By Michael W. Clark

Bartholomew held up his hand shoulder high, palms out, “When I was young I wanted to be a magician but I was told my hands were too small for legerdemain.” He looked at his left hand and wiggled the fingers on it. He then snapped those fingers,  “my hands were too slight for sleight of hand.” He pointed with his left index finger to the right, and then a silver dollar appeared between his right index finger and middle finger. “But I think not.” He smiled.

“Where did you get a silver dollar. They don’t make those anymore.” Detective Stins was amazed but for the wrong reason. She stared at the shiny coin.

“That’s not the point.” Bartholomew sighed. “It’s magic.”

“No magic in my life.” She shrugged. She looked hot. She was on duty and her business  suit was too heavy for Southern California weather. She had gotten it on sale. She had destroyed so many nice clothes while on the job, now she bought the cheapest, nicest item she could find. She dressed disposable, not weather appropriate.

“Well, I was just attempting to provide some.” Bartholomew tumbled the silver dollar over his fingers rapidly but smoothly, it then vanished. “I had wanted to be a magician as a boy. That is true. It also pays less than a research scientist. Thus, I am neither, just a cop.”

“Cops get paid?” Stins rolled her eyes. They were waiting for the medical examiner to finish with the body on scene. Jurisdiction was unclear in this area of West Los Angeles, so they were both there. It was a well-off section of LA; the area was both old and new. It had many trees lining the streets. Many palm trees, but also original trees from the region. Large and old. The palm trees were tall and not so old.

“You know that all these fan palms here.” Bartholomew pointed to the very tall palms. “They are Mexican fan palms brought here in the 1930s as a market gimmick.”

“Like the Hollywood sign? What was it, Hollywood land suburban real-estate thingy.” Stins looked up in the sky. It wasn’t as blue as she wanted it to be. It was hotter than she wanted it to be. “The office is air conditioned.” Was in her thoughts.

“LA is Disneyland, manufactured, just illusions.” Bartholomew sighed. “Learned patience by standing in line at Disneyland for the rides. The illusion of risk.”

“Accidental death by boredom. I hate waiting like now. Want to do something, something collar.” Stins stretched her arms out and then pumped her legs. “This was called in as a death by palm frond. Is that an accident or an act of nature?”

“Both, I guess. I get these things all the time. It is my curse.” Bartholomew saw the medical examiner wave at them. “Oh, I guess we can go do something now.”

“Goody.” Stins clapped her hands and whistled like the seven dwarves did.

#

There was an old-style wheelchair tipped on its side. It appeared to be constructed of wood but it wasn’t. It was modern composite, strong but light weight. “Expensive.” Stins whistled at the imagined price. Three large palm fronds straddled the chair. Bartholomew looked at the incident scene pictures on his phone.

“Ah, you know coconuts kill more people than sharks.” He was short and middle-aged. He walked to Bartholomew. He pointed to the tall fan palms surrounding the area. His right hand was bandaged. The space was a small, paved plaza between two residences. A type of communal space.

Bartholomew continued to examine the pictures. “Actually, that statement of fact is not correct. It was said by a shark expert to assuage the fear of sharks. Actually, sharks kill five times more people than coconuts.”

Stins looked up at the tall palms. She looked down at the fronds. “Could have been any of these or all. Could we get a DNA test done? See which palm actually did the deed.”

“They likely all are close genetic matches. All these palms came from just a few imports. Washingtonia robusta is a hardy and prolific plant. You know they are not trees per se. They are more related to grass than an oak.”

“Oh, didn’t know that. So, no DNA testing of the extremely tall grass. There is blood on these fronds though,” Stins pointed to the blood-stained spots. There was blood at the base of two of the fronds. Blood on the stem of one.

Bartholomew looked up. “They took samples of the blood from all spots.” Bartholomew turned to the short man. “You are the son. Sorry for your loss, Mr. Parlomean. Did they take a sample of your blood too?”

Mr. Parlomean pulled his hands down. “I, yes, but why? My mother. It was a head injury, they bleed profusely.”

“That statement is true. Are you a doctor.” Bartholomew looked directly at him.

Mr. Parlomean blushed and shook his head. “No, ah, mother has been an invalid for most of my life. I have been responsible for her care these last few years,” He trailed off looking away from Bartholomew’s stare. “last few years.”

Stins stood up and quivered. “You live with your mother?”

“I did.” Mr. Parlomean didn’t look up. “It was the wind. Windy all this week. Those fronds have been falling.” He pointed again but with his left hand.

“Wish there was a breeze now. Hot out here.” Stins quivered again and glanced over at Bartholomew. He nodded back. “Did you see them fall.”

“She was struck right here.” Parlomean pointed to the toppled wheelchair.

“You were out for a stroll?” Stins nodded.

“Getting some sun on a blustery day?” Bartholomew added. “Who lives in that house over there?”

“No one. It has been up for sale for months,” Parlomean didn’t look at Bartholomew. He looked at the blood-stained tiles. “for months.”

“You live here.” Bartholomew pointed over his shoulder. “Nice little private space.”

“Mother preferred it.” Parlomean muttered.

“Privacy?” Stins added. “Or a paved back yard.”

“Ah, well, she was an invalid. The wheelchair doesn’t do well on grass.”

“She wasn’t an outdoors type then.” Stins looked up at the very tall palms. “No wind now.”

“There was earlier.” Parlomean snapped.

“Did you see the fronds falling?” Bartholomew insisted.

“It was an accident. The chair isn’t as maneuverable as it should be,” Parlomean whined. “should be.”

“Did you see the fronds falling?” Bartholomew continued to insist.

“Well, of course. They were falling here and there,” Parlomean snapped again. “here and there.”

Stins pointed at the toppled wheelchair. “It is the here that matters.”

“Of course, it does,” Parlomean was breathing heavily. “it does.”

“How did you hurt your hand Mr. Parlomean?” Bartholomew stayed insistent.

Parlomean grabbed his right hand. “It, the frond, I. To pull it off her, off her.”

“So, that blood is yours.” Stins pointed to the stem of the frond.

“That is why we took your blood sample.” Bartholomew used a lower tone this time.

“Oh,” Parlomean was starting to sweat. “oh.”

“Hot isn’t it.” Stins smiled. “Could use the wind now. Despite the hazards.”

“My mother, it was an accident.” Parlomean muttered. “The wind,” He didn’t point this time. “the wind.”

“Detective Bartholomew, do you think it was the wind?” Stins tilted her head.

Bartholomew shook his. “No, I do not, Detective Stins. I do not.”

“I think Mr. Parlomean had a bad day today and thus his mother’s day was an even worse one.” Stins picked up a different palm frond and swung it like a baseball bat. “Such an old lady, so weak. But she lasted, correct Mr. Parlomean?”

“Decades, and decades,” Parlomean nodded slowly. “and decades.”

“It was an act of nature. Your nature.” Bartholomew stated.

“Not an act of God, though. That would have happened, eventually, but not soon enough.” Stins took another swing with the frond.

“It was an accident.” He whispered nodding his head.

“Yes, emotions cause accidents all the time.” Stins nodded. “Part of our job, actually.”

“Yes, emotional accidents.” Bartholomew sighed. “You had had enough of it. It was a hot day, even a windy one. It was just all too much. Wasn’t it?”

Parlomean hung his head. “Yes, much too much.”

“So, we will have to take you in.” Bartholomew put his hand on Mr. Parlomean’s shoulder. “I think we will go to the closest station, if Detective Stins doesn’t mind?”

Stins shook her head slowly. “I don’t mind at all. You want to get anything from the house before we go?”

Parlomean stood there silently. He swallowed. “It wasn’t fair.”

“Life rarely is,” Stins replied. “fair.”

Bartholomew put a slight force on Parlomean’s shoulder to get him moving. It worked; he moved slowly toward the street. “Oh, could you lock the door there in the back. It was the only one open.” Stins nodded and went it.

The End