Mike Befeler Paul Jacobson Geezer-lit Mystery Series E-Book Box Set: Retirement Homes Are Murder, Living with Your Kids Is Murder, Senior Moments Are Murder, Cruising in Your Eighties Is Murder

by Mike Befeler

  “What?”

  “Just testing your sense of humor. I’ll watch what I spend. Maybe they would cut my fees if I live on bread and water.”

  Denny grimaced. “It’ll work out. As I said, by next year you’ll be in good shape for more expensive care, if required.”

  “That and the fact that I won’t be around that much longer anyway.”

  “Don’t think that way, Dad.”

  “Well, it’s true. I’m getting up there in years. Any time now, poof.” I snapped my fingers.

  Denny jumped. “You’re still in good physical shape, Dad. Keep walking.”

  “That and staying away from murderers.”

  * * * * *

  Denny helped me get my bills assembled. Then while he ran some errands, I wrote checks and licked envelopes. Searching around my apartment, I couldn’t find any stamps, so I decided to take a little expedition.

  At the elevator I asked an old, tottering, female inmate leaning on a walker where to find stamps. Shouting my query a second time so she could hear it, she directed me to the business office on the second floor.

  After an elevator ride with nothing more eventful than the old broad dropping her walker on my foot, I got off and found the office.

  “I need to buy some stamps,” I informed the young woman who was loading paper into a copier.

  “If you’ll lift that metal box up on the counter, I’ll be right with you,” she said.

  I stepped behind the counter, found a gleaming silver box, and hoisted it up.

  When she finished her other task, she turned and her eyes lit up. “Hi there,” she said.

  A young man with a goatee and wearing a baseball cap waved. “Yo, Helen.”

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “Picking up my check.”

  He headed down the hall, and Helen said, “Bye, Moki.”

  This was the guy I needed to speak with! I rushed out of the office and looked around the corner, but he was gone. Oh, well. I’d try to hook up with him at night when he was on duty.

  “Did you want stamps?” Helen asked, tapping her fingers on the counter.

  I handed her a five-dollar bill, and she gave me stamps and change.

  As long as I was out and about, I decided to interview anyone who worked at the front desk to see if I could find out what happened to the missing visitor registration page.

  Neither of the two women at the front desk knew who had taken the missing page. Either that or their memories were as bad as mine.

  * * * * *

  “No wonder a murderer could easily commit a crime here,” I said to Denny that night at a Thai restaurant. “The security sucks.”

  “Kina Nani isn’t a prison,” he said.

  “Let’s not go there.”

  “You don’t look happy, Dad.”

  “I’m depressed about my damn memory, this Tiegan thing, and that I have to keep a journal and rely on Meyer if I want to know what I did the day before.”

  “At least you don’t remember yesterday’s problems.”

  “I’d put up with that if I could wake up and know where the hell I am.”

  “Can I order you a drink, Dad?”

  “Yeah. Arsenic.”

  * * * * *

  Back at Kina Nani, we said our good-byes. Denny was catching a flight to the mainland, so I wouldn’t see him until his next visit, scheduled in less than a month.

  “Let me know if I can help with the Tiegan situation,” he said.

  “I’ll keep you appraised. If I end up in jail, check in with Meyer for details.”

  He grimaced. “That’s not funny.”

  I shrugged. “At my age it doesn’t matter much if I’m here or in prison.”

  “Don’t start that again.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll behave.”

  I watched him climb into his car. We waved to each other, and he drove off.

  Back up in my apartment, I found the message light flashing. I checked and found that Meyer wanted me to call him.

  When he answered, he said, “I tried to reach you earlier pertaining to some disturbing news.” There was a pause.

  “I was out to dinner with my son. You sound concerned. What’s this tragic news?”

  “It concerns the murder,” Meyer said, clearing his throat. “I talked to my mole again this afternoon. The police have some additional circumstantial evidence that doesn’t bode well for you.”

  “Saito stopped by this afternoon and has been harassing me again.”

  “And he may be ready to arrest you soon,” Meyer said.

  “He hinted at that. They find a confession from me that I don’t remember signing?”

  “No,” Meyer said. “But the next worst thing. The staff at Kina Nani had been asked to notify the police if any keys were found. Someone left a key at the front counter. The receptionist called the police who checked it out and guess what the key was?”

  “Probably not the key to my heart,” I said.

  “It was the trash chute key.”

  I slapped my nightstand. “It could have been dropped by the murderer!”

  “Could be. But the police found your fingerprints on the key.”

  “Well shit,” I said. Then I remembered what I’d done that morning. “I found a key after we played shuffleboard. It would have my fingerprints on it because I picked it up and left it at the front desk.”

  “Then the receptionist can tell the police what happened,” Meyer said.

  “The problem is that she wasn’t paying attention at the time. No one saw me turn it in.” I thought back to my earlier conversation with Saito. “This explains Saito’s comment about keys.”

  “You’re going to have to be careful, Paul.”

  “All right,” I said.

  After I hung up, my stomach churned as I sat there trying to figure out how to get out of all these entanglements. I needed to stay awake late enough to speak with Moki when he came on duty.

  And Meyer really wanted to help me. Here I couldn’t remember him from day to day, yet he was looking out after me. Would I do the same for someone who couldn’t remember who the hell I was? Probably not. My mind circled back to friends I’d had. Rhonda had been my best friend. We’d do anything for each other. Except when we launched into one of our infrequent spats. But we always made up. I had had friends in the neighborhood, golfing buddies, acquaintances in the Chamber of Commerce. I was always willing to give someone a ride, or cover if they had a sick kid. But this guy Meyer seemed genuinely willing to help me with my crappy memory and this strange murder case. And how did I thank him? By forgetting who the hell he was when I woke up.

  This other guy Henry was strange. I couldn’t imagine anyone getting close to him. How had his wife put up with him? He’d be a real pain to be around more than at mealtimes. Still, I could consider him entertaining. As Meyer said, where else could you have your own talking baseball almanac? If only Henry weren’t such a jerk.

  * * * * *

  Later, I wandered down to the front desk. “Where can I find Moki?”

  Jason Kam was on duty. “You snooping again?” he said.

  “Yeah, I need to speak with Moki.”

  “He’s doing his rounds.” Kam looked at his watch. “Probably half done. Usually starts at the top of the building and works his way down.”

  I decided to wait on the second floor in one of the chairs outside the dining room. If he was checking every floor he’d come right by there, and it would be more private than waiting in the lobby with Jason Kam overhearing our conversation.

  A wicker chair with soft padded cushions accepted my tired body. I had to make sure I didn’t doze off. I looked across the hallway at an oil painting of Rabbit Island. I couldn’t remember yesterday, but I recalled hearing how Rabbit Island was used for target practice by the military during World War II and how after the war kids went over and found live ammunition. One had his hand blown off. Who knows if that really happened, but it s
erved the purpose of keeping people away from the rocky island. Unless you went there to collect ammunition.

  I heard a door squeak open and a young man in a brown uniform exited from the stairwell. He had a goatee and stood approximately five ten with narrow darting eyes. I recognized him as the man who had called to Helen in the business office earlier in the day.

  “You Moki?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “I want to talk to you about the night of the murder.”

  His eyes focused on the center of my forehead. “What you want?”

  I suddenly realized I didn’t know what I wanted. Have him confess to the crime? Say he’d seen someone skulking through the hallway? Then I remembered what I had read.

  “What time did you lock the trash chute on the sixth floor that night?”

  He scratched his head. “Would have been ten-forty-five. I started at the top at ten-thirty and it took me half an hour to do all floors.”

  “Have you by any chance lost your key to the trash chute?”

  “Why you asking these questions? You trying to play amateur cop?”

  “I take it kind of personal when someone gets whacked and the police think I’m a suspect.”

  “You’re that guy.”

  I did a double take. “What guy?”

  His lips twitched. “Just heard that one of our residents might be a murderer.”

  “Don’t give me that crap. Someone else did this. And I’m going to find out who.”

  A strange smile came over his face. “Say, I saw you in the business office earlier today.”

  “Yeah, and I heard Helen call out your name.”

  Now his look hardened. “The police will get the murderer. I don’t need anyone wandering around causing trouble on my watch.”

  “It seems like there’s already been some major trouble caused on your watch.”

  After that, Moki refused to answer any more questions and said he needed to continue his rounds. I thought of following him, but that wouldn’t do me any good and would piss him off more than he already was. In my mind he was a prime suspect. He might have overheard that Marshall Tiegan had a valuable collection of stamps, and he did have keys to all the doors at Kina Nani. And the trash chute. Didn’t give me a comfortable feeling knowing he could get into my place at any time.

  Chapter 6

  My head snapped up from my breakfast plate at the sound of chairs scraping. Two men I’d never seen before sat down.

  “Good morning, Paul,” the taller of the two said.

  “Who the hell are you?” I asked.

  “Uh, oh,” he replied. “You didn’t read your journal this morning.

  “What journal?”

  He sighed. “Paul, you write in a journal that you keep on your nightstand. You obviously didn’t read it this morning. It’s your tool to deal with your short-term memory loss.”

  “That would explain why I don’t know squat about where I am. Who’s the stiff?” I pointed to the bald-headed runt who was up to his elbows in a bowl of oatmeal.

  “That’s Henry and I’m Meyer.”

  “Names don’t register,” I said.

  “Paul, first thing you need to do when you get back to your room is to read your journal.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Whatever.”

  “There’s some big excitement this morning,” Meyer said. “Someone broke into the business office last night and stole some money.”

  “Probably one of the inmates collecting snack money,” I said.

  Meyer laughed. “You have quite a way of stating things, Paul.”

  “Yeah. I guess it’s because I can’t decide if I woke up in a nuthouse or a prison.”

  * * * * *

  After breakfast I wandered out of the dining room and was accosted by a stocky man, a good three inches shorter than me.

  “We need to talk, Mr. Jacobson,” he said.

  “Shit,” I said. “Everyone knows my name. Who are you?”

  He rolled his eyes and flicked open a wallet, revealing a police badge. “I’m Detective Saito.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “Please have a seat,” he said, motioning toward one of the lobby chairs.

  I sat down, wondering why he was here, and he pulled another chair up in front of me so that he was facing me two feet away. His intense dark gaze bore in on the bridge of my nose.

  “Now, Mr. Jacobson, would you care to tell me what you were doing last night?”

  “Sleeping.”

  “Let’s be a little more specific,” he said.

  “I went to bed and slept.”

  He scowled, and the corners of his mouth twitched like a dog ready to bare its teeth. “Cut the B.S. I want a full account of everything you did after dinner last night.”

  “That’s going to be difficult. The only thing I remember is getting up this morning.”

  Detective Saito let his breath out. “I’m getting tired of this memory excuse.”

  I looked into his eyes. “What do you mean memory excuse? I don’t even know who you are and you act like you know me.”

  “The Kina Nani business office was broken into last night,” he said. “What do you know about it?”

  “Only that a guy named Meyer mentioned it. He was at my breakfast table.”

  “Money was stolen from a cash box. . . .” Saito paused to look at me.

  I shrugged. “So what’s that have to do with me?”

  “Your fingerprints were all over the box. Can you tell me how they got there?”

  I flinched. “Why would my fingerprints be on a cash box?” I tried to think back, but everything before waking up was a blank.

  “I think you went into the office, broke into the money box, and stole the contents.”

  This didn’t make any sense. I had always been honest, had run a decent business, and hadn’t take advantage of people. The last time I stole anything that I could remember was a pack of gum from a store when I was six. My mother beat the crap out of me, and that was the end of my criminal spree.

  Saito removed a notepad from his pocket and thumbed through several pages. “Mr. Jacobson, late last night you were seen sitting outside the business office right in this lounge area that we’re in now. The night watchman reported having a heated argument with you. Was that before or after you stole the money?”

  “Now you’re irritating me,” I said. “I didn’t have anything to do with your burglary.”

  “It seems to me that you’re a one-man crime wave in this place.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’ve forgotten your other crime?”

  “Other crime?” I repeated, wondering what he meant.

  “Don’t give me that innocent stare.”

  “I’m sorry, Detective. I have no recollection of even meeting you before, much less any reference to another crime.”

  “Maybe a trip to police headquarters will help shake up your memory. I have enough evidence to put you in jail right now.”

  My head jerked. “I don’t think that would be productive. It won’t change the fact that I remember zip from yesterday.”

  He regarded me again, his radar beam of a stare trying to penetrate my forehead. “I think we should go up to your apartment to check around for some missing cash.”

  “If you have a search warrant, I’d be happy to let you look around.”

  His eyes gave away that he didn’t. “You think hard about what I’ve said, Mr. Jacobson. In the meantime you may need to find a new place to live.”

  “Now what are you implying?”

  “You’ve been implicated in two crimes and have been reported to be harassing several employees. The retirement home director may not want you as a resident any longer.”

  “Doesn’t bother me. I don’t particularly want to be here anyway.”

  He jumped up. “We’ll be talking again, Mr. Jacobson. Very soon.”

  “A real pleasure, Detective.” I stood up and headed toward the elevat
or. While I waited with a herd of decrepit old people, someone tapped me on the shoulder.

  I turned around to see a tall skinny man with slicked back dark hair, horned rimmed glasses, a pointed chin, and a long neck above a wrinkled brown suit.

  “May I have a word with you, Mr. Jacobson?”

  “Sure. You look too young to be part of this crowd. Who are you?”

  “We’ve met before. I’m Alexander Farns. The director of Kina Nani.”

  I regarded him, my gaze drawn to a protruding Adam’s apple that bobbed above a yellow tie. The aroma of newly applied, cheap aftershave lotion permeated the air.

  “So you run this joint,” I said.

  He cleared his throat. “Yes. I’m responsible for the business oversight of Kina Nani.”

  “Can you do something about all the old people around here?”

  His forehead wrinkled up like an accordion, and he cleared his throat again. “I was wondering if you might step into my office for a moment so I can have a word with you.”

  “Why not?” I replied.

  I followed him down a short hallway to a cramped room with his name on the door. He motioned me to sit down in a chair that looked like it was ready to collapse at any time.

  Farns steepled his fingers. “As I was saying, in my role as director of Kina Nani, I need to look after the best interests of the majority of residents.”

  “In other words you need to keep the paying customers happy.”

  His gaze darted from side to side. I expected him to start wringing his hands.

  “No . . . I mean, yes. It’s just that . . . uh . . . we’re concerned with reference to the recent events and your . . . uh . . . proximity to them.”

  “I can see your dilemma,” I said. “I’m one of your cherished residents forking over my hard-earned cash, but if it gets down to brass tacks, you’d like to see me march off into the sunset so as not to disturb the other paying vegetables.”

  He shuffled from side to side. “That’s not exactly how I’d phrase it, Mr. Jacobson. But I don’t know if it is advisable for you to remain in residence here.”

  “Can’t say as I’m all that fond of this place, but I don’t cotton to getting the boot, Mr. Farms. I think I’ll stick around to see what other excitement is in store.”

  He opened his mouth like a fish gulping air on dry land.