The Accidental Florist

first stage of this over to Officer Needham. “Would you burrow through the Internet and find out a couple more things for me?“
    “I’d be glad to.“ She sat down and opened her notebook and took a pencil out of her pocket. “Shoot.“
    “I need, first, to know who is the most rabid, hardworking reporter on the New York Times, and get me his or her telephone number. Or just his extension number there.“
    “And next?“ she asked.
    “Find out if Australia has a newspaper that’s more or less equivalent to the New York Times. Read all over the country, like the Sunday edition of the New York Times.“
    “And then?“ She had the feeling there was more to this.
    “A copy of the passports for the Welbourne brother and sister. Maybe the hotel where they stayed made a color copy of them. Even if it’s black-and-white, we need it.“
    Officer Needham rose. “Is that all?“
    “It’s plenty, isn’t it?“
    “No. I think it will be fairly easy. I’ll have to catch the lunch temp at the hotel again. And I’ll make a point of wearing lipstick and eye shadow this time.“
    She almost bounced out of the room.
    She was back three hours later. “It cost me a double chocolate muffin to get a color copy for the lunch replacement. Told him to hide it in his locker so his boss wouldn’t smell it lurking somewhere nearby. But I have it. I’ve also made a list of New York Times reporters. I had to pay by credit card to read their columns. But I found two possibilities. I’ve written them down. I also found a good reporter in Sydney, Australia.“
    She presented the paperwork. She’d made copies of the pieces she’d read by the reporters.
    “You’ll be reimbursed for the cost. Fill out the form and I’ll countersign it. You’ve done a good job,“ Mel told her.
    When she’d filled it out and gone, he sat reading what she’d found. And called to make an appointment with his immediate superior to go over the plan and get an authorization to send the copy of the passport pictures to the New York and Australian newspapers.
    “Are you planning to give the names on the passports?“ his superior, John Whitmore, asked.
    “Only to the reporters. They’ll be asked not to give the names out, and barely hint at a legacy. Not that her children are getting anything from her estate, but there will be loonies who want to try anything for a little cash and pretend they are the people on the passport pictures.“
    “Good idea, but how do the reporters weed them out?“ Whitmore asked.
    “By requiring them to spell out their mother’s full name.
    “Is it a strange name?“
    “Elinor Brooker Welbourne,“ Mel replied, writing it out in capital letters for the file.
    He got approval for the plan and Officer Needham’s expenses. The man who was in the chain of authority ranking right above Whitman had been nagging Mel for months to take over when Whitman retired at the end of the summer. Mel hadn’t agreed and hadn’t told him why. It was because it was purely a desk job like today’s.
    Whitman hadn’t left his office for decades to be on the scene of a crime. He never met the suspects or witnesses to get an impression of how truthful they were being. Not that Whitman didn’t do his job well. He looked over every single report in detail and had a good memory for following up on the results. But he had grown fat and clumsy. Mel didn’t want to run to fat, sitting at a desk all day long.
    The part of the job Mel enjoyed most was the firsthand view of the crime scene, the people—the good ones and the bad ones—that he met along the line of each crime he investigated.
    While Mel was making his calls to the two reporters, Jane and Shelley were at the scene of the murder of Miss Welbourne.
    Before they got to the scene Jane had stopped at the bank for a whole roll of quarters. She put quarters in the parking meter until it refused to take another coin. Neither of them planned to be there for eight hours, but
    it would be a boon to some other driver to find so much free time available.
    They stopped by the community center and read the schedule for the day. There was a class in swing dancing, and a book club meeting, and a bus in front to take mothers and their small children to the nearest library from ten to noon.
    Jane and Shelley went across the street to the florist shop and sighed with pleasure at the cool humid fragrant atmosphere inside.
    “I’m Jim Torrady, the owner. Anything special you ladies need? Or