“It’s good,” she agreed, standing near the coffee pot. “But, it’s not designing.”
“Olson,” I said.
“Olson,” she sighed. “You work for …”
“A private party close to someone quite high in the government,” I said, nibbling a graham.
She looked at me for a long time trying to decide whether to trust me or not.
“I know about the letters you wrote to the White House,” I said. “I know that the FBI talked to you.”
“All right, Mr. Peters,” she said, deciding to take a chance. “What do you want to know?”
“What made you think something was going on with Dr. Olson and the president’s dog?”
The coffee was perking now. She checked the pot, made another decision, and said, “I’ll answer your question when you answer one for me.”
“Go ahead.”
“Why are you wearing Dr. Olson’s suit?”
The explanation took about five minutes, with me leaving out a few things and pausing for her to react when I told her that Olson was dead. She reacted with a quick intake of air and silence.
“Killing people over a dog,” she said, pouring the coffee. Her hand was shaking so I helped her.
“I don’t know why they killed him. You have some ideas?”
She sat sipping coffee and told her story, making sketches on the table with her finger. Her mind was creating another century, another life for Joan Crawford or Olivia DeHavilland, while she gave me her suspicions. Her memory was good and she didn’t waste time or words. According to Mrs. Roosevelt, Jane Poslik was reported to be mentally unreliable. She was, as far as I was concerned, the sanest person I had met in weeks outside of Eleanor Roosevelt.
She had begun working for Olson soon after he moved to Los Angeles. Back in Dayton, where she said she was from, her family had bred dogs, so she was familiar with them. Olson, apparently, had been easy to work with though he had made a few clumsy music-accompanied passes at her in the operating room. She had handled him with no great trouble. The revelation seemed a bit strange since Anne Olson was a Lana Turner to Jane Poslik’s Ann Revere, but Olson was probably one of those guys with active glands from too much contact with goats. Olson had, from the start, been nervous, but Jane had chalked that up to normal behavior. He had brought several dogs with him from Washington, which he kept in a special section of the clinic and wouldn’t allow anyone else to handle. One was, indeed, a small black Scottie. Once Jane had walked in on a telephone conversation between Olson and someone named Martin. The word “Roosevelt” had been part of the conversation, which ended abruptly when Olson spotted Jane in the room. For the next few weeks, other bits and pieces began adding up to the conclusion that Olson and someone named Martin were involved in some way with President Roosevelt and his dog. She also concluded that Olson had left Washington because of the dog business and that Martin had, somehow, found him. Then one morning Bass came to work. Jane had the distinct impression that Olson had not hired Bass, that he had been sent to watch Olson, possibly protect him from questions and doubts.
“I’m not sure,” she concluded, pouring herself and me another coffee, “but I had the impression that Martin or someone would come to the clinic to give Dr. Olson instructions, pep talks, or a good scare.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Well,” she said, making circles on the table with her finger, “there were afternoons when after a normal series of examinations or procedures, and no phone calls, he would be pale and shaken. More than one poor animal suffered in surgery those evenings. In any case, I must have given some indication of my suspicions because Bass began to ask me questions. What do you know about the dogs Dr. Olson brought from Washington? What do you know about Dr. Olson’s friends? That sort of thing. Bass is far from subtle. I became more suspicious, obviously. Within a week I had sufficient evidence from phone calls, conversations overheard between Bass and Dr. Olson and Mrs. Olson, to lead me to the conclusion that Olson had taken the president’s dog. I can’t imagine why he would do 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.
“Anne Olson,” I said.
“Mrs. 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.
“Was 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.”
“Was she fooling around with Bass?” I tried.
“Possibly, but I doubt if you could call anything Bass does fooling. More coffee?”
“No thanks. Go on.”
“I 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.
“That’s it?” I said.
“That’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?”
“You’re making a lot of sense,” I said, heading for the front door. “And I like that dress on Lucille Ball.”
“Thanks,” 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.
“Yes,” she said.
“Police,” 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.
“Listening at the door, John?” I said with a smile.
“Call me John again and I ram you through the wall.” He grinned back.
“John 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.
“This is my home,” she said softly. “And you’ll touch no one in it. What do you want?”
“I’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?”
“Miss Poslik and I were just leaving,” I said, showing my most false smile.
“No, Mr. Peters,” she said, “you go ahead. I’ll talk to Officer-”
“Sergeant Cawelti,” he said.
“Suit 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 Chevy, rolled forward on the hood of my car with my feet in the air, and tumbled over on the sidewalk to the sound of metal scraping metal. When I looked up, the Chevy was weaving down the street wasting precious rubber.
“Toby,” came Gunther’s voice.
I looked back to see his small form hurrying toward me.
“I’m okay, Gunther,” I said. “Was that …?”
