by Mike Befeler
“True. That’s why I like a group like today that has kids and adults as well as those who aren’t spring chickens. One other thing for you to consider, Austin. You can learn things from old fogies like your grandmother and me. I wouldn’t write off the old coots. You might pick up a pointer or two.”
“Like how to scrub walls.”
I chuckled. “Like how to avoid cleaning walls if you don’t smash juicy vegetables onto them in the first place.”
He kept scouring until he had the mess cleaned up.
“Now go throw away all the towels and we can return to the party.”
Austin completed his task, and we strolled back to the gathering. I put my arm on his shoulder and whispered in his ear. “You might as well get used to having me around since I’ll be living above your garage.”
Marion saw us and asked, “Where have you two been?”
I winked at Austin. “We’ve been having a man-to-man talk.”
Austin blinked but didn’t scowl and then headed over to the grazing table. I watched him for a moment and noticed that he was avoiding the tomatoes.
“Austin seems very subdued,” Marion said.
“He’d rather be somewhere else. Pretty normal reaction for a kid his age. Me, I’m perfectly content to be here with my new bride.” I planted a smacker on Marion’s lips.
* * * * *
Later that afternoon we returned to our honeymoon cottage, and I dispensed with the tie.
“We need to go over to George and Andrea’s house now,” Marion informed me.
“We being kicked out of the apartment?”
Marion swatted me. “No, silly. We’re going to open presents.”
“Then I guess my presence is required.”
She made a motion to swat me again, but I ducked.
As we went out the door, the gray tabby cat I’d seen that morning appeared and rubbed against my leg. I reached down and chucked her under the chin.
“That’s amazing, Paul. Cleo isn’t friendly with anyone except family members. She must have accepted you as part of the family already.”
“I think she’s sizing me up to use my leg as a scratching post.”
Marion laughed. “It isn’t that at all. She likes you, just as I do.” She gave me a hug.
“I appreciate that. I need all the friends I can get.”
We assembled in George and Andrea’s living room to open gifts. Jennifer and Austin sat on the floor while the rest of us resorted to chairs with soft cushions and firm backrests. I watched Jennifer. She had the eager expression of Christmas morning. Austin had given up his sullen look and appeared to be a real kid again.
“Where’d all the presents come from?” I asked.
“I carted a trunk load back from the church,” George said.
“And we have a collection we received in the mail,” Andrea added.
“Let’s get started,” Jennifer said, clapping her hands.
Marion began opening presents while Andrea wrote down on a notepad what had come from whom.
We received a number of silver trays and pitchers, some kitchenware, a matching pair of fuzzy robes and then Marion announced, “Paul, here’s a package sent by our friend Meyer Ohana from Kaneohe, Hawaii.”
“Who’s he?” I asked.
“Grandpa, Meyer was your best friend when you lived in the retirement home in Hawaii. He’s a retired judge and lawyer.”
“But I hate lawyers,” I said.
“He’s different,” Jennifer said. “You like him.”
Marion opened the box and displayed a set of monkeypod bowls. “There’s also an envelope in here addressed to you, Paul.” She handed it to me.
I opened it to find a card that read, “Congratulations, jerk. It’s about time you made an honest woman of Marion.” It was signed “Henry Palmer.”
“What the hell is this?” I said, handing the card to Marion.
She laughed. “This is from Henry, your other tablemate at the Kina Nani retirement home. Henry always insulted everyone. You must really rate to receive a card from him.”
“If you say so.”
We finished opening the rest of the packages, and I surveyed the carnage. “Not a bad haul for two old newlyweds.”
“Where are we going to put all these things?” Marion said.
“I’ll help you carry them to your place,” Jennifer said.
After we lugged the paraphernalia up to our apartment, Jennifer stayed to chat with Marion and me.
“Grandpa, are you in trouble with the police over the body you found in the canal?”
“Detective Quintana has been nosing around asking questions.”
“You need to do some investigation on your own. I helped you when you were accused of crimes in Boulder.”
“I’ll take all the help I can get. So far Quintana’s dropped hints but hasn’t said anything about pressing charges.”
“But when he finds out that you and Vansworthy argued, he’ll be back,” Marion said. “That’s why you need an attorney.”
“I acted as your lawyer in Boulder,” Jennifer said.
“Then I’ll rely on you again, if I need to,” I said.
“Good,” Jennifer said. “I’ll make sure you stay out of jail.”
* * * * *
That night after all the festivities, I sat down to document the day’s activities in my journal. I felt a mix of excitement and concern. Imagine me at my age having a brand-new bride who seemed delighted to be stuck with me. My whole body tingled at the thought of what would happen later. But then my chest constricted at the thought of the two deaths I had encountered during the day. I had a whole new life here as a recycled married man, but couldn’t avoid the cloud hanging over my head from my proximity to a murder and an accident. I’d have to learn more about this Vansworthy character—that was for sure. I could look into that starting tomorrow. But in the meantime . . . I closed my journal.
Marion came over and took my hand.
“What happens now?” I asked nonchalantly.
She swatted me on the arm. “Don’t give me that innocent act. It’s time for us to consummate our marriage.”
“That sounds like fun. I hope I can live up to your expectations.”
“I’ll see to it that you do.”
She snuggled up next to me and a little-used part of my anatomy came alive. “I’ll be damned. Something’s happening.”
We kissed, and soon clothes began flying around like kites on a spring day.
Then we were in bed, and my hands began exploring interesting parts of Marion.
One thing led to another, and soon we were hooked up and making the sheets hum. I upheld the family honor without suffering a heart attack, and afterwards I lay there feeling like the luckiest guy in the world.
“Not bad for someone your age,” Marion said.
“Not bad? I’m grateful that everything went in the right place and worked.”
* * * * *
The next morning I woke up and saw Marion sleeping next to me. I remembered who she was and replayed in my mind the words used by the minister to hitch us the day before. I shook her awake.
“Something amazing happened. I can remember everything from yesterday.”
She yawned. “Do you remember me telling you that most days you can’t recall anything from the day before?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you’ve now experienced the exception.”
I scratched my head. “Was it something I ate?”
“No, but there is one specific thing that activates your memory overnight.”
“Must be getting married.”
“Not directly, but in this case it contributed.”
“You don’t mean . . .”
“Now you’re on the right track.”
“Our little excursion between the sheets last night?”
“Exactly.”
“Damn. I’d suggest a repeat performance, but I don’t want to press my luck.”
“
You can press it whenever you want.”
“My intentions might be better than my ability to execute.”
“We’ll have to see how it works out,” Marion said. “The one caution. You only seem to remember things for one day and then it wears off. So enjoy your memories of yesterday, today.”
“I’ll do that. I recall a wonderful ceremony, a beautiful bride and an exciting end to the day.” I didn’t bring up that I also remembered a dead body in the canal and a friend of Marion’s falling over and dying.
Marion said, “I hope I didn’t keep you awake during the night.”
“No. I slept right through after you knocked me out.”
“I tossed and turned and woke up several times. I don’t seem to be able to sleep through the night anymore.”
“Well, you didn’t bother me. I guess I’m lucky. Once I zonked out, I slept for the whole night.”
“I used to be that way, but in the last several years I’ve turned into a light sleeper,” Marion said with a frown.
“Before I retired, I went through a period like that. Usually I was worrying about problems at work. Once I became a retired gentleman, I learned how to sleep through the night again.”
Marion smiled. “But that won’t work for me. I’m not a retired gentleman.”
“I’ll say. You’re one hot retired gentlewoman. Have you tried sleeping pills?”
“Yes, but they don’t do any good for me.”
“I feel the same way. In fact you can stop forcing me to stuff pills down my throat like you did yesterday.” Then I remembered something from the morning before. “Yesterday when I got up and wandered around, you seemed to be sleeping pretty well.”
Marion smiled. “For some reason, I seem to sleep fine when it gets light.”
With a stomach full of pancakes and bacon cooked by my lovely wife, I settled in for my first morning as a second-time husband, opening the Los Angeles Times to an article about scams being perpetrated on geriatrics like me. Couldn’t be too careful when you reached my height in geezer-land.
My perusing examples of roofing, insurance and mail fraud was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Who’d be interfering with a pair of newlyweds after their first night of marital bliss?” I asked.
“I’m washing the dishes,” Marion said. “You can do the honors.”
I lifted my aging but still-active body off the couch and moseyed to the door. Upon opening it, I spied my good buddy Detective Quintana who I easily recognized because of my sex-induced super memory.
“Detective, please come in to our humble abode.”
His mustache twitched at me. “We need to talk.”
I motioned toward the couch. “Can I offer you a beverage: coffee, tea, hemlock?”
He didn’t smile. “Nothing.” He sat down with his mustache continuing to twitch. “I want to review some information about the two deaths you reported yesterday.”
“Yes?”
“First, the body of Frederick Vansworthy, found in the canal.”
“Go on.”
“There’s one thing that puzzles me, Mr. Jacobson. I have a report that you had a heated argument with Mr. Vansworthy the night before he turned up murdered. Care to share your recollection about the dispute?”
“Unfortunately, I don’t remember the events of that evening.”
“Pretty selective memory.”
“I don’t seem to remember things overnight.”
He stared at me. “Then how did you recognize me this morning?”
Chapter 5
I didn’t want to go off into the effect of sex on my leaky brain cells so I merely said, “I guess it’s because you’re such a memorable character, Detective.”
He peered at me like he was trying to suck any good brain cells out through my eye sockets. “I’ve interviewed two people who overheard you and Mr. Vansworthy arguing about the treatment of the aging population.”
“That’s entirely possible, since I’m part of that aging population.”
He flipped open a small notepad. “And I quote, ‘If you think older citizens should receive declining Social Security payments after reaching age eighty, maybe you could help the situation by dying early.’ ”
My heart started beating like I was going to cash in the old chips. Damn. I couldn’t remember saying that, but if the guy had pissed me off, it was entirely possible that I would have made a dumb comment like that.
Marion came over. “Yes, Paul said something along those lines, but only because Frederick Vansworthy was acting like a jerk.”
I smiled at Marion. “See, Detective. My bride has a good memory and gave you a plausible explanation for what happened.”
Quintana drummed his fingers on his notepad. “Still, it’s very interesting that the next day Vansworthy turns up dead and is discovered by, of all people, you, Mr. Jacobson.”
I gulped. “Yeah. That was strange.”
“And another thing. The matter of the death of Harold Koenig. You’re alone with him and he’s found dead with a head wound. Did you hit him, Mr. Jacobson?”
Marion gasped.
“Why would you ask that?” I said.
He gave me his fierce stare again. “Your fingerprints were found on a dented candleholder that had the victim’s blood on it.”
I thought back to the event, thankful for the sexual assist the night before. “No, he fell over and hit his head on his own. The candleholder toppled over and landed on him. I can’t speak to how it received a dent.” Then a thought occurred to me. “But it would have been logical to have my fingerprints because I removed it from on top of him. As for blood, when I set it down it could have been brushed against blood from his head wound.”
“Possible. But, once again, Mr. Jacobson, you had a motive. Mr. Koenig was reported to be interested in your wife.”
Marion cleared her throat. “But I wasn’t interested in Harold, Detective. And Paul married me so Harold was out of the picture.”
“Maybe Mr. Jacobson wanted him permanently out of the picture.”
“Give me a break, Detective. Harold Koenig’s death was an accident. He was surprised to see me, tripped and hit his head. No deep dark plot behind it.”
Quintana held up two fingers. “Within one day, two deaths. One a confirmed murder of Mr. Vansworthy and the other the death of Harold Koenig under suspicious circumstances. Both reported by you, Mr. Jacobson. Both with motives linking you.”
I flinched. “How was Vansworthy killed?”
“I thought you might be able to shed some light on that, Mr. Jacobson.”
“But I didn’t kill anyone.”
“You’re this close to moving from a person of interest to a full suspect.” Quintana held his thumb and index finger half an inch apart. “Judges and juries in Los Angeles are more lenient when the murderer confesses and acts contrite than when he pretends to be innocent.”
“But I am innocent.”
“We’ll see, Mr. Jacobson. We’ll see. Any final words for me?”
“Yes. Koenig’s death was an accident. And go find who really killed Vansworthy.”
Quintana’s mustache twitched and he stood up. “Think this over, Mr. Jacobson.” Then he turned and let himself out.
I looked at Marion. “Quintana’s convinced I’m the Hillside Strangler.”
“We’ll find a way to clear your good name.” She gave me a pat on the arm. “But I think you need a good lawyer.”
“I don’t want any slimy lawyer. I can take care of this myself.”
She regarded me thoughtfully. “You should reconsider that position, but let’s see what happens. Now, we need to dress for church.”
“Church?”
“Yes. There’s a ten-o’clock service at Saint Andrew’s. I’ve been attending with my family.”
“Being in church twice in two days. Will they invite me back after what happened with Harold Koenig there yesterday?”
Marion smiled. “Of course. We’ll have a calm
service today with nothing like that event.”
* * * * *
We crammed into George’s white Camry with Austin sitting between Marion and me in the backseat. It was a good thing that Marion’s granddaughter Rachel was back in her dorm room for the summer session at UCLA or we never would have all fit.
“I’ve got my eye on you,” I whispered into Austin’s ear.
He flinched.
Then Marion put her arm around him. “Don’t worry. Paul’s bark is worse than his bite.”
I leaned toward Austin and said under my breath, “Woof.”
He jumped.
Austin just needed a little reminding.
We parked on a side street off Venice Boulevard, and I admired the church of my previous day’s activities. I’d been so preoccupied with the upcoming ceremony that I hadn’t really paid attention to what the outside of the building looked like. What a perfect setting. A two-story white structure with red tile roof, bell tower—a modern Spanish mission, adorned with palm trees and emerald-green grass.
A man in a gray suit and a red carnation in the buttonhole greeted us at the door and handed us programs. We slid into a stained hardwood pew midway back. Now I had time to inspect the place. Yesterday had been the panic from the Harold Koenig death followed by the further terror of getting hitched. I took a deep breath and scanned the side of the church where small square stained-glass windows shone red, green, blue and white from the morning sun. I craned my neck upward to see larger, arched stained glass windows. Straight above, dark wood beams formed supports for the roof. Ahead, a white cloth covered the altar and large candleholders stood on each side. I’d had enough of candleholders. Music boomed out, and I turned around and noticed a large pipe organ in the balcony.
Not a bad place to have tied the knot.
I survived the sitting and standing for singing and responsive readings, a sermon (on helping your neighbor) that didn’t put me to sleep, and the donation of five dollars from my Social Security earnings. Near the end of the service the minister announced that they were looking for volunteers to help in the office.
Marion squeezed my arm and whispered in my ear. “I’ve been helping two days a week. You should join me.”
“I could handle that. Where do I sign up?”
After the service, Marion led me to the office. “I’m here as your latest recruit,” I said.
