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

  “Uh-oh. Groupthink.”

  “Huh?”

  “They were afraid to express their real views in public. Even though they agreed with you, they were intimidated and wouldn’t stand up in the larger group.”

  “Something like that. Anyway, Pierce called me a wussy and said they should beat me up along with a homeless person.”

  “I tried one more time with Jason and Pete, but they wouldn’t say anything.”

  “So you have a situation where at least three of you disagree with Pierce’s misdirected course of action, but you can’t convince the others to stand up for what they really believe.”

  “That’s why I brought it up. I don’t know what to do now.”

  I thought for a moment. “Three of you are sane and one is a screwball. How do the others really feel?”

  “The other three always go along with what Pierce suggests. But Ralph can’t really agree with Pierce. He claims to be a pacifist.”

  “So deep down at least four of seven would vote against it . . .”

  “Vote.” Austin’s eyes opened wide. “What if we had a secret ballot? I bet the other three would take my side then.”

  I chuckled. “See, you did come up with a solution.”

  Austin punched his right fist into his left hand. “Yeah. I know just what I’m going to do.”

  I collected the sheets of paper, thanked Austin for printing the material from Jennifer and headed back to my place. After reading through the article, I had the impression that these art dealers were all eager to slash one another’s throats. I tried the two phone numbers Jennifer had tracked down for the vanquished ex-Venice art dealers, but only got messages on answering machines.

  As I sat down to relax, I felt a sense of pride on behalf of Austin. The kid was coming around. From what I had read in my journal, he had been a bit of a mess when I first met him, but now he was getting his act together. I sighed. If I could only get my act together and figure out what these art dealers were up to. Between Austin and Jennifer I had loads of help, but I hadn’t been able to decipher the enigma yet. Oh, well. I’d keep after it. Either I’d solve what was what or Detective Quintana would chain my butt up in a dungeon somewhere.

  Deciding it was time for my late-afternoon constitutional, I grabbed a baseball hat to protect my wavy locks, gave Marion a peck on the cheek and headed out into the wilds of Venice. As I explored around, I happened to look up and on a second-story balcony saw two mannequins dressed up in Blues Brothers outfits. A few blocks later on the side of a scruffy apartment building I spied a three-story-high replica of that same picture in Austin’s room, the guy from the Doors, this time next to two windows. Venice Beach had this thing about art in all its weird forms. Where else could you find murals every couple of blocks?

  When I had worn myself out and returned home, I found Marion banging drawers in the kitchen.

  “What’s all the noise?” I asked.

  She looked at me like she wanted to close one of my hands in the drawer she was slamming shut. “I can’t find my reading glasses.”

  I stared at my bride. “Well, at least they’re not on your head. Let me help.”

  We explored every surface and drawer in the whole place. Then I looked under the couch cushions and beneath the couch itself.

  “There aren’t that many spots I could have left them,” Marion said, spitting out the words.

  “When do you last remember having them?”

  “I was sitting in the easy chair in the living room reading and then went to fetch a glass of iced tea.”

  I dug into the cushions of the chair and then lifted up the chair’s skirt. Nothing. “This is serious.” I gave her a wink. “We can’t have two people with bad memories in the same house. That’s one more than the standard quota.”

  I entered the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. There next to the container of iced tea rested Marion’s glasses. “Case solved,” I said handing them over to her.

  “My hero.” I finally earned a smile rather than a glower. “How did you figure that out?”

  “Geezer intuition. I just retraced your steps. If I could only have the same insight into these murders I’m being blamed for.”

  Chapter 12

  I woke up in a place I didn’t recognize. I looked around a small room. No one there. I saw a pair of brown Bermuda shorts and a well-worn T-shirt tossed over a chair. I tried them on. They fit. Finding two tennis shoes and socks, I put those on. Where the hell was I? I found a door and went down a set of stairs, out through a wooden gate to an alley and finally came to a larger cross street. Seemed to be a quiet neighborhood on a quiet morning. The sun shone down, warming my arms. Bees hummed in flowery hedges, and a gentle breeze rippled across my face. No one around. Finally after several blocks I spotted a guy in his fifties or so walking a dog.

  “I hate to bother you, but where are we?”

  “Pacific Avenue.”

  “I’m needing some further orientation. What community?”

  “Why, Venice Beach.”

  “I’ll be damned. I last remember living in Hawaii.”

  “You really are lost. Memory problems?”

  “So it seems.”

  “Let me buy you a cup of coffee. Maybe sitting down will help.”

  “That’s mighty kind.”

  “There’s a little outdoor café around the corner.”

  I followed him and his Corgi to a table, and we both plopped down with the dog snuggled at his feet.

  “My name is Al Bertrand. So what do you remember?”

  “I know my name’s Paul Jacobson. Pleased to meet you. I woke up in a strange apartment above a garage and then wandered around.”

  “I guess I’m fortunate. I have a solid memory. But if I did start having problems, I’m sure I’d still be able to find my way around here. I’ve lived in Venice for forty years.”

  “Seen a bit of change in that time, I imagine.”

  “Yes. Venice has had its ups and downs. Just look at that building across the street.”

  I stared at an apartment house with fresh white paint and shining metal balcony rails. “Seems to be newly renovated.”

  “That place used to be a run-down dump. This area is definitely improving.”

  It would have improved for me if I had some clue why I was here. Oh, well. I decided to go with the flow and enjoy a cup of java.

  After we had sipped for a while, Al asked. “Memory coming back yet?”

  “Nothing yet.” I regarded my companion. “So, Al, what do you do for a living?”

  “I’m an attorney. I primarily practice small-business law.”

  I flinched. “I’ll be damned. A lawyer buying me a cup of coffee.”

  He chuckled. “You’re not one of those who think all lawyers are scum, are you?”

  “Well, I have to admit my experience with attorneys hasn’t been that positive. One nearly ruined my auto-parts business many years ago.”

  He set his lips for a moment and then said, “I’m sorry to hear that. But many in my profession help clients who have problems, rather than cause problems.” His eyes lit up. “And you’re starting to remember things from the past.”

  “That’s the crazy situation. I can remember fine from the distant past and from this morning, but can’t pull anything out of my cranium from yesterday.”

  “If I can be of any help, let me know.” He handed me a card which I put in my pocket. “There’s a police substation at the plaza by the beach. You could seek further assistance there. I’d be happy to walk with you.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll mosey there on my own, and you and your dog can make your rounds. Just point me toward the beach.”

  “Just two blocks that way, then turn right.” He gestured down the street.

  “Thanks for the coffee and conversation.”

  We shook hands, and I followed his directions to a wide beach with a cement path along the city side which I took to the right. I passed a large parking lot half full
of cars, a bunch of shops and hot-dog stands. If I had wanted to, I could have bought any type of junk food or any cheap China-made souvenir. So this was the world-famous Venice Beach. Ahead a small set of bleachers stood near a fence behind which a group of people were whapping tennis balls with paddles.

  Deciding to put off for a moment the visit to the police substation, I sat down to watch. Shortly, a bearded guy in grubby clothes sidled up to me. “How ya doin’ today?”

  I looked him up and down. “Not so hot. I don’t know why I’m here.”

  He laughed. “On your spiritual journey?”

  “No. Just trying to figure out why the hell I woke up in Venice Beach.”

  “That’s happened to me a few times. A little too much vino, and I had no idea why I woke up where I did.”

  “But I don’t drink much.” I couldn’t remember recently, but the last I recalled I only tippled the occasional glass of wine.

  “That’s serious.” He raised his eyebrows. “You and I have talked before. Right here. I’m Harley Marcraft.”

  I eyed him. The name didn’t click. “I’m Paul Jacobson. So I’ve been around this place before?”

  “At least for the last week. I don’t think I’d seen you before then.”

  Realizing I hadn’t paid attention during my wanderings that morning, I asked, “Any clue where I live?”

  “No.” Then his eyes lit up. “But you were at Saint Andrew’s Church.” He snapped his fingers. “I met you after a service, and you told me you got married there.”

  “Married? I thought I was a single geezer.” This was getting stranger all the time.

  “Maybe someone at the church can help you. They’re very friendly. You should talk to the people in the office there.”

  “It’s worth a shot, although I don’t remember the place at all. Where the hell is it?”

  “Easy to find. At the parking lot, head away from the beach. The major street’s Venice Boulevard. Half a mile on the left side you’ll see a white Spanish-style building with a bell tower. That’s Saint Andrew’s. There’s always someone in the office.”

  “I guess I can find that. Much obliged.” We shook hands. Deciding I’d rather try the church than the police, I started off on my discovery mission. Along the way I passed kids with skateboards, a young man bouncing a basketball and a myriad of beachgoers. I passed over a bridge and caught a glimpse of a canal lined with hedges and half a dozen rowboats moored to the side. I paused and looked down. My heart started pounding. Damn. I didn’t like bodies of water larger than a bathtub.

  After twenty minutes I spotted a building that met the description Harley had given me. As I approached I noticed the bell tower and decided I had reached my destination. I opened a thick, carved wooden door and wandered inside to find an office. A pleasant woman looked up and smiled at me, showing even white teeth.

  “I’m Paul Jacobson.”

  “I know. You help out here once in a while.”

  My head jerked involuntarily. “I do?”

  “Yes. You look lost.”

  “I am. A friendly man directed me to the church since he claimed he had seen me here before. I don’t know where I live.”

  She clicked her tongue at me. “Marion warned me that you have memory problems and might forget things. I’ll give her a call.”

  “Who’s Marion?”

  “Your wife.”

  That hit me like a ton of crumbling mortar. My wife Rhonda had passed on. Had I remarried? What the hell was going on?

  She picked up the phone, punched some buttons, spoke briefly and then explained that someone would be over to retrieve me in half an hour. She directed me to a chair to sit in until my ride arrived.

  While waiting, I read a church magazine article that described the declining attendance in California churches. Maybe the trend would reverse as the population aged. If more people had memories like mine they’d spend more time in church.

  A little later two women entered the office.

  Both were fetching ladies, but I was especially attracted to the older one, who appeared to be in her late seventies. Could this be my wife?

  “Are you here to rescue me?” I asked. “And who’s Marion?”

  The older woman winked and gave me a gentle smile. “I’m Marion and this is my daughter Andrea. I guess I need to keep a better eye on you.”

  “Well, I don’t mind keeping my eyes on you. Rumor has it that we’re hitched.”

  She laughed. “That’s true. Now, time to take you home.”

  * * * * *

  On the way back I asked, “Do either of you know a man named Al Bertrand?”

  “Why do you ask?” Marion said.

  “Because he helped me on my ill-fated sojourn this morning. Even sprang to treat me to a cup of coffee.”

  “That was nice from a stranger.”

  “The name’s familiar,” Andrea said. “I think George may know him.”

  “Check it out for me if you would. It’s nice to know there are Good Samaritans in the neighborhood.” I extracted the business card from my pocket and looked at it. “He’s a lawyer and has an office on Washington Boulevard.”

  “That’s right,” Andrea said. “He’s assisted George with some business dealings.”

  “I’ll be damned. Can you believe it? A lawyer who helps people.”

  Marion patted my arm. “Not all lawyers are the villains you always make them out to be. You even have a friend in Hawaii who’s a retired attorney and judge.”

  I shook my head. “Will wonders never cease?”

  * * * * *

  Back at the place where I had woken up earlier, Marion explained to me the details of my new life. “My daughter Andrea and I went to breakfast with some friends of hers so I let you sleep in. And obviously you didn’t read your journal this morning.”

  “What journal?”

  “The one on your nightstand.”

  I waddled into the bedroom. My pajama tops rested on the nightstand. Underneath I found a nice leather-bound diary which I proceeded to read.

  Damn. What a life I led. I felt like a voyeur peeking into someone else’s world. Could all these things be happening to me? I didn’t know if I was a criminal or a victim.

  I felt like a little lost boy . . . just like the time I had wandered off into the hills of San Mateo as a child of seven. At first I had a wonderful time listening to the chirping of birds and chasing squirrels, but then I discovered I didn’t know my way back. I remembered that sinking feeling, much like I experienced now. Back then, fortunately, I came to a clearing and spotted a dirt road that led me back to civilization. Now, Marion was my road and guide, built into one. I counted my blessings for her assistance and decided to keep working to solve this art-dealer conundrum.

  When I moseyed back to the living room, Marion was reading a newspaper. She looked up. “We need to do something in case you get lost again.”

  “Do you want to give me a homing pigeon or a long string?”

  “No. But at least some directions. If you were really lost where would you look for information about yourself?”

  “I’d check my wallet first.”

  “Okay. I’ll write up a note you can keep in your wallet to call me. I’ll include our phone number and address.”

  “Then all I have to remember is to look in my wallet.”

  She wrote the information on a piece of paper, trimmed it with a pair of shears and handed it to me to stash away in my billfold.

  With that set, the odds of me finding my way home increased a percentage point or two.

  I cleared my throat. “Now this matter of the police breathing down my neck because of some murders. Anything new I should know?”

  “You’ve kept your journal current. There’s an art gallery showing the day after tomorrow that you want to attend. I’ll have to trust you on your own as I promised to go with George and Andrea to a band camp concert Austin is in. He plays the trumpet.”

  “I’m musical too. I pla
y the radio.”

  Marion glared at me, and then her face relaxed. “Oh, I was supposed to remind you to call our friend Meyer.”

  “Yeah, according to my journal, he lives in Hawaii and I read stories to him.”

  “He’d love to hear from you. Why don’t you grab your short-story book and give him a call?”

  “Why not?”

  I retrieved the O. Henry collection and punched in the phone number that Marion showed me in an address book. I asked for Meyer Ohana, and when a man’s voice came on the line I said, “Is this the poop who is older than dirt just like me?”

  “Paul, you called again.”

  “Damn right. You can’t get rid of me. I found a note, and my bride reminded me to call you to read a short story. So I’m armed with my short-story collection and raring to relate an O. Henry adventure to you.”

  “By the way, I sent you something to pay off our wager.”

  “That’s right. I whupped your butt in our little bet. Good thing I wrote it down in my journal.”

  “I should have conspired with Marion to eliminate that page of your diary. Then I could have neglected sending it, and you never would have known.”

  “True, but you’re an honorable gentleman, and you would have known. I’m sure it would have played heavily on your conscience.”

  He snickered. “You have me pegged. I wouldn’t shirk my obligations.”

  “I can almost taste that chocolate now. There’s nothing as good as something sweet, won fair and square.”

  “My betting career is over, now that my debt is paid.”

  “And I won’t even report you to the Retired Judges of Hawaii Anti-Gambling Committee.”

  “Remind me to never bet against you, Paul. With your ability to attract women and escape murder allegations I should have known better.”

  “I got lucky. If only my luck would change concerning Detective Quintana, I’d be set. Now, are we just going to chitchat, or shall I read you a story?”

  “With an offer like that how can I refuse? I’m all ears.”

  “Any requests?”

  “Pick out something colorful.”