Unfinished Business - Barbara Seranella by Barbara Seranella Page A
Authors: Barbara Seranella
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understand.
Nobody knows true compassion until they're forced to
break all of their own rules.
He sighs and turns to the pictures pasted on the wall
by his bed. He doesn't blame the women all the way. They got it and
want to flaunt it. That's understandable. His fingers trace the
curves of Robin's thighs in the photo. He keeps the ones of Robin
closest to him. Robin with her one-hundred-watt smile.
He laughs at his own unintentional joke. Then sobers
quickly. Feeling ashamed at this joke that comes at his beloved's
expense. She will forgive him and she will come around. Resistance
has its limits. Robin just needs time. She needs the security of
being shown who is the boss. All women do.
And somebody else needs to mind her own business. He
will not tolerate interference. Lady Mechanic, indeed. Who does she
think she's fooling?
Chapter 8
S t. John opened Diane
Bergman's address book and turned to the B's. The closest Bergman
listed was an Alfred in Pacific Palisades. Alfred Bergman's business
number prefix was the same as his home number. St. John called the
work number.
"Bergman Florists," a woman answered.
"Is Al in?"
"I can get him for you."
"No, don't bother. I was planning on coming in.
Will he be there in an hour?"
"Yes, we're open until five."
St. John asked for the address, jotted it down in his
notebook, and then called out to Shue, who was in the hallway doing
hand-to-hand combat with the vending machine.
"Are you ready to go make the Bergman
notification?"
Shue gave the machine one more shake and then said,
"Sure, sure."
Ten minutes later, Shue was seated in St. John's
passenger seat.
While St. John maneuvered through early-afternoon
freeway traffic, Shue systematically searched his pockets.
"I want you just to tell this guy that Diane
Bergman is deceased. Avoid the specifics."
"Yeah, yeah. I know," Shue said, examining
a tiny wad of paper that had apparently made the trip through the
washer and dryer. "No mention of murder. You're just there as a
formality. I make the notification and we see what floats up."
He finally found the object of his search, a roll of breath mints. He
brushed off the pocket lint, unwrapped the foil, and offered one to
St. John.
St. John grinned and took one. Shue was the perfect
partner for the initial phase of the investigation. His air of
confusion, almost befuddlement, made people want to explain things to
him. Even St. John himself easily forgot the man was competent.
Twenty minutes later, they arrived at Bergman
Florists. The front window was tastefully decorated with Halloween
wreaths, cornucopias, and pumpkins. They entered the front door and
were greeted by a jingling bell and the sweet smells of jasmine and
gardenias. Indoor waterfalls provided gentle background noise and a
sense of tropical humidity
A man with salt-and-pepper hair and the deeply
bronzed face of a dedicated sun worshiper was standing patiently by
while a lady in a knit suit studied a photograph album full of flower
arrangements. He looked up and said, "I'll be right with you."
"Alfred Bergman?" St. John asked, already
having decided he definitely wasn't an "Al."
"Yes?" Bergman gave St. John a long
up-and-down. When he turned to Shue, his smile lost some of its life.
"This is Mr. Shue of the Los Angeles Coroner's
Office. I'm Detective Mace St. John." He gave the man a quick
flash of his badge. "Do you have an office or somewhere we can
have a word in private?"
Alfred Bergman pursed his lips to speak but seemed at
a loss for the proper response. The woman behind the cash register
froze in place. St. John swore he could see her ears perk. Bergman
snapped his fingers, and the woman behind the cash register came back
to life. "Betty, please help Mrs. Ghormley." He put a hand
briefly on the back of Mrs. Ghorrnley who was still deeply engrossed
with the catalog of flower arrangements.
He lifted his eyebrows for St. John's and Shue's
benefit, then said, "Take all the time you need, dear."
Nobody knows true compassion until they're forced to
break all of their own rules.
He sighs and turns to the pictures pasted on the wall
by his bed. He doesn't blame the women all the way. They got it and
want to flaunt it. That's understandable. His fingers trace the
curves of Robin's thighs in the photo. He keeps the ones of Robin
closest to him. Robin with her one-hundred-watt smile.
He laughs at his own unintentional joke. Then sobers
quickly. Feeling ashamed at this joke that comes at his beloved's
expense. She will forgive him and she will come around. Resistance
has its limits. Robin just needs time. She needs the security of
being shown who is the boss. All women do.
And somebody else needs to mind her own business. He
will not tolerate interference. Lady Mechanic, indeed. Who does she
think she's fooling?
Chapter 8
S t. John opened Diane
Bergman's address book and turned to the B's. The closest Bergman
listed was an Alfred in Pacific Palisades. Alfred Bergman's business
number prefix was the same as his home number. St. John called the
work number.
"Bergman Florists," a woman answered.
"Is Al in?"
"I can get him for you."
"No, don't bother. I was planning on coming in.
Will he be there in an hour?"
"Yes, we're open until five."
St. John asked for the address, jotted it down in his
notebook, and then called out to Shue, who was in the hallway doing
hand-to-hand combat with the vending machine.
"Are you ready to go make the Bergman
notification?"
Shue gave the machine one more shake and then said,
"Sure, sure."
Ten minutes later, Shue was seated in St. John's
passenger seat.
While St. John maneuvered through early-afternoon
freeway traffic, Shue systematically searched his pockets.
"I want you just to tell this guy that Diane
Bergman is deceased. Avoid the specifics."
"Yeah, yeah. I know," Shue said, examining
a tiny wad of paper that had apparently made the trip through the
washer and dryer. "No mention of murder. You're just there as a
formality. I make the notification and we see what floats up."
He finally found the object of his search, a roll of breath mints. He
brushed off the pocket lint, unwrapped the foil, and offered one to
St. John.
St. John grinned and took one. Shue was the perfect
partner for the initial phase of the investigation. His air of
confusion, almost befuddlement, made people want to explain things to
him. Even St. John himself easily forgot the man was competent.
Twenty minutes later, they arrived at Bergman
Florists. The front window was tastefully decorated with Halloween
wreaths, cornucopias, and pumpkins. They entered the front door and
were greeted by a jingling bell and the sweet smells of jasmine and
gardenias. Indoor waterfalls provided gentle background noise and a
sense of tropical humidity
A man with salt-and-pepper hair and the deeply
bronzed face of a dedicated sun worshiper was standing patiently by
while a lady in a knit suit studied a photograph album full of flower
arrangements. He looked up and said, "I'll be right with you."
"Alfred Bergman?" St. John asked, already
having decided he definitely wasn't an "Al."
"Yes?" Bergman gave St. John a long
up-and-down. When he turned to Shue, his smile lost some of its life.
"This is Mr. Shue of the Los Angeles Coroner's
Office. I'm Detective Mace St. John." He gave the man a quick
flash of his badge. "Do you have an office or somewhere we can
have a word in private?"
Alfred Bergman pursed his lips to speak but seemed at
a loss for the proper response. The woman behind the cash register
froze in place. St. John swore he could see her ears perk. Bergman
snapped his fingers, and the woman behind the cash register came back
to life. "Betty, please help Mrs. Ghormley." He put a hand
briefly on the back of Mrs. Ghorrnley who was still deeply engrossed
with the catalog of flower arrangements.
He lifted his eyebrows for St. John's and Shue's
benefit, then said, "Take all the time you need, dear."
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