Getting Old Is Très Dangereux: A Mystery by Rita Lakin Page B

I know. Don’t fight, let your body go limp.”
    “Very good,” the instructor comments. “Your bad guy won’t expect that.”
    Sophie and Bella begin to tiptoe out of the circle, with Sophie’s hands still around Bella’s neck. They are trying to be inconspicuous.
    Ida, who never takes her eyes off them, calls out. “Hey, class isn’t over yet.”
    “Gotta go,” Sophie announces. She drops her arms and makes a show of looking at her wrist to read a watch she isn’t wearing. “Previous pressing engagement.” She pulls Bella quickly along with her.
    Ida waits to see which direction they take. No longer paying attention as the victims twist about ready to counterattack, Ida breaks away, too. She apologizes to Pat Nancy. “I’m off.”
    Pat Nancy says plaintively, “Don’t go. I need to attack you.”
    “Next time,” Ida promises.
    Evvie calls after her, wanting to know what’s going on. “What?”
    “Later.” And Ida hurries after the two culprits.
    She turns at the same corner they took. She can’t believe her eyes. They’re gone. They knew she was going to follow them and they’ve taken a different route.
    Ida is flummoxed. What the heck are those two ninnies up to?
    The chimes ring out. It is a delicate tinkling sound. Sophie watches as every woman in the room stiffens with anticipation and awe. Bella pinches her arm in excitement. A dead husband is calling out to be heard. Their guru is attentive and ready to let the voice of the dearly departed speak to them, from the other side, through him.
    So far, in the three times they’ve been there, he’s contacted half a dozen dead husbands for the widows. Each one was such an emotional experience. Sophie is eagerly waiting for their turn to be called. The room is utterly silent as Baba Vishnu tilts his shining blond head to one side as if to listen better.
    The chimes stop. Their guru is connected. He reminds them once more, “Don’t ask for a description of heaven or hell. They’re not allowed to tell.”His voice lowers. “Arlene, I wish to speak to Arlene Simon.”
    Arlene, a lovely blond woman in her eighties, who looks no older than sixty, stands up from her seat. She waves her arms up and down, thrilled to be called. “It’s me, Ronnie, I’m here.”
    “How’s it going, Arles?”
    She turns to the group, blushing. “He always called me that.” Then, to her dead husband, “I’m good, but I could be better.”
    “What would make you feel better?” Ronald asks, his voice abrupt, as if his wife had always annoyed him with her “wants.”
    Now Arlene’s voice hardens. “You know.”
    “I don’t know.”
    The suspense is building. Sophie is fascinated as every woman wiggles to the edge of her seat. They stare, back and forth, from Arlene to their guru, whose face contorts to fit the harsh personality of dead Ronald Simon.
    Arlene frowns. “I looked everywhere, Ronnie. Where did you put it? You always hid your winnings under the mattress, but I couldn’t find anything. Were you allowed to take it with you?”
    A few women giggle. Sophie has to pull Bella’s hands away from her arm or Bella will pinch her black and blue.
    Ronald answers her with an oily lying voice. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I lost plenty on those nagsat Hialeah. But most of it went on the tables in Vegas. That’s what caused my heart attack, when I dropped dead in my two-hundred-dollar-a-night suite in Harrah’s. The kids have plenty of money. Get it from them.”
    Arlene chokes up. “They won’t give me a penny, those ungrateful brats.”
    Silence. “Ronnie?” she asks.
    Baba Vishnu shakes his head. He straightens up as if he’s been in a trance. “We’ve lost contact, Mrs. Simon.”
    Mrs. Jerry comes quickly to Arlene’s side, handing her a small slip of paper. As they were forewarned, the phone calls to heaven or hell are considered long distance and cost seven dollars a minute.
    The chimes ring again. All eyes look up front except for Mrs. Simon,