Court Trouble
Page 1
COURT TROUBLE
A PLATFORM TENNIS MYSTERY
COURT TROUBLE
MIKE BEFELER
FIVE STAR
A part of Gale, Cengage Learning
Copyright © 2016 by Mike Befeler
Five Star™ Publishing, a part of Cengage Learning, Inc.
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 work covered by the copyright herein may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, except as permitted U.S. copyright law, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
The publisher bears no responsibility for the quality of information provided through author or third-party Web sites and does not have any control over, nor assume any responsibility for, information contained in these sites. Providing these sites should not be construed as an endorsement or approval by the publisher of these organizations or of the positions they may take on various issues.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Befeler, Mike, author.
Title: Court trouble : a Platform tennis mystery / Mike Befeler.
Description: First Edition. | Waterville, Maine : Five Star, a part of Cengage Learning, Inc. 2016.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016001562 (print) | LCCN 2016006279 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432832223 (hardback) | ISBN 1432832220 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781432832056 (ebook) | ISBN 1432832050 (ebook)
eISBN-13: 978-1-4328-3205-6 eISBN-10: 1-43283205-0
Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / General. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3602.E37 C68 2016 (print) | LCC PS3602.E37 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016001562
First Edition. First Printing: July 2016
This title is available as an e-book.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4328-3205-6 ISBN-10: 1-43283205-0
Find us on Facebook– https://www.facebook.com/FiveStarCengage
Visit our website– http://www.gale.cengage.com/fivestar/
Contact Five Star™ Publishing at FiveStar@cengage.com
Printed in the United States of America
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In memory of Phil Geil and to my platform tennis buddies including Greg Johnson, Chris Bowman, Mike Merritt, Bob Ziegenhagen, Tom McCormick, Tim Conarro, John Miller, Jim Warner, Mike Small, Don Sherwood, Curt Corrigan, Pete Kelley, Brock Borman, Gary Horvath, Robbie Robertson and Tom Scott.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to my critique group, in particular Chris Goff; my wife, Wendy; the Five Star team including Deni Dietz, Tracey Matthews and Tiffany Schofield; and all the platform tennis players, partners and opponents, over the last twenty years.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Mark Yeager: retired entrepreneur and platform tennis player
Woody Thorp: engineer and one of Mark’s regular platform tennis foursome
Ben Quentin: lawyer and one of Mark’s regular platform tennis foursome
Shelby Prescott: university professor and one of Mark’s regular platform tennis foursome
Manny Grimes: platform tennis player and Mark’s friend
Ken Idler: businessman and platform tennis player
Lee Daggett: investor, gambler and platform tennis player
Jacob Fish: owner of Creo Tech and platform tennis player
Howard Roscoe: gun dealer and platform tennis player
Carl Peters: detective
Sophie Yeager: Mark’s wife
Al Lawson: Denver Post business editor
Davie Randolf: ex-employee of Jacob Fish at Creo Tech
Norm Yeager: Mark’s son
Dawn Yeager: Norm’s wife
Audrey Yeager: Mark’s daughter
Julia Ruthers: attendant at rec center
Barbara Grimes: Manny’s wife
Cheryl Idler: Ken Idler’s wife
Melinda Daggett: Lee Daggett’s ex-wife
Dr. Gallager: Mark Yeager’s physician
Norborne Marston: friend of Mark Yeager’s and CEO of Marston Electronics
Chip Deever: vice president of sales at Marston Electronics
Paul Crandall: replacement platform tennis player for Mark Yeager
Old Mel: street person
Clyde: ex-military and drug addict
Reagan Caldwell: Manny’s accountant
Seth Pinter: Jaguar dealer sales manager
CHAPTER 1
An unexpected shiver ran through Mark Yeager’s body as he slammed the door of his seven-year-old, gray BMW and zipped up his sweat suit to block the cool autumn air. Staring up, he noticed the broken light at this end of the parking lot. Probably shot out by one of the kids from the neighboring low-rent apartments. Beyond the lamppost, he could discern several stars in the moonless night sky.
Gripping the worn handle of his equipment bag, he marched up the dark walkway that wound between the windowless, brick North Boulder Recreation Center building and a park. Ahead of him, lights shown on the two outdoor platform tennis courts, reflecting off the wire-mesh fence. Off to the north and east, acres of open space lay fallow, but during the summer these fields shimmered with the kaleidoscope of irises growing in neat rows.
Mark liked to arrive early to loosen up his well-taped elbow by hitting a few practice serves. He put his hand to his groin, a habit since his prostate surgery. Then he stretched his six-foot-tall, fifty-six-year-old frame, thankful that he remained alive and able to play again.
He climbed the stairs to the raised deck of the nearest court and focused on four players already on the adjoining court. Three of them stood at the net, waving their paddles at each other. Mark heard, “You asshole,” and “Like hell I will,” and “Give me a break, you fuckwit.”
Mark squinted and recognized the fourth bundled-up person on the other court—his friend Manny Grimes. Manny stood calmly at the baseline in a light-blue sweat suit. He waved to Mark. Why did Manny team with these jerks? Most of the players here wanted to enjoy a good workout, but those three guys acted like they wanted to kill someone.
Mark cradled the eighteen-inch-long Viking “Wow” paddle in his hand, admiring the strength of the composite wood and fiberglass surrounded by a solid steel rim. He had once witnessed an opponent put a half-inch-deep dent in the net post when angrily slamming a paddle into it.
He placed his left toe an inch behind the baseline and sniffed the air, catching the faint aroma of grilled hamburgers drifting in the slight breeze. Eyeing the other side of the court, he launched a ball skyward. He connected and the ball shot forward into the service box and ricocheted off the back screen. The muscles tingled in his right arm.
As he prepared to hit the next practice serve, two of his group, Ben Quentin and Woody Thorp, clambered up the stairs. While Mark had retained all his brown hair, Woody had a shining bald head above his gold-rim glasses. Ben met Mark’s gaze with his serious, lawyer’s blue eyes magnified by small, oval glasses.
Only after the three of them had started warming up did Shelby Prescott, who reminded Mark of a skinny Santa Claus, make his appearance. Shelby, a sixty-year-old sociology professor at the University of Colorado, always arrived last with an explanation such as “The dog ran out and I had to find him” or “The phone rang as I was getting ready to leave.”
“What’s the excuse this time, Shelby?” Mark asked.
Shelby stroked his beard, then ran his hand through his equally white hair. “You’re never going to believe this, but I found this huge buck in the backyard, eating my hedge. I had to chase him away and clean up the deer poop on my grass.”
&
nbsp; Mark rolled his eyes. “You’re right, Shelby. I’m never going to believe it.” Gingerly, he stretched out one leg on the top of the net to loosen his hamstring.
Shelby looked toward Mark and winced. “Look at that grubby duct tape on the bottom of your shoe. As a retired entrepreneur, you should be able to afford new footwear.”
Mark reached out with his gloved hand and smoothed a corner of tape that had come loose from the sole of his left tennis shoe. He lowered his leg and rested his hand on the net. “These Nikes are comfortable, and I don’t want to break in new ones.”
Shelby now rolled his eyes.
The rough court with its sandpaper-like covering ate through tennis shoes like a grinder on balsa wood. If Mark attached duct tape to the bottoms of his shoes every time he played, they lasted much longer.
Shelby sauntered over to Mark’s side of the court. He waved his arm in a circular motion to limber up and settled in to hit a few practice ground strokes and volleys.
“Up or down?” Mark called, holding his hand over the Viking label on the end of the paddle handle to determine which team served first.
“Down and dirty,” Ben called.
“Too bad,” Mark said with a smile, showing the right-side-up V. “We’ll serve. I’ll start.”
He squeezed the new ball in his left hand. This game entered his bloodstream like a dose of illicit drugs. The finesse of placing the ball so it would bounce off the corner of the wire mesh screen reminded him of solving an ever-evolving math puzzle.
He tossed the ball up, his eyes riveted on the yellow-green sphere against the black sky. His paddle made contact and sent the ball spinning over the net. He dashed forward and hit a volley that bounced deep in the court and rebounded off the back screen.
A high lob came back, and Shelby backpedaled to retrieve it, hitting an overhead deep into the corner.
Then a weak return, very short.
Mark lunged forward and chopped a drop shot that landed barely over the net, out of his opponents’ reach.
Mark wiped his forehead, while his heart raced, sending adrenaline surging through his whole system. Although 2002 had not been his best year, now every cell in his body seemed to shout, “Yes, I’m back! I’m here! I’m alive!”
At the sound of a paddle clattering to the surface, his head jerked up. Two of the men on the adjoining court stood face-to-face, shouting, “Goddamn loser,” and “Retard,” at each other.
Mark made eye contact with Manny Grimes. Manny shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “See what I have to put up with.”
Trying to ignore the noise, Mark focused on serving the next point.
After winning the first game, Mark gasped for air. As they changed sides, Mark put his arm around Shelby’s shoulders. “I know you like to charge the net when we’re returning serve, but hold back. We can beat these guys if we play steady and don’t over-commit. Patience.”
“Right, Coach,” Shelby replied with a salute.
Mark prepared to receive a serve when he heard someone yell “Shit!” behind him. He turned around to see who had shouted.
A man in a gray sweat suit ascended the stairs of the adjoining court. “I’m supposed to play tonight,” he bellowed. “Lee, what the hell are you doing here?” He thrust open the door and stomped onto the court.
“You’re not scheduled for tonight,” a voice shouted back. “I told you I’d call you if we needed a sub. Besides, we started at seven.”
“You said you’d call me if you didn’t need me. And you said seven-thirty, not seven.”
Mark turned away from the other group to look at the members of his foursome. Shelby looked skyward and said, “Oh, brother.”
Suddenly, all the court lights went out. Mark blinked in the sudden darkness, seeing spots.
The sound of a loud crack broke the night air, followed by a thump.
Mark’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, but with little ancillary light, it still remained impossible to clearly see anything. Then moments later, the lights came on again.
Mark shielded his eyes from the sudden glare and looked at the next court.
Someone lay slumped by the net with a paddle resting next to him. The other four stood motionless nearby.
Mark charged to the screen to position himself for a better view.
Blood oozed from a gash on the top of the man’s head. He wore a light-blue sweat suit.
“It’s Manny!” Mark shouted. He ran to his equipment bag, grabbed his cell phone and punched in 9-1-1.
CHAPTER 2
Manny’s body splayed lifeless on the court. The EMTs had arrived too late to do any good.
Mark’s hands shook. He had trouble focusing. His head throbbed.
He needed to pull himself together. He took a deep breath and scanned the other court. This was no accident, and four potential murderers sulked on the adjoining court. Any of them could have bashed Manny with a paddle. For all the bluster and noise earlier, the four remained suspiciously quiet now.
Mark twisted his paddle in his hands and watched in silence as a police officer spoke with each of the players on the adjoining court and then separated them to wait along the recreation center outer wall.
Wanting to watch the proceedings more closely, Mark tried to go out the court door, but a policeman stopped him. “Please wait in the court for a few more minutes. Detective Peters will want to talk to you.”
Mark shrugged, shut the door and continued to watch the activity alongside the rec center building.
A photographer shot pictures of each of the suspects, and then a man in an overcoat wiped swabs over their sweat suits before dropping the samples in separate paper bags. Finally an officer escorted them individually out to waiting cars. Mark recognized the last suspect to leave. Jacob Fish.
Jacob began to yell and wave both hands in the air.
Mark rubbed his cold chin. Here Manny was dead, and Jacob was putting on an Academy Award–acting performance.
Turning his attention away from the parking lot, Mark noticed an officer wrapping yellow tape across the handrails leading to the other platform tennis court. Then a man in a dark coat entered their court. He stood approximately six-foot-two with the build of a University of Colorado linebacker. Mark estimated his age to be early forties. He addressed Mark and his companions. “I’m Detective Carl Peters. I need to take a statement from each of you and search your equipment bags. We can either do it here or down at headquarters. Your choice.”
Shelby looked at his watch. “I have to head home. Why don’t you interview me first?”
“Shelby, you just got here,” Mark protested.
“I know, but I have term papers to grade tonight.”
Mark decided to drive to the public safety building on 33rd Street rather than stand in the cold. After showing his driver’s license to Peters, who wrote the information on a pad, Mark excused himself and strode toward the parking lot. So much for a friendly platform tennis game.
Mark drank a cup of lukewarm coffee while sitting in the lobby of the public safety building watching people go in and out through the glass door. Thoughts ping-ponged around in his head, rebounding from the awful events of this evening to his recent bout with cancer. He felt his stomach tighten at the memory.
He divided his life into two periods: before cancer and after cancer. He had been healthy, rarely missing work and never bed-ridden. Sure, there had been occasional colds, but he always bounced back within days. He hadn’t been a hospital patient since his birth. He took his good health for granted, accepting it as the way things should be. Then came the news that he had prostate cancer. That changed everything. Nothing like a dose of mortality slapping him alongside the head.
What a hell of a wake-up call. Even people who did all the right things could die. It could happen to anyone.
Look at Manny.
If it hadn’t been for Manny, Mark might be dead or dying by now. He thought back to that fateful day six months ago.
He and Mann
y had sat on a bench outside the recreation center, chatting after a lunchtime platform tennis game. The conversation meandered around until, finally, they broached the subject of health. Mark always felt comfortable with Manny and found himself saying more than usual about some physical problems he had experienced.
Manny looked him in the eyes. “You have symptoms of prostate cancer. You need to go in immediately for a checkup.”
Mark laughed. “I don’t like doctors. Haven’t been to see one in probably five years.”
Manny grabbed his arm. “Come with me. I’m taking you over to the Boulder Medical Center right now.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No! This could be a matter of life or death.”
Manny drove him the four blocks to the medical center and waited while an on-call physician tended to Mark. Sure enough, he had a malignant, enlarged prostate. And if Manny had not insisted . . .
A hand touched Mark’s shoulder. Startled, he jumped.
“Mr. Yeager, would you please come this way?”
Mark sighed. He’d continue with his life, just as he did after his cancer surgery.
He followed the officer along a hallway covered with pictures of past police chiefs, into a small, bare room with hard, wooden chairs on each side of a table that looked like surplus from a local middle school.
“Detective Peters will be with you shortly.”
Mark waited and waited and finally closed his eyes. He imagined a meadow with butterflies, but the butterflies turned into flying paddles. Then a firm hand shook him.
“Mr. Yeager, I’m ready to speak with you.”
Mark blinked. “Sorry. I was daydreaming.” He looked into the intense eyes of Detective Peters.
“Mr. Yeager, this has been a trying evening for you. I’ll let you leave as soon as possible. I’d appreciate it if you would please describe the scene as you witnessed it.”
“I’m not a suspect, am I?” Mark asked.