You work for an insurance company. A client dies. The
police believe it could be murder.
What do you know that might help them? The answer lies in . . .
Murder Mystery
It had
been a long, draining day. Selling life insurance can be a grind. I picked up
dinner, a gourmet three-item Chinese meal from Raley’s, on the way home from
the office.
Arriving
home, I ambled from the garage into the kitchen, placed the boxed dinner on the
table and made my way to the bedroom to get out of my work uniform—a gray
business suit, white shirt, and black and red striped tie. My energy level had
plummeted to zero. I couldn’t see straight. It was almost 8:00 p.m. I started
to put on my sweats but thought, Why
change twice? So I slipped into my red flannel PJs and meandered back to
the kitchen.
I grabbed
the box I left on the table. It contained my meal, eating utensils, and a
napkin. What more could I ask for? I went into the living room and collapsed on
the couch. I picked up the TV remote and clicked on a channel. It didn’t matter
which one. I was too tired to care. I opened the box and began scarfing down
Chicken Chow Mein, fried rice, and a mixed vegetable dish. It tasted great.
However, the way I felt, the box itself would have tasted just as good.
After
eating, I didn’t last long—maybe an hour. I shut my world down, got ready for
bed, and crawled in. Once my head hit the pillow, I fell asleep in a matter of
seconds.
The
ringing of the phone interrupted the silence of my sleep. I looked over at the
clock and froze—3:00 a.m. “Who the hell could be calling me at this godforsaken
hour?” I muttered.
Calls in
the wee hours of the morning don’t bode well. My experience with life and death
has shown me these calls can portend the fate of loved ones—injured, or worse,
. . . dead.
I fumbled
for the phone on the nightstand beside the bed. Holding the receiver to my ear,
I mumbled, “Hello.”
“Mr.
Pruitt,” a voice replied. “I think your friend, Max Appleby, may have been a
victim of a crime.”
Unnerved,
I stammered, “Who are you? Max who? And why are you calling me?”
“I’m
police Detective Jonas Pride. Max Appleby screamed your name before passing out
in the Emergency Room at Riverview County Hospital. We believe someone tried to
kill him.”
“Huh?”
The
detective hesitated a moment before muttering, “I assumed, Mr. Pruitt, Mr.
Appleby was your friend.”
I
remained silent for a few seconds and then responded, “I don’t understand why
he would call my name. I don’t know the man well. I’m an insurance agent. He
purchased a life insurance policy from me—nothing out of the ordinary. Wanted
to make sure his family would be taken care of should he die. Same type of
policy I’ve sold to hundreds of people this year.”
“I don’t
mean to upset you, Mr. Pruitt, but when a possible crime victim reaches out to
someone, it is my responsibility to investigate the relationship between the
victim and the person identified. You might have information that could help us
solve the case.”
“Well,
okay. But I was asleep when the phone rang. My mind’s still fuzzy. Give me a
minute to clear my head.”
Detective
Pride ignored my request and rattled on, “Can you tell me the policy’s value
and the name of the beneficiary?”
“I
guess,” I replied. “I wrote it for $2,000,000. And the beneficiary? His wife,
Sherry, of course.”
“Two million?
Isn’t that rather high for a normal policy, the type you sell to hundreds of
people each year?”
“Yeah.
But he said he wanted to make sure his wife was well taken care of. I suggested
the amount. He said he loved her and agreed with my recommendation.”
“So his
wife is the beneficiary?” he pondered aloud.
“Umm,
yeah, she is.”
“What do
you know about her? Do you think she might be capable of taking his life?”
“What?
Why are you asking me about this? You said he wasn’t dead. Are you now saying
he is? I’m confused.”
“No, no,
he isn’t dead, but someone did try to kill him and, as a result, after my
initial very brief conversation with him, he slipped into a coma.”
“So, what
do you want from me?”
“Was
Appleby’s wife aware of the size of the policy? Having such information could
be a motive for murder, that is, attempted murder.”
I
answered his question without hesitation. “Detective, she came to my office
three days ago, as I’d requested, since I’d prepared policy papers for her
signature. She asked me a number of questions about the policy and, in
particular, how much it was worth. She appeared quite nervous and queried me
about the length of time.”
Pride
gasped, “Time man, what do you mean? What are you saying?”
“Time,” I
said. “You know, the time it takes after the death of the policy holder for the
beneficiary to get the money.”
“Are you
sure that’s what she asked?” the detective sputtered. “On this point, you have
to be. I need to know you’ll be a creditable witness before I move forward with
the case.”
I waited
a moment before responding. “I’m certain. Yes, very certain that’s what she
asked. She appeared quite concerned about the time it would take for her to get
the insurance payment. I almost got the idea death seemed imminent. But the
physical Mr. Appleby took to qualify for the policy indicated otherwise.”
“Keep
going. This is all starting to make sense. You may have the key to solving the
case.”
“Well,
she talked and talked and asked many questions. As she rambled on, she spoke of
how people die and said something about a possible overdose.”
“She said
what?” Pride queried with exuberance.
“ A
possible overdose. I didn’t have a clue what she meant. Everything else seemed
in order, so I dismissed it as part of her screwy ravings.”
Pride
began ranting, “We got her! We got her! This is amazing!” He screamed so loud,
I thought he would burst. But then his tone leveled off and, in a whisper, he
lamented, “But it’s almost too easy.”
“What’s
too easy?”
He
paused. Then his demeanor seemed to change and he bellowed, “Pruitt, let’s
accept the facts as you’ve presented them. As such, the motive for murder—a
large insurance policy—is clear. The weapon, an overdose, has been identified.
Well, I do believe we’re on the road to solving the crime.”
“Okay, if
you say so.”
Then he
became subdued again. “This is good, but,” he said.
“But
what?” I inquired.
“Well,
technically this discussion cannot be considered official. It’s just an
informal telephone conversation. Since it wasn’t recorded in any way, you will
need to come down to the police station tomorrow so we can take a witness
statement. Your lawyer can be present if you like.”
“My
lawyer? I didn’t commit a crime. Why do I need a lawyer?”
“No,
you’re not being accused of a crime. However, there are some things I need to
clarify with you and your legal council can assist you with advice on the
issues on which you might provide evidence.”
“I don’t
want a lawyer. I don’t have much to say. I’m just the guy’s insurance agent.”
“Well, if
that’s the case, I still need to speak with you at the station. May I come by
first thing in the morning, about six o’clock, to take you there?”
“Okay.
But I don’t understand why I can’t drive myself.”
“As I said, I want to clarify some things
with you before you give your statement. We can do this on the drive over, so
we don’t have to waste time at the station.”
“Detective,
I’m so tired, I can’t think straight. I’m still very confused. The man isn’t
even dead. And since I’m not a suspect or the beneficiary of the policy, I don’t
want to appear unfeeling, but I could care less about a possible murder
attempt.”
Then,
without saying another word, I hung up the phone, rolled over, pulled the
pillow over my head, and fell asleep.
The next
morning, the ringing of the doorbell startled me out of my sound sleep. Looking
at the clock, I saw it was 6:00 a.m. I dragged myself down the hallway to the
front door. Reaching the door, I yelled, “Who’s there?”
A voice
responded, “Pruitt, it’s me Detective Pride. I need to talk to you more about
the case on the drive to the station to take your statement.”
“Huh?
What case? Statement?”
“Max
Appleby’s murder. He died right after we spoke on the phone last night. Never
came out of the coma.”
“Talked
on the phone? When? I don’t remember a thing about last night. I did have a
weird dream, but . . .”
“Are you
pulling my leg, Pruitt?”
“Good
day, Detective. I have to get ready for work.”
I watched
through the peephole. He appeared dejected. Since he had no authority to take
me with him, he turned, proceeded down the driveway, got into his car, and
drove away.
Letting
out a sigh of relief, I went into the kitchen and picked up the phone. I dialed
a cell phone number I knew by heart. It rang twice.
The voice
on the other end of the line purred, “Hello, my sweet. I’ve been waiting for
your call.”
“Sherry,
it worked. He died last night. Detective Pride thinks I’ve lost it, or he has.
Anyway, his case has vanished. I’ll start the process for you to collect on
Max’s policy. This may take some time, but I guarantee it will happen. Sit
tight for now. When things quiet down, I’ll see you on the beach in Aruba. I
love you.”
Copyright © 2012 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.
