by Elaine Macko
I didn’t tell him Emmanuelle had the file. Let Joanne find out and track it down. After assuring him I would be in the next day, though not until the afternoon, I went to find Sandy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
By time I left the factory the sky had become overcast again. Traffic was unusually light so I let my mind drift back to my talk with Sandy. I hoped our conversation would shed light on the exact context of the yelling match between Emmanuelle and Mrs. Scott, but Sandy spent most of the time telling me about the running of the order desk. Sandy handled orders for the mannequins while Monica handled orders for spare parts, eyes, wigs, and touch-up kits. Monica also entered new clients and issued client numbers.
An initial order for the Eyes Have It mannequin shipped with one pair of eyes. Subsequent orders for eyes got emailed immediately to the factory in Europe and distributed to the client as soon as Poupée Mannequins received the order.
Fascinating stuff but it didn’t shed any light on the Emmanuelle situation. Sandy only heard the bit she already told me and like everyone else, she knew Mrs. Scott and Emmanuelle didn’t get along but had no idea why, except to say Emmanuelle was stuck up and Elvira could be difficult.
I pulled into one of the parking spaces reserved for Always Prepared and turned off the ignition. I talked with people the entire day and hadn’t found out much. Detective Van der Burg’s words about maybe never solving the case caused my stomach to churn. What if that turned out to be true?
My fingers cold, I realized I was still sitting in my car. I locked the door and went into Always Prepared.
“It’s nice to be back at my own desk with my own things,” I said, plopping into my comfortable chair. “We’re so lucky to work here with just the three of us. You can’t imagine the things that go on out there in the real world.” I leaned back savoring the contour of my chair, well worn in all the right spots.
“Sure I can. You forget that’s why we decided to open up our own business and go hungry for years with no new clothes and cardboard in our shoes to keep out the cold when they got holes.”
My sister was almost three years older and an inch taller. Both of us had inherited our parents’ height. Her eyes were a soft brown and her skin tone just a shade darker than mine. She had been the typical older sister growing up, forever picking on me, scaring me when she could get away with it, and in general being a royal pain in the backside. We had our own set of friends but as we got older we gravitated toward each other more and more.
“Things weren’t that bad at the beginning?” I asked.
“Well, there were times. Hopefully they’re behind us. I’ve grown accustomed to the finer things in life.”
Speaking of bad times behind us. “Any new leads today?” I asked hopefully.
“A small job. They need about five temporary staff for four months.”
“Well, it’s something.”
“So how’s it going over at Murder Central?” my ever-tactless sister asked.
“I talked with some people and Mrs. Scott was more difficult to work with than we had imagined,” I said while sorting through some mail.
“That bad, huh? Anybody a good candidate for the murder?”
I stopped sorting the mail. “Hmmm. I don’t know. I haven’t uncovered anything that would make me kill someone.” I sat back looking thoughtful, fingering a flyer in the stack of mail.
“What’s that look for?” Sam furrowed her brow causing a small winkle to form on her smooth forehead.
“I hate to say it, but I’m beginning to wonder if something went on between Mrs. Scott and Mr. Poupée.”
“Really? Are you sure?”
I shook my head back and forth hating myself for thinking it. “No. I’m not sure. But he certainly protected her a lot, and seemed totally oblivious to some of her dealings with employees. And he did go over to her house and help with things.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. Remember when our neighbor’s husband died? Dad always helped out. Can’t remember her name.”
“Mrs. Drummond.”
“Mrs. Drummond! That’s it. Dad went over a lot.”
“She was in her eighties!”
“Oh. Well, Mrs. Scott had to be close to eighty, right?”
“No! Jeez. What’s wrong with you? She…well, she wasn’t eighty. More like early sixties.”
I grabbed the jar on my desk finding it empty. I pulled a very large bag of mint flavored M&M’s from a desk drawer and refilled the jar, happy the Christmas ones didn’t include the horrible blue ones.
“So what else have you got?” Sam took a handful and walked to the window, cracking it open a bit, letting in a draft that threatened to blow the mail onto the floor.
“The consensus is Mrs. Scott and Emmanuelle didn’t get along. Jerry, the factory foreman, really disliked her. Probably because she wouldn’t go out with him. I can’t come up with a reason why Emmanuelle and Mrs. Scott had problems. Everyone knows they did but no one knows why.”
“At least that’s what they’re saying,” Sam added.
“True. Emmanuelle’s very ambitious and maybe she just rubbed Mrs. Scott the wrong way. I don’t think anyone is fond of her, though I don’t think anyone really knows her well. Winston said, ‘You have enemies? Good. That means you’ve stood up for something, sometime in your life.’ Maybe Emmanuelle tried to change things,” I mused.
“Who else have you talked to?”
“Joanne. Mrs. Scott’s assistant. She’s got one eye that doesn’t look at you. It looks across the room or something. Very unnerving.” I cringed.
“I could use an eye like that. I could glare at both my kids at the same time. Maybe that would calm Henry down,” Sam said, referring to her overly rambunctious younger child.
I snickered and tossed a pen at her. “Don’t you dare try to calm him down. He’s perfect just the way he is.”
I had been a terrible tomboy, never wanting to be inside, always off somewhere on my bike or playing in the woods. Henry was just like me. I loved my nephew with all my heart.
“Yeah, well, you don’t have to chase after him all the time. Just holding him down to brush his teeth is wearing me out.”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” I said getting back to the murder, “Joanne couldn’t stand Mrs. Scott. She ranted on about all the stuff she’s done to make things more efficient and how Mrs. Scott took the credit. She’s also dating Mitch.”
“Who’s Mitch? You’ve gotta help me out here, Alex. I don’t have access to all your sources,” Sam chided.
“Mitch is one of the designers.”
“Killer material?”
I gave her a sideways glance. “Not that I would think. Unless someone tried to confiscate his coffeemaker. He’s really into his coffee,” I added at Sam’s questioning look.
“You know, I hate to speak ill of the dead, but this ill will she and Emmanuelle had might be more attributable to Mrs. Scott’s own attitude. Resisting change, being too overprotective of Mr. Poupée…”
“Maybe, but being overprotective and resisting change doesn’t get one killed.”
“Depends what change you’re resisting,” Sam said.
I perked up. “So you think I should be looking at the company? The only big change I know about is the database installation, and that happened several months ago.”
“Hey, I’m just throwing out ideas. I think you’re on the right track. Keep talking to people and something will pop up. By the way, any more run-ins with the police?”
“Oh, just what you’d expect. ‘Keep your nose out of it. We’re on the job,’” I mocked. “At least they’re still looking and not handcuffing me and hauling me off to prison. That would really ruin Christmas.”
I didn’t feel like telling Sam about my impromptu lunch with Detective Van der Burg. I felt the stirring of something there and had a feeling he did too—or maybe he just tried to catch me off guard so I wouldn’t put up much of a fight when he clamped the cuffs on. I changed the subje
ct. “What’s going on here?”
“We’ve got that meeting tomorrow with Mr. Brandon. I worked out some figures and have a pretty good idea what he’s going to want so I thought I’d get a little ahead of the game. But the most important thing we need to work on…” she took a long pause, “is Millie’s Christmas gift. What are we going to get her?”
“I thought about that and I think I’ve come up with something really nice. You know she’s a member of a ski club. They’re planning a trip to Vermont at the end of January if there’s enough snow.”
“So?”
“So. She doesn’t have any vacation time left. She took her last week back in September when she went on that week-long retreat.”
“Oh, right,” Sam nodded again. “The one where you take your best friend and really get in touch with your inner most thoughts and fears and talk about your differences and how to make the friendship better. Are they back to talking yet?”
“No. They’ve been friends since the sandbox and one week with those psychobabble bullshit people ruined it.”
“What does this have to do with her Christmas gift?”
“I thought we could give her a week off with pay and pay for her hotel room. What do you think?” I held my breath knowing how tight Sam could be—especially now with things so slow.
My sister threw up her hands. “Oh, why the hell not. We’d be lost without her and I think it would be a lovely gift. We could get a really nice card or something and maybe make up a voucher and put it all in a big box and wrap it up. She’ll be ecstatic.”
We were interrupted in the middle of congratulating ourselves by a knock on the door.
“Sorry to interrupt, Alex, but there’s someone here to see you,” Millie whispered as she poked her head in.
I glanced at my watch. “He’s awfully early.”
“No, it’s not the copier guy. It’s someone named Kelly Sheridan and her daughter.” The name sounded familiar. “Oh right. Mom said they might be stopping by. I just didn’t expect it to be so soon.”
“Do you want me to make an appointment for them?”
“No. Go ahead and show them in. I think I’ll have you talk with the daughter. She’s home from college and wants to get something lined up for the summer.” I held up my hand. A few things Richard Sheridan had told me didn’t make sense. Maybe his wife could clear them up if I presented it correctly. “On second thought, Millie, keep the daughter out there. Tell her all about us. Check her skills and ask Mrs. Sheridan to come in.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“What’s that all about?” Sam asked when Millie left.
“I talked with Mr. Sheridan today. I don’t think he told the truth about his whereabouts the night of the murder. Maybe the wife will tell a different tale,” I said with raised eyebrows and a know-it-all smirk.
“Well, go to it, Sherlock. I’ll be leaving in a few minutes to take Kendall to her reading group and Henry to the park to run off some energy. I don’t know where he gets it all. Maybe I should just buy a treadmill and strap him to it a couple times a day.”
My poor sister. Now I knew what my mother went through with me.
Samantha left and Millie showed Mrs. Sheridan in.
“Ms. Harris, thank you for taking the time to see me. This is very kind of you on such short notice. I’m sorry we just barged in but your mother said to stop by any time,” Mrs. Sheridan said breezing into the office.
“It’s no problem. Please, have a seat. Can I offer you anything?”
“No, thank you. I feel just awful dropping by without an appointment but Sara arrived home last night, and when I told her about the agency she just had to come in. After college she wants to take a long trip backpacking through Europe and wants to get started on her savings. You know how young people are.”
Kelly Sheridan looked attractive, though not as stylishly dressed as her husband. She had a luscious mane of naturally curly brown hair and sparkling green eyes.
“I’ve wanted to stop by for some time. I’ve been out of the work force for a while, and with the children grown I’d like to find something. You can only take so much of garden clubs and playing golf.” She gave a short laugh. “Richard, he’s my husband, is so busy at work. He stays longer and longer these days.” Kelly looked out the small window and sighed, “I guess that’s a good thing, though. Business must be good.”
“What line of work are you looking for?”
“I worked as a lab technician for a large hospital.”
“We don’t usually deal in the medical field other than on an administrative level, but I know several people at Yale New Haven I could put you in contact with if that would help?”
“That would be very nice, thank you,” Mrs. Sheridan said enthusiastically giving me a big smile.
I reached for my Rolodex and flipped through the cards, stalling for time while I formulated my next move.
“I met your husband today at Poupée. I’ve been helping out the last few days.”
“What a horrible thing! I knew Mrs. Scott, oh, not well mind you, but from company picnics and Christmas gatherings. She seemed like a lovely woman. We just arrived home on Tuesday morning from a trip to Europe and the next morning, we heard the terrible news.”
I nodded and wrote down a name from one of the cards.
“I always get such terrible jetlag after a long trip,” I fibbed, having never been to Europe in my life and not knowing if trips within the states counted as far as jetlag was concerned.
“I’m the same way. Though coming in this direction isn’t so bad. And having my daughter arrive last night forced me to get with it a lot faster than normal. Now my husband, he’s another story. Nothing fazes him. He actually went into the office on Tuesday afternoon.” Mrs. Sheridan gave another little laugh.
I tried to ask the next question without seeming too anxious. “Did he? I worked over there Tuesday afternoon. I don’t remember seeing him. Do you remember the time?”
Mrs. Sheridan didn’t seem to think the question out of the ordinary.
“Oh, he left the house about four-thirty. I couldn’t take it any longer and needed a nap. I know you should try to stay awake as long as you can and go out for a walk to absorb the sunshine, but I had to lie down. I didn’t wake until he came home about ten-thirty. Of course, then I couldn’t get back to sleep.”
I didn’t think anyone else had been in the office that night. The police didn’t mention it either, but if Richard Sheridan didn’t arrive home until after ten, he had to be somewhere. “Did your husband tell you about the murder then?”
“No. As a matter of fact, he went right to bed. I read about it in the paper the next morning. I never did think to ask him about all the police and everything. He left rather early the next morning.”
I gave Mrs. Sheridan several more contacts at local hospitals and spent a few minutes with Sara. She seemed pleasant and I assured her we would be able to keep her busy during the summer. The agency needed to drum up business, and fast.
My meeting with the copier man a little while later went as expected. I decided to stick with our rather old, but reliable copier rather than a more up-to-date color model that printed so well, the salesman assured me, it could copy money. At the price he quoted me for a yearly lease it had damned well better be able to print the stuff just to pay for itself.
I spent the next thirty minutes sorting through mail and making a few calls all the while wondering, for the hundredth time, where Richard Sheridan had been when Mrs. Scott was killed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
At a little after six, I pulled my car up to the curb outside Meme’s small but well-kept home and let the car idle while the heater ran. I could see my grandmother through the bay window filling up her bingo bag with all her paraphernalia—daubers in various colors, a deck of cards to play before the game started, and God only knew what implements of cheating she might have devised for this round. Meme hated to lose—a trait she had passed on to my mother,
though with Mom, a losing hand elicited nothing more than a pout. In Meme’s case revenge would be plotted out methodically for the next game.
When my grandfather died sixteen years ago, Meme remained in her brownstone in New Haven, but four years ago the family convinced her to move closer to us. Her little house sat on a tree-lined street in a small retirement community with about eighty other homes. In summer the seniors sat on their narrow porches playing cards or watching fireflies, and reminiscing about their youths. Meme vigorously settled in to life in the suburbs. The community offered a number of activities for the resident population, but Meme had a way of finding her own fun. And her own trouble.
I hopped out of the car when my short, round grandmother came out, locking the door.
“Hi, Honey, we gotta go pick up Theresa down the block. I’ll get in the back. Theresa with that bum ankle better sit up front.”
I pulled the passenger seat as forward as it would go allowing her ample form to climb in the back.
“You really need to get a car with a back door, Honey. You can’t expect an old woman to climb in here.”
I’ll make sure my next car is a four-door, Meme.” I smiled as I righted the front seat. “There’s a bag with a bunch of goodies right there. Take that with you.”
“Oh, good. I planned on having you stop at the market but now we don’t have to. I hate being late. That Lena Ditmeyer takes my seat just to bug me.”
Four doors down, I stopped the car again and got out to help Theresa Calendrella hobble down the walk. For a seventy-nine-year old woman, Theresa packed a lot of energy into her small frame but with a sprained ankle she moved considerably slower. Theresa’s crutches tucked into the hatchback compartment, I got behind the wheel again.
“It’s nice to see you, Alex. Your grandmother told me how you’re helping the police solve the murder of that factory lady.”
I looked in the rearview mirror and raised my eyebrows at Meme, not possessing the talent to just raise one like Samantha. “I’m not exactly helping them, trust me. I’m fairly certain they’re plotting as we speak to throw me in jail just to keep me out of their hair.”
