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

  * * * * *

  The next morning I woke up, shocked to find a woman sleeping next to me, but fortunately found a note on top of a journal resting on my nightstand. It read: “You’re now a happily married man again, you old fogy. Read this diary before you wander off and do anything dumb.” With that pointed reminder, I sat down and learned about the life of Paul Jacobson, murder suspect and grunion scofflaw. I may have been dealt a crapola memory, but at least I still had good eyesight to read my memoirs. What a life I led.

  When my bride emerged from the blankets, she reminded me that I had church duty at ten. I dressed in my official helper slacks, put on a clean polo shirt and tennis shoes, stuffed my tummy with a bowl of puffed air disguised as puffed rice and with Marion’s explicit directions, ambled off to Saint Andrew’s to do the stationery shuffle.

  Along the way I noticed the puddles in the street and recalled what I had written in my journal about the rainstorm the night before. I avoided getting lost and arrived without mishap. Marion had given me excellent directions. I admired the white bell tower before moseying into the church office. Marisa Young, the office manager, introduced herself to me, obviously warned by Marion, and welcomed me. Although I had read her name in my journal, she didn’t look the least bit familiar. I had also read that I had been indoctrinated, but had no clue what that prepared me to do.

  Oh, well. It would give Marisa a little more challenge to have a memory-impaired assistant. My first assignment was to collate a five-sheet monthly church newsletter. As I worked I scanned through the pages, seeing a picture of a group of parishioners at a picnic, a list of the names of the new church officers and a statement that the church planned to continue to finance homeless assistance. After deftly compiling three hundred newsletters, I asked, “What do you want me to do with the completed work of art?”

  “There should be some empty cardboard boxes in the storage closet. Just go in and grab a couple.” She pointed toward a door.

  I strolled over and opened the door. A man’s body tumbled out and landed right on my tennis shoes.

  Chapter 6

  Marisa Young screamed at the sight of a hairy, rumpled, badly dressed middle-aged man lying dead on the rug of the Saint Andrew’s church office.

  Coagulated blood from his head left reddish-brown marks on my previously clean shoes. I stepped back in shock.

  Marisa gasped. “It’s . . . it’s Muddy Murphy.”

  “Whoever he is, call nine-one-one,” I shouted.

  Marisa reached for the office phone with a shaky hand and punched buttons. She had visibly paled, and I hoped she wouldn’t pass out. I couldn’t deal with two bodies on the floor.

  I dropped into a chair, my old ticker exceeding the suggested beats per minute. No sense having two men dying on the same morning.

  After a few deep breaths, my heart rate returned to only twice normal.

  The paramedics arrived shortly and began working on the scruffy man, but I could tell that it was too late for him. They might have been able to do some good if Marisa or I had keeled over, though.

  Marisa stood in the background, wringing her hands as all the activity progressed. Then a short guy in a suit arrived and took over. He examined the body and asked, “Who found this man?”

  I raised my hand from the chair where I sat. “Me.”

  He stared at me with his dark mustache twitching. “Well, well. If it isn’t Mr. Jacobson.”

  “You know me?”

  “Why, yes. We’ve become well acquainted over the last several days.”

  “And you are?”

  “Detective Quintana.”

  The name clicked from my journal. “Oh, yes. I’ve read about you.”

  He let out a breath. “Tell me what happened this time, Mr. Jacobson.”

  “It’s pretty simple. I opened the door to the storage closet, and this body tumbled out.”

  He looked downward. “You seem to have some blood on your shoes.”

  “Must have happened when the body fell.”

  “Anyone else around at the time?”

  “Just the two of us,” Marisa said. “We’ve been short of volunteers lately.”

  I could imagine Marisa’s problem if people kept dying in this church.

  An assistant medical examiner arrived to check the body followed by a crime-scene investigator and photographer to take pictures and sniff around. The investigator, who had donned rubber gloves, lifted a candleholder out of the storage room and began dusting it for fingerprints.

  Quintana asked me to wait in the small adjoining kitchen while he questioned Marisa. Then after fifteen minutes he came in to speak with me.

  “When did you arrive at the church this morning, Mr. Jacobson?”

  “An hour ago.”

  “And before that?”

  “I walked over from my apartment.”

  “Can you account for the eight hours before that?”

  “I was asleep, woke up, peed and ate breakfast.”

  “I need to collect a sample of the blood from your shoes.”

  “Help yourself. It’s from the body when it fell out of the storage closet.”

  Quintana extracted a kit from his pocket, removed a cotton swab and dabbed at my shoes before dropping the evidence in a brown paper bag.

  After the crew removed the body, I sat down in a chair next to Marisa, who was still shaking. “You recognized the victim.”

  Marisa rested her head in her hands. “Yes. Muddy Murphy.”

  “He looked like a street person.”

  “He had taken to sleeping on the beach, but he was a renowned artist.”

  “Dressed like that?”

  “Muddy never paid much attention to his clothes. He’s been a regular in Venice for many years, painting, selling his artwork and hanging out in cafés along the boardwalk.”

  “But if he was a popular artist, he probably could support himself and not have to sleep on the beach,” I said.

  “I’m sure Muddy made a sizeable income. For some reason he chose the homeless lifestyle. He was a regular for Sunday services here. Always showed up with other homeless people. He attended just yesterday.”

  I thought back to what I had read that morning in my journal. I had spoken with some of the street people after the service on Sunday. The only name I’d noted was Harley Marcraft. Then I had a heated exchange with some wild man. Oh, hell. What if that had been Muddy Murphy? Detective Quintana would be all over my behind.

  “So he was here yesterday for the morning service. But he didn’t look like he had been dead that long. He must have been killed last night. Any reason why he would have been here last night?”

  “Because it rained,” Marisa said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Whenever the weather is bad, we open the meeting room so it can be used as a homeless shelter. When the storm came through last night, I stopped over around eleven and unlocked the door so people could sleep out of the rain.”

  “Did you see Muddy then?”

  “I didn’t pay that much attention. But a big crowd arrived.”

  “So any one of the homeless people could have killed Muddy.”

  “I don’t think they’re violent.”

  “Did you leave the door unlocked?”

  “Of course. I wanted to make sure any stragglers would have shelter.”

  “But anyone else could have entered as well.”

  Marisa put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear. That’s possible.”

  “Well, enough of that. Anything else I can do to help?”

  “No. I think I’ll close the office for the day. I’m pretty shaken.”

  “I understand. I guess I’ll meander on home then.”

  I waited for Marisa to lock up.

  “Can I give you a ride?” she asked.

  “No, thanks. I think I’ll take a little walk. The old legs can use the exercise.”

  I retraced my path and returned to my honeymoon cottage. My apartment was em
pty so I went to the back door of the main house and knocked.

  A middle-aged woman who I assumed was Andrea came to the door. “Your wife and I are having coffee. Come on in.”

  Marion sat at the kitchen table. “What are you doing back so soon? I thought Marisa would work you most of the day.”

  “We were disrupted by finding a body in the storage closet.”

  Marion and Andrea both gasped.

  “A man named Muddy Murphy was murdered and stuffed in the closet.”

  “I know Muddy,” Andrea said. “He’s a famous artist.”

  “He didn’t look very famous. I understand he even sleeps on the beach.”

  “That’s the favorite hangout for homeless people,” Andrea said.

  “I can’t imagine anyone choosing to sleep on the beach,” I said.

  “I don’t know. Many of the homeless people in Venice have been offered shelter but refuse it.”

  “It does seem strange that both an art dealer and an artist were murdered within a few days,” Marion said.

  “Yes, from reviewing my journal this morning that concerns me. Particularly since Detective Quintana is hot on my tail because I found both bodies.”

  “But you had nothing to do with either.” Marion patted my arm.

  “Thanks for your vote of confidence, but the detective doesn’t seem to share it. And there’s one other problem.”

  “What’s that?” Marion asked.

  “I have a sneaking suspicion Muddy Murphy is the same guy I shouted at yesterday when I went over to talk to the homeless crowd after the church service.”

  Marion put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear. I overheard that. I see the problem.”

  “Yeah. If that’s the case, Detective Quintana will be all over me like flies at a picnic. It will be one more little piece to make me look guilty as hell. So, Andrea, tell me more about this Muddy Murphy character.”

  “That’s an interesting story.” Andrea looked up thoughtfully. “He was quite successful but then started arguing with the art dealers along Abbot Kinney Boulevard. Muddy felt they were exploiting him so he refused to paint anymore. Then he decided to hang out with the homeless community.”

  “What the heck is Abbot Kinney Boulevard?”

  “It’s the street named after the founder of Venice, who in Nineteen Oh-five dreamed of a cultural center for Los Angeles amid a myriad of canals. Unfortunately, the only surviving parts of the dream were a small section of canals and an emerging yuppie street with art stores and cafés.”

  “I think I’ll check it out. Anyone care to join me?”

  “Sure,” Marion said. “It’s only a short walk, and I don’t want you getting in any more trouble.”

  * * * * *

  While I waited for Marion to change into her walking shoes, I plopped down in an easy chair with my mind in a state of turmoil. My stomach felt tight, and I hoped I wasn’t developing an ulcer. Thoughts of dead men swirled in my soggy brain. Having read that morning about two deaths and then discovering another man in the closet at the church set the hairs on my arms at attention like I had wandered into an electrical storm. What was going on around here? I needed to gain a handle on all these strange events. Obviously something in the art community had spun out of control. With Detective Quintana turning up every time I happened upon a body, I needed to figure out a way to clear my name. First step, understand more regarding art dealers.

  Marion reappeared, and we strolled a few blocks up Venice Boulevard and turned left onto a street lined with palm trees. New brickwork facades mingled with shops under construction and stores needing a twenty-first-century face-lift. After peeking through the windows of several antique stores, we stopped in front of a gallery with an all-white interior complemented by jet-black tables, displaying distorted pink pottery and shiny silver sculptures that resembled human arms cut off at the shoulder and wrist. On the walls hung paintings with liberal splotches of color and photographs of multiple hazy images that, in my day, would have been the work of a dysfunctional camera.

  “If we were independently wealthy, I’d want to buy a few of those vases,” Marion said, placing a finger to her chin.

  “If we were independently wealthy, I think I wouldn’t.”

  Marion poked me in the ribs. “Don’t be such a cynic. Isn’t there something here that interests you?”

  “Only the woman standing next to me.”

  She gave my arm a squeeze.

  After gawking through a few more windows, we picked a gallery that seemed to have more paintings than sculpture and entered through the arched doorway to the sound of chimes.

  A skinny man in a dark suit with equally skinny tie and pencil-thin mustache slithered up to us, rubbing his hands together. “May I be of assistance?”

  “Do you have any Muddy Murphy paintings?” I asked.

  “Why, yes. Come this way. We have two of his works on display.”

  He led us to a mounted canvas approximately four feet wide by two feet tall. Patches of red, orange, green, yellow and blue blobs formed a blend that made me feel seasick.

  “Mr. Murphy produced many fine works. I personally purchased this extraordinary specimen. It’s from his fantasy period.”

  “I wonder what he was fantasizing.” I said.

  The man pursed his lips. “We don’t know. Mr. Murphy never shared his views concerning his work. Here is another from his more realistic period. Notice the composition and the unique blend of pigment.”

  I stared at a group of people sitting at a café. Kind of impressionistic dabs of bright color formed their clothes, but all of the faces were blank canvas.

  “Guess he didn’t go in for facial features,” I said. “How much does this one go for?”

  He cleared his throat. “Eleven thousand dollars. But I am prepared to discount it ten percent today.”

  I whistled. “Seems pretty steep for a local artist who forgot to paint the faces.”

  He stuck out his lower lip. “Mr. Murphy was a renowned Venice artist who passed away recently, and the value of his paintings has risen dramatically.”

  I stared at the price gouger. “Word circulates quickly here. He only died this morning.”

  The man shrugged. “In any case, artwork increases in value when popular artists pass on. Which of the two works interests you most?”

  “We’ll need to think some more . . . out of curiosity, are there any art dealers who have significant holdings of Muddy Murphy’s work?” Marion asked.

  “There are three. Vance Theobault, Clint Brock and Frederick Vansworthy.”

  I would have spit out my teeth if I didn’t have all my permanent ones. “Frederick Vansworthy? He’s dead.”

  He put his hands on his hips. “There was a rumor to that effect. I believe he and Mr. Theobault had some sort of partnership.”

  “I know Clint Brock,” Marion said. “Paul, you met him at our wedding and at church on Sunday.”

  “I remember reading the name in my journal.”

  “I can arrange for us to speak with him. That might be useful.”

  “We’ll have to do that.” I turned toward my new slimy acquaintance. “This Vance Theobault. Does he have a gallery around here?”

  “Yes. On Windward Circle. Now, regarding the Muddy Murphy works?”

  “I think we’ll take a rain check. But thanks for the discount offer. We’ll keep you in mind when we decide to add to our collection.”

  The man slapped a business card into my hand as we headed toward the door.

  Outside Marion grabbed my arm. “What did you mean by that last comment?”

  “Well, I have a picture of a jail on my dresser. Those god-awful paintings would fit right in.”

  “I guess I didn’t marry an art connoisseur.”

  “Not for that kind of art. I appreciate a good landscape or picture of posies but don’t go in for blobs of paint or blank faces. I’m more interested in the art dealers. Something’s fishy there. Particularly if they profit fr
om Muddy Murphy’s death by the paintings increasing in value.”

  Marion stopped and looked at me thoughtfully. “As I mentioned, I can arrange a meeting with Clint Brock, but I’ve never met Vance Theobault.”

  “Maybe we can pay him a surprise visit. Do you know where Windward Circle is?”

  “It’s within walking distance.”

  “Lead on. If you’re not pooped, I have some more exploration left in my old legs. Besides I’m on a roll with this art-dealer business.”

  Marion guided us several blocks until we came to a traffic circle. We strolled around the outside of the circle, checking store fronts until we spotted the name of Theobault Gallery on a two-story brick building. Inside we found a large stark room with only half a dozen paintings on the wall. A man stood off to the side on a cell phone. At the back sat a brightly-frocked, blond receptionist, ensconced behind a mahogany desk.

  Not wanting to disturb the man, who seem to be in a heated conversation, we approached the gal.

  “Is Mr. Theobault in?” I inquired.

  “Yes. Who may I say is calling?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Jacobson.”

  She raised her perky chin toward me, obviously expecting more explanation.

  I gave her my wealthy, erudite, connoisseur smile.

  She sighed, reached for a phone, pushed a button and spoke in a low voice. She listened for a moment and then turned her gaze in our direction.

  “You may go inside.” She pointed to the adjoining closed door.

  We entered and found a man standing behind a mahogany desk even larger than the one in the reception area. He had a solid chin and neatly trimmed brown hair, and he wore an expensive-looking shiny gray suit.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Jacobson. Please take a seat on the couch.” He motioned toward a brown leather sofa. Lining the walls were framed pictures of Theobault shaking hands with dignitaries.

  We sank down into the soft cushions, and Theobault pulled a chair toward us. He sat down and crossed his legs.

  “How may I be of assistance?”

  I realized I hadn’t thought through this step, but I started improvising. “We recently viewed some works of Muddy Murphy’s in a gallery nearby and were informed that you were one of the few dealers who had significant holdings of his paintings.”