Fala Factor by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

it.”
    The major emotional change in her telling had come when she mentioned Mrs. Olson, so I pushed that after getting down another graham cracker. I wanted to dip it in my coffee but kept myself from doing so.
    â€œAnne Olson,” I said.
    â€œMrs. Olson’s name is Laura,” Jane Poslik answered, looking up at me from her imaginary drawing.
    Anne or Laura Olson had had a few belts when I met her so she might have been playing non-sober name games with me. I let the puzzle pass for the moment and went on.
    â€œWas she, is she, part of the business with the dog?”
    She shrugged. “It’s possible, but I’m a prejudiced source. I didn’t like Laura Olson. She was on a free ride. While Olson was not my favorite human, he was a troubled man who needed support. She gave him quite the reverse.”
    â€œWas she fooling around with Bass?” I tried.
    â€œPossibly, but I doubt if you could call anything Bass does fooling. More coffee?”
    â€œNo thanks. Go on.”
    â€œI once walked in on her nose to nose with a man who had brought in a sick cat for treatment. She didn’t take long.”
    That I could confirm from my own experience.
    â€œThat’s it?” I said.
    â€œThat’s it,” she agreed, standing up. “That’s what I wrote in my letters after the FBI came asking questions last month and I started to put things together as I told you. I know it isn’t courtroom evidence, but it was enough to make me think it was worth reporting. I don’t know how, but I thought it might have something to do with the war. Mr. Peters, my parents are both dead. There’s just me and my brother. Charlie’s in the navy somewhere in the Pacific. Am I making sense?”
    â€œYou’re making a lot of sense,” I said, heading for the front door. “And I like that dress on Lucille Ball.”
    â€œThanks,” she said, offering me her hand. “Let me know if—”
    Whatever it was she wanted to know remained unsaid. There was an insistent knock at the door a few feet away from us.
    â€œYes,” she said.
    â€œPolice,” came a voice I recognized.
    She looked at me, took a few steps, and opened the door to John Cawelti, who didn’t look in the least surprised to see me. He gave both of us a knowing smirk and stepped in.
    â€œListening at the door, John?” I said with a smile.
    â€œCall me John again and I ram you through the wall.” He grinned back.
    â€œJohn and I are old friends,” I said to Jane Poslik, spreading my legs slightly in case he decided to pay off his threat. He took a mean step toward me and she stepped between us, facing him.
    â€œThis is my home,” she said softly. “And you’ll touch no one in it. What do you want?”
    â€œI’m investigating the murder last night of a Dr. Roy Olson,” Cawelti said, looking at me and not her. “You used to work for him, and I understand you didn’t get along, that you quit a few weeks back. You want to tell me about it and let me know what you told my friend Peters?”
    â€œMiss Poslik and I were just leaving,” I said, showing my most false smile.
    â€œNo, Mr. Peters,” she said, “you go ahead. I’ll talk to Officer—”
    â€œSergeant Cawelti,” he said.
    â€œSuit yourself,” I said, brushing by Cawelti. “I’ll be seeing you, John. You won’t be able to miss me. I’ll be the guy a step ahead.”
    I stepped quickly past the door of the as yet unseen Molly Garnett and headed for my car parked across the street. It was early in the afternoon. The sun was shining, and a couple of small birds swooped by playing tag as the black Chevy that screeched away from the curb rushed out to kiss the side of my Ford. I would have been caught in the middle of the kiss if I had not heard an unexpected but familiar voice call out, “Toby.”
    I managed to sense the