Armed (12 page)

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 work 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.

I had a small fireplace in my home. I lit it as often as possible with wood my father and I cut from the large lot behind my parent’s house—or rather wood he cut while I watched. Today, the soaring flames provided a peaceful backdrop while I mentally went over a few things. Why would Monica lie? She told me she really didn’t know Mrs. Scott and yet they met on several occasions over coffee. That really didn’t mean anything. The two women could have been at the restaurant at the same time by sheer coincidence, or maybe they worked on a project together.

The brass bell above the front door jarred me out of my thoughts. Detective Van der Burg walked in and I quickly turned my face away and slithered down in my seat.

Suddenly he stood right in front of me. “I thought I’d get something to go but I saw you sitting here. Mind if I join you?”

He sat before I had a chance to protest. We sat in an uncomfortable silence; he staring at me while I fidgeted with my purse, feeling my face turn crimson.

“Actually, I need to get going.”

I started to get up but he reached up and touched my hand and I felt a spark of electricity. Really.

“No, please. Stay. I hate eating alone.”

I sat back down but kept hold of my purse. Detective Van der Burg slipped his coat off and folded it across the top of his chair. When he turned I had a glimpse of his gun beneath his suit. For some reason the sight startled me. Certainly he must always carry it; I just never gave it any thought before now.

He shrugged, catching my look. “A necessary evil.”

“Does it bother you? I mean, is it uncomfortable?”

“Not any more. Kind of like a seat belt. Annoying at first but then you feel naked without it.”

“So how’s your investigation going? Have you caught anyone yet or do you plan to put me in jail and throw away the key?”

Detective Van der Burg shook his head. He had a full head of thick, dark brown hair with a bit of gray at the temples cut short, just the way I liked it. I had to admit he appealed to me what with the piercing gray eyes. He had a long nose with just a hint of a bend halfway down—probably broke it at some point trying to put the wrong person away. Then he smiled. It took up his whole face showing a nice set of even white teeth and I forgot about any negative thoughts. His smile was a real dazzler—by far his best feature, though it had tough competition from the eyes.

The waitress arrived and he ordered the same thing I had.

“As a matter of fact, I haven’t a clue as to the identity of the killer.”

I looked at him open-mouthed.

“Does that surprise you? It doesn’t happen like it does in the movies, you know, where suspects abound, motives lurk around every corner and the crime is solved in two hours. It’s a lot of hard work, long hours. Even then sometimes we come up empty-handed.”

“You mean you may never solve this crime?” I asked incredulously though it kind of let me off the hook. At least he didn’t say he would settle for me if he couldn’t find anyone better.

“There’s no sign of forced entry, no fingerprints on the murder weapon, and a dozen footprints in the snow leading in all different directions though most of them had been obscured.” He leaned back in his chair, his gray eyes staring. “The weather service says it didn’t stop snowing until six twenty and the wind kicked the stuff up.”

“So you’re giving up?”

“Giving up? Of course not. We just work harder.”

I nodded. “‘Success is going from failure to failure without losing your enthusiasm.’ Winston Churchill.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry. Just a habit of mine. I quote Winston. I’ve been reading a lot about him lately. Actually, a lot about World War II.” I shrugged. “Quoting him makes it easier to remember some of the things I’ve read.”

Detective Van der Burg nodded. “I like that. He was a very prolific orator. You can probably spend the rest of your life quoting him, and that quote certainly fits,” he said. “That’s exactly what we do. Failure to failure, with a lot of hard work in between, I might add, and hopefully something falls into place.”

“So am I off the hook? I
really
did not see that shovel.” I began to think I sounded like a broken record.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss my findings,” Detective Van der Burg said rather formally, while a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth and small lines crinkled around his eyes.

I rolled my eyes. “Fine.” I reflected for a moment, trying to decide just how much I should admit regarding my own attempts at detecting. “Ruth, the receptionist, told me something interesting today.”

“About Jerry Gagliano? Yeah, she told us too. Did she just happen to tell you or did you grill her? I seem to remember telling you I work alone.”

I ignored his sarcasm. “So why haven’t you arrested him?”

He smiled again. No doubt about it, a real dazzler. “Ms. Harris, we’ve questioned him. We’re checking alibis. You’re just going to have to let us do our job.”

“So he had one?” I asked, happy at the prospect they were seriously considering others besides me and Mr. Poupée.

“I’m afraid I’m not at—”

“Liberty to say. Yeah, you said that.” I sighed, annoyed at not being on the receiving end of the police grapevine.

“Tell me, have you lived in the area a long time?”

I pushed away from the table, taken aback by the sudden change in conversation. “Excuse me?”

Detective Van der Burg took a sip of his coffee. “I asked if you’ve been living in Indian Cove a long time.”

“Yes. I grew up here. My parents still live here. My sister and I started our agency about six years ago, so I guess I’m here for the duration. And you, detective?”

He had a mouthful of the sandwich Helen had placed in front of him a few moments earlier. He picked up a napkin and wiped his chin. “I’m a native of Connecticut but I worked in Boston for the last ten years. I like small town life, and being near the ocean, so when the detective slot opened up, I applied. They usually promote from within but I guess I got lucky. Just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

I watched him eat his sandwich and much to my utter chagrin, found myself wondering about a Mrs. Van der Burg. The man must be psychic because he looked up from his plate and asked if I was married.

“No. I’m not married.”

“Good.”

Then he smiled again.

“Hi. You must be Joanne,” I said a while later to the back of a woman standing at a file cabinet in the office across from my own.

She wore something black and spandex that hugged her sleek curves. She also had on a pair of heels high enough to cause acrophobia. She turned to face me and I was ready to offer a smile. I instead had to stifle a gasp. Joanne was small and curvy in all the right places with shoulder length blonde hair surrounding her face. But the most striking thing was her eyes. They were a rich brown and the left one looked directly at me while the right focused on something across the room. I turned to look before I could stop myself.

“You must be Alex,” she said, not seeming to notice my faux pas.

“That’s right. I guess word gets around,” I said, trying to focus on just the one eye.

“So how’s the investigation going? What have you learned so far?” Joanne eagerly asked throwing me totally off guard.

“Oh, I’m not really investigating, just helping out.” I moved slightly to her left trying to keep in line with the eye.

“Do the police have any thoughts? Do they think it has anything to do with the job we’re bidding on?”

Now I felt perplexed. “You mean the museum job? No, not that anyone mentioned.”

“But the police
are
convinced someone here did it. They came to my apartment yesterday but I couldn’t tell them much.” Joanne placed the last folder in its hanging file and closed the drawer. “So exactly how did it come about that you’re here?” she asked in a challenging tone.

I quickly reassessed my opinion of a moment before and decided Joanne hadn’t been eager but rather blunt. She clearly wanted information.

“I came Tuesday to help with a mailing. I’m the person who found Mrs. Scott’s body, and Mr. Poupée asked me to come back.”

Now, at this juncture some words of empathy toward me would have been warranted. Something along the lines of “Oh my gosh. How horrible for you.” But no.

Joanne slammed the stack of papers down on the desk. “I know you’re a friend, but you mean to tell me William hired someone who works in a
mailroom
to take over the executive assistant duties?”

I just stared at Joanne. The young woman’s eyes blazed. At least the one looking at me blazed. I’m not sure what the other one was doing. I calmly took a seat by her desk. “Let me explain. I’m the owner of a temp agency called Always Prepared. Mrs. Scott called me on Tuesday to provide some assistance. I needed to speak with Mr. Poupée, so I came myself. After the murder, well…” I shrugged. “Mr. Poupée asked if I could help out for a few days.” At the mention of Mr. Poupée I realized I’d never talked with him about the museum job. I shook my head. “Damn.”