“There’s a license plate in there,” said Kristina. She’d taken the book and leafed to the page of significance. “Here,” she said, holding out the book. “See? This is the car that hit Poppy and Rick that night. This is the evidence we need—the evidence the police have been looking for!”
Odelia placed the notebook on the table.“Can I take this?”
“Of course.” She gave Odelia a gratified smile. “This is it, isn’t it? This is the missing link.”
“It might very well be,” Odelia agreed, though she didn’t sound as excited as Kristina. “I’m going to give this to my husband,” she announced. “And he’ll run a check on this Jefferson Gusta, and check the license plate. If this is what you think it is, we might be able to finally identify the man who killed your daughter, Kristina.”
Kristina laughed.“Oh, God. Finally!”
“I wonder who delivered this to you,” said Odelia. She’d taken a small plastic bag from her purse and now slipped the notebook inside. It looked like the kind of baggie people use to clean up after their dog did doodoo, but I knew better. It was an evidence bag.
“I wonder who this well-wisher is,” said Kristina. “And why they waited thirteen years.”
“It looks charred,” said Odelia, studying the notebook through the plastic. “As if someone tried to burn it.” Then she gave Kristina a reassuring smile. “You did well to call me.”
Kristina quirked a quizzical eyebrow.“You mean, instead of asking my husband and son to go out and murder Jefferson Gusta?”
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
“Yesterday you seemed pretty sure that my boys are responsible for Morro’s murder.”
“We have to track down every lead, Kristina.”
“I know.” She’d clasped her hands together. “You’ll keep me informed, won’t you?”
“Of course I will.”
The two women shared a warm hug, and then we took our leave.
The moment we were in the car, Odelia was already on the phone with her husband, relating the story to him, and giving him that license plate number to check. Moments later, he came back with a name.
“Dunc Hanover,” she said, glancing in our direction. “Well, we better have a chat with Mr. Hanover.”
Chapter 13
Harriet glanced around. She had to confess she was a little nervous. She’d never been on an undercover assignment like this before, and she didn’t want to screw it up.
“It’ll be fine,” Brutus said as he gave her a reassuring smile.
“I hope so,” said Harriet. “I don’t want to disappoint Max.”
It was Max who’d given them this assignment, when he’d suggested to Odelia last night that someone needed to go in and keep an eye on Omar Wissinski. It had come to the big orange cat’s attention that following the murder of Omar’s business partner Jona Morro, their secretary had quit her job on the spot. Apparently she didn’t feel comfortable working in a place where such a gruesome murder had been committed.
Odelia had made the suggestion that Gran step in and apply for the vacancy, but the latter thought it was probably a better idea if Scarlett step up to the plate and did the honors. Scarlett had a way with the male contingent, after all, and wouldn’t have a problem wrapping Omar around her little finger. Or another part of her anatomy.
And Gran was right: the moment Scarlett had walked into the office and offered her secretarial services, Omar had hired her on the spot. Because he’d obviously been in a spot. Not many people, it turns out, want to work for a man whose business partner has recently been murdered in a holdup.
And so there they now sat: Scarlett behind her desk, with strict instructions to assure anyone who called or dropped by that Morro& Wissinski was open for business, and Harriet and Brutus ensconced under the desk, taking it all in.
Scarlett had introduced them as her support animals, and Omar had simply waved an impatient hand and said,“Fine, fine. As long as you can start right now it’s all fine!”
And start right now Scarlett most certainly had!
“I just wish that we were in the same room,” Scarlett said as she stared at the closed door of her new employer’s inner office. “I mean, how am I supposed to spy on the man when I can’t even see him?”
“You could always try listening at the door,” Harriet suggested, but of course Scarlett couldn’t understand a word she said. It was the one thing that hampered this particular assignment, but that couldn’t be helped.
“Just show her,” Brutus suggested.
“Good idea, sweetie,” said Harriet, and sashayed over to the door of the big boss’s office and ostensively placed her ear against it. Scarlett watched on, and immediately caught her drift, for she came tripping over on her high heels and followed Harriet’s example.
“I just hope he won’t catch us!” she whispered.
“You just have to be quick!” Harriet whispered back.
Inside, Omar was in conference with his mother, who’d dropped by to check on her son, and presumably make sure he didn’t have a car suspended above his desk as well.
“All you have to do is apologize to your dad,” said Julia Wissinski. “And I’m sure he’ll do the right thing!”
“Me apologize to him? It’s him that needs to apologize to me, Mom!”
“Oh, don’t be so stubborn, Omar. You know what your father is like.”
“Look, I did nothing wrong, so I really don’t see why I should go and grovel.”
“It’s not groveling! It’s simply being smart.”
“No,” said Omar. “I’m not doing it.”
“But, son!”
“I said no! I’m the oldest—not Argyle. So I really don’t see why—”
“Oh, you’re hopeless. Just like your father. You two really are cut from the same cloth, aren’t you? Both as stubborn as mules!”
There was a sound of shuffling feet inside, and Harriet quickly nudged Scarlett, and they both hurried back to the desk. And just in time, too, for Scarlett had only just taken a seat, when the door to the inner office swung open and Julia Wissinski appeared, with her son right behind her, his face red and clearly in the throes of some powerful emotion.
“Please reconsider, Omar,” said Mrs. Wissinski.
“No means no, Mom,” said Omar, not to be dissuaded.
“Ooh!” his mother cried, throwing up her hands in obvious frustration, then stalked off, without deigning Scarlett even a single glance.
Omar stood there, silently fuming for a few moments, his jaw working furiously as he did, then he cut a fiery look to Scarlett.“Any calls for me?”
“No, Mr. Wissinski, sir,” said Scarlett meekly. “No one has called.”
“Hrmph,” said Omar, then retreated into his inner sanctum, and slammed the door.
“What was that all about?” asked Harriet.
“No idea,” said Brutus, “but we better tell Max. Maybe he’ll be able to figure it out.”
“Don’t think we need to,” said Harriet, and gestured to Scarlett, who’d picked up her phone and was dialing a number.
Gran’s friend had lowered her voice, and whispered into her phone, “Omar’s mom was here, Vesta. She and Omar had a big fight. No, I don’t know what it was about. Something about him having to apologize to his dad, and refusing to. Yeah, big blowup, apparently.”
Just then, the door to the outer office swung open and an elderly lady walked in, glanced around for a moment to get her bearings, then made a beeline for Scarlett.
“Gotta go!” Scarlett whispered, and hung up.
“I want to see Mr. Wissinski,” the old lady demanded.
“I’ll see if he’s available,” said Scarlett in honeyed tones. “Who can I say is calling?”
“Leta Stooge,” said the woman, enunciating clearly. “My son Gene was in here yesterday, but apparently one of the partners had just been murdered.” She arched an eyebrow, as if she didn’t approve of this kind of outlandish behavior on the part of her insurance agent. “I hope Mr. Wissinski hasn’t been murdered, too?”