Armed

  The last person on the list was Ian Reiser.

  “Hi, Alex. Sorry I haven’t had time to complete the questionnaire but I’ve been working on a paper that has to be done by the first of the year.”

  The agency asked our temps to fill out a questionnaire on the position they had just completed. The questionnaire had been instrumental in helping to place the right temp with a job commensurate with their individual skills.

  “No, it’s not about that, Ian. I wondered if you might be able to answer a few questions. We sent you out on a data entry position a few months back at Poupée Mannequins.”

  “Yeah, I remember. Do they need more help? Because I’m not sure I want to go back there. Those mannequins gave me the creeps. The people were nice, though.”

  “I know the feeling.” I laughed. “And no, they don’t need anyone for the moment. I want to know if you can remember anything strange about either the information you were working with or any of the people you came in contact with?”

  “Does this have anything to do with that murder I read about it in the paper?”

  “Kind of,” I answered vaguely.

  “I entered the usual stuff. Names, addresses, contact people, telephone, fax numbers. After that we entered all the order forms, invoices, everything. They wanted as much data as possible for the last five years put into the system. As far as being strange goes, no, I can’t remember anything except for mannequins. They’re creepy.”

  “How about people? Anything there?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “You sound a bit hesitant.” I sat up, hopeful.

  “Nothing strange. More like ego busting. I had a bit of a crush on Monica Ballister. I found her attractive in that large-boned, fair-skinned, German-looking sort of way. She had really pretty green eyes.”

  Green eyes? Monica had brown eyes. I had a feeling Ian had been caught in Emmanuelle’s web.

  “I flirted with her. I did manage to take her to lunch one day, and we got along fine, but no go as far as a long-term relationship goes. I guess you could call her a computer nerd. She didn’t seem to be interested in anything else.”

  “Anything else you can remember?”

  “No. Sorry, Alex. Just your ordinary data entry job.”

  “Well, thanks for your time, Ian. Good luck on your paper.”

  I sat back in my chair and looked up at the ceiling, my eyes absentmindedly focusing on a water spot. So far what did I have? Not a lot. Some rude people possibly capable of murder. I had forgotten to ask Emmanuelle about sending a package but somehow I didn’t think she would ask Mrs. Scott to do anything. And Richard had been out of the country. Mrs. Scott must have sent something of her own, I concluded, giving myself a mental pat on the back for having solved at least one mystery.

  Somewhere down the hall phones rang. I went in search of Ruth.

  “Good morning, Poupée Mannequins. Yes, sir. One moment, please.” Ruth pressed another button, announced the call and looked up. “Good morning, Ms. Harris.”

  “Alex, please. It sure is busy out here.”

  To prove the point, the phone rang again. I walked over to the mannequin display while I waited for the rush to abate. They stood by a beautifully decorated, heavenly scented Christmas tree, lavishly dressed as old-fashioned carolers out for an evening of song.

  I stepped closer and took a good look at the eyes. These seemed to be the Eyes Have It model and I had to admit they looked good. Each caroling mannequin had a different color. From the hues on these specimens, Poupée didn’t just go for the normal eye colors of brown, green, and blue. One mannequin had brilliant sea foam green and another violet.

  “Alex, did you need me for something?”

  I turned back to Ruth. “Yes, if you have a minute.”

  “It’s after eleven so the phones are usually a bit less hectic now.”

  I walked over to the large reception counter and leaned on it. “Yesterday when we talked you said something about not everyone liked Mrs. Scott. Did you mean Emmanuelle?”

  “Well, no. I meant Jerry and Joanne.”

  “Jerry—the factory foreman?”

  “Yes. That’s right. Jerry Gagliano.”

  “Who is Joanne? I don’t think I’ve met her yet.”

  “No, you haven’t. She’ll be in this afternoon. She’s—was, Elvira’s assistant. She’s been out sick since Tuesday. She has a bad back.”

  “I had no idea Mrs. Scott had an assistant. Mr. Poupée didn’t mention it.”

  “Well, it’s not her official title. We don’t have a personnel department per se. Each department head hires their staff. Like Sandy hired Monica, Richard hired Emmanuelle. Elvira hired me. The factory handles all of its own hiring. In addition to all the stuff she did for Mr. Poupée and supervising Andy and me, Elvira coordinated the benefits, retirement plan, and group insurance plans and hired Joanne to help.

  “Would Joanne be in charge of personnel files?” I asked hopefully.

  “Yes. She updates files.”

  “Where does she sit?”

  “Right across from Elvira. In that room next to the coffee room.”

  I had noticed a desk in there.

  “That’s where all the personnel records are kept,” Ruth added.

  “Why do you think Joanne and Jerry didn’t get along with Mrs. Scott?”

  “Well, Jerry’s wife…hold on a minute. Good Morning, Poupée Mannequins. I’m sorry but Ms. Reed won’t be in until this afternoon. Can I take a message? Yes, that would be fine. You’re welcome. Sorry,” Ruth said. “Where was I? Oh yes. Jerry’s wife left him a little over a year ago. Ran off with some geography teacher at the community college. Jerry couldn’t handle it. He’s always been obnoxious.”

  Ruth paused to greet a visitor and to notify someone from the factory their appointment had arrived. “With he divorced and Elvira a widow Jerry thought they should get together. He started bothering her a lot. Always coming to her office on some pretext or another. From here I can see down the hall. I saw him coming in from the factory, what seemed like several times a day. Elvira didn’t want anything to do with him. If you’d ever spoken with him you’d know why,” Ruth grimaced.

  I had and I did.

  “I think he asked her out a few times and she said no. She told him—now Joanne overheard this and told me, —so who knows, but anyway, Elvira told him she didn’t date.”

  “That seems like a reasonable excuse,” I said.

  “You would have thought, but then our annual sales meeting rolled around and Elvira went out with Oliver Absher. He’s the owner of our biggest customers: Mannequins, Inc., in Chicago. He’s a widower and one of the nicest people. Always very pleasant when he calls.” Ruth blushed and then continued. “I’ve met him a few times, and had my eye on him, if you know what I mean. But he didn’t seem interested in me at all.” Ruth shrugged.

  “Anyway, he’s in town for the meeting and asks her out and they have a lovely time. She looked like a love-sick school girl the next day.” Ruth’s face brightened at the memory. “I admit I felt jealous, but they liked each other. So the day after their date, Elvira’s in the coffee room and in walks Jerry. I had started down the hall to get a cup of coffee when I heard them talking and ducked into Joanne’s office. I could hear them through the wall. I felt bad listening in on Elvira.” Ruth shook her head.

  “Jerry said, ‘I thought you didn’t go out. Well, I saw you last night in town with that rich guy. What, I don’t have enough money for you? Is that all you’re after? You’re all the same.’ Well, then Elvira said he, meaning Mr. Absher, was just a good friend. Then Jerry said, ‘Nobody, nobody makes a fool out of me and gets away with it!’ And then he stormed out.”

  “My word. Ruth, did you tell the police about this?” I asked as the prospect of having discovered the murderer made my heart skip a couple of beats.

  “I certainly did.”

  I leaned over the reception counter, close to Ruth and lowered my voice. “Don??
?t tell anyone else. I think it best not to. Let the police handle it.”

  “No, I never told anyone. Not even Joanne. I felt embarrassed I overheard. Elvira looked dejected the rest of the day and I felt so bad for her.”

  I took a few seconds to absorb what Ruth had just said. So far the confrontation with Jerry sounded like the best motive for murder, though maybe a bit skimpy. But considering the police thought my not seeing a shovel worthy of a trip to the pokey, they should have Jerry behind bars by now.

  “Now what about Joanne?”

  “Joanne wants Elvira’s job. She’s backstabbed Elvira a few times but she’s always very apologetic and humble afterward, pretending she just wanted to help. I don’t know if Elvira saw through her or not. Joanne is good at her job. Too good.” Ruth lowered her voice to a whisper. “She’s very good at manipulating, but she does it in a way you don’t realize. Do you know what I mean?”

  I nodded.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I like Joanne—in a way. I mean she’s nice to me and all, but she uses me. She knows I see and hear a lot and she’s always pumping me for information.”

  The phone rang again. I could understand Joanne’s constant pumping of Ruth—the woman was a virtual reservoir of knowledge. You just had to turn on the tap and let it run. The phone rang once again. I mouthed a thank you and turned to go. I heard footsteps behind me and turned.

  “I’m going for lunch. Would you like me to bring you back a sandwich?”

  Mr. Adonis, aka Andy the mailroom clerk, stood behind me. “Oh, hi, Andy. No thank you. I’m restless so I think I’ll get out a bit and maybe take a walk. Listen, I haven’t talked with you since, well, since Mrs. Scott died, and I know how much you liked her. I’m very sorry.”

  We walked back to my office together.

  “Thanks, Alex.” Andy sneezed. I handed him a tissue from the box on the corner of the desk. “I’ll miss her. I still can’t believe she’s gone. And I’m sorry you had to be the one to find her. I should have stayed with you and helped finish the mailing.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. She asked you to go. No one could have known what was going to happen.” Then I remembered the postal receipt. “Andy, those packages Mrs. Scott gave you to mail—did you by any chance check the addresses?”

  “No. Not really. I didn’t pay much attention. Is it important?”

  “No. Probably not. It’s just that Mr. Poupée said he gave Mrs. Scott four packages, and she gave you five. I just wondered about the extra one.”

  “Beats me. Though, you know, all the packages were the same size and weight except one, which was a lot bigger.”

  “Hmm.” I shrugged. “It probably means nothing. Just another gift going out to a supplier or client. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “No, but I don’t know what I can tell you. I told the police everything I know. They asked a lot of questions about you, though.”

  I tried to muffle a groan. “They did?”

  “Yeah. I told them I just met you that day but they wanted to know if you ever worked here before, did you and Mrs. Scott get along, what did I think of you?”

  “Don’t worry about it. They have to cover all bases,” I said to reassure him. “After you went to the post office what did you do?” I asked more to verify Mitch’s story than to find out what Andy had been up to.

  “I went to the sports center. I got there late because the post office was packed. Mitch, he’s one of the designers here, and I played racquetball. Afterward I grabbed a burger and went home. I still live with my parents.”

  I nodded. But just to be on the safe side, I needed to get that receipt and verify the time. He may be a polite stud whose looks were better suited to some glossy magazine modeling expertly tailored suits or skimpy beach wear rather than that of someone working in a mailroom, but that didn’t mean I could wipe him off the suspect list so easily.

  “Did you notice anything going on around here? Did you ever hear any arguments Mrs. Scott might have had with anyone?”

  Andy casually ran a hand through his dark hair, with the resulting tousled look more appealing than before.

  “No. Nothing at all. I pretty much stay in the mailroom most of the day. The only time I see anybody is when I take the mail around in the morning or if someone comes in to make copies.”

  “Just one more thing. You know the shovel in the mailroom?”

  “The one behind the door that the police took?” Andy asked.

  I grimaced. “Yeah, that’s the one. Is it there all the time?”

  “Sure, unless someone’s using it. Do you need it? The police brought it back. I can go get it.” Andy started for the door.

  I groaned again. “No. I don’t need it. Just checking.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  With a light snow falling I changed my plans for a walk and instead drove a few miles down the road to a small shopping complex. The center had a dollar store—Meme’s store of preference—so I picked up several bags of cheap candy and cookies she needed for her Bingo game. My grandmother, generous to a fault, would never dream of showing up without goodies—and there had to be enough for everyone.

  Next I walked to the small drugstore next door wistfully looking at hair color. I picked up a box and read the back. It promised to give limp hair much-needed oomph and would turn drab color into a glorious highlighted head of hair. Perfect. I paid for my stuff and went in search of something to eat.

  Just as I arrived at the restaurant door Monica Ballister pushed it open from the other side banging into my arm. She walked quickly past without a word and took off in her car.

  “She almost knocked you down.” The waitress gestured over her shoulder to the parking lot. “Pretty sure she’s from Poupée. Guess she’s still upset about what happened to that Mrs. Scott. Just awful. ‘Course, until they find the maniac who did it, none of us is safe. A couple girls here refuse to work the evening shift. Why anyone would want to hurt a lovely lady like that is beyond me.” The waitress shook her head and the little hat that went with her uniform tilted to one side.

  I sat at a table in the small restaurant not too far away from the factory—the same restaurant Mr. Poupée waited in for Mrs. Scott, and asked for a cup of tea.

  “She and that young girl who ran out of here must have been pretty close,” the waitress continued as she poured hot water in my cup.

  “Close? Why do you say that?” I asked.

  She gave me a suspicious gaze. “I’ve never seen you in here before.”

  “No, this is my first time. I’m new. Working up at Poupée.” I smiled, hoping it would get more information.

  Helen, according to her nametag, gave me a quick once over and continued with her chattering. “Well, they stopped in here a couple times after work and had coffee over at that table.” She gestured to the booth across from me. “Always seemed to have so much to talk about. Come to think of it, seemed to be on the serious side so maybe they weren’t friends.”

  I looked up at Helen and smiled. “Yes, that’s probably it.”

  I considered the menu and settled on a goat cheese and spinach concoction in a croissant. Helen placed the order and returned to my table still holding the kettle of hot water.

  “I’ll bring your sandwich in a minute.”

  “By the way, were you working two nights ago?”

  “The night Mrs. Scott got killed? Yeah. We close at seven. We don’t get a lot of evening traffic out here but a lot of the employees stop by for takeout. We’re more of a breakfast and lunch kind of a place.”

  “Do you know Mr. Poupée?”

  Helen gave me a warm smile. “Sure. He’s been coming here for years. He’s a generous tipper. We all try to get him when he comes in.”

  “Did he come in that night?”

  Helen rested the kettle on the edge of the table and thought a moment. “Yeah.”

  “Do you remember what time?”

  She cut her tired blue eyes toward me. “What kind of wor
k are you doing up there?”

  “Oh, I’m a family friend of Mr. Poupée. I’m helping out during this terrible time.”

  “I think he must have come in about six. Maybe a few minutes after. I usually refill all the salt and peppershakers about that time. It surprised me when he came in.”

  I thought for a moment. Mrs. Scott was most probably dead by then. Mr. Poupée could have killed her and gotten to the restaurant at six. Thinking of him as a killer didn’t sit well, but then thinking of those metal toilets with no paper seat covers didn’t do much for me either.

  “How was he?”

  Helen eyed me suspiciously. “What kind of question is that?”

  I ignored her. “Did he seem anxious? Upset?” Splatters of blood on his jacket? Of course, I didn’t ask about the blood. But I wondered who did Mr. Poupée’s dry cleaning and if they would tell me if they worked on any stubborn bloodstains in the last day.

  “These sure are odd questions. Are you working for the police?”

  I reached for my teacup and took a sip while trying to regroup. “No, no.” I waved my hand and gave a nervous giggle. “Like I said, Mr. Poupée asked me to help out.”

  Helen pursed her lips tightly. “Hmmm. He seemed okay. A little impatient. He ordered coffee but then left without drinking it.”

  Another customer came in and Helen walked away leaving me to ponder all she said. Helen confirmed what Mr. Poupée said, but that still didn’t mean he couldn’t have first stopped off at the factory and killed Mrs. Scott. But why? I still had no clear reason why he would—unless he wanted to cover up an affair that had gotten out of hand. And what about Monica? Maybe Helen got it wrong. So many people from Poupée probably came into the restaurant at lunch or after work, maybe she couldn’t keep them straight.

  My sandwich arrived and to my delight, it looked delicious. It came with a small salad and I ate every bite. I sat there for a while holding my cup and looked around. A Christmas tree stood by the door with brightly wrapped packages underneath and a large stone fireplace in the back warmed the place considerably.