by Mike Befeler
“Us living together?”
“Yes. I care about you, Paul, but I don’t know if I’m ready to deal with your poor memory all the time.”
I took a deep breath. “You have become important to me, Marion.”
She gave me a hug. “Thank you.” Then she stepped back and looked at me. “I’m moving to California. My daughter has a cottage above her garage that I can move into.”
I looked at her in disbelief. “Leave Hawaii?”
“Yes. I think it’s time for a change.”
“Seems like a lot of turnover around here.”
“That’s the nature of a retirement home,” she said.
“I’m planning to stay here, but it will be lonely without you.”
“I’ll be back,” she said, giving my hand a squeeze. “I know I’ll miss you and want to see you again.”
My heart felt heavy. “I’ll miss you, as well. Don’t stay away too long.”
After she left, I felt empty. I was losing my friends, but it was hard to feel much, knowing them only through what I had read that morning. I cared for Marion, but it was like I had just met her for the first time. Would I miss Meyer? He and I had been through a lot together, but by morning I wouldn’t even recognize him. And Henry? Just a name.
Chapter 30
A week later I sat at breakfast by myself. Marion had moved back to the mainland. She’d left me a note that I had found with my journal. I also read that a friend of mine named Meyer Ohana had moved to the Hale Pohai care home several miles away. A notice on the bulletin board had informed us that Henry Palmer had been hospitalized with a heart attack. It would only be a matter of time for me. I’d either kick the bucket or require additional care myself. A toss of the dice, one way or the other.
Here I was sitting alone like the last cactus standing in the desert. What did I want? It would be nice to be surrounded by family and friends. But my wife was gone, my son and granddaughter lived on the mainland. I’d like to see them more, particularly Jennifer. What a spitfire.
I guess I missed Meyer, but what a weird relationship that must have been. He had continuity, but I had to start over every day. In the morning he was a stranger, but from what I read, by the end of the day, he was a true friend. How absurd to have to repeat that every day.
And Marion. How could you be intimate with someone you didn’t recognize the next day, unless you had sex the night before? That wasn’t much basis for a long-term relationship.
How would I have felt if it were the other way around? I’d hate to have a friend or lover who didn’t know who I was each morning. It was the shits.
I took a bite of omelet. Food really wasn’t bad here.
So what were my choices? For now, I’d sit here, stare at the other inmates, and feel sorry for myself. Nothing like the satisfaction of self-pity.
* * * * *
Back in my apartment, I settled down to read the newspaper.
There was a knock on my door.
“Come in,” I shouted. “It’s unlocked.”
A smiling young woman in a neat black skirt and flowered blouse entered. She shook her right index finger at me. “Mr. Jacobson, you snuck away this morning before I could give you your pills.”
“I wanted to get downstairs early.”
“Well, you’ll have to take your pills now.”
“You must really like me, giving me all this attention,” I said.
“Oh, Mr. Jacobson. You’re one of my favorites.”
“Then why don’t you give me liquid medicine rather than these huge pills?”
“They’re not that big. See?”
I looked at three golf ball–sized horse pills. “Maybe to you they seem small.”
I struggled to gulp them down with the cup of water she offered. Good thing I didn’t remember this happening every morning.
“Oh, I meant to remind you,” she said. “There’s a special party for you tonight.”
“Special party?”
“Yes. Because of how you helped solve the murder of poor Mr. Tiegan. And thank you for donating the reward money to the employees’ fund.”
“I did that?”
“Yes. Thanks again.” She gave me a kiss on the cheek, turned, and left my room.
Once again my crapola memory was to blame. I guess I forgot to write it down in my journal. Imagine that.
* * * * *
After lunch, as I sat in my living room contemplating the wonders of still being alive, my telephone rang. I picked it up and was greeted with, “Hello, Grandpa!”
“This someone I know?”
“Oh, Grandpa. It’s me. Jennifer.”
“I have a granddaughter named Jennifer.”
“That’s me.”
The image of a six-year-old came to mind.
“How are things on the mainland?” I asked.
“They were pretty good until I sprained my ankle. I have to use crutches and keep my foot up a lot.”
“What happened?”
“I stepped on my skateboard wrong, and my ankle twisted. The doctor first thought I might have broken it. I even had an x-ray.”
“Sounds like a dangerous sport,” I said.
“Nope. I just put my foot in the wrong place. So as long as I’m resting today, I decided to call to say hello.”
“Well, hello to you too.”
Then I remembered what I had read about her most recent visit.
“You coming to see me again to rescue me from Nurse Ratched?” I said.
“No, Grandpa. I told you before. Your nurse is nice. I think we’re coming again sometime during Christmas vacation. I can’t wait to go surfing again . . . and see you.”
“I’ll be here waiting.”
“And Daddy told me you solved the murder.”
“Yes. It was the man with a scar on his cheek who did it. He also stole the stamps.”
“I told you so,” she said.
I thought back again to what I had read in my journal that morning.
“And you were the one who helped solve the crime,” I said.
“Really?”
“Yeah. The bad guy phoned Meyer as a result of what you did with your computer.”
“It worked! I got an email about stamps and sent the phone number you gave me. I even remember the email address—ali-dad at hotmail.com.”
“What a memory.”
“I don’t have any problem remembering things,” she said. “What happened after he called Meyer?”
“We tracked him down. He’s behind bars, and I’m no longer a suspect.”
“I knew you didn’t do it, Grandpa.”
“But the police weren’t sure.”
“How did you catch the criminal?”
“It’s a long story, but when you come out at Christmas, I’ll let you read my journal . . . the censored version, that is.”
“How are all your friends?”
I paused for a moment. “Not good. Marion moved back to the mainland. Meyer’s in a care home, and Henry’s in the hospital.”
“You must be lonely.”
“It’s not bad,” I said. “Nurse Ratched visits me every day.”
“Oh, Grandpa. Melanie is nice.”
“I don’t know. She’s still trying to kill me with those huge pills.”
“You have to be brave,” Jennifer said.
“You’re right again.”
I thought for a moment. If I could survive getting kidnapped and being tied up in an underwater cave, I guess I could handle some pills.
“The biggest problem with having a sprained ankle is I can’t go to swim practice,” Jennifer said.
“When you recover, keep up your swimming. You never know when it will come in handy.”
“And, Grandpa, I’ve made a decision.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. When I went to the hospital because of my ankle, there were all kinds of people bleeding and hurt, waiting there. It was pretty gross. I’ve decided I don’t want to be a doctor, after all.”
“But I have a new plan now,” she said. “I remember talking to your friend Meyer while I was in Hawaii. What he did before he retired sounded kind of cool and . . . guess what, Grandpa?”
“What?”
“ I’m going to be a lawyer.”
After I hung up, I sat there thinking. My own granddaughter going over to the dark side and becoming a lawyer. Oh, well, she’d probably change her mind a dozen times over the next ten years. I still couldn’t believe it. My own flesh and blood liking the ocean and wanting to be a lawyer.
I looked at the picture of Jennifer on my dresser. I could only remember a six-year-old, but her voice was definitely older. Would my defective memory ever be able to process new memories? Probably not.
Later the phone rang again. What a popular guy I was.
“Paul, this is Meyer.”
“I was just telling Jennifer that you bailed out on me.”
He chuckled. “You can come join me any time you’re ready. There’s one thing that you’d like about this place where I’m living.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a single story building. No trash chute.”
About the Author
Mike Befeler turned his attention to fiction writing after a career in high technology marketing. He has five books in the Paul Jacobson Geezer-lit Mystery Series, Retirement Homes Are Murder, Living with Your Kids Is Murder (a finalist for The Lefty Award for best humorous mystery of 2009), Senior Moments are Murder, Cruising in Your Eighties Is Murder (a finalist for The Lefty Award for best humorous mystery of 2012), and Care Homes Are Murder, and Nursing Homes Are Murder. He has a paranormal mystery, The V V Agency, and a paranormal geezer-lit mystery, The Back Wing. He holds a Master’s degree from UCLA and a Bachelor’s degree from Stanford. Mike is active in organizations promoting a positive image of aging and is past president of the Rocky Mountain Chapter of Mystery Writers of America. He lives in Boulder, Colorado, with his wife, Wendy.
If you are interested in having the author speak to your book club, contact Mike Befeler at [email protected]. His website is http://www.mikebefeler.com.
Books by Mike Befeler
Paul Jacobson Geezer-lit Mystery Series
CARE HOMES ARE MURDER
NURSING HOMES ARE MURDER
Paranormal Mysteries
THE V V AGENCY
Paranormal Geezer-lit Mysteries
THE BACK WING
To be on Mike Befeler’s email list for new releases contact Mike at [email protected] or go to his website http://www.mikebefeler.com
Living with Your Kids Is Murder – Book 2
Paul Jacobson Geezer-lit Mysteries
by
Mike Befeler
Copyright © 2009 by Mike Befeler
All rights reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
First Edition
First Printing: April 2009
Books by Mike Befeler
Paul Jacobson Geezer-lit Mystery Series
CARE HOMES ARE MURDER
NURSING HOMES ARE MURDER
Paranormal Mysteries
THE V V AGENCY
Paranormal Geezer-lit Mysteries
THE BACK WING
Dedication
To Paige and Asher.
Acknowledgements
Many thanks for the assistance from Wendy, Laura, Kasey and Dennis Befeler; feedback from Barbara Graham, Phil Enger, Stuart Bastin, Jodie Ball, Virginia Brost, Jim Munro, Wanda Richards-Seaman and Phil Miller; and editorial support from Deni Dietz and John Helfers.
Chapter 1
My eyes opened in the dim light.
Where the hell was I?
I heard a background rattling hum and smelled a mixture of beer and stale pretzels. All I could imagine was a seedy bar. I blinked, trying to focus. I was wedged in an uncomfortable seat with a man’s head lolling on my shoulder.
I squinted and recognized the uniform of a flight attendant, checking seatbelts.
Shit. I was on an airplane. But where was I going?
I couldn’t remember.
Think.
I squeezed my eyes shut, then opened them. No clue. All I could remember was that I was Paul Jacobson, too old to be cheek-to-cheek with someone on an airplane.
Something sticking out of my shirt pocket grazed my chin. I grabbed it to find a piece of folded paper. I flicked on the overhead light. Opening the message, I read: “If you fall asleep, you won’t remember squat because sleeping causes your short-term memory to do a reset like a VCR when the electricity goes off. You’re flying to Denver to live with your son, you old fart. He’ll meet you by the fountain in the terminal lobby.”
It looked like my handwriting. I turned it over. No other clue.
So I was going to visit my one and only kid, Denny. I couldn’t remember how I ended up on this plane, but I could recall my wife Rhonda raising Denny in Los Angeles. After I retired from my auto parts business, Rhonda and I moved to Hawaii. Then . . . I felt a pain in my gut. Rhonda died. I had lived on my own after that. An old widower.
Instinctively, I put my hand to my chest. I felt something else in my pocket. I reached in and pulled out a business card—one of those fancy types with a color picture of a man with a black goatee and gold wire-rim glasses. I looked at the head resting on my shoulder. Bingo. Same guy as the picture although he didn’t look as pasty in the photograph. Squinting at the card, I read the name. So, Daniel Reynolds, sales representative for Colorado Mountain Retirement Properties, was using my shoulder for a pillow. Without my permission. Crap. And my shoulders had enough trouble supporting my own head.
I peered at the business card again. The tagline stated, “Retire in comfort with your own mountain property.”
An old goat like me could sure use some retirement comfort, but it appeared I intended to mooch off my middle-aged offspring. I stuffed the sheet of paper and the business card back in my shirt pocket.
The pilot came on the intercom. “I want to thank all of you for traveling with us today. In particular, my mom happens to be on this flight.”
A voice in the row behind said, “That’s good news. He’ll have to make a smooth landing this time.”
I heard some yawns and saw a few arms stretch above the seats as people woke up in the semi-darkened cabin. I looked again at my sleeping companion. I needed to get this lout back into his own space. His greasy black hair would leave a stain on my shirt. I cleared my throat loudly enough to wake a narcoleptic. Nothing. I shrugged my shoulder, but he didn’t budge. Then I reached over and shook him. Still nothing. Daniel Reynolds was starting to piss me off.
Taking a deep breath, with a not-too-delicate shove, I pushed Reynolds’s head away from me. He flopped over the opposite arm rest with his head blocking the aisle.
A flight attendant, in animated conversation with someone a row ahead, stepped back, and the man’s face and goatee nestled comfortably against her butt cheeks. She swung around as if she intended to smack someone, then flinched when she saw my sagging companion.
“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping a strand of blond hair from her forehead. She bent down to help straighten the man up.
His glasses slipped off and fell to the floor, but his bulky body remained motionless.
“Sir, are you all right?” the flight attendant asked.
No answer.
She shot upright, erect as a totem pole. “Emil, come quickly!” she shouted.
A male flight attendant dashed down the aisle, skidded to a stop and reached over to examine t
he man.
“He seems to be unconscious,” Emil said, wringing his skinny hands.
“Or dead,” a voice said from across the aisle. “The old man next to him gave him a vicious shove.”
Chapter 2
A large, sullen man in dark glasses escorted me and my aging legs through a hallway at the airport, behind one of those doors with signs saying you’d face the wrath of God if you entered.
Our footsteps echoed.
I imagined being locked up and the key tossed away. When we reached another door, I stumbled inside, where a scowling man in a rumpled suit and spotted tie sat across a desk, tapping his fingers on the worn wood surface. A waved hand indicated an unoccupied chair that I plopped down in.
He was a young squirt probably in his late forties, slightly receding brown, curly hair, a squished nose, square jaw and a mole on his left cheek. “I’m Detective Hamilton. Now Mr. Jacobson, please tell me what conversation you had with the man seated next to you on your flight from Honolulu.”
“Unfortunately, the only thing I remember is waking up on the plane. This guy in the next seat was slumped against me. All I tried to do was get him off my shoulder.”
He put his hand to the stubble of a dark beard that looked like it hadn’t been shaved in two days. “And why don’t you remember the earlier part of the flight?”
“I have short-term memory loss. I can remember events from my distant past, but any recent thing before I fall asleep is one big blank.”
He jotted down a note on a pad. “You don’t recall talking with him?”
“No.”
He stared at me without smiling. “I find that very unusual. Another passenger reported you had a very heated argument with him after the flight took off.”