Armed (2 page)

“Are you the person who phoned it in?”

“Yes.”

The detective reached into the back pocket of his jeans and took out a small notebook. “Your name?”

I pulled my coat tighter around me as the cold from the hard, tiled floor seeped through my wet shoes and crept up my back. I was really a mess.

“Alex Harris.”

The detective touched my elbow, startling me, and ushered me aside as an army of people began entering the building. People with camera equipment and large cases moved down the hall to the factory door.

“Ms. Harris, did you touch anything? Touch the body?”

“What? Oh, no, I just bent to look at her a little closer to see if… maybe....” I swallowed hard. “No, I didn’t touch her. Well, just my foot. I stepped on her.”

“You stepped on her?”

I straightened up, hoping for an imposing demeanor but failing miserably when you considered the state of my face. “It’s dark out there. I kind of tripped on her leg.”

Detective Van der Burg closed his eyes for a second and shook his head slowly. I’d seen this look before on my father’s face many times growing up.

“I assume you work here?”

“Yes. No. Just for today. I’m the temp.”

“Temp?”

“Yes, the temporary. Is this going to take long? I’d really like to get home.”

“Not too much longer,” the detective said, and I feared he probably said that to everyone.

Detective Van der Burg took a quick glance around. “You all alone here?”

“Yes. No.”

“Which is it, Ms. Harris?” he asked, his voice impatient.

“Alone when I found her. But then Mr. Poupée, the owner, arrived.”

“Mr. Pou….

“Poupée. It’s French. You pronounce it Poo-pay.”

“Where might he be?”

I jerked my head toward the end of the hall. Detective Van der Burg headed in that direction and I followed.

“He’s in there.” I pointed to the large office behind the smaller one Mrs. Scott had occupied. The detective walked into the back office. Despite his casual appearance, probably from being pulled away from dinner with the wife and kiddies, there was no doubt he was in charge. The man crackled with electrical current as he turned his head from side to side taking everything in.

“Mr. Poupée, I’m Detective Van der Burg. I understand you’re the owner. I’d like to ask you a few questions, but first I need to take a look in the factory. Why don’t you and Ms. Harris have a seat and I’ll be with you shortly.”

He donned a pair of gloves, covered his shoes with booties, and then went into the factory. One of the officers who had arrived earlier came in. I figured he came to keep an eye on me and Mr. Poupée. I felt like a suspect but at this point I really didn’t care. Maybe the jail would have a comfortable bed and a hot cup of tea. Just like the Holiday Inn. I shoved my hand deep into the pocket of my coat searching for the small bag of M&M’s, but pulled out an empty packet. Not even one left. I had tucked the remains of my large bag into the trunk of my car. I didn’t think the police officer would let me run out to get a handful.

I smiled at the officer and tried to make myself as comfortable as possible on a tiny sofa. I looked at my surroundings—a room I had been in this very morning talking with a woman now dead. Murdered.

An hour later I awoke from a fitful slumber.

Two hours after that Detective Van der Burg finally finished his questioning.

“Let me walk you to your cars.” The interrogation took its toll and neither Mr. Poupée nor I said anything as we gingerly made our way through several inches of snow. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a look in your trunks.” I gave Detective Van der Burg a glance and wondered why, but at his point I didn’t care if he found another body in my car as long as it ensured a ride to the police station and a warm cell.

“Well, you can go now,” he said after poking around in the three boxes I had stowed in my trunk. Finding nothing at all in Mr. Poupée’s trunk, he added, “I’ll be contacting you both again tomorrow. Please make sure you’re available.”

He helped me clear the snow from around my car and waited to make sure it started, and then he walked toward the building.

I quickly wound up the heater knob and then rolled down my window hoping the smack of cold air on my face would keep me awake until I got home.

As I pulled out one of the officers called to the detective from the front door. “Sir. You may want to come and take a look at this.”

Looming out of the dark recesses of the factory, the mannequin came toward me, blood trickling from its shoulder. It seemed to float to where I stood looking down at the body. The coal black eyes of the mannequin darted everywhere, finally settling on the bloody arm resting by Mrs. Scott’s head. “Give me my arm!” the voice boomed, causing me to tumble over, landing hard on the cement floor. Without another word the mannequin raised its other arm high above, gave a maniacal laugh, and brought the hard plastic down on my head.

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.

“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.”