Armed Page 2

  I awoke with a start, sweat bathing my face, my breathing labored. Then I heard a sound. I sat bolt upright and strained to hear it again. Nothing. For the next several minutes, nothing—only my own heart. At times like this I wished I had a little dog whose bark could alert me to intruders. Or maybe a big dog whose teeth could tear the intruder to shreds. But the only other living thing in my home, besides an assortment of house plants, was a tiny Beta fish with even tinier teeth.

  I waited long enough to conclude I had heard nothing nefarious and swung my feet out from under the covers. I might as well get up.

  I love this part of the day—early morning. Too bad I had to get up so early to enjoy it.

  I pulled on a pair of red socks and a blue terry cloth robe, and padded cautiously into the kitchen, my eyes darting back and forth taking in all the shadows. I pulled opened the refrigerator door knowing what I would find before I even looked. Nothing. At least nothing I felt like eating at the moment. Yogurt, string cheese, and a bag of lettuce would not do it this morning. I stood there for a moment gazing at a jar of pickles and then slammed the door with a sigh. I usually had a well-stocked fridge but my mind had been occupied lately with my agency. I leaned against the counter looking out to my small but manageable yard.

  All was dark beyond the window. Black. Like the factory last night. I reached for the kettle, filled it with water, and absentmindedly placed it on the gas burner. Why had Mrs. Scott gone out there? Did she hear something? She had been about to leave. The police found her purse on her desk with her coat draped over it and Mr. Poupée had said the foreman always locked the factory. But still she had gone out there. “Why, Mergi?” My little fish happily swam in his bowl oblivious to anything more sinister than not getting fed. I took three miniscule fish food pellets from a tiny packet and dropped them into the bowl.

  Mergitroid swam to the top of the bowl, opened his mouth and took in the tiny grains. “Well, I’m glad you’re getting something to eat,” I told him as I stole a wistful glance at the fish food and wondered what it tasted like.

  Forty-five minutes later I stood in front of my bathroom mirror clad in a black lacy bra and black French hi-cut briefs. I’m five-foot seven, thin, but not skinny, and most of the time I’m content with what I see in the mirror. I have an addiction to M&M’s but manage to keep pounds off by riding my bike and doing a lot of walking. I pulled on a pair of slacks and groaned. The briefs peeked out over the top of the pants. I have a hard time keeping up with the rapid changes in fashion and staying well stocked with all the accoutrements necessary to achieve the latest look. I hadn’t given any thought to underwear when I bought the sits-below-natural-waist pants and didn’t feel like changing. I pulled a light sweater over my head, put the final touches on my hair, and headed out in search of something to eat.

  After a muffin and another cup of tea at a local coffee shop, I now sat behind my desk watching my sister pull off a boot.

  “I called a few times last night,” Sam said, as she yanked off the other boot. “That must have been some mailing. I tried calling until about ten o’clock. You weren’t alone with them, were you?” Sam raised an eyebrow.

  She knew, of course, about my phobia with dolls. I hate them. They’re scary. Especially at night when you wake up and one is just sitting there looking at you ready to pounce the minute you fall back to sleep. Sam had taken full advantage of this as a child, placing one on the chair by my bed in the hopes I would wake up and have a coronary.

  “Something terrible happened.”

  Sam slipped her feet into a pair of black pumps and grinned at me. “What—do they come alive after six?”

  “Someone killed Mrs. Scott last night,” I blurted.

  My sister, Samantha Daniels still bent over fiddling with her shoes, sat up. “Good Lord! In a car accident?”

  I reached for a tissue and shook my head. “At the factory. Murdered.”

  “Murdered?”

  “Someone bashed the back of her head in with a mannequin arm.”

  Sam gave a small laugh. “Is this some kind of sick mannequin factory joke?”

  I sniffled and silenced her with a hand. “It’s true. Horrifically true.”

  “Were you there when it happened?” Sam asked, panic rising in her voice. “Where did it happen? Did they catch who did it? Oh, no, not someone from the factory?”

  “I found her. Lying on the floor. I needed a shovel and went out to the factory and oh, Sam. Her eyes were…” I ducked my face in my hands and started to cry. Sam rushed around the desk and put her arms around me.

  “It’s all my fault,” I said through gulps of air. “If I’d gone into the factory right away to look for a shovel instead of being such an idiot about those damned mannequins! And now one of them is after me. I didn’t take the arm,” I said thinking back to my garish nightmare.

  “Okay.” Sam rocked me gently while I sobbed, getting tears and God knew what else on her new silk scarf.

  “What’s going on in here?” Neither of us had heard our assistant arrive. “Why are you crying?” Millie Chapman asked.

  I pushed away from my older sister and looked up. “Sit down. I have something to tell you.”

  “Does it have to do with Mrs. Scott being killed? It’s in the morning paper.” Millie handed it over, taking a seat across from me.

  I took the paper and silently read the article.

  “I’m the employee who found the body.”

  “Oh, God!” Millie stood up, the bells on her sweater jingling. “What we need is some hot tea.” She sprinted into the small kitchen and banged things around returning a few minutes later with a tray and three cups of steaming liquid.

  “Here, drink this. You’ll feel better.” Millie handed me a mug along with several more tissues. “What do the police say? They never tell you the whole story in the papers.”

  I sniffed the concoction taking in the undeniable scent of cinnamon and clove and something else. With Millie—who at any given time could be involved in whatever the current craze was—one never knew what she might add to the drink.

  Millie plopped her bell-laden figure into the stuffed chair next to the desk. A fringe of bangs framed her round face and no one knew for sure what color her eyes were. She wore contact lenses that came in an endless supply of colors. Along with her penchant for trying anything new, she also liked to dress appropriately for the various holidays, and had added bell earrings and bells tied to the laces of her ankle boots.

  “Actually, the paper is pretty accurate.” I scrunched my face up in a thoughtful manner. “I don’t remember any reporters there last night. The police really don’t know much. There found no sign of any break-in or struggle and Mrs. Scott’s purse sat in plain sight with nothing missing. Who’d want to kill her? What reason could someone have for killing an assistant at a mannequin factory, for God sake?”

  Sam added with a grimace, “With the arm off one of those things. Do you think there’s a connection?”

  “Probably the first thing the murderer saw,” I said, trying hard not to think of my nightmare.

  “I wonder how Mr. Poupée is doing.” Sam asked.

  “He was there,” I said. “I ran to call the police and I smacked right into him. He almost gave me a heart attack.”

  Sam pushed a strand of her thick, light brown hair over an ear. The hair I wished I had.

  “I thought you said you were alone.”

  “At the beginning Then he showed up.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” I gave my sister a quizzical expression but the gears in my head started to turn. Why indeed? Maybe he had been there the entire time.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “He owns the place,” I said a second later. “Though the police seemed to think it odd he just happened to show up after hours. He told them he planned to meet Mrs. Scott at a restaurant down the road, but she never showed so he got worried her car might be stuck in the snow. They questioned him for over an hour. This Detective
Van der Burg…” I shook my head to dislodge the image of his tall, well-toned physique. “I think he suspects Mr. Poupée.”

  I grabbed a jar I keep on my desk and pulled it closer to scoop out a handful of M&M’s, meticulously picking the blue ones and sliding them across the desk to my sister who I knew would eat anything—even a blue M&M.

  “That’s just wrong.”

  “Of course it is. Mr. Poupée couldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “Not that. This.” I tossed another blue M&M onto her pile. “What we’re they thinking.” I couldn’t figure out how blue ones ended up in a bag with glorious autumn colors. Have I mentioned autumn is my favorite season?

  Sam leaned across the desk and tugged the jar from my hands. “Why do you think they suspect Mr. Poupée?”

  I popped three candies into my mouth. “They asked him all sorts of stuff about his relationship with Mrs. Scott. And why he wanted to meet her after work.”

  “Why did he?” Millie asked.

  I shrugged. “Said she asked to have a private meeting with him. He didn’t know why, but he’s been tied up and hasn’t been in the office much so maybe she just had some stuff to go over with him.”

  Sam leaned back and took another sip of tea. “So why not just wait for him to come back to the office or catch him first thing the next morning?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Sam cradled her cup in her hands and stared at me intently. “What do you think? Did he do it?”

  “Samantha! What are you saying? He’s been a friend forever. Honest to God.” I stood up and walked over to the window then turned and sat on the windowsill, the outside panes frosted with a white lacework. “And he’s too old.”

  “I don’t think there’s an age limit for murderers,” Sam said.

  “I’m sure he’s not involved, Alex. Maybe it has something to do with what’s going on over there?” Millie said with a knowing look.

  My sister placed her mug on the corner of my desk and shifted in her seat. “What do you mean?”

  “I went to get my mail last week,” Millie said. “You know, most people check their mail everyday, but I always forget. And Gran and Mom never have time. I never get anything but bills. No letters. I’ve lived here all my life so who’s going to write to me.”

  I came back to my desk. “Millie!”

  “Oh, right. Sorry, Alex. So I went to check my mail and saw my neighbor checking hers and we got to talking. She works at Poupée on the assembly line. Can you imagine putting arms and legs together all day long and…” I gave Millie the look. “Sorry, I’m getting off track again. She said something at work must be going on because some people seemed secretive.”

  “Secretive? In what way?” I asked, leaning forward, my interest piqued.

  Millie shrugged. “I don’t know. She said they had lots of closed-door meetings. And Mr. Poupée came out to the factory more than usual.”

  “Hmmm,” I mused.

  “It could be anything,” Sam said. “Maybe they’re planning to have a layoff, or maybe they’re just talking about Christmas bonuses.”

  “No, it can’t be a layoff. They’re supposed to get that big project,” I said with hope; hope they would get it and hire us to fill the temporary positions. “Maybe it has something to do with that. I’m sure whatever it is has nothing to do with Mrs. Scott. She doesn’t—I mean didn’t—work in the factory. It’s probably some kind of production problem.”

  “Do you want to go home?” Millie suggested. “Your calendar is fairly light today. I can take over your interview.”

  “No, I’d rather stay here, but thanks. Speaking of interviews, how’d it go yesterday?”

  “Not bad. The secretarial candidate passed all her tests and the French translator scored perfectly. Maybe I should learn French. Take a class over at the university,” Millie said, lapsing into a dreamy state.

  Sam and I rolled our eyes. Millie’s last foray with a hobby had been a photography course. She had done nothing for months but try to catch us in natural poses. I couldn’t imagine her muttering all day in a foreign language.

  “Well, if you two don’t mind, I’ve got some things I’d like to get done,” I said, while looking in a small mirror I keep in my desk. I had cried off my eyeliner, and once again my mascara left smoky smudges under my eyes. On further inspection I decided I liked the effect; it made me look mysterious. I made a mental note to duplicate it the next time I had a hot date.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “I have your mother on the phone. Can you speak with her?” Millie asked me over the intercom a short time later.

  “Sure. Give me a minute to finish this call and then put her through.”

  I went back to my call with Mr. Abbadini, a cute little farmer whose wife had died a year before. He wanted to sell the chicken farm that had been in his family for several generations. The current generation of Abbadinis had long left to pursue careers in the city leaving Mr. Abbadini alone with lots and lots of chickens.

  “Yes, Mr. Abbadini, I think we can find someone to come help you count all the chickens for your inventory. Yes, I understand. I’ll make sure they know exactly what the job entails and aren’t squeamish about farm creatures.”

  The last person we sent out, a young woman working to put herself through junior college, had stumbled over when a large rodent had scurried past her legs, landing right on top of a basket of fresh eggs. We put our applicants through a long day of testing making sure we match them perfectly with the client needs but unfortunately, we have no questions on phobias and this one got past us.

  I assured Mr. Abbadini Millie would help him find the right person and then I picked up the call from my mother. “Hi, Mom,” I said as casually as I could hoping she hadn’t heard about the murder.

  “Where were you last night? I called several times. I wanted to let you know you may be getting a visit from the daughter of Kelly Sheridan. I ran into her and her husband at the airport yesterday. She’s going to be in town for Christmas and I told Mrs. Sheridan it might be a good time to set something up for the summer break.”

  “Mom, who is Kelly Sheridan?”

  “She’s the wife of Richard Sheridan.”

  “Oh. That Kelly Sheridan,” I sighed. “Mom, who is Richard Sheridan?”

  “He’s some bigwig over at Poupée. Oh my, did you hear about what happened? I need to call Dolly, see how William is doing this morning. Just abominable! What is this world coming to?”

  “Yes, I heard.”

  It took me over a half hour to tell my mother everything that happened and to assure her I had been in no danger—at least I hoped I hadn’t been in any danger. I wondered if the killer had been watching me carry boxes out to my car, waiting for a chance to escape? Or had he been watching me finish the mailing. I shuddered and ended the call and then Millie buzzed again.

  “Yes?”

  “Sorry, Alex. It’s Mr. Poupée.”

  “Put him through.”

  “Alex, this is William Poupée. I’m sorry to disturb you but I wondered if I could ask your assistance with something.”

  “Certainly. What can I do for you?” I asked, thinking the last time I offered to help someone at the mannequin factory that person had been killed. Maybe I should pass the call on to Sam.

  Mr. Poupée let out a huge sigh. “The police have been here since dawn. They’ve upset quite a few of the employees with their interrogation.”

  “Well, that’s understandable. But they have to ask their questions,” I said.

  “Yes, I understand. And I want them to find the animal—” he took a deep breath— “the person responsible but well, could you come over and just be here and offer comfort? I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’m absolutely lost without Elvira.” Mr. Poupée took another deep breath and exhaled slowly before starting again. “The employees are upset. I think they would appreciate a friendly face. You know several of the office workers, and well,” he hesitated again for a moment.

  “Mr. Pou
pée, are you all right? Is there something else?”

  “I think the police suspect me. They’re insistent the murderer knew Elvira and seem to be concentrating their efforts here. They found some papers in her purse and they’ve asked if I planned on leaving for the holidays and made it clear I should stay in town.”

  “Suspect you? That’s ridiculous,” I protested, conveniently forgetting for the moment my own suspicions of last night and the fleeting thought of barricading myself in the ladies room. “Why would they think something like that?”

  “I did come back to the office. I told them why and if they check with the waitress, they’ll see it’s the truth. And they know Elvira and I were close. They talked to one of her neighbors this morning who told them I went over to her house on several occasions.”

  “You did?” I asked before I could stop the words from coming out. I didn’t know why, but this latest revelation made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  “After Irwin died,” Mr. Poupée said, “I sometimes went over and helped Elvira with things around the house. And once, while Dolly went out of town, I helped install some shelving in a closet and then stayed for dinner. But I assure you, Alex,” Mr. Poupée said forcefully, “the thought, even the merest hint of any impropriety between us, well, I just can’t imagine what the police could be thinking.”

  “Hmm.” I puzzled over this information, wondering if the police knew something more.

  “I thought you might be able to help.”

  “You mean with the investigation? Mr. Poupée, I’m not a cop. I own a temp agency. I wouldn’t know the first thing to do and besides, I rather doubt Detective Van der Burg would let me get involved.”

  “Alex, you have a wonderful way with people. It couldn’t hurt anything if you asked a few questions.”

  “Mr. Poupée, after last night, I just don’t think I can come to the factory right now. I’m sorry.”