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

  He slapped me on the back. “If she ever kicks you out, you can come join me on the beach.”

  “I’m not planning on that.”

  “You never can tell. I was happily married once, but my old lady ran off with an insurance salesman. Damn unpredictable broads . . . nice forehand, Frank.”

  I turned my head to watch a point with one team hitting a high lob and then tracking down the resulting overhead smash. I started thinking. “Say, Harley, when we spoke at the church last Sunday, there was a guy who came up to me, who I understand was Muddy Murphy.”

  “I remember. You got into a shouting match with him.”

  “Yeah. Apparently so.”

  Harley looked at me askance. “You have a temper, old man.”

  “Sometimes it gets the best of me.”

  “Damn shame what happened to Muddy.”

  “You mean being murdered?”

  “That and what led up to it.” Harley scratched his stomach.

  He now had my full attention. “What was that?”

  “Muddy got crosswise with the local art-dealer community. They were taking advantage of him so he up and quit painting to show them. They got him in the end.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m sure one of them knocked him off. Those bastards will do anything to increase the value of the paintings they sell.”

  “I understand that the prices of his paintings have gone up since he died, but why would someone run the risk of murdering him versus just letting him die of natural causes?”

  Harley shrugged. “I haven’t a clue.”

  “Did he ever mention any particular art dealer to you?”

  “No. He cussed all of them. I’d listen to him complain when he and I shared the same section of beach.”

  “I’m still trying to get a handle on this lifestyle of yours, sleeping on the beach.”

  “It’s simple. Every month, I collect my Social Security check which keeps me in food, don’t have to worry about anyone stealing my belongings because I don’t have any, know everyone here along the boardwalk, spend time outdoors with the ocean breezes blowing the smog away. What more could I ask for?”

  “I always pictured homeless people as really struggling.”

  He frowned. “Most are that way. Combination of desperation and mental disorder. Muddy and I were the lucky ones. We chose to be homeless. You’d never find me living inside again.”

  “I don’t know. I’m kind of partial to my soft bed.”

  “You have a wife. Me, I have no permanent relationship, so the beach is a perfect home.” He slapped me on the back. “As I said, if the old lady ever throws you out, come team up with me.”

  Chapter 10

  As I ambled home, my head swirled with all that was happening to me. I felt like one of those hamsters stuck in a wheel, running and not getting anywhere. I mulled over what I had heard. One of the art dealers must have murdered Muddy Murphy. With Vansworthy out of the picture, the prime suspects would be Brock and Theobault. It appeared that Theobault also benefited from the demise of Vansworthy. If Quintana arrested one of these guys, he’d be off my back. Then I’d be free to go on our Alaskan honeymoon cruise. I had to keep plugging away at trying to figure out what had gone down in the Venice Beach art world. What other choice did I have anyway?

  Back in our apartment Marion was waiting for me.

  “I was starting to worry,” she said.

  “I had another adventure with Detective Quintana and spoke with an interesting street character named Harley Marcraft. He said if you ever kicked me out I could come join him living on the beach.”

  “No chance of that. I’m not giving you up.”

  “Well, that’s good news. In spite of how enthusiastic Harley is about sleeping on the beach, I prefer being in a bed next to you.”

  Marion gave my arm a squeeze. “You have a letter from our friend Meyer Ohana. To remind you, Meyer is the retired judge and lawyer whom you met at the retirement home in Hawaii. You and he sat at the same table in the dining room and became best chums.”

  “That’s amazing. I was on good terms with a lawyer?”

  “Yes. You two were very good buddies. You spent a lot of time together.”

  “Well, I need all the friends possible. Let’s see what he says.”

  I opened the letter. Meyer congratulated me again on marrying Marion and said that with his macular degeneration he now had a girl who came in to read to him several times a week, but she was going on vacation for two weeks. He reminded me how I used to read to him. That gave me an idea.

  “Do we have Meyer’s telephone number?” I asked Marion.

  “Yes, it should be in my address book.” She found the book and handed it to me.

  I punched in the digits. A woman answered and I asked to speak to Meyer Ohana. In a few moments, a man’s voice came on the line.

  “Hey, you old fart, this is Paul.”

  “You’re the only one in the world who would greet me that way. How’s the old married man?”

  “Old is the operative word. My beautiful bride and I are reveling in marital bliss. I heartily recommend the institution of marriage.”

  “It’s nice to hear your voice.”

  “I suppose it’s good to hear your voice too, except I don’t recognize it.”

  “Same old memory. I thought as a newlywed, you’d have your memory jogged every night.”

  “I guess last night was my off night. Your letter said that your reading companion is going on vacation and that I used to read to you.”

  “You’re correct on both counts.”

  “I thought I’d see if you’d like me to read to you over the phone.”

  There was a pause on the line. “That would be wonderful.”

  “Hold on a second while I find a book.”

  I retrieved a hardcover from the bedroom and picked up the phone again. “I enjoy a good story, but novels don’t work for me. You can imagine how frustrating that would be for me when I can’t remember anything from the day before. But with short stories, I read a story each sitting, can enjoy it and then it doesn’t matter if I reread the same story the next day because it’s all new to me anyway.”

  “You lead such a unique life, Paul.”

  “So here’s what I can offer you. I have a collection of stories by O. Henry.”

  “It’s interesting that you selected O. Henry as the author to read to me,” Meyer said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Do you know anything about him?”

  “Only that I read some of his stories in high school. My English teacher Miss Mathers practically wet her pants over him.”

  Meyer chuckled. “Well, he was one of the leading short-story writers at the turn of the nineteenth into twentieth century. He was a very prolific writer. I also read some of his works in high school in the thirties.”

  “We both have good memories for things back then. Too bad my klutzy brain doesn’t hold things now. So why the interest in O. Henry?”

  “His real name was William Sidney Porter and there was one unusual thing about him.”

  “I hope you’re not going to say he was an honest lawyer.”

  “Worse than that. He worked as a teller for a bank and ended up involved in some suspicious activity that smacked of fraud. He even spent time in prison.”

  “I hope that doesn’t happen to me. I have a police detective breathing down my neck and I detest jails.”

  Meyer clicked his tongue. “Same old Paul. You have a way of attracting women and detectives. Have you run across any more dead bodies lately?”

  “Yeah—three.”

  “What! You’re kidding. Something must be happening in that seaside resort.”

  “Looks like some trouble in the art community, and I got stuck in the middle—up to my neck.”

  “I assume you’re resisting hiring an attorney?”

  “Yes. No bloodsucking lawyers for me, present company exempted.”

 
Meyer laughed. “Attorneys can help people like you who are falsely accused of crimes. Someday, you’ll overcome your dislike of lawyers.”

  “Nah. It’s too much fun having an enemy. If I didn’t have lawyers to dislike, how could I keep being such a curmudgeon? But I have a question for you.”

  “You’re seeking some free legal advice?”

  “Yeah, I’m wondering—if the police aren’t aware of some crucial motive in a murder, how do I bring this to their attention when I’m a suspect?”

  “A good detective will listen. Just give him a call and pass on the information.”

  “I think the detective involved is competent, but he sure is on my tail all the time.”

  “No different than when you were in Hawaii. Just level with him.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “And maybe the detective will start changing his opinion of you.”

  “That’s too much to expect. But I do need to keep a step ahead of the law. Detective Quintana is very persistent. I’m sure something fishy is going on here with some of the art dealers in Venice. An art dealer and an artist were murdered, and I’m trying to figure out why the victims were killed.”

  “And obviously you’re a suspect.”

  “Yeah. Somehow Detective Quintana thinks I’m a better person of interest than the art dealers. I need to find a way to get him on the right track.”

  “Sounds like you need to uncover a motive. You have no reason to be accused.”

  I paused. “Actually, there is. It’s my rotten temper. I have a way of arguing with people before they’re found dead. Makes me appear suspicious.”

  Meyer cleared his throat. “You’re no different than when we lived in the retirement home together. On the surface you always come across as this gruff old codger. Underneath you’re a gentleman.”

  “Tell that to the detective. He acts like I’m part of the Manson gang. Now are we going to yak all day or do you want me to read you a story?”

  “Go ahead. Pick one out.”

  I thumbed through the table of contents and selected a title that sounded interesting. “Given what we’ve just discussed, here’s a tale called ‘The Cop and the Anthem.’ ”

  I proceeded to read the story of Soapy, who does everything he can to get arrested so he can spend the winter months in the comfort of jail. He eats at a restaurant and tries to leave without paying, breaks a window, steals an umbrella, harasses a woman, commits disorderly conduct, but nothing achieves his objective of being arrested.

  At this point in the story, I paused. “So what do you think, old man? Will Soapy achieve his goal of being arrested or not?”

  “I’ll have to think it over. I’m not sure yet.”

  “Let’s put some meat in the game. How about a friendly wager on the matter?”

  “Are you proposing some cross-state-lines gambling?”

  “Nothing like that. Just a small wager to make it more interesting.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “I have a hankering for some chocolate. Let’s set the stakes at a box of chocolates.”

  Meyer chuckled. “All right, a box of chocolates it will be.”

  “And I’ll even let you choose your position,” I said magnanimously.

  “Hmmm. In that case I bet that Soapy doesn’t end up in jail.”

  “And I’ll hold the position that he’s incarcerated.”

  “Done.”

  I picked the book up again and began reading how Soapy keeps trying unsuccessfully to get arrested. Then he passes a church and is inspired by the sound of an anthem played by the organist. He has an epiphany and decides right then and there to quit being a bum and seek employment the next day. At that moment a policeman arrests Soapy for loitering and sends him to jail for three months.

  I could hear Meyer sigh over the phone when I finished reading. “It reminds me of some cases I had when I was a municipal judge. There is always a certain element that views jail as free room and board.”

  “I look at it differently. I’m trying to stay out of jail, and my detective buddy is always hinting at his intent to give me a new home. I don’t want to end up behind bars.”

  “Well, it’s obvious you’re approaching this entirely the wrong way, Paul. If you were more eager to go to jail, like Soapy, you’d have a better chance of staying free.”

  “Not with Detective Quintana. If I let up one iota, he’ll have me spread-eagled on the floor of some dungeon.”

  Meyer laughed. “You always have this very graphic way of describing things.”

  “Just the reality of my life and encounters with crime and law enforcement. A time-worn veteran like me should be free to sail off to Alaska with my bride, but Quintana has a different agenda.”

  “Paul, you should be flattered that he would consider you able, at your age, of committing those crimes.”

  “There’s no way I’m glad he’s breathing down my neck.”

  “You’ll work your way out of this like you did before.”

  “I sure hope so. I’m too old to decorate a cell. Now to our wager. I can already taste that chocolate. You’re not going to welsh on our bet, are you?”

  “No, Paul. I’ll pay up. We have a van picking us up tomorrow for an excursion to the shopping center. I’ll see what I can find, although I can’t guarantee exactly what gets selected given my poor eyesight.”

  “Just as long as it has chocolate. It can be dark chocolate, milk chocolate, chocolate mints . . .”

  “What if I send chocolate-covered ants?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Chocolate is chocolate. Just don’t substitute something like carob or dates. It has to be chocolate.”

  “Okay, you’ll be receiving a present. And thanks again for the story.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll put a note in my journal to give you a call again to read another one. As long as the young chick who’s been reading to you has deserted you, I’ll be happy to fill in.”

  “I welcome the companionship.”

  “Does this time of day work for you?”

  “Paul, I’m in a care home. All I do is listen to the television, take naps and eat, so any time is fine.”

  “You make it sound so exciting.”

  “Without you around, my life has become very boring.”

  “Well, I’ll try to spice it up a little. I’ll keep you apprised of my run-ins with the law and read more exciting O. Henry stories to you.”

  “I don’t want you running up a large phone bill.”

  “I’ll check with my accountant, but I’m sure I can swing it.”

  After hanging up I said to Marion, “I’m going to write this in my diary, but also remind me to call Meyer periodically to read to him.”

  “That’s nice of you.”

  “Sounds like he’s stuck on his lonesome, so it’s the least I can do to help. But I hope I’m not overextending our telephone bill with the long call to Hawaii. That must have been expensive.”

  “Not to worry. The plan we’re on is only three cents a minute so your call probably cost less than two dollars.”

  “And here I thought I had spent my whole fortune and would have to sleep on the beach.”

  * * * * *

  I settled into the easy chair in the living room, wondering at the strange existence of those long-in-tooth like Meyer and me. Each of us had our own defects—his eyesight and my scrambled brain. We each were dealing with our own situations in our own ways. I could help Meyer by reading to him and he could give me some ideas to augment my inconsistent mental wiring. What a world. I could feel sorry for myself or do something about my situation. I decided to keep playing my hand in the poker game of life.

  I had just picked up the O. Henry book to continue reading short stories to myself when I heard a knock on the door. “Who’d be coming to visit us?” I said as I shuffled to the door.

  A young boy stood there holding a box.

  “You collecting for the Boy Scouts?” I asked.

/>   He wrinkled his nose like he had smelled a dead rat.

  Marion emerged from the bedroom and said, “Hi, Austin. What brings you here?”

  “Mom asked me to bring this pie over.”

  “Well, come on in,” I said. “Let’s see what we have to feast on.”

  He stepped inside like he was treading on hot coals.

  “How’s band camp?” Marion asked.

  “Okay.”

  Marion moved over and gave him a hug. “Now I’ll let you two gentlemen talk for a minute. I have a hot iron that needs attention.”

  Marion returned to the bedroom.

  I regarded Austin’s scowl and eyes that never moved above rug level. “So your mother drafted you to run this errand. Not something you particularly wanted to do.”

  Austin scuffed his right foot on the kitchen floor.

  “Look at me,” I said.

  His chin popped up, and suddenly his eyes grew wide.

  “I’m not going to bite you. Let me tell you a story. When I was your age, my mother made me visit a woman who had been my second-grade teacher. I’d say, ‘Oh, Mom. Do I have to?’ and she’d reply, ‘Yes. Now go.’ This was painful duty even though this teacher had helped me learn to read. Then I discovered that her husband had a collection of toy soldiers that he let me play with. Instead of being a burden, I started looking forward to my visits to Mr. and Mrs. Jensen.”

  Furrows appeared in his brow. “How come you remember all that? I thought you had a bad memory.”

  I chuckled. “Good. You have been paying attention. It’s like this, Austin. Overnight my memory does a reset like the clock on a microwave when the power goes out. Most days I couldn’t tell you what I did the day before. But my memory still holds for things that happened to me years ago. Also, I have pretty good recollection during the day. You want to test me?”

  His scowl had disappeared completely and was now replaced with a quizzical expression. “Test you?”

  “Sure. You write down a string of twenty digits and show it to me.” I went over to the counter and retrieved a pencil and piece of paper. “Make them random. No simple patterns such as one, two, three . . .”

  He bit his lip and scribbled.

  When he had completed writing, I took the piece of paper, studied it for a moment and handed it back to him.