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

  Afterwards, Helen dropped me off at home. I could tell that the chemistry between us had changed. Chalk it up to having two pictures on my dresser. Oh well. At my age, I could only handle one girlfriend anyway.

  * * * * *

  The next Saturday Jennifer had her first summer swim meet. At the crack of dawn, I helped load the family van with towels, snacks, suntan lotion and various accoutrements.

  “Who’s the opposing team?” I asked Allison after we unfolded our chairs along the side of the pool.

  “This is a practice meet for just our club.”

  I settled in for a morning of watching kids struggling to stay afloat. Actually, that would have been me if I fell in the pool because I floated like a brick, but these kids, including Jennifer, zipped through the water like motorized porpoises.

  The sun shown brightly, and by 9 A.M. I discarded my light jacket to expose my arms to skin cancer.

  “Put on lots of sunscreen,” Allison said to me. “You can get a bad burn at this altitude.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I replied. She took as good care of me as she did of Jennifer.

  Jennifer placed second in the fifty-meter freestyle race for her age group and, after scrambling out of the pool, came over to visit with her fan club. “I took half a second off my best time from last summer!” she said, beaming.

  “And you nearly touched out that other girl,” Denny said.

  “Almost. I’m going to practice really hard so I can beat her in the finals at the end of the season.”

  “But she could also improve,” I added, helpfully.

  “Oh, Grandpa. That might be the case, but I’m more motivated than she is. Besides, we can work to place first and second in the league championship against the other teams.”

  I sighed. “Jennifer, you’ll be president of the country some day.”

  “No, but I do plan to be a successful attorney.”

  I shook my head. “Can’t you think of a more respectable profession?”

  “Oh, Grandpa. You’re too negative about lawyers.”

  With that she spun on her heels and skipped off for her next event.

  * * * * *

  Jennifer won the one-hundred-yard freestyle and touched out the girl who had beaten her in the earlier event. Within a few minutes she strolled up to where I sat.

  “You did it!” I gave her a congratulatory pat on the back.

  She smiled. “What did I tell you?”

  “How do you do that? My own flesh and blood swimming so well, when I hate going in the water.”

  “You have to be more positive, Grandpa.”

  Allison had gone to help at a poolside bake sale, so I wandered over to select a muffin to munch on.

  “Paul, could you mind the table for a few minutes?” Allison asked.

  “Sure. What do I need to do?”

  “Just collect money and put it in the cash box. All the prices are marked.”

  “I can handle that.”

  Allison stood up, and I took her place sitting on the folding chair. I felt like I was back behind the counter of my auto parts store many years before in Los Angeles.

  I sold a few chocolate chip cookies, some donuts and a bagel.

  Then all of a sudden, a mob of kids descended on the table, like a piranha feeding frenzy. Kids grabbed things and I tried my utmost to collect money and maintain order. I had a handful of quarters and after the crowd departed I prepared to deposit the money in the cash box. I scanned the table. No cash box. Uh-oh.

  When Allison returned, I explained what had happened.

  “I better report this,” she said. “You stay here.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I continued to collect money for food and dropped it in a Styrofoam coffee cup. An hour later a policeman arrived and took down my name and a statement. He checked around and found the empty cash box in the men’s locker room.

  On our way home, Jennifer bounced up and down in the back seat. “Two firsts and one second! And my two relay teams won!”

  “Pretty good start for your season,” I said. “Only disappointment being that someone stole the bake sale money.”

  Jennifer pursed her lips. “Why would someone want to ruin a perfectly good swim meet by doing that?”

  “Maybe the person didn’t win as many ribbons as you.”

  * * * * *

  That afternoon Denny answered the telephone and said a man wanted to speak to me.

  I picked up the phone.

  “Mr. Jacobson, this is Detective Lavino.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I received a report that your name came up in connection with a petty theft earlier today. You back on your crime spree, Mr. Jacobson?”

  “No way. I have Social Security for pocket money.”

  He chuckled. “You’re a witness once again. You do seem to have a way of being in the vicinity when crimes are committed.”

  “I’m just lucky I guess. On a more important subject, did you ever find out if Gary Previn was really at the library the day of the murder at the Centennial Community Center?”

  “Look, Mr. Jacobson, I don’t have to answer your questions.”

  “I know. I’m just an old fart. Humor me.”

  I heard a sigh on the phone. “Yes, a witness confirmed Previn’s presence at the library at the time of the murder.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “A librarian remembers him checking out two books, and I collected the library record of his account.”

  “Crap. It must be someone else in that slimy organization who’s the murderer.”

  “We’re still investigating.”

  After I hung up, I sat there with the weight of the world on my chest. One more crime happening around me and staring down my throat. This was getting old, quickly. Then I started thinking. Maybe I needed to do a little more investigation of my own.

  I wandered into Jennifer’s room. “I need your help.”

  “Sure, Grandpa.”

  “Can you find a picture of Gary Previn?”

  “Grandpa, we printed one out for you already. Let’s look in your room.”

  We returned to my room and searched through my stuff.

  “Here it is.” She held up a business-schmaltzy picture of Previn she found in my dresser.

  “So that’s what the scumbag looks like,” I said.

  “You met him at the Reservoir, Grandpa. And we don’t know if he’s the killer. Innocent until proven guilty.”

  “You sound like a lawyer.”

  She gave me her most winning smile. “Of course. And I’m going to check around the club tomorrow to see if I can find any clues regarding the missing bake sale money.”

  “I’d appreciate that. Every time something happens in this town, Detective Lavino wants to talk to me.”

  “You have to admit that you’re around an awful lot of crime.”

  “Rather than persecuting me, the police should use me as a criminal magnet. Arrest everyone around me.”

  “But not me, Grandpa. I have to keep my record clean if I’m going to become a lawyer.”

  * * * * *

  The next afternoon, armed with the picture of Gary Previn, I took the number six bus. Allison had been kind enough to look up the right bus route and with one transfer, I negotiated the trip.

  An interesting thing I observed while riding the bus in Boulder. Mainly young kids and old farts like me. Not too many riders in between. The middlesters all drove around in BMWs and Mercedes.

  At the library I admired a modern glass structure jutting up with the foothills in the background. I thought of all the books I had read over the years, having been an avid reader. Then I thought of all the books I’d read in the last five years. Who knows—it could have been a hundred or zero since my sieve-like brain cells had retained no recollection of any books.

  The library spanned Boulder Creek with a glass-encased second-story walkway connecting parts of the building on each side of the stream.
I wouldn’t want to be there when a hundred-year flood surged out of Boulder Canyon, given my swimming ability.

  I moseyed up to an information desk, manned or, I guess, womaned by the perfect image of a librarian. She was probably in her late fifties or early sixties, had gray hair neatly pulled back in a bun, wore glasses which hung on a black cord around her neck and possessed lips that just begged to be pursed.

  “Good afternoon,” I said with my most sincere smile. “I’m trying to get some information concerning a patron who visited the library three weeks ago. Does the same staff always work on Sundays?”

  She looked at me with intense brown eyes and, as predicted, pursed her lips. Then she spoke. “Why yes. Unless someone takes a vacation.”

  I gazed past her to a man and woman at counters scanning books and library cards. “So those two over there are your regular check-out people?”

  She turned her head. “That’s correct. Plus Maggie at the circulation desk.”

  I thanked her and ambled over to the first line. When my turn arrived, I flashed the picture of Previn. “I’m trying to determine if this man checked out books three weeks ago.”

  The woman pushed a strand of black hair back from her forehead and peered at the picture. “We see a lot of people here.”

  “Does he look familiar?”

  She stared again and then shook her head. “No, not at all.”

  I tried the other line with equal lack of success. Crap. One option remained—Maggie. Crossing my fingers and toes (possible, since I wore sandals), I approached the circulation desk. A young woman in her forties sat there writing numbers on a sheet of paper.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I wonder if you might help me?”

  She looked up and gave me a charming smile as if she had been waiting all day for someone to ask her assistance. “Yes, what can I do for you?”

  I handed her the picture of Previn. “This man may have checked out books three Sundays ago. Do you recognize him?”

  She scrunched up her nose, squinted at the picture and tapped it with a fingernail replete with sparkling pink polish. “Why, yes. I do remember. It’s the man the police inquired about recently. Is this the same matter?”

  “Yes. Tell me what you remember.”

  “As I told the officer, I recognized the person in this picture as the one who checked out library material. Yes, indeed. The very same.”

  “With all the people passing through here, how do you remember him in particular?”

  She gave a smug smile. “I always pay attention to the patrons coming through the line. But this man had one distinguishing characteristic. He had a tattoo of a surfboard on his left wrist.”

  “Did you tell the police about the tattoo?”

  “No. The officer only asked me to identify the man from a photograph.”

  “Do you remember what materials he checked out?”

  She shook her head. “That would be asking too much of my memory.”

  “Yeah, I know how memories are,” I said. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  So Previn had a surfboard tattoo. Went with him pedaling that contraption out in the Boulder Reservoir.

  That evening I took Max for his usual walk, and we journeyed through the whole neighborhood so Max could fill his nostrils with doggy aromas and I could think what to do next to clear my name. Max accomplished more than I did and probably remembered his experience the next day.

  * * * * *

  The following morning before Denny and Jennifer left for work and school respectively, we heard a loud rapping on the door. Max growled and stood back from the door. When Denny opened it, a man with thinning white hair and a red face stood there. When I approached the door, he wagged his index finger at me. “You . . . you . . . you cut down my tree.”

  I blinked. “What do you mean?”

  He sputtered and spittle flew out of his mouth. “You came by walking that white dog last night.” He now aimed a finger at Max.

  Allison stepped forward. “Yes. Paul took Max for a walk last night.”

  “Then this morning I find one of my trees has been cut down.”

  “What does that have to do with me?” I asked.

  He pointed at me again. “You recently made a snide comment concerning cutting one of my trees down. I see you skulking around, and the next morning, one of my trees has been sawed off.”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with it. How could an old geezer like me take your tree away?”

  “I sleep very soundly. I bet you and your family came and chopped it down last night and hauled it away. I’m reporting my suspicion to the police.”

  “My dad didn’t harm your tree, Mr. Fisher,” Denny said, trying to calm the man down.

  Fisher continued to splutter. “Yes . . . yes he did. He’s the culprit.” He turned and stomped down the walkway.

  So much for neighborly relations.

  “Mr. Fisher is very protective of his yard,” Denny said as he closed the door.

  “I don’t blame him. I’d be pissed if someone sawed off one of my trees.”

  “And he does what he says, so I expect he will contact the police and file a complaint.”

  “Great. That’s all I need. Yet another reason for me to be on the bad side of the local cops.”

  “That’s why you need a lawyer.”

  I held my hand up. “No. Anything but a lawyer.”

  “I’ll help you,” Jennifer said.

  “You’re hired. When you get home from school, we’ll review all the crimes I’ve been around and what we can do.”

  “I’ll see that you stay a free man, Grandpa.”

  “I’m sure you will, and then I won’t have to deal with any blood-letting lawyers.”

  “I’ll take your case on contingency,” Jennifer said. “You can pay me a Hawaiian stuffed animal for each crime that’s resolved.”

  “Uh-oh. You’re already starting to think like a lawyer.”

  “Of course.” She skipped off to get ready for school.

  I turned toward Denny. “This is one hell of a situation. Every time I turn around someone’s pointing a finger at me concerning some transgression. Crap. I might as well be accused of leaving dog poop on someone’s lawn as well since I take Max for a walk every day.”

  Chapter 11

  Rather than drown in self-pity, I decided to take a walk. I needed some time to myself without having to stop at every tree and mailbox, so I left Max at the door, whining.

  As I wandered through the neighborhood, I tried to put all the pieces together. Somehow I stood at the top of Lavino’s person of interest list, linked to a myriad of crimes. First, and foremost, were the two murders. Two salesmen for Colorado Mountain Retirement Properties had been knocked off. Gary Previn had been my number-one suspect, but he had an alibi for the second murder. Maybe he conspired with the CEO, this guy Peter Kingston. These two were involved in something crooked because that outfit wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  Then I had the little matter of the misguided Mrs. Milo thinking I was at fault for allowing her ex-husband to abduct her daughter. Hopefully, her initial irrational reaction had now been replaced by sanity. And I had witnessed a bank robbery, been accused of accosting two boys in the bathroom at Jennifer’s school, been at the scene of stolen money at a swim meet and now had a crazy neighbor implying I had sawed down a tree.

  Every time I turned around, someone suggested I hire a lawyer. No thank you. I’d stick with Jennifer’s help. I took a deep breath. I had to think positive. I lived with my family in a beautiful place and remained in good health for an old poop, memory excepted. I looked up at the Flatirons: pointy peaks surrounded by pine trees, wispy clouds above and sunshine warming my old body. Feeling better, I actually started whistling.

  All of a sudden a small white dog appeared. It looked a little like Max. “Hello, boy,” I said, reaching down to pat it on the head. “You thought I whistled for you.”

  It scampered off the sidewalk ont
o a lawn and proceeded to fertilize the yard. Man, that little dog had a lot inside him.

  I heard the screeching of tires and a white van came to a stop beside me. At the sound of the vehicle, the white dog dashed off into the bushes. I looked at the van and saw the words: City of Boulder Animal Care and Control.

  A squat little man in a dark blue uniform hopped out and approached me. He held a clipboard and wrote furiously. “May I see some identification, please?”

  I reached in my wallet and showed him my ID card.

  He wrote my name down, then ripped off a piece of paper and handed it to me.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “It’s a citation for violation of City Ordinance 6-1-16.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  He pursed his lips, then spoke. “Dog running at large prohibited. Must be on a leash. You also violated 6-1-18.”

  I started at him. “You mean I’m a two-time loser? What’s 6-1-18?”

  “Removal of animal excrement required. Each violation should net you a fine of five hundred dollars because of your dog.”

  I laughed. “You mean that white dog? I’m not his owner.”

  The man grimaced. “Sir, in Boulder we have no dog owners, only dog guardians.”

  “Well, la-de-da. I’m not its guardian either. It just appeared when I walked by.”

  He laughed. “I hear that one a lot.” He wagged his finger at me. “You’re not getting off by pretending not to be the violating guardian.”

  A man with thinning white hair approached us from the yard. Uh-oh. It was my accuser, Mr. Fisher. I scanned the yard. Sure enough, a well-manicured lawn, colorful flower garden and a neat row of fir trees with one sawed off a foot above the ground.

  “I overheard what’s going on here.” He pointed a thick finger at me. “This guy walks that white dog by here almost every day. He’s a bona fide criminal.”

  I peered at Mr. Fisher. His face was red again. If he kept this up he’d be like a balloon ready to burst.

  “Yes, I walk my son’s dog Max, but this dog isn’t Max. I always walk Max on a leash. This is a stray dog.”