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Mystery
Ready, Fire, Aim and Fire Again
By Paul R.
Lloyd
When the first
shot rang out, I was parked on my linoleum-topped battleship gray
desk in what passes for an office above the Black Dingus, the dive
with the on again, off again neon sign and the chicken combo basket
larger than an ocean liner including a potato farm supply of French
fries and a gallon bucket of coleslaw – all on the cheap and easy.
Lieutenant
Lawson was on the chesterfield in the lobby taking a snooze break
from his latest caper involving a meter maid who collected almost as
many quarters for herself as she did for the city.
Bertie was
behind the reception desk reading Travis Thrasher’s horror novel
about a writer and his ghosts. I’m planning to borrow it when Bertie
finishes. Staying on top of horrors interests me both as a writer
and private eye.
When the second
shot rang out, Lawson snapped out of whatever crime scene haunted
his dreams. “Wha’ happened?”
“Shots.” I
threw his hat at him as the door squeaked open and I slid out to the
hall. Bertie peaked over her Thrasher as I passed by, eyebrows
raised.
“What kind of
shots.” Lawson was still waking up.
“Not the flu
kind.” I pushed open the door to the office across the way. The
first bullet hole I spotted garnished the light green painted
plasterboard behind the reception desk with a nice, clean puncture.
The second
bullet hole was located in the midst of a blood stain plastered across the dark green sweater worn by
the blond sitting at the reception desk. Her head was hanging over
the back of her chair with a dropped jaw. Her arms hung straight
down to the floor.
Lawson checked
for a pulse. “Nothing.”
I looked around
the office. Everything appeared neat and orderly except for the
woman holding the smoking pistol and leaning against the doorway
that led to an inner office.
“What
happened?” Lawson asked.
The woman
laughed hysterically. “Ready. Fire. Aim.”
“What’d she
say?” Lawson asked.
Before I could
answer, the woman chuckled and said, “And fire again.”
Lawson grabbed
the weapon from the woman. “At least we know what happened.”
“Do we,
Lawson?” I took the lady by the arm and led her into the inner
office.
“What do you
mean?” Lawson shrugged.
“Maybe we
should talk to the other two in the inner office.”
“Not more
suspects. She was holding the gun.” Lawson shook his head.
“Doesn’t make
her guilty,” I said.
“Looks guilty
enough to me,” Lawson said.
“Let’s take
their statements and see what really happened.” I pulled a notepad
out of my suit coat pocket.
The woman in
the doorway shook her head. “Sorry. I’m the president of the company
so it was a shock to me. I didn’t behave very well, did I?”
The man sitting
at the natural-finish oak desk in the inner office said, “I’ve been
here all the time with Shirley doing my job as the office manager.
We didn’t do it.”
The third
person in the office leaned an elbow on a tall filing cabinet.
“Don’t listen to the vice president. Tomas is a liar.”
The woman was
still in the doorway. “Don’t pay any attention to Marquarte over
there by the filing cabinet. He’s a lying vice president. And a
lousy shot who got lucky or unlucky depending on how you feel about
poor Rosie our former receptionist.
“You Shirley?”
Lawson asked.
“Yes,” the
woman said and then fainted.
Lawson said,
“Too bad. Thought we were getting somewhere.”
“We did,
Lawson. The killer was…”
Whodunit?
Zuk-Lloyd Associates, Inc. – Creative writing and art solutions.
We help
clients increase sales by turning ordinary business information into
extraordinary stories.
Contact:
Paul R. Lloyd
630-393-6516
info@zuklloyd.com
www.zuklloyd.com
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