller

  Humor

  Dumbemployed: Hilariously Dumb And Sad But True Stories About Jobs Like Yours

  Snooki In Wonderland

  Learn more and connect with the author at PhilEdwardsInc.com.

  Find links to the author’s Facebook page, Twitter page, and a full list of projects.

  CHAPTER 1:

  It was a warm day at Sunset Cove. Of course it was warm. They both had a thin film of sweat on their foreheads, but they weren’t hot enough to wipe it off. Jake didn’t mind sweating in khakis. Mel was wearing a skirt and she looked good. She wore her waist high like someone older, but she was young enough. She’d been talking for a while.

  “And on this patch of grass here, we’re going to have the new garden. I’m told that we’ll have some flowers that are particularly rare in Sarasota.”

  “What are the flowers called?”

  “Oh, I don’t know what they are.” She gestured again. “I just know they’re rare.”

  He started writing in his notebook, but she stopped him.

  “Don’t write that down!”

  “Why not?”

  “Please Jake!”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s embarrassing.” She bit her lip. “I’ll find out what the flowers are called.”

  “Don’t worry. All I wrote down is that the flowers would be rare, whatever they are called.”

  She still got nervous around him. He didn’t like it—she should be comfortable by now. This month he’d stopped by twice a week, whether he needed to or not. Really he could come by every day, if he wanted to. It wasn’t like his beat had a lot of structure to it. He could always find something to write about, dress it up in fancy words, and send it to New York. Mel bit her lip again.

  “Did your editor like the last piece?”

  “The one about the movie room?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think it went all right. You know, instead of running the picture of Sunset Cove, we had to go with the one at the Palmstead Homes. Sorry. They had stadium seating. We had to use that, since Gary got a good shot.”

  “Oh that’s fine.” She had a bit of an accent—sounds stuck in the back of her cheeks.

  “But I’ll write about your new garden in the landscaping piece. I’ll say something about what it will look like once you finish.”

  “Thank you Jake.” She touched his arm. He patted down his hair. The humidity down here, it made it flop up instead of staying combed back. She let go.

  “You know, I still can’t believe New Yorkers would actually want to read about us.”

  “Well, they do. I mean, once they retire from the city, this is where they’re moving. Right? Half the people in Sunset Cove are former New Yorkers, aren’t they?”

  “I suppose.”

  “And the people who are still in the city want to know what to expect when they move down here. Trends. Outlooks. Prospects. After all, they want the best years of their lives to be well planned.”

  She laughed.

  “I suppose. It just seems funny. I’d rather read about things up there, if I were them.”

  “Well…” he said and trailed off. They both looked to the right. Someone went by in a vehicle that was larger than a wheelchair, but smaller than a golf cart.

  “Are you from New York originally Jake?”

  “Yup. I had a nice condo in Long Island City too.”

  “You hated the weather?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then why did you come down here?”

  “Just shuffling at the desk. What our readers wanted.”

  He knew he should be asking her out. That way he wouldn’t have to come back again and think up another story that could include Sunset Cove. But he kept looking around. Took his notebook, wrote something short and quick. She smiled again. She had nice lips that looked soft. It was times like these he thought his boss might have been right. Maybe he really wasn’t aggressive enough for this job. When his boss had said it, Jake had yelled at him, shouted about professionalism and decorum. But maybe Thompson had been right to move him down here to this humid beat. There were four syllables in the word “Sarasota.” That was probably the most interesting thing about it.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said, finally.

  “Yes?”

  “Yeah. For a follow up. You have to find out what type of flowers you’re getting. And why they’re so rare.”

  “That’s right,” she said and smiled. She shook his hand and held it before walking back to her office. He started walking down the path. Another trip back home with nothing to report.

  Palm trees, green grass, giant bugs—they all lost their novelty after a while. They were just part of the local color, but nothing to notice anymore. Still, he always tried to mention them in his articles. Except for the giant bugs. He walked on the path and was careful not to step on the grass. He was doing an article about landscaping after all. It didn’t seem right to mess things up.

  He was getting closer to the parking lot when he heard it. A high sound, like wind hitting the side of a building. He reached in his pocket for the keys to his car. Got them. Then he heard the noise again. He looked back and then down.

  The old woman’s head came up to his chest and not any higher. She was leaning over a walker, and the angle of her back was almost ninety degrees to her legs. Her body was a corner. She had long gray hair. Thin. Blew out in the wind. He’d never seen her before in his life. Of course he’d never seen most of the residents before. She was wearing a blue jean dress with long sleeves. It must have been hot as hell under there.

  “Wait,” she cried. That was the sound. She’d been yelling to him.

  “I’m waiting mam.”

  “Sir, are you the reporter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes mam.” More polite. “I’m Jake. How are you doing today?”

  “I’m fine, thank you. Why are you here?”

  “I was just working on a piece about your community’s landscaping. I heard each of the Rothschild condos is updating and expanding. All across the state. What do you think about it?”

  He got out his notebook and pen. She stayed cornered over the walker and whispered something. He asked her to repeat it louder.

  “I said that I have a story for your paper.”

  “Yes mam? About the landscaping?”

  “No.” She looked him in the eye. “I have a real story.”

  He backed away a couple of steps. She was leaning in close and he could hear her tiny breaths. She looked up again—pale skin for such a hot place.

  “You’ll come to my building,” she said. “I’m Room 112 i
n Building B.”

  “Room 112 in Building B?”

  “Yes. Please do meet with me. It’s very important. When will you be by?”

  He rested his pen on the paper. He’d already written down her room number. It was like a contract.

  “Well, I’m coming back tomorrow around nine. But I can’t be sure I’ll have time—”

  “Stop by then.”

  She started to wheel the walker away. He didn’t chase after her. It wasn’t worth it, really. He’d stop by. She’d tell him something about aliens, or World War Two, or her son. A “real story”. It would be a normal morning. Hopefully he’d have gotten a date with Mel by then. He didn’t know what they’d do. Maybe they’d drive somewhere far away, where they couldn’t be interrupted. He imagined looking out at the water with her and whispering something nice about the waves.

  CHAPTER 2:

  He took a long run around the neighborhood when he got home. A warm day turned hot. He was sweating through his t-shirt and he climbed up his apartment stairs slowly. Tired. Seven miles was his longest yet. He let his watch beep and went inside to take a shower. After he took one, he’d finish up work for the day.

  The apartment still looked new. It was small and the closet door was open. Most of the clothes were new—he’d had to buy new ones. The carpet on the floor was thick and blue. He kept his socks on, so he wouldn’t make sweat marks with his toes, and checked the cell phone quickly. Two calls—one from Gary and one from Thompson. Great. When he got out of the shower, he knew who he’d call first.

  “Russo!” Thompson screamed. “What the hell have you been doing?”

  He sighed and combed his wet hair with his free hand.

  “I just took a shower after my run. You know what the hours are like here. The business day ends around dinner. 4PM.”

  “A run! I’m your editor, Jake, I know when you’re full of it. We don’t pay you to run. If I wanted a runner, I’d pay somebody who could run. You think I believe that you could run?”

  “I ran seven miles today.”

  “I’d pay a Kenyan if I wanted somebody to run. At least I’d believe they were telling…telling the truth.”

  Thompson always sounded like he had something stuck in his throat. Maybe a whole nest was in there. He repeated words sometimes, but he wasn’t stuttering. He seemed to be doing it for emphasis. It was best to ignore him.

  “I really did run seven miles.”

  “Russo, what are you eating right now? Just…just tell me. I want to imagine it. We miss you here. You know what?”

  “What?”

  “We still call the weekly donut day ‘Jake’s Day.’ We really still do it.”

  “That’s great. You know, you should change the name. I’ve cut out all the junk food since I got here. I don’t know how much weight I’ve lost. It’s more than seventy five pounds. Maybe a hundred.”

  “Sure you have. Carla…Carla come here,” Thompson yelled. The phone went dead and he heard Thompson and his assistant Carla laughing. “See Russo—Carla agrees with me. Stop it Carla, you do agree. Every day I bring in donuts, people still call it ‘Jake’s Day.’ ‘Thank God it’s “Jake’s Day,”’ they say. ‘I didn’t think I was going to make it to “Jake’s Day,”’ they tell me.”

  “All right. Really. I’ve changed since then, but that’s fine. Did you have something to talk about?”

  “Last week, oh boy.” Thompson laughed but didn’t cough. “Last week, a new guy, Jason Edelman came up to me. He…he says, ‘Sir, I was wondering—could we push “Jake’s Day” forward? I won’t be able to write up this fire in the Bronx without a little sugar in my system.”’

  Jake’s hair was dry by now. He hung up the towel and poured a glass of filtered water.

  “Can you believe it?” Thompson said, screaming now. “Jason Edelman. Do you remember him?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Exactly! Exactly! He didn’t start until after I sent you to Florida! Can you believe it? This little dork never even knew you, and he still says it’s ‘Jake’s Day’ when I bring in the donuts!”

  “That’s fantastic sir.”

  “He’s got glasses, ties, the whole thing. Harvard or something.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “And this kid was practically crying for ‘Jake’s Day!’”

  Jake didn’t say anything. He just finished the water and looked at his watch. He had run seven miles. He had looked it up on the computer and measured it out, step by step, and his time wasn’t bad either. Not great, but not bad. He had stopped sweating and took off his socks one at a time.

  “Ah Russo,” Thompson laughed. “You’re a great guy. You don’t have to tell me what you’re eating. It’s fine.”

  “Thank you sir. Is there something we need to go over?”

  “Right…right. I’m afraid there is. I got your latest article about the…what do you call it?”

  “The entertainment centers piece? About trends in condo movie nights?”

  “Right. I’m just a little disappointed in it.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

  Jake picked up his notebook and pen. Thompson answered after a pause.

  “Where…where are the palm trees?”

  He put his pen down.

  “The palm trees?”

  “For God’s sake, Jake. Your article is about all these movie theatres and TVs or whatever. Jake. We’ve got TVs here in New York. Big TVs, tiny TVs, medium TVs, pink TVs, black TVs, white TVs. I don’t know why I’m talking about TVs. I hate them—all colors. But the point is, our people don’t want to read about TVs. They want to read about the things they don’t have. They want palm trees, and beaches, and motor boats. And palm trees, Jake. They want palm trees. We sent you to Sarasota for palm trees.”

  “But the piece was about the new spending on entertainment centers. A good part of condo community spending is going to build these things. And most seniors love them. I thought the readers would want—”

  “Listen. I know you think you know what the readers want. That’s why I’m the editor and you’re sweating and eating fried Snickers bars in Sarasota. OK? Just listen—palm trees. Sound nice, don’t they?”

  “I can’t put palm trees in every article.”

  “What about celebrities?”

  Thompson said something off the phone. Someone laughed. Jake sighed.

  “Sir, there aren’t any celebrities in Sarasota.”

  “Then find some. There must be some stars down there. Our readers love that.”

  “I can’t promise it.” Jake doodled in his notebook. “I’ll try for the palm trees.”

  “Both!”

  “Do people really want that?”

  Thompson laughed.

  “Right. Again, that’s why I’m the editor and you’re having your third ice cream cone by 9AM.”

  “I told you that I’ve been on a strict diet—”

  “So that’s it. More palm trees, please.”

  He sighed and wrote it in the notebook, next to the doodles. He penned in his mileage for the day next to that. He had run that far. His thighs ached. He wanted to stretch. But he had to ask now.

  “Wait a second, sir. I have just one other thing.”

  “Yes? What is it?”

  Sometimes, Thompson pretended he liked questions. Not this time.

  “It’s about Gary.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “My photo guy. I’m just wondering if there’s anything in the budget to get somebody a little more…”

  “More…more what? Spit it out!”

  “Just more…a lot of things.”

  “Gary, huh. Listen, Russo, his shot of the movie theatre was the best thing about your article. He’s staying. Our photographer there has been our man for 45 years this June. He’s getting a plaque.”

  “Exactly—45 years. Almost half a century. There’s no way we could get someone a little…”

  “Tell Gary to shoot more palm trees though. Y
ou…you both could use more palm trees.”

  Thompson hung up. He still did that. Jake held the phone in his hand for a few seconds then put it down. That’s how it was. He hadn’t even gotten to argue his case. But he hadn’t had time, had he? He stretched a little and looked around. The kitchen was in view. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t do this. But it had been a hell of a day. He walked to the kitchen and opened the cabinet.

  He took out the shot glass. “Queens NYC” it said. A memento. He opened the refrigerator. He’d sworn he wouldn’t do it. He was going to turn over a new leaf. He’d bought the bottle on a dark day a few weeks ago and kept it there. He’d never opened it and he knew he should throw it out. But he couldn’t. He went in the fridge, pushed aside the jugs of mineral water and the containers of Diet Vegetable Juice, and there it was. He felt his hand wrap around the label.

  He set the bottle beside the shot glass. It was just a sip. And this small of an amount didn’t matter, right? It couldn’t matter. It was trivial. He ran his hand through his hair and combed it back again. He’d burned off all the calories during his run. It was fine. And since he’d bought the bottle, it would be wasteful not to use it. Sixteen ounces had 252 calories and 65.7 grams of sugar. 65.7. But when you poured cream soda, you could smell it and see it sparkle. He used to drink a bottle a day. He deserved a taste.

  He started twisting the cap, the little white ridges lining up with his fingerprints. Right when he’d almost broken the seal, the phone rang. He screamed and put down the bottle. His heart was beating faster than when he’d been running. He put it back in the fridge—if he didn’t answer the phone now, Gary would keep calling back.

  “Hi Gary.”

  He tried to forget what had almost happened.

  “Hello Jacob!” Gary usually shouted on the phone. “Jacob, I was talking to Meryl. I have an idea for a new story for you, one that will really knock socks off. People, they’ll be in the streets, running, their toes bare, yelling about this.”

  Gary shouted something to his wife and Jake sat down and leaned back in his chair, waiting. Gary had a lingering accent from Eastern Europe. Jake didn’t know the country, but he assumed its name had changed a few times since Gary left. He wheezed into the phone.