by Mike Befeler
Quintana cleared his throat and stared at me. “He was known as Muddy Murphy.”
“Oh.”
“As I was saying, you found his body also at Saint Andrew’s Church and were implicated because your fingerprints were discovered on the murder weapon.”
“But Clint Brock set me up. He had overheard me talking about Harold Koenig’s death and the candleholders.”
Quintana held his hand up. “I know, Mr. Jacobson. I’m just recounting the facts. That murder was also the work of Clint Brock.”
“Whew,” I said. “I’m glad we’re in agreement on that.”
“And I used to think Clint was such a nice man,” Marion said, shaking her head.
“You wouldn’t if you had been tied up, had pills stuffed down your gullet and been shot at by him,” I said. “Brock knocked off Muddy because he wanted the value of both the fake and real paintings to increase in value.”
“Yes,” Quintana said. “And also because Mr. Murphy was threatening to destroy Brock’s collection.”
“So Brock did him in before he could ruin any paintings.”
“Exactly.”
“What happened to Brock’s two confederates, the art dealers from Beverly Hills and Long Beach?”
Quintana chuckled. “Oh, yes. Louis Autry and Harvey Milligan.”
“So that was Harvey’s last name.”
“We arrested Mr. Autry last night and Mr. Milligan early this morning. They both confessed to their part in the money-laundering scheme and agreed to testify against Mr. Brock in order to lessen their sentences for accessory to murder.”
“Excellent. I’m glad to hear they sang like tweetie birds.”
“So, Mr. Jacobson, your tip to me concerning money laundering was right on the money.”
“And here I thought you didn’t believe anything I said.”
“I’m just a natural skeptic.”
“But I’m glad you checked it out.”
“There’s another thing I think you’ll appreciate, Mr. Jacobson.”
“I’m in an appreciating kind of way today, Detective, so fire away.”
He smiled and his mustache still didn’t twitch. “Thanks to your foresight in calling the police when you were approached to put money into the automobile-sweepstakes scam, we were able to trace the marked money you handed to the courier.”
“Good work, Detective.”
“The money was consolidated with other payments and used to purchase a painting at the gallery of Louis Autry in Beverly Hills.”
“The same guy you arrested last night.”
“The very one. And since we had a search warrant for the sweepstakes sting, we seized Autry’s records early this morning as well. The painting that was sold was painted by Muddy Murphy.”
“Imagine that.”
Quintana gave me a sideways glance and chuckled. “You can’t fool me, you sly old fox.”
“Definitely old, Detective. Definitely old.”
“Autry’s records show that the painting had been purchased from the gallery owned by Harvey Milligan in Long Beach.”
“The short, round guy who assisted Brock in kidnapping me last night.”
“The same. And one final piece of evidence you will appreciate. When we searched Brock’s records this morning as a result of a friendly judge’s quick warrant, we discovered a transaction selling that same painting from Brock’s gallery to Milligan’s gallery.”
“And the chain is complete. Well done, Detective.”
“I just wish we could have shut down the operation before all the killing started.”
“At least they are all locked up now. And, Detective, if it will be any help to you in building your case, I spoke with two art dealers who used to have galleries in Venice Beach and were driven out of business by Brock’s shady dealings.”
“Give me the names and I’ll follow up immediately.”
I searched through my room and found the note with the phone numbers for both Farquart and Rouen. I handed it to Quintana. “Here, Detective. They will enjoy hearing from you.”
He looked at the names and tucked the paper in his pocket. “Another matter, Mr. Jacobson. From the comment you made last night, we tracked down a dispatcher who had been feeding information to Brock. She’s now under arrest.”
“Well done.”
Quintana raised an eyebrow. “And concerning the briefcase you found on the jetty by the beach.”
I thought back to my journal. “And I pointed out a suspect to one of your police officers.”
“That’s right. And he turned out to be the guilty party.”
“So what the hell was that guy up to anyway?”
“We determined that he was part of an ecoterrorist plot. We found his prints as well as yours on the briefcase handle. He wanted to disrupt the concert in order to keep the beach less crowded. He thought people would stop holding and attending such events with a little explosion.”
“But he could have killed quite a few people along the way.”
“Yeah. Apparently he had second thoughts. That’s why he was searching among the rocks when you spotted him. Anyway, he’s safely locked up, and the suitcase was detonated by the bomb squad.”
“That’s a relief,” Marion said.
“Yes, Mrs. Jacobson, your husband helped us a great deal. With the automobile-sweepstakes fraud resolved, fewer elderly people will be swindled.”
“Watch who you call elderly,” I said.
“My views on aging have significantly changed since I’ve met you, Mr. Jacobson. In spite of your memory, you’re an active, robust, contributing citizen.”
Marion gave me a hug. “You’re absolutely correct, Detective.”
“So it sounds like I’m clear of all charges and ready to head off to Alaska with my beautiful bride.”
“Not quite, Mr. Jacobson. There’s still the matter of fishing for grunion without a license.” He tapped his fingers on the armrest of the chair.
“You’re not going to hold that against me with all these major crimes solved?”
Quintana shook his head. “In fact I tried to have the charges dropped because of everything you had done, but the fish and game division was adamant. They would make no exception. So I paid your fine.” He pulled a rolled document out of his coat pocket. “Here’s a present for you, Mr. Jacobson.” He stood up, stepped over to the couch and handed me the paper.
I opened it to find a receipt indicating that my fine had been paid in full.
“Well, thank you, Detective.”
“Paul, we’ll have to frame it and add it to your other memorabilia on the dresser.”
I looked toward Quintana. “I guess I’m going to miss you and your twitching mustache, Detective, not that I’d remember you tomorrow if I didn’t read my journal.”
Marion whispered in my ear. “You never know. You might get lucky and be able to remember tomorrow.”
I felt all warm and tingly inside. Maybe my old body would be put to the test tonight.
“One last thing, Detective. I understand a homeless man outside Theobault’s office helped identify Clint Brock and his gang entering and leaving the building last night.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I thought you couldn’t remember overnight?”
“I can’t. But this morning when I woke up, I read it in my journal. I must have been so hyped up last night after all the festivities that I wrote down everything that had happened.”
He shook his head like trying to rid himself of a fly that had landed on his forehead. “Yes, a homeless man who sleeps on Windward Circle witnessed the comings and goings.”
“What’s his name?”
“He had no ID. But the officer on that beat told me everyone refers to him as Old Ollie.”
“Thanks, Detective. I’ll have to show him my appreciation.”
Quintana stood up, and we shook hands.
After he left, I dropped into an easy chair, feeling like a heavy weight had been removed from my shoulders. I was a free man
. After all the crap Detective Quintana had given me, he turned out to be a nice fellow. And there were no accusations left for anyone to harass me over. I could resume the life of Riley.
“What are you going to do with yourself now?” Marion asked.
“Nothing. I’m looking forward to being a lazy slob for a few days.”
She bent over and kissed my forehead. “I can’t see you doing that.”
I sighed. “I suppose you’re right. But it sure is a relief not having the police breathing down my neck.”
Marion put her hand to her cheek. “Oh, I meant to tell you, Paul. Something came for you in the mail yesterday.” She reached on top of an end table and handed me a package.
“What could this be?” I asked.
“It has Meyer Ohana’s return address. Why don’t you open it?”
I tore away the wrapping and found a box of chocolate-covered macadamia nuts with a note that read: “Here’s the box of chocolates I owe you for the bet we placed on the O. Henry story.”
“I’ll be damned,” I said to Marion. “I wrote about this in my journal, but I didn’t think any more about it. Meyer and I made a bet, and I won a box of candy. Have a piece.”
We pigged out on the treats, and then I snapped my fingers. “I better give Meyer a call. I need to thank him for upholding his end of the wager and to read him a story.”
“And I forgot to remind you to phone him,” Marion said.
“There you go. I’ll have to watch you to make sure you don’t end up with soggy brain cells like mine.”
Marion laughed. “I’m not worried about that. You’re in charge of the interesting mental traits for this family.”
I found a phone number and Meyer’s name taped to the phone stand, and I punched in the digits.
When Meyer came on the line, I said, “Is this the Hawaiian representative for Geriatrics Anonymous?”
“Paul, you haven’t forgotten me after all.”
“Actually I did for a while. But I received a box of chocolate-covered macadamia nuts from some reformed gambler in Hawaii, and it jogged the old brain. Thanks for the goodies.”
“You’re welcome. I guess I should know better than to bet against someone who successfully wooed Marion and escaped from numerous murder allegations.”
“Speaking of which, I’m a free man again.”
“You mean Marion got tired of you and kicked you out?”
“No, you old poop. I’m free of criminal accusations. The bad guy’s arrested, and I’m no longer on the Most Wanted List. My bride and I are free to sail off into the sunset in Alaska.”
“No grass grows under your feet.”
“Hell, no. I’m a vigorous old codger even if I can’t remember squat. How are things with your new girlfriend?”
“She and I are still having the same chat about her grandkids every morning.”
“To move things along I’ve selected an O. Henry story for you called ‘The Exact Science of Matrimony.’ ”
“That sounds foreboding.”
“Hell, I don’t know what it’s about. I just like the title.”
I proceeded to read the story of Jeff and Andy who work up a scam to collect money from men who woo a widow named Mrs. Trotter. They planned to abscond with the money, but in the meantime provided some of it for Mrs. Trotter to hold in good faith. Mrs. Trotter fell in love with one of the suitors and gave him two thousand dollars of the duo’s collected money. Jeff thought the two thousand dollars was lost, but Andy handed Jeff the money at the end of the story. He had disguised himself as a suitor and “protected” the money.
“O. Henry had a devious mind,” Meyer said.
“Either that or he didn’t trust women.”
“Having had his own encounter with the law, his stories often involve a crime.”
“Given my own involvement with the more hardened criminal element lately, I’d prefer gentle conniving to what I’ve been through. Although I did see the backside of a scam that was cheating old relics like us. I helped put a stop to it.”
“Paul, you never cease to amaze me, solving crimes, getting married. What can’t you do?”
“I can’t remember yesterday.”
There was a pause on the line. “I guess we all have our deficiencies.”
“Damn right. Now, did the story provide any inspiration of the matrimonial sort?”
“No. I’m going to continue my repeated conversations and just leave it at that.”
“Too bad. Maybe you two could find ways to help each other like Marion helps me with my memory.”
“I doubt that. You just happen to have a very perverse set of wiring in your brain.”
“That’s for sure. Well, I’ll sign off now and let you return to your grandkid discussions.”
After I hung up the phone, my mind churned on all the recent events. I couldn’t complain of boredom. My life was certainly filled with interesting and challenging events. Retirement provided more activity than I had ever expected. At least I knew what was in store for me next: a trip to the forty-ninth state. That would be calm and relaxing. I could watch whales, see beautiful forests and glaciers, eat good food and not have to worry myself over murders. I pictured myself on a deck chair wrapped up in blankets, viewing icebergs floating by. Damn. I hoped the name of the ship wasn’t the Titanic. With my luck, my tranquil cruise would turn into some weird adventure. But enough of that kind of thinking. I had some final planning to do with my bride, and then we’d be ready for the Alaskan wilderness. Bring on the eagles, bears and salmon.
Marion told me to read the cruise brochure and start thinking about which shore excursions we should select. Then she went over to George and Andrea’s house, to see if she could rustle up a frame for my fishing fine receipt.
I sat back down feeling both sad and relieved. I would not be seeing Detective Quintana again, but the cloud of all these accusations was removed from above my gray head.
I picked up the brochure which described panning for gold, salmon bakes, city tours, railway rides, a lumberjack show, helicopter rides, a zipline through a rain forest, fishing, whale watching, kayaking—you name it. That was too much for my befuddled brain, so I put the brochure down and almost dozed off, catching myself in time so as not to do the Jacobson reset.
Marion sauntered in with my document under glass in a wooden frame and held it up for me to see.
“Come with me,” she said.
“With an invitation like that, how can I resist?”
I extracted myself from the couch and followed her into the bedroom.
Marion placed the frame on the dresser, and I admired my trophies: a monarch butterfly collection, a picture of the Boulder County jail and this receipt for a paid fishing violation.
“All your souvenirs from helping solve crimes in Hawaii, Boulder and now Venice Beach.”
“I’ve been quite the world traveler.”
“And you’ve helped a number of detectives along the way.”
“Just think if I’d started this crime spree as a young man.”
“It’s a good thing you waited until your eighties. We’d have no room in our bedroom.”
“As long as there’s room for you, Marion.”
We hugged, and I felt an arousal send a surge through my body. Damn, it was nice having such a good woman married to me.
We disengaged.
“Now,” she said. “The shore excursions.”
I saluted. “Yes, General.”
Marion grabbed the cruise brochure, and we reviewed all the options, settling on visiting the Mendenhall Glacier in Juneau, the White Pass Railway in Skagway, a rain forest and whale-watching excursion in Ketchikan and the Butchart Gardens in Victoria.
She sighed. “That will be a lovely trip. I can’t wait to see Alaska.”
“Yes. I have my life planned for me with no dead bodies and no Detective Quintana. That will be quite a change. By the way, where are we staying in Seattle before we sail?”
“I
t’s a nice older hotel called the Lincoln.”
“That’s good, because I’m a nice older guy.”
“You are.” Marion kissed me on the cheek.
Just then the telephone rang so I picked it up.
“Hello, Grandpa.”
“Is this my long-lost granddaughter?”
“I’m not lost. I’m right here in Boulder.”
“And I’m right here in Venice Beach. What’s up?”
“I’m calling to see how things are going with the art dealers.”
“Swimmingly. They’re all locked up, and your grandpa is a free man again.”
“Cool. Now you and Marion can go on the cruise.”
“Exactly. We have the itinerary all planned. Alaska will never be the same again.” I thought back to what I had read in my journal. “And thanks for the work you did on your computer. Between you and Austin, we tracked down the leads I needed to clear my good name. And by the way, Austin isn’t a jerk anymore.”
“I know that, Grandpa. We’ve been text messaging each other.”
“What the hell is text messaging?”
“Oh, Grandpa. You’re so behind the times. It’s the best way to communicate. We send each other messages on cell phones. I don’t have my own yet, but Mom lets me borrow hers.”
“What’s wrong with telephone calls or writing letters or even coming to visit?”
“I’m hoping my folks will bring me out to see Austin . . . and you.”
“Wait a minute. I sense a little change in priorities here.”
There was a pause on the line. “As you said, Austin isn’t a jerk anymore.”
“I’d love to see you, so you drag your mom and dad out here as soon as you can.”
With Alexander Graham Bell overused, I hung up feeling proud at how well my granddaughter had turned out and that she and Austin were now friends. I watched the phone to see if it would ring again. What a world. Computers, cell phones and art dealers. Oh, well. Somehow I would survive . . . for the time being anyway.
Chapter 24
That afternoon the phone rang and I answered to hear a male voice say, “This is Pieter Rouen. May I speak to Paul Jacobson?”
“This is Paul.”
“Mr. Jacobson. I got a call earlier today from a detective in Los Angeles. He asked questions about Clint Brock, just as you did recently. He told me that Brock has been arrested and that the Vansworthy, Theobault and Brock galleries will all have new ownership.”
