by Mike Befeler
For Wendy, Roger, Dennis, Laura, Paige, Asher, Kaden, and Adam
Acknowledgments
Many thanks for the assistance from Wendy Befeler and Laura Befeler and my online critique groups and the editorial support from Deb Brod and Tracey Matthews.
Chapter 1
As I awoke, I stretched my arms and my right hand brushed against a woman lying next to me in bed. I eyed my companion, admiring her silver hair cascading over the pillow. My ticker started thumping lickety-split. What was an attractive old broad doing in bed with a geezer like me?
I tried to recollect what had transpired the night before. A big void. In fact I couldn’t remember anything from the day before. Think, you old poop, I told myself. I could only dredge up that I was Paul Jacobson and had been kicking around the planet for eight decades or so.
I looked around the room. It seemed to be a spacious place with plush blue carpeting, a desk and several chairs. Nothing familiar here at all. I looked in the corner and spotted two matching suitcases on stands. Must be a hotel. Did I run off somewhere with the woman next to me?
I regarded this young lady who I estimated to be in her seventies. Who the hell was she? My wife Rhonda had passed away, so this wasn’t her. I realized I could remember the distant past perfectly. But what had transpired recently had disappeared into my cobwebs.
She let out a contented sigh, and her left hand rose to her face above the covers. She had on a wedding ring. Damn. I was sleeping with a married woman. Then I happened to look at my left hand. I had a wedding ring as well. I turned my ring with the thumb and index finger of my right hand. It was gold with three small imbedded diamonds. When Rhonda and I tied the knot, she gave me a simple gold band. How strange that I could remember that but not how I ended up in this room. So I appeared to be a secondhand married man. By the process of elimination, I deduced that I must be married to my snoozing companion. I considered waking her, but she was sleeping so peacefully I didn’t have the heart to interfere.
I lifted my aged body off the mattress and ambled into the bathroom to take care of peeing and then splashed some water on my puss. Next, I ran water in the sink and raised the stopper in preparation for scraping off my overnight whiskers. When I turned the spigot off, the bowl quickly emptied out. I jiggled the stopper. No luck. One thing hadn’t changed even if I couldn’t remember yesterday: hotel sinks still didn’t hold water.
When I dried my face on a towel, I spied an insignia that read Lincoln Hotel. Now I was making progress even though I didn’t know where the Lincoln Hotel was or why I was there.
I peeked out the curtains and saw other buildings. I’d ended up in some downtown of a major city. After throwing on some clothes and a light jacket I found in the closet, I had one other idea. I checked out the desk and found a brochure welcoming me to the Lincoln Hotel in Seattle. How’d I end up in Seattle? The last I remembered I lived in Hawaii and before that raised my son in Long Beach after growing up in San Mateo. I could recall all that ancient stuff fine. But yesterday—poof. Then a note on the nightstand caught my attention. It stated: “Read this you old fart. You’ll wake up not knowing which end is up. You remember fine during the day, but overnight your memory goes zotto from the day before. You’re in Seattle with your new wife Marion and going on an Alaskan honeymoon cruise.”
What a shocker. I should have read this evidence sooner as it would have eliminated some of my confusion. I replaced the note and regarded Marion. My heart started thumping again as I admired her. I was half-tempted to return to bed and do a little reconnoitering under the sheets, but it wasn’t fair to interrupt her peaceful slumber.
Instead I decided to take my daily constitutional and explore some of the byways of Seattle. I hadn’t been here since the eighties when Rhonda and I took two weeks to drive up the West Coast and back. I remembered eating some good seafood and visiting the Space Needle.
I found a room key card on the desk and dropped it into my pocket. Then I hung a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the outside handle and checked the number by the door, noting I was on the seventh floor, so I’d know where to return. Then I moseyed down the hallway to find an elevator. The ride down to the lobby was uneventful, without even being subjected to elevator music. I emerged into a pleasant room containing a fireplace surrounded by bookshelves, flower-patterned couches, a glistening black baby grand piano and a potted palm tree. Even a slightly worn gray carpet made it look homey. I nodded to the desk clerk and headed toward the door. At that moment a man juggling a large metal box with a TV-like screen on top shot out of a side room.
“Here. Let me hold the door for you,” I said as he charged out toward the sidewalk. I followed him out, but by that time he’d disappeared around the corner.
Young people. Always in so much of a hurry. When they reached my heights in geezerland, they’d slow down.
I crossed the street and turned back to lock in the image of the Lincoln Hotel: a green awning over the lobby, green canopies over second floor windows and the red brick structure reaching up twenty stories or so.
I accosted a man in an overcoat and asked, “Which way to the bay?”
He pointed down the street and I followed his directions. After half a dozen blocks I spied a sign that said “Pikes Street Fish Market.” The street was bustling with people carrying baskets and bins and setting up food at long counters inside an open-air market building.
Crates cluttered, laughter echoed and the aroma of bacon wafted by. Damn. I was hungry, but I’d wait until I returned to the hotel to eat anything, and then Marion and I could have breakfast together while we renewed our acquaintance.
I turned at the crunching sound of crushed ice being poured into one of the stands. I watched as seafood was placed on the counters—crab, fish, clams.
I passed a large metallic pig that looked like a piggy bank on serious steroids. I patted its cold surface. There was actually a slot to put coins in, but I didn’t have any change with me.
As I strolled along the street watching the early-morning collection of vendors and tourists, a man emerged from a doorway. He wore a tattered brown flight jacket and had a red bandanna wrapped around his head. He stopped in front of me, and I noticed a large mole on his left cheek.
“Can you spare some money for a disabled vet?”
Before I could answer, a man in an apron and holding a broom emerged from a shop. “Move along, Lumpy. I’ve told you not to bother people in front of my store.”
Lumpy muttered something I didn’t hear and then turned to stumble down the street, mumbling as he went.
I continued along the street and came to a park that overlooked the harbor. A sign indicated this was Victor Steinbrueck Park. I wondered who the heck he was.
People sat on benches, and I ambled over to a railing to look over a lower level of roofs toward a cruise ship moored alongside a pier. I suspected that might be the one waiting for me. It rested there three times the length of a football field, shiny white with a dark blue smokestack and white radar gear poking out on top. It looked large enough to stay afloat and keep my feet dry. I liked the idea of a cruise except for the fact that I hated the ocean. Oh well. I’d be fifty feet above the water unless they stuck us with one of those lower level porthole rooms.
I looked up at a totem pole, where two pigeons rested on a wing-like protrusion. On the sidewalk below them accumulated some of their little gifts. A sign informed me not to feed the pigeons, but right next to it sat a plate full of crusts of bread. A seagull held a piece of bread in its beak. I guessed it was okay by Seattle standards to feed the seagulls.
I felt a thumping on my shoulder and turned to see another vagrant with a scraggly beard standing inches from me.
I flinched.
His rheumy eyes seemed to be searching for something to focus on and he made a smacking noise with his lips. Then he cleared his throat and in a raspy voice said, “Hey, Mac. You got some change for a cup of coffee?”
I patted my pockets. “Sorry. I
don’t have any money with me.”
His expression changed from benign to a snarl. “I’m always hearing that. I know you have money.”
“Sure, but not with me.”
“I need money.”
“Cool it. I told you. I don’t have any money with me.”
As if planning to grab my collar, he moved his hands, but I slapped them away.
“Asshole tourist!” he shouted.
Now he had me heated. “What the hell’s your problem?”
The guy acted like he was going to reach for me again, but another man stepped between us and said, “Easy, you two. We don’t need any fighting here.”
My assailant backed off, turned and shuffled away. He stopped once, looked over his shoulder and again shouted, “Asshole!”
I turned toward the man who had broken up the confrontation. “Your street people always this aggressive?”
He shrugged. “Some get a little carried away.”
“So who’s this Victor Steinbrueck?”
The man smiled. “He was an architect who talked the city into keeping the Pikes Street Market. In the nineteen-sixties, a group wanted to ‘improve’ the waterfront by tearing it down.”
“Good decision to follow Mr. Steinbrueck’s advice. What’s that peninsula jutting out in the water?”
“Across Elliott Bay is Duwamish Head. Behind that you can see the Olympic Mountains.”
“Thanks for the geography lesson.”
I decided I’d continue my morning stroll to cool down from my encounter with the aggressive homeless man. I shook my head and let out a sigh. That but for the grace of God could have been me. With my faulty memory and my quick temper I could have ended up as a street person. I took a deep breath. He’d really ticked me off, and I needed to regain my composure.
I found another overlook and viewed the cruise ship once more. I checked my watch and figured it was time to head back to the hotel to eat some vittles with my new wife. Hiking up a hill, I spotted a block covered with vegetation. A sign indicated it was a public garden maintained by people in the neighborhood.
I entered and ambled through a section with flowers. No one else was around, so I sniffed the lilacs and admired the petunias. Then toward the other end of the garden, I spied something that looked like a shoe sticking up. Being a nosy coot, I headed over to investigate. I parted a bush. A face attached to a bloody body stared vacantly up at me.
Chapter 2
I stumbled backward, stepping smack in the middle of a flower patch. Extracting my foot from the crushed daisies, I looked wildly about, trying to find someone to help me. My heart thumped double time, and I felt drops of perspiration forming on my forehead.
At that moment a man appeared carrying a hoe and shovel.
“Where can I find a phone to call nine-one-one? There’s been an accident. A man is dead.”
The man dropped his implements. “Where?”
I pointed to the body on the ground. “There.”
He approached and gasped, then reached inside a jacket pocket, extracted a little electronic thingy and punched his finger into it three times. Then he began yammering. While he talked, I regarded the body. Scraggly beard, ragged clothes . . . crap. It was the street guy who had accosted me in the park earlier. I looked closely. Blood covered his chest and had formed a pool in the dirt. His shirt was torn. He had obviously not died from a heart attack or stroke. Now my stomach tightened.
Within minutes I heard a siren. A white van pulled to the curb, and two EMTs hopped out. I waved to them and they raced over to where we stood. They began ministering to the fallen man, but I could tell it was too late. The gardener and I stood in silence watching the proceedings.
The siren had attracted attention, and a crowd began to gather.
Then a man in a suit and overcoat strode toward us. He spoke in a firm commanding voice. “We received an emergency call from a Mr. Jason Buchanan. Is he here?”
The gardener put his hand up, and the guy in the overcoat went over and spoke to him in hushed tones. After a moment the gardener pointed to me.
Next thing I knew the overdressed guy was standing inches from my face. He said, “I’m Detective Bearhurst. I understand you found the body.”
“Yes, sir.”
His dark penetrating eyes bore in on me. “Please show me some identification.”
I patted my hip pocket. “Sorry, Detective. I didn’t bring my wallet with me on my morning stroll.”
He stared at me. “And you are?”
“I’m very surprised to be in this situation.”
He almost smiled. “I want to know your name.”
I gave him my most genuine smile. “Well, why didn’t you ask? I’m Paul Jacobson.”
A pregnant pause ensued.
“And your current address?”
“I’m not quite sure. I have a short-term memory problem.”
He jotted something on a notepad.
Just then a woman stepped out of the crowd and motioned toward the body. “It’s Curly who panhandles over at Victor Steinbrueck Park. I saw him there earlier this morning.” Then she pointed at me. “And that old man was fighting with him.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “We weren’t fighting. He accosted me and started shouting at me.”
Detective Bearhurst eyed me intently. “Very interesting. You and the victim had an altercation and then you report finding him dead.”
“Hey. I just came across the body. Nothing more.”
“Where are you staying, Mr. Jacobson?”
“At the Lincoln Hotel.”
He regarded me again. “I thought you said you had a short-term memory problem.”
I sighed. “Detective, I can remember everything that’s happened this morning clearly, but last night has disappeared into the mist.”
He shook his head like he was the one with a memory screw loose. “How about if I give you a ride to the hotel so I can check on a few things with you there?”
“I’d appreciate the lift. I think I’ve had enough excitement exploring Seattle.”
I followed him to his Crowne Victoria parked half a block away, glad to be no longer tripping through the tulips.
“You going to lock me in the back seat?” I asked.
“That won’t be necessary. You can sit up front with me.” He chuckled. “Just don’t make any sudden moves.”
“I’m too old for sudden moves.”
“You’re also too old to be a criminal.”
“Exactly. And you’re too young to be a detective.”
“Touché.”
“Could you turn on the siren?” I asked.
He gave me a look that convinced me to shut up.
Detective Bearhurst drove in silence, so after I had given him a few minutes to forget about locking me in jail rather than going to the hotel, I opened my yap. “Do you have a lot of homeless people in your fair city?”
“Yeah. Probably not like San Francisco or Los Angeles, but we attract our share of people who live on the streets.”
“This guy Curly seemed awfully aggressive when he accosted me earlier. Is that common?”
“No. Most of the homeless stick to themselves, panhandle a little and don’t cause trouble.”
“Are many assaulted?”
“We periodically have attacks that result in injury or death. Why all the interest, Mr. Jacobson?”
“Just trying to figure out why someone would have attacked Curly.”
When we arrived at the red brick building, Detective Bearhurst accompanied me to the front desk. The clerk I had seen earlier stood behind the counter.
“I need to verify that this man, Paul Jacobson, is staying here.” Bearhurst held out his identification.
The clerk squinted at the ID and then looked up. “I saw him leaving this morning, and he is a registered guest.”
“You feel better now, Detective?” I said.
He only stared at me.
The clerk cleared his throat. �
�There is one thing though. We had a theft this morning. A man stole one of our computers. Mr. Jacobson may have inadvertently assisted his escape.”
“What?” I shouted.
The clerk held up his hands as if to calm me. “Someone entered our administrative office, disconnected a computer and headed toward the door. Mr. Jacobson held the door open for the thief. An officer was here half an hour ago to take my report on this incident.”
“Very interesting,” Detective Bearhurst said, eyeing me again. “What do you have to say for yourself, Mr. Jacobson?”
“I was only trying to be polite. I didn’t know he was a thief.”
“I think we better check out your room, Mr. Jacobson.”
“Fine with me. I have nothing to hide.”
We took the elevator to the seventh floor, and I led him to the room I had left earlier.
“Let me look inside first to make sure my wife is up.”
I entered and saw the lights were on.
“Marion, we have a visitor. Are you presentable?”
“I’m dressed and will be out of the bathroom momentarily.”
I ushered the detective into the room, and the attractive old broad who had been in bed with me earlier emerged from the bathroom.
“Damn, you look good,” I said. Then I pointed. “Detective Bearhurst is here because I found a dead body in a garden this morning.”
Marion gasped. “You aren’t getting involved in a murder investigation again, are you?”
“Again?” Detective Bearhurst and I said simultaneously.
“What are you talking about?” I added, with my heart rate approaching the zone where bad things could happen to geezers like me.
“Calm yourself, Paul. Let me explain for you and the detective.”
I took several deep breaths.
Detective Bearhurst raised an eyebrow. “Yes, please enlighten us, Mrs. Jacobson.”
“My husband has in the past been accused of crimes when in fact he was an innocent bystander.”
“I’ve heard that before,” Bearhurst said, crossing his arms.