March 2007

THE "CASE" OF PARLOR PALMS
By Gary R. Hoffman

Officer Jamison took his baton from his belt and smashed the glass window in the door. A 911 call was made about a man’s body lying on the floor of Frieda’s Florist. When they got there, they could see the man’s feet sticking out from behind the counter. He reached through the opening and turned the dead bolt. He and his partner, Officer Riley, drew their pistols before they entered. Jamison went to check on the person, and Riley went to the rear of the store to make sure no one was still there.

"The back door is secure. He dead?" Riley asked.

"Fraid so. Better call for forensics and the M.E."

Jamison pulled a wallet from the man’s back pocket. Both of them had their backs to the front door when a woman walked in. "What’s going on here?"

"And who are you?" Jamison said.

"I’m Lola Patterson. I work here. I was driving by and saw the door open. Even when Frieda works on Sunday, she never leaves the door open. I came in to see what was going on."

"We got a call about a body being in here."

"A body! Oh, my God!"

"There’s quite a bit of blood here. Do you think you could tell us if you know him?"

"I’ll try." She walked to the counter and looked down. "Oh, my God! That’s Wesley." She turned and ran into the bathroom. Jamison checked the wallet for some identification.

Another woman came rushing in. "What’s going on here?"

"And you are?" Jamison asked.

"I’m Frieda Fortellie. This is my store. I got a call from the alarm company that my store was broken into."

"Looks like there’s been a murder here, ma’am," Officer Riley said.

"A murder? Do you know who it is?"

"A woman named Lola said it was someone named Wesley. She’s in the john, probably heaving her guts out," Riley said.

"Wesley Conner? That’s my daughter’s fiancé! He just proposed Friday night." Frieda stepped backward and sat on a huge box that was part of a stack by the door.

"Name checks with the driver’s license," Jamison told Riley. He turned to Frieda. "So why would he be in the store?"

"He works for me."

"He do extra work on Sunday?"

"No, not on Sunday. He did drive the van for me on weekdays making deliveries. I usually handled any Sunday deliveries to save money."

"How long has he worked for you?"

"A couple of months. My regular driver quit, and Wesley needed a job."

"How about calling your daughter and getting her down here."

"Sheila left yesterday morning for a training conference in Wisconsin."

He looked at her sitting on the shipping box. "If you got flowers shipped to you yesterday, wouldn’t they be dead by the time you got them out?"

"Oh, these aren’t flowers. They’re live plants." She patted the large box she was sitting on. "This box contains parlor palms. Just two of them come in here. They're quite large." She opened the box. "Hum, it’s empty. Someone must have unpacked them."

Lola came back from the bathroom and was sitting next to Frieda. When the M.E. got there, he determined the person had been killed about eighteen hours ago.

"That would make it about four yesterday afternoon. Also, looks like he was shot six times, close range. I can tell more after the autopsy."

Jamison wrote something on a note and handed it to Riley. Riley left the store. Jamison turned to Frieda. "What time do you close on Saturday?"

"Noon."

"Did Wesley have a key to the store?"

"No. I have one, along with Lola and Sheila."

"Who had keys wouldn’t make much difference, would it?" Lola said. "I mean, if the place was locked up from the inside. How’d the killer get away, anyway?"

Jamison smiled at her. "That we’re not sure of, yet! But I’m sure we’ll find out. Miss Patterson, where were you around four yesterday?"

"Probably at home."

"Probably?"

"I left here at noon and stopped by the grocery store. I read some, fixed something for my supper, and then read for the rest of the evening. I was in bed by ten."

"And how about you, Mrs. Fortellie? Where were you yesterday afternoon?"

"Well, I waited here for Wesley to get back with the van. That was around two. When he got back, I left. I went home, took a short nap, then a long bath, and got ready to go out. My husband and I attended a dinner dance at the country club. We got home around midnight."

Riley returned and handed Jamison a piece of paper. Riley scanned the note and looked at Lola. "Well, Miss Paterson, were you in love with Wesley Conner?"

Lola looked at the floor. Her face flushed and her heart was beating faster. "That's ridiculous!"

"Want to explain why you called his cell phone thirty-five times in the last two weeks, and the last one was Saturday at three-thirty?" He got no answer. "And how, if you were at home at four Saturday, you got a speeding ticket all the way across town at five-thirty?" Again, no answer.

"Wait a minute," Frieda said. "How could she have done this if the store was locked from the inside?"

"Did you empty those parlor palms from the case?" Officer Riley asked.

"No."

"Then I submit Lola emptied that case. She then locked up the store after she killed Wesley." Riley said.

"Why would she do that?" Frieda asked.

"Want to explain why, Lola?" Jamison asked.

"You don't know what you're talkin' about," Lola said.

"Well, you correct me if I'm wrong, Lola. You were in love with Wesley and didn't want Sheila to have him. You got into an argument about Wesley's engagement to Sheila and killed him. You then hid in the case until we got here. You didn't just walk in the door. You were watching us through the air holes in that case. While our backs were turned, you crawled out, making it look like you just walked in the door."

Lola took a couple of stumbling steps backwards and sat down on the shipping crate. An avalanche of tears started rushing down her cheeks. "He lied to me!"

Jamison walked over to her and handcuffed her. "Lola Patterson, you're under arrest for the murder of Wesley Conner. Anything you say can……"

THE END

Gary R. Hoffman taught English and Speech/Drama for 22 years in Missouri and California. He quit teaching over 20years ago to go into business for himself. He now lives in a motor home and says, “Home is where you park it!” He now travels the North American Continent, with Sandy and their cat, Callie, and attempts to stay in moderate climates. He has many short stories published in anthologies, ezines, and magazines. He has also won many awards for his short stories. Gary can be reached at grhotra@yahoo.com.