by Mike Befeler
“But why would he be murdered?”
“It’s the money. Find out who benefits the most from his death and that will lead you to the murderer.”
“I’ve been trying to track down Pieter Rouen. Have you stayed in contact with him?”
Farquart laughed. “The only other honest man in the business, and he suffered the same fate I did. I understand he has a small gallery in Pittsburgh now. Haven’t talked to him in two years. Now I have a client coming through the door so I must go.”
After thanking him and hanging up, I thought over what I had heard. Everything continued to point to Theobault or Brock. I just needed to figure out which of the slimeballs had really gone over the edge.
* * * * *
Marion returned from shopping with Andrea and said, “Paul, I forgot. I was supposed to remind you to call Meyer Ohana.”
“Uh-oh.” I wagged my finger at her. “Is your memory starting to fall apart like mine?”
She kissed me on the cheek. “No, because I eventually pull things back out. With you, it’s either your journal or me that does the remembering.”
“And I’m damn grateful for both. I’ll give Meyer a jingle right now.”
“I’ve taped his number to the phone stand so you don’t have to hunt for it.”
“What a woman. How did I get by before I found you?”
“Not very well.” She laughed.
I called Meyer, and a polite woman’s voice informed me that he would be with me momentarily. I pictured a harem of women fanning him while he ate grapes and bonbons.
When he answered, I said, “Is this the decrepit old fogy who keeps the care-home staff jumping?”
“The same, Paul.”
“How did you know it was me?”
“Who else would call and insult me like you do?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Maybe some of your other friends. So are you ready to hear a story or am I interrupting a tryst with a young nurse?”
Meyer chuckled. “I’m afraid the female adventuring is your domain. How’s Marion?”
“She’s keeping me young and alive.”
“I can imagine the alive part, but you’ll never be young again.”
“It’s all a state of mind. With my flawed memory I keep forgetting how old I am.”
“All you have to do is look in a mirror to remedy that.”
“Enough small talk. I have my O. Henry short-story collection here. Ready for action?”
“Yes. Pick one out.”
“Okay.” I leafed through and randomly selected a page. “Here’s one called ‘Memoirs of a Yellow Dog.’ ”
“An appealing title,” Meyer said.
I proceeded to read a story from a dog’s viewpoint about a woman owner and her henpecked husband. The yellow dog, learning of another dog that goes with his master to a bar, drags his own master into a bar, too. The guy is so grateful to be away from his wife that he decides to run off with the yellow dog to the Rocky Mountains.
When I finished, Meyer said, “I hope you don’t do that to Marion.”
“No way. I’m happily married to a wonderful woman and have no intention of leaving. I know when I have a good thing.”
“You’ve traded away your single days. But before you met Marion, you and I had some interesting times with our tablemate Henry when we lived in the retirement home.”
“I don’t remember him.”
“Henry enjoyed insulting you and, in turn, you always argued with Henry. He’s recuperating from a heart attack.”
“And how are you doing, Meyer?”
I heard a sigh. “I miss my dear departed wife.”
“I’m sure I felt the same way until I found Marion. You just need a woman. Aren’t there any old broads limping around that care home who you can hook up with?”
“Actually there’s one who keeps wandering into my room thinking I’m her husband.” He guffawed. “The first time she did that I woke up and she was six inches from my face, staring at me. I about had a heart attack.”
“You don’t have to let her scare the bejezzus out of you. There are other possibilities.”
“So far I’ve set the record straight and sent her back to her own room. She calls me Harry, shakes her head and asks why I’m sending her away.”
“Sounds like you’ve acquired a new girlfriend,” I said.
“She’s an attractive old gal, and when I first met her we spoke for a long time. She described her two grandchildren and how they both had successful careers on the mainland, one a doctor in Sacramento and the other a lawyer in Phoenix.”
“Sounds like a good solid family, except for the lawyer, of course.”
“You still down on attorneys, Paul?”
“Absolutely. Except for you, I don’t trust any of them. So from what you’ve described of this young lady, I haven’t heard anything that should hold you back.”
“Initially she seemed really savvy. We had a delightful conversation and I thought that here was a lady who was with-it.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“The next day we began chatting at breakfast and she described her grandkids again almost word for word as the day before. Every day we have the same conversation over again.”
“Hey, she’s probably just like me. All she needs to do is keep a journal.”
“But she doesn’t attract any murderers like you, Paul.”
“Each of us mental defectives has our own style. Does she know who you are each day?”
“Yes. When she’s not confusing me with her dead husband, she launches into her spiel like the record player was stuck on the same groove.”
“She obviously likes you. You’ll have to accept the replay. Who knows? Some night she might just crawl into bed with you.”
“They’d probably kick me out of here if that happens.”
“You could always live on the beach. I’ve met some interesting homeless people here who do that, and the weather is better in Hawaii.”
“With my eyesight, I’ll stick with the care home.”
“You could always marry the old biddy and make it legitimate.”
“Let’s not rush things. I haven’t even met her kids or grandchildren yet.”
“When you do, this may become serious.”
“Right now I’ll live my life as it presents itself,” Meyer said.
“Well, if some broad prances into your room at night and presents herself, what then?”
“Paul, I think I’ll limit my excitement to hearing O. Henry stories.”
We signed off, and I once again thanked my lucky stars that I was here with Marion.
With nothing better to do, I updated my journal.
* * * * *
I woke up wondering where the hell I was. I lifted myself up on an elbow and looked around. Sand. I had been sleeping on a damn beach. I tried to think. Last thing I could remember was living in Hawaii. This didn’t look like a Hawaiian beach—too wide and lined with vendor stalls. I saw some hazy mountains in the distance. Looked more like LA. Damn. What was I doing in Southern California?
Looking at my watch, I discovered it was two o’clock. Little good that did me. I didn’t know the day or the century.
I stood up and ambled toward a boardwalk, still not knowing why I had come to the beach. My stomach growled. Crap. I decided to treat myself to a hamburger at a greasy spoon with a bright red sign that advertised the best burger in Venice Beach. Mystery solved. At least now I knew where I had awakened, although I had no clue why I would be here. I didn’t think I had been abducted by space aliens, but who knew what had happened to me.
After ordering, I opened my wallet to pull out a ten-dollar bill to ransom the food. I found a slip of paper which I unfolded. It read, “If you don’t know where you are, call Marion.” A phone number and address appeared at the bottom of the note. Who was Marion? Was she head of the Paul Jacobson rescue squad?
I ate the hamburger while sitting at a dented metal table, and I watch
ed strange people in various combinations of shorts, jeans and swim gear prance by. Then with my stomach filled and with change from the purchase of a good case of indigestion, I headed off in search of a pay phone. It took me five blocks before I found one and had to wait while some man holding a leash connected to a Dalmatian shouted, “Bitch!” and then slammed the receiver down. I suspected that he wasn’t talking to the dog. He stomped off dragging the dog, which gave me a pathetic look. I hoped the guy hadn’t broken the phone.
I dropped a quarter in the slot, punched in the digits and listened to the ringing. A woman answered.
“I found a note in my wallet to call this number and ask for Marion.”
“Paul, where are you?”
“You know my name?”
“Of course. Did you fall asleep somewhere?”
“Yeah. I woke up on the friggin’ beach.”
Marion laughed. “Paul, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you. Put you on a leash?”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do with me either, but having just seen a dog being dragged along on a leash, I don’t relish the thought. I can’t remember how I ended up here. Can you give me any insights into what’s going on?”
“Where exactly are you?”
“I’m on the path that runs along the beach near an outdoor café with checkered red and white tablecloths and a bookstore next door to it.”
“Okay. I know where that is. Stay put and I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Thanks. Sending out the mounted police will be much appreciated.”
After I hung up, I found an unoccupied bench and sat down to wait for the cavalry to arrive. In front of me passed a group of smiling twenty-somethings. They seemed to know what the hell they were doing here.
Then a young fellow in his forties with frizzy hair sat down on my bench. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Not as long as you don’t exhale.”
He chuckled. “I’m downwind from you. I’ll keep the smoke away.”
He lit up and put his arms back along the top of the bench backrest.
In spite of his promise, I received a whiff of his smoke. Pungent. Not a tobacco cigarette. I remembered that aroma from the time I had stumbled into a group of potheads in a coffeehouse in Hawaii.
I glared at him.
“You want a drag?” He held out the glowing ember toward me.
“No. My brain’s screwed up enough already.”
“Speed? LSD? Meth? Coke?”
“No. Life.”
Fortunately, he finished his smoke, spotted an acquaintance and charged off into the crowd. I resumed my people watching and was only accosted by a woman in a turban offering to read my fortune, a panhandler seeking change and a kid who wanted to sell me girlie pictures. I didn’t realize I’d become such a popular guy.
Then an attractive biddy with shiny silver-gray hair and a pleasant smile approached me. “You here to retrieve me?” I asked.
“Yes, Paul. Time to go.”
I lifted myself up from the bench. “You care to give me a rundown on who you are and why I’m here?”
“It’s pretty simple. You must have wandered down to the beach and fallen asleep. When you doze off, you forget things. We live half a mile from here and we’re married.”
“A sexy broad like you is hitched to me?”
“Yes. We’re newlyweds and have a honeymoon cruise coming up in a week.”
“Hot damn. Life is full of surprises. So what’s happened to me since I lived in Hawaii? Did the Mafia abduct me and forget to drop me in the ocean?”
Marion proceeded to fill me in on the world of Paul Jacobson of the flawed brain. When she informed me that the police had interrogated me as a murder suspect, I flinched.
“I used to be such an upstanding citizen. What’s happened to me?”
Marion squeezed my hand. “You haven’t done anything wrong. You have a knack for getting in trouble, and you discovered a few dead bodies . . .”
“You mean as in more than one?”
She bit her lip. “As in three. But one was an accidental death.”
“I’m glad of that. What am I, a dead-body magnet?”
Now a twinkle came into her eyes. “Well, you do attract my body.”
This was getting interesting. “I must say the attraction is mutual. I’d invite you up to my place except I don’t know where my place is.”
She gave my arm a hug. “I’ll show you where our place is.”
Chapter 15
Marion led me up to a cozy apartment above a garage and instructed me to sit down to read a leather-bound journal. Then she informed me she would be gone for a while to gab with her daughter.
After catching up on the adventures of Paul Jacobson of the almost-in-jail squad, I sat there in stunned silence. I couldn’t believe the things that had happened to me recently. After all the years that I could remember in my distant past when I had minded my own business, now I had become some kind of murder lure. And my family had been to visit me when Marion and I tied the knot. All of this pushed my aged brain to the limit. I felt like I had plopped down in someone else’s life. On top of everything else I had been told by an attractive broad that we shared the same bed. Entirely too strange.
But I realized I had some work to do to clear my good name. My notes indicated one task still left undone. I reached for the phone and punched in the number I had for Pieter Rouen. Miracle of miracles, a man’s voice said in a clipped tone, “Rouen Gallery.”
“Pieter Rouen, please.”
“Speaking.”
“Mr. Rouen, my name is Paul Jacobson. I’m calling from Venice Beach, California, and your name was given to me as an individual who knows the art community here.”
“At one time that was correct.”
I quickly thought how I wanted to steer this conversation. “It seems the remaining dealers here are involved in some sort of vendetta. One has been murdered, and two others may be implicated in his demise.”
Rouen gave a bitter laugh. “If you mean the triad of Brock, Theobault and Vansworthy, any of them would eat their own mother for dinner given the right price.”
“I take it you don’t think very highly of them.”
“They drove me out of business. They systematically stole business from me and smeared my reputation. Them and their Long Beach connection.”
“Long Beach connection?”
“Yes. I never figured out the exact link, but some deep pockets helped them ride out the downturn in business we faced for two years. I couldn’t weather it, closed my gallery and left.”
I thought back to my journal. “I heard something about Beverly Hills financing but not Long Beach.”
“I know nothing regarding Beverly Hills, but the evil triad seemed to have unlimited funding coming from some gallery in Long Beach.”
“Do you know the name of the gallery?”
“No. I never pursued it. I had to declare bankruptcy and move.”
“But they stayed on.”
“Yes. And took over the clients I had. Very neat operation.”
“Vansworthy is dead. I suspect either Brock or Theobault could be the murderer.”
“Two good suspects.”
“Anything you can think of, which would point to one or the other?”
“No. Maybe they did it together.”
“But I was told Vanworthy and Theobault had some sort of partnership. Brock has never been mentioned as working closely with the other two.”
There was a pause on the line. “That’s strange. They all hated each other. Not as much as they hated the smaller dealers like me. I can’t see Theobault and Vansworthy working together. Maybe someone else forced them into it. Is there anything else?”
“If you happen to think of any further specifics related to Theobault or Brock, please call me.” I gave him my phone number.
“And what police department are you with?”
“I’m conducting a private investigation.”
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“Oh. I see. Well, good luck. I must return to a prospective client.” With that he hung up.
I thought over what I had heard. Once again a confirmation of the unsavory character of Brock and Theobault. I needed to find out more about Vansworthy and Theobault’s partnership. Also there now seemed to be some Long Beach link as well as the Beverly Hills connection. For every two steps forward, I was stumbling backward a step.
I decided to talk with Mallory Pitman, who I had noted in my diary was my “art consultant.” I looked up the phone number of the Renaissance Restaurant and called. A man answered who sounded like I had interrupted his tea and crumpets. I asked to speak to Pitman and was informed, in no uncertain words, that the waitstaff could not be interrupted to come to the phone.
“Well, is he there?” I asked.
“Of course. He’s preparing for a busy evening.”
I slammed down the phone—my way of venting. I still needed to speak with Pitman, so I looked up the phone number of a cab company. They said a taxi would be by in fifteen minutes, and I indicated I would be out in front. Then on my dresser I noticed a picture of a man with bushy eyebrows. I snapped my fingers. My journal described a man like that who had been following me. I decided to take the picture along to show to Pitman.
Marion was still in the main house with Andrea, so I decided not to bother her and after fourteen minutes headed out the side gate to wait for my magic carpet ride.
The fifteen minutes only took thirty.
“Where to?” the cabbie asked after I had plopped down in a worn backseat that had seen a few too many fat fannies.
“Renaissance Restaurant as fast as you can.”
He shot away from the curb with the tires squealing while I grabbed the seat in front of me to keep from being thrown against the side window.
“Whoa,” I said. “I was only kidding.”
He slowed to only twice the speed limit, and in minutes we screeched to a halt in front of the restaurant.
I paid the fare, thankful to still be in one piece.
Inside, I approached the maitre d’. “I have an important message for Mallory Pitman.”