“Why? What gives? Suddenly I’m not good enough for you. Is that what’s bothering you? Maybe you wish you were with Myra?”
“No. Nothing like that,” he protested vehemently. “Nothing’s bothering me.” Other than wondering if you did Harry in and are now planning to do the same to me. “Why? Do you know something that should be bothering me?”
Oshansky looked at Bea. Maybe he’d had it right the first time. That Bea was the note writer. Did that mean she was also the one who might have killed Harry? And was he next on her hit list?
Oh, yes, he nodded, she would be a skillful adversary. He needed to proceed slowly and cautiously in order to build an airtight case against her. The latest pink envelope in her evening purse could be the missing piece of evidence that he needed.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Bea said.
“Just contemplating what’s ahead of us this evening,” he answered.
“Well, I hope you’re looking forward to it.” Bea smiled.
Chapter 40
“Don’t turn on the lights,” Bea ordered as they entered the condo. “And fix me a drink.” She kicked off her heels.
“Haven’t you had enough already?” he said. Though, on the other hand, if he got her drunk she’d be out of commission. Then he’d have an excuse to take her home.
Bea gave him an exasperated look. “Scotch on the rocks will do fine. I’ll put on music.”
His cell was lying on the kitchen table where he’d left it. After checking to make sure Bea was occupied with his CD’s, he called Myra’s cell. When she didn’t pick up he left a message saying she wasn’t to come over that evening. He’d give her a ring the next day.
He noticed there were two messages waiting for him. Both from the same number.This is Vanguard lab in Riverside, California. Please give us a call back.The second message was the same except for the two words at the end of the message.It’s urgent.
After checking again to make sure Bea was still occupied in the living room, he dialed the lab’s number.
You’ve reached Vanguard Laboratory in Riverside, California. We’re open Monday through Saturday from 8a.m to 8 p.m. We are now closed. Have a good day.
Bea appeared in the kitchen doorway, “What the hell’s keeping you so long? I thought maybe you’d fallen asleep.”
He needed to think. To try to put everything together and decide what his next move should be. But there was no time for that now. Bea was tapping her fingers impatiently on the counter, a strange look on her face.
He opened the freezer for ice. Noticing he’d forgotten to fill the ice trays, he vowed he’d replace Harry’s refrigerator at the first opportunity and get one with an ice maker. That is, if he lived long enough.
He spotted Myra’s box of cupcakes from the bake sale in the back of the freezer. He pulled out the box and put it on the kitchen table to defrost.
“How about some cupcakes?” he asked, trying to buy time.
“With scotch?” Bea shook her head in disbelief and walked back into the living room.
A few minutes later, he carried the two drinks into the living room. Bea was stretched out on the sofa. Odalisque—if Odalisque had worn red Saturday panties.
“Perhaps we should go easy on the drinking,” she said seductively. “I wouldn’t want anything to interfere with our fun.”
“Oh, I don’t think anything will unless….unless I can’t…” he looked at the floor, faking embarrassment.
“You’re not worried about your performance, are you? You? The great Oshansky!” She smiled, reaching for her purse. “I have it here somewhere,” she said as she searched through it. Oshansky held his breath waiting for her to say something about the missing pink letter. “Here,” she said, handing him a pill. “Good thing I brought one. I didn’t want to take a chance of anything spoiling our fun tonight.”
Bea had just handed him the piece of evidence he needed to hammer the final nail in her coffin. “I’ll just get some water to wash it down,” he said walking back to the kitchen. He deposited Bea’s pill in an envelope and stuffed it in the drawer. He looked at the box of cupcakes on the table and wondered if they were defrosted, then walked back to the living room.
Bea took him by the hand and led him in slow swaying movements to the music. “You’re cuddly, Oshansky,” she said laying her head on his shoulder. “Anyone ever tell you that? But don’t you think you’re overdressed? Aren’t you hot?”
Oshansky nodded absentmindedly as he tried to figure out his next move.
“You’re not listening. Did you hear what I just said, Oshansky?” Bea jabbed him in the ribs. “Are you asleep? I just said you were cuddly and should take off your clothes. What’s going on with you?”
Yes, he thought, what was going on? He’d figured out most of it. Bea had written the pink letters. She’d possibly even played a role in Harry’s death and yet something—he wasn’t sure what—was still bothering him. There was a missing piece of the puzzle that would pull it all together but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was.
“Oh, did you say I’m cuddly?” he asked, trying his best to sound light-hearted. “I hear that all the time. Clerks at the supermarket, bank tellers. Even my insurance agent said it to me the other day. ‘You’re cuddly, Oshansky,’ he said. And you know what?” Oshansky was rambling on, knowing he was not making any sense. “You know what? I never get tired hearing it.”
Bea put her finger on his lips to stop him. “Tell me, Oshansky, do you find me sexy?” She reached down and unzipped his trousers.
“Oh, lord, yes,” he said, praying she wouldn’t stop.
She looked at him, nodding her approval, “I’m sure it’ll get even better as the evening progresses.”
Not now, he warned himself, don’t say anything now. Don’t let anything get in the way. Just enjoy yourself, Oshansky. There’ll be plenty time later to confront her.
Never before had his brain and his organ been so at odds with each other.
But it was too late. “So why did you send Harry and me those threatening letters?” he blurted out. “Don’t deny it, Bea. I know you were the one leaving them under the mat.” His brain had won out over his sexual organ. Unfortunately.
Bea released her grip. “What? What did you just say?”
He had to give his manhood credit. His organ had put up a valiant fight but his head had won the war. He groaned from the almost physical pain. ‘Keep touching me,’ he screamed, then realized the scream was only in his head. Instead he calmly and reasonably said, “Tell me the truth, Bea. I can help you. I know how to get you all the help you need.”
“What? Again you’re accusing me of sending you and Harry threatening letters? You’re crazy.” She grabbed her dress and pulled it on. In her awkward attempt to zip it up the back, she caught her skin in the zipper. “Damn!” she screamed.
Oshansky started to help her. “Don’t touch me,” she ordered. “Don’t come near me.” She grabbed her purse and headed to the front door, then stopped and turned to face Oshansky. “You’re sick. Don’t ever call me again. This time I mean it.”
“Wait. I’ll drive you home. We can talk it over in the car like two civilized people. You can tell me why you sent those pink letters. Like the one I found in your purse.”
“I sent you pink letters?” she screamed. “You found one in my purse? You’re delusional. You’re too far gone for me.” She slammed the door behind her.
Oshansky opened the door and called after her. “Bea, you were the last one with Harry. What’d you do to his pills? You know I’m having them tested.”
She stopped and turned to face him. “Screw you, Oshansky!”
Oshansky walked back into the living room and finished off his glass of scotch. He pulled the pink envelope he’d taken from Bea’s purse out of his pocket.
you dare to tread on my territory
you are next
you cannot escape judgment day
Another threat, he thought. But this time h
e’d caught her red-handed.
Going into the kitchen, he pulled out his magnifying glass and the envelope with the pill Bea had given him that night. He compared hers to one from his vial. To his surprise he couldn’t find any difference.
He had a momentary pang of guilt. Could he be wrong? Just because the message from the lab said it was urgent, it didn’t mean the pills were poisoned. Maybe all Bea was guilty of was sending the pink letters.
At the moment all he knew was he didn’t like the idea of her walking home alone in the dark.
Grabbing his keys off the kitchen table, he opened the front door …“Myra! What are you doing here?”
“I came, darling. Just like I said I would.”
“But I left you a message not to come over.”
“I must have missed it. My ringer was off.” She looked at the keys in his hand. “Were you going somewhere?”
“I want to make sure Bea gets home safely. I don’t like the idea of her walking home alone in the dark.”
“She’s a big girl, Oshansky. You shouldn’t be such a Jewish mother. I’m sure she can take care of herself. But I’m so glad you decided to get rid of her. I knew you would.”
Oshansky hesitated a moment. “I think I’d better get in the car and make sure she gets home.”
“You don’t have to do that. Tell me her cell number and I’ll give her a ring. Why don’t you just go and open this bottle of Moet. Then we can celebrate our coronation in style.”
Chapter 41
“I got hold of Bea. She’s fine,” Myra said when Oshansky walked back into the living room with the two glasses of champagne. “She said to tell you good-night and that she had a great time.”
A great time, Oshansky thought. Typical of Bea’s sarcasm.
“Oh. And she said she’s turning her phone off, because she’s exhausted and going to bed. Something about having too much to drink. She’ll give you a ring in the morning.”
Myra took one of the champagne glasses from Oshansky’s hand. “But enough about Bea. Come here, Rushmore. It’s time to celebrate. I’m going to show you the time of your life.”
Oshansky suddenly noticed Myra was wearing a raincoat. “Were you expecting rain, Myra?”
“Silly boy,” she laughed. “This is a Burberry trench coat. One can wear it anytime” Taking his arm, she led him into the bedroom.
“Lie down, my king. Allow your queen to service you.” She shrugged her Burberry off and let it fall to the floor.
“Myra, I…I don’t really know what to say. I’m speechless.” Oshansky stared at Myra. She was wearing a garter belt, black stockings, spike high heels and nothing else. “This is so…so not like you.”
“I heard the king enjoys being tied up.”
“Not really, Myra. That’s just a rumor. Actually my shoulder’s still in pretty bad shape.”
“Shhhh. Just close your eyes.” She took hold of his hands and brought them to her lips. “You are my king,” she whispered. Straddling his legs, she quickly slipped handcuffs on his wrists. Then pulling a rope from her bag, she attached the cuffs to the bedpost.
Oshansky groaned at the thought of going down that road again. And just when his shoulder was no longer bothering him. “Despite what you might have heard, Myra, I hate being constricted. Gives me claustrophobia. Maybe if we could go a little slower?”
“Oh, but we have been going slow, Rushmore. I’ve given you a plenty of time to give up all those other women. I’ve waited patiently for you to come back to me. But you didn’t even ask me to the prom. I found that very disappointing. But don’t worry we can make up for it now.”
“Oh, Myra, you thief. You’re stealing a scene from my playbook.”
Francine stood in the doorway, holding a cupcake. “Handcuffing our beloved King?” she said with a smirk. “How lame, Myra. Couldn’t you come up with something more creative on your own. And I thought you were a lady.”
Myra glared at her.
Francine shrugged and calmly took a bite of the cupcake. “Yummy,” she said, slowly licking her lips. “How thoughtful of you to leave that box of cupcakes out on the kitchen table for me, Oshansky. You know how much I love sweets.”
Francine paused to take another bite of the cupcake. Then moving closer to the bed, she looked with admiration at the large sprinkles decorating the top—pink hearts, red diamonds, blue triangles. “You know, Myra, with all your talent I think you should stick to your baking and leave that bondage stuff to me.”
Oshansky stared at the cupcake in Francine’s hand. The missing piece of the puzzle was in his freezer all along.
As Myra lunged for her, Francine adroitly stepped aside, causing Myra to fall and strike her head against the dresser.
“Oh dear, I think Myra’s been knocked out. I think we’ll only have time for a quickie. Then I’ll leave and Myra will think it was all a bad dream. What fun,” she said finishing off the remains of the cupcake.
Oshansky groaned as she wiped her hands on his sheets. More laundry in the morning. Assuming he lived that long.
“Quick, Francine. There’s no time to waste. Get the key to the cuffs from Myra’s bag. We have to work fast.”
Osahansky wondered why it had it had taken him so long to figure it out.
“You know, Oshansky, I feel like I’m in some fabulous erotic movie. A woman lying knocked out on the floor, while I take advantage of handsome desireable Oshansky.
“No,” he yelled. “Francine, you have to listen to me. You have to get the key from Myra’s purse or check her coat pocket and get these cuffs off me now. We’re in danger.”
“Of course we are, darling,” she soothed. “Makes it all the more erotic and exciting, don’t you think?” Francine stepped out of her evening gown.
“No! You don’t understand. We’re going to be killed. Myra’s crazy.”
“Of course. I knew that. But I guess we all have our idiosyncrasies.”
Francine climbed on top of him. “This is all so exciting. It’s already gotten my juices flowing. I don’t know how much longer I can hold out.”
“Look out!” he screamed.
But it was too late. Myra tackled Francine from behind and dragged her off the bed.
Oshansky listened helplessly to the yelps of pain and the sounds of struggle taking place a few feet away.
Every so often he’d catch sight of one of their heads as it surfaced above the footboard.
Finally there was a loud crack. And the battle was over.
Oshansky waited.
“You’re mine, Oshansky. All mine.” Myra, breathing heavily, crawled back onto the bed. “Are you ready for the ride of your life?”
So this was how it was all going to end, Oshansky thought. Not with a whimper, but with a bang.
He needed to buy time. “Myra, listen, let’s talk about our wonderful future together.”
“Our future, darling?”
“Oh, yes, Myra. I’ve been thinking what a wonderful life we could have together. If you’ll just take off the cuffs.”
“Do you mean it, Oshansky? You must tell me the truth.”
“Of course I mean it,” Oshansky soothed. “Why would you think otherwise?”
“Why would I think otherwise?” She gently stroked his cheek. “Why would I think otherwise? Do you take me for a fool, Oshansky? I’ll show you who’s the fool!” she screamed. She went to her bag and pulled out a boning knife.
Oshansky looked at it, then towards the floor but all he could see was Francine’s lifeless foot. It didn’t look like she was waking up any time soon.
“Myra, wait. I…I never thought you were a fool. You’re beautiful. Smart. Talented. I care for you deeply. Deeply Myra.”
“Oh, Rushnore. You are so lovable.” She gently stroked his forehead. “So innocent. Not like that boyfriend I had in Pittsburgh after my dear Otto died. He only cared about my money. But I took care of him. Then there was dear Harry,” Her voice grew soft as she looked dreamily off into the distance.
“I was sure Harry was different. Oh, yes.” Her expression morphed into one of rage, “I was sure Harry would be different. But he wasn’t. He was no better.”
Oshansky had to keep her talking. “I’m sure Harry loved you.”
“What do you know?” She looked at him with disdain. “You know nothing of love.” Her eyes flashed with anger. But I had a great love. My dear Otto took care of me. He was the father I never had.”
“How lucky for you, Myra.” Oshansky said. The reality was setting in that Francine wasn’t coming to his rescue. He hoped she was even alive. “Not everyone has such a great love, Myra.”
Myra, ignoring him, appeared to be in some kind of trance and continued talking. “When Harry betrayed me—sleeping with all those women, I prayed for someone like you to come along.”
Oshansky made one last desperate try. “Yes, Myra, I felt the same way that morning we met at the Hot Coffee Cafe.”
“I prayed for someone to come along who could appreciate my finer qualities,” she said. “Someone honorable and loyal.” She paused. “When you spoke to me that first time, I wondered if you were the one. Then when you stopped to help me when my car broke down, I knew for certain that you were the answer to my prayers.”
“And I am,” Oshansky said. “I can be the answer to your dreams, prayers. Whatever.”
Her eyes flashed with rage. “No,” she screamed. “You’re just like everyone else. And you’re going to end up like the others.”
“Others?”
Myra glared at him. “Harry, Brenda…”
“You…You killed Brenda too?”
He quickly glanced toward Francine.
“She’s not going to help you this time, Rushmore. No one is!”
Oshansky had the sinking feeling that what she said was true.
“Oh, Rushmore,” Myra stroked his face. “It’s so sad that you weren’t satisfied with just me.”
Oshansky looked down towards Francine’s foot, but there was still no movement.
“Stop looking at her! She’s dead!” And as if to prove it, Myra looked over at Francine and gave her a swift kick. There was no reaction from Francine.
Sylvia Selfman - Rushmore Oshansky 01 - Murder Never Retires Page 15
