“Tillinghast”
“Captain”
“Got a call from the mayor.”
Finally, recognition for my enormous contribution to the city. I can only wonder at the accolades. The key to the city I can do without but the black- tie, invitation-only official presentation should get me to share a table with the tart, as in tangy, Mlle Canneberge, the mayor’s delectable secretary.
“Seems someone has been stealing flowers.”
(sound of dreams shattering . ….. after a suitable pause) “I’m in serious crimes, Captain.”
“Yes, I know. The mayor’s neighbour, nice little old lady I understand, has had her posies picked and she complained to the mayor.”
“And …”
“J J thinks it might be your guy.” (J J, Jim Jenkins, the poster boy if you didn’t want female recruits. I confess to working with him in number 5 division.)
“And why did the master sergeant of crowd control at mall openings think it was ‘My guy’?”
“The posie picker left a thank you note signed Rosebud Thistle, unusual name.”
“Oh, I’ve known a few thistles in my time,” I gamely volunteered.
“Rosebud.”
Two can play at this word association game. “Citizen Kane.”
“No, Rosebud, are you hard of hearing Tillinghast? Maybe you should stay away from the shooting range for a while.”
“Right and yes, unfortunately, he sounds like ‘My guy’. Any details?”
“Well, he just took her zinnias. Note said a friend of his was in hospital and zinnias were her favourite.”
“And why can’t we just leafblow this one under the astroturf, Captain?”
“The mayor said we’d look into it and report back.”
(next day)
“Thanks, J J, for fingering me for the floral finagler.”
“Wouldn’t sleep at night if I didn’t, Rupert, crime must not go unpunished,” his grin outshone the fluorescent fixtures, “and who, better than you, to dig up the dirt?”
Two officers, enjoying the exchange, couldn’t suppress a snort.
Good old Moriarty, at it again. The guy won’t leave me alone. Fortunately the press won’t hear about this or I’ll never live it down.
(telephone rings)
“Tillinghast, serious crimes.”
“Oh good, I was afraid I’d be put onto a junior patrolman to handle the mayor’s latest threat to winning the next election.”
Rats, Eustace Panama of the Times, how did he get wind of this stinker?
“Morning Eustace, always a pleasure to talk to those less fortunate. How goes the welfare beat?”
“My spies at City Hall tell me you’ve been assigned to capture the flower filcher, should make a great headline: Bobbies baffled by Begonia Bandit.”
“It’s zinnias, Eustace, get your botanicals in line. You’ll be the first to know if anything blooms.”
Now what? Unfortunately, I don’t have a lot on my plate so I might as well try to put Moriarty, excuse the pun, to bed. But how? He always snookers me. At least I have something to start on: zinnias, hospital, female patient. That should knock it down to a couple of hundred but the zinnias might be a game changer.
If I could find the zinnias then I have the patient and then I have Moriarty’s name. Worth a shot.
“Zelda, when we send out an alert, we automatically notify all the hospitals, right?”
Zelda Zalinski, Z Z, top notch, our lovely director of communications knows everybody of any importance in town both to defend the police force and to get invited to every function where buffets are de rigueur. Not that Zelda is heavyset, let’s just say that Zelda, in her lifetime, has never been known to push herself away from a table that had potato in one appetizing form or another remaining on a plate. But Zelda’s my kinda gal, always open minded and welcoming.
“What’s the bribe for this time, Tillinghast?
“Zelda, you misunderstand me, it’s not a bribe, I know you like potato latkes for breakfast.”
Examining the offering, “It must be a doozie: applesauce, sour cream and even chopped green onions.”
“The hospitals should be on the lookout for zinnias.”
“That’s a flower, not a disease.”
“Very perceptive, but this year’s crop is a killer for those with an allergy.”
“Clarify my fuzzification.”
“If you’re allergic to zinnias, and your corsage is loaded with these deadly dandelions, this year you’re going to cry your eyes out even while watching late night television. Not for the teary eyed.”
“So …”
“… so alert the hospitals and get back to me with the names of all the patients who were blessed with these beastly bouquets.”
“Is this on the up and up?”
“Zelda, do you want to be the one accused of bringing tears to the eyes of so many when you could be garnering tears of joy of at least a few? You’ll be sainted.”
“You really can ladle it, you know Tillinghast, but it should be fun. I’ll let you know.”
(next day)
“Tillinghast, start peeling those spuds, I got it down to three.”
“Zelda, my tasty tater, I’m on my way.”
“Mmm, French fries, but they look a little soggy.”
“I had to add the salt and vinegar at the truck, they don’t have those little packets, someone keeps stealing them.”
“I’ll force them down anyway, thanks. Here you go:
Marci Mathers at the General
Joan Green at Our Lady
Heather Hamhurst again at the General”
“Sweet Z Z, you’re the best.”
“Potato salad’s in season.”
Two out of three at the General saves me a lot of time; I’ll start with Joan Green at Our Lady.
“And who the hell are you? (This didn’t sound like a warm lead.)
“I’m a detective with number 5 division, just want to ask you a few questions.”
“What the (bleep) about?” (You could feel my charm working.)
“The one who brought you the flowers?”
“So?”
“Just following up on a serious situation, would you tell me who that was?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
“Well, I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me, it’s important police business.”
(pause) “Fred Withers.”
“Thank you, and can you tell me where Fred Withers lives?”
“Well you can ask him yourself, he’s right behind you.”
(Sure enough, Dr. Fred Withers is standing there in his scrubs, name tag and all.)
“May I help you?” intones all 6’ 4” of this medical muscle raising a brow of suspicion.
“Dr. Withers, I’m a detective (flashing my badge) with number 5 division, serious crimes, and we’re following up on the possibility that flowers guests drop off could carry a nasty bit of pollen.”
“And this is a serious crime? Shouldn’t you be chasing bad guys? Aren’t you guys looking for a raise? I brought those flowers for my sister.”
(pressing myself against the wall and slowly edging my way towards the door) “Yes, well, thank you, that’s fine. And they’re lovely. All the best Ms. Green.”
“Bugger off.”
Oh man, give me a murder any day. On to Marcie Mathers.
“Ms. Mathers, I’m a detective (flashing my badge) with number 5 division, would mind telling me who brought you those flowers?”
“No, I don’t mind, my Mother. What’s this all about?”
“It’s a secret investigation, sorry, very hush hush. You’ve been very helpful. They’re zinnias, right? Lovely in this light. Thank you.”
If Heather Hamhurst doesn’t pan out, Z Z’s potato salad’s getting rotten eggs.
“Ms. Hamhurst, I’m a detective (flashing my badge) with number 5 division doing a routine check on flowers that might be harmful to patients and would you mind telling me who brought you these flowers.?”
“No, not at all, Arty.”
(Relief at last) “Can you describe Arty?”
“Tall, good looking, undistinguished back, likes to wear a fedora.”
(Be still my heart) “And … could … you … please … give … me … Arty’s … last … name?
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We’re just casual friends. We met when I was walking my dog, Magwood. We’d chat, he’d scratch Magwood’s ears. That sort of thing and I told him I wouldn’t be seeing him for a few days as I was going in for minor surgery and, bless his heart, he dropped by today and left these flowers, zinnias, my favourite. So sweet.”
“Yes, zinnias, your favourite, so wonderful that he picked them. Thank you.”
(nurses’ station)
“Excuse me, I’m a detective (flashing my badge; I wonder if this could be automated?) with number 5 division, do you happen to know the gentleman who visited Ms. Hamhurst earlier today?”
“No, but I can look it up in the visitor’s book.”
(Moriarty, your days of smelling like a rose are over.)
“Oh, yes, here it is, I do remember now, so unusual.”
(gulping) “Unusual?”
“Yes, he underlines the first letter of his first and last name. Here it is.”
Rupert Tillinghast