“Besides no one would believe you didn’t invite me in,” she continued. “They’d think you were crazy or they’d wonder about your sexual orientation. And we wouldn’t want that, would we, darling? Before you know it Roberto would be sending you love notes tucked inside cheese danishes.
“And now if you don’t mind, Rushmore, I’ll shower. I don’t want to get anything on my Beemer’s upholstery. And don’t worry about your sheets. It’ll all come out in the wash, as they say.”
Francine, head held high, strode to the bathroom. In the doorway she turned and gave him a triumphant look. Then shutting the bathroom door, she treated him to a loud, off-tune rendition ofThe Triumphal Marchfrom Aida to the accompaniment of running water.
Chapter 18
Rushmore opened the front door the next morning. He paused to take in the slight breeze, grateful for any movement of air in the stifling September heat. Though the locals kept assuring him that the summer heat would soon ease up, this was the first sign that it might actually do just that.
A sharp pain, undoubtedly stemming from the previous night’s activities with Francine, shot through his lower back when he bent down to pick up the morning newspaper. Perhaps he should get back to doing those lower back exercises Dr. Slupak, his New York chiropractor, had prescribed for him. As he slowly straightened up, he caught sight of a pink envelope poking out from under the doormat. Probably the bill left by the newspaper delivery guy.
A pink bill. How very Palm Springs, he thought. He tore it open and pulled out a single sheet of paper:
you are the best
“The best.” he mulled the words over in his head. The best what?
Unless the newspaper guy was some kind of weirdo, it wasn’t from him. Then again, anything was possible. More than likely it was left by one of Harry Herman’s admirers for Harry himself. Maybe from one of the returning snow birds who didn’t realize that Harry had already moved on to the big condo community in the sky.
On the other hand, it was possible the note wasn’t meant for Harry at all but was meant for him, Rushmore Oshansky. Perhaps it was from Francine. Or from Bea, thanking him for the ice cream date.
“You are the best,” the words rolled off his tongue. Rushmore Oshansky, the best? And why not?
Oshansky rummaged through the kitchen drawer for his magnifying glass. It was his prized possession, one of the few things he’d brought with him from New York.
A feeling of nostalgia swept over him as he carefully examined the letter. He felt a longing for the not so distant past when he’d been, Rushmore Oshansky, private dick. Not plain old Rushmore Oshansky living out his remaining years in bermuda shorts and polo shirts.
The letter was hand printed. Black ink. No capital letters, no signature, and no address. Nothing was written on the other side. There was very little to go on.
“You are the best,” he again read aloud. The best what? The best at what? In the event the letter was meant for him, perhaps all that mattered was that someone considered him the best.
Maybe he should leave a note saying Harry doesn’t live here anymore. Just in case the person came back to leave another one. On the other hand, why bother? Harry had been laid to rest six months before. His belated memorial service was the final nail in his coffin, so to speak.
If the letter were meant for Harry, the writer would find out soon enough that he was now six feet under the ground at the Palm Springs Memorial Garden—a few grave sites over from Frank Sinatra, an equally great lover.
Rushmore carefully measured out the Starbucks Dark Roast. He filled the pot with water up to the six cup mark, knowing it would mysteriously wind up as only two and a half— if he was lucky. He poured a bowl of ‘Heart Healthy’ Cheerios and added a small amount of lactose free milk which after sniffing, seemed fresh enough despite being past its expiration date.
He studied the letter while munching his Cheerios at a high decibel. Something he indulged himself in once his spouse was no longer around to reprimand him for his lack of manners.
He recalled someone in the men’s group mentioning that Harry Hermann had received anonymous love letters. And that a Myra Pfefeneuger knew something about them. It had to be the same Myra Pfefeneuger who wanted him to join the condo board. Possibly she might know who Harry’s secret admirer was.
“Myra Pfefeneuger? It’s Rushmore. Rushmore Oshansky. Remember? You asked me to give you a call about joining the condo board.”
Oshansky felt a stab of guilt when he hung up the phone. He hadn’t expected Myra to invite him to discuss it over dinner. Worse yet, he’d accepted knowing that he had no intention of becoming a member of the board. But he was certainly not going to turn down an invitation for a home cooked meal.
Oshansky refolded the letter and shoved it, along with the magnifying glass in the kitchen drawer. Realizing he was still hungry, he searched through the refrigerator for something a little less heart healthy.
Chapter 19
On his way to Myra’s, Oshansky stopped by Trader Joe’s to pick up a bottle of wine. He rejected the ‘Two Buck Chuck’ in favor of the more elegant four dollar, Trader Joe’s Coastal Cabernet Sauvignon, 2009.
“I’m happy you decided to accept my invitation, Rushmore,” Myra greeted him. She glanced at the wine label and, frowning, quickly set it aside. “And, of course, I’m thrilled that you’ve decided to join our board.”
“Well, not exactly. I haven’t really made up my mind.” He was beginning to feel guilty.
Myra led the way into the living room. “We can talk about it later. In the meantime fix yourself something from the bar while I check on dinner. I hope you likecoq au vin. It’s one of my specialties.”
Myra’s bar was impressive. It could give any of New York’s ‘best,‘ a run for the money. Feeling like a kid in a candy store, he looked over the bottles. Finally he picked up the Johnny Walker Black Label and filled his glass.
Black and white photos lined the wall behind the bar and he recognized a younger Myra in most of them. Posing alongside her was a stern Germanic-looking man, Mr. Pfefeneuger, no doubt. Rushmore recognized many of the illustrious persons in the photos with them, at least two of which were past U.S. presidents.
“That’s my Otto.” Myra had quietly re-entered the room. “Otto Pfefeneuger, my dear husband. We were married just forty-three years when he passed away from a heart attack.” She reached over and touched his image. “I miss him dreadfully,” she said in a hushed voice.
“I’m sorry about that.”
“Why thank you, Rushmore. After Otto passed, I went through a very difficult period. We had been inseparable and when he died, I became so desperately lonely that I knew I would have to make a change in my life. I left Pittsburgh and moved to Palm Springs where Otto and I had spent many wonderful winters. Palm Springs is a wonderful place, don’t you agree, Rushmore?”
Rushmore nodded. “Yeah, I’m beginning to get used to it, I guess.”
“Give yourself time, Rushmore. I’m sure you’ll grow to love it. As I was saying, I eventually moved into Sun Villas. And, of course, I knew I had to keep myself occupied so I threw myself into its activities. It was my therapy. A short time later I was asked to join the condo board.” She paused and smiled at Oshansky. “Am I boring you with all this talk, Rushmore?”
“No, not at all,” he replied. Not when it’s accompanied by Johnny Walker Black Label. He wondered if it would be okay if he refilled his glass. Myra seemed to have the effect of making him conscious of his ‘p’s’ and ‘q’s,’ which wasn’t easy by a long shot.
“But you must be starved, Rushmore.Let’s eat before thecoq au vin gets cold. I also made a special dessert for tonight.”
Oshansky quickly refilled his glass, then followed her into the dining room.
After dinner Rushmore, sated and happy, settled against the ivory silk pillows lining Myra’s luxurious couch. Marv was right, he thought as Myra handed him a brandy. She was a class act. “I must say, Myra, that c
ocka…
“That’scoq au vin,” she gently corrected him.
“Well, it was the best chicken I ever had.”
“Thank you, Rush.Coq au vin was a favorite of Otto’s as well.”
“Where’d you learn to cook like that?
“It was during the first years of our marriage. Otto and I always spent the month of May in Paris. I’d never had any interest in cooking before but being a newlywed and living in Paris….well, what better place to learn. The French are marvelous cooks. Don’t you agree, Rushmore?”
Rushmore, his eyes becoming heavy from too much alcohol and food, nodded agreeably.
“I decided to take classes while there,” Myra continued. “So I signed up at Le Cordon Bleu. Over the years I would go back now and then to brush up on my skills.
“Now, on the serious side, Rushmore, I hope you’ve decided to join our condo board. You’re just the kind of person we need.”
Oshansky had to admit he felt flattered. Perhaps Myra had discovered qualities in him that even he didn’t know he had.
“Well, I’ll tell you the truth, Myra, I don’t really think I’m cut out to serve on a condo board.”
“But you’re like Harry Herman in so many ways. So in tune with the times. I know you would bring a fresh perspective to the board.” She reached over and rested her hand on his arm. “We need people like you to provide balance to all those fuddy duddies.”
He had only himself to blame. He’d dug himself a hole by accepting the dinner invitation and now it was up to him to climb out of it. “Look, Myra, I’ll be truthful. I’d just end up making enemies of the folks on the board. Besides from what I heard about Harry, I’m nothing like him. I think the only thing we have in common is the condo.
“It’s true. Harry was a wonderful president,” Myra nodded. “I was so flattered when the board asked me to take his place after he died. Of course, I realize that no one could take Harry’s place.”
Oshansky felt suddenly wide awake. This was his chance to find out about the pink letters. “So I guess you two were an item.”
Myra hesitated before answering. “Why would you assume that?” She looked at him curiously.
“I heard he was a sharp guy. A great dresser and all. I kind of figured you two might have hit it off. Both of you sophisticated.”
A shadow fell across Myra’s face. “We dated a few times but I wasn’t ready to get involved, so we ended up as good friends.”
“Judging by the turnout at the memorial service it seems he had loads of good friends. Especially women,”
“Oh yes, everyone loved Harry. And everyone was devastated at his passing. Now,” she said standing up, “it’s time for thepiece de resistance.”
A few minutes later she emerged from the kitchen holding a cake with chocolate icing and yellow roses “My very own chocolate mocha creation. I call it the Yellow Rose of Texas Cake. A romantic cake for romantic occasions.”
She carefully cut a large piece and handed it to him. “Now I don’t want to hear that you’re on a diet, Rushmore. I expect you to ask for seconds.”
After the first bite Oshansky knew he wouldn’t need prodding. “This is probably one of the best cakes I ever ate, Myra,” he mumbled, his mouth filled with Yellow Rose of Texas. “Speaking of Harry, Myra, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about the pink love letters he got, would you? Like who sent them?”
Myra delicately dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “Why yes,” she said. “I knew about the pink letters Harry got. In fact I happened to find one when I dropped by his condo one morning. It was the morning I brought him the roster of our new residents. I saw a pink envelope partially hidden under his door mat. I picked it up and gave it to him.”
“Did Harry say anything about it? Was he surprised to get it?”
“Not at all. He just laughed and said something about it being the fifth one he’d received. He said it was from an anonymous admirer. I remember telling him that while I thought it humorous I also found it quite pathetic.”
“Pathetic?” Oshansky looked at her in surprise. Myra was obviously a lot tougher than she appeared.
“I can’t imagine anyone our age acting like some lovesick teenager and sending love notes.” She paused to take a small bite of her cake. “I doubt even teenagers act that way today. Certainly not in this age of email and Twitter. Everything seems to go at such breakneck speed today. It’s hard to get a hold on life. Don’t you agree, Rushmore?” She glanced at Oshansky’s empty dessert plate. “I’m so glad you liked the cake.”
“Yeah, guess I wolfed it down pretty fast.” he smiled sheepishly. “You’re really a good cook.”
“It’s just another unfortunate sign of the times,” Myra said, cutting him another slice of cake. “That our young people of today don’t know how to be romantic. I fear, Rushmore,” she said handing the plate to him, “that we may be the last generation of romantics.”
Oshansky nodded, though he had grave doubts that he’d qualify as a romantic in any generation. “Did Harry ever say what the notes were about?”
“Of course not,” she answered. “Harry was a very private person. He would never engage in gossip.” She paused, frowning, “I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, Rushmore, but you’re different from the people I’m used to. To be honest, I find you somewhat intriguing and would like to get to know you better.”
He’d been called many things but never intriguing. Not too shabby a description, now that he thought about it. And coming from of all people, Myra Pfefeneuger of the Pittsburgh Pfefeneugers.
He gave her a chaste good-night kiss and left. He realized that he was no closer to discovering who had written the pink notes. Myra, however, had extracted from him the promise to give serious consideration to joining the condo board. It was clear that she was a person who called the shots. A woman determined to have things her way.
He was about to climb into his car, when a hand reached out of the dark and grabbed hold of his arm.
“Brenda! You scared the hell out of me. What are you doing here?”
Brenda’s curly red hair lit from behind by the moon appeared on fire. “You were with Myra,” she said in a low accusatory tone.
“Well, yes, that happens to be true,” he answered.
“You’re all alike.” she said angrily and walked away.
Oshansky glanced back at Myra’s condo as he climbed into his car and wondered if it was his imagination or if he’d seen a slight movement of the drapes.
Chapter 20
When Oshansky opened his front door the next morning, he spotted something pink poking out from under his doormat. It was another pink envelope with no address or other identifying information.
He tore it open and pulled out a single sheet of pink paper.
do not get involved
not good for your health
Oshansky’s gut instinct told him that this letter was meant for him and not for Harry. That no doubt meant that the first note was also meant for him. While the first note had been admiring, this one appeared to be a warning.
do not get involved
Involved with what–or whom? Myra…Brenda…Francine…Bea? The note could be referring to any one of them. Or all of them.
Maybe it was a warning not to get involved with the condo board. Now that was a warning he would gladly heed.
Oshansky reread the note on his way back inside and had to admit that health-wise, he hadn’t been feeling so good lately. Maybe too many dinners out. Possibly too much alcohol. Maybe even too much sex for someone his age. But surely that was not what the writer of the notes meant.
Perhaps he should do some serious investigating. Check it for prints. Maybe ask around. It didn’t seem worth the effort. He figured he’d instead wait for the next note––if there was one.
He walked into the kitchen and stuffed the note in the kitchen drawer along with the first one.
*****************
Later that aft
ernoon Oshansky handed three ten dollar bills to the woman behind the counter of the Keep It Kleen dry cleaners.
“Keep the change,” he said magnanimously.
The clerk glanced at the bill. $29.85.
“Thanks a lot,” she said sarcastically.
Oshansky picked up his laundry, walked out the door and into the searing heat and blinding light of the Palm Springs afternoon.
Bea, who was walking in, stepped aside to avoid a collision. “Don’t tell me you take your bermudas and boxers to the dry cleaners,” she said, glancing at the packages in his arms. “That’s such a waste of money. Why aren’t you doing your own laundry? It’s not that difficult. I’m sure even you could do it.”
“Let’s make a deal. You come over and show me how to work the washing machine and I’ll make you dinner.”
“Good try,” Bea smiled. “Unfortunately you’ll need a better pickup line than, ‘come over and do my dirty laundry.’
“Okay, forget that part. Just come for dinner. But be sure to leave that beast of yours at home,” he said, only half joking.”
“Don’t worry. MacArthur likes you about as much as you like him.”
“That’s what I meant.”
“Welcome to Casa del Oshansky,” he said with a flourish.
“Cut the crap, Oshansky.” Bea walked past him into the living room and glanced around. “Well, I guess it’s better than I expected.”
“What does that mean?”
“I expected MacDonald’s hamburger wrappers on the floor. Shoes and dirty socks piled in front of the couch. Dirty underwear tossed around the bedroom.
“It so happens I tossed everything into the closet and under the bed before you came.”
“Figures,” Bea nodded. “Well, I guess it could be worse.”
Sylvia Selfman - Rushmore Oshansky 01 - Murder Never Retires Page 7
