Murder in Store by DC Brod Page A

on the details. When he was hovering over an experiment or coaxing answers from mathematical equations, Harry seemed much older than his fifty years. His incredibly slow, methodical movements could easily be interpreted as feebleness. Then, when he was explaining the results of an experiment or relating the data behind some new hypothesis of his, he dropped ten years. His gestures became animated and expansive and his barely controlled excitement and enthusiasm were contagious.
    He had a more cautious reaction to something he was dipping his toes into for the first time. When Harry looked up from the pictures, it was the Harry I remembered from
    my days on the police force. He was both excited and reserved.
    He held up the pictures. “This is your boss, isn’t it?” I nodded.
    “Preston Hauser. Heir to the department-store dynasty.” He looked at the letters again. “As I recall, he’s married to a beautiful young woman. Restless though.”
    “Restless?”
    He shrugged. “It may be nothing. Hauser was a guest speaker at some university function. He brought his wife, who apparently spent most of the evening in the company of a man more her age. She didn’t try to hide it either.”
    “Do you know who the other man was?”
    “No, I don’t. But you might ask Carol. She pays more attention to things like that.” He laughed. “By the way, I have instructions to invite you over for dinner.”
    “Please Harry, not yet.”
    He nodded his understanding and went back to examining the pictures. “So, you want me to see what I can find here.”
    “That’s what you do best, isn’t it?”
    “Well,” he said, ignoring my statement, “just off the top of my head, I’d say you’re looking for a right-handed individual with a pretty good telephoto lens and a fondness for nursery rhymes.”
    “That really narrows it down, doesn’t it? You say right-handed because of the direction of the slash through Hauser’s neck?”
    “And you said you needed me.” Harry squinted at the photo. “And I’d guess the slash was made with a razor blade. Aside from that,” he continued, “I’m not sure how much I can tell you. I can check for fingerprints but there are probably a number of sets on here already. Including yours and mine. I can do a blood analysis”—he moved the photo under a lab light for a better view—“but I’m not
    sure how much that’s going to help you. Unless it’s a rare blood type. But I’ll do what I can.” “That’s all I’m asking.”
    “Quint. Does this fall under an obscure clause in your job description at Hauser’s?”
    “No. I’m doing a little freelance work for Hauser.”
    “Tell me. How is Hauser taking all this?”
    “For a man who’s received three death threats, he’s remarkably composed.”
    “Interesting,” Harry said.
    I nodded.
    He peered at me over the top of his reading glasses. “Who do you think?”
    I shrugged. “Too soon to tell.” I wasn’t ready to make educated guesses. “How soon can you have something for me?”
    He looked at the schedule on his calendar. “This afternoon soon enough?”
    “Perfect.”
    “You talk to Maddox yet?”
    “Yeah, I did,” I said, realizing this was my cue to satisfy Harry’s curiosity. I explained about Keller’s accident and told him what Maddox had said. Harry waited until I was through.
    “Don’t like the sound of this,” Harry said. I shrugged. “I don’t much either, but it’s probably nothing.” Harry eyed me. “Right.”
    It’s hard to tell when Irna Meyers is angry. Try to picture a wasp in a snit. When beady eyes and crossed brows are the norm, then I guess it becomes a matter of degrees. This morning, however, Irna seemed more irritable than usual. Was there something there besides fierce protectiveness?
    “You don’t have an appointment.” End of discussion.
    “I most certainly do.” I tried a show of force, pulling a
    small appointment book out of my breast pocket and flipping it open to a