by Elaine Macko
She nodded. “About two, maybe three nights before Elvira was killed. But the first time must have been a good six months ago. Of course, whoever was out there could have been there every night. Maybe I just didn’t see them.”
“True. Did Mrs. Scott go to bed late as well?”
“Yes, sometimes. She enjoyed watching the news and some nights she would be over here. We’d do our needlework together and talk.”
“Did she ever mention anything bothering her at work?” I asked hopefully.
Mrs. Haddock thought a moment, then shook her head of white hair slowly. “No. She never mentioned anything. But the last week or so, she seemed, well, like she had a lot on her mind. I thought that odd because she loved her job so I wondered what could be troubling her. I thought with the holiday, and being alone, she probably just missed Irwin so I didn’t intrude. But now I wish I had pried a bit. Maybe then I would know something that could be of some use.”
I smiled. “You’ve been a great help already. Knowing someone might have been stalking Mrs. Scott will certainly give the police a place to start.” I gave a silent moan and wondered if there was a Mrs. Haddock living over by Richard Sheridan that had seen my pitiful attempt at a stakeout last night and was this very minute giving the police a precise description of my car. Getting back to Mrs. Haddock, I asked, “Do you know if the police searched Mrs. Scott’s house?”
“Yes, they did. I have a key, you see. I let them in.”
“Did they take anything?”
“I don’t think so. Why would they? The murder happened someplace else.”
“True. But if you saw someone, maybe they were…” I paused, searching for the right word. “Casing the joint. Did Mrs. Scott have any valuables that would entice someone to break in?”
Mrs. Haddock shook her head. “No. Not really. But I still have the key. Would you like to take a look?”
Would I like to take a look? Heck yeah. I didn’t think entering the house would break any laws. “Okay. I don’t know what I expect to find, but one never knows.”
After putting our shoes back on, we went next door. The front door opened onto a small foyer with a coat closet. I stepped inside and walked through to the living room.
The house was old but neat and clean, both inside and out. The furnishings in the living room were simple. Against the far wall a dark brown sofa with throw pillows in muted tones of blue had been placed. A comfortable recliner faced a small TV nestled in a built-in nook brimming with books and knickknacks. A large blue porcelain bowl at one end of the sofa contained the accoutrements of needlework. The same color scheme ran over into the dining room.
“There are two bedrooms upstairs and that’s about it,” Mrs. Haddock said.
I followed Mrs. Haddock up the steps and went into a room. As with the rest of the house, it was nicely done in soft colors. The bed was made and I thought with a tug at my heart that Mrs. Scott probably never left the house without first making the bed; a trait I also held along with washing all the dishes and making sure I put on mascara. I made a mental note to look into the waterproof stuff from now on. On the dresser stood several pictures of Irwin. Again, I looked at his face, and was drawn to the warmth of his eyes and his happy smile.
“That’s Irwin. I can’t believe they’re both gone.” Mrs. Haddock’s voice caught and she turned and left the room.
I followed her down the steps. We went into the kitchen where a clean bowl and spoon along with a small juice glass rested on a towel. Mrs. Haddock stood in the doorway while I turned slowly, my eyes taking everything in and noticing nothing of importance. I took a step to leave when I spotted a pad and pencil sitting on a placemat on the kitchen table.
“Elvira always made lists,” Mrs. Haddock said.
I gave her a nod. The first few lines had items to be picked up at the grocery store. Further down Mrs. Scott had written cleaners and mall. There were some doodles in the blank space to the right of the page and further down near the bottom of the paper. I started to turn and then stopped. I picked up the pad and took a closer look at the doodle at the bottom. But it wasn’t a doodle. It was something written in a dying language but one that I still practiced. Shorthand. Mrs. Scott had written something in shorthand. I stared at it properly impressed with how clear she wrote. It said could it be MS.
“Mrs. Haddock, did the police see this?”
“They came into the kitchen and took a look around at everything. Why? Did you find something?”
“I’m not sure. Do you mind if I take this? I want to show it to the police.”
“Certainly. Anything you think might help, feel free to take.”
I tucked the pad into my purse. We walked out onto the front porch. Mrs. Haddock locked the door.
“I wonder what will happen to this house. I have so many lovely memories tied up in this place.” Mrs. Haddock looked up at me, her eyes filled with loneliness. She turned and I followed her back to her house. I thanked her for her hospitality and gave her one of my business cards.
“If any more mail arrives, please call me and I’d be happy to pick it up and take it to Mr. Poupée.” As I walked back to my car inspiration struck and turned back, a grin spreading across my face. “Mrs. Haddock,” I called out, “do you like bingo?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A few minutes later, immensely pleased with myself, I pulled away from the curb. Meme and Mrs. Haddock would make quite a pair—two short, elderly women, one very thin and the other very round—but as my grandmother always says, “There’s always room for a new friend.”
With my good deed done for the day, and a pretty fair chance at getting the Levy contract, I felt lucky and decided to pay one more visit before heading out to the factory. Fifteen minutes later I pulled my car into the driveway of the Poupée residence.
“Alex. What a pleasure to see you, dear.” Dolly Poupée ushered me into the house and took my coat.
With a name like Dolly, I always expected the woman to be short and round like Meme, but Dolly Poupée was the exact opposite—tall and thin, almost fragile looking. Mr. Poupée might be the head of a company, but Dolly ruled at home.
“I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about Mrs. Scott,” I began, as I followed Dolly into the kitchen. “Mr. Poupée told me you’re making funeral arrangements. Is there anything I can help with?”
Dolly eyed me from where she stood by the kitchen sink filling a kettle with water, her long gray hair wrapped into a bun at the nape of her neck. I began to squirm. “Alex, I’ve known you since you were this high.” Dolly put her hand even with the kitchen counter. “And you’re here to snoop.” She smiled and placed the kettle on the stove. “William told me you’re helping out and that the police suspect him.”
I blushed. “I’m sorry. But I meant it when I offered to help with the funeral arrangements.”
“It’s okay.” Dolly hiked herself up onto a stool and patted my hand. “I’m sorry you had to be the one to find her. What an awful ordeal for you.” Dolly brushed at an invisible speck of dirt on the counter. “William doesn’t talk much when he gets home. I wish the man would just retire,” she said longingly. “So what’s going on? Do the police really consider him a suspect?”
William Poupée lived in Indian Cove all of his sixty-eight years and showed no signs of slowing his hectic pace. Retirement was a four-letter word, he had said often enough, and had no plans to succumb to a lifestyle where one did nothing all day and didn’t even start that until noon.
He had started working at the factory right after college and when the owner decided to sell the business and move to the south of France, William Poupée had bought it. He always thought a man with a name that meant doll in French couldn’t do any better than owning a mannequin factory.
I let out a deep sigh. “I don’t exactly have access to the police grapevine, but I think they’re looking at him, yes.” At Dolly’s worried look I quickly added, “But they’re looking at everyone. I hate to have to ask you t
his,” I said softly.
“But you want to know if anything ever happened between them.”
I took a gulp and nodded.
Dolly walked to the stove and turned off the kettle. “When he first hired her, he sometimes talked about her and how well she did. They shared some interests like art and gardening. I hadn’t worked in years and I felt a bit out of it.” Dolly took two mugs from a cupboard and added a teabag in one and instant coffee to the other.
“Elvira loved Irwin and after I met her, I felt better. She meshed well with William but it was work. When Irwin died, William went over and at first, I’m ashamed to admit it, I hated it. But then I invited her to dinner and out to some event or another and neither of them ever acted like they were hiding things. There were no secret looks across the room and believe me, I watched,” Dolly said wistfully. “And in the four or so years since Irwin died, I’ve never given it a second thought. Until now.”
Dolly poured milk into her coffee. “Are you seriously thinking something went on after all this time?”
“No. And I can’t imagine what the police are thinking. I mean, even if something went on, why would it lead to murder?”
“Maybe one of them wanted to call it off and the other didn’t. Are you sure there’s nothing there?” I added, hating myself for doing it.
“I’m certain. I asked him. I had to know. He looked at me like I was crazy. Said something about how could I think such a thing after all these years. He’s overwrought with grief. But it’s for a friend and a colleague, not a lover.”
I patted Mrs. Poupée’s hand. “Well, that’s good enough for me.”
Dolly Poupée’s eyes watered. “But is it good enough for the police?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Sitting at Mrs. Scott’s desk I tried to sort out the information I had gathered so far. I opened my purse and took out the pad I had pilfered from her home and studied it again. Sure enough, it said could it be MS. I reached into the purse again this time taking out a small bag of M&M’s and tore it open popping a few in my mouth. I picked up the phone and called my office.
“What’s up? Sam asked the minute she heard my voice.
I told her about my morning outings.
“Mrs. Haddock said she saw someone outside on several occasions. But so what?” I said with a shrug. “It could have been anyone. Someone walking a pet. Or a jogger stopping to catch his breath. But would a jogger stop at the same place every night?” I picked up a bunch of candies and popped three more into my mouth.
“Probably not. But I don’t jog. Actually, I don’t walk a whole heck of a lot either, so I’m probably not the best person to ask about exercise habits,” Sam said on the other end.
I told her about the shorthand.
“Are you sure it says that, Alex? It’s impossible to read someone else’s shorthand.”
“Not hers. It’s very precise.”
“You think Mrs. Scott had MS?”
“I don’t know. What else could it mean? And she capitalized the MS,” I said referring to the shorthand marks under the letters denoting capitalization.
“So what does this have to do with the murder?”
“Nothing. That’s the problem. All this time I’ve been thinking Mrs. Scott knew something that got her killed. But she didn’t. She was sick. That’s what upset her.” I opened my hand to get the last few M&M’s I had been holding. Like hell they melt in your mouth not in your hand. I reached for a tissue and wiped chocolate from my palm.
“Jeez. This is terrible. That poor woman. She probably just found out the diagnosis and that’s why she wanted to talk with Mr. Poupée.”
“That’s what I’m thinking,” I said.
“So what does this do for the murder theory?”
“Well, I’d say it means a serial killer murdered Mrs. Scott.”
“You don’t really believe that do you?”
“No. And wait a minute. It says could it be MS. It doesn’t say I have MS.”
“But just having that hanging over your head would make you upset.”
“I guess so.”
“Did you find anything else in the house?”
“No. Nothing someone would want badly enough to kill for.”
“Let’s forget about the MS thing for now,” Sam said. “We need to find some way of confirming that with her doctor before we go any further. So getting back to what Mrs. Haddock said about someone watching, if they stalked her at home, how come they killed her at the office?”
“Good point. I wondered about that myself.” I pulled a small notebook from my purse and wrote opportunity.
I needed a system for keeping all my information together. I needed a plan. Winston had had a plan. A great plan. His plan saved the world. I only needed a plan to save Mr. Poupée so I figured using a notebook to sort everything out just might work. “The only thing I can come up with is opportunity.”
“What do you mean?”
“Killing her at the factory couldn’t be opportunistic for a stranger on such cold night, in a place pretty much out in the middle of nowhere, and at a time early enough in the evening that other employees could have still been at work. But it was certainly opportunistic for an employee.”
“Right. And being an employee, the killer would know Mrs. Scott’s routine. This kind of kills your theory on it being a serial killer.”
“That’s okay. I really didn’t think that anyway. No one else has been killed.”
“Yet.”
“Yet. Sam, I was the last person in the office. Not Mrs. Scott,” I said softly. I sat bolt upright and suddenly felt very cold despite my sweater and the heat that seemed to be in ample supply throughout the office. I had been the last one. Did this mean the killer planned to come after me thinking I’d seen something?
“I think you’d better talk to that detective,” Sam said, “because if you were the last person in the building and the killer thinks you saw something, you very well may be in danger. And you need to show him the note you found in Mrs. Scott’s house. He can confirm the MS with her doctor.”
“I know you’re right but Detective Van der Burg’s not happy I’m here. Thinking I may be next in line on the killer’s list will give him an excuse to have me totally out of it. Or worse still, he’ll think I’m making it all up to cover the fact I killed her. That damned shovel.”
“That might not be a bad idea.”
Sam had a point but I felt like I had too much invested already to let it go. “I’ll be fine.” I started to tell Samantha about my visit to see Dolly when Joanne walked in.
“Oh. You’re here,” Joanne said, not bothering to conceal her disappointment.
“I’ve got to go. I have someone in my office.”
“Your office? You’ve certainly made yourself at home,” Joanne snapped, one eye boring into me and the other looking toward the sofa.
“Can I do something for you?” I asked impatiently.
“No. I wanted to work in here today, but never mind.” Joanne turned and stalked across the hall to her own office.
“You know, Joanne,” I said as I followed her. “I’m just here helping out. Why are you being so hostile?”
“Why? Because that job should be mine.” She waved her hand indicating Mrs. Scott’s office. “Damn, I’ve worked hard for that job. I’m good at it.”
“So was Mrs. Scott. And besides,” I added, “I didn’t know the job was up for grabs.”
Joanne tossed a file on her desk. “Yeah, well. Now that she’s gone, it’s only natural I should be sitting in there.”
“Maybe you will. Mrs. Scott hasn’t even been dead a week. I’d think you’d have a little more compassion for the situation and for the memory of a fellow worker.”
“Yeah, well, excuse me if I’m not sympathetic,” Joanne started.
“I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but your behavior could be construed as wanting Mrs. Scott out so badly you resorted to murder. Personally, I can’t fathom someo
ne killing another human being over a job, but you’re certainly giving me food for thought.”
Joanne paused, walked around her desk, and sat down. “Look, Mitch and I have big plans. There’s nothing wrong with having ambition. He’s sick of designing dolls, for Christ sake. He’s got a lot of talent and we want to start our own business. But it’s going to take a lot more time to save up enough money to get started.”
I shook my head in disgust and headed back across the hall. Joanne, still talking, followed. “Do you know how much they paid Elvira?”
I shook my head.
“A lot. A hell of a lot more than I get. I’ll tell you one thing, that job better be mine or I’m gone and so is Mitch.”
I didn’t know what to say. In all my years of interviewing people I had never come across a Joanne before. One thing I did know—if I did have anything to say about it, the office, the job, none of it would go to Joanne, no matter what her qualifications. I walked around the young woman and out the door in search of another meeting with Monica.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The order center was empty except for Monica who sat at her desk amid a mound of candy wrappers. Judging by the assortment of wrappers she showed no discrimination in her choice of junk food. A half-eaten bag of potato chips propped up against the side of the computer monitor tempted me. I love potato chips. Sometimes more than M&M’s. Sometimes more than life, so it took all the strength I could muster to keep from reaching across her and grabbing the bag.
“I wanted to ask a few more questions.”
“If it’s about the fingerprints, I already spoke with Detective Van der Burg yesterday afternoon,” Monica volunteered.
“Fingerprints?” I froze as a chill began to spread over my body. “Your fingerprints were found on the murder weapon?” I pushed the chair a few feet back from Monica while I quickly looked around to see if she had another mannequin arm hidden somewhere.
