Henny and Lloyd’s Casebook: Henny and Lloyd Private Eyes, #3

By John Paulits

A murder in a flower shop sends Henny and Lloyd on a not-so-merry chase into the mysterious family dynamics of a clan who live by their own rules. But nothing is too bizarre for Henny and Lloyd. Noses to the grindstone they follow the clues and shock even themselves when they lay bare the facts of the matter and uncover the events that led to the murder in the flower shop. Then they are hired by a nine-year-old girl who plops her piggy bank on Lloyd's desk and describes her problem. Our heroes take her case, which proves to be anything but childish, and in this instance, do a family some good. As that escapade comes to a close, an old man totters into the office of Henny and Lloyd and begs them to take on an assignment they realize has no chance of coming to a happy conclusion. Yet, they agree to help the old man and see the mystery through to its end, whether to a happy conclusion or otherwise, time will tell.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798891970007

Book preview

One

Henny bent forward over his desk, waiting with, in my eyes, an embarrassing eagerness to hear what the young woman who had commandeered our client chair—positioned in front of Henny’s desk today—had to say. She was young, maybe twenty-five or thereabouts. Her long orange-red hair reached an inch or two past her shoulders, and even from where I sat, I could see the sparkle of her blue eyes. She wore a buttoned, light green blouse and a darker green skirt. Most notably, she had the face of an angel. Her timid knock on our office door didn’t convey the tumult she brought in with her. Her distress barely under control, she clutched the arms of her chair tightly, twice tried to speak, but, unable to control the quiver in her voice, she stopped, took a deep breath, offered Henny a wan smile, and managed to squeak out, Give me a minute.

Henny would have given her more than a minute; probably would have given her anything she wanted, but he maintained appropriate private eye decorum and squared his shoulders as well as he could from a sitting position. He reached inside the top drawer of his desk and took out a toothpick, which he slid between his lips. His gray, pinstriped, double-breasted suit coat hung on the back of his desk chair. He leaned back and soothingly said, Take your time. Patience on a monument itself.

I sat behind my own desk, notepad in hand, ready to jot down any salient facts Henny would elicit. But let me digress for a moment. Henny and I had recently—and quite successfully, I might add—solved a few cases. We are the Henny and Lloyd Detective Agency, located on Centre Steet in downtown New York City. A couple of these cases involved young women who, shall we say, had more money than the average human being Henny and I generally encountered in our daily lives. Susan Denzler, now a New York Post reporter, had entered my life not long before, when we were thrown together and decided to work as a team to bring to light a case of local political chicanery. She and I had stayed close ever since, and she’d been a great help in several of Henny’s and my cases. She wasn’t selfless. She’d gotten some great stories from those cases. Henny had taken notice of how my relationship with Susan had improved my outlook on life, and high hopes surfaced in him when he encountered the few lovely, young, rich women who called on us for help. Though Henny was ready, willing, and able in any and every way, no sparks ignited between him and our clients. We solved their cases, but Henny sank into a rather morbid realization that something about him did not appeal to any woman suffering from income abundance. So, when the current young lady who sat before us trying to collect herself knocked on our door, and Henny let her in, he naturally perked up when she announced she couldn’t pay much of a fee, but she needed our help desperately. Loveliness is a wonderful attribute, but her being short of funds sank my hopes for much of a payday. Henny, apparently, had things other than income on his mind, and knowing Henny’s natural proclivity to help the downtrodden— added to his recent funk—combined with the attractiveness of the young lady, I put aside my financial disappointment and allowed Henny the floor. We’d recently gotten a substantial fee for locating a missing boxer, the kind who punches wearing gloves, not the four-legged kind that barks, and were not in any particular state of need at the moment.

Donna Collins stood no more than five-foot-four. As she worked to compose herself so she could present her dilemma, I took advantage of the delay to appreciate how lovely she looked. Henny, a great admirer of the 1940s, was probably humming Baby Face, a tune popular back then that has lingered into the present. I imagined how Donna would light up a room with her smile, but as yet, she hadn’t managed anything close.

Feeling a little better? Henny asked. Take your time and tell us your problem.

Donna heaved a great sigh and announced, The problem is my boyfriend.

I turned my gaze on Henny, who bravely did not break down in tears of frustration. He cleared his throat and said, Your boyfriend?

Yes. I’m afraid he’s going to do something stupid.

Henny seemed frozen in place, so I spoke up. How so?

Donna looked my way. It’s so awful. He’s been working, and working hard, at Ott’s Flower Store over on Lafayette Street. Lafayette was a block west of where we sat. He likes spending the day surrounded by flowers. He told me so, and he was making decent money. I work, too, in a medical office on Varick Street, and Charles and I thought we finally had enough income to get married. Varick Street was walking distance from where we sat.

A gusty sigh came from Henny.

And what is the problem? I asked.

The boss, Fred Ott, fired him! Fired him, just like... Donna snapped her fingers.

Did they not get along? I asked. Is there bad blood?

"No, no. Fred gave Charles some story about it being a slack time, and maybe in a few months he’d be able to hire him back. A few months! We want to get married now. A few months is forever. We can’t start a life together scratching for every dollar. It’s not fair. It’s so not fair. And Charles has his pride."

A few tears rolled down Donna’s lovely cheeks. Henny sat immobile, so I got up and found some tissues.

Thank you, she said, sniffling as I handed her the box.

How can we help you? I asked, returning to my desk.

I’m afraid Charles is going to do something he’ll regret. He’s angry. He has a temper. He’s never directed his temper at me, and he never would, but I’ve seen it burst out on occasion. Lowering her voice she added, He has self-image problems, but never mind about that. Charles swore he was going to confront Fred and demand his job back. I tried to reason with him, but he bolted out of the apartment. We live down at Southbridge Towers. I only hope he’s not on his way to the flower shop and is just walking around to cool off. I’ve passed here often and seen your sign in the window, and I thought you might be able to help.

Neither Henny nor I, though, could offer an immediate solution to her problem.

Donna looked from me to Henny, and to Henny she said, Would you please go to the flower shop and make sure nothing happens there. Please. Here. Donna opened her purse and laid a few twenty-dollar bills on Henny’s desk. Studying Henny’s empathetic face, I knew I’d never see any of those bills, and I was right. Henny reached across the desk and scooped up the money. He rose and went to Donna.

You keep this, he said. I’ll go to the flower shop and speak with Mr. Ott and see what’s going on. Do you have a picture of your boyfriend?

Donna dug out her phone and passed it over to Henny. That’s the two of us about a week ago outside the flower shop. Fred Ott took the picture. A bitter repetition of Fred Ott ended her report.

Henny studied at the photo, then returned the phone.

What’s your friend’s last name? Henny asked.

Hegger. Charles Hegger.

Henny donned his jacket, then went to the coat rack to retrieve his black fedora. Stay here with Lloyd, he said to Donna. Lloyd, you know what information to get. I hope I won’t be long, but if I am, I’ll contact you, Donna, as soon as I can. What’s the address of the flower shop? Once he had the address, Henny strode manfully out of the office.

I reseated myself at Henny’s desk nearer our pro bono client and took down Donna’s contact information. She’d calmed considerably since her entrance and began to talk freely.

I’ve known Charles for two years, she said. We’ve been living together—to save money—for about six months. Paying one rent is cheaper than paying two. He gave up his apartment in Chelsea.

And you mentioned you’re in Southbridge Towers?

"Yes.

Southbridge Towers is an attractive but not luxury, cluster of buildings a few steps south of the Brooklyn Bridge. You see how much time the builders took to come up with a name for the place. Donna chatted on for maybe thirty minutes with me, interjecting an occasional question as evidence of my interest in the course of her and Charles’s romance. My real interest, though, had waned on Henny’s return of Donna’s money. Finally, I suggested she go home and wait for Charles to return or for Henny to give her a call.

She stood. Yes, you’re right. I should be where Charles can find me.

We said farewell and she left, without ever once having smiled to emphasize something she said or as a response to anything I said. With no anticipation of any fee from her, she could have at least left a smile or two behind.

Two

Isat at my quiet desk , the June sun shining through our windows over my shoulder, enjoying the tranquility of our third-floor office when the office phone rang. Henny’d been gone about two hours, maybe a little more, and I expected it to be him with a report or a question about what kind of food he should bring back with him.

The voice greeting me, however, said, Hey, lover.

It wasn’t Henny. It was Susan.

Hey, yourself. How goes the day?

Things were quiet until about an hour ago.

I slid my chair back a bit and propped my feet up on my desk. What’s up? I asked.

You and Henny didn’t hear? It’s in your neighborhood. You two should get a police scanner.

Maybe for Christmas this year. Henny’s out on a case involving a flower shop. Who’d’ve thought, eh?

Susan’s voice turned serious. A flower shop? Where?

Over on Lafayette Street. A young lady came in and wanted us to prevent some trouble that probably wasn’t going to happen anyway. He’s not back yet. It’s been a couple hours.

And he won’t be for a while. He witnessed a murder.

My feet fell to the floor, and I rolled my chair closer to the desk. He what? Huh? How do you know? What are you talking about?

Did he go to Ott’s Flower Shop?

Ott’s? Yeah, yeah. That’s the name the client gave.

I heard the police had taken in a private detective who happened to be on the scene. And it’s Henny?

Good grief. I guess it must be. He went to keep the lady’s boyfriend away from the florist—Fred Ott, who’d just fired him.

Same place, for sure.

Henny actually saw the murder? Did they arrest the boyfriend?

No arrest made as yet.

They don’t think Henny had anything to do with it, do they? My heartbeat had begun to race.

Why don’t you call your police pal and see what he knows.

Yeah, I’ll do that. Talk to you later.

Detective Thursday, NYPD, had come into our lives on a case where he showed up in our office unannounced and told us to butt out and stop investigating the murder of a teacher. The police would handle it, he declared in no uncertain terms. He was a full-gutted, intimidating fellow, and for a brief moment, we figured we’d better take his advice. But we didn’t. We solved the case, and when we allowed Thursday to take the credit for the solve, he mellowed. Since then, we’d helped each other a few times, and I can truthfully say he’d come to like the two of us, though he’d dealt more with Henny than me. Henny liked the idea of having a police informant, so to speak. Very 1940s, he told me. At any rate, I found Detective Thursday’s personal cell number, we were that buddy-buddy, and placed the call.

Yeah? came his growled hello.

It’s Lloyd. I need some information. I explained the situation.

That’s Henny they picked up? Thursday asked, and I confirmed it. I heard they had a witness. I felt a spasm of relief at the word ‘witness.’

Let me see what’s going on, and I’ll call you back. Fifteen minutes later, he did. He’s been released. He’s not under suspicion or anything, but...

The office door opened.

Oh, Detective, Henny just walked in. I’ll get it from him.

Ask him if he’s okay.

I did and reported to Thursday Henny’s thumbs-up response. Thanks for your help.

Anytime, he said.

Henny went straight to his desk, opened the bottom drawer, and took out our bottle of Boone’s That’s All Whiskey.

I hear you had an interesting afternoon, I said.

You heard right. Two paper cups, please, he said, wagging a finger toward our coffee machine.

I complied, and he poured two stiff drinks, handing one of them to me.

Sit down and listen to this, he said.

He took a stiff gulp while I settled back behind my desk. Henny seemed in no hurry to tell his tale, and I sipped gingerly at my Boone’s, thinking it better I remain coherent for the rest of the day. Finally, Henny began.

"I found the flower shop, no problem. Not even a ten-minute walk. I stood across the street for a few minutes planning on how to speak with this Fred Ott—the deceased Fred Ott. Here, Henny looked me in the eye, and I could tell the shock of things hadn’t worn off. Before I started across the street, some guy went inside, but I didn’t give it any thought. I should have. I gave him a few minutes to come out again, but when he didn’t, it struck me it might have been this Charles Hegger guy. I didn’t get a good look at him; I only saw his back as he went in the door. Plus, I didn’t feel like standing doing nothing any longer, so I crossed the street and went inside." Henny poured himself another slug of Boone’s That’s All and tossed it down. I saw one person, a man, standing behind the counter. A handful of flowers, you know, with long stems—like a bouquet—spread across the counter like they’d been thrown there, and the guy held a long knife in his hand, his right hand. He looked at me, and I looked at him. He dropped the knife and dashed through a curtained space behind the counter. I went to the counter and looked over it, down at the floor. A body, Fred Ott it turns out, lay there, the front of his shirt a bloody mess. The guy who ducked out the back I recognized as Charles, the boyfriend I was sent to keep out of trouble. Henny poured himself another.

You called it in then, I suppose? I asked.

First, I looked in the back. I didn’t want Charles jumping out at me. But he’d gone through another door. Then I called nine-one-one for an ambulance and the cops. The ambulance wasn’t needed. The cops took me and questioned me. I ID’d Charles—last name Hegger— for the cops and told them about Donna Collins. They sent a couple of detectives to question her—they got her address from the DMV. Henny stared at me. I hope she doesn’t blame me for this...

Our phone rang, and I picked up. A female voice asked for Henny. I covered the mouthpiece and said, It’s for you. A woman.

Henny moaned. Oh, please don’t let it be...

I think it is, I whispered.

Henny pointed repeatedly at me with one hand and waved off the call with the other.

Now it was my turn to take a chug of Boone’s.

I’m sorry. Henny isn’t available right now, I said. "May I take