Armed

  “It’s a small company and there’s just been a murder. A sixth sense starts to kick in. Besides, I played racquetball with Andy Tuesday night. He told me who you are,” the young man said with an impish grin.

  “Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee?” I offered, hoping he didn’t want the coffee. I had never had a cup of the stuff in my life and the few times I tried to make it didn’t turn out so well.

  “Tea, no. Coffee, yes. Come to my office. We keep our own pot and special roast down there. Can’t stand the weak stuff most of the people around here drink.”

  I stepped back into the office and dropped the paper punch on the desk. After all, if he planned to kill me, would he take me to his office? I followed him to an office that turned out to be a large room with several drawing tables in the center. Around the perimeter stood large file cabinets with wide flat drawers for keeping drawings, a large shelf with all kinds of drawing supplies, and a table with a coffee maker—state of the art, of course—and a small refrigerator from which the man took a small bag. He pulled out a coffee grinder from a shelf under the table.

  “Boy, you really are serious about what you drink. I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I don’t know your name.”

  He smiled and extended his hand. “Sorry. Mitch Monahan, at your service.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mitch Monahan.”

  He shoveled eight large spoonfuls of freshly ground coffee into the basket of the coffeemaker and adeptly set the thing in motion. I admit I didn’t know coffee, but it seemed that eight spoonfuls might be a bit of overkill.

  “I spent a summer in Europe right after university. Now, they really know how to drink coffee. Nice and strong. Have a seat.” He indicated a stool next to one of the drawing tables.

  “What exactly do you do in here?”

  “We—there’s another guy—design mannequins. Not exactly what I had in mind in school but I enjoy it. It’s a good company to work for. And a little more than people think. Here, have a look.”

  He pushed a sheet of paper toward me. “Most people think of mannequins as the old fashioned kind you see in all the stores. But the newer ones are more sculptured.” I looked at the drawing. “They don’t have actual hair or eyes. Everything is more like you would think of a statue. Of course we have to take into account the mannequins need to be dressed so we have to make sure the design incorporates ease of motion, flexibility, etc.” Mitch said. “Take a look at this one, really futuristic.”

  In addition to being more sculptured, this one didn’t have arms.

  “Then we have custom made ones with inflatable bellies for maternity shops or child-sized ones. Right now Poupée is looking to expand the business to include test dummies.”

  “Test dummies?”

  “Ones that can be used to test how well another product works like, say, a seatbelt. It’s just in the development stages, but we’re looking into the feasibility of producing something like that here. It might be too much of an investment,” he shrugged, “but it’s interesting. Ron, he’s the head designer—actually he’s a mechanical engineer—is working on a special design for the museum exhibit we’re hoping to get.”

  “What about eyes? I remember a flyer for eyes,” I asked.

  “That’s part of our unique line with interchangeable eyes and hair. The eyes are the contribution of Richard Sheridan. His claim to fame. It appeals to a certain market that can’t afford to change their mannequins frequently but like to have a different look.”

  “How do you change the eyes?”

  “They’re elongated. You pinch the ends and place them in the socket. Then when you want to change them, you just pinch at the raised eyeball part and they come right out. The actual color part is a soft resin-like substance that we can add color to.”

  It sounded creepy like everything else around here and I wanted to get off the subject of interchangeable eyeballs. “I suppose the police have spoken to you?”

  “Yes, they have. Mr. Poupée said you might be asking some questions. He wants us to cooperate. Seems to think maybe you can find out something the police can’t. Is this true? Are you some kind of super sleuth?”

  I felt my face redden and waved my hand. “Oh no, nothing like that. He just thought it might be easier to talk with someone less intimidating than the police and maybe people would open up to me.”

  He still smiled. I knew it sounded just as ridiculous to him as it did to me. What the hell was I thinking? I had no idea how to interrogate someone. Somehow, “your shorthand is excellent. Kill anybody lately?” didn’t get asked during my interviews with prospective clients for the agency.

  “Actually, I think he’s just upset and needs someone here to hold his hand and assume responsibility like Mrs. Scott did. I happened to be in the right place at the right… My word, what am I saying! That sounded so insensitive. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. This has gotten to everyone. So?”

  “So?”

  “Well, yeah, do you have any questions? That’s why you’re here.”

  I shrugged and started with the most obvious question and hoped a few others would pop into my head as I went along. “Okay. What time did you leave Tuesday night?”

  Mitch perched himself on a stool in front of his drawing board. “Oh, must have been five-thirty-five. I passed Elvira in the lobby and said good night but she didn’t hear me. I think I was the last one out except for the two of you.”

  And the killer, I thought—or was I sitting across from one? I shifted in my seat and moved it back a few inches. “You’re sure you saw her in the lobby, not her office?

  Mitch nodded. “Yeah. By the reception desk.”

  “Alone?” I perked up at this bit of information.

  “Yes.”

  “Did she have her coat on?”

  Mitch thought for a moment. “No. Not on. Maybe over her arm. Looked like she was about to leave.”

  I thought about this and wondered if it meant anything. Mrs. Scott had been about to leave. So why didn’t she? What made her go back to her office and then out to the factory?

  “Did you see anyone else?” I asked then.

  “No. Just Elvira.”

  “How about in the parking lot? See any other cars?”

  Mitch shifted on the stool. “Well, to be honest, I didn’t notice. I’m not even sure I saw Elvira’s car. It’s just something I never pay attention to.”

  “You went straight home?”

  “No, I went to the sports center. I played racquetball with Andy.”

  “Oh, right,” I said, “you said that.”

  “He got there a bit late so I practiced for a few minutes. After the game, we got a couple of burgers in the restaurant they have at the complex. Then I went home.”

  “Did you like Mrs. Scott?” I asked, remembering Sandy had said one of the designers didn’t.

  Mitch’s expression softened. “Well, yeah. I didn’t have a lot to do with her. But you work with someone and you see him or her everyday. She seemed nice, though I didn’t deal with her so I really have no first-hand experience. Andy really liked her. She accommodated his school schedule and he appreciated it.”

  “Do you know of anyone who didn’t like her?”

  Mitch gave a short laugh. “Well, Emmanuelle. Have you met her yet? She’s the sales rep. She works with Richard. She couldn’t stand Mrs. Scott. Of course, not too many people like Emmanuelle. She thinks she’s pretty hot stuff.” Mitch took off his glasses, looked at an imaginary spot, and put them back on. “She sure is beautiful, but she can be so unfriendly. A real bitch. Oh, I’m sorry. Excuse me.”

  Now Mitch turned red.

  “It’s okay. Why didn’t they get along?”

  Mitch shrugged his shoulders and folded his arms across his chest, a piece of his light hair casually falling onto his forehead. “I don’t really know. I don’t think they were ever fond of each other, but it seems to have escalated a bit in the last month. Emmanuelle’s very am
bitious. Always kissing up to Mr. Poupée. I don’t know what she thought she would accomplish. This is a small company and we already have a VP of sales and marketing and I don’t see her as being a manufacturing VP or purchasing. There’s not a lot else in the way of high positions around here. She’s just one of those people. Climbing the corporate ladder and walking all over everyone is just normal behavior for some.”

  The coffeepot gurgled. I had forgotten all about it.

  “Mitch, have you noticed anyone acting funny, secretive in some way?”

  “No, should I?”

  “No. Just wondering.” I shrugged. “Trying to get a feel for what’s going on, what could possibly be a motive for what happened.”

  “So you think it was an inside job. I mean, that someone here at Poupée did this?” Mitch asked skeptically. “I don’t see it. Sure, we have petty squabbles like you have in any company, and some people got along better than others. But killing each other? Sorry, Alex. I think you’re off base.”

  “Do you have any ideas then?”

  Mitch hopped off the stool and walked over to the coffeemaker. “No. I just assumed someone broke in here and got scared when Elvira showed up.”

  “Any thoughts as to why someone would break in?”

  Mitch took out a small carton of fresh cream from the tiny refrigerator. “Well, you got me on that one. It’s Christmas? Someone desperate for money? I haven’t a clue. But there’re a lot of crazies in this world. Maybe someone just wanted to get out of the cold and got scared when they realized they weren’t alone.”

  “Maybe,” I answered, “but no one broke in. The doors were still unlocked. So a stranger coming in off the street would know the place was occupied. Besides, the factory isn’t in the center of town. I can’t see too many people walking around out here.” Detective Van der Burg’s words echoed in my head.

  “That’s true. Well, Alex,” Mitch paused to take a sip of his coffee, “you certainly have your work cut out for you.”

  “I guess I do,” I said with resignation. “Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time. Thanks and enjoy your coffee. Oh, one more thing. Did you by any chance give Mrs. Scott a package to mail?” I asked, thinking about the extra package on the postal receipt.

  “A package? No. Why?”

  “No reason. Thanks again.”

  “Come back anytime and good luck with your investigation, Nancy Drew.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Still early, I hadn’t seen anyone else arrive. I wandered down the hall stopping at the ladies room. I looked in the mirror and shook my head in dismay. Nancy Drew, as played by Pamela Sue Martin, I was not. More like Jessica Fletcher minus about thirty years. If I could change one thing about my appearance it would be my light brown hair. I kept it short because hair like mine had no business being long. Fine and flat I used lots of products to give it some oomph. At thirty-six I had never colored my hair and decided to remedy that.

  I turned off the light and headed back down the hall, this time stopping at a door marked Order Desk and went in hoping to catch Sandy before she started her day.

  “Hi, is Sandy in yet?”

  A young woman seated at one of the desks shook her head and resumed her computer work.

  “Do you know when she’ll be in?”

  “Should be any minute.”

  The nameplate on her desk said Monica Ballister…the order desk administrator who had been such a help to Peter.

  “You’re welcome to wait or I can have Sandy call you when she comes in.”

  “Thanks, I’ll wait.” I took a seat. “You’ve been here almost a year. How do you like it?”

  Monica gave me a how-do-you-know-that expression.

  “Sorry, someone mentioned it.”

  “Are you replacing Mrs. Scott?”

  “Just temporarily. I’m Alex Harris. I’m a friend of Mr. Poupée, he’s asked me to help out.” I extended my hand.

  Monica had a firm grip. “Yes, I heard. Are you a cop? I already talked with some detective yesterday.”

  “No, just a friend. Mr. Poupée wanted me to talk with the staff and, well, try to keep everyone at ease during this difficult time.” It still sounded ridiculous.

  “So you’re here to snoop.” Monica pursed her lips and gave a slight nod. “I already told the police everything I know. Which isn’t much, I might add. I stay cooped up in here most of the time, which suits me fine. I’m not much for socializing with the people I work with.”

  She turned and her fingers sped over the keyboard. I thought that under the somewhat frumpy exterior, Monica could be a pretty young woman if she would relax a bit, maybe smile. She had shiny shoulder length hair the color of a new penny. Her eyes had flecks the same color dancing in the rich brown pools but they weren’t happy eyes. They were lonely. I instantly pegged her for a computer geek and assumed she spent her personal time with a laptop, glued to the Internet rather than out partying with others her own age.

  Something about her struck me as familiar. “Have we met before?”

  “No. I don’t think so. You don’t look familiar to me.”

  “Maybe I’ve run into you in town.”

  “Could be. I hang out a lot at the bookstore just off Plains Road. Do you go in there?” Monica asked, still typing in data.

  “Yes, I do. Unfortunately not as much as I’d like. They have a great mystery section. Do you like mysteries?”

  “I’ve never read one. I hang out in the computer section. They keep fairly current with their stock.”

  “Did Mrs. Scott hire you?” I asked, trying to get the conversation on the murder.

  “No, Sandy did.”

  “Did you like Mrs. Scott?”

  Monica stopped typing and turned to face me. “I didn’t know Mrs. Scott well. I work in here all day and other than seeing her in the break room or the ladies room I didn’t have much to do with her.” She pushed up a sleeve on her oversized sweater. “She seemed okay. Always said hi.” Monica stared at me for a moment and turned back to her computer. “I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful than that. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a rush project to finish.”

  I got up to leave. “Tell Sandy I’ll try to get back later.” I hesitated. “I’m sorry. One more thing. Did you by any chance ask Mrs. Scott to mail a package for you?”

  Monica looked bewildered. “A package? No. We don’t send out stuff from this office. Shipping does all that.”

  I walked back to my temporary little office. How temporary would it be? How long did it take to find a murderer? What if I never found one?

  I plopped myself on the chair and figured I had better get busy. So far I had spoken with two employees and hadn’t learned anything—except Mrs. Scott had been on her way out the door. I needed to talk with Ruth and Sandy and find out what they meant by their cryptic remarks. But despite not having made any progress, it felt kind of good to be asking questions, which, of course, made me feel guilty. Someone had died, after all, or else I wouldn’t be here. Nonetheless, I could understand why detectives seemed to thrive on their jobs, drinking gallons of coffee and eating donuts all day.

  I dialed the agency knowing Millie would be in by now. She answered right away. Millie Chapman had come to work for us right out of junior college. At first we hired her part time, but as the business started making money she had grown with the agency. We’d be lost without her.

  “Millie. Hi, it’s Alex.”

  “Good morning. Got your message. I checked your calendar. What do you want me to do about the copier salesman? He’s coming in this afternoon at five and Sam will be gone.”

  “Oh damn! I forgot about him. Listen, I’ll be back in the office as soon as I can. It’ll probably be late, maybe about four-thirty. I need to pick up some papers I left on my desk for that ad agency we’re going to tomorrow. The reason I called is, a few months ago when Peter installed the new database system here we sent over a few people to help with the input.”

  “Yeah, I rememb
er. You need them again?”

  “Not exactly. What I’d like you to do is to print up a list of who we sent out, their home phone numbers, and, if they’re working, where I can contact them.”

  “Sure. What’s this all about?”

  “Not sure yet. Just hoping they remember something.”

  “You’re really getting into this snooping business. Maybe we should expand our services and hire you out as an ace detective.”

  “Very funny. So far I haven’t found out a thing except they drink strong coffee in Europe and the bookstore on Plains Road has an excellent computer section.” I sighed. “Listen, when you get the list together can you fax it to me here?”

  “Sure.”

  “Is Sam in yet?

  “Not yet. Do you want me to have her call you?”

  “No. Just wondering. She came over last night and we had a long night talking and stuff.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  I heard the hesitation in Millie’s voice. “Everything is fine. We have some good business leads. We’ve been slow before. Things will pick up.”

  “It’s funny but yesterday quite a few people stopped by for literature. I actually gave three women typing tests. I think they must have heard about how you found the body.”

  “I imagine that’ll happen for a while. Now we just have to find the jobs to send them to.” I thanked Millie and hung up.

  I walked across the hall, got another cup of tea, and returned to the office. I needed to get back to questioning the staff, but first I opened the bottom drawer of the desk. I remembered something I’d seen yesterday that might help—Emmanuelle Roberts’ file. I didn’t know if the scope of my duties warranted looking through private files, but I made an executive decision and began to read.

  Emmanuelle had gone to UC Irvine and majored in business. After college she held what looked like a promising position in California. The first job lasted almost two years and then she left to take a job with a manufacturing firm in Chicago. That position only lasted a year and then she came here.

  I replaced the file in the bottom drawer, wondering what had gone wrong with both jobs. Perhaps the position here at Poupée came with even more responsibility and more money. Or Emmanuelle might have just wanted a change of scenery. The only way to find out was to ask Ms. Roberts directly.