Ortega Night: A Phil & Paula Oxnard Mystery

By Patrick Ian O'donnell

Newly retired Phil Oxnard's fear of boredom in retirement galvanizes him to investigate the death of George Moss, a neighbor killed in a presumed automobile accident. Phil's investigation takes him from his home in San Juan Capistrano to Las Vegas, the San Fernando Valley,

• Language: English
• Publisher: Book Vine Press
• Release date: Jun 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781954941953

Patrick Ian O'donnell

Patrick Ian O’Donnell was born and raised in Los Angeles and has enjoyed a varied career including teacher, university administrator, resort operator, and a principal of a registered investment advisory firm. His books include Death of an Oysterman, Illicit Cargo, and the Phil and Paula Oxnard murder mysteries: Ortega Night, McCollum’s Run, Of Doggerel and the Dean, and A Wrathful Vintage He has also published a book of short stories set in the California mother lode: Gold, Greed, Guile, and Gumption, and a chapbook of verse: The Least You Can Do Is Smile. He and his wife, Lorraine, live in Yorba Linda, California.

Book preview

Prologue

They had seen only three vehicles in the last few miles. The driver was particularly aware of the isolation as he guided the red Acura around each succeeding turn of the curving mountain road. The night sky was clear, the brilliance of the stars enhanced by the faintness of the new moon.

Stop here, the passenger said. The command was accompanied by a gesture with the pistol he held in his right hand.

The Acura slowed then stopped.

The pistol gestured again. Steer onto the shoulder. Good, but get a little closer to the edge. Then, ignoring the look of horror on the driver’s face, Shift into neutral and leave the engine running.

The driver knew the end was close with nothing he could do about it. Keeping his eyes fixed on the driver, the passenger deliberately wrapped a jacket around the pistol and raised the weapon. The blow came seconds later. It clipped the side of the driver’s ear, then there was darkness.

After alighting from the car and wiping the door handle with the jacket, the assailant crossed to the driver’s side and opened the door. An arm of the jacket was used as a glove of sorts. There would be no fingerprints. It took only a minute to unfasten the driver’s seat belt and stretch across him to put the car in drive. Then the assailant knelt and reached in, using his had to tap the accelerator. The car started to move. The assailant fell back, slamming the car door and landing safely in the chaparral on the canyon rim. The car moved slowly past the brink of the cliff and into the canyon smashing against its granite studded wall on its decent. The victim had by then begun to regain consciousness. He had a dull awareness of being tossed about in the Acura’s cab. And then oblivion.

Struggling out of the chaparral, the assailant shook the branches of the plant to restore its shape, then, picking up a loose leafy branch, swept the hard, gritty soil free of footprints and evidence of the tumble into the chaparral. It would be difficult for anyone, no matter how deliberate their inspection, to tell what had transpired. The assailant crossed the road and, hidden from the view of passing cars by an outcropping of rock, withdrew a cell phone from a pocket and dialed.

Chapter 1

Paula had retired in early September, and I was scheduled to follow, reluctantly, within a few weeks. Meanwhile, she’d been spending her days searching coastal Orange County for a place to buy our new home. Finally, she found Glenfallow, and made the announcement ecstatically, like a kid who’d just found a long-sought penny for her coin collection.

Glenfallow? Sounds like an overpriced scotch.

Don’t be cute, Phil. I’m really excited about it. The homes are detached and there’s lots of green space. No lawn work, which should make you happy. All taken care of by the staff.

For a healthy fee, I’m sure.

Not too bad. Here’s the brochure.

The leaflet proclaimed, Glenfallow lies in a beautiful valley only two miles from the Mission San Juan Capistrano, Jewel of the Missions.

So, I asked, do the swallows return to Glenfallow.

Every March on St. Joseph’s Day. We’re bound to get one or two that prefer a nice new retirement community to a musty old mission.

"Retirement community?"

Don’t say it like that. This retirement thing bugs you, doesn’t it?

"I’m not sure bugs is the word, but it sure as hell points out the fact that the end’s in sight. The idea of living in something called a retirement community really brings it home. No pun intended."

Paula shook her head in disgust. That’s nonsense. You’d better start getting used to the idea. It’ll soon be official.

Maybe we ought to stay here in L.A. We’ve lived in this house thirty years. That’s got to be some kind of record for Southern California. A few more and we can make the Guinness Book.

I thought you wanted to get out of the city. You’re the one that said we could always drive in for theater and things.

Yes, I know, but I’m having second thoughts. I reminded Paula that she had contracted to write a book that would keep her busy for at least the next twelve months. She still had a purpose in life. For all intents she had not really retired.

Paula said, You’re the one who’s always maintained as long as there are books to read, there’s no reason for boredom.

That was before I was faced with having to prove my theory. I suppose I’m just beginning to realize how much of my time has been taken up with work. Not that my job is all engrossing, but it does keep me occupied.

"Oh Phil, grow up. You’ll find plenty of things to do. I’m sure there are some great places to run, so you won’t have to give up your morning jog. And now you’ll have plenty of time to experiment in the kitchen. Maybe you can even write your own cookbook. And I’ll find plenty to do too, once I’ve finished my book. Besides, we’re sixty-five; it’s time to move on to the next phase. I’ve spent a month scouring Orange County. Glenfallow will be ideal. They don’t even have one of those security gates you hate so much."

"I don’t hate them. I just think they’re intended more for snob appeal than security."

Another thing, Sam lives less than five miles away. You two can play golf every day.

Sam Bower, a widower, was my closest friend and occasional golf partner. He had moved to Orange County after selling his successful market research business for a small fortune. I said, Golf once a week is more than enough, thank you.

I perused the Glenfallow brochure. What’s this about an ‘assisted living habitat’? That’s a snappy piece of jargon. Must be where they send you when you begin to drool.

Yes, it’s their nursing facility. I’m sure they would have called it something else if they knew you were going to read their brochure.

The idea of being consigned to a geezer warehouse doesn’t particularly appeal to me.

Nor to me. But face it, Phil; we are getting older. We can’t be in perfect health forever.

Paula was being her usual sensible self while I, to my own surprise, found it difficult to come to terms with the fact that my career, although never a passion, was over. We were in fact fortunate: both of us in good health with little excess weight. I worked out regularly. Paula, on the other hand, didn’t but was blessed with a naturally lean body that hadn’t changed much over the years. Unlike me, whose hair had been gray for years, she had only recently begun to find gray strands among the brown.

I begrudgingly agreed to drive down to Orange County to look at the place. I had to admit the home we were interested in was spacious with a well-designed galley kitchen, which I as the household cook could appreciate. Four days later we were signing papers to purchase a new house, hoping our old one would be as easy to sell as we’d been led to believe by the legions of eager real estate agents who’d phoned us over the years. They hadn’t sounded quite so confident of late, given the burst of the real estate bubble. Turned out the right buyer came along soon after we’d listed it for sale. By late January our house was in escrow, and we had moved to 982 Golden Vista Drive, San Juan Capistrano.

During our working years Paula was a teacher and finally a high school principal. I began my work-life as a junior high school English teacher. That lasted almost ten years, until it dawned on me that the idyllic Mr. Chips image was, and always would be, illusory. I withdrew my retirement funds, sent out resumes, and took a job with a small publishing company. Thirty years later, the company had grown, and I was Philip I. Oxnard, Vice President for Operations. With respect to my middle initial, my mother, who shortly before my birth completed her master’s thesis on metaphorical images in Moby Dick, wanted to call me Ishmael. My father begrudgingly agreed as long as it wasn’t to be my first name. If nothing else, it has made for interesting conversation over the years.

Fortunately, retirement didn’t mean money worries. Our pension plans, combined with a reasonably decent inheritance, allowed us to live in considerable comfort if not luxury. My concern was that the excess of leisure time would drive me to early senility.

Neither of our imaginations was sufficiently vivid to foresee that in a short time I would embark on my first foray into crime detection, culminating in someone being shot and subsequently dying, after bleeding profusely on our new and very expensive living room carpet.

Chapter 2

Our new house was on a corner with neighbors on only one side, neighbors who soon after our arrival invited us for cocktails. George and Bernice Moss had met nine years earlier while working together in the real estate business. They eventually married and shortly thereafter decided on early retirement, moving to Glenfallow a couple of months before us.

Just before four o’clock, the appointed hour for cocktails at the Mosses, I glanced out our front window to see a man in his late thirties park a blue ten-year-old Ford Mustang with Nevada license plates in front of their house and walk up to the door. It appeared we wouldn’t be the only guests.

When we arrived, Bernice met us at the door. She was several years younger than Paula and I, with the thin strong body of someone who exercised regularly. She wore a simple gray skirt and white blouse cut to leave ample room to display a gold chain necklace. Her carefully styled reddish brown hair served as a testimonial to the virtues of Clairol. Oh come in. I’m afraid we’re running a little late. George’s brother dropped by unexpectedly. There was something in her voice that gave the impression that brother Moss was as unwelcome as he was unexpected.

Bernice led us through the entry hall into a sparsely furnished living room. A floral painting, a bunch of daffodils in a nondescript bowl, hung on the wall behind a long white couch where Bernice invited us to sit. The only other decorative art, two etchings depicting nineteenth century English hunting scenes simply framed in expensive teakwood, hung above the bare mantel of the fireplace opposite. Presumably those had come to the marriage with George, the daffodils with Bernice. At the far end of the room, a large alcove similar to one in our house that holds our modest library, stood a large flat- screen TV with stereo components arrayed on either side. Facing it were a pair of comfortable looking club chairs, the light from a table lamp reflecting off their champagne-leather upholstery. George and Bernice seemingly hadn’t taken time in their short marriage to accumulate things. Although comfortable, the house lacked those things that define its occupants.

George emerged from a hallway wearing a pair of gray flannel trousers and a button-down long-sleeved oxford cloth shirt. Our sartorial tastes were similar. He closed the door behind him and greeted us. What can we get you to drink? We’ve got pretty much everything.

I said, We’re both tequila and tonic drinkers, if that’s okay.

That’s an interesting combination. We’ve got both. Excuse us just a minute; we’ll be back with drinks.

As soon as they left the room a man appeared from the hallway. Hi, I’m Dan, George’s brother.

Paula and I introduced ourselves.

Dan Moss, in contrast to his solidly built, obviously much older brother, was a short, slight man with full blond hair in need of cutting. A receding hairline emphasized his high forehead. He wore a pair of Levis and a tan colored faux suede shirt Don’t mean to interrupt your little party. he said, just in town on business and dropped by to see George and Bernice. So, you’re the neighbors?

Yes. We live next door, Paula answered.

Nice neighborhood this.

We like it.

George is lucky. He’s done very well for himself. With all his money and real estate experience, you’d think he’d know a good deal when he hears it. I’ll bet you folks wouldn’t turn down a chance for a great investment, a destination resort complex in Idaho. I really believe it’s one of the best thought-out developments that’s come on the market in a long time. Let me tell you about it. As he spoke his large teeth set in a small mouth gave the appearance of a perpetual smile. Adding to the comedic effect, a heavy mustache adorned his upper lip.

This will be a year-round resort with…

That was as far as he got when the Mosses came back into the room with drinks and a plate of cheese and crackers. Dan, George said abruptly, let’s go back into my office. I thought we agreed you were to stay there.

Okay, okay. Don’t let me get in your way, Dan muttered as he slowly trailed out of the room.

I glanced at Paula who looked as uneasy as I felt finding ourselves in the middle of someone else’s family feud. George followed his brother back into the hallway, and saying to us, Please excuse me just a minute, closed the door behind him.

Bernice, trying her best to be nonchalant, asked how we were enjoying Glenfallow; Had we had a chance to use any of the recreational facilities? Didn’t we think the grounds crew did a wonderful job? In spite of the closed door, we could hear the men’s voices growing louder. Goddamn it, Dan, I told you before. I’m not going to invest in one of your cockamamie schemes.

Then just lend me the money. This time I’ve really got to have it.

No loans. No anything. You’ve got to stop trying to chase a fast buck.

You made your money putting deals together, George. Why shouldn’t I? I don’t want to be a waiter all my life.

I worked damn hard on deals where all parties got something worthwhile out of it. You settle down and work like hell to be the best waiter you can for a year and we’ll see what we can do to find you something where you can make more money.

But, George…

Bernice, no longer comfortable trying to distract us with small talk, excused herself and disappeared into the hallway.

Please guys, put this off ’til later, we heard her say. We’ve got company out there.

Dan, his voice muted, but still clearly audible from where we sat, pled, I’ve got to have money.

Dan, George said, We’re not going to discuss this now. I think you’d better go.

Okay, I’m going. But I’ve got to have that money and I don’t care how I get it. With that Dan emerged from the hallway and bolted from the house. Less than a minute later we heard the squeal of tires as he took off, pedal to floorboard.

The Mosses were agonizingly apologetic. Their discomfort over the incident and our discomfort at being there made for a disquieting, albeit short, cocktail hour. After finishing a single drink, we made our excuses and thanked our hosts for their hospitality. Bernice accompanied us outside. I’m very sorry you had to put up with Dan. He can be so annoying to George. Always has some scheme going, but I’ve never seen him this desperate.

Paula, always concerned about another’s feelings said, Think nothing of it. It didn’t bother us at all.

When we were back in our own house, Paula said, I felt sorry for them. They were really mortified. I think we need to return the invitation right away just to let them know we understand.

In true Southern California fashion, I was less than enthusiastic about getting much more involved with our neighbors. Still, I agreed we probably should return the invitation. A week later the four of us gathered at our place. The conversation, pleasantly superficial for the most part, was about the advantages and disadvantages of retirement, our respective former careers, and various recreational interests.

Now that you’ve been retired for a couple of months, are you both enjoying it? Bernice asked.

I’m still pretty busy on a project, Paula said. I’m afraid Phil hasn’t quite adjusted yet. Have you, Hon?

I said something to the effect that I was still at loose ends, but hoped I’d settle in soon.

May I ask what your project is? George asked Paula.

Certainly. I’m writing a book on inner-city high schools.

That sounds depressing. What I mean is, there’s not much anybody can do about the situation. Is there?

Bernice, perhaps thinking Paula’s feelings may have been hurt, said, It sounds quite interesting. What aspect of the schools are you writing about?

Paula said, It’s my attempt to convey what I believe are the root problems and some ideas as to what we should be doing to improve things. Not the kind of thing that will be wildly popular, I’m afraid.

The conversation then turned to George’s brother Dan. I really must apologize for my brother’s behavior. He was totally out of line.

Not at all, Paula said, more out of compassion than honesty. When he spoke to us he was really quite pleasant.

George took a healthy swallow of his drink, Oh, he’s pleasant enough, just always has some off-beat deal going. God knows why he needs money now. He won’t tell me. Says he’s just got to have it. He’s managed to hold a waiter’s job at the Monte Carlo casino up in Vegas for six months now which is a record for him. Last time he was down here he had a woman along, said they were serious. Wouldn’t have been my choice, but it looked like he might be settling down. Now he’s got this desperate need for cash. Anyway, so much for discussing Dan.

We talked for a while longer with the visit ending in an agreement to get together for golf at some unspecified future date. It didn’t seem likely that it would happen soon. We really hadn’t that much in common.

Apart from those visits the only times we saw our neighbors was when we were both picking up the morning paper or happened to be coming or going at the same time. Then about eleven o’clock one night in late February I answered the doorbell to face Bernice. Loose strands escaped from her usually tightly coifed hair and hung at the side of her face calling attention to the small lines on her skin revealing her fifty plus years.

Bernice. What’s wrong? Come on in.

"No. No need to come in. I feel bad