Last Gasp Motel: Omnipodge Trilogy, #1

By Mike Befeler

When retired maintenance man Frank Sinatra finds Darell Willows's body in the swimming pool of the Last Gasp Motel in Omnipodge, California, Frank must deal with the responding police officer making wisecracks about his name while trying to figure out what happened.

Detective Duke Lambert arrives and quizzes Frank. Frank agrees to help the detective, whom he has worked with before. Suspects include the residents of the Last Gasp and the son and daughter-in-law of the unpopular victim.

The aging residents are a quirky lot including chain-smoking manager Hedda Robinson; kleptomaniac Carolyn Bryant; "Accident" Al Utley, who causes traffic accidents and then collects money from the other drivers; dog-poop vigilante Pat Pope known as "Mr. Poop"; good Samaritan Mira Neighbors; potassium-obsessed, banana-chomping Banny Zamora; flower petal–scattering Gladys Terry; womanizer Caruthers Quinter; authority-avoiding Varenka; and conspiracy-theory nut Ethel Ogden.

Each of the suspects argued recently with the deceased—and all of them have reasons to want him dead. The eccentric tenants must work together to solve the case before the city demolishes the place they call home and replaces it with a shopping mall—the race is on to find the killer and save the Last Gasp Motel!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Encircle Publications
• Release date: Nov 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9781645994749

Mike Befeler

In the May, 2008, issue of the AARP Bulletin Mike Befeler was identified as one of four authors in a new emerging mystery sub-genre. Harlan Coben, president of Mystery Writers of America stated, “We’ve just scratched the surface on geezer-lit. It could be the next frontier in crime fiction.” Mike turned his attention to speaking and fiction writing after a career in high technology marketing. His debut novel, RETIREMENT HOMES ARE MURDER, was published January, 2007. The second novel in his Paul Jacobson Geezer-lit Mystery Series, LIVING WITH YOUR KIDS IS MURDER, appeared April, 2009 and was a finalist for the Lefty Award for the best humorous mystery of 2009. The third book in the series, SENIOR MOMENTS ARE MURDER, was published in August, 2011. The fourth book, CRUISING IN YOUR EIGHTIES, was a finalist for The Lefty Award for the best humorous mystery of 2012. The fifth book, CARE HOMES ARE MURDER, was released in July, 2013 and the sixth book, NURSING HOMES ARE MURDER, in 2014,. He also has two published paranormal mysteries: THE V V AGENCY and THE BACK WING. Other published books include an international thriller, THE TESLA LEGACY, and standalone mysteries UNSTUFF YOUR STUFF, DEATH OF A SCAM ARTIST, COURT TROUBLE, MURDER ON THE SWITZERLAND TRAIL, MYSTERY OF THE DINNER PLAYHOUSE. Mike is past president of the Rocky Mountain Chapter of Mystery Writers of America. He is an acclaimed speaker and presents “The Secret of Growing Older Gracefully—Aging and Other Minor Inconveniences” "How to Survive Retirement" and "Rejection Is Not a Four Letter Word" to service organizations and senior groups. He grew up in Honolulu, Hawaii, lived in Boulder, Colorado, and now resides in Lakewood, CA, with his wife, Wendy. http://www.mikebefeler.com

Book preview

Chapter 1

Frank would never go in the swimming pool again. Not that he had been swimming in the last two years. His gut clenched at the sight in front of him. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing at this hour of the morning.

Suddenly his universe collapsed. His vision tunneled in on the one object. The sound of early morning traffic racing past Omnipodge on Highway 1 faded away. The sunlight that had kissed his arms moments before evaporated. The aroma of eggs and bacon from the diner no longer wafted through the air. Even the bile rising in his throat paused, as if blocked.

Then the shivering began. As his senses returned, the warm summer morning did nothing to eliminate the goose bumps on his arms. The image of a long ago incident swirled through his mind. Get a grip. This has nothing to do with ancient history.

Frank took a deep breath. He looked wildly from side to side. No one else in view. He swallowed hard. One more thing for the maintenance guy to clean up.

He knew the man floating face down in the swimming pool was dead. No question about it. He’d seen similar scenes—bodies floating in rivers during the Vietnam War. The worst time in his life. The irony, for whatever reason, he hadn’t run then. Maybe it had been a sense of duty driven into his brain during boot camp. Maybe it was the unreality of war. Somehow, he’d survived without being shot. He had held his ground when ordered.

Frank pressed his temples as a pounding coursed through his head. Anything but this. He gulped in another lungful of air. His vision expanded as if a camera were panning out from a close-up. A slight breeze caused the Hawaiian shirt to billow above the body in the water. Only a few ripples. Nothing floated in the pool except the body and a flower petal. Unlike most people his age, Frank didn’t need glasses to see this scene. Right now he wished his eyesight wasn’t so good. The bald head reminded Frank of an alabaster bowling ball. Jeez. What a way for Darrell to end up.

Frank sensed the familiar fear roiling in his stomach, sending pulses up his esophagus, gripping his throat. His leg twitched. Run away. He took a step and then consciously willed himself to stand in place.

Over sixty years ago, he had run away from Ohio to California, hitchhiking and riding buses. He had been young and in search of a haven. Now he was too old to give up the semblance of security he had forged here. He clenched his fists and repeated the mantra. Stay. Stay. Stay.

Frank opened his right hand, raised it and wiped away the sweat forming on his brow. He needed to act. He patted his pockets and realized he’d left his cell phone in his room. Damn. Was he starting to lose his marbles? He always took his phone when he went for his early morning walks. You never knew when there’d be an emergency, and now one had occurred.

He spun around. No one in sight. Where were all the people with smartphones plastered to their ears when you wanted help? Since the pool was right outside the manager’s office, Frank knocked on Hedda Robinson’s door rather than returning to his room.

Hedda opened the door, a scowl on her face. She wore curlers and had the ever-present cigarette dangling from her lips. Frayed slippers and an old brown robe completed her early morning wardrobe.

Frank sniffed. The smell of burnt coffee and Bengay permeated the air. At Hedda’s heels, her Chihuahua yapped.

Can it, Midge! Hedda shouted. She looked Frank up and down as if inspecting a slab of beef at the market. You here to croon for me?

Frank rolled his eyes. That was the damn problem being named Frank Sinatra. Everyone thought he could sing. Unfortunately, he couldn’t hold a tune. Even though his parents had sprung for singing lessons, he didn’t make it into the high school choir sixty plus years ago. Sure, his name had scored him a few dates in that same high school, but the name wasn’t worth squat at age eighty. Less than squat. It invariably led to smart aleck comments from people when he first met them.

You need to call nine-one-one, Frank said.

Hit your finger with a hammer? Hedda gave a hacking cough.

No. Darrell Willows is dead in the pool.

Hedda pushed past Frank and peered over the Cyclone fence into the pool area. Damnation. He doesn’t even like the water. What’s he doing in there?

That’s something for the police and coroner to figure out. Do you want me to use your phone to make the call?

Hedda shoved Frank aside. You stay here. I’ll call. She slammed the door, missing the toe of Frank’s tennis shoe by inches.

Midge continued to yap.

Frank shuffled around the fence that enclosed the pool and waited on the street side for the authorities to arrive. The shivering started again, and he hugged himself, his arms tight against his chest as he stared toward the sign above the roof that read, LAST GASP MOTEL.

This had once been the last motel and gas station on Highway 1 heading north from Omnipodge. The single pump, long since out of use, still stood in the middle of the parking lot like a lost soldier in the desert. The J had fallen from the sign years ago, for what once had been called the PJ Motel.

He lowered his gaze to the sign above the manager’s door, which permanently displayed, No Vacancy. This wasn’t an ordinary motel any longer. Hedda now ran the place for her son who owned the property.

The building had not aged well, much like its residents. The eleven-room, U-shaped, one-story motel provided a home for Frank and the others. An office/lounge area rested at one tip of the U, and the squared-off corners housed a laundry room and a storage area where Frank kept his tools. He couldn’t really complain. He had a free room in exchange for being the semi-official maintenance man for the Last Gasp Motel, allowing him to get by on his monthly Social Security payments. Cleaning clogged toilets, changing light bulbs, fixing damaged siding and performing other miscellaneous repair chores provided something for him to do, other than sitting and staring at the Omnipodge River.

Hedda came stomping out of her room and wagged her right index finger at Frank. The police will be here momentarily. She glanced at the floating body and let out a loud sigh. Guess the top of the waiting list will be able to move in. You’ll have to repaint Darrell’s room.

Frank flinched at her callous reaction. He’d miss Darrell and their checkers games. There’s plenty of paint in the supply room.

And you talk to the police. I gave them your name. Hedda spun on her heels, stormed into her room and slammed the door again. Midge yapped at full force.

Great. He’d have to put up with some wisecrack from the investigating police officer asking how his chums in the Rat Pack were or why he had brown rather than blue eyes. Frank pulled himself up to his full five-foot-nine and ran his hand through his thinning gray hair. At least he had some of it left.

The realization of what he had seen renewed its effort to gnaw at his gut as if one of those Gremlin creatures was trying to eat its way out of his belly. His throat tightened.

How the hell did Darrell end up face down in the pool? He always slept late and never wandered around early in the morning.

Then it struck Frank. Darrell could have fallen or been pushed into the pool the night before. Frank stared again at the body. Yeah, it could have been there for hours. No telling when he had done his swan dive.

The distant sound of a siren wailed and grew louder. A police cruiser pulled into the lot, made a turn facing the street and screeched to a halt in front of Frank.

A husky, twenty-something police officer with a crew cut and metal-rimmed aviator sunglasses hopped out, bent down for a moment and stepped over. You Frank Sinatra?

Yeah.

I thought you were dead.

I’m alive, but he isn’t. Frank pointed. Floater in the pool.

The policeman strode to the fence and peered over. Shit. We’ve had these in the river and ocean but not in a swimming pool. He pulled out his cell and began yammering.

Another siren, and in a minute an ambulance pulled in next to the cop car. Two EMTs jumped out.

The policeman held up a hand. No rush. Too late for your services. Coroner will have someone here shortly. They chatted as if a floater were an everyday occurrence.

Frank stood still, watching them. In a few minutes, the EMTs returned to the ambulance and drove away. The police officer came over to Frank and took out a notepad and pen. This a mob hit, Frankie?

It’s Frank, and I have no clue what it is.

Tell me what you know.

Frank let out a deep sigh. I came out of my room for a morning walk. Room six, over there. He aimed his index finger.

Anyone else around?

Nope. Only me. I headed toward the street, and as I passed the pool, I noticed Darrell floating there.

You know the deceased?

Yeah. Darrell Willows. He lives… uh… lived in room eight.

The policeman tapped his pad. When did you last see him alive?

He and I played checkers yesterday around five in the afternoon. After that he went into his room, and I didn’t see him again until… you know… I found him in the pool.

He have any drinking problems, might have passed out and fallen in the pool?

No. He was a teetotaler.

The policeman tapped his notepad with the tip of his pen. He a druggie?

No. As far as I know, only Advil.

The policeman pulled down his dark glasses and peered over the frames at Frank. Any fights last night?

I didn’t hear anything. Went to sleep around ten. Frank tried to remember any sounds that might have disturbed him during the night. Nothing came to mind.

This Darrell Willows have any enemies?

Frank shrugged. Not that I know of. He played some practical jokes, but we were all used to that. He was pretty much a regular old coot like the other people who live here.

The policeman snapped his notepad closed. Yeah, I’ve heard of this place. Kind of like an illegal retirement home. The city has sent messages threatening to close this joint down. Now this.

Frank winced. It’s only a bunch of old people who rent rooms. Nothing more.

The policeman adjusted his dark glasses. Some honcho in the city government has a hard on for this so-called motel. A dead body may put more pressure on shutting it down. You may have to return to Vegas, Frank.

Great. That’s all he needed. To have to find a new place to live. I don’t see the problem. People here mind their own business and don’t cause any trouble.

Other than flopping into swimming pools and dying. We’ll see what the coroner and detective have to say. Who runs this place?

Frank pointed to the manager’s office. Hedda Robinson is the manager of the motel. She’s in right now, so you can speak with her.

The policeman chuckled. Yeah. Some motel. Stick around. I’m sure the detective will want to speak with you. He strolled off to knock on Hedda’s door.

The door opened, Hedda appeared in all her glory, and Midge yapped.

Frank had successfully overcome the compunction to run and would wait as the officer had requested. He looked east at the cables for the tram that carried people up the mountain to the Omnipodge Adventure Park. The Last Gasp Motel residents would be going on an outing there the next day. He pivoted and his gaze focused on the hill across the Omnipodge River—red dirt and green trees. He gave a hacking cough. The dirt made him think of the blood that would never pulse through Darrell’s arteries and veins again.

While the policeman spoke with Hedda, Carolyn Bryant came out of room three. She wore a flowered housedress, red and green bowling shoes, and large oval glasses. Her white hair was tied back in a bun. Holding a crowbar, she ambled over to the police cruiser. She bent over and in one fluid motion popped off the left rear hubcap, catching it before it clattered to the pavement. She stood, gave Frank a septuagenarian smirk and carried the hubcap and crowbar back to her room.

This summer day had not started well.

Chapter 2

Within two hours the Last Gasp Motel was crawling with people. Two other cop cars pulled into the parking lot. The only thing missing—a giant box of gooey donuts.

A young woman with disheveled hair, who looked as if she had been awakened from a sound sleep, climbed out of a white SUV, bearing the seal of the Monterey County Coroner’s office. She wore jeans, a University of California Santa Cruz sweatshirt and cowboy boots. She snapped on blue rubber gloves, picked up a black bag that resembled a doctor’s kit, strode toward the pool, thrust open the gate and went inside.

Frank didn’t think she planned to take an early morning swim.

An unmarked Crown Victoria disgorged Detective Duke Lambert, who Frank recognized from a city fundraiser they had worked on together. Lambert had represented the police department and had been responsible for event security. Frank had helped with construction of a stage for the benefit concert, featuring some aging rock band from San Francisco. Frank had never heard of the group and didn’t care much for their loud, toneless renditions.

Lambert and Frank had struck up a conversation, joking about the ex-hippies who had come for the concert. They had even gone out for a pizza after completing setup and shared a few stories of characters they’d known. Frank liked Lambert, and the feeling seemed mutual. This was in contrast to the other local detective Frank had met on one occasion—Detective Moriarty. Moriarty was a strutting nincompoop.

Today, Lambert wore a crumpled gray suit and no tie. He had black combed-back hair and tanned skin. Ray-ban sunglasses perched snuggly on the bridge of his nose. The detective nodded to Frank and headed into the pool area where he pulled on rubber gloves and joined the coroner’s medical investigator.

A plump, middle-aged woman dressed in black—black slacks, black pumps, black blouse, and the same dark glasses—climbed out of a red Camaro and removed a bag from the trunk. Frank figured she must be the crime scene investigator. What was it with law enforcement people? Did they get a discount on aviator sunglasses?

With the whole gang assembled, Frank held his reserved spot on the parking lot asphalt and continued to watch the proceedings.

Banana Zamora, known to everyone at the Last Gasp Motel as Banny, came out of room five, munching on a banana. He sidled up to Frank. What’s going on?

Darrell Willows is dead. Floating in our pool.

Banny arched an eyebrow. His short, skinny frame twitched. Damn. He owed me two bucks.

You’ll have to sue his estate, Frank said.

Banny took a last bite. Right. Too bad Darrell didn’t pay attention to his potassium. That’s probably what killed him.

Frank rolled his eyes. Don’t get on your potassium kick again. I doubt Darrell’s eating habits had anything to do with his demise.

Banny tossed the peel into the garbage can next to the pool fence. You never can tell. You don’t get enough potassium and go in the water, you get cramps. You get cramps in a pool, you drown.

The police will work it out.

I guess I’ll go watch the events from in front of my place. Banny strolled back to his room, disappeared inside for a moment and reappeared with a folding chair, which he set up facing the pool.

In a moment Mira Neighbors came out of room four and spoke to Banny, who nodded and went back into his room, returning with a second folding chair.

Mira floated over to Frank, her thin, ethereal form engulfed in a gossamer gown. She wore her ever-present necklace of pink beads. What can I do to help?

Nothing any of us can do, Mira. Darrell’s dead. The police are in charge of the investigation.

At that moment, a chorus of loud yips emerged from Hedda Robinson’s apartment.

Mira winced. That dog of Hedda’s scares the bejabbers out of me.

Frank chuckled. Are you kidding? Midge is nothing more than a rat with a voice implant.

Mira put her hand to her cheek. I don’t like dogs. But concerning Darrell, I feel so helpless. There must be something I can do.

I think you should go back and sit with Banny.

She let out a loud sigh. I guess you’re right. She made a slow hovering turn as a glider would and flowed back to the chair next to Banny.

Frank inched closer to the pool fence. The woman from the coroner’s office asked, Is there a broom around here?

I’ll get you one. Frank scurried to the storage area, unlocked it with one of the keys attached to his belt, retrieved a broom and brought it back.

The coroner’s medical investigator used the broomstick to pull the corpse to the side of the pool as if sweeping refuse along the surface. Then she bent over and began poking and prodding poor Darrell’s remains.

Frank turned away. He tried to imagine being the one ending up face down in a pool. How would he feel having some woman inspecting him? And to lie naked in the morgue while a doctor sliced him open, removed organs and took blood samples. Yuck. Not that he’d notice if his body were in that situation. Unless somehow a person’s soul remained, floating above a body.

Frank swiveled and regarded the proceedings again. Nah. He didn’t figure Darrell was hovering above his body. If anything, Darrell flew off to play checkers with some other disembodied spirit.

The husky cop, also having donned gloves, helped pull Darrell out of the pool to rest on the cement siding, dripping like a waterlogged dog. Flies buzzed around the body, and the cop swatted them away. Seemed as though everything and everyone wanted a piece of Darrell. Frank clicked his tongue. The indignities a dead body had to endure.

Detective Lambert peered over the woman’s shoulder as she inspected the body. He said something Frank couldn’t hear, and the woman nodded.

Did they think this was an accidental death or a homicide?

Frank stared intently at the remains, but couldn’t detect any clues one way or the other. Only the soggy mass resting on the cement.

Eventually, they sealed Darrell in a body bag and carted him off to the SUV. The policeman, who had been first on the scene, spoke to Detective Lambert and pointed toward Frank.

Frank waved back.

While the policeman unfurled a roll of yellow tape and wrapped it around the pool’s Cyclone fence, Lambert moseyed over to where Frank stood.

Frank Sinatra, as I live and breathe. Lambert chuckled.

We’re both living and breathing a whole lot better than Darrell Willows, Frank replied. He thought of reaching his hand out to shake the Detective’s, but Lambert still wore rubber gloves. No sense getting Darrell’s goo on his hands.

I understand you were the first on scene.

Frank nodded. Yeah. I spotted the body.

Detective Lambert took off his gloves and whipped out a pen and pad, the same type the policeman had used. The police department must have received a discount on a supply of