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

  I stood up. “Watch out for headless horsemen and pumpkins,” I said. Then I turned my back on him and walked away.

  Man, what a crazy place.

  * * * * *

  When I returned to my room, I located the journal Meyer had mentioned. There was a big hairy-ass note on top that I had missed before.

  I read all the pages.

  What a mess. No wonder Farns wanted to ship my butt out on the next flight. I’d got myself tangled up in a murder as well as this recently reported burglary. From circumstantial evidence, I looked guilty as hell. I’d picked up the money box yesterday, so that explained why my fingerprints were on it. Then I’d been in front of the business office on the second floor, arguing with Moki late at night, and the next morning the money’s gone. Shit. I needed a good lawyer, but I hated lawyers. Maybe Meyer could help out.

  No goons showed up to expel me and the horse I came in on, so I read a spy novel until I felt hungry. Then I headed back to the mess hall and found my two buddies at table eleven.

  “Did you read your journal after breakfast?” Meyer asked me.

  “Yeah. My brain cells are refreshed.”

  “You remember things fine during the day,” Meyer said. “You should be grateful for that.”

  “Yeah. I’m one friggin’ grateful guy.” I paused for a moment. “And by the way, they’re accusing me of the business office theft and threatening to kick me out of my mansion.”

  He dropped his fork onto his plate. “That’s ridiculous. They can’t do that.”

  “Seems I was in the wrong place at the wrong time again. This guy Farns wants me out. And a detective wants to put my ass in jail.”

  “Why don’t you confess and get it over with?” Henry said.

  I grabbed his shirt. “How’d you like a new set of teeth?”

  Meyer put his hand on my arm. “Calm down, Paul. I’ll talk to Farns. Worst case, he can’t get rid of you without notification.”

  “That’s encouraging,” I said.

  “The administration here has to follow a process to remove a resident,” Meyer said.

  “I apparently just moved in here, don’t even know much about the place, and they’re trying to kick my ass out.”

  “Good riddance,” Henry said.

  “Watch it, Henry,” I said. “If I’m this vicious, thieving murderer, you might be next.”

  He choked on his BLT sandwich, so I whacked him on the back. This caused him to cough more.

  “Before you go around insulting people, maybe you better learn how to swallow,” I said.

  He caught his breath, gave me a deer-in-the-headlights stare, and went back to munching on his sandwich.

  “So much for serious dialogue with Henry,” I said.

  “He’s not much of a conversationalist,” Meyer said.

  “That’s an understatement. It’s like speaking to a doorknob.” I rubbed Henry’s bald head and then turned toward Meyer. “So, counselor, pertaining to my case? Will I be sleeping in the streets?”

  “Not to worry,” Meyer said. “It’s in good hands.”

  “You sound like all the shyster lawyers I’ve ever dealt with.”

  “Come on, Paul. We’re not all sharks.”

  “Yeah. Some are barracudas and moray eels.”

  “I’m glad you think so highly of the legal profession,” Meyer said.

  “I can’t stand lawyers. One set me up when I was in business, but you’re different.” I took a deep breath, figuring it was time to move on to something else. “What did you do for hobbies before getting locked up here?”

  “There’s one thing I used to do. Letters to the editor.”

  “What crazy kind of hobby is that?”

  “I enjoyed taking shots at the incompetence of local government. There are so many stupid things our officials do. When something irritated me, I would write a letter to the editor of the local newspaper.”

  “Give me an example,” I said.

  “When I was still driving, there was a push to add speed bumps and traffic circles all over the section of lower Nuuanu were I lived. Proponents saw this as a way to slow traffic down. I pointed out that it kept cars on the street longer and increased pollution to say nothing of the additional expense to the city. Then they had the nerve to try to put these transportation prevention devices on the streets leading to Queens Hospital, the only hospital in our part of town. Fire trucks wouldn’t even have been able to get through.”

  “There’s a lot of emotion in your voice, Meyer.”

  He smiled. “I guess it goes back to my attorney days. I could get passionate when involved in a case.”

  “You still write these letters?”

  His smile faded. “No. You may not remember, but my eyesight is degrading, due to macular degeneration. I can read with a magnifying glass, things like labels on bottles, but it doesn’t work for writing letters or reading books. I’ve given that up. Now I’m learning Braille.”

  “That’s quite an undertaking. Particularly at your age.”

  “Probably true,” Meyer said. “A kid could pick it up easily. I have a nice young woman who works with me twice a week. Maybe a year from now I’ll be able to read a book in Braille, but writing legibly is something I’ll never be able to do again.”

  “You could dictate your letters to someone.”

  He shook his head. “That wouldn’t be the same. It was the thrill of grabbing a pen and dashing off a diatribe.”

  “You could still write it out even if you couldn’t read what you wrote,” I said.

  “But the letter had to get published in the newspaper. That was the whole point. I have a scrapbook full of my letters to the editor.”

  “What good is that if you can’t read them anymore?”

  “I know they were published,” Meyer said. “That’s enough.”

  “Seems like strange logic, but no weirder than the way Henry acts.”

  Meyer had circled the table and slapped me on the back, causing me to almost choke on a mouthful of coffee. “Welcome to the wonderful world of Kina Nani.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I may be the only normal person here. Except I can’t remember jack shit.”

  “Think of the positive side,” Meyer said. “We each have our own unique quirks.”

  “That’s so encouraging. I’ll be able to learn about them over and over again, every day.”

  “See. You never have to get bored.”

  “No,” I said. “Every day’s a brand new adventure in the land of decrepit old fossils.”

  * * * * *

  When I’d finished eating, I walked around the prison yard on my own, contemplating what Meyer had said about my memory. I needed to use the capabilities I had. Remembering during the day allowed me to collect clues to try to get Detective Saito off my back. I’d continue keeping an accurate journal. And I could remember practically word for word what I had read this morning. I still had a photographic memory! But every night someone pulled all the film out of the camera. Oh, well. As long as my memory didn’t crap out during the day, I could get by.

  I came to a stop, looked up, and assessed this new home of mine. Not exactly an intimate structure, with twelve stories, institutional construction, two wings off a central core. But I had to admit it was attractive in its own right with a huge monkey pod tree shading the dining area, which was enclosed by floor-to-ceiling glass windows.

  And the winding driveway leading up to the building was lined with hibiscus and plumeria, the bright white, pink, yellow, and orange flowers acting as cheerleader pom-poms to welcome visitors. And a sweet aroma of jasmine wafted by on a gentle breeze that tickled my arms. Behind the building, a green jungle provided a rustic backdrop. In the trees around me I could hear the cawing of myna birds and in the bushes sparrows hopped, and the occasional red head of a cardinal flashed its greeting.

  Maybe this place wasn’t so bad, after all.

  I should have known better than to get complacent.

  Chap
ter 7

  When I returned to my apartment, I found a note taped to my door. It read, “This is your official notification to vacate your room in thirty days.”

  I wadded the paper up and tossed it over the railing. I stormed inside, located a directory of resident phone numbers, and called Meyer. “I just received a love letter telling me to get ready to pack my bags.”

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  “You do that, counselor, or I’m firing your ass,” I said.

  “You can’t fire me. You’re not even paying me.”

  “I know. I like to talk that way to lawyers. And by the way, thanks for offering to help.”

  There was a pause on the line. “Paul, you’re not the crusty old curmudgeon you always pretend to be.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. I’m a big marshmallow. Don’t let the word get out.”

  After I hung up, I spotted the card with Detective Saito’s phone number on it. Why not? I decided to call him.

  While waiting for an administrator to track down Saito, I watched an ant crawl up the wall. Poor dumb ant. I could have reached out and squished him. Kind of like what Farns and Saito were trying to do to me.

  Finally, when I thought it must be getting close to dinner time, a deep male voice came on the line. “Yes, Mr. Jacobson.”

  “I discovered something about last night that I thought you should know.”

  “Memory coming back?”

  “No, but I found some notes. Turns out I went to the business office to get some change. The gal there asked me to lift the cash box up on the counter. That’s how my fingerprints got on it.”

  “How convenient.”

  “You don’t have to take my word for it,” I said. “Check with Helen in the office.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “And I was talking with the guard, Moki, late last night. He and I had a heated discussion, talking about the night of the murder. I’d check him out, Detective. He should be your prime suspect for both crimes.”

  “Trying to divert attention away from yourself?”

  “I’m just giving you my opinion. You can do whatever you want.” I slammed down the phone and then sat there stewing. This Detective Saito was convinced I was worse than a Colombian drug lord. Whatever I said, he twisted it around. And I knew he wasn’t after anyone else but me, so I’d have to be careful.

  Around this place people needed all kinds of external aids: walkers, oxygen tanks, hearing aids, teeth, and various bionic parts. One guy even had to carry a stomach bag around with him. Me, I had to have an external memory because the one I was given had crapped out. What a pisser.

  With nothing better to do, I decided to write up what happened so far that day. I reached for my journal.

  * * * * *

  Where was I? In a strange room. Something wasn’t right. I got up from bed, groggy. I was in Bermuda shorts and a tee shirt. I opened the curtains and looked outside. It was partially cloudy and I recognized the mountains. The shadows looked like it was later afternoon. I must have been taking a nap, but where the heck was I? I was in a building and I could see part of Kaneohe.

  There was a knock on the door.

  A young woman entered and smiled at me. “Mr. Jacobson, time for your medicine.”

  “What medicine? Who are you?”

  She opened a locked metal box on the counter by the sink.

  “Your afternoon pills. I’m Melanie.”

  “What is this place?”

  “You’re at Kina Nani. This is your new home.”

  “Home? I don’t remember moving here.”

  “You’ve only been here a few days.” She handed me a glass of water and three pills.

  “I have to swallow these horse pills?”

  “Twice a day.”

  I grimaced and managed to get them down without choking to death. “When can a guy get some grub around this place?” I asked.

  “Dinner starts in fifteen minutes.”

  “Where?”

  “On the second floor.”

  After she left, I washed my face and changed my clothes. I still didn’t get it. I was in some building I’d never seen before.

  I moseyed down the corridor and found an old couple waiting by the two elevators. They were holding hands. The woman smiled at me. “Elevator’s so slow at dinner time, Mr. Jacobson.” she said.

  I flinched. “You know me? Who are you?”

  The woman said, “We’re Helen and Albert Nakata. We met you a couple of days ago when you were moving into the Reynolds’s place. They had to go into a care home a week ago.”

  I had no clue what she was referring to. Then the elevator arrived.

  Getting off on the second floor, I followed the lovey-dovey couple to the mess hall, a big room full of tables with old people filing in. I scratched my head as I watched the scene of mass chaos.

  A comely young woman in a muumuu came over to me. “You’re at table eleven, Mr. Jacobson.”

  I nodded and found a sign with “11” on it. This was getting spooky. People here seemed to know me, but I had no clue who they were. I pulled out one of the three chairs and sat down.

  I was munching away at my Caesar salad when two men approached the table. The short bald one with glasses said, “You’re in my chair.”

  I looked at his poorly shaved face. “Yeah. Who says so?”

  The other man with white hair and a white beard jumped in. “Henry is very particular regarding where he sits.”

  “Well, I don’t know who the blazes Henry is, and he can sit anywhere he wants, except in my lap.”

  “Uh, oh,” the white-haired man said. “Paul, you’ve forgotten everything again.”

  I slammed my fork down on the table. “This is starting to bug me. You know my name, but I don’t know who you are.”

  He sighed. “I’m Meyer Ohana and this is Henry Palmer. We sit with you each meal. Your short-term memory is shot and you keep forgetting. What did you do this afternoon?”

  “I don’t remember,” I said. “I woke up from a nap and I’m in this nut house where strange people know my name.”

  Meyer laughed. “That explains it. You went to sleep and did a reset, like when the power goes out, and the VCR clock starts flashing.”

  Henry piped in. “I want my chair.”

  I stood up ready to clock the asshole, but Meyer grabbed my arm.

  “Easy,” Meyer said. “Henry has problems. Just switch seats.”

  “You can have your goddamn chair,” I said. “You can also have your half-eaten salad.”

  Henry and Meyer sat down. Henry switched salads and started masticating like we were going to run out of lettuce.

  “I’m confused,” I said to Meyer, who seemed to have some handle on the situation. “I don’t know where I am, who you are, or what’s going on around here.”

  “Let me give you a recap,” he said, then explained the last several days to me.

  “So I belong here?”

  “This is your new home.”

  “I must have died and gone to Hades.”

  He laughed. “It’s not so bad. You’d get used to it if you could just remember. When you get back to your apartment, read the journal on your nightstand.”

  After dinner, I found what I wrote before taking a nap. I read it through carefully. I was a suspect in a murder. This was creepy.

  * * * * *

  The next morning I woke up in my usual confused state, but immediately caught sight of a note on my nightstand. My stomach growled, and I thought about stacks of pancakes, but I decided to read the stack of sheets, first. It all made sense in an absurd kind of way.

  I went down to breakfast and found table eleven with two old men sitting at it.

  I looked at the white-bearded guy whom I’d never seen before. “You must be Meyer.”

  “Very good,” he said.

  “My secret decoder ring described you.”

  He chuckled. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Sit down. I thought I was going to hav
e to give you a picture so you’d remember me.”

  “Let me get this straight,” I said. “I’ve been here for a few days and we’ve become friends.”

  “I’m glad to hear that’s how you wrote about me, Paul.”

  “And this must be Henry.” I pointed to the bald-headed midget gobbling a waffle.

  Henry kept shoveling. “Good morning, jerk,” he said without looking up. “When are they going to arrest you?”

  Meyer laughed. “Henry’s taken a shine to you. He’s usually not this friendly with people.”

  “I’d hate to be here when he’s unfriendly,” I said.

  Meyer helped me catch up on my memory from the day before.

  “Besides getting involved in murders, what’s there to do in this joint for excitement?” I asked.

  “We have recreation time at nine this morning,” Meyer said.

  “What do we recreate?”

  “There’s a balloon volleyball game scheduled. Are you any good?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. I played volleyball when I was a kid. It’s been a while.”

  “You’re probably better than most of the old folks around here,” Meyer said.

  “How can you play balloon volleyball? Thought you couldn’t see well.”

  “My eyesight is still good enough to spot a slow-moving, large, red balloon,” Meyer said. “You can be on my team.”

  * * * * *

  At nine I showed up in the recreation room and scanned the group of a dozen old fossils standing alongside a net strung across the room. Meyer grabbed my arm. “You’re over here.”

  He picked up an inflated balloon and swatted it over the net. A geezer on the other side watched it float to the ground.

  “Come on, people,” Meyer shouted, “hit the ball!”

  “What ball?” one old woman in black leotards shouted back. “All I see is a balloon.”

  Meyer slapped the side of his pants and turned to me. “See what I have to put up with?”

  We volleyed back and forth several times, and one of the women on our team stood motionless as the balloon struck her shoulder and sank to the floor.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Meyer shouted. “Why didn’t you go for the ball?”

  “I didn’t see it,” the woman said, pursing her lips.