Getting Old is a Disaster Part 7

I hear an imperious voice call after me, "Just a moment, Mrs. Gold." It's Conchetta, putting on a tone of authority in front of the gawking children. "The moment you walk out you will set off the alarm."

Oops. I forgot to check out my books. I look with chagrin at the mob at the desk and dutifully go to the back of the line.

10.

The Bank Teller.

The five of us face the very young Sarah Byrne as we all sip lemonade. We have our most solicitous expressions on in respect for Ms. Byrne's recent painful encounter.

"I hope you're feeling better." This from Evvie.

"And not crying a lot anymore." Bella offers her sympathy.

"Are you under a doctor's care?" asks Sophie.

Our witness perches daintily on a small tapestry bench opposite us. We are sitting on flowery chintz couches and spindly antique chairs. Her house is charming and beautifully kept up. Sarah, herself, is pet.i.te and pretty and nicely dressed, in white slacks and a black tee. Her curly blond hair is tied back in a white ribbon. And she is barefoot.

After we found her address-in the phone book, amazing these days-we called her. We explained who we were and what we wanted. She said she was more than happy to have us come and visit.

Now she stares at us in confusion. "What are you talking about? Why would I need a doctor?"

"Was it because of the shock of being robbed?" Ida wants to know.

A smile forms on Sarah's face.

She's smiling? Odd. "We read the newspaper account of your leaving the bank in hysterics," I tell her.

She walks over and refills our lemonade gla.s.ses. "That's a good way of putting it! Hysterics? Oh, yes, I left in hysterics. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both."

Now we're the ones looking puzzled.

"You know why I invited you ladies over? Because I'm upset about losing my job. Because I miss my work. Because none of my old friends at the bank have the guts to call me. The bank fired me. I didn't push the panic b.u.t.ton fast enough."

"Was that because you were frightened by being in danger?" I ask.

"Danger? But was I really in danger? I'm not sure. This was the weirdest thing that ever happened to me in my whole life." She pauses as she rolls her head in a stretch. "Are you really private eyes? You're really looking for Grandpa?"

Evvie answers Sarah's question with dignity. "We certainly are private eyes. Who did you think we were when you gave us permission to come over?"

"I didn't know and I didn't care. I wanted the company. I thought you were a bunch of old ladies who were bored and nosy. And, by the way, thanks for the pineapple upside-down cake."

"Hmph," mutters Ida, baker of said cake.

Sarah drops to the floor in front of us. "Mind if I do a little yoga? I missed my cla.s.s today."

Why not, I think. This is turning into a bizarre little episode. Next thing, she might want us to do push-ups with her.

"Start from the beginning," I say. "Please. The whole robbery incident."

We all lean forward as she twists her legs around in a way that I never thought possible outside of the circus.

"Okay," she says. "It was an ordinary day, maybe a little quiet. This old guy comes to my window."

Fas.h.i.+onista Sophie interrupts immediately. "Do you remember what he was wearing?"

"Honey, I remember every little thing about him."

I tap Sophie, indicating that she shouldn't interrupt.

Sarah twists into another improbable position, resembling something like a figure eight. "He was about five foot four, thin, wearing gray pants and s.h.i.+rt and a Miami Dolphins baseball cap. He had on huge sungla.s.ses with white rims, making it very difficult to see his face. He had kind of a Groucho Marx bushy mustache. Looked like a paste-on to me. And a big Spider-Man Band-Aid on his cheek. I only realized later that all that stuff was to keep me from really seeing anything of his looks other than the tufts of his gray hair sticking out."

Bella pulls her chair even closer so as not to miss a word of this amazing story.

Sarah continues, "He carried a small tote with the SunTrust Bank logo on it. He opened it up and pulled out a bag from Mickey's Deli, the one that's right across the street from where I work."

We are listening with open mouths. Her attention to detail is fascinating.

"He took out a rye bread sandwich and unwrapped it."

Now Sophie can't stand it. "He was going to eat his lunch?"

Sarah shakes her head. "He then tells me he got turkey but told them to hold the mayo so it wasn't too messy."

Bella is gaga over what she hears. "What wasn't too messy?"

"His gun, wrapped up in the sandwich," Sarah says. "He insisted it was a real gun, but frankly, I wasn't sure."

"You gotta be joking," Ida says. "He's holding up a bank with a gun wrapped in a turkey sandwich?"

"I kid you not," Sarah says, giggling. "Here I am being robbed by an old guy dressed like a clown, carrying a gun in rye bread. I didn't know what to think. I was so weirded out, I didn't know whether this was a joke or serious."

We're all giggling now.

Ida pours herself more lemonade. "Then what?"

"Then he says, 'Give me five hundred and fifty dollars and forty-six cents or I shoot.' My hands were shaking; I could barely count out the money. He tossed it into the sandwich bag, thanked me, and tipped his baseball cap."

We are speechless. Finally Evvie says, "That's it?"

"Oh, I almost forgot. He dug out a small green feather and said, 'Robin Hood's my name, robbing banks is my game.' "

Sarah does another complicated yoga move then gracefully stands up and stretches.

Bella and Sophie applaud.

I've heard some strange stories in my lifetime but this takes the cake. "Did you tell all of it to the police?"

"I did indeed, but I don't think they believed me, what with all my nervous laughing."

I have to ask. "Why did you give him the money?"

She thinks for a moment. "That's a good question. Maybe it's because I thought he was adorable. Maybe because he reminded me of my grandpa. And because maybe he was loony enough to be carrying a real gun. I tell you, ladies, I was a nervous wreck."

She performs another long stretch. "And when I finally remembered to hit the panic b.u.t.ton, he was already racing out of the bank."

11.

Another Teller Tells

Another Story.

Pallie Finchum is a very different experience from Sarah Byrne. No laughing here. This one's a straitlaced bank teller who reminds me of an old-fas.h.i.+oned schoolmarm. Maybe it's the tight brown bun perched on the top of her head or her starched black suit. She's in her fifties, thin-lipped, and very unfriendly. She, too, had been mentioned in an article after one of Grandpa's robberies. We called her. She refused to speak to us, so today Evvie and I track her down at lunchtime. The others stay home because I tell them five of us stalking her would be ridiculous.

We wait for Finchum to leave the bank. Noon, right on the dot. She then enters Fuddruckers directly across the street. That's a surprise-the noisy youth-oriented restaurant doesn't seem her style. We manage to get a table right behind her. She orders a chicken salad and iced tea. We order a couple of hamburgers and c.o.kes. We let her read her book and eat in peace. While she sips her tea and before she pays the check, we get up and sit down next to her, c.o.kes still in hand.

Naturally she's startled. Very quickly we introduce ourselves and remind her that we'd tried to make an appointment. When she recovers from her shock, she says, "Get away from me or I'm calling for help."

"Please," I say, "just a few minutes of your time. We need to talk to you about the old man who held you up."

"It's none of your business."

Evvie smiles. "Actually, it is. He's our client." And she hands Finchum one of our business cards. I remember how Jack surprised me with these cards as a "new business" present. I've given out about eleven so far. These cards will outlive me.

The woman accepts it with the same att.i.tude she might have shaking hands with an alligator. "Your client? That's preposterous."

"Maybe so, but it's true," Evvie tells her.

"Prove it. Tell me what he looks like."

I don't know quite what to say since we've never met our client. Nothing fazes Evvie, though; she jumps right in. "Don't play with us. You don't know what he looks like, either. He's very secretive about his appearance. He usually wears a disguise. I'm sure he was wearing one when he walked up to your window. The only thing he lets people see clearly is his gray hair."

Miss Bun-on-top-of-head pauses, but she's not giving up yet. "You'll have to do better than that. Tell me something you know that only the police and the bank and I know."

Evvie, former budding actress, is in her element. "Gramps, our master of disguise, comes up to your window and shows you his gun, wrapped in a sandwich. Usually turkey, and he holds the mayo so it won't be messy."

This information startles Finchum. She weakens a bit. "It wasn't turkey."

"All right, already," Evvie says, pretending annoyance. "So what was it? Pastrami? Baloney? What?"

Pallie Finchum finally relents. She leans over and whispers, "It was corned beef on a Kaiser roll."

"How much did he demand?"

"Forty-four dollars and seventy-eight cents."

I'm surprised by this but I don't show it. "And," I add, "he showed you the green feather and called himself Robin Hood."

The bank teller sighs. "That's exactly what happened. My life has been h.e.l.l ever since. My manager says I can never tell this story to anyone. So do the police. Why would I want to tell anyone? It was too embarra.s.sing. But I did tell my mother. I live with her."

"And?" Evvie asks.

"She was so upset, she wanted me to quit. How can I quit? I need the money."

She stands up from the table. "I have to go back to work. This robbery has ruined my job for me. Now my manager watches me all the time."

And with that she leaves us sitting there.

Evvie look at me. "First it was five hundred something and now forty-four and change. What in blazes is that about?"

"One of the first things I'll want to ask 'our client' if we ever catch up to him." I stand up. "Time for another meeting to figure out what we know."

We're in the clubhouse with the door locked and a sign tacked on that reads PRIVATE PARTY. KEEP OUT. We need to use the chalkboard. Outside, the wind is blowing, rattling the windows and doork.n.o.b, promising a new storm. Inside, we are cozy. Evvie pops some popcorn for us in the community microwave.

We list on the board what we know and what the police know.

"Keep calling it out," I say, chalk in hand.

Evvie: "He's always in a disguise, with distractions, so n.o.body really gets a good look at him." She hands out paper cups filled with popcorn and we nibble as we chat.

Ida: "He goes to the nearest restaurant and buys a sandwich to hide his gun."

As I write, I add, "He probably gets the sandwich at an earlier time or the cops would have caught him by now."

Sophie: "The two amounts of money he robbed were different. I'll bet they're different in each bank. That's pretty weird."

Bella: "Maybe he gets bored and changes it. Or maybe he forgot what he asked for last time." She ponders this. "I know I would."

I look at the chalkboard, where I've copied out the list of six banks that arrived in today's mail. Frankly I didn't think Morrie would really send it. "I bet when we visit these banks, we'll find some kind of restaurant nearby. And that will be the sandwich wrapper of the day. He's toying with the banks and the police."

Evvie says, "Morrie probably knows in his heart that we can solve the case and is depending on us."

"Maybe," says Sophie. "I bet the cops are all frustrated because this old guy keeps foiling them."

Ida adds a clue. "I checked on the shuttle van that Grandpa got into the other night when we had dinner out. The driver said Grandpa didn't belong to the Golden Era Retirement Home, but he admitted the old guy tipped him for a ride with them."