Save the Last Dance for Death

By Marion Rosen

In a tranquil retirement community in sunny Southern California, a widow and her three friends are out to catch a killer in their midst.

When Marge moves into her new retirement community, she is befriended by Relda, who shares the trick to e

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palmetto Publishing
• Release date: Aug 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9798885901383

Marion Rosen

Marion Rosen was a high school English teacher before becoming a full-time author. She collaborated on two high school textbooks and then decided to write something she enjoyed reading: mysteries. She wrote two mysteries: Death by Education and Don't Speak to Strangers, both published by St Martin's Press in 1993. Nearly 10 years later, she wrote a memoir about her experience battling and surviving two deadly cancers: Dance Like Nobody's Watching (2002). She wrote a second non-fiction book, A Kid from Pittsburgh (2010) based on her husband's amazing true story as an American soldier in World War II.At the age of 79, she moved into a retirement community during March of 2020, only to find herself locked down due to the pandemic. To avoid going crazy, she entertained herself by writing a mystery-one staged in a retirement community. It took exactly one year to write, which is about how long the lockdown lasted.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The iron gate rumbled loud enough to wake the entire building before it clanked to a precise stop. I inched the car into my assigned parking space. Number 12. Good. I made it. No dents, no tickets, no lectures from my offspring. My two daughters could hardly wait to relieve me of my car keys just like they’d taken everything else away from me.

My daughters had worked together after their father had passed away, racing to find the perfect place for me to live, saying I shouldn’t even consider staying in my house and living alone. At the time, I agreed with their thinking because the house still teemed with countless memories of my husband. I saw Dan in every room; I’d see him still busily working on one project or another in the garage. A new place to live might help me to remember less and move on.

According to my daughters’ hasty and sometimes vague rationalizations, my house demanded endless upkeep, requiring way too much exertion for someone my age. Did I forget that next year I’d turn eighty?

Who were they kidding? Of course, I remembered my age; nowadays I thought of little else. And now that I was giving my future life my full consideration, I recalled that neither daughter had offered to have me move in with them.

But once they discovered the Laurel Pines Retirement Community in Anaheim, California, my daughters’ loving thoughtfulness suddenly turned to ice. Was I wrong to think they were relieved to learn that I could be warehoused, kept so easily out of sight?

Even though I was still learning my way around my new Orange County neighborhood, my first excursion away from Laurel Pines had gone without a hitch, and I’d managed it all by myself—after dark. If I remembered correctly, taking my car out this late at night was definitely against the rules.

I closed my car door quietly. One of the garage ceiling lights had burned out, so everything looked kind of creepy, but reporting it might seem pushy. No sense making waves with the staff my first week. Let someone else report it.

A huge black van blocked the closest entrance to the building. There had to be more than one door leading from the garage into the main building, but with such limited overhead light, I wasn’t sure which way to head. A discreet little sign on the door of the van declared it belonged to the Orange County Coroner's Office.

I heard a noise, a solid bump. The sound came again before the door banged open, and two men dressed in black thrust a gurney into the garage.

Jesus.

These guys were wheeling a dead body toward the van, except now I realized it wasn’t just any van; it had to be the coroner's hearse. The body was tightly shrouded within a sleek black body bag, the same kind of bag I recognized seeing on TV news reports.

My first week here and already some poor soul had died. All of a sudden, I wished I’d stayed far, far away from any place that advertised itself as a haven for carefree retirement living, a golden oasis for older folks. It occurred to me that life for older folks was many things, but being fair wasn’t one of them.

I crouched down behind a shiny, black Porsche and froze in place, watching. This was an incredibly painful position for my aching knees. Both knees throbbed like hell, but I managed to stay still, finally realizing that I’d been really stupid to take this brief outing away from my new home. All I’d managed on this jaunt was a visit to a rundown diner for a cup of coffee and a stale donut. I waited in the abundant shadows surrounding the Porsche, thinking I would plan my next excursion out of Laurel Pines during daylight hours.

Their cargo secure, the men slammed the back door of the hearse then hurried around to the front. I heard the engine cough, then turn over. The van revved up and quickly reversed out of the garage.

My knees felt weak as I edged toward the entrance. The door was heavier than I remembered, but I pushed hard and managed to heave it open. I stepped into the main hallway that linked the Chef's dining room and the Prancing Toes Lounge. Both large rooms were dark. Of course, it was very late. I should’ve returned hours ago.

Excuse me, Mrs. Randall. Have you forgotten we don’t leave the grounds after midnight?

The fifty-something year-old director of the place had surfaced out of nowhere. He glared at me, his eyes slowly traveling over my body in a blatantly licentious way. Maybe his awkward smirk was supposed to frighten me into compliance, but whether or not he was trying to grin, his expression came off as rude and annoying.

No one had explained what sort of punishment Mr. Bertram was allowed to dole out to residents who broke rules, but now that I’d been caught, I was scared to death. I wondered whether he would simply throw me and my suitcases out of Laurel Pines or if he had a mean streak that went as far as bodily harm.

It took a moment before I realized the pounding noise echoing in my head was coming from my wildly thumping heart. I had to come up with a valid excuse for breaking a cardinal rule and then being caught doing it by Mr. Bertram, the community's cheeky head honcho.

Oh, there you are. A voice came from behind Mr. Bertram. I got sidetracked by a visit to the little girls’ room. Oh, you have it, you found my purse! Thank goodness I didn’t leave it at the coffee shop.

Her sentences all tumbling together, this petite, fair-skinned woman with an explosion of unexplainable blond curls shoved herself between me and Bertram. She wore a huge plaid man's shirt, jeans, and loafers but no socks. She took a step closer and yanked my own purse right out of my hand.

No need to get out the rulebook, Mr. Bertie. Our very newest resident took me out to lunch today. It was such a pleasure getting to know her, but then silly me, I left my purse in her car.

That's Mr. Bertram, he snorted at her.

Of course, it is. You would know, wouldn’t you? Her voice carried a strong southern twang that sounded as if she could turn it on, then off again at will. Whatever the case, listening to her speak made me think of live oaks dripping with Spanish moss, even though I’d never actually seen a live oak complete with Spanish moss except in the movies.

Bertram turned away from her and focused on me. You should’ve looked for the purse earlier. He was not ready to let go of this.

I spent the whole day upstairs, unpacking, getting my apartment in order.

He had a slight overbite making him appear hungry. The kids in his grade school had probably called him Bucky. Bucky Bertram.

You need to study the Laurel Pines rulebook more carefully. Bertram stood up tall, going for the look of an official authority. He tried to sound commanding, like Walter Cronkite when he used to report the news. Bertram's voice echoed loud and vibrant, but his eyes twitched; arteries throbbed in both his temples. This guy was no Walter Cronkite. Not even close.

Bertram's eyes traveled up and down my arms, irritating like ants at a picnic. His inspection settled on my neck; I was certain he could see right through my clothes.

I will. I definitely will, I said, feeling trapped like an insect in a jar.

Come on, Honey. The mystery woman half-dragged me into the nearest elevator. Once the door had closed, she exhaled a loud breath of relief as she returned my purse.

That was close, but we pulled a fast one on old Bertie. I love it when we can leave old Bertie standing there wondering what the hell just happened, don’t you?

I coached myself to breathe normally. Well, I never thought about putting one over on Mr. Bertram, but your quick thinking saved me from Lord knows what form of hideous punishment, and I thank you.

You’re welcome. That was the most fun I’ve had in weeks. She extended her hand. By the way, I’m Relda-Mae, resident trouble-maker. Most people around here can’t remember my two names, and I’m lucky if they remember one, so just call me Relda like everyone else.

Relda. What an unusual name.

She laughed. Not so unusual where I come from. Back in South Carolina we have Relda's all over the place.

Relda didn’t fit my preconceived notion of what the women at Laurel Pines would look like. I’d seen several ladies when I’d first moved in, and, almost like a uniform, they all wore too much makeup, huge dangly earrings, permed hair, and bizarre animal print blouses. I’d seen quite a few who fit the bill, but not Relda.

She seemed far too youthful, too playful to belong here. Relda actually looked better than anyone had a right to look in a retirement community. She was very attractive, but her looks were not exactly remarkable. But on the other hand, her intense big brown eyes, rimmed with over-the-top long lashes, brought her pretty close to remarkable.

Well, you heard Bertram use my last name, but please it's Marge if you ever have to rescue me again.

When Relda smiled, her face lit up.

Well, Marge I’m so happy to meet you. Stick with me, and I’ll teach you all the rules. The most important one, of course, is to know how to avoid the rules and stay out of trouble at the same time. I’ve been looking for a co-conspirator to help me annoy the hell out of Mr. Bertie without becoming a new page in his major punishment guidebook.

Like the way you saved me tonight?

Of course. You up for the job?

Sure.

Relda smiled. So, whatever made you take your car out so late at night? It's almost two in the morning.

I don’t know exactly. I walked around a little mall I’d discovered but it was closed. Then I found a diner and had a cup of coffee. I guess I was ignoring the twelve o’clock rule because I wanted one last evening in…

The real world? Relda encouraged.

Yeah, that's it. Your lost purse idea was ingenious. How did you think of that so quickly?

I don’t know. I had just come out of the bar—they kick us out at closing time—and I saw Bertie zeroing in on you. I could see that he was planning to teach you a lesson, and he can get mean. Many of our older ladies start to cry if he simply walks by and says hello.

That's terrible, I said.

Of course it is, but remember the really old ladies—ninety-five plus—cry almost on a timetable, every day. They don’t have much else to look forward to.

That's sad, too.

Relda paused for a moment. So, how long ago did you lose your husband?

The elevator door slid open, and we began walking down the hall before I answered. It was still difficult for me to say the words.

Dan died two years ago. How did you know?

Relda shrugged. I knew. My poor Henry hadn’t been gone more than six months before my son and his wife got busy searching for a ‘better’ place for me to live. At first I didn’t catch on to their ulterior motives.

Which were?

They knew the money I got from my retirement and Social Security was enough to pay for my rent here at Laurel Pines. So, then they checked local real estate listings and figured out the proceeds from the sale of my house would eventually go to them. They saw dollar signs.

I guess in a way the same thing happened to me, I said. But my girls mostly emphasized their concern for my being alone. Hah! I tried to control the ever-present touch of anger in my voice whenever I thought about the abrupt sale of my house.

Relda went on, But my son and his wife never mentioned their inheritance. They said I had to sell the house just because I blew up the circuit breaker a couple of times. How was I supposed to know when the dang thing was overloaded? Henry always took care of stuff like circuit breakers.

I understand. Circuit breakers and automatic sprinklers always got away from me, too.

We walked along the quiet hallway. No one stirred. Everyone must be sound asleep, probably had been for hours.

Well, I said, I think we’ve accomplished all that we can for today.

Relda smiled. There's always tomorrow.

I looked up and down the unfamiliar corridor. Hey, where are we going? I live on the third floor.

Sorry, I forgot to ask. This is me, apartment 250. She pointed to a door that looked like every other door in the hallway, like a hotel.

But I live in apartment 350. I must be right above you on the third floor.

Well, if they’ve numbered the apartments with any sort of logic, yes, your identical dwelling should be directly above mine. That is so great.

Why? Why is it great?

Relda thought for a moment. If you’re ever desperate for a glass of wine in the middle of the night, just stomp on the floor three times.

That's all?

Sure, I’ll grab the merlot, and I’m on my way.

Oh.

You do have a corkscrew, don’t you?

Chapter 2

Relda and I returned to the elevator and rode up to the third floor so she could walk me to my door. After we said good-night, I went inside and looked around the tiny two-room apartment I’d chosen to be my last residence. I’d been encouraged by the prospect of three meals a day, cooked by someone other than me. I also liked that the apartment came with housekeeping once a week: clean sheets, scrubbed toilet, and a spotless sanitized shower.

Everything seemed perfect until I remembered Dan was not here with me. I’d been rudely ripped out of my familiar life, and from time to time my mind clouded over and I couldn’t even remember why. Why had I moved? What had I done? I lived here now, but I felt like a guest in a hotel. This would not be like an overnight visit to my grandkids. This was where I would probably spend the rest of my life.

I threw back the quilt and crawled into my empty bed, tears stinging my eyes before they slowly trickled down my cheeks. I was almost eighty, yet I’d never lived alone. As a young woman I’d gone from my parents’ house directly to fifty years with my husband.

I read a few pages of Agatha Christie until I fell asleep with the light on.

I awoke with the lingering remains of a dream drifting through my subconscious, but I couldn’t remember what the