“What?” asked Gran, who caught her cats’ look.
“We need Kevin to set up a bitcoin website for us,” said Harriet. “So we can start collecting money for HarrietCoin.”
“Or BrutusCoin,” Brutus piped up.
“What is it?” asked Scarlett.
“Harriet wants Kevin to set up a website for her new bitcoin.”
“Bitcoin! But isn’t that some kind of scam?”
“It’s not a scam!” Harriet cried, not for the first time.
“I think it’s a scam,” said Gran determinedly. “And frankly that kind of thing is behind me now, Harriet.”
“What do you mean?” asked Harriet, eyes wide.
“The scammy stuff! I’m going to be a great-grandma soon. I can’t afford to go to jail for fleecing pensioners. I mean, you heard what Scarlett said. The kind of thing you’re suggesting is exactly what Jona Morro was into. And look how that turned out.”
“But Gran!”
“No means no, Harriet. I don’t want to get murdered by car before I have a chance to hold my great-grandkid in my arms. So the life of crime is a thing of the past for me.”
“But it’s not a scam, Gran! It’s all above board.”
“Tell that to Leta Stooge.” She wagged a finger in Harriet’s face. “And you better get wise, too, missy. Or you’ll end up in the pound!”
Harriet gulped, and so did Brutus.“Not the pound!” Brutus cried.
And there ended Harriet’s dream of becoming outrageously rich by selling bitcoin to unsuspecting people. It worked for Elon Musk, but clearly it wasn’t gonna work for her.
Oh, hell and damnation!
Chapter 14
Dunc Hanover was hard at work in his atelier. His main claim to fame were his life-sized papier-m?ch? figures. They were colorful, lifelike, and had brought him all over the world, in museums and exhibitions from New York to Paris or even Lisbon, Portugal, where they had a particular predilection for his remarkable and original work.
His atelier, basically an old glue factory that had been turned into lofts, was located on the outskirts of town, and it was where he was always happiest. He could have worked from home, of course, but ever since he’d become engaged, his future wife preferred if he kept their home life and his professional life separate.
And he didn’t blame her. Like a lot of artists, he had a tendency to get a little obsessed when he was working, and forget not only about his surroundings but even himself: he forgot to eat, take a bath, get dressed. He could easily go for days with only the bare minimum of personal care, and that wasn’t the kind of thing a loving partner enjoyed.
So when he was working on his next project, he liked to do it here, and make sure Justina didn’t have to fret when he waltzed through the living room looking like a scarecrow. She knew that he always came out of these periods of frenzied creativity, and when he did, he was like any regular Joe. It was the life they’d made for themselves, and they were both more than happy with it, even though other couples might not be.
He stood back and inspected the latest model he’d been working on. It didn’t quite look the way he imagined it yet. The chicken-wire framework was there, and now he had to start draping large pieces of papier-m?ch? onto that, before letting those dry, and then the next part could begin: applying his trademark bright coloring. And when that was done, a final thick layer of varnish added the finishing touch.
A noise had him look up in surprise. When he glanced over, and saw who his visitor was, he frowned. He didn’t like to be disturbed when he was working. It took him out of his creative flow. “What are you doing here?” he grumbled, his eye having turned back to size up the next challenge. And then he had it: the frame was too big. Too large. Of course. And he probably would have set about to fix theproportions if not a heavy object had come crashing down on the back of his skull.
Moments later he was spread out on the floor.
Chapter 15
Odelia had picked up her husband in town, and together we made our way to the atelier where according to his fianc?e we would be able to find Dunc Hanover, the well-known artist. I’m saying well-known even though I’d never heard of him. But since he had a Wikipedia page, and on this Wikipedia page it said he was famous, I guess it must be true, since Wikipedia never lies, does it?
“So let me get this straight,” said Chase, who was riding shotgun for once. “It wasn’t Jona Morro who drove the car that fateful night, but Dunc Hanover?”
“According to the notebook that Jefferson Gusta kept it was Hanover,” said Odelia.
“And Gusta fixed up the car the next morning, and got rid of any evidence that Hanover had been involved in a hit and run with deadly consequences.”
“What I don’t get is how this notebook suddenly turned up thirteen years after the fact, and who hand-delivered it to Kristina.”
“We better have a little chat with Gusta later.”
“Gran also called.”
Chase smiled.“Reporting from her undercover mission, is she?”
“Yeah, turns out that Jona Morro was the one behind the bitcoin business. He’d told Omar to collect money from his clients to invest in their bitcoin fund, but to keep everything off the books. Omar thinks he needed the money to pay back a gambling debt. He claims that his business partner owedmoney to the wrong people, and that’s why he was killed yesterday.”
“We better look into that as well. So that would mean that Morro’s death isn’t connected to the Careens.”
“According to Omar Wissinski, at least.”
“Pity Morro isn’t around anymore to confirm or deny.”
We’d arrived at the old factory building that had been turned into fancy lofts, and Odelia parked in front of the building. “Nicely done,” she said as we approached.
And they had indeed done a great job. They’d kept the red brick, but had completely remodeled the building, and added all the modern conveniences your homeowner likes, like a video intercom and a state-of-the-art elevator. It all looked very expensive.
“I wonder how much these lofts go for,” said Chase as we waited for Mr. Hanover to buzz us in.
“Why? Are you in the market for a loft?” asked Odelia.
Chase shrugged.“Just curious.” He frowned when no response came, and pressed the bell once more. “Looks like our Mr. Hanover isn’t home,” he finally announced. He pressed more bells, and finally someone buzzed us in, probably just to get rid of the noise.
We entered and the elevator soon whisked us up to the top floor, where the artist had taken up residence.
When we arrived, the steel door was ajar, and so we pushed our way inside. It was a spacious loft. In fact it looked as if it comprised the entire floor, which was enormous.
“Hello!” Chase called out, and his voice echoed in the vast space. Above us, slanted windows offered a view of a blue sky, and around us, large sculptures testified to the presence of the artist.
“They’re papier-m?ch?,” Odelia explained as we studied one. The work of art was bigger than Chase, and was very colorful. It also shone as if it had been freshly varnished. “It’s Dunc Hanover’s claim to fame. I once interviewed him, and he’s very proud of his work. Says it’s his ambition to create at least a thousand of these figures in his lifetime.”
There were dozens of them spread around the atelier, like sentinels standing guard. They reminded me of that army a Chinese emperor was once buried with, though they had been made of terracotta, and not papier-m?ch?, of course.
We ventured further into the artist’s space, and soon came upon what looked like a brand-new installation. Several half-finished figures stood at attention, and a few that were only in their initial stages and consisted of what looked like chicken wire sculpted into the shape of a human. As I understood, this was the framework thepaper was to be draped on.
And then I saw it: one of those chicken-wire figures was half-finished, with pieces of wet paper stuck to them. Only when I looked at the head, it looked very lifelike indeed. Too lifelike, in fact. For inside the frame, a real person was standing… and he looked very much dead to me!