Read Online Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair by Selma Eichler - Free Book Online
Authors: Selma Eichler
Ads: Link
with us, though—and I realize I’m being selfish—I’ll have to be alone with him. In public. Do you want that on your conscience?” she demanded with a nervous titter. “Besides, in spite of what you think, Pop does have feelings, and since he walked in that door before he’s talked about nothing but you. It’s been ‘Desiree this’ and ‘Desiree that.’ I—” She broke off. “Thanks so much, Pop. No, I’m still not certain Dez can make it. We—”
But Pop wrested the receiver from her grasp. “So, Desiree, how you been?” said this thin little voice.
“Fine, thanks. And Harriet tells me you’re doing great.”
“Not bad for a fellow in his seventies.”
You wish, I countered in my head.
“Listen, you afraid maybe I got leprosy or somethin’? Or maybe you’re just such a busy individual that when a friend comes all the way up from Florida, you can’t even take a few steps across the hall to say hello.”
“Well,” I sputtered, “I don’t remember why I . . . that is, I don’t remember the exact reasons I wasn’t able to get together on your last few trips, but it was probab—It was definitely unavoidable.”
“Okay, what’s past is past. But you could change your appointment tonight, if you wanted. It’s not written in stone that you gotta be somewheres else. True?” This was punctuated with a few HEH-HEHs, after which Pop added plaintively, “You wanna break an old man’s heart?”
“You’re right,” I answered resignedly. “My appointment isn’t written in stone.”
“Good.” And as he handed the phone back to Harriet: “She’s coming with us!” He sounded so gleeful that my conscience surfaced and gave me hell for having taken my original stand.
“Thanks, Dez,” Harriet said in a tone that managed to convey both gratitude and relief.
“Hey, what are friends for?”
They rang my bell a half hour later. There hadn’t been enough time for a much-needed shower—not at the rate of speed I move, anyway. But I did have a chance to fix my makeup and run a comb through my wig— and remind myself how infuriating Pop can be.
Take that incident some years back when the three of us went to this Lower East Side deli. The waiter, a crusty old man who was close to being a contemporary of Pop’s, had the misfortune of informing him that the restaurant was out of mushroom and barley soup. Well, Pop did not handle this news particularly well. He carried on—and on—about how they never seem to have the aforementioned item when he’s there. He even intimated that the place might be setting it aside for their preferred customers. Finally, the exasperated waiter suggested—facetiously—that Pop come to the kitchen with him and see for himself that there was no mushroom and barley soup left.
Now, Pop, not being into facetious, took the startled fellow at his word. And the two shuffled off toward the kitchen, the waiter leading the way and Pop continually stepping on his heels. Every few seconds the waiter would turn around to glare at him and mumble under his breath—something X-rated, I’m sure. The only plus was that Harriet and I, both of us totally mortified by then, were unable to make out what it was.
Upon returning from his inspection tour, Pop reported that apparently they were out of the coveted soup. But did this little fact embarrass him intobehaving himself? In a pig’s eye! Not too much later he was grousing about the pastrami’s tasting like perfume. And after that it was the strudel that offended him. I won’t even go into what the old dear had to say about that. It’s enough to inform you that at this point there was a firm request that we absent ourselves from the premises.
At any rate, while I was having second thoughts about again agreeing to break bread—or, in this case, fortune cookies—with Harriet’s delightful in-law, the doorbell rang.
A tanned and smiling Pop was standing on the threshold, gray felt hat in hand, with Harriet
But Pop wrested the receiver from her grasp. “So, Desiree, how you been?” said this thin little voice.
“Fine, thanks. And Harriet tells me you’re doing great.”
“Not bad for a fellow in his seventies.”
You wish, I countered in my head.
“Listen, you afraid maybe I got leprosy or somethin’? Or maybe you’re just such a busy individual that when a friend comes all the way up from Florida, you can’t even take a few steps across the hall to say hello.”
“Well,” I sputtered, “I don’t remember why I . . . that is, I don’t remember the exact reasons I wasn’t able to get together on your last few trips, but it was probab—It was definitely unavoidable.”
“Okay, what’s past is past. But you could change your appointment tonight, if you wanted. It’s not written in stone that you gotta be somewheres else. True?” This was punctuated with a few HEH-HEHs, after which Pop added plaintively, “You wanna break an old man’s heart?”
“You’re right,” I answered resignedly. “My appointment isn’t written in stone.”
“Good.” And as he handed the phone back to Harriet: “She’s coming with us!” He sounded so gleeful that my conscience surfaced and gave me hell for having taken my original stand.
“Thanks, Dez,” Harriet said in a tone that managed to convey both gratitude and relief.
“Hey, what are friends for?”
They rang my bell a half hour later. There hadn’t been enough time for a much-needed shower—not at the rate of speed I move, anyway. But I did have a chance to fix my makeup and run a comb through my wig— and remind myself how infuriating Pop can be.
Take that incident some years back when the three of us went to this Lower East Side deli. The waiter, a crusty old man who was close to being a contemporary of Pop’s, had the misfortune of informing him that the restaurant was out of mushroom and barley soup. Well, Pop did not handle this news particularly well. He carried on—and on—about how they never seem to have the aforementioned item when he’s there. He even intimated that the place might be setting it aside for their preferred customers. Finally, the exasperated waiter suggested—facetiously—that Pop come to the kitchen with him and see for himself that there was no mushroom and barley soup left.
Now, Pop, not being into facetious, took the startled fellow at his word. And the two shuffled off toward the kitchen, the waiter leading the way and Pop continually stepping on his heels. Every few seconds the waiter would turn around to glare at him and mumble under his breath—something X-rated, I’m sure. The only plus was that Harriet and I, both of us totally mortified by then, were unable to make out what it was.
Upon returning from his inspection tour, Pop reported that apparently they were out of the coveted soup. But did this little fact embarrass him intobehaving himself? In a pig’s eye! Not too much later he was grousing about the pastrami’s tasting like perfume. And after that it was the strudel that offended him. I won’t even go into what the old dear had to say about that. It’s enough to inform you that at this point there was a firm request that we absent ourselves from the premises.
At any rate, while I was having second thoughts about again agreeing to break bread—or, in this case, fortune cookies—with Harriet’s delightful in-law, the doorbell rang.
A tanned and smiling Pop was standing on the threshold, gray felt hat in hand, with Harriet
Similar Books
