by Mike Befeler
I told myself to shake it off. I had something to do.
I went down to check for mail and found a Fed Ex envelope waiting for me. I ripped it open to find four pages. The first page was titled “Switzerland” and had a list of numbers and letters: 1L1, 1L2 . . . 2L1 . . . 3L1 . . . 1, 2, 3. . . .
What was all this nonsense? I turned the page. More numbers. All the remaining pages had almost consecutive numbers. After looking at all the pages, I reviewed the document. 5, 13, 14, 32, 32A, and 91 were circled.
As much as I hated to, I called my lawyer. An obsequious female voice told me to hold. I twiddled a pencil in my fingers as I waited. Finally, a loud male voice came on the line. “Mr. Jacobson. What can I do for you?”
“I received four pages of numbers that you sent. What is this crap?”
He chuckled. “That’s the list of Mr. Tiegan’s stamps.”
“But it’s just a bunch of letters and numbers.”
“Those are the Scott catalogue numbers that identify each of the stamps in his collection. Based on the quality of each stamp, a value can be placed on it.”
“And the circled numbers represent the ones that Tiegan claims I stole?”
“That’s right. That’s what the suit claims.”
“Would a stamp store recognize these numbers?”
“Any reputable dealer would be familiar with them.”
After hanging up I went downstairs to make copies, this time leaving a five-dollar bill for the office administrator. Then I called a taxi.
The first stop was Tanabe Stamp and Coin in Kaneohe. I gave the driver ten dollars as an incentive to wait for me.
“I’d like to speak to the owner,” I said.
“That’s me,” the short man with thick glasses answered from behind the counter.
“I’m trying to purchase this list of stamps.” I handed him the sheets of paper.
He clicked his tongue. “Pretty complete list of Swiss stamps.”
“How much would it cost?”
He scanned through the list again and punched some numbers on a calculator. “It would depend on if you want primarily unused or used stamps.”
“Give me a range.”
“Probably two hundred thousand dollars for used and five hundred thousand for unused.”
I whistled. “Just for little hunks of paper?”
He frowned. “You obviously aren’t a collector.”
“No. I’m buying for a friend.”
He dropped the sheets onto the counter and pushed them back to me.
I nudged the pages back in his direction. “I’d like you to hold on to this list. If you can hook me up with anyone selling a collection like this, I’ll pay you a ten-percent commission. My name and phone number are written on the first page.”
He looked at the top sheet again. “Okay. But it will be more realistic that someone is selling only part of this list.”
“Fine. Call me if someone approaches you.”
I spent the rest of the day speaking with owners of other stamp stores and making the taxi driver rich. By late afternoon we were sitting in rush hour traffic, heading back through the Pali Tunnel toward the windward side of the island.
Since a portion of Denny’s inheritance was now going to this taxi driver, the man was happily humming.
“Any more stops?” he asked.
I imagined dollar signs dancing in his eyes.
“No. Back to Kina Nani.”
“Any time you want to do this again, give me a call.” He handed me a card with the name Ray Puhai and a phone number.
“I don’t expect to go through all this again, but I’ll keep you in mind.”
“Thanks, braddah.”
* * * * *
At dinner, I described my sojourn to Meyer and Henry.
“You should turn this all over to the police,” Meyer said.
“I’m a suspect. If I give them the list, Saito will twist it around as a motive for having killed Tiegan. Besides, I think some of these shop owners will be more inclined to call me rather than the police if a customer shows up selling Swiss stamps.”
“You’ll probably get shot before they hang you,” Henry said.
“Thanks for the encouraging thought,” I said.
“You going to leave that dinner roll?” Henry asked.
“Go ahead,” I said. “I’m not that hungry.”
Henry grabbed the roll off my plate and happily munched away.
After dinner, I searched through my closet and found a tie that looked like it was only ten years old. I splashed on a little after-shave lotion. Now I was armed and dangerous.
I planned my arrival for exactly 7:10. When I got there, the room was full of old people. I guessed that when you’re sitting around a retirement home with nothing to do and there’s an event, you get there right when it starts.
A woman in a wheelchair sat next to a phonograph and periodically changed records. The music was big bands and Perry Como from the early ’50s. All pre–rock and roll. When “Smoke Get in Your Eyes” played, several couples limped out to a corner of the room and shuffled around leaning on each other. I could smell the aroma of burnt popcorn.
A woman whom I recognized as the one who waved to me at breakfast raced over as fast as her old legs could carry her. She wore a pink dress, showcasing a trim figure. She obviously had taken care of her old body.
“Paul, I’m so glad you came.”
“I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” I gave her a hug.
“Oh, my,” she said and returned the hug. She stepped back and grabbed my hand. “You need to meet some people.”
Everyone was new to me except for Meyer. Henry had apparently declined in favor of his coin collection.
I was introduced to four men and a mob of about twenty women. Several of the women eyed me from head to toe. Marion grabbed my arm and propelled me to the next group. I felt like I’d been claimed at a slave auction.
After another series of introductions, Marion grabbed my arm again. “Come on, let’s dance.”
I tried to remember the last time I had been on a dance floor. My fiftieth wedding anniversary. I was an adequate dancer back then.
Marion steered me to an open spot and we began dancing. I could feel her warmth even with the trade winds cooling the room. She thrust herself close against me, and we put our cheeks together. She knew her stuff, and we glided around the floor, as much as two old fogies can glide.
After the dance Meyer came up to us.
“You two cut a mean rug,” he said.
“Comes from having a good dance partner,” I replied.
Marion beamed and hugged my arm. “I have to leave for a minute. There’s another new resident I need to greet.”
She trotted off.
Meyer punched me on the arm. “I see a promising relationship starting, buddy.”
“Hope I’m up to it,” I said.
I drank too much fruit punch and had to visit the restroom twice. As the crowd dwindled, I found myself with Marion and two other ladies cleaning up the paper cups and bowls of half-eaten popcorn.
“Nice party,” I said as she turned off the lights to the rec room. “Want to go sit outside?”
“That would be perfect,” Marion said and gave my arm a squeeze.
I wondered if that arm was going to get worn out between her squeezes and Meyer’s punches.
We strolled through the garden area and sat on a bench in a gazebo that overlooked a hillside of well-manicured grass, sparkling in the moonlight. I put my arm around Marion and she snuggled close against me.
“How long have you been at Kina Nani?” I asked her.
“Three years. I lived alone for awhile after my husband died, but got tired of cooking for myself.”
“Any family in the islands?”
“No. Two daughters on the mainland.”
She snuggled closer against me.
“It’s nice being here with you, Paul.”
“The pleasure is all mine.” I probab
ly hadn’t been on a date since my wife died. Not that I could have remembered it anyway.
She ran her finger down my cheek. “Well, it’s time we both had a little companionship. I met a man here a year ago. I thought of getting involved, but put it off. Just when I finally decided to get intimate with him, he had a heart attack and died.”
“Well, I won’t do that to you,” I said and hugged her.
We shared our backgrounds, and I was only shaken from my reverie when my back became stiff from sitting on the hard bench. I looked at my watch and couldn’t believe we had been out here for two hours.
“How would you like to join me for a restaurant meal tomorrow night?” I said.
“That would be a nice change.”
“Good. I’ll make a reservation and get us a cab. Say six o’clock?”
“Thank you, Paul.”
“Marion, this has been a wonderful evening.” I reached over and gave her a kiss. She kissed me back.
I couldn’t believe this was happening to me. At my age a woman acted interested in me. I hoped I wouldn’t blow it.
We came up for air, and I looked at Marion in the dim light. She smiled.
She was quite a woman. Putting up with an old fart like me. Should I leave things at this level? I hadn’t been in this situation for half a century. What to do? For now, just see what would happen.
We walked back to the building with arms around each other. I accompanied her to her door on the twelfth floor, and we parted with another kiss. I felt like a teenager on his first date, as I practically skipped back toward the elevator.
Chapter 9
The next morning my journal reminded me that I still had the problem of clearing my name; I was still a murder suspect. I reviewed what I knew. An employee of Kina Nani could have committed the murder. Two employees were on duty when it happened: Jason Kam at the front desk and Moki Iwana on patrol. Of the two, Moki was the prime suspect. Or it could have been an acquaintance or relative of Marshall Tiegan, even Tiegan’s lawyer. Someone who knew of my involvement in the lawsuit and set me up. Motive: get Tiegan’s stamp collection. And how did a Swiss stamp end up in my apartment?
With that question unanswered I headed down to the dining hall where Meyer needed to point Marion out to me.
“I saw a notice of an event you might want to attend this afternoon,” Meyer said.
“What’s that?”
“There’s going to be a memorial service for Marshall Tiegan.”
I thought for a moment. “Might be a good way to meet his family. Determine if there was some relative anxious to get him out of the way.”
* * * * *
That afternoon I selected my most somber dark slacks and a white short-sleeved shirt. I met Meyer in front of the building and we clambered into a shuttle van that had KINA NANI spelled out in bright blue letters. Once we were tucked in, I looked around at the other detainees, half a dozen women.
“These some of Tiegan’s girl friends?” I asked.
Meyer chuckled. “No. I call this group the ‘Mourner’s Club.’ They diligently show up for every memorial service. It’s their hobby.”
“Beats killing people,” I said.
When we disembarked at St. Matthew’s Lutheran Church on Kamehameha Highway, the old broads raced across the parking lot ahead of us.
“Look like they’re trying to get the best seats in the theater,” I said.
“Either that or they want to eat all the food first,” Meyer said.
Inside, a minister stood greeting the throng, which turned out to be ten other people besides the Kina Nani contingent. A tape deck played Gregorian chants in the background as the minister mounted the steps and stood for a moment between two large bird-of-paradise flower arrangements, with his hands folded. Then he reached over and flicked off the tape player, cleared his throat, and showed us a most sincere wrinkled forehead. “Thank you for coming. We are here to remember our beloved friend, Marshall Tiegan.”
Meyer leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Those are two words that have probably never been used to describe him before.”
“After the service there will be a reception out on the patio.” The minister then launched into an elegant eulogy for the dear departed. I started thinking how nice an air-conditioned room would be. One woman yawned. Another blew her nose. I felt the urge to take a nap but didn't want to face the consequences of waking up with my memory reset.
After hearing that Tiegan should be sitting on the right hand of the pope, if Lutherans had a pope, the minister ran out of gas and introduced Barry Tiegan, the deceased’s nephew.
Barry dropped a sheet of paper on the lectern and adjusted his glasses. “Uncle Marshall was a fine man. I remember him visiting our house in Walnut Creek when I was a boy.”
“I bet that was the last time Barry saw him,” I whispered to Meyer.
After a few unimaginative comments, Barry sat down, the minister said the Lord’s Prayer, and we adjourned for the food.
I moseyed out to the patio to fetch a snack and mingle with the other mourners.
The minister was clasping people’s hands in both of his like he was trying to wring water from a stone. I sidled up to Barry Tiegan as he munched on a Safeway sugar cookie.
“I’m sorry about your uncle,” I said. “Sounded like the minister knew him well.”
Barry gave a derisive laugh. “Uncle Marshall hadn’t been to a church in forty years, much less this one. The retirement home director recommended this place, and it was available. I gave the minister some background and the rest was his own spiel.”
“Were you and your uncle close?”
Barry’s eyes focused on mine, as if I had awakened him from some deep thought. “He wasn’t close to any of the family. His wife died a number of years ago, and they never had any children. Uncle Marshall was pretty much of a loner. I talked to him on the phone once a year, but that was it.”
“It was nice of you to come all the way over here for his memorial service.”
Barry shrugged. “I’m between jobs right now in L.A., so I guess I was the logical family representative.”
“No other relatives in Hawaii?”
“No. Just my two sisters and me, all in California.”
“Did your uncle have any enemies that you were aware of?”
Barry squinted at me in the bright sunlight. “I wouldn’t say enemies. But he didn’t have any friends.”
“The loner bit,” I added helpfully.
“Yeah.”
“If you’re the closest family, he must be leaving something to you in his will.”
Barry wrinkled up his nose like he smelled a skunk. “It all gets split between my sisters and me. I spoke with his lawyer and the all isn’t much. Apparently, there was a stamp collection, but it was stolen when Uncle Marshall was mur . . . you know, when he died.”
“Speaking of your uncle’s lawyer,” I said, “does he happen to be here?”
Barry looked around. “No. He had a trial today and said he couldn’t make it.” Barry leaned toward me. “I didn’t get your name.”
“I’m Paul Jacobson.”
Barry’s head jerked like I had slapped him. “My uncle’s lawyer mentioned your name to me. He says you’re the one who stole the stamp collection.”
Now, I flinched. “Wait a minute. This lawyer is spreading lies. I did nothing of the kind.”
“The only thing of value and you took it.” Barry glared at me.
“I think you’d better find a more honest lawyer.”
A vein on the side of Barry’s forehead began to pulse. I didn’t know if he was going to have a heart attack or punch me.
A man off to my right cleared his throat, and both Barry and I jumped. The man wasn’t dressed for a hot Hawaiian day, sporting a dark suit. I noticed nicotine stains on his fingers, his short stocky stature— “You’re either the undertaker,” I said, “or Detective Saito.”
“Very good, Mr. Jacobson. You do remember me.”
>
“No, but I read about you this morning, so it was an educated guess.”
“It seems like you’re having a little altercation,” Saito said.
Barry leaned forward. “If you’re a detective, you should arrest this man. He stole my uncle’s stamp collection.”
“How interesting,” Saito said and leered at me.
“I’m being set up,” I protested. “Some scumbag lawyer is spreading lies and innuendos.”
“Or he’s got you pegged, Mr. Jacobson.”
“Lock this old man up,” Barry said. Then he stalked away.
“You’re not making many friends, Mr. Jacobson.”
I thought of what I’d heard. “Someone’s going to an awful lot of trouble to make me look bad. Doesn’t that seem strange to you, Detective?”
“I haven’t heard any claims yet that couldn’t be true. And I’ve been curious. Were you ever in Marshall Tiegan’s apartment?”
“I don’t remember being there, but I don’t remember not being there either. It’s all a blank.”
“How convenient.”
“Look, Detective. You have your job to do, and I want to help you find the murderer, but you and I are up against a big obstacle here. My memory is mush.”
“I’ll do what I can to help jog it.”
“I’m sure you will, Detective. Since we seem to be seeing each other regularly, why don’t you tell me something about yourself?”
He stared at me.
“You must have some hobbies or outside interests,” I said.
“I collect butterflies.”
“Butterflies?”
“Yes. I catch them and mount them in glass cases.”
“Kind of like catching criminals,” I said.
“Exactly.” He gave me his million yen smile.
“You’ll have to show me your collection sometime, Detective.”
“When I bring you in, I’ll be happy to show you some samples I keep in my office. Pins right through the wings.”
* * * * *
Having made a reservation at an Italian restaurant and lined up a cab, I rang Marion’s doorbell promptly at six P.M.
The cab ride, dinner, and return trip flew by with a comfortable intimacy. It was amazing that two old goats could get along so well.
“Want to stop by my apartment?” Marion asked as we entered the Kina Nani lobby.
