“Yes, but not by everyone.” Sandy noticed the women for the first time and took my arm and moved a bit further away from the counter. “Oh, some of the clerical staff liked her but she stepped on a lot of toes and could be a bit of a backstabber. Never to me,” Sandy added quickly, “but there are people who did not like her and truth be told they probably had good reason. Some, you might say, detested her.”
I gave Sandy my best shocked look while the elderly woman, annoyed at not getting any more gossip, paid for her purchase and left.
“There are some, like Emmanuelle, who really didn’t like her. I overheard them yelling the other day. Well, Emmanuelle did all the yelling,” Sandy said.
“Really?”
Sandy shook her full head of thick, red hair, a strand of it falling in her face. “Sorry, I didn’t hear much. Just Emmanuelle saying, ‘you better not.’ One of the designers didn’t care for her much—Mrs. Scott, not Emmanuelle. And Jerry Gagliano, the factory foreman, never said a kind word about her.”
“Jerry Gagliano. I met him today.”
“She could be a little high and mighty. After all, she did have the ear of Mr. Poupée. There are a lot of people who think they should share that privilege. You know how people can be.” Sandy folded a pair of wool slacks and put them back on the shelf. “This is a mannequin factory, for Christ sake, not NASA, but power is power no matter what shape or size it comes in.”
Just then a car horn sounded.
“My husband’s the impatient type. Gotta go. Have a Merry Christmas, Alex, if I don’t see you.”
“Oh, you will,” I raised my voice as Sandy ran out the door. “I’ll be there tomorrow and I’d like to continue our discussion.”
But Sandy had left. Another person I would have to seek out. My list of people to interrogate grew with every conversation. Was it also a list of suspects? Surprisingly, I wanted to find out—and not just to clear myself of an impending murder charge. Maybe I needed this to pull me out of my stupor: a nice little murder. I instantly felt guilty, years of being raised a Catholic ingrained in my being.
I paid for the sweater after adding a lovely scarf to the purchase, and headed for my car. Floodlights illuminated the pond for night skating. All the skaters had left except for one hearty soul twirling and jumping in the cold night air.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“So how have you been?” I asked brightly, thinking calling Peter on impulse and asking him out to dinner had been a big mistake. Despite having dated for almost two years I felt very uncomfortable in his presence but wanted to ask him about a job he had done for Poupée Mannequins.
We sat at a table at Los Tres Amigos, a Mexican restaurant that had opened about a year earlier. I took a sip of my margarita and eyed him over the rim of the glass. He was nice looking, intelligent, and a good person just not the person for me.
After we placed our orders, I jumped right in lest Peter get any romantic ideas. “I told you over the phone I found Mrs. Scott’s body. Now Mr. Poupée wants me to poke around and see if something at the factory led to her murder.”
Peter put a finger in his ear and twisted it around—an annoying habit that drove me crazy on more than one occasion. What was he looking for in there? I probably didn’t want to know. After he had sufficiently explored the orifice, he said, “I can’t imagine what you think I would know. I think he’s got a lot of nerve asking you to put yourself in the middle of it.”
“Well, I am, so that’s that,” I said, wishing I had just asked the questions over the phone. “So tell me everything you can remember about the job, the people you worked with.”
The waitress arrived with steaming plates—chicken enchiladas for Peter and cheese and onion ones for me.
“I set up their program for tracking clients and the various orders each one made. They wanted to go back and enter as much data as they could for the last twenty years but when I told them how long it would take to get all the data entered they settled for going back five. They had a lot of paper, let me tell you.” Peter blew on a forkful of rice.
“Right. I supplied several temps to input all the data but I wanted to know if you had a chance to talk with anyone. Really get to know them.”
Peter picked up another chip and dipped it in some salsa chewing noisily before answering. “One of their new employees, Monica Ballister, was a great help. Seemed like a nice girl. She told me she lived in Redding.” Peter proceeded to cut his enchilada into bite-sized pieces exactly the same size. “Weren’t you thinking of setting up your offices there at the beginning?”
“Redding. Yes, that’s right but we found the place we’re in now, and it’s so convenient we stayed here.” I wondered if anything else had gone on between Monica and Peter besides data entry—and realized with surprise I really didn’t care.
Peter continued. “Getting back to Poupée, Monica entered a lot of the data herself. She worked on the order desk. She’s very bright and a natural with the database.”
“You don’t recall meeting someone named Emmanuelle or Jerry do you?”
“Emmanuelle, no. But Jerry is the factory foreman, I think. Is that who you mean?”
“Yes. Someone mentioned neither of them liked Mrs. Scott. Did you ever notice anything like that?”
“Not that I recall. Another guy there, Richard Sheridan, seemed sneaky. But that had nothing to do with Mrs. Scott. I never noticed any interaction between them at all.” Peter shrugged. “Anyway, we got the job done.”
*****
“Jeez. You take off for the police station I never hear from you again. It’s after nine-thirty. Where’ve you been?” my very agitated sister asked.
I opened the door to my house and pushed the button to close the garage door.
“I tried calling a few times,” Sam continued, “and when I didn’t get an answer I started to worry.”
I looked at her and smiled. “You said that. As you can see, I’m fine.”
“So where were you? At Poupée’s this whole time?”
I took off my coat and walked into the kitchen. I put a doggy bag on the counter and filled the teakettle with water.
“Los Tres Amigos?” Sam said incredulously looking at the bag. “I’m thinking all sorts of terrible things and you’re out eating dinner at Los Tres Amigos.” She shook her head and then peeked into the bag.
“I had dinner with Peter.”
Sam stopped and stared at me. “You did?”
“Don’t give me that look. I needed to pick his brain about that job he did for Poupée a few months back.” I reached up into the cupboard and pulled out two mugs with a Christmas design. “Decaf or regular?”
Sam sighed. “Oh, hell, give me the regular stuff. Can’t sleep over at my house with all the smoke smell anyway.”
I smiled. “Do I want to hear this?”
Sam waved her hand. “The kids and Michael thought they’d like to make a charcoal cake for dessert.”
“A charcoal cake?” I grimaced.
Sam leaned against the counter. “Yeah. It started out as chocolate cake, but things went one-hundred percent awry, to quote my son.” Samantha’s six-year old son, my nephew Henry, liked talking in percentages.
The kettle whistled and I poured water into the two mugs.
Sam took her mug to the living room and put her tea on the coffee table. “This should be a tea table. We never drink coffee.”
I placed a plate of shortbread cookies beside the cups and sat at the other end of the sofa. I didn’t bother having dessert at the restaurant because Peter seemed to be getting the wrong idea about the evening. When the hand that had been scrounging around in his ear reached across the table to take mine, I knew I wanted to leave.
“So?” Sam asked impatiently. “Tell me all.”
I bit into a cookie. “Well, first I went to the police station. I don’t know if I convinced Detective Van der Burg or not. But at least I tried.”
“He’s pretty cute, by the way. I wouldn’t mind having
a few interrogation sessions with him myself.” She raised her eyebrows several times.
“Then I went over to Poupée,” I said, ignoring my happily married sister who would never dream of straying from her husband. “You know,” I took another bite of my cookie, “I think something funny is going on over there.”
“How so?”
“I’m not sure. You know Mrs. Scott could be difficult at times.”
“Tell me about it. She almost bit my head off over that one invoice a few months ago.”
“Well, I think she rubbed a few people the wrong way at work, too. Now does that mean she made them mad enough to kill her? I haven’t figured that out yet but I think there are people who, once I get them started, might spill out a lot of information.” I reached for a jar of M&M’s on the end table and took a handful.
“So what about Mr. Poupée and Mrs. Scott? Did you get up the nerve to ask if they had been rolling around together behind the copy machine?”
“Samantha.” I rolled my eyes, hypocrite that I was because the thought had crossed my mind once or twice. “I did talk to him about it, though in a much more tactful way. All very innocent. He said that after her husband died, he sometimes went over to help out with stuff.”
Sam took a sip of tea and then looked up. “You believe him?”
I shrugged. “Hard to tell. I usually believe everyone, but I’ve been telling myself all day no one is going to jump up and admit to killing her. They’ll all have their stories ready. I’m going to have to sort through all the rubbish. Which brings me to this.” I turned to better face my sister. “I know we need to be out there at work, trying to bring in more business but I’ve got to figure this thing out and not just because of the shovel. I’m sure the police will realize before long I didn’t kill her, but…”
“But what?”
“I’m ashamed to admit this and I’ll deny it if you ever tell anyone, but I’m nosy. I never realized it before, but I am. I want to find out who killed her for the sheer pleasure of finding out. I’m a horrible person.”
Sam put her cup down. “No, you’re not. You’re human. And you do have a vested interest. You found Mrs. Scott and the police do consider you a suspect.” My sister leaned back and smiled.
“Why are you smiling?”
“Because you may have not realized how nosy you are but the rest of us figured it out a long time ago.”
I put a pout on my face. “Well, it’s not all about being nosy. I don’t think prison orange is my color, and I’m pretty certain the warden doesn’t hand out paper toilet seat covers. And that toilet is just there! Right out in front of everyone. Another thing,” I said indignantly, “I don’t like sharing a room.”
Sam gave me a small smile. “I don’t think you have to worry about prison. The only thing I ask is you go with me to the meeting with Mr. Brandon. If we can get his business, it’ll be a big help. I’m working on a few other leads I think might pan out, so don’t worry. Things are going to pick up. Oh, and there is one other thing,” she said as she took another cookie. “Grandpa. We need to go see him before Christmas.”
“Isn’t he going to spend Christmas day with us?”
“Nope. He loves his new home at Mills Pond and that’s where he wants to stay. Now,” Sam took my hand, “what happened with Peter?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I turned my Honda right at the corner and expertly wound my way through quiet streets where families still slept. The mannequin from hell had visited again and I needed to get out of my house. Only one person I knew would be up at this early hour. And I do mean early. A light snow once again sprinkled my windshield. I turned on the wipers and watched them scatter small balls of compacted flakes into the dark. All those snowflakes and not one alike. How could they possibly know?
In front of the high school I turned right and continued past the town green and the Episcopal Church, driving slowly as my tires hugged the slick road. Even the hazards of driving in the snow and the cold, gray winters didn’t make me want to live somewhere else. I wore my roots like a geographic medal of honor. I had always been proud of being from a state with deep roots in the country’s beginnings and eternally grateful I’d been raised in a small town where not much ever changed. Except for now. My peace of mind had been shattered and with the murder of Mrs. Scott, my safe harbor had been placed jeopardy and I had to fix it.
My parents named me Allessandra after my mother’s grandmother, a strong woman who came to this country with her husband and six children to find a better life. That very Italian name didn’t seem to go well with my father’s bland English-Welsh last name of Harris and pretty soon everyone started calling me Alex. But deep down I was an Allessandra. I spent most of my growing up with the Italian side of my family, which included my grandmother, aunts, uncles, and cousins. We celebrated the holidays with Italian traditions, and while the other kids at school ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, I had a hard roll layered with salami and provolone cheese. So even though my bloodline only registered a quarter Italian, I leaned to that side of the family. If I had a crisis in my life, I went running to an Italian.
I pulled my car in front of a tidy house nestled among other tidy houses. A smile spread across my face as I saw lights coming from several living rooms up and down the street. I locked the car and headed for the front door—and safety.
“Sit down, honey.” Meme patted my hand and led me to the floral patterned sofa. “I got some pepper biscuits and I’ll make you some tea. I knew you’d show up.”
My grandmother, Giannina Nutile on her birth certificate but Meme Redmond to everyone, was already wide awake and fully dressed, and it wasn’t even five o’clock. She gently kissed the top of my head and then shuffled into the kitchen in a pair of black low heels that barely encased her fat feet, and filled a saucepan with water. A tiny veil hat sat on top of her head held by several bobby pins. “You never know when you might want to stop in at church and light a candle for someone,” she always told me about the ever-present hat. I couldn’t remember a time when my grandmother didn’t have one resting on her rose-tinted white hair and the black heels on her feet.
“Your mother told me what happened,” Meme said, as she came back from the kitchen. “I wanted to call, but I knew you’d come when you were ready. Geesh, I’m sorry you had to find a body like that. It must have been awful, and that poor woman.” Meme made the sign of the cross with her right hand and put a small cracked plate piled high with pepper biscuits and several chunks of salami on the coffee table with her left.
“Worse than I told Mom, but you know how she worries.” I shrugged and broke off a piece of the hard bread.
“Yeah, Mabel’s a real worrywart. Even as a kid. Drove me nuts.”
I leaned back into the comfortable sofa and hugged a small pillow close to my chest. “I really didn’t want to get into it with her anyway. I’m trying to forget it, but I can’t. I can’t sleep. I hear noises all night and this crazy mannequin keeps chasing me every time I manage to fall asleep even a few minutes. And the agency is slow so I’m worrying about that.” I pushed my fingers through my hair feeling resistance from all the hair mud and spray I use to keep it puffed up. “I knew you’d be up, cooking or playing solitaire.”
Meme placed a large mug of hot water and a teabag next to my plate and patted my hand. “It’ll take time. You’ll probably never forget it, but in a while, it won’t hurt so much. Just gotta give it time, honey.” Meme settled herself into an old armchair beside the sofa. “And don’t you worry about the business. That’s just the regular cycle of things. Up and down, up and down.” She gave me a reassuring nod. “So you’re gonna help the police find the killer.”
I stopped with a piece of salami almost to my mouth and gave my psychic grandmother an open-mouth stare. “How did you know—Samantha!” I put the salami on the plate and wiped my hands on a paper napkin. “Meme, you can’t let Mom and Dad know what I’m doing.”
“I won’t say a word, b
ut you gotta help me with something. I need a ride to the bingo hall tonight.”
“Sure. But you always walk. Are you okay?” I asked, as alarm inched its way up my spine. I couldn’t fathom not having my grandmother in my life.
“Fine, fine.” Meme brushed off my worry with a wave of her hand. “But I gotta go to the bingo in Bridgeport. They won’t let me play at Saint Michael’s for a while.”
“Aha.” I rolled my eyes and smiled.
“Okay, so I cheated a little. It’s been two months since I won so I may have glued a winning number or two on my card. But they’ll let me back in a few weeks. I put a lot of money in their basket every Sunday.” Meme shook a gnarled index finger at me and went back into the kitchen for more salami. “Maybe you can take me to do my collections. Theresa sprained her ankle and can’t drive this week. It’s always something.”
I wrapped my hands around the tea mug letting the scent of orange and cinnamon fill my senses. “Ain’t that the truth.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Good morning,” I called into the dark hall clutching my tea. It unnerved me to be at Poupée Mannequins this early but after I dropped Meme off at Theresa’s house where they would happily play pinochle for hours—maybe all day—I went straight to the factory. Down the hall the caroling mannequin display still stood in the lobby. What a creepy business to be in. I waited for a reply as fear began to seep into every pore. Once again the silence frightened me more than of any noise I might hear.
“Hello?” I picked up a paper punch from the desk and walked back to the doorway.
A young man with sandy-colored hair and wire-rimmed glasses came down the darkened hall. “Well, good morning to you. You must be Alex.”
“Yes, I am. How did you know?” I relaxed a bit and lowered the paper punch.