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
Page 54
“That’s correct. I pride myself on the depth and quality of my Murphy collection.”
Marion got in the swing of things. “We were trying to find out where we could view a larger selection of his paintings.”
He smiled, showing even white teeth. “I may be able to arrange that as I do maintain a considerable inventory of Mr. Murphy’s work.”
At that moment, the phone rang. He excused himself and picked it up. “No, I’ll come out there.” He smiled at us again. “I need to sign some papers a courier has delivered. Please wait here, and I’ll be back in a few minutes. May I have Emily get you some coffee?”
We both shook our heads.
He strode to the door, exited and shut it behind him.
I immediately jumped up, as much as my unbending could be considered a jump, and began inspecting the photographs on the wall. Marion joined me.
“Here’s Theobault with Ronald Reagan,” Marion said.
“Yeah, and one with Gerald Ford. He makes the rounds.”
I found an adjoining door and opened it to find a room full of paintings stacked against a wall. I turned on the light switch to see the collection more clearly.
Marion ducked inside and thumbed through a number of the pictures. “He wasn’t kidding. Look at all these Muddy Murphy paintings.”
“I hope he remembered to paint the faces this time.”
“Quite a collection.”
I regarded the paintings. “So it’s no skin off his back that Muddy isn’t in the land of the living anymore. He has his stack of paintings to sell and since Muddy isn’t around to paint new ones, Theobault benefits from the higher posthumous prices.”
We heard the door handle turn. I flicked off the light, and we scrambled out of the storeroom just as Theobault returned.
“I’m sorry for the interruption. A lot is happening right now.”
“I can imagine,” I said. “I heard that you had some sort of partnership with Frederick Vansworthy.”
His smile evaporated faster than a drop of water on a hot griddle. “Why are you referring to Frederick?” He stared at me with dark focused eyes. “And why are you really here?”
Uh-oh. It was obvious I had hit a sensitive spot. Rather than backing off, I plunged right into the middle of the poop. “Seems to me it’s kind of strange that Frederick Vansworthy and Muddy Murphy would both meet their demise within a period of a few days.”
Theobault’s cheeks turned red, and he let out a hiss like steam escaping a boiling kettle. “Out.” He pointed to the door. “Get out, both of you.”
He pushed us toward the door, grabbed the handle and not too gently dispatched us into the reception area as he slammed the door behind us.
I smiled at the receptionist. “Seems that your boss has a bit of a temper.”
She grimaced. “He’s been very testy lately. And now he’s upset over some papers a courier just brought him to sign.”
“Yeah, it must be tough with all the Muddy Murphy paintings he has to peddle.”
Her smile returned. “Oh, no. We’ve had numerous requests today. They’re very popular.”
I thought I’d try one more avenue. “Say, Emily, do you know Frederick Vansworthy?”
She raised her well-lined eyebrows. “Yes. He and Mr. Theobault worked together.”
“I thought art dealers tended to work on their own,” Marion said.
“Mr. Theobault and Mr. Vansworthy go way back. They set up an informal partnership, although there was some kind of problem lately.”
“Did you know that Mr. Vansworthy is dead?” I asked.
She put her hand to her cheek. “No. He visited just last week. That’s terrible.”
“Dead as a doornail, or rather a water-soaked seagull. He was murdered.”
She gasped. “He was such a gentleman. Always took a minute to talk with me before his meetings with Mr. Theobault. I love speaking with people who come in here. Mr. Theobault says I yak too much but that’s just the way I am.” She gave us a wide smile.
“You mentioned some issue between them recently,” Marion said.
She leaned toward us and in a conspiratorial tone said, “They had an argument two weeks ago, but seemed to patch things up when they met last week.” She looked at her watch. “Oh, my goodness. I didn’t realize what time it was. If you’ll excuse me, I need to complete a letter for Mr. Theobault.”
We said good-bye and took a quick spin around the gallery looking at artwork that didn’t turn me on. The salesman we’d seen earlier approached us. The guy had bushy eyebrows and a crooked nose. “May I help you?” he asked.
“No, thanks,” Marion said. “We’re just browsing.”
We completed a pass around the gallery and headed out the door.
“What did you make of all that?” I asked Marion.
She pressed her lips together for a moment then said, “You obviously hit a nerve when you mentioned Vansworthy. Theobault acted very suspicious and almost violent.”
“Yeah. There must be something going on in the art community that links the deaths of Frederick Vansworthy and Muddy Murphy.”
“When we get home, I’ll call Clint Brock to set up a meeting. He may give us some insight into the situation.”
We strolled back to the old homestead, my young bride and me amid all the summer teenagers on skateboards with their music plugged into their ears and their jewelry dangling from ears, noses and assorted body locations.
I hadn’t even had a chance to rest my feet when there was a knock on our door. I opened it to find Detective Quintana in his dark suit with his mustache twitching like a hyperactive caterpillar.
“Mr. Jacobson, I need to ask you to accompany me to police headquarters.”
“Am I receiving some kind of police appreciation award?”
“No. Are you going to cooperate?”
“Why not?” I turned. “Marion, the detective wants to take me for a ride. Hold down the fort for me.”
“Paul, do we need to find a lawyer?”
“I don’t want any stinking lawyer. I can handle this myself.”
She wrinkled her forehead. “I don’t know.”
“I’ll call if there’s any problem.” I faced Quintana. “Okay, Detective, let’s go. I’m ready for a guided tour of your world-renowned police station.”
We left and he escorted me to his Crown Victoria parked in the alley.
“You need to clean your car, Detective. It looks like a seagull used it for a restroom.”
Quintana grunted at me and pushed me into the car.
After he locked me in the backseat, I asked, “What’s the big deal, Detective?”
“I need to ask you some further questions. I thought having a room to ourselves would be appropriate.”
He wasn’t in a loquacious mood so we continued the journey in silence, arriving in front of a two-story red-brick building with letters that read: Los Angeles Police Department Pacific Station. In the front stood a flagpole with an American flag on top and the California flag dancing in the breeze beneath it. Other than several large trees in front, it looked like a prison—no windows, no pretty flower garden, just stark institutional architecture.
Quintana led me inside, past a female desk sergeant who looked like she was ready to wrestle me to the mat and snap on cuffs at the slightest misstep. Down a corridor with no pictures on the walls, Quintana strode, with me keeping up the best I could, to a small room where we entered and sat on either side of a 1970s gray metal table. I smelled sweat and didn’t know if it was mine or left over from a generation of overanxious suspects.
I looked around the room. Bare walls, one door, a one-way mirror and bright overhead fluorescent lighting with one tube flickering, which produced an annoying background hum.
“This is a cozy place,” I said.
Quintana glared at me and then read me my rights, probably preparing to trap me into saying something incriminating. “Mr. Jacobson, you’ve been on the scene of three recent deaths.
”
“Yes. I remember Muddy Murphy from this morning and I’ve read in my journal about the others.”
“We found fingerprints on a candleholder in the storage closet where you discovered the bludgeoned body of Mr. Murphy. We suspect that it was the murder weapon. Care to venture a guess as to how your fingerprints got on that candleholder?”
Chapter 7
I flinched at hearing that my fingerprints were on a suspected murder weapon. “I have no clue how my fingerprints ended up on the candleholder.”
“It’s very interesting that your fingerprints were also on the candleholder found next to the body of Mr. Harold Koenig two days ago as well. You’re a walking, one-man crime wave.”
“But for someone my age, walking is a victory.” I thought back to my journal. “Wait a minute. I read this morning in my diary that the candleholder fell off a table and I picked it up.” Then it struck me. “I also touched the other candleholder to keep it from falling over. Could that have been the one you found in the storeroom?”
“Interesting theory. For someone with a bad memory, you’re recalling a lot of detail.”
“My memory is pretty darn good during the day. It’s just overnight that it goes blank.”
Quintana stared at me like he was trying to extract the fluids out of my eyeballs. “And I discovered that you had a confrontation with Mr. Murphy yesterday at the very church where he was found murdered. Interesting that a witness overheard you shouting at him about a closet and then the next morning he’s found bludgeoned to death in a closet.”
Damnation. So my suspicion was correct. I had argued with Muddy Murphy, not knowing who he was at the time.
“He was testy toward art dealers. I didn’t even know I was arguing with the illustrious Muddy Murphy at the time.”
“Was it when you killed him that you realized who he was?”
“I had nothing to do with his death. Afterwards, I pieced together who he was.”
“So are you ready to confess, Mr. Jacobson?”
“Confess to what? I happened to come on the scene of two murders and the accidental death of Harold Koenig. That’s it.”
“Peculiar sequence of events. An argument the night before the first victim was murdered, a confrontation with the second just as he died and a shouting match with the third the day before his death.”
“I’m a peace-loving old codger who happens to speak his mind.”
“Or do you have an anger-management problem that turns violent?”
“I think you’re barking up the wrong sycamore, Detective. If I were you I’d investigate the art community here in Venice. Something’s going on there. I bet you could find a link between the deaths of Frederick Vansworthy and Muddy Murphy. You should start with Vance Theobault. That guy’s mighty suspicious.”
“Is that why you were in his gallery today?”
Uh-oh. “Have you been following me, Detective?”
“You allude to deaths in the art world but are seen nosing around with art dealers. To say nothing of inquiring into Muddy Murphy paintings. Seems to me you are awfully curious regarding your victim’s artwork.”
“Now you’re starting to piss me off. He wasn’t my victim and, yes, I’ve been nosing around. I don’t see you arresting anyone, and you keep bugging me. I felt it my obligation to find out more to protect my good name. It turns out Vance Theobault and Frederick Vansworthy had some sort of partnership. You better check that out, Detective.”
Quintana regarded me with his forehead-piercing stare. “Getting kind of heated over this, Mr. Jacobson?”
“Damn straight. Go catch the real killer. What have you found out about the link between Theobault and Vansworthy?”
“I don’t have to tell you anything, Mr. Jacobson.”
“I know that. Just indulge the curiosity of an old geezer.”
He looked at me for a moment. “I’m aware of their relationship. We’re certainly looking into that. But right now I’m more concerned with you, Mr. Jacobson.”
“I appreciate the personal attention, but I think you’re off in the weeds if you consider me your prime suspect.” I thought back to my conversation with Marisa Young. “Here’s something for you, Detective. The office manager at the church told me that she unlocked the church last evening so the homeless people could have shelter from the rain. Muddy Murphy probably came in then. Someone could have snuck in anytime during the night and whacked Muddy over the head.”
“Interesting that you know so much about it.”
“Check it out, Detective. I had nothing to do with it.”
“We’ll see, Mr. Jacobson. Any further information you’d like to share?”
“No. You’ve sucked me dry. Now I’d like to return to see my bride.”
“I’ll arrange a ride for you.”
With that he left the room. I had to wait a good half hour before a uniformed policeman entered to say he would drive me back to my humble abode.
* * * * *
“What happened?” Marion said, looking up from a Smithsonian as I stumbled back into our honeymoon shanty.
“Just a little police harassment to see if I’d confess to something I didn’t do. We need to find out more. Call your pal Clint Brock.”
Marion picked up the telephone and was able to set up an appointment for the next morning.
“While you were gone, Denny phoned to remind us that they’re taking us out to dinner tonight.”
* * * * *
So that evening my family showed up, and we took off in Denny’s rental car with Jennifer squeezed in between Marion and me in the backseat.
“I went surfing today, Grandpa. I had some great rides.”
“Well, I’m glad to see you survived. You’d never get me out in the ocean.”
“Oh, Grandpa. It was a beautiful day with three-foot-high waves—just the right size for me. I met a whole crowd of surfers, and they were very friendly. The water’s cooler than in Hawaii, though. I had to wear a wet suit.”
“I’ll stick with my landlubber suit. How can my own offspring enjoy the ocean so much?”
“We’ve talked about this before. You need to learn to have a positive attitude when you think of the ocean. It’s just beautiful water as far as the eye can see.”
“I detest the ocean. I can’t swim worth snot, and I don’t like the idea of other wiggling and chewing things in there with me.”
Marion smiled at me. “Yes, Paul. The ocean and lawyers.”
“I hate both of them.”
Jennifer rolled her eyes. “I know. And you hate taking pills.”
“That too.”
We arrived at McCallisters and I proceeded to get my revenge by eating a selection of sea creatures. As one more shrimp bit the dust, I described our encounter that day with Vance Theobault and my subsequent experience at police headquarters.
“Cool,” Jennifer said. “Was it anything like the police station in Boulder?”
“Can’t say since I don’t remember that one, but I suppose most police interrogation rooms are pretty much the same.”
Jennifer frowned. “It’s too bad. You have all these exciting adventures but can’t remember them.”
“Maybe that explains why I’m still alive. If I recalled what happened to me, it might cause my old ticker to give up the ghost.”
“Oh, Grandpa. You still have lots of years left.”
Marion looked over at me. “If he can stay away from murderers.”
“That’s right. I may start disliking denizens of the land as much as denizens of the deep. Speaking of which, Jennifer, I need you to do some research on your computer for me when you get home.”
“Okeydokey. When we talked yesterday, I offered to help you. What do you want me to find for you?”
“Here are three names for you to check out: Vance Theobault, Frederick Vansworthy and Clint Brock. Shall I write them down for you?”
Jennifer tapped her right temple. “Nope. I have them locked up here.”
“I have a photographic memory, just like you do during the day, Grandpa.”
“But don’t you even need me to spell the names for you?”
Jennifer rolled her eyes. “I’m a good speller.”
“That’s my granddaughter. So see what you can uncover. Together we’ll circle the wagons and fend off the attacks of Detective Quintana.”
* * * * *
Back home that night I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders. Still, I had to count my blessings. I was still alive and kicking; my son, daughter-in-law and granddaughter were here visiting; and Marion hadn’t reneged on her wedding vows. What a woman. To put up with my sieve-like memory required being a saint. Oh, well. I’d keep on trucking and do the best I could in my altered mental state. As I looked out my plantation window, I could rest assured that Scarlett was right. Tomorrow would be another day.
* * * * *
The next morning I woke up wondering where the hell I was. I felt like a lost child, trying to figure out what place I was in and how I had ended up there. A kind woman lying next to me in bed explained my marital situation and told me to read the journal on the nightstand. I duly followed her instructions and to my amazement, that cleared up some of the mystery of Paul Jacobson and his errant brain cells.
With my life in a semblance of order, Marion sat down at the table while I cooked a stack of buttermilk pancakes. At least I remembered how to flip flapjacks. After stuffing my yap and cleaning up, I contemplated the day ahead—trying to find a way to keep out of jail and to figure out who had done what to whom in the Venice art community.
“We have an appointment this morning,” Marion reminded me. “I set up a meeting at one of the local art galleries for you.”
“I’m glad you’re here to point me in the right direction, otherwise I don’t know where I’d end up.”
We strolled over to Clint Brock’s art gallery on Venice Boulevard. Along the way I said to Marion, “In reviewing my journal, I learned several things. First, Muddy Murphy probably spent the night at the church when he was murdered because he was getting out of the rain with the other homeless people. Second, someone could have entered the church in the middle of the night and killed him.”