Free Dying to Retire by Jessica Fletcher Page B

“Mornin’, Sam. Got a girlfriend today, I see. Morning, ma’am.”
    “Good morning,” I called back.
    “I didn’t write out my itinerary for you, Sam, but I have to stop at the post office; then I’m driving over to the farm stand to see what they got that’s fresh, and then I’ll be opening the restaurant. Got that?”
    Sam, who’d been looking straight ahead, gave a sharp nod.
    “Don’t lose me now,” the driver said. He rolled up his window and drove off.
    “What just happened?” I asked as Sam pulled away from the curb and stayed a few car lengths behind the sedan.
    “He knows I’m keeping an eye on him.”
    “So I gathered.”
    “So he helps me out sometimes.”
    “Who is he?”
    “I told you already.”
    “You did?”
    “Yeah. The other day at Clarence’s.”
    “Is that . . . ?”
    “Yup. Tony Colombo. The hit man.”
    “The man you suspect of being a hit man, you mean.”
    “That’s the guy.”
    “Are the police aware of what you’re doing? Do they know you follow this man?”
    “Sure. He tried to stop me in the beginning—complained to the lieutenant—but I wouldn’t give up. So now he sees how dedicated I am. He won’t pull any more fast ones with me on his tail.”
    “And did he ‘pull a fast one’ before?” I asked.
    “He got to Portia. I can’t keep him in my sight twenty-four hours a day, and she insisted on walking down by the water after dark. I’m in bed by nine. I told her I couldn’t protect her if she kept doing that, but she pooh-poohed me all the time. Now see what happened.”
    “Then you told Portia of your suspicions.”
    “Of course. She wouldn’t listen to me. Portia was the stubbornest woman I ever met. She never listened to anybody once she got something in her brain to do.”
    “I’ve heard that before,” I said. “Then again, her persistence was sometimes helpful to the residents of Foreverglades, wasn’t it?”
    “I’ll give you that. She did a lot of good. But in the end it killed her. I warned her not to walk alone at night. She insisted there were always other people around. But there wasn’t anyone around to save her the night she died.”
    The BMW pulled into the parking lot of the Foreverglades post office, and Tony Colombo, holding a handful of envelopes, got out of the car and entered the building. Sam backed into another space in the lot and left the engine idling.
    “Broke my Minnie’s heart when Portia died. She was her closest friend. If it weren’t for Helen, she would have gone completely to pieces.”
    “It’s always sad to lose a friend.”
    “And they’re not easy to make down here,” Sam said, looking at me through his silver lenses and tapping the steering wheel. “Lots of people, but lots of cliques, too. This one doesn’t like the way that one dresses, or her accent, or his golf game. That one accuses another of cheating at cards. The other day there was a fight over whose turn it was to dance with the building manager. It’s like high school all over again.”
    “Uh, Sam,” I said, trying to interrupt his tirade.
    “I get so aggravated with them. That’s why I decided to work at the police station. These guys are dealing with important things, not how warm the temperature should be in the pool or how many times you can use the tennis courts in one day.”
    “Sam? You’re forgetting something.”
    “What? What am I forgetting?”
    I pointed at Colombo’s car, which was exiting the parking lot and making a right turn onto the road.
    “Shoot! Why didn’t you tell me?” He released the brake and we jerked forward.
    “I just did.”
    Catching up with Tony Colombo was not a problem. He drove slowly, and Sam drove like a madman, swerving around cars and trucks until we were back on Colombo’s tail well before he turned onto the road leading to the farm stand, which turned out to be a building unlike any other farm stand I was familiar with. Rather than an open shed by the side of the road, this farm