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 Read online

  Mike Befeler Paul Jacobson Geezer-lit Mystery Series E-Book Box Set: Retirement Homes Are Murder, Living with Your Kids Is Murder, Senior Moments Is Murder, Cruising in Your Eighties Is Murder

  by

  Mike Befeler

  Table of Contents

  Retirement Homes Are Murder

  Living with Your Kids Is Murder

  Senior Moments Are Murder

  Cruising in Your Eighties Is Murder

  Retirement Homes Are Murder – Book 1

  by

  Mike Befeler

  Copyright © 2007 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 any 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: January 2007

  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 my wife, Wendy, and my kids, Roger, Dennis, and Laura.

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks for the assistance from Wendy, Laura, Kasey, and Dennis Befeler; suggestions from John McIntosh, Barbara Graham, Wanda Richards-Seaman, Phil Enger, Stuart Bastin, and Jodie Ball; and editorial support from Denise Dietz and John Helfers.

  Chapter 1

  Where was I?

  I gasped for breath and felt beads of sweat form on my forehead. I surveyed a room I didn’t recognize.

  There had to be something to jog my memory. Somewhere.

  What looked familiar?

  The dresser. I bought it in 1968 and later lugged it to the two different houses Rhonda and I lived in. But what happened to Rhonda? She used to be with me.

  An ache of loneliness constricted my chest. She died. Cancer. I now lived alone.

  I tried to find something else recognizable in this strange place. In the dim light my eyes focused on a gold aloha shirt, lying in a crumpled pile on a chair. Rhonda bought that for me on Maui in 1990. What a vacation. We went there after our son was grown and I had retired. Just the two of us. Like a honeymoon all over again.

  Now I was alone here. Wherever the hell here was. It appeared to be some kind of apartment.

  I swung my creaky old body off the mattress and peeked out the curtains. The sun illuminated trees below, some laced with red flowers. White clouds puffed across a bright blue background.

  But I didn’t recognize the building. I squinted at the distant sheer slope of a mountain draped in dark green. It looked like Hawaii. I had to think. Yes! I’d moved to Hawaii in 1995.

  It still amazed me that I ended up in Hawaii. I was the original landlubber and didn’t like the ocean. It scared the shit out of me.

  The squeak of a door opening interrupted my thoughts.

  “Good morning, Mr. Jacobson,” an attractive young woman said. She wore an orange hibiscus in long black hair that cascaded down over a bright blue and green muumuu. The aroma of pikake perfume permeated the air. I pictured her slender fingers fluttering in a graceful hula.

  “You always visit gentleman while they’re still in pajamas?” I asked. “Who are you?”

  She smiled, showing even white teeth. “Oh, Mr. Jacobson. You’re such a card. I’m Melanie. I have your pills.”

  “Pills?”

  “Yes. Now be a good sport and take your medicine.” She handed me a glass of water and a small paper cup with three pills.

  I hefted the cup as if it contained lead shot, uncertain whether or not to trust her. “I hate taking pills. You’re not trying to poison me, are you?”

  “No.” She laughed and her eyes scrunched up. “Your doctor wants you to take your medication twice a day.”

  “What’s the medicine for?”

  She clicked her tongue, and a wry smile crossed her face. “We discussed this yesterday afternoon.”

  A fog of uncertainty swept through my addled brain. I had once prided myself on my good memory. Why couldn’t I remember talking to her yesterday? Why couldn’t I recognize my surroundings? My head jerked up. “Yesterday afternoon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where am I?”

  She sighed. “You’re at Kina Nani.”

  “What the hell is Kina Nani?”

  “It’s a retirement home.”

  That stopped me faster than hitting a brick shithouse. I could feel my jaw drop.

  She must have decided to take advantage of me standing there with my mouth open. “Now be good and swallow your pills.”

  This didn’t look like the type of place I would ever pick. Even with Rhonda gone, I wouldn’t move into a tiny room with a birds-eye view of trees. Or a place where strange young women barged in. I gulped down the pills with the hope they would help rejuvenate my memory. But still—“How’d I get here?”

  “Your son told me you might not remember. He moved you in yesterday. We’re glad you decided to join us. You’ll love it here.” She gave me one last smile and then turned and made a quick exit.

  No, my son Denny would never have done this to me. He knew how much I valued my independence. But still . . . Think.

  I pushed my palms against my forehead, trying to squeeze some memory out of my foggy brain.

  There had to be something I could remember.

  I started with the basics. I am Paul Jacobson. Born September 20, 1921, in San Francisco, now living in Hawaii. After a pause and a deep breath, I still didn’t recognize this apartment that I’d supposedly moved into the day before.

  What else?

  My stomach growled.

  Where could a guy get some grub around this joint? I’d have to get dressed and look around.

  I put on Bermuda shorts, a polo shirt, and tennis shoes.

  This place still didn’t look the least bit familiar, but the things in it did. There was my old television set, a picture of Rhonda and me on our wedding day, a golf trophy I won in 1997. Boy, did I putt well that day. Within three of shooting my age. Some things a person never forgot.

  Combing my full head of neatly trimmed gray hair, I looked at myself in the mirror and patted my flat stomach. Not bad for an old fart. Still had all my good white teeth, strong limbs, no arthritis, face not too badly wrinkled. I had been alive for at least eighty years but could have passed for a young fellow in his seventies.

  I reached for the door handle, and my hand grazed a set of keys dangling from the knob. Must have been my keys. I thrust them in my pocket, stepped out, and closed the door.

  Outside, I looked at the number by the door—615. A nameplate showed “Paul Jacobson.” Damnation. This had to be where I lived. But it didn’t look at all familiar.

  Wandering down the hallway, I spied two elevators, side-by-side. I’d have to head down.

  After an interminable wait, the door of the left elevator slid open, and I stepped in. I stoo
d face-to-face with a swarm of old people. Several walkers. Crap. This place was full of old fogies. “Where does a guy get some breakfast around here?” I asked.

  A woman in a yellow muumuu gave me a skeptical look. “Second floor, of course.”

  “Second floor,” I mumbled to myself.

  After a bumpy ride punctuated by stops on two other floors, the elevator door opened. I was swept out as the limping horde moved through an entryway and into a large room, brightly lit by overhead lights and floor-to-ceiling windows. Sure enough, it looked like a feeding trough for the decrepit, a room crammed with tables, seating two to four geezers and geezerettes.

  I sniffed. The mingled aroma of papaya, fried eggs, and sausage tickled my nose. Dishes clattered in the background, and I could sense the heat of sweaty old bodies.

  I tried to figure out where to sit.

  A young woman with black hair tucked in a bun grabbed my arm. “This way, Mr. Jacobson.”

  She steered me to a table with two other men. One reminded me of a cross between a bald gnome and a Buddhist monk in an aloha shirt. He shoveled food into a wrinkle-lined cavity above a recessed chin.

  The other one stood up and appeared to be approximately my size, probably five-eleven, with white hair and a full white beard. Reminded me of a skinny Santa Claus. He gave me a welcoming smile and waved me to a chair.

  “I’m Paul Jacobson,” I said.

  “I know,” the white-bearded man said. “We met yesterday.”

  “Yesterday?”

  “Sure. You arrived here yesterday.”

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “I’m Meyer Ohana. We had a pleasant dinner together yesterday.”

  “You keep talking about yesterday.”

  “Don’t you remember our conversation?”

  “Nope,” I said. “This is all new ground for me.”

  “I didn’t realize it yesterday, but you must suffer from short-term memory loss.”

  “Yeah. That’s my big problem. You could ask me anything about 1940, but yesterday is a big blank.”

  “So how was your memory before you started having problems?” Meyer asked.

  “That’s the strange part,” I said. “When I was in business, I could remember the exact facial expression of a customer from the last time he entered my store or the precise words the daughter holding his hand had spoken.”

  “You had a photographic memory,” Meyer said.

  “I guess so. I can even picture what I’ve seen today and could repeat our conversation, so far, word for word. But yesterday’s a blank. That’s why this place is a mystery to me.”

  “You’ll get used to it,” Meyer said.

  “Maybe. What do they have you in here for?”

  Meyer gritted his teeth. “I’m still mobile and have all my mental faculties. But I’m starting to lose my sight because of macular degeneration. Although I can make out general shapes pretty well, I can’t read books anymore.”

  “You like this place?”

  He shrugged. “It isn’t bad. The food’s acceptable.”

  “Looks like he enjoys it.” I pointed to the bald troll who ignored us as he stuffed eggs, sausage, and hash browns in his mouth like he had to get the manure wagon loaded in two minutes.

  “That’s Henry Palmer. He was a world-class mathematician. Henry, do you remember Paul from yesterday?”

  Henry stopped with a fork full of oozing eggs inches from his lips and then popped it in his mouth.

  “Henry’s single-minded. A.S.”

  “What’s A.S.?” I asked.

  “Asperger’s syndrome. It’s difficult to connect with Henry sometimes, unless you’re interested in one of his projects. He likes collecting coins and is an expert on baseball statistics. Ask him anything about baseball.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Henry, who hit the most home runs for the 1958 Chicago Cubs?”

  “Ernie Banks.” He didn’t even look up but kept reaching for the food. “Forty-seven. Most in the National League and Majors. Mantle only had forty-two in the American League.”

  “I’ll be damned,” I said. “No memory problem with him.”

  “No,” Meyer said. “He’s sharp as a guillotine. But he’s not very good around people.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “Henry lacks some of the basic social graces,” Meyer said. “He’ll insult you all the time. He doesn’t mean any harm. It’s the way he is.”

  “How’s he handle it when people insult him back?”

  “Why don’t you try it?”

  I scrutinized both of them. Meyer smiled, and Henry worked away at the trough.

  I squinted at Meyer. “You setting me up?”

  He shrugged and chuckled.

  “I’ll bite,” I said. I looked at Henry’s large forehead and wrinkled face and thought of a polished peach with chunks removed. “Henry, were you born that ugly or did you get in the middle of a fight between two rabid beavers?”

  Without even looking up, Henry said, “Paul Jacobson, you’re an idiot, have the memory of a slug, and your shoes don’t match.”

  I inspected my feet. “Hell,” I muttered. I was wearing two different tennis shoes. “How’d he notice that?”

  “He sees things others don’t,” Meyer said. “Henry is very focused.”

  “I’m convinced, Henry. You want to be hired as my valet?”

  “You need more than a valet,” Henry said without lifting his head from his food. “A nursemaid.”

  I laughed. “I’m going to like this dive. I get to sit with a blind guy who escaped from the North Pole and one of his weirdo elves. What more could I want?”

  “You could go live somewhere else,” Henry said.

  Ignoring him, I turned toward Meyer. “What’s there to do around this place?”

  “Opportunities abound: bingo, shuffleboard, balloon volleyball, bridge, concerts. . . .”

  “Sound like things for old people.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But I’m still alive,” I said. “Anything more active?”

  “There’s a swimming pool.”

  “A swimming pool at my manor?”

  “Yes, and we have a Jacuzzi.”

  “I hate swimming,” I said, “but I could use a nice soak in a hot tub.”

  “The temperature’s not kept very high,” Meyer said.

  “Too bad,” I said. “That would be a good way to dispatch some of the inmates.”

  * * * * *

  After breakfast I returned to my apartment and scanned my new domain. I still couldn’t believe I had been here since yesterday. As I strolled through the kitchenette, I sniffed the aroma of stale beer. Looking down, I noticed a bag of trash containing bottles and cans. Why was this here? It looked like I’d had a party the previous night. I sure didn’t remember anything about it.

  I stuck my head out the front door, looked both directions, and saw a cleaning lady down on her hands and knees, scrubbing the hallway carpet.

  “Where do you get rid of trash around here?” I asked.

  She looked up at me, pointed and said, “Toward the elevator. Trash chute.”

  I picked up the bag, headed in the direction she had indicated, and found a metal door. I pulled the cold steel handle toward me, jammed the bag inside the opening, and waited for the clinking of falling trash.

  No sound.

  The top of the bag still showed. I pushed on the bag, but it wouldn’t go down.

  “Damn!” I shouted. “Something’s clogging the chute.”

  I removed the bag, placed it on the floor, and then peered into the chute. Couldn’t see a blasted thing. I stood up on my tiptoes and leaned over as far as I could.

  Still nothing. Too dark.

  I returned to my apartment and took a gander to see if I could spot a flashlight. I found one up on a kitchenette shelf.

  When I returned to the end of the hall, I flicked on the flashlight, leaned into the opening, and aimed the light beam downward.

>   A bloody face peered vacantly upward.

  Chapter 2

  I gasped and juggled the flashlight, catching it at the last moment, before it would have fallen onto the face. My heart pounded, and I slumped to the floor. This was awful. What was a body doing in the garbage chute? Who was it? What had happened? I had to do something. I raised myself up and stumbled toward my apartment. The only person in sight was the cleaning lady.

  “Call someone,” I shouted. “There’s a body in the trash chute.”

  She squinted at me. “What you mean?”

  “Go tell your boss. There’s a body stuffed in the trash chute. I’m phoning 9-1-1.”

  I lurched into my apartment. My hand trembled as I reached for the phone. I dropped the receiver, and it tumbled to the rug. Reaching over, I picked it up like a hot potato and punched in the three digits. I waited with my stomach doing more somersaults than an Olympic gymnastics team during floor exercises. It wasn’t good for old guys to go through things like this.

  Within minutes a siren sounded in the distance.

  I dashed out into the hallway, took a deep breath to calm myself, and marched to the trash chute. I paced back and forth, waiting for someone to show up.

  Finally a policeman lumbered toward me. He stood approximately six feet tall with a firmly set jaw and a nose that, at least once, had encountered something hard.

  “It’s in the garbage chute,” I said, pointing.

  “You the one who made the call?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I was trying to throw away some trash.”

  He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and carefully pulled the handle to open the chute. Then, with his other hand, he whipped a flashlight from his belt, directed the beam into the opening, and leaned over to peer inside.

  A moment later his head emerged. With a scowl he reached for a cell phone attached to his belt and made a call. “Suspected homicide. Body in the trash chute, sixth floor of the Kina Nani retirement home. Notify Saito and send a medical examiner. We’ll also need rope and a harness to pull it out.”