Court Trouble

by Mike Befeler

  CHAPTER 6

  Late Saturday, Mark’s fingers ran over the keyboard of his computer.

  Sophie came into his office. “Just a reminder that we have the benefit show at the Dairy this evening. One hour warning. There’s some soup and salad waiting for you in the kitchen.”

  Mark looked up. “I’d forgotten. Give me ten minutes. I’ll wrap up.”

  He completed the search he had initiated, wrote a few notes to remind himself when he next continued with his research, and sauntered into the kitchen to have his light meal.

  Sophie brought a bowl of split-pea soup over to the kitchen table.

  Mark shook some ranch dressing onto his salad. “I hope this isn’t a dress-up affair,” he said.

  “You could wear a tie, but you don’t have to.”

  “I suppose I can’t show up in a sweat suit.”

  “No. But a nice sweater would be okay.”

  Mark had worn a tie twice in the last three years, both times at weddings. Early in his career he’d worn a suit and tie every workday, but when he started his own company, he let the ties collect dust in his closet. It was one of the advantages of a small, startup company.

  Mark grabbed a pair of pants and a shirt and completed dressing in five minutes, only to have to wait in the living room for Sophie to finish primping.

  She appeared in a short black dress, laced with shimmering gold thread.

  He admired her well-formed legs and whistled. “You look great.”

  “Thank you, sir. You don’t look too bad yourself, for a retired entrepreneur.”

  After they drove off, Sophie said, “Remember how we had discussed a trip to Maui?”

  “Yeah, and then the little distraction of prostate cancer occurred.”

  Sophie patted his arm. “Now that you’re on the mend, we should pick a date and make plans.”

  “Some time over the holiday season?”

  “No. We’ll want to either go down to Norm’s or have them come up here. And maybe we can convince Audrey to come to Colorado for the holidays.”

  Mark thought of his two children, grown and off on their own. He felt that longing to see them. Norm lived in Colorado Springs, but Mark hadn’t taken a trip down to see him since the surgery. Norm had been up to visit him in the hospital, but that wasn’t the right kind of occasion to really catch up on things. Audrey had also flown out at that time. He should visit her in Los Angeles one of these days. “You’re right. A Christmas family reunion would be nice.”

  “But January or February for Maui might work out,” Sophie said.

  “I wouldn’t mind a calm stay on the beach, sunning and snorkeling.” Mark thought back to their last vacation, a Caribbean cruise a year ago. Just the two of them. And a few passionate nights when they had contributed to the roll of the ship. He wondered if that would be possible again.

  “Well, let’s give it some more thought, and I’ll start checking out hotels in a few weeks or so.”

  When they arrived at the Dairy Center for the Performing Arts, no open parking spaces remained in the lot so they had to park two blocks away. Mark put his arm around Sophie as they walked, and she snuggled up close against him.

  The exterior of the building consisted of institutional, white-painted brick, complemented by a series of sculptures outside the door: a colorful modern art totem pole, a metal bench adorned with flying dragon fish and a metal wire contraption that looked like a seated person with a pig’s head. Mark shook his head. He didn’t understand art.

  Many years ago this building had been a working dairy plant, putting milk into glass bottles and, at a later date, cartons. When the Watts-Hardy Dairy moved to a more modern facility, the company donated the old building to the city to be converted into an arts center. As funds were raised, more performance spaces had been added to the facility. Tonight, one partially completed area held folding chairs, and a wooden platform had been installed as a stage. Rental sound equipment stood on both sides of the room.

  Mark and Sophie left their coats on a rack in the lobby and mingled with the crowd of several hundred people already assembled.

  Sophie immediately waved to some friends and joined their group. Mark said hello to some people he vaguely remembered and started looking around frantically for some way to escape. He saw a dessert bar along the back wall of the room, so he excused himself and scampered over to pick out something chocolate.

  Ahead of him in line stood a very attractive woman. She looked like a model, probably mid-thirties, flowing blond hair, excellent figure, low-cut dress. She seemed to be alone so Mark struck up a conversation with her.

  “Do you come to the Dairy Center often?” he asked.

  She turned her head, and her hair flowed like in one of those shampoo commercials. She had full lips, elegant, dark eyes and cleavage that took his breath away.

  “Yes. I’m on the Dairy board. My husband and I participated in the planning for the upcoming renovations.”

  Mark smiled at the lilt of her southern accent. “I’ve never attended an event here before.” He looked around the room. “The place has . . . potential.”

  She laughed. “That’s an understatement. This room lacks any charm, but it will be a world-class performance space when completed.”

  Mark helped himself to a piece of German chocolate cake. “By the way, let me introduce myself—Mark Yeager.”

  “Cheryl Idler.” She reached out her hand.

  Mark resisted the urge to gawk. He grasped her hand. A firm, warm handshake.

  “Are you related to Ken Idler?”

  “Yes, he’s my husband.”

  “Is he here tonight?”

  She shook her head. “No, he’s on a business trip to Central America. He’ll be back tomorrow. Do you know him?”

  Mark’s mind raced a mile a minute. “I know of him. I understand he runs a successful import-export business.”

  Cheryl looked at Mark warily. “Yes, he’s very good at what he does.”

  “Are you involved in the business at all?”

  “No. I leave that to Ken. My interests rest with the arts. Like this center.”

  “I also play platform tennis. I’ve seen your husband at the courts. It’s a shame what happened to Manny Grimes.”

  Now Cheryl raised her eyebrows. “You knew Manny?”

  “Yes. I played platform tennis with him. I’m surprised your husband can travel out of the country. I thought he was a suspect.”

  “He had to request special permission from the Boulder police. He has a business to run.”

  “It still floors me that someone would murder a nice guy like Manny.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t such a nice guy,” Cheryl said as her mouth twitched.

  “It sounds like your husband might have had some differences with Manny.”

  Cheryl clenched the plate in her hand. “Manny hid behind his veneer. He fooled a lot of people.”

  “I certainly didn’t pick up on that. Can you be more specific?”

  They had come to the end of the dessert buffet. Cheryl picked up a fork and smiled at Mark. “It’s been interesting talking with you. I need to rejoin the other board members.”

  With that she turned away.

  Damn attractive woman, Mark thought as he watched her feline grace.

  At that moment Sophie appeared.

  “Trying to pick up beautiful blondes?”

  “You’re all the beautiful blonde I can handle.”

  “And your new friend?”

  “You’ll never guess who she is.”

  “I know her. She’s an ex−Miss America runner-up.”

  “Really?” Mark exclaimed, surprised. “She also happens to be the wife of one of the suspects in the Manny Grimes murder.”

  “Great. In addition to following attractive women, you’re still messing around with the murder.”

  “I’m off-duty now,” Mark said, giving Sophie’s hand a squeeze. “Let’s find a seat.”

  They enjoyed a progr
am of musical numbers from hit Broadway shows. The entertainment included several Broadway performers who had grown up in Boulder.

  On the way home it suddenly hit Mark that Cheryl Idler had hinted at some issue with Manny and then had avoided discussing it further. He had to find out more.

  On Monday evening Mark arrived at the public safety building.

  The middle-aged, paunchy lobby guard escorted him up to the meeting room.

  Opening the door, Mark surveyed the chamber, which reminded him of a padded cell. It smelled like a locker room.

  He sat down next to Ben Quentin.

  Ben whispered in his ear, “If you want to make a statement, there’s a sign-up sheet by the podium.”

  Mark strode to a wooden table, covered with grooved gashes that looked like an angry detainee had attacked it with a screwdriver. He added his name to the list.

  The Parks and Recreation Advisory Board meeting started promptly at six. Mark scanned the agenda and saw that the platform tennis question wasn’t scheduled until eight thirty-five. As the meeting droned on, he realized that it would be nine before his topic of interest would be discussed. After a heated debate for an hour on whether to install gravel around the city soccer fields, Mark extended his estimate to the tune of a growling stomach.

  With his head nodding, he jolted upright when the moderator announced that the platform tennis topic would be next.

  The recreation administrator began by presenting the plans to the board: “The expansion of the North Boulder Recreation Center building will consume the space currently occupied by two platform tennis courts. We have two alternatives to consider: move within the current property or eliminate the courts. We recommend relocation.” He showed drawings of the proposed new site along with the accompanying budget quotes. Then the moderator opened the meeting for comments from interested parties.

  First, a platform tennis advocate gave a three-minute summary of working with a committee of nearby residents to develop a design that minimized noise and light pollution.

  Then a woman in a tie-dye dress and accompanying headband went to the podium. “These people are elitist and are disrupting our neighborhood with their noisy game that sounds like jumping on a metal drum. I can’t look out my window without the glare of lights at night, and with the recreation center expansion if the courts are moved, my children won’t have park space to play in anymore.”

  Ben leaned over and whispered to Mark, “Right. That park is heaped so full of dog shit right now that a kid wouldn’t dare play in it.”

  The woman tugged at the hem of her skirt and straightened her headband. “This so-called sport brings troublemakers into our neighborhood. We don’t want murderers wandering our streets.”

  Mark bolted upright in his seat and grabbed Ben’s arm. “Of all the nerve! They are using the murder against us.”

  The woman rambled on. “These people should get a life. It’s just a sport. Don’t let this small group of undesirables destroy our community. I ask the parks board to honor the greater interest of Boulder and remove this disruptive activity.”

  Shouts of encouragement reverberated from her supporters as she left the podium.

  Mark wanted to kick the seat in front of him. When the moderator called his name to make a statement, he took a deep breath. Grabbing the agenda on the back of which he had scribbled some notes, he clambered up to the microphone.

  “Thank you. This debate concerns conflicting rights, the rights of the neighbors versus the rights of the community of platform tennis players. We aren’t asking for anything new, only the continuation of a resource that many Boulder citizens actively enjoy.”

  Mark looked at the faces of the parks board members. One man in coat and tie smiled at him. Three other men and two women sat impassively. He grasped the lectern and flinched with pain. He watched a drop of blood fall to the worn wood surface. He looked at his left thumb and saw a large, imbedded splinter. He let out a breath and regained his focus.

  “I understand the concern of the neighbors, but the relocated courts, as planned by the recreation center, will be quieter and have less visible light. People living near a recreation center have an advantage and a disadvantage. The advantage being that they have easy access to an outstanding recreation facility. The disadvantage is that other people use it.”

  Mark scanned the collection of supporting and antagonistic faces in the auditorium. He returned his gaze to the board members.

  “Common sense should prevail. Don’t take away a valued resource enjoyed by many Boulder citizens. Please keep the courts at the North Boulder Rec Center.”

  As Mark returned to his seat, he heard a smattering of applause from his supporters and witnessed the glares from the contingent of hostile neighbors. He sat down and sucked on his injured thumb.

  The board moderator leaned toward the microphone. “This concludes the public comments. We will decide tonight to recommend for or against the North Boulder location of the platform tennis courts. That recommendation will then be passed on to the Boulder Planning Board for review.”

  Mark jerked his head toward Ben. “You mean the issue isn’t going to be settled tonight?”

  “No, it’s a three-step process. First, the parks board, then the planning board and finally the city council.”

  Mark sat up straight. “So we have to keep fighting this battle.”

  “You got it, soldier.”

  CHAPTER 7

  On Tuesday evening the partners waited for Shelby at Vic’s before their platform tennis game. Shelby finally arrived ten minutes late.

  “What happened this time?” Mark asked.

  “I had to stop to check the pressure in my tires. I want to take all necessary steps to achieve the best mileage with my new car.”

  “Couldn’t you have done that earlier in the day?” Woody asked.

  “Oh, I did. But I’m checking each time I drive,” Shelby replied, looking smug.

  Ben jumped in. “Our man Mark gave a speech at the park board meeting last night.”

  “So Mark really bored them,” Woody said.

  “That doesn’t even rate a groan, Woody,” Shelby said. “I’m sorry I missed it. I was too busy to attend.”

  “I understand we won the first round,” Woody said.

  “So far so good,” Ben continued. “The board agreed four to two to recommend keeping the courts at North Boulder Rec. One of the members who voted against us said she would fight it at the next level. Good to see such a unified board.”

  “What’s the next step?” Woody asked.

  “A week from Thursday there will be a hearing before the planning board,” Ben said. “That will be the tough one. They care about land use and will be inclined to accommodate the arguments of the neighbors.”

  Mark had been listening thoughtfully. He now raised his head. “Enough concerning our civics lesson. Let’s take a checkpoint. Woody, what dirt did you uncover on Howard Roscoe?”

  Woody ran his right hand through the sparse hair on the side of his head. “Roscoe’s an ex-Marine and gun salesman. Not your typical tofu-eating, protect-the-prairie-dogs Boulder resident. I played platform tennis against him once. He peered at me with steely eyes and drilled the ball right into my chest. No remorse. Just an evil grin.”

  “Even more than Daggett, he’s the suspect I’d put my money on,” Ben said. “Minutes after he arrives, he starts an argument, so the game stops and they’re all close together at the net. Then bang, the lights go out and whack, Manny does a nose dive.”

  “I’ve reached the same conclusion,” Mark added. “The timing appeared too convenient.”

  “It’s possible,” Woody said, scratching his chin. “But the police would have arrested him by now if it were that simple. One other interesting item regarding Howard Roscoe. He may be dealing in illegal arms, and he sold guns from his company, Westerfield Weapons, to Manny Grimes. Maybe Manny knew too much.”

  “Why did Manny buy weapons from Roscoe?” Mark aske
d.

  “I don’t know,” Woody replied. “Something we’ll have to investigate.”

  “So Roscoe exhibits the slimy characteristics of the rest of them and has a potential motive to do away with Manny,” Mark said. “Shelby, have you found out anything about Ken Idler?”

  Shelby smirked. “I’m happy to report that I took the bull by the horns and am now a full-fledged investigator. I had my teaching assistant spend yesterday doing research for me. Here’s what I found out.” With a flick of the wrist, he plucked some notes out of his sweat-suit pocket. “First, Ken Idler, fifty years old, owns an import-export business called Idler Enterprises. Once divorced and now married to a trophy wife, Cheryl, prominent in the local social scene.”

  “I met her at a party on Saturday,” Mark interrupted. “Very attractive. Sharp. Not a blonde bimbo.”

  “You’re not picking up other people’s wives are you, Mark?” Ben said with a wink.

  Shelby furrowed his brow. “Will you two let me continue?”

  “Sure, Shelby,” Ben said. “Wow us with your findings.”

  “The Federal Trade Commission investigated Idler Enterprises two years ago. Ken even received a subpoena regarding deceptive practices, but the charges were dropped.”

  “That’s a good start,” Ben said. “I’ve watched him play platform tennis. He loves to goad people. Drives Jacob Fish nuts with his harassing comments.”

  “Ken has nicknames for people,” Woody added. “He calls Howard Roscoe ‘Howie,’ which he hates.”

  “I remember hearing him refer to Jacob Fish as ‘Fishcakes’ and Lee Daggett as ‘Animal,’ ” Shelby said.

  “Idler plays a decent game but appears much more interested in what happens between points,” Ben said. “Usually has one or more of his opponents irate before completing the second game of the first set. Stays cool himself as he dispassionately watches his opponents unravel.”

  “Any more?” Mark asked, turning back to Shelby.

  “I’ll say,” Shelby said as a smile crept across his face. “I talked to Ken in person this morning.”

  “What?” Ben shouted.

  “Yes, my TA set up an appointment for me at Ken’s office on the Pearl Street mall. Small, basement suite.”