by Mike Befeler
First Printing: August 2011
Other Books by Mike Befeler
Paul Jacobson Geezer-lit Mystery Series
CARE HOMES ARE MURDER
NURSING HOMES ARE MURDER
Paranormal Mysteries
THE V V AGENCY
Paranormal Geezer-lit Mysteries
THE BACK WING
Dedication
To Kaden and Adam.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks for the assistance from Wendy and Laura Befeler and Virginia Brost and editorial support from Deb Brod, Tracey Matthews, and Roz Greenberg.
Chapter 1
I awoke with a start. The head of a woman I didn’t recognize rested on the pillow next to me.
Who was she, and why was she here? For that matter, why was I here, wherever here was?
Shafts of light filtered through the opening between two matching curtain halves, white cloth decorated with light-pink flowers and turquoise leaves. These curtains and the room didn’t look the least bit familiar to me. And I’d never been one to have flowered decorations.
I pinched my cheek. Yes, I definitely was awake, but I was in a strange bed.
I had no clue how I had ended up in this bedroom.
As I turned over, the woman continued to breathe in a gentle rhythm.
I stared at her, trying to figure out what was going on. Silver hair cascaded over the pillow. An attractive dame.
Pressing my palms against my temples to try to squeeze out some memory had no effect.
Think.
I took a deep breath to calm my rapid heartbeat. It wasn’t good for geezers like me to get overanxious.
Reviewing what I remembered, my life had been ordinary, just a regular guy growing up in San Mateo, attending UCLA, enlisting in the Navy during World War II, running an auto parts supply store in Los Angeles and living with a wife and one kid, Denny. I regarded the female head next to me. This wasn’t my wife Rhonda.
Then it came back to me. Rhonda had died of cancer after we retired to Hawaii. She was buried in the Nu’uanu Cemetery on Oahu.
But after that—one big blank.
So where was I, and who was this young chick, probably in her late seventies, next to me in bed?
I’d never been one to sleep around. One wife was all I could handle.
I regarded her again. She was attractive with her small nose, high cheekbones, silver hair halfway down her forehead, and blanket tucked under her chin. What did the rest of her look like?
I could peek, but didn’t know if that was kosher in this situation.
Damn. What had I got myself into?
I continued to listen to her soft breathing. Her lips moved like she was mouthing words in a dream. But she didn’t snore. Nothing worse than to be stuck with someone who snores. One time in the Navy I had a bunk mate above me who snored. That was hell.
I still had no clue who she was or where I was.
I thought of shaking my companion awake, but she looked too peaceful lying there. I turned back the blanket on my side of the bed, swung my legs into space and plopped down onto a hardwood floor. I wriggled my toes. Didn’t seem at all cold.
Time to reconnoiter.
I found a pair of brown Bermuda shorts and slipped them on. At least they fit me. Then I discovered a T-shirt with a picture of an orange hibiscus on the front. Had I become an octogenarian flower child?
Maybe aliens had abducted me, and I was in one of those Twilight Zone zoos. Or maybe I was right here, wherever the hell here was.
I parted the curtains to spy a small yard and the back of a white two-story house. Two green trees guarded a garden of red, orange and white blossoms. At least this place wasn’t Alaska in winter.
Exploring my domain, I found a living room with matching green-flower-patterned couch and easy chair, a bathroom and a kitchen with the basic appliances. I knew what to do with the bathroom, anyway.
After that, with a sense of relief, I investigated further and found two beat-up black suitcases, resting against the wall in the bedroom. I inspected the name tags. Sure enough had my name, Paul Jacobson, with an address in Kaneohe, Hawaii. Additional detective work uncovered an airline itinerary with the remains of a boarding pass for Paul Jacobson on a flight from Denver to Los Angeles.
So my recent travels must have taken me from Hawaii to Denver to Los Angeles. Why would I have been in Denver? Well, my son Denny, his wife Allison and my granddaughter Jennifer lived in Boulder, Colorado. Maybe I had been visiting them. The last I recollected, Jennifer was about six years old. A little spitfire.
But why did I end up here? I could remember squat about any of it. So here I was, in some little flat I didn’t recognize. I peeked out the curtains again at the nice sunny morning. Looking to the side, I could see into the neighbor’s yard. Everything green as could be. I must be somewhere around LA, but I couldn’t tell for sure.
My lady companion continued to silently saw z’s. I thought again of waking her up, but who was I to disturb her? I watched the gentle rise and fall of the blanket as she breathed. We must know each other if we’d spent the night together. I pushed the palms of my hands against my forehead.
Think.
How did I get here? What was going on?
I admired her face again. I felt a sensation in my chest. Was that lust? Anticipation? Indigestion?
What the hell? I decided to take a little stroll. Finding tennis shoes and white socks, I completed my walking attire. Outside, I descended a freshly painted set of green wooden stairs to the ground floor. Below where I had been sleeping, I found a two-car garage. Inside, a white Toyota Camry and a blue Subaru nestled side-by-side. Both had California plates. I wondered if either was unlocked and, if so, maybe I could find some identification. I tested the door handle of the Camry. Locked. Then the Subaru. Success. It opened.
I rummaged through the glove compartment, discarding an air pressure gauge, two pencils and an open pack of breath mints, and found a registration slip. Had the name of George Kanter. No idea who he was. Address in Venice, California. So, unless the car had been stolen, my old body had ended up in Venice.
For all the years I had lived in the Los Angeles area as an adult, I hadn’t spent any time in Venice. Never had the inclination or need to go there. I’d covered both sides of Venice, traveling to Santa Monica and Redondo Beach, but had missed Venice. Particularly after the war, it had a bad reputation and was said to be run-down.
I surveyed the inside of the garage. Cans of paint lined a shelf, a power lawn mower rested near the front wall, and tools hung neatly on a pegboard along one side. Well-maintained place, just like I always kept my garage when I had one.
I heard a scraping noise behind me and spun around, my heart suddenly pounding harder than was safe for an old fart. A gray tabby cat jumped from a shelf down to the concrete floor of the garage and sauntered over to rub against my leg.
“You gave me quite a fright,” I said, reaching over to give her a scritch under the chin. A tag dangled there from a blue collar. I squinted in the dim light and made out the identification “Cleo” with the additional names of George and Andrea Kanter and an address in Venice Beach, California. Damn. There was that name Kanter again. Was I being held hostage by a Mafiosa family named Kanter or something?
“How did you get in here?” I asked Cleo as I scratched her behind an ear.
She turned her head to the side in appreciation, and emitted a gentle humming purr that I could also feel as a vibration from her throat. Then I noticed a cat door at the bottom of the people door.
“So this is your place to come when you’re outside and you need to hide.” I petted her and she arched her back. “That’s what we all can use—a safe haven. I wonder why I’m here.”
Cleo had no good answers for me, so I exited the garage with her following me.
I looked over a three-foot-high hedge into the next yard to see a freshly cut lawn and bright flower garden. This neighborhood looked like a quaint resid
ential area. Small houses, well kept up.
I opened a white wooden gate which led into an alley as Cleo scurried out with me. I picked a direction and meandered down the alley, admiring the rows of covered garbage cans that stood sentinel beside each backyard gate. Cleo tagged along for half a block then got spooked and dashed back to the safety of her yard.
I ambled onward until the alley intersected a larger street. I turned around to lock into my defective brain the path I’d followed.
I used to have a superb memory, but now I couldn’t even remember where I was. Being old was the pits. But I could picture the room where I had woken up perfectly. And the attractive woman who had been in bed with me. My heart jumped. At some level she was very important to me. Was it love? What a strange sensation. Some connection there, but I couldn’t put the pieces together.
Being careful to pay attention to my route, I turned a corner and, lo and behold, I spotted a canal. Damnation. Venice really did have canals.
The morning sun shone on a white bridge up ahead, spanning the waterway. I heard the chirping of birds and smelled the aroma of lilacs drifting in the gentle breeze from one of the yards near the canal. Across the waterway stood an eclectic collection of houses. One old wooden house was brightly painted in pastel colors and balloons hung from a tree, probably from a celebration the day before. Next to it stood a modern, off-white two-story with a metal railing surrounding a deck on the second level. A neatly trimmed hedge bordered both sides of the canal and across from me floated a small wooden dock with a white rowboat and red kayak moored.
It felt good to be alive. At my age waking up was a victory in its own right. I stretched my arms. Life was good. I just didn’t know what the hell I was doing here.
A seagull swooped by, its wings collapsing as it splashed-landed in the canal. No other animals of the human variety were out enjoying the beautiful day. I leaned over to look more carefully at the canal. The seagull floated with folded wings as concentric rings expanded across the water from the force of its landing. Then I leaned farther over the hedge and looked straight down. From under the water a vacant face stared up at me.
Chapter 2
My heart raced and my mouth went dry. I had to brace myself to keep from falling into the canal and landing on the body in the water. I caught my breath and looked more carefully. It was a man, probably in his forties, in a blue sports shirt, long pants and shoes. Ripples from the seagull gently washed across his face.
I spun around, scanning in all directions for anyone else in the vicinity. Then up the pathway, I spotted a man who had just entered the walkway with a dog on a leash beside him.
“Hey, there.” I waved to him. “Do you have a cell phone?”
He raised his head. “Yes, I do.”
“I hate to bother your morning stroll, but could you call nine-one-one? There’s a body in the canal.”
The man, who had approached to within twenty feet of where I stood, visibly paled. He stumbled, caught himself, then yanked his dog and approached me. He extracted a little gadget from his pocket, punched some buttons and handed it to me. “Here. You talk to them.”
“How does this contraption work?” I asked.
“Just hold it to your ear and talk.”
My fingers shook as I pushed it against the side of my face. I gave my name and explained that I’d seen a body in the canal.
The dispatcher asked me where I was.
“Hell, I don’t know.”
I handed the phone back to my companion. “Where are we?”
He grabbed the cell phone and in a high, shrill voice identified himself and our location. He agreed to stay on the line until someone arrived.
I regarded him more carefully. He wore running shorts, tennis shoes, a T-shirt that read “Los Angeles Marathon.” He had short curly brown hair and stood my height, approaching six feet tall. Probably in his fifties. His dog, a black cocker spaniel with white trim, waited patiently while all this was going on.
“You from around here?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. I woke up in an apartment over a garage a few blocks away but I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
He looked at me askance, obviously wanting to ask more questions, but just then both of our heads turned at the sound of a siren. A white van with a red light flashing from the roof pulled to a stop and parked on a bridge at one end of the canal. In a few moments two men with a stretcher raced down the path toward us.
When they reached us, I said, “You can slow down. He’s dead.”
I pointed to the body. One of the men climbed over the hedge, dropped down, and splashed into the water which was approximately three feet deep.
He lifted the body up, and his companion reached over to help drag it up to the sidewalk.
I watched, seeing no visible sign of cause of death. One of the paramedics placed a blanket from the stretcher over the body and reached for a cell phone.
By this time a small crowd of early-morning types had gathered—several coffee-cup-toting neighbors and another dog walker. They all seemed to know each other and began yakking up a storm, undeterred by a dead body.
Then another man strode along the path toward us. He wasn’t your casual early-morning stroller, as he wore a dark suit and solid blue tie. Definitely seemed out of place in this setting. He stood all of five-foot six, a skinny squirt probably in his forties with dark hair, a thick mustache that matched dense eyebrows, and rimless eyeglasses. His brown, forceful eyes scanned our little conclave.
“I’m Detective Quintana,” he announced. “A call to nine-one-one was placed from a cell phone belonging to Richard Nelson. Is Mr. Nelson here?”
My dog-walking buddy waved his hand and stepped forward.
Quintana and Nelson spoke in undertones for a few moments, and then Nelson pointed toward me.
I smiled and waved back.
Quintana’s mustache twitched. He reached up and tweaked it as he gave me a piercing stare.
Moments later he marched over to me and stood with his nose inches from my chin. “You placed the call on Mr. Nelson’s phone. May I please see some identification?”
I reached for my back pocket. Bullpucky. “I guess I don’t have my wallet with me, but my name is Paul Jacobson.”
Quintana tapped his right foot. “Mr. Nelson said you acted evasive when he asked why you were here.”
“That’s because I woke up nearby not knowing how I got here.”
He eyed my eclectic outfit. “Are you living on the streets?”
I laughed. “Hardly. I just can’t remember anything from yesterday.”
“A little too much wine?”
“Nope. I hardly touch the stuff. My memory isn’t too hot, though.”
“Can you remember what happened earlier, Mr. Jacobson?”
“Yes. That’s all very clear in my mind.”
“Then please recount your activities this morning.”
I summarized waking up, taking a stroll, seeing the canal, finding a body and flagging down Nelson.
“Pretty good memory regarding today’s events,” Quintana said.
“I used to have a photographic memory.” I tapped my temple. “In fact I could recite our conversation so far word for word. But before this morning the last thing I recall is living in Hawaii, then there’s a big void. Apparently, I came here by way of Denver.”
“How do you know that?”
“I found an airline ticket folder with my name on it in the place I woke up.”
“You wait right here, Mr. Jacobson. We need to talk some more, but I need to speak to the other people who have gathered.”
He proceeded to work the crowd, writing notes on a pad.
I looked upward. Bright blue sky, not a cloud anywhere. Too bad such a nice day had to be spoiled with a floater.
Another man arrived, snapped on latex gloves and began poking at the body. It gave me the same queasy feeling as when a proctologist prepared to give me an examination. Next appeared a
woman with a camera to shoot pictures of the dead man and the canal. I couldn’t imagine a job doing that—having to snap photos of all the suspicious deaths that must take place in the Los Angeles area.
Finally Quintana returned to me. “Now, Mr. Jacobson, please take me to the place where you woke up.”
“I’ll be happy to give you a guided tour of the two streets I know in this strange city.”
He gave me a dismissive wave of the hand, so I turned and retraced my morning route. I bestowed on myself a mental pat on the back for paying close attention earlier.
Quintana trailed closely on my heels. When we arrived at the apartment above the garage, I pointed. “Up there.”
“Let’s go take a look,” Quintana said.
“Um . . . there may be a woman sleeping in the bedroom.”
“Your wife?”
I scratched my head. “I don’t know who she is.”
Quintana squinted at me. “We’ll go up the stairs, and you can check first.”
He followed me up the wooden steps.
I knocked on the door and then entered.
A woman in a robe emerged from the bedroom. “Paul, there you are. When I woke up you were gone. I was worried about you.”
“I hate to ask this, but who are you?”
She laughed. “You obviously didn’t read the note on the bed stand.”
“No, and we have a visitor. Detective Quintana is outside and needs to check on what I’m doing here. Maybe you can enlighten both of us.”
She stared at me, then pursed her lips and shook her head. “Are you getting in trouble with the law again?”
“Again? All I know is I found a dead body in a canal on a walk this morning, and now Detective Quintana is questioning me.”
She put her hand to her mouth. “That’s terrible. Do you know who it was?”
“No. But I don’t know who you are, either.”
