Murder My Sweets by Sylvia Selfman

Author:Sylvia Selfman [Selfman, Sylvia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-12-17T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 22

Rushmore and I sat across from each other in the Regency Room of the Palm Springs Sun Villas Club House. The restaurant was known for good food at reasonable prices – or maybe it was reasonable food at good prices – I wasn’t sure which.

In any case, we seldom ate there as one of the requirements was neckties for men – something Rushmore hated with a vengeance. However, the fact that it was Wednesday and prime rib night was inducement enough for him to overcome his aversion to anything that smacked of dressing up.

Rushmore sat back, loosened his tie and picked up his glass of bourbon. “Cheers. Did I tell you how exceptionally beautiful you look tonight?”

“Are you talking to me or your prime rib?”

“That happens to be exceptional also. But not as exceptional as you.” He reached over and pulled a stray Sherlock-hair off my sleeve. “Izzy, don’t take it the wrong way, but you do know that cat rules you with an iron paw. I hope you straightened him out.”

“More or less,” I smiled. Mostly less.

I pretended not to know that Rushmore was studying me from across the table. “Izzy, you’ve been acting strange lately. You’re practically incommunicado. Why do I have the feeling you’re up to something?”

Alarmed, I took my nose out of my glass of Zinfandel. “What? What could I possibly be up to?” I felt bad that I couldn’t share with Rushmore what Flo and I were involved in, but I told myself it would only be until we got Senior Snoops up and running. Then it would be a fait accompli.

“That’s what I’d like to know.” He studied me without saying anything. “And I think I know what it is.”

I took a large gulp of wine and sat back. Of course, he’d figured it out. After all, he’d been an ace detective. I steeled myself for a stern lecture about the dangers of getting involved with criminal elements when, to my surprise, he smiled. “Yessiree, Izzy. I know exactly what you’re up to.” He winked, then added, “I’m large, by the way.”

I looked at him. “A large?”

“You know – large. Though if you’re going to all that trouble to knit me a sweater, you might as well make it extra-large.” He winked and picked up his glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” I mumbled. I could tell he was envisioning some kind of Scottish blue, cable-knit fisherman’s sweater made with love, by yours truly. There was only one thing I could do. I would scour the internet and see what I could find that didn’t cost an arm and a leg.

“Rushmore?”

“Yes, my dear.”

I loved when he used that term. It had such an old-fashioned ring to it. “Rushmore, you’re sure you wouldn’t rather I knitted you a scarf? One can never have too many scarves, you know.”

He reached across the table and clasped my hand. “You’ve already knitted me four scarves, and I believe that’s enough.” He brought my hand to his lips, and I was almost positive I heard him whisper, “For a lifetime.

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