by Mike Befeler
“That’s right. Two dead and one in jail.”
“With that trio no longer in business, I’m considering returning to Venice Beach.”
“There’s definitely a need for an upstanding, legitimate art dealer here,” I said.
He chuckled. “I mentioned to the detective that I had received a call from you. He told me that you were instrumental in bringing Brock to justice and that you were the one who gave him my phone number.”
“Only doing what a law-abiding citizen should do.”
“I heard it was more than that. When I reopen my gallery, you can stop by and select a painting free of charge as a thank-you for clearing the way for my return.”
“Glad to have been of service.”
* * * * *
That evening I said to Marion, “You up for a promenade followed by a bite to eat?”
“If it means I don’t have to fix dinner, I’m all for it.”
“I think you deserve a nice meal. I want to wander over to Windward Circle and then we can go to the restaurant where Pitman works.”
“I enjoyed our meal there before.”
“Then all we have to do is find Windward.”
“I can guide us there.”
“Good. I must have married you so you can show me where to go and prevent me from being a lost soul.”
“I hope that’s not the only reason.”
I gave her a hug. “I also get lonely at night.”
* * * * *
After a pleasant stroll at dusk we arrived at Windward Circle. The Theobault Gallery still had yellow crime-scene tape around it. Across the street I spied a man in an old overcoat, hunkered down next to a brick building.
When we approached him, I asked, “Are you Old Ollie?”
“The same.”
He didn’t look that old. Couldn’t have been a day over sixty, although he had weathered hands, a scraggly beard and wild gray hair poking out from under a dirty blue baseball cap.
“What’s your favorite meal, Ollie?”
He looked up at me, and a sparkle came into his eyes. “Lamb chops with mashed potatoes and peas.”
“And dessert?”
He licked his lips. “Chocolate cake.”
“Okay. I’ll see what we can do.”
As we sauntered on toward the restaurant, Marion asked, “What do you have in mind?”
“I thought we’d bring Old Ollie a little surprise.”
* * * * *
When we arrived at the Renaissance Restaurant, I requested Mallory Pitman for a waiter so we were seated at one of his tables. Shortly, I spotted a red-haired guy in black pants and a white shirt bouncing our way, and although I didn’t recognized him, I knew it had to be the crazy artist.
When he saw who his customers were, his eyes grew wide. “Paul, the police talked to me last night. Are you all right?”
“Yeah. They nabbed Brock and his cohorts. Thanks for your assistance in identifying the fake paintings.”
“It’s good to see you safe and alive, Paul.”
“It’s good to still be around, and thanks for calling Marion last night to check on me. How’s the wonderful world of art?”
A smile crept up the sides of his face. “That reception inspired me. I’m ready to start officially painting again.”
“It’s time for you to give up the graffiti wall, anyway. See if you can make a contribution to the art world. Besides, someone needs to take Muddy Murphy’s place.”
“That’s right. Venice needs another homegrown artist.”
“Just don’t do that weird stuff. Paint something sensible that ancients like me can appreciate.”
He chuckled. “I’m not going to do Grandma Moses.”
“As long as it isn’t blobs of paint.” I picked up the menu. “Now for the matter at hand, what do your suggest we feast on tonight?”
“I would recommend the lobster and steak.”
I turned to Marion. “How does that sound?’
“Just perfect.”
“Okay, make that two orders with house salads. And I need you to fix a special meal to go.”
After dinner he brought the bill and a large bag. I left Mallory a huge tip to help finance some painting supplies, and we waited out front for the cab the maître d’ had called for us.
When the taxi arrived, I told the driver to stop at Windward Circle. At the requested location, I lumbered out of the vehicle and handed the bag to Old Ollie.
“Here’s a little snack for you.”
“You were here earlier.”
“That’s right. I’m your catering service for the evening. Enjoy.”
I hopped back in the cab.
“That was a nice thing to do, Paul,” Marion said.
I shrugged. “That’s the least I could do to thank him for supporting my story that Brock abducted me.”
* * * * *
The next Saturday I sat in my easy chair contemplating the upcoming cruise.
“We have to leave in ten minutes,” Marion called from the bedroom.
“Where are we going?”
“You’re hosting a party for the homeless people at the church today.”
“I am?”
She squinted at me. “Didn’t you write anything in your journal?”
“Apparently not. So what is this?”
She sighed. “You set up a catered lunch for the homeless community. You also invited Mallory Pitman, Marisa Young and Al Bertrand to join us.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“Now get ready.”
“Aye, aye, Admiral.” I went into the bedroom to change into a pair of long pants and a long sleeve shirt. I might be hosting homeless people, but I didn’t have to dress like them.
After a quick swipe of a brush to my locks, I headed into the living room just as there was a knock on the door. I opened it to find Austin all spruced up, in other words, he had shoes and long pants on.
“You here to kidnap me?”
Austin smiled. “We’re all ready to drive to the church.”
“I understand you’ve been sending messages to my granddaughter.”
His cheeks reddened. “We’ve been keeping in touch.”
I wagged an index finger at him. “No funny business.” Then I put my arm around his shoulders. “Just kidding. You’re a solid young man, Austin.” I felt him straighten his shoulders. He’d turn out all right after all.
We all clambered into George’s car with Austin wedged between Marion and me in the backseat for the short ride to the church. Marion had made all the arrangements, I learned, and a caterer had been hired for the event.
“My lottery winnings financing this?” I asked.
Marion peered at me across Austin. “You insisted on paying for it. You told me the homeless people deserved a first-rate meal.”
“I’ll be darned,” I said. “Can’t argue with that. I’m surprised I didn’t write it down in my journal.”
She winked at me. “You’re full of all kinds of surprises.”
I decided to take that in a positive way.
When we arrived at the church, we all pitched in to move folding tables and chairs out into the courtyard. As we entered the building for another load, Marion said, “Now stick with me so you don’t get in any new trouble here.”
“I don’t know about that,” I replied. “But in any case you’re stuck with me.”
She smiled. “I consider that an honor.”
The caterer arrived with white tablecloths and enough food to feed an army, and then the army arrived. I spotted a mob strolling along Venice Boulevard in every imaginable, God-awful costume you could imagine: a patched flower dress, pants with one leg torn off, a hat that looked like it had been stolen from a dairy horse, a faded aloha shirt with no buttons, a gray sweater with a large grease stain in front. But everyone seemed happy and dove into the victuals.
A man strolled over and pumped my hand. “Thanks for sponsoring this, Paul. You’re the man of the hour.”
“No offense. I’m Harley Marcraft.”
“Okay. I read your name in a journal I keep.”
Harley ruffled Austin’s hair. “And thank you, young man, for giving us the warning about the psycho kid on the loose. You both need to meet Alex.” He waved over a short, stooped man who must have been in his sixties.
“Alex, these are the two who passed on the word regarding the kid who attacked you.”
Alex looked up from his scuffed mismatched wingtips and eyed the sandwich in his hand momentarily. “Kid came after me with a baseball bat. Didn’t know crap.”
Austin’s eyes widened. “You took care of Pierce. He’s six inches taller than you and must weigh fifty pounds more.”
Alex took another bite. “Kid had no fighting skills. Thought he was hot stuff. A few karate moves and he was history.”
“Do you think you could teach me karate?” Austin asked.
Alex smiled. “No one’s asked me that in ten years. Sure.”
“I’ve saved up some money so I can pay for lessons.”
Alex gave a dismissive wave. “I don’t care about money. I’ll do it for lunch.”
They made plans to start the next day.
I turned to Harley. “There’s one other thing. Does there happen to be a guy named Old Ollie here today?”
“He’s not with us.”
My smile faded. “Oh, no. Did he have an accident or die?”
Harley chuckled. “Nothing bad like that. He had an interesting experience. After all the years of scrounging food, someone gave him a complete gourmet meal a week ago. He enjoyed it so much he decided to apply for a job, so he could afford good food on a regular basis. He used to be a waiter and heard there was an opening at the Renaissance Restaurant, so Old Ollie cleaned himself up to go interview today.”
“Imagine that,” I said, shaking my head.
Then I spotted Mallory Pitman. He was matching a bag lady bite for bite along the goody table. As I approached, I heard snippets of phrases: “. . . conditioned colors . . . mauve motif . . . prism swatch . . .”
“You find a kindred spirit, Pitman?” I asked.
“Yes, indeed. Carol here is a retired artist. She used to give Muddy Murphy a run for his money.” Pitman bounced up and down like a pogo stick in overdrive.
“But I had to give up painting,” she said. “Arthritis in my fingers.”
“You should try finger painting,” I said.
Her mouth fell open. “What a wonderful idea.” Then she filled her puss with a chocolate éclair.
Pitman slapped me on the back. “You’re quite the idea man, Paul.”
I shrugged. “These things just pop into my screwed-up brain from time to time.”
Pitman sighed. “We made Venice Beach a safer place for artists.”
“We did. Thanks again for your assistance. I’ll look forward to seeing some of your paintings on display in galleries along Abbott Kinney Boulevard.”
“It won’t be long. I started painting again this week. And thanks to your recommendation, I have a lawyer to help me.”
I wasn’t sure what he was referring to, but let it pass.
Pitman gave me a huge grin. “I feel the old inspiration surging through my body. I’ve even made contacts with an art dealer.”
“I hope you found someone reputable.”
“I have. There is a new owner for what used to be the Theobault Gallery.”
“Anyone I know?” I asked to humor him.
“Actually you do. It’s Pieter Rouen. He’s back in town.”
“I’ll be damned. Small world.”
“He’s asked me to assemble a collection of my new work. I’ll send you an invite when I hold my first show.” He thumped his chest and dashed off to raid a bowl of chips.
Moments later a man came up and shook my hand. “You may not remember me, but my name is Al Bertrand.”
The name clicked from my journal. “Yeah, you helped me one morning when I was wandering around lost.”
He chuckled. “Glad to have been of service. And I want to thank you for inviting me to this lunch and recommending me to a new client.”
“Oh? Who’s that?”
“Mallory Pitman. I’m helping him negotiate a studio lease and a contract with an art dealer.”
“Excellent. He could use some sound representation.”
Marisa Young stopped by to say hello to Marion and me, and I promised not to cause any more problems in her church office in the future.
Within an hour nearly every crumb of food had disappeared. I turned to Marion. “Nothing goes to waste with this crowd. Like a horde of locusts came through.”
“I think they enjoyed the meal. This was a great idea, Paul.”
“Yup, everybody seemed to have a good time. And Austin is on his way to becoming a Black Belt.”
Afterwards, I carefully wrapped up the one remaining meatball in a paper napkin and stuck it in my pocket.
Marion saw me. “Paul, what are you doing? Didn’t you get enough to eat?”
“This isn’t for me. It’s for Cleo.”
“You’ve become quite fond of that cat, haven’t you?”
“Damn right. I read in my journal that she tried to save me from Brock, so this is the least I can do for her. I need to reward our watch cat.”
Then we bagged all the trash, and the caterer whisked away all the silver containers and tablecloths.
I took a moment to look up at the blue sky and palm trees swaying in the gentle breeze. The lingering aromas of cinnamon cookies and roast beef drifted by. I felt contented. My life was in order, the bad guys were locked up and the police were off my tail.
Marion came over and hugged me. “We catch our flight late this afternoon and tomorrow is our cruise. A whole week to ourselves, surrounded by lovely scenery.”
“Then we’ll be feasting like these folks did today.” I patted my stomach. “I’ll have to be careful if I want to keep my youthful figure.”
“You deserve to be fattened up and spoiled for a week at sea.”
“Just as long as I don’t have to go in the ocean or the sloshing swimming pool. I’ll be perfectly content to watch the sights from the comfort of our balcony. Since you’ll be with me, Marion, that’s all that counts.”
We kissed.
“Please, not in front of kids,” Austin said. He gave me a wink and dashed off with two folding chairs in each hand.
“Quite a change in that young man,” I said.
“And we both know who helped him.” Marion gave my arm a squeeze. “There’s a wedding this afternoon, so we need to finish up here. Austin will carry the rest of the furniture inside, but would you take the coffeepot back to the office?”
“Sure.” I picked it up and sauntered into the church and set it down on a table. I looked around the room and noticed that the door to the vestibule was ajar. I heard a rustling sound. Being the nosey old coot that I was, I stuck my head inside.
A man stood there inspecting a table piled high with presents. Everything I had read in my journal that morning flashed through my weird brain, and I hightailed it out of there before you could say, “Detective Quintana.”
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.
Other 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
Cruising in Your Eighties Is Murder – Book 4
Paul Jacobson Geezer-lit Mysteries
by
Mike Befeler
Copyright © 2012 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: December 2012
Other 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