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  Murder Never Retires

  A Rushmore Oshansky

  Senior Snoops Mystery

  By Sylvia Selfman

  Copyright 2011 by Sylvia Selfman

  ISBN 978-1-4659-4057-9

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  “Are you kidding?” Rushmore Oshansky’s wife, Marsha, sat up in the bed. “You expect me to leave New York? My friends? Leave my mother?”

  Oshansky thought that didn’t sound like such a bad idea.

  “Forget it and don’t bring it up again. Florida, yes. I can see moving to Florida when you retire.But toshlep across the country to some place that can’t tell the difference between a kosher pastrami and a…a…,” Marsha spat out the words, “a ham sandwich. You’re out of your mind to even think it, Oshansky.”

  “How do you know you can’t get good deli in Palm Springs?”

  “Believe me, any place that’s home to President Ford or Bob Hope doesn’t have real kosher deli.

  Oshansky knew it was hopeless to argue.

  Oshansky had always thought he’d join the Jewish migration to Boca when he retired, but all that changed when he went out west recently on a job. A client had hired him to track down the stockbroker who’d emptied out his brokerage account and when Oshansky tracked the perp out to Palm Springs, he found not only the stockbroker–now engaged in lightening the retirees’ portfolios–but as luck would have it, retirement nirvana—Palm Springs.

  Through a confluence of circumstances not the least of which was Marsha’s leaving him, plus the receipt of a tidy sum of money from the sale of their co-op, Oshansky decided it was time to pack it in.

  Rushmore had been married to Marsha for twenty-nine years and during those twenty-nine years, he basically had no complaints. She’d been a good wife. Loyal. At least for the first twenty-eight.

  She laughed at most of his jokes. Tolerated his drinking as long as he continued to supply her with her needs—which included a kitchen makeover complete with granite countertops and commercial oven despite her never cooking a meal in it; a diamond tennis bracelet; Tiffany gold necklace; and new living room furniture.

  But when she wanted a new apartment, Rushmore put his foot down. Actually both feet.

  It all came to a head early one morning when he was awakened by a loud scream. Marsha, making her usual early morning foray to the bathroom, swore she’d seen a small animal scurrying into the closet. Oshansky, promptly dispatched to capture it, was unprepared for what he found: a creature of giant proportions.

  This was no beaver coat like the one he’d given her twenty years before. Nor even son of beaver. This was the mother of all furs.

  What had his Marsha done to obtain this expensive piece of animal?

  Oshansky decided to bring his detective skills into play. Those same skills that had caught embezzlers, insurance cheats, arsonists and other low lifes. He began to pay attention to Marsha’s comings and goings. It didn’t take long to connect the dots.

  Every Friday afternoon between 2:30 and 5:30 Marsha was unreachable.

  One thing Oshansky knew for certain was that Marsha could never resist answering her cell. Whether in the midst of dental surgery or gynecological exam, a phone call took precedence. He had no doubt she’d manage to sneak one into her coffin when she died—despite the religious prohibition of burying anything with the deceased. But the founders of Jewish law had yet to come up against his Marsha.

  Oshansky wasn’t a private eye for nothing. He’d built a fine reputation as a private detective, even with the NYPD. So what else could he do? Pretend he didn’t suspect anything like some trophy wife who chooses not to rock the 80 foot long boat just because her husband was fooling around with his secretary? Oshansky was no trophy husband. He had his self-esteem to protect.

  He took note that every Thursday night Marsha would enshrine her freshly coiffed hair with toilet paper and nothing or nobody (meaning Oshansky) was allowed near it. She would lie in their bed. Mummified. Sex was off the table. Actually, off any surface.

  She’d arrive home at the same time every Friday evening, face flushed, hair in disarray and calmly explain, “Just had a facial.”

  Oshansky sprang into action.

  He put the Andrew Smolenski divorce case on the back burner. On the following Friday he tailed Marsha and her Yellow cab to the Ansonia Apartments on the upper West Side. He watched her disappear at exactly 3 P.M, into the private elevator that serviced the penthouse of a Marcus Mermelstein.

  THE Marcus Mermelstein, Furrier to the Stars. Or anyone else who could afford a Mermelstein fur.

  Then at exactly 6 p.m. a Yellow cab would deposit her back home. Rushmore got the picture and it wasn’t pretty. Mermelstein and his Marsha were engaging in a pre-sabbath celebration.

  “What?” Marsha shrieked when he confronted her. “You’ve been spying on me? What are you? Some kind of a…,” she searched for the right word.

  “A detective.” he replied.

  “Well, if you must know. I was looking at Mermelstein’s private wares.”

  “You mean at his privates!” Rushmore said angrily

  “Don’t be crude,” Marsha countered.

  “How could you?” Rushmore asked, his voice breaking. “I’ve been good to you. I bought you a beaver coat twenty years ago. You could have asked. I’d have bought you a new one. You’ll never find someone like me.”

  “Never find someone like you? Are you kidding? Why in the world would I want to find someone like you? You’re a slob. You drink too much. You never read a book and….”

  Was this the Marsha with whom he had stood under the wedding canopy? The Marsha who’d promised to love, honor and never betray, not even for a full length Mermelstein fur.

  “All you do is pry into other people’s affairs. Detective,shmective, you should have had a real job. You graduated college, you became a lawyer but did you practice? No,” she answered herself. “You had to become a private eye. You want to know what I think?”

  “Not really,” he said, hoping to end the conversation. But Marsha was on a roll, compressing their twenty-nine years of married bliss into one long rant.

  “If you want to know what I think, I think it turns you on. You enjoy prying into other people’s affairs.”

  Rushmore knew he’d live to regret having encouraged her to take a psychology course at City College. That was back when she decided she should do something of significance with her life.

  She lasted for only half a semester—the classes interfered with the sales at Macy’s and Bloomingdale’s. Nevertheless, the course didn’t go to waste. It supplied Marsha with enough credentials to spend her free time analyzing Oshansky.

  And now she was on a roll. “Prying into other people’s affairs,” she scoffed. “That’s how you get your knocks of.”

  “Rocks off,” Rushmore corrected. “That’s rocks off.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Anything else?” Rushmore hoped she might finally have run out of steam.

  “Furthermore,” she continued, “you’re a lousy lover. And you never put the toilet seat down.”

  It’s true their sex life had deteriorated lately but what really got to him was her saying he never read a book. True, he never read the romance novels that she did but he read lots of history. The Second
World War and Civil War were favorites.

  “And Mr. Marcus Mermelstein of Mermelstein Furs is such a great student of literature?”

  Oshansky had the ball in his hands and he was going to run with it. And there would be no stopping him. “Where do you two do it? On his mink covered bed or chinchilla covered dining table? Does stroking his furry parts turn you on?”

  Marsha’s eyes turned into black slits. Her words tumbled out with a venom that could slice through tough brisket, “You make me sick.”

  What else could Rushmore Oshansky do but walk out. Well, almost.

  He walked as far as the door, then stopped. No way was he going to put his share of their co-op in jeopardy. Not with the way New York real estate prices had skyrocketed. “I’m not leaving,” he said. “You can.”

  They lived together in celibacy, or at least he did, for eight months until the divorce became final and they found a buyer for the co-op. They each got one fourth of the price and the lawyers got the rest.

  Marsha also got Mermelstein and enough fur to cover every horizontal space in their new luxury condo on Park Ave.

  And along with lighting up Mr. Mermelstein, Marsha began lighting candles every Friday night and making Sabbath dinners of chicken soup with broad noodles, chopped liver, roast chicken, apple kugel and challah from Feinman’s Kosher bakery on 3rd Avenue. It was the kind of meal she never made for Oshansky in all their years of married life.

  Watching her leave the market one Friday night with her groceries in tow, Oshansky realized it was finally time to cut the cord, retire, and get out of the city.

  Palm Springs was beckoning.

  Chapter 2

  Oshansky clutched the armrests as the plane, buffeted about by the wind, made what he felt was a too rapid descent between the mountains.

  When the wheels finally touched down, he mumbled a short prayer of thanks. Then with a satisfied smile, he sat back and watched the passengers wrestle with their bags. Let everyone else line up and clog the aisles. He’d enjoy the luxury of being the last one off.

  He spotted a man a few rows in front of him who seemed to have the same idea. But that gentleman didn’t know who he was dealing with.

  Rushmore Oshansky, known in his profession for his patience, could outwait anyone. And now that he was retired, he had all the time in the world.

  Oshansky, the last one off the plane, collected his two suitcases from the near empty baggage carousel and pushed through the terminal door only to be slammed by a wall of heat.

  Palm Springs might take some getting used to after all.

  He headed for his rental, then took off down the road heading for Sunrise Way, passing Sunrise Park, turning just before Sunrise shopping center. Once he passed Sunny Dunes road he knew he’d gone too far.

  Could there be a Sunrise anything in New York? Possibly a Malcolm X Boulevard. But a Sunrise? Out of the question.

  The ease and serenity of the drive might make up for any kosher pastrami, sour pickle deficit after all, he thought. There was no honking from the few other cars on the road. No one was standing on the curb at the red light waiting to slam a fist or brick onto the hood of his car. In fact no one was standing on the curb at all. Or anywhere else for that matter—117 degrees didn’t lend itself to loitering. A possible solution to the country’s crime problem. Forget global warming. Just let that sucker run.

  After numerous wrong turns, he finally found his way onto North Sunrise Way. A few minutes later he was signing his name at the check-in desk of the Palm Springs Hyatt.

  In less time than you could say, Rushmore Oshansky, retired New York private dick, he was settled in his room wearing only his teddy bear boxers, a gift of appreciation from the glamorous and nutty Ashley Morgenheim, for his help in her generous divorce settlement. Though he would never have bought them for himself, he’d actually grown rather fond of them.

  Oshansky poured himself his third mini Dewars of the day. Was it possible that his entire life until now had been only a prologue to this? A peaceful retirement in Palm Springs with a woman, possibly two, by his side?

  Oshansky settled back in his chair, closed his eyes and for the first time in a long time, smiled the smile of the contented.

  Chapter 3

  “Mr. Oshansky?”

  “Speaking,” he mumbled, trying to remember where he was. Palm Springs. The Hyatt. He glanced at the time. Noon. He couldn’t remember when he’d slept so soundly. Boded well for the future, he figured.

  “Paul Odile. Odile Realty. You contacted me from New York. Said you were planning on moving to Palm Springs. I sent you all that info on available condos.”

  An hour later, a fresh-faced Paul Odile in white bermuda shorts, Tommy Bahama jungle print shirt, and white sneakers, picked Oshansky up at the hotel entrance.

  “The condo I’m going to show you just came on the market so you’re the first person to view it. Double fairway. Great view of the mountains. Clean as a whistle. It’s fabulous, Mr. Oshansky. One bedroom, one and a half baths.

  “Half bath? For a midget?” Oshansky asked. Odile didn’t crack a smile, either from too much plastic surgery, or too little sense of humor. Or perhaps his remark wasn’t as clever as he’d thought.

  “And it comes fully furnished as you can see.” With a flourish, Odile opened the door to the condo and ushered Oshansky inside. “It’s move-in ready. A steal, even in this market, Mr. Oshansky. May I call you Rushmore?” Odile asked, flashing a brilliant smile.

  Oshansky was retired from being a detective but not from the suspicious nature he’d been dealt at birth. “So why’s it a steal?”

  “A Mr. Harry Hermann owned it. He died about six months ago. Very unexpectedly I understand. No children. He left the condo to some distant cousin in the East, who had no use for it. I’m sure you’re well aware, Rushmore, that Easterners think of us out here as living in the wild west. Besides, the real estate market’s been pretty soft lately.”

  Oshansky knew one thing for sure, the condo was better than anything he could get in New York for the money. A huge understatement considering its large living-dining area and clean beige tile throughout, And not only did it have one decent sized bath but that extra half.

  He quickly decided to make Harry Hermann’s cousin’s loss his gain.

  Fifteen minutes later, Odile watched as Oshansky put his signature to the two year lease with option to buy at the Palm Springs Sun Villas.

  “You’ve made a wise choice, Rushmore. You’ll not regret it. Oh, and get this, it’s only a short drive to the pharmacy, a major grocery store, and…” Odile could barely contain his excitement, “the emergency room is just eight minutes away. By ambulance, of course.”

  “The emergency room?”

  “You know, Rushmore, we’re not getting any younger.” Which wasn’t quite true since Odile seemed to be doing just that.

  “Oh, and the winters, Oshansky. Heavenly. Just heavenly. And the view,” he exclaimed, opening the vertical blinds with a flourish. “To die for.”

  Rushmore looked out through the sliding glass doors which covered the entire back wall of the condo. There was a small patio that looked out on the golf course and just beyond that, were the magnificent Santa Rosa Mountains. “Not bad,” he said, feeling even more pleased with his decision.

  “Not to get too personal but are you married, Rushmore?” Odile asked, handing him the keys to the condo.

  “Divorced,” Oshansky replied.

  “Well, then you should have a grand time here. I don’t know about the women in New York, but here at the Palm Springs Sun Villas, you’ll find they’re hot to trot.”

  Hot to trot plus that mountain view, Oshansky mused, just might make up for any lack of Kosher corned beef.

  Chapter 4

  Oshansky pushed open the door to the Hot Coffee Café, a small cheerful breakfast-lunch place located in the large main clubhouse.

  “Two fried eggs, double toasted bagel, hash browns and…,” Oshansky lowered his voic
e in deference to his mother, may she rest in peace, “three strips of bacon.”

  He filled his cup with the free coffee from the pot on the counter, picked up his order along with an abandoned, coffee-stained New York Times and made his way to the one empty table in the back. Aware that his every move was being tracked by the patrons of the Hot Coffee Cafe, he had a momentary longing to be back in New York where it was mandatory to avoid looking at anyone.

  “Mind if I sit down?”

  Ingrained habits of detectives die slowly. He put down the newspaper he was reading and did a quick assessment. She was tall, blond, possibly natural 34C or thereabouts. Of indeterminate age (though somewhere in the range of 58 to 68 if he had to guess). Tanned with some wrinkling, possibly from too much golf. Thin, undoubtedly from too much dieting. But all in all, nice looking. She was holding a plate with one lone ‘everything’ bagel. No butter, no cream cheese.

  Oshansky nodded toward the empty seat. “Be my guest,”

  “Name’s, Francine. Francine Seymour,” she said sitting down. “You can call me Francine.”

  “Rushmore Oshansky,” he nodded. “You can call me Rushmore. Or Oshansky. I’m not particular.”

  “Is that with an ‘O’ apostrophe?” she asked.

  “Actually it’s plain vanilla Oshansky. Hold the apostrophe.”

  “And Rushmore? Who names their kid Rushmore?”

  “My parents, he answered. “It seems I was conceived on a trip to Mount Rushmore. At least that’s the line my mother, may she rest in peace, gave me. I think my parents always had high hopes I’d end up there. Carved in stone, that is,” he added, admiring the surgical precision with which she sliced through her bagel.

  “You’re a newcomer, I gather,” she said.