Getting Old is the Best Revenge Read Online Free PDF

husband. Of course she had hired the high-priced Los Ochos Cubanos band so that her Bobby could parade his fancy Latin steps. And make other women drool with envy. Wonderful . . .
    "More steam, madam?" Her reverie was interrupted by a softly whispering voice.
    "Turn it up, honey. You know I like it hot."
    She could hear the hissing of the bricks as he poured more water on them. He? Was that a man's voice? In a women's spa? Instinctively she covered herself as best she could with her towel, sat up, and pulled off the cucumber slices.
    At first she couldn't believe her eyes, then she grinned. "Hi, what the hell are you doing here, sweetie?"
    He smiled back at her.
    "Last time I saw you, we were both naked. Come for an encore?" She let the towel drop enticingly.
    He replied by turning the steam up higher. It was getting unbearably hot. Then Josephine noticed he was dressed in a janitor's uniform, and that he wore gloves on his hands. Something was not right.
    He walked out of the steam room and closed the door. She got up quickly, wincing from the heat of the tile floor, and grabbed the door handle. Incredibly, he was holding it shut from the outside!
    "Hey, this isn't funny!" She dropped her hands from the burning handle. "Open the damn door!"
    There was no response. She beat at the door with her fists, shouting for help. The heat was unbearable. Her feet were burning. She could hardly breathe. Terrified, she stared at him through the misted window, her eyes pleading. "Why?" she mouthed.
    He smiled and sang to her. "Toyland, Toyland, little girl and boy land . . ."
    She saw no mercy in his eyes. She knew she was done for. Her last, dying thought was Somebody had better call the caterers . . .

    When Josephine finally crumpled to the scorching floor, the man opened the door. Her body tumbled out of the steam room. He bent down and felt her pulse, then walked out into the hallway, still whistling the same tune.

    9

    Stakeout

    P icture this. It's eleven o'clock, way past my
    bedtime. I'm jammed inside my cramped Chevy wagon with my so-called associates, all of whom are trying to drive me crazy.
    We're parked on an unlit, empty, gloomy street in Plantation, an area we never go to, in front of something called Salvatore's Bar and Grill. What do we old broads think we're doing, anyway? We're on our first stakeout! And I cannot believe how these girls are behaving.
    Their idea of a stakeout: sharing the already cramped space with five ample bodies and a basket full of snacks, drinks, knitting supplies, cards, and blankets. In case they get hungry, thirsty, bored, or cold. I keep nodding off, but not them. They're all for this adventure.
    Thanks to the revenge-driven Angelina Siciliano, we're here stalking Elio Siciliano, an eighty-five-yearold potential philanderer. We are waiting for the alleged cheating husband to come out of the bar and head for some sordid late-night rendezvous.
    Evvie is seated next to me in the front, of course. No one would dare try to take that sister privilege away from her.
    The three others are miserable in the back, what with the supplies packed over, around, and under their legs. They keep shifting positions, annoying one another, in an attempt to get comfortable.
    I told them they didn't all need to come tonight. Why did I waste my breath? As if they would take a chance on missing something. And I warned them that the car light would be off, so how could they knit or play cards?
    That didn't stop them. They brought flashlights. Worried that the light might call attention to us? No problem. Sophie covered hers with a purple sock.
    Bella is sitting between Sophie and Ida, who are using her lap as a table so they can play their favorite two-person card game, Spite and Malice. A game that calls for dirty tricks and the language of a longshoreman.
    Evvie has taped the Sicilianos' home address next to the snapshot Angelina gave us of her husband up on the dashboard. She says that's how cops do it. However,