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

  “I’m Marisa Young,” a perky woman in her fifties said, reaching out to shake my hand. “We’re having an indoctrination meeting in fifteen minutes.”

  “I don’t know about being indoctrinated,” I said, “but I’m willing to be trained.”

  She smiled at me. “That’s just church talk, you know.”

  Out in the courtyard, refreshments were being served. I grabbed a cookie and a cup of punch and surveyed the crowd. Groups of middle-aged matrons and men in suits munched away while a smattering of kids bobbed and weaved through the crowd. Off to the side I spotted another group—poorly dressed, men with shaggy beards, women in torn long dresses.

  I ambled up to Marion. “What’s with the members who look like street people?” I asked.

  “Oh, those are street people. This church has an active program to support and help the homeless.”

  I looked again at the motley crew. They seemed to be enjoying the refreshments, but stayed off by themselves. There, but for the grace of money saved and Social Security, went me.

  I noticed that the clean-cut church members weren’t mingling with the scruffy ones. “They may be invited to church,” I said to Marion, “but they aren’t welcomed with open arms.”

  “What do you mean?” she said.

  “Just look. They have their own little enclave over there, but it’s obvious no one else is talking with them.”

  “You’re right. I’ve never made the connection.”

  “Well, I’m going to do something about that.”

  I ambled over and spotted one bearded man who seemed to be leading a lively conversation. I tapped him on the shoulder. “I hope I’m not infringing, but I wanted to come over and introduce myself. My name is Paul Jacobson.” I held out my hand.

  A smile appeared on the man’s weathered lips. “I’ll be damned. You must be new here. I’m Harley Marcraft.” He gave my hand a vigorous shake.

  “You’re right, Harley. I moved here recently and just remarried. That’s my wife over there.” I pointed to Marion who was now talking with the man she had spoken to after our wedding yesterday.

  Harley chuckled. “Aren’t you a little long in the tooth to be a newlywed?”

  “Nah. I’m just getting started. An old fart like me is always ready for new challenges. So how long have you been coming to this church?”

  “Over the last year. Good place to find something to eat on Sunday mornings.”

  “So you pick up brunch here. Where do you usually hang out?”

  “Mainly down by the beach. Great place to sleep, out under the stars.”

  “And with the warm Southern Californian weather that should work out most of the time. What do you do when a rainstorm moves in?”

  “That’s another good thing with this church. When the weather turns to crap, they open a room for us to sleep in.”

  “Sounds like you have all your bases covered.”

  “You better watch your wife so she doesn’t take up with Clint Brock,” Harley said, pointing to the man speaking with Marion.

  I remembered my discussion with him the day before. “He’s an art dealer.”

  Another hirsute guy sidled up to us and shouted at me. “Art dealer! Are you tied in with those scumbags?”

  “Hold your water,” I said. “I’ve met him, but that’s it.”

  The guy became more agitated and grabbed my shirt collar. “You’re one of them! I can tell!”

  “Get your hands off me!” I ordered, raising my voice and whacking his hand away from my shirt.

  “Asshole!” he yelled back.

  Now I was really heated. “Go crawl off into a closet somewhere and disappear!”

  The guy’s eyes grew wide, he sputtered, turned on his heels and marched away.

  “What’s with him?” I said to Harley. “I’m only trying to be friendly, and he comes up and acts like a jerk.”

  “Don’t mind him. He’s been kind of testy lately. He may not appreciate it, but I’m glad you stopped over to say hello.”

  “If we’re coming to the same church, I figured we should meet. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll rejoin my bride.”

  Marion was still speaking to Clint Brock. I scrutinized his face and matched it to the one I had seen the day before. Amazing how my memory could imitate a normal person’s with a little injection of marital nighttime escapades.

  Marion frowned as I joined her. “Paul, what was all that shouting about?”

  “Strange. I went over to speak with some of the street people. Met a nice guy named Harley Marcraft, but this other wild man came up and yelled at me. I knew I should hold my temper, but he riled me up so I shouted back.”

  “No harm done.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. I’ll probably never see him again, not that I’d recognize him anyway.”

  “Your short-term memory problem?” Brock asked.

  “That’s right. Tomorrow, this fine day will all be blotto.”

  Someone tapped Brock on the shoulder, and he turned to join another conversation.

  “That homeless guy really acted nuts. I made a comment concerning your buddy Clint Brock, and he went ballistic. Seems he’s not fond of art dealers.”

  “Probably had a bad experience on the street.”

  “Must have. Other than that encounter, I’m beginning to like your family’s church.”

  “I certainly have fond memories of being here yesterday,” Marion said.

  “I’m still amazed that you consented to go through a ceremony with an old poop like me.”

  “I only married you so you’d add some excitement to my life.”

  “Well, I’ll try to live up to that whenever possible.”

  Marion looked at her watch. “Now, you’re due for the office indoctrination. Marisa runs a tight ship so you better not keep her waiting.”

  “After all the years managing my own store, I’m now assigned to be an assistant clerk in a pathetic, two-bit nonprofit outfit.”

  “I thought you liked the church.”

  “I do. I just feel like bitching.”

  “Go.” Marion pointed toward the building.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I saluted and headed into the church.

  I returned to the office and survived the indoctrination, learning where staplers, stationary and paper clips were stashed and avoided any paper cuts or other vagaries of the low-budget, nonprofit office world. I signed up to help assemble a mailing on Monday. Not that I would remember what to do then, but it obviously made Marisa happy to see me nod my head at her instructions. She proposed several other ways I could assist, but I adamantly avoided committing to anything that might entail touching a computer.

  Afterward I sat by myself contemplating my navel. I felt the uncertainty of this new life of mine. Here I was in a place I didn’t know, preparing to pitch in at a church that was new to me and living with a brand new wife. That last part made me feel good all over. Marion was quite a woman. I’d have to look to her to steer me as I forgot things from day to day. I’d pitch in to do my best whether assisting in the church office or helping around our apartment.

  When I returned to Marion I said, “Now your job is to remind me to go to the church office tomorrow at ten.”

  “Agreed. Andrea can give you a ride if you like.”

  “It’s not too far. I can walk over if you remind me where it is.”

  Back at our honeymoon shack, I received a call from Jennifer.

  “Grandpa, we’re picking you up in thirty minutes.”

  “You kidnapping me?”

  “No. We’re taking you to the La Brea Tar Pits.”

  “You planning to tar and feather me?”

  “Oh, Grandpa. We’re going to see the old bones.”

  “Fine. I’ll fit right in.”

  Marion decided to stay to organize our wealth of gifts, so I had a kitchen pass to head off with my family on my first full day of marriage.

  In the backseat of Denny’s rental car, Jennifer leaned over. “Tell
me more about the body you found in the canal.”

  “All I know is that he was an art dealer named Frederick Vansworthy. We apparently met at a party Friday night and I argued with him.”

  Jennifer pursed her lips. “And you’re in trouble because of that.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I overheard that argument,” Denny said from the driver’s seat. “The guy was acting like an idiot.”

  “That’s what Marion told the detective as well,” I said. “He still wants to haul me in.”

  “Sounds like you need a lawyer, Dad.”

  “No way. Jennifer can help me.”

  She smiled. “Just like I helped you in Boulder. We’re a great investigating team, Grandpa. Maybe the murder has something to do with stolen art or forged paintings, the victim being an art dealer.”

  “I have no clue,” I said.

  “You’d better find out more about the victim, Grandpa. That way you can help track down the real killer.”

  “I wish it was that easy.”

  “As I told you, my wedding present is to help you clear your name, pro bono.”

  “Uh-oh. You sound like a lawyer.”

  “No. Jennifer Jacobson, private investigator.” She thumped her chest. “When I return to Colorado, I’ll do research for you on the Internet. We’ll find out more concerning one Frederick Vansworthy.”

  With that decided we arrived at our destination without being run over by any smog-impaired, freeway-incensed, gun-toting Los Angelenos.

  First we visited the Page Museum and mingled with the saber-toothed cats, short-faced bears, mastodons, mammoths and Shasta ground sloths.

  “Some of these animals are even older than I am,” I told my family.

  Jennifer glared at me. “Grandpa, you don’t even compare.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been referred to as an old fossil from time to time.”

  As we exited the building, I saw a man handing out flyers. Jennifer skipped over to obtain one and then brought it over for us to read. In bold print it said, “Save Our Surfside. Please help us protect the beach environment of Southern California.”

  I moseyed over to the brochure man who stood there in jeans and a white T-shirt. “How come you’re trying to save the ocean shores here at the tar pits?”

  He smiled. “We’re canvassing all the major tourist attractions.”

  “What are you going to save the beaches from?”

  “Exploitation and overdevelopment. We want the shoreline to be returned to a natural state without all the commercialization and overuse.”

  “Seems like it’s a little late to put that genie back in the bottle.”

  “It’s never too late. At one time we had no national parks or forests. “

  “What do you propose—dynamite all the buildings along the beach?”

  “No. Nothing that extreme. We want to amend the California Coastal Act of Nineteen Seventy-six to place a moratorium on adding multiple-story buildings within two hundred yards of the beaches in Los Angeles.”

  “What if people want to improve their homes or businesses?”

  “That’s fine as long as they follow the proposed height restrictions.”

  “I can buy that.”

  “Would you care to sign our petition?”

  “Let me take a look.” I read through the notice and decided it was innocuous enough.

  He handed me a pen, and I filled in my name and signed.

  “Anyone else in your party care to add a signature?” he asked.

  “I’m the only California resident in the crowd.”

  “Would you be willing to make a donation?”

  “Don’t press your luck.”

  “Come on, Dad,” Denny said. “We want to show Jennifer the outdoor pits.”

  “Heck. I’m ready now. Had to do my environmental duty.”

  Denny steered me toward the path, and I took one last look at the guy handing out brochures. That would be a hell of a way to spend a nice day, but he seemed perfectly content accosting people.

  We wandered along, viewing various pits of goo where the bones had been pulled out. I could just imagine some huge hairy creature being stuck in tar and slowly sinking while it let out bellows or yowls or screams. Not a pleasant way to go.

  Jennifer seemed pleased with her cultural experience as we headed back to Venice Beach. “Tonight’s the big night,” she said.

  “I thought that was last night—my wedding night.”

  “That too. But tonight we’re going on a grunion hunt. You’re coming too, Grandpa.”

  “Grunion? Is that anything like a snipe hunt where you leave someone out in the woods or tar pit on their own?”

  “No. Grunion are little silver fish that you catch by hand. Tonight is a grunion run and we can catch some.”

  * * * * *

  On the way home as I sat in the car contemplating my new life in Los Angeles, I had a mixed feeling of awe and confusion. It made my tummy warm to be with my family during their visit, and Jennifer invigorated anyone including an old ancient like me. After all the years I had spent in the LA area as a young first-time married man and then raising Denny, now I had returned. Back then we had to navigate city streets versus the now-crowded freeways. Still I suffered the strange repercussions of my weirdly wired brain with the last six years or so having disappeared into the dust bin.

  Oh, well. With my new bride, I’d have to enjoy things as they came: a new place to live . . . and a bevy of dead bodies. Crapola. I had to figure out what was going on with the murder. Then I could truly relax as a retired guy in the jungles of Venice Beach. And now I was signed up to catch grunion. I’d jump in and do that with the young whippersnappers. Hell. I’d caught a few fish in my time.

  * * * * *

  And true to Jennifer’s word, that night we all assembled. George, Andrea, Austin, Denny, Allison, Jennifer, Marion and yours truly with buckets in hand and armed with flashlights headed down to the beach.

  “What’s the protocol?” I asked.

  George cleared his throat. “The grunion come in at high tide which is ten o’clock—in fifteen minutes. They wiggle into the sand and you can grab them when they’re laying and fertilizing eggs.”

  “We’re going to interrupt their sex lives?” I said.

  “There are hundreds of thousands of them when they run. A few won’t be missed.”

  “I don’t know. I wouldn’t appreciate being put in a bucket in the heat of the moment.”

  As we marched out onto the sand, we found several hundred of our closest neighbors also with buckets in hand.

  “Seems like a popular event,” I said.

  “Fairly typical crowd,” George said. “The unpredictable part is how many grunion will show up. On some runs we’ve seen the beach covered with silver. Other times, nothing.”

  “You’d think the grunion would find a more private place to have sex,” I said.

  We waited with George checking his watch and giving a countdown on expected time of arrival.

  Jennifer and Austin were friends again and yakked about surfing, iPods and other current events.

  Then my old eyes spotted flashes of silver in the sand. “Look. Over there.”

  Slivers of silver wriggled in the sand as thousands of tiny fish stuck their tails downward to enjoy a moment of bliss. The mass of bucket carriers converged on the dancing silver fork handles, grabbing and lifting.

  After a moment of hesitation, I joined the foray, eagerly extracting the wiggling fish and dropping them in my pail with a thump.

  Finally, Andrea suggested that we head back home for a fish fry. We gathered our pails and headed toward the street.

  “Uh-oh, I left my sandals on the beach,” Jennifer said.

  “You better watch it or you’ll end up with a memory like mine,” I said. “I’ll walk back with you.”

  We retraced our steps, and Jennifer found her footwear on the sand. As we returned to the street a man in uniform approached us.r />
  “Good evening, Officer,” I said.

  He didn’t smile at me. “May I see your fishing license?”

  “Fishing license?”

  “Yes. You need a fishing license to catch grunion.”

  My mouth dropped open, and then I regained my composure. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Just to grab grunion?”

  “That’s the law. May I see some identification?”

  I reached in my back pocket, extracted my wallet and showed him my ID.

  “This has an address in Hawaii.”

  “I know. I need to update it. I’m living in Venice now.”

  He wrote out a ticket. Unfortunately, I remembered my new address and being a law-abiding citizen, I gave it to him. He tore off a copy for me.

  “You should make an exemption for my grandpa. He’s eighty-five years old.”

  “No. Anyone over sixteen needs a fishing license. How old are you?”

  Jennifer stamped her foot. “I’m twelve.”

  He turned and strolled off to accost the next victim.

  “It’s like shooting fish in a barrel for the game warden tonight,” I said. “I feel like one of the grunion we caught.”

  We rejoined the family group and I displayed my new souvenir.

  “I’ve never heard of that,” George said.

  “Well, there’s a fish and game warden who is going to exceed his quota tonight. Let’s get out of here before he stops anyone else in our group.”

  As we headed home, rain began to fall.

  “What’s this?” I asked. “I didn’t think it rained in Los Angeles in the summer.”

  “Not very often,” Marion said. “But we do have occasional storms blowing in.”

  * * * * *

  Back at the ranch Andrea put a large skillet on the stovetop and began rolling the grunion in flour. In moments the little fish were sizzling in the pan. When offered one, I bit down on the crunchy bones and small amount of flesh that tasted like flour and seawater. Oh, well. I had my fishing violation as a souvenir of the evening’s activities.

  The rain was coming down like bobcats and prairie dogs by this time. I was glad we still weren’t out on the beach grabbing sex-crazed silver fish. I sat down to write my escapades, knowing I wouldn’t be up to a memory jolt that night in bed with my new bride.