“Those are cleaning tools in her bag.”
“Yeah, right. Cleaning tools,” Francine scoffed. “Believe it if you want. Anyway, Oshansky, it was only a metaphor. Come over around seven so I won’t have to make dinner. You know how I hate to cook. Come for drinks and dessert. Homemade dessert. Chocolate.”
He shuddered at the memory of Francine and her warm chocolate. “No chocolate, Francine.”
“Okay, no chocolate. Bananas okay? Just kidding. Seven o’clock then. And, Oshansky, leave your self-control at home.”
“You like chocolate, Mr Ushmoe?” Rosa asked when Oshansky hung up the phone.
He thought about the question, then shrugged. “No, not anymore.”
Chapter 28
Oshansky stood under the shower and let the warm water soothe his aching back. Either his new mattress was no longer working its magic or his arthritis was on the march. Another sign of aging—after all at his age there wasn’t any part of him that was getting any younger. Except possibly his sex life.
Hearing the phone, he stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist and went to answer it.
“Oshansky here.”
“Rushmore, it’s Myra. I’m hoping you’ll join me for dinner this evening.
Rushmore thought back to that wonderful chicken dish he’d had the last time he’d had dinner at Myra’s.
“I made thatcoq au vin that you liked so much. I made it special for you.”
Oshansky could practically taste thecoq au vin.He wondered what excuse he could come up with to get out of his date with Francine. After all he could see her anytime. Myra’s chicken didn’t come down the pike every day.
“Some members of the condo board will be joining us this evening also,” Myra continued. “I know you’ll enjoy talking to them.”
“I’m sorry, Myra. I’m already booked for this evening,” he said, grateful that he had a ready excuse.
“I’m so sorry. I was so looking forward to seeing you, Rushmore. Another time then.”
Rushmore pulled on a pair of blue bermudas and a freshly laundered yellow LLBean polo shirt, and checked himself in the mirror. Practically a fashion icon, he thought. If the NYPD could see him now, they wouldn’t recognize him. In fact he barely recognized himself.
He opened his dresser drawer and took out Harry’s letter and reread it. It was obvious that someone had threatened Harry. Oshansky went into the kitchen and retrieved the pink letters sent to him and laid them out on the table. It didn’t take a genius or even a magnifying glass to see that the printing on the letters sent to him and the one sent to Harry was identical.
Clutching his back, he straightened up, refolded the letters and put them back in the kitchen drawer.
The question was, who? Who was sending the notes?
The blow to his shoulder as he was locking his front door came out of nowhere, knocking him off balance.
“What the hell?” He spun around. “Brenda! You scared the hell out of me. What are you doing here?”
“What do you mean, what am I doing here?” she asked angrily. “You don’t own this neighborhood. So which one are you going to see this time?”
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were stalking me,” he said, rubbing his shoulder which, until now, had almost healed from Francine’s ropes.
“Stalking you, Oshansky? Don’t make me laugh. I’m on my evening walk. Which is what you should be doing.” She said, looking him up and down. “You should take better care of yourself, Oshansky. Carrying extra weight around your middle can lead to a heart attack. Look it up in the medical literature. It’s well documented.”
“I’m late, Brenda. Got to go. I’ll give you a ring,” he said. “Eventually, maybe,” he added under his breath as he rushed to his car.
As he drove away he could see in his rear view mirror that Brenda was still standing in his driveway, arms folded, watching him.
Francine flung open the door. She was wearing tight jeans and an even tighter white tee.
“Old Spice,” she said as she gave him a kiss. “You need better aftershave than that. You know, Oshansky, it’s been way too long since you’ve called me. Tell me the truth,” she said, looking him the eyes. “Miss Prissy not giving you any? Oh, forget it. I’m not going to give you a hard time. I’m just glad to see you.”
Oshansky decided not to pursue who Miss Prissy was. He wanted nothing to interfere with his mission. With his questions about Harry’s death, it was becoming more urgent to find the writer. Especially after reading that final letter to Harry. It was now obvious the writer had something more ominous than love in mind.
“Yeah, I missed you too,” he said absentmindedly.
“But don’t think I don’t know about your romancing all those other women, Oshansky. However I’m willing to forgive and forget this time. And just to prove it, I planned a special menu of delights for you tonight. Come,” she hooked her arm through his.
Painful as it was to not follow her to the bedroom, he hung back.
“I have an idea,” he said. “Why don’t you go ahead and put on one of your sexy outfits. I’ll get ready and we can have our fun right here in the living room.”
“Whoa there, Big O. Now you’re speaking a language I understand. I hope you’re not thinking of anything too bizarre.”
Bizarre? What could possibly be too bizarre for Francine? he wondered. “Take your time, Francine,” he called after her. “I’ll be here on the couch, waiting for you.”
As for coming up with something sexually exotic, he was sure she’d take care of that. Right now he had more important things to do.
He waited a few minutes to make sure that Francine wasn’t going to make a sudden reappearance then walked quickly over to her antique desk. Starting with the top drawer, he rummaged through the mountain of checks, old bills, take-out menus and other loose papers. Not finding any pink stationary, he moved on to the next three drawers. No pink stationary. And no handwriting that was at all similar to the printing on the notes—everything Francine wrote appeared to be in cursive rather than print.
Afraid Francine might suddenly reappear, he grabbed her date book, quickly checked it over, then ripped out a page covered with her handwriting and stuffed it in his back pocket. Hopefully he could glean something useful from it later.
“Is this what the doctor ordered?” Francine asked, making her appearance dressed in a black bra minus the cups. A black lace garter belt held up black lace stockings, along with a matching half mask that covered her eyes. For good measure, she brandished a riding crop.
“Uh,” Oshansky said, staring at her. “Yeah, possibly. Well, maybe not exactly.”
“It’s not what you had in mind, darling, it’s what I have in mind. Now get out of those pesky clothes and get down on all fours. We’re going for a ride.”
Checking out a suspect in Palm Springs was far different than in New York. But hell, someone’s gotta do it, he thought as he quickly stripped down to his teddy bear boxers.
“Everything off,’’ she ordered, tapping his butt a little harder than he thought necessary. “Now giddyup.”
****************
Oshansky almost forgot about the writing sample in his back pocket a few hours later when he limped back into his condo. Francine had certainly outdone herself. How would she ever top it?
He flipped on the light in the kitchen, poured himself a large glass of scotch and retrieved the pink letters from the kitchen drawer. He laid them out on the table , lining them up next to each other, along with the page from Francine’s date book.
Eggs, coffee, oranges, wine
Lunch Nancy 12 p.m.
dentist teeth whitening
dermatologist laser
dry cleaning
car wash
pilates
He couldn’t help but admire all the activities Francine could fit into one day. It was a wonder she had any energy left for sex.
Fascinating as her itinerary
was, Oshansky couldn’t detect anything that would connect Francine’s sprawling script to the print on the pink letters. The letter writer clearly knew exactly what he or she was doing––eliminating all punctuation, caps and cursive.
As he carefully refolded the letters and put them back in their envelopes, he felt a sense of nostalgia for the past. Thefrisson (a word he learned from his client, Ashley Morgenheim, who’d made a habit of using it at every opportunity whether or not it was appropriate) of excitement that came from working on a case. But it was more than nostalgia that was driving him now. That last pink letter to Harry suggested that his own personal safety might now be in jeopardy.
Oshansky knew that threatening anonymous letters were almost always sent by someone the recipient knew—and in most cases, knew intimately. He had to find the writer. Now. Before it was too late. Too late for what? That was the sixty-four dollar question.
He poured another scotch and raised the glass, “To the return of Rushmore Oshansky, private dick.”
His euphoria was short-lived, however, as he was again overcome with self-doubt. Was it really a case? Or was he exaggerating the clues, making a mountain out of a pink molehill? Was he trying to prove himself, to resurrect a career that he’d left behind, possibly prematurely?
It was too late to think about that. He needed to squelch any doubts he had and continue on with his investigation. Which, he decided, he would do in the morning—his desperate need to sleep off Francine’s latest ministrations took precedence.
Tired as he was, sleep eluded him. He felt an unfamiliar restlessness. Every creak, every night sound was amplified. Threatening.
Irritated with himself, he crawled out of bed and made his way in the dark to the front door. “Can’t be too careful in Palm Springs Sun Villas,” he mumbled to himself as he checked to make sure the chain was securely attached.
“Especially in Palm Springs Sun Villas.” he mumbled as he made his way back to bed.
Chapter 29
“Oshansky, what an unlikely place to see you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a grocery store before. Have the women stopped feeding you?”
He smiled back at her. “It sure looks good, Brenda,” he said staring at her overflowing grocery cart. “What I meant is, you sure look good. All that food must mean your ex is down from San Francisco again.”
“I like to keep a well-stocked refrigerator and pantry. I told you my motto is ‘be prepared.’”
“Yeah, yours and all the Boy Scouts in America.”
“Whatever. So, Oshansky, you like what’s in my cart? Why don’t you come over tomorrow night and sample it?”
Why not? He could have a decent meal and check out her handwriting at the same time. Brenda was certainly a suspect. Always slinking around at night. Always popping up in unexpected places. She could easily have stuck the letters under his mat.
“Sounds good,” he answered.
“Make it at seven tomorrow evening. And don’t be late.”
“By the way, Brenda, which laundry soap should I buy?”
“Oh lord, Oshansky, who cares, just buy the cheapest.”
***************
“To a great cook,” Oshansky toasted Brenda. “That was great pot roast. Almost as good as my mother’s.”
Brenda looked at him and frowned. “Oshansky, if you don’t mind I’d like to share something with you.
Oshansky braced himself.
“I’m aware of your involvement with all the other women around here.”
“Yes, I’m sure you are,” Oshansky nodded.
“Despite which, in observing you, I find you are still quite naive.”
“Yeah, I think you told me that when we first met.” He wondered where Brenda was going with this.
“I feel it’s time you settled down. It’s not good for you, this jumping from woman to woman. Especially at your age.” Her eyes swept over him.
Oshansky wondered if she noticed the six pounds he’d recently gained. Thankfully, she didn’t bring it up.
“It’s clear you’re getting little satisfaction from the other women. Perhaps it’s time for a refresher course on what a real woman can do for you.”
“Yeah, well the last time you tried that your ex was in the next room.”
“I told you he only comes down when I need tax help. Though amenage a tois could be fun. Of course, since he’s gay you’d be the—excuse the expression—repository of all the fun. But you needn’t worry, Oshansky. Like I’ve said before, I’m not into those kinds of activities.”
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” Oshansky added quickly.
But enough small talk, he thought. It was time to set his plan into action. “I’ve got an idea. Let’s each write down our wildest sexual fantasy. Then we can act them out.”
Brenda stared at him and shook her head. “I had no idea, Oshansky, that you were such a creative person. Fascinating. You always seemed so, how should I describe it…so…conservative?”
Brenda walked over to her recipe box and pulled out two 3x5 cards. “Here,” she said thrusting a card at him, “write your fantasy. And Oshansky,” she paused, “don’t be shy.” She sat down and began to write.
“Wait,” Oshansky ordered, “let’s print so it’ll be easier to read.” He smiled at how clever he was.
A few minutes later, Brenda put down her pen. “I’m finished. Let’s read our fantasies now,” she said eagerly.
“We’ll start with mine.” He handed her his card while putting her card in his pants pocket. “But first, let’s go to the bedroom.” He led the way as Brenda eagerly followed behind.
Oshansky sat on the edge of her bed. “All right, Brenda, now read what I wrote.”
“If you don’t mind, first fold up my bedspread. It’s expensive and I don’t want it ruined.”
He watched her read the card while he struggled with her king–sized spread.
“Milk? Are you kidding me, Oshansky?” She looked at him.
“Keep reading, Brenda.”
“You want me to heat up warm milk? Now?”
“I know it sounds strange, but trust me. Milk works like magic on my libido.” Oshansky knew his request ran the risk of keeping the condo gossip mill going for at least a day or two. It was a risk he had to take. He had to get her out of the room long enough to check her desk for pink stationary. Thanks to how clever he’d been he had a sample of her printing in his pocket.
“I’m sure I can get you in the mood without milk, Oshansky.”
“Brenda,” he scolded, “this is my fantasy. First, the milk. Warm milk. In fact, really warm milk. Not hot, mind you. Heat it slowly on a low burner. Not in the microwave. I’m averse to nuclear power.”
Brenda shrugged. “If that’s what it takes.” Shaking her head, she walked out of the room.
At the sound of pots banging around in the kitchen, he walked quickly to her small corner desk, pulled open the drawers and rifled through them. There was no sign of pink stationary.
“Here I come. Ready or not.” Brenda called out.
He quickly shut the drawers.
“You’re still dressed, Oshansky. How disappointing.” Brenda handed him a glass of milk.
“This wouldn’t be lactose free by any chance, would it? Otherwise it could have a terrible effect on me.”
The look Brenda gave him squelched any hope he had of not drinking it.
Feeling as though he were standing in front of a school principal—which he was—he obediently gulped down the milk as quickly as possible, while wondering if his plan was as brilliant as he had first thought.
Not only had he not found any evidence of pink stationary but after they had both removed their clothes, and just as he was positioning himself to consummate the act, he threw up. Thereby missing out on what had promised to be a sexually rewarding evening.
He tried to explain to Brenda that throwing up on her was not part of the sexual fantasy. In fact, he hadn’t thrown up since he was a kid.
It was the milk. Which was why he’d switched to lactose free in his later years. Besides, he hadn’t done it on purpose, so she had no reason to be so angry.
Perhaps he’d gone too far when he suggested they continue what they were doing after she cleaned herself up.
She ordered him in no uncertain terms to, “just get the fuck out, Oshansky, and don’t bother coming back.”
Chapter 30
Oshansky was still tired when he awakened the next morning. Weird dreams kept waking him up. Particularly the one where he was piloting a DC3 through the Milky Way and couldn’t find his way out.
In an even more disturbing dream, he was walking down an isolated road wearing a tuxedo. He came to a brick building with a sign, The Pink Tutu, over the door. He flung open the door and found himself in a large, cold warehouse. Women dressed in black were slowly filing past a coffin in the center of the room. Shoving his way through the line, he glanced in and gasped. He saw himself––lying in a casket lined with pink silk as one by one the women stopped, dropped a pink rose on his chest, kissed him on the forehead, and moved on.
Then a loud shriek and ‘Look out!’ as the top of the casket came crashing down, leaving him in blackness.
Oshansky bolted upright in bed.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead, unused to having such nightmares. He figured it was probably related to his frustration at not being able to identify the letter writer. Not only had he not found any pink stationary in Brenda’s desk but the print on her 3x5 fantasy card didn’t match the print on the pink letters. What was worse, when he actually read her fantasy—it was something he thought had definite erotic possibilities.
Unfortunately his throwing up had put a final nail in that coffin, so to speak. All in all, a loser of an evening.
Sylvia Selfman - Rushmore Oshansky 01 - Murder Never Retires Page 11
