Sylvia Selfman - Rushmore Oshansky 01 - Murder Never Retires

by Sylvia Selfman

  “…King and Queen of Sun Villas!” Marv announced triumphantly.

  “It’ll be a big deal,” Marv continued in a calm voice. “How’s that sound to you, Oshansky? Why you might even be crowned king. Or queen.” Marv threw his head back and laughed uproariously. “Stranger things than that have happened,” he winked.

  Oshansky remembered his last year of high school when his friend, Seymour Kravitz, as a joke, had nominated him for senior prom king.

  Oshansky had decided to use it to his advantage. He invited the lovely, blond Jane Johanson, with whom he’d secretly been in love since sixth grade. He figured Jane might like going to the prom on the arm of a prom king nominee, even if it was Rushmore Oshansky.

  His mother, however, had another plan in the works.

  “You’ll invite Sarah Ravitsky to the dance, Rushmore,” she stated matter-of-factly at breakfast.

  “No way. You don’t understand. I’ve already decided I’m asking Jane. I’m nominated for prom king. It’s a big deal. I can’t take Sarah Ravitsky. It just wouldn’t be right.”

  “King,shming. And Jane?” His mother spat out the name. “Who’s this Jane? What’s her last name?”

  Oshansky crammed his mouth full of milk and corn flakes. “Jane Johanson,” he mumbled.

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full, Rushmore. What kind of name is this Johanson?”

  “Shit, mom, what kind of name is Rushmore?”

  “Rushmore is a perfectly fine name, if you please. And no cursing. We don’t curse in our house. As I said, you’ll ask Sarah. I’ve already told her mother you would.”

  “You told her mother? You have no business doing that.”

  “Mrs. Ravitsky was upset no one has asked her poor Sarah to the prom. Mrs. Ravitsky cried. She cried, Rushmore. Have you no heart? Is that how I raised you? To have no pity? So I told her you were working up the courage to ask her Sarah to the prom. That you figured Sarah had so many invitations, you were afraid she’d turn you down.”

  “Geez, how could you have said that? You told a lie.”

  “Sarah’s waiting for your call, Rushmore. You can always go out another time with that Jane Russell.”

  “It’s Johanson. Jane Johanson.” But his mother had already left the kitchen.

  Two months later Oshansky arrived at the prom with Sarah Ravitsky, towering over him and clutching his right arm.

  Sarah and he sat out every dance, drinking one root beer after another, while she expounded upon the dire environmental effects of overpopulation. “Whomever I marry will have to agree in writing to having one child and only one child.” Frowning, she looked at Oshansky. “How many children do you want, Rushmore?”

  “No less than five,” he replied.

  Sarah Ravitsky may not have been pretty or popular and had worn saddle shoes underneath her prom gown which she proudly informed him she’d sewn herself. Looking back now, however, he had to admit she was brainy and committed to saving the earth long before it becamecause celebre of the upper West Side.

  Maybe he’d look her up on the internet one day and see how she was doing. For old time’s sake.

  She was no doubt living in some cabin in the woods, sewing her own clothes, no air conditioning, sprouting her own foods, as well as lots of underarm and leg hair.

  On the other hand, maybe he wouldn’t look her up after all.

  “So what’d you think, Oshansky? A king and queen of Palm Springs Sun Villas? Sound to you like a great idea?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe a bit juvenile?”

  Marv’s smile evaporated. “Juvenile? Hey, lighten up. Like I said, someone might even nominate you. Imagine, Oshansky, King of the Palm Springs Sun Villas. That’s a good one,” Marv threw his head back and faked loud laughter, giving Oshansky a clear view of the gold crowns in the back of his mouth.

  “For your information, I was once nominated for king,” Oshansky announced, peevishly.

  “I didn’t hear what Oshansky said,” Vern called out from the back of the room. “Did Oshansky say he won?”

  “That’s enough, Vern.” Marv banged his gavel on the table. “Then I take it, we’re all in agreement to have the prom. We’ll take the top three nominations for King and Queen. Send out ballots and announce the royal winners the night of the prom.”

  “Hear, hear,” Vern cried out.

  Oshansky waited for Vern to follow up with trumpet notes. When they didn’t materialize, he fought back the urge to sound it himself.

  Chapter 26

  Oshansky got out of his car and made his way across the lawn, doing his best to avoid bumping into the women who were bustling about setting up tables and chairs.

  “You’re too early, Oshansky,” Francine said running up to him. “We’re still getting ready.”

  “I was heading to the clubhouse for breakfast. What’s going on here?”

  “It’s the women’s auxiliary bake sale. We’re raising money for the prom. Make sure when you’re finished eating that you come by my table and buy some of my goodies.” She placed her hand on Oshansky’s arm. “Who knows, maybe you and I’ll be crowned king and queen. Then I’ll get to play with your crown jewels. Again,” she winked.

  After finishing his usual breakfast Oshansky left the Hot Coffee Cafe and figured he’d check out the bake sale which seemed to have more sellers than customers. The women manning the tables smiled and beckoned to him. Tempting him with their wares. Strolling among the tables, he was Odysseus fighting off the sirens. And like Odysseus, he wouldn’t be able to resist.

  “Oshansky, over here,” Francine called him over.

  Oshansky made his way to her table. “I’m impressed,” he said, looking over her display of pies. “Did you make these yourself?” Francine obviously had talents that extended far beyond the bedroom—or at least as far as the kitchen.

  “Are you nuts! You should know better than that. You actually think I’m going to slave away in a hot kitchen, spending my precious time baking pies? The only thing I do is heat up hot fudge. And you,” she said with a seductive smile. “Speaking of which, I’ve got some new desserts planned for us.”

  Oshansky glanced around hoping no one was in earshot.

  “Don’t worry, Oshansky, most of the folks here are hard of hearing.”

  “Yoo hoo, Oshansky!” Brenda called out, wildly waving at him. “Oshansky, over here!”

  Francine glared in Brenda’s direction. “Puh-lease, she doesn’t know how to bake.”

  Oshansky shrugged and refrained from pointing out that Francine had just proudly admitted the same thing about herself.

  Oshansky made a quick purchase of one of Francine’s store-bought pies, then headed over to Brenda’s table.

  On the way his eye caught sight of a display of beautifully decorated cookies and cupcakes. It was Myra’s table.

  “You surely didn’t make these yourself,” Oshansky said admiring her colorful and unique presentation. “These are really something,” he said, shaking his head in amazement. “I’ve never seen anything like them.” There were cookies in various shapes. Tea pots, flowers, butterflies. Even one large cookie made up of connected letters that spelled out the word,love.

  The cupcakes were equally unique with colored icing and large sprinkles in various colors and shapes—diamonds, hearts, circles, triangles.

  “You made all these yourself?” Oshansky asked again, visibly impressed.

  “Everything,” Myra said proudly. “I made everything. The cupcakes, the cookies. Even the sprinkles. I believe I mentioned I had studied culinary arts in Paris.”

  “Well, let me know if you want to go into business and I’ll back you,” he said only half in jest. “It’d be a sure winner.”

  He bought two of her cupcakes and an elaborate cookie which she lovingly placed into a white bakery box and tied with an elaborate bow. Handing the box to Oshansky, she smiled demurely, “I hope you enjoy these, Rushmore.”

  “I’m sure I will,” he nodded as he paid her. H
e could feel Brenda’s eyes boring into him from two tables over.

  “I noticed you spent a long time over at Myra’s,” Brenda said angrily as he approached her table. Brenda nodded toward the bakery box. “I see you also fell for her goodies. I would think that you, of all people, would know that just because something is all fancied up, it doesn’t mean it’s the best. In fact it might be just the opposite.”

  Oshansky sensed she was referring to more than just Myra’s cookies and cupcakes. “So which of your pies do you suggest I buy?” he asked, eager to change the subject. He looked over Brenda’s wares which seemed mediocre in comparison to Myra’s dazzling display.

  “What’s Brenda selling you now?” Bea asked, walking up to him. She seemed to be having a difficult time balancing the various bakery boxes she was holding.

  “Need some help, Bea? Where’s your table?”

  “Table? Are you kidding? I don’t bake, I eat. These are for me.”

  “I wouldn’t brag about that, dear,” Brenda smirked, looking her up and down. “Perhaps you should be more careful. I notice you’ve been putting on weight.”

  Bea ignored her. “Give me a ring, Oshansky. You’ll come over and share my goodies.” She flashed a broad saccharine smile at Brenda and walked away.

  “Hussy,” Brenda hissed.

  A short time later Oshansky walked back to his car laden down with bakery boxes containing two slices of Emily Harrison’s double chocolate cake, two pieces of Magda Kalman’s Hungarian apple strudel, Brenda’s walnut coffee cake, a childhood favorite of his, a banana creme pie which Francine insisted was her favorite, and a bakery box containing two of Myra’s fancy cupcakes plus a cookie that was a perfect replica of a schnauzer with one ear cocked—his collar decorated with sprinkles in various colors and shapes to look like jewels.

  When he got home, he stuck the box with the cupcakes in the freezer along with the schnauzer. It would be a sacrilege to actually eat them. He poured himself a glass of lactose-free milk and settled down to enjoy the double chocolate cake and apple strudel.

  Chapter 27

  The sound of the key in his front door awakened Oshansky. Still half asleep he hurried into the hallway hoping it wasn’t Francine using Harry’s key again.

  “Oh, Mr. Ushmoe, you scare me,” Rosa said. She shoved a pink letter toward Oshansky. “I find under doormat,” she explained nervously.

  “Rosa, I forgot you were coming today,” he said taking the pink letter from her. As he studied the envelope he wondered why the letters seemed to up upset her.

  “I no want to disturb you. I have key. Sleep very important for men who do sex.” Rosa and her black valise continued toward the bathroom. “I change clothes now. You go back asleep. I work in kitchen.”

  Now wide awake, Oshansky went into the bedroom and after checking the envelope to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, he carefully opened it.

  my warnings fall on deaf ears

  there is little time left

  Oshansky pulled on a pair of bermuda shorts and joined Rosa in the kitchen. Recalling his conversation with Roberto he was determined to find out what she knew about the pink letters.

  “Rosa, I understand you know Roberto.”

  “Roberto?”

  “Roberto from the dining room.”

  She stopped emptying out the food from the refrigerator and turned to look at him. “Ah,” she nodded. “Dining room Roberto. Yes, good man.”

  “I met with him a few nights ago,” Oshansky said. When she didn’t respond, Oshansky figured she already knew about it. “He said you were worried about me and wanted him to talk to me.”

  “Roberto say that?”

  “Why are you worried about me, Rosa?”

  Rosa either didn’t hear him or else was pretending not to. In any case her attention was focused on a hard green lump she was holding.

  “I think that’s an old piece of cheddar, Rosa. Just toss it. Maybe that’s leftover from Mr. Harry. And speaking of Mr. Harry,” he continued, knowing how lame his segue was, “I couldn’t help noticing your interest in the pink letters I’ve been getting. I’ve heard Mr. Harry got similar letters and I was wondering if you knew who was leaving them.”

  “I know nothing, Mr. Ushmoe,” Rosa said curtly.

  “Rosa, listen. You’ve got to trust me. You won’t get in any trouble. I promise. I know my way around. I used to be a detective.”

  Rosa’s eyes widened with fear at the mention of the word, detective.

  “Don’t be frightened, Rosa. None of this has anything to do with you. You’ve seen the pink letters I’ve been getting. So naturally I’m curious about who’s been leaving them.”

  Rushmore leaned back and waited. Back in his days on the force he’d built a reputation for his ability to patiently outlast anyone he was questioning.

  Rosa shut the refrigerator door and without even a glance at him, abruptly turned and walked out of the kitchen.

  Oshansky, cradled his coffee cup between his hands and wondered if he should have taken a more subtle approach. Unfortunately subtlety had never been one of his strong points.

  Rosa returned a few minutes later and, without a word, laid a pink envelope on the table.

  Oshansky looked up in surprise. “Where’d this come from, Rosa?”

  “Please. No trouble.”

  “Rosa, no trouble. I promise. Like I said, I know the ropes.” He noticed the letter had not been opened. “Where did you get this, Rosa?”

  Rosa hesitated, then said, “I ashamed, Mr. Ushmoe. I take note.”

  He motioned to a chair. “Sit down, Rosa, and start from the beginning. I’ll make you coffee.” He got up and poured a cup of now cold coffee and stuck it in the microwave to reheat.

  He nodded encouragement. “Go ahead, Rosa. Tell me everything.”

  “One morning I come to work to Mr. Harry,” she began hesitantly. “I find pink letter under doormat. Mr. Harry get many pink letters under doormat.” She paused and looked at Rushmore.

  “Continue, Rosa.” He removed the cup from the microwave and set it down in front of her. “Be careful, it’s hot. So how do you happen to still have this letter? Why didn’t you give it to Mr. Harry?” he asked, sitting down.

  “Mr. Harry not home when I come to work and find letter. Playing golf. Very active man, not just do sex but do golf, sometime tennis. Many time I tell Mr. Harry, ‘slow down, you not young man. Take easy.’ He answer, ‘Never, Rosa. I love life too much to slow down.’”

  “So you kept the letter, Rosa. Why?” Oshansky persisted.

  “When I find letter under doormat, I remember I leave suitcase in car. I put letter in pocket and go back to car for suitcase. I forget about letter.”

  Oshansky glanced again at the sealed pink envelope. “And the next time you came to work, why didn’t you give it to him then?”

  Rosa’s eyes filled with tears. “Next day I come to work. Mr. Harry dead.” She wiped her eyes with her napkin.

  Oshansky leaned back in his chair and looked at Rosa. “So you kept the letter all this time?” He was trying not to sound accusatory. “Six months?”

  “I forget letter in skirt pocket. I not wear skirt again until memorial service for Mr. Harry.” Her eyes filled with tears as she looked at Oshansky. “I cry very hard at Mr. Harry’s service and reach in skirt pocket for handkerchief. I find letter. I not know what to do with it!” Rosa broke into sobs. “Keeping someone’s mail fedelal offense!”

  “It’s okay, Rosa. Harry’s gone. He doesn’t need another love letter now, Rosa, so how about I keep this letter?”

  “Yes, you keep it. I no want letter.” She got up, put her coffee cup in the sink and went back to cleaning out the refrigerator, sniffling and wiping her nose every few seconds.

  Oshansky handed her a tissue, then walked into his bedroom to read Harry’s note in private.

  Checking over the envelope, he felt satisfied that it hadn’t been opened. He carefully unsealed it and took out the now fa
miliar sheet of pink stationary.

  must i warn you again

  you do not listen

  remember there will be no more notes

  and now you must pay the piper

  Harry hadn’t listened and thus he would pay the piper? It seemed he had paid the piper since Rosa had found him dead the next morning. Oshansky wondered if anything would have been different had Rosa remembered to give the letter to Harry.

  Was it possible that Harry didn’t die from a natural cause but rather from an unnatural cause––like murder.”

  Oshansky’s train of thought was interrupted by the ringing of the phone.

  “So, Big O. Where’ve you been? Don’t tell me you’re spending all your time at the Pink Rooster. I heard you were there. Hope you got it out of your system and you’re now ready for a real woman. And some real action.”

  “Francine, I was thinking about you just this morning,”

  “Does that mean you missed me, Big O? Relatives came down from Seattle for a few days. What a drag. That’s the problem with living in this paradise called Palm Springs. Everyone thinks you’re running a bed and breakfast. Come over tonight, Oshansky, and I’ll prepare us a special dessert.”

  “I don’t think…,” he was about to decline her invitation when his thoughts flashed to the pink letters. “Yeah, I don’t think I can turn that invitation down,” he said. Maybe this way he could kill two birds with one stone. He could check out her place to see if she owned pink stationary, plus enjoy whatever special dessert she had in mind.

  “Mr. Ushmoe.” Rosa interrupted, coming into the room. One hand covered her nose, the other was holding butcher paper with a dark object on it.

  Oshansky stared at it for a moment. “I wondered where that piece of fish disappeared to. Just toss it.”

  “Is that the Rosa who worked for Harry?” Francine asked. “I should have figured she was working for you. She works for just about everybody here. I think her work for Harry was a little different though. You know those Orientals. Full of all kinds of kinky tricks in their bag.”