Murder in Store by DC Brod Page B

page. Any page. “It says right here. Preston Hauser. Ten o’clock,” I lied. I replaced the book. “Please. Check with Mr. Hauser. He’s expecting me.”
    Irna glared at me for what seemed a very long time, then finally got up and walked over to Hauser’s closed door. She shot me a look that said, “Do you realize what you are asking me to do?” and knocked on the door so softly it was as if she were afraid of waking him. Maybe she was. I didn’t hear a response, but Irna apparently did. She entered his office and closed the door behind her.
    While she was gone, I took the opportunity to check the appointment book on her desk. She was right. My name wasn’t there. Yet Hauser had told me he would have Irna pencil me in. I had the feeling this was an appointment Hauser wasn’t anxious to keep. He wanted me to figure it out without his help. Too bad for him. I had some questions that required answers and was willing to push as hard as necessary.
    The door finally opened and Irna emerged. “Mr. Hauser will not be able to see you at this time,” she said, closing the door. She sat down and gazed at the door to her boss’s office before turning her attention back to me. “You’ll have to reschedule.” She made no move toward her appointment book, but there was a note of apology in her voice that I hadn’t thought her capable of.
    I interpreted this as an opportunity to be brash. I approached her desk. “Irna. It’s very important that I see Mr. Hauser. I think you know that.”
    She straightened several sheets of letterhead and dropped a pencil into a holder before she said, “Mr. Hauser has experienced a loss.”
    It was apparent that I was going to have to work for every morsel of information I could glean from this woman. “Did someone die?”
    Before she could reply, Hauser’s door opened. I turned, expecting to see Preston himself, but instead a tall, elderly woman left his office. She nodded to me and then turned to Irna.
    “Call me, Irna, if he needs me.” The tall woman shook her head and sighed. “It’s such a shame. She was only seven.”
    “Yes, Mrs. Hunnicutt.”
    I thought I detected a note of disdain in Irna’s tone, but I could have been wrong. The elderly woman left.
    “Who was only seven?” I asked, moving toward Hauser’s door with little regard for my own safety. I wouldn’t have thought Irna could move so fast, but she positioned herself between me and the door before I was able to execute my maneuver.
    “Scheherazade.”
    I needed a bigger hint. “Who?”
    “Mr. Hauser’s horse.”
    It was beginning to sink in. “The one on his desk?” Irna nodded.
    It took a minute, and I had to conjure up some long-buried emotions I’d felt when my first dog, Alex, got hit by a car, but I finally understood that the man had a right to grieve in private for a while. Especially if that man’s name was on the store’s letterhead. I dug my hands in my pockets and assumed my defeated pose.
    “Can I reschedule for this afternoon?”
    I could barely detect the relief in Irna’s tone, but it definitely was there. “Certainly.” She consulted her calendar. “Three o’clock?”
    “That sounds okay,” I allowed.
    As I returned to my office, I tried to put the event into perspective. Failing, I allowed myself to speculate. What would Hauser do with the center picture on his desk? Would he replace it or just drape it in black velvet? And
    the woman I saw leaving his office. Irna had called her Mrs. Hunnicutt. So that was Hauser’s big sister.
    Lois stopped me as I was walking into my office, leaning across her typewriter to hand me a note. “You had a call.” She hesitated. “It was Maggie.” She said that like she was expecting an interesting reaction from me.
    “Thanks,” I said and walked into my office.
    The phone and I stared at each other for a while as I managed to transfer my anger and hurt to the block of beige plastic. It was a lot easier to rise above the will to succumb