Armed

by Elaine Macko

  “Hello?”

  “Hello.”

  “Detec… John. What are you doing here?”

  “I thought I’d check and see how you are. You must be happy this whole thing is almost over.”

  I smiled. “Thank you. That’s very nice. Does this mean you’ve questioned Emmanuelle already?”

  “No, not yet.”

  He stood there looking like a little boy. A little boy with a sexy five o’clock shadow.

  “You look like you want to say something,” I encouraged.

  “Maybe it’s just all in my head, but I think we might feel something toward each other. At least I know I’m attracted to you.”

  I nodded. “I’m attracted to you, too.” I’ve got us pretty much married and kitchen curtains picked out, I thought thinking back to my conversation with Sam.

  “Well, I see you’re ready to go. I’ll walk you out.”

  “John, do you like salad?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Three years ago I took one of the biggest steps of my life by putting down my life’s saving on a little two-bedroom, one good-sized bath house. It came with an updated kitchen, a small dining room, and a living room with a fireplace. It had a pleasant yard where I barbecued in the summer and a one-car garage that protected my Honda from the cold New England winter. I loved my house; sometimes I thought it might be the place where I would live for the rest of my life. But sitting on my living room floor eating a salad, baked goat cheese, and crusty bread with John Van der Burg, I suddenly had my doubts. I didn’t think it would be big enough for two people. We would have to find a bigger place.

  Winston would probably have something appropriate to say at my sudden impulsiveness but I couldn’t think of anything at the moment. And besides, I had no plans to ask the man to marry me on the spot or even in the next year, or maybe ever. I thought I might be the living together type, but not the marrying type. All at once, I felt like this was what I had been waiting for my whole life without even knowing it. Of course, I couldn’t tell John any of this. He would find out all in good time. Right now I needed to concentrate on getting to know my future mate.

  “Both Sam and I hired ourselves out on more than one occasion in order to meet the needs of a client, then things got better and lately it’s been very slow again, but with this new contract, things should pick up. So that’s how it all started and we haven’t looked back since.”

  “They say the economy is on an upswing. I’m sure you and your sister will do very well again.”

  “Yes, we’re lucky.”

  “I don’t think luck has a lot to do with it. I don’t know you well, but you’re definitely tenacious,” he said good-naturedly, “and you do seem to be good with people. You managed to find out a few things that I didn’t.”

  “I think most people are intimidated by the police. Maybe there’s a bit of stubbornness about it as well. You know, like they’re going to have to drag it out of me,” I said.

  “By the way, just as I arrived at your office, I thought I saw Joanne Reid walking to her car.”

  “Yes. She wants me to recommend her for Mrs. Scott’s position.”

  “Are you going to?”

  “Probably not. I don’t know why. I just don’t trust her and I think it’s very insensitive of her to be so gung-ho about it so shortly after Mrs. Scott’s death. I’m sure her skills are good, just not the personality. Though thinking of Joanne reminds me of something. You know the museum project?”

  “The one with the moving mannequins,” John asked with a smile.

  I blushed. “Yes, that’s the one. Mr. Poupée thinks someone stole the bid.”

  “Yeah, he talked to me about that.”

  “Do you think the murder and the theft are related?’

  “Could be. We checked into it a bit, but the original plans are still with the company, and of course we’ve already established there haven’t been any break-ins.”

  “That seems too easy. Maybe Mrs. Scott found out someone tipped off the competition and that’s what got her killed. And if Emmanuelle involved herself in a sales scam, wouldn’t she be a prime candidate for selling ideas to the competition as well? That would generate a lot more money than selling eyes.”

  “The timing seems off. Why wouldn’t Mrs. Scott tell Mr. Poupée right away in an attempt to put a stop to someone else using the design? Why all the secrecy?”

  It impressed me John had come to the same conclusion. I paused as I chewed a bite of bread. “I don’t really understand the selling of extra eyes. The printout showed the sales so it’s not like Emmanuelle sold them to the client on her own. They’ve been recorded as sales.”

  “Good point. I hate to say it, but again, we could be grasping at straws. Maybe the client bought a lot of the eyes because he got a good price. Or his end users asked for them. We just don’t know yet. But the fact Mrs. Scott sent a box of eyes to Mr. Absher indicates something is wrong.” John adjusted his position on the floor by the fire. “The mayor’s not happy. His office got a lot of calls, citizens wanting to know when the killer would be caught. An election’s coming up, so he wants this solved—and when the mayor is unhappy, the rest of us are unhappy.”

  “Believe it or not, I do have faith in the police department and I know this will all be over soon.

  “I hope you’re right.” He looked around my living room. “This is really nice.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Does your fish have a name?”

  “Mergitroid,” I picked up the vase containing the tiny creature. “He keeps me company. I just carry him to wherever I am.”

  John tapped on the glass. “His color goes nicely with your chairs.”

  “I think it’s very important to color coordinate your pets with your furniture,” I said, as I returned Mergi to his current place on one of the end tables.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t name him Winston.”

  “Maybe the next one. I didn’t really start reading about Winston until after I got Mergi.”

  John stretched his long legs out. “So how exactly did you come to be quoting Winston Churchill?”

  “Well…” I ran my fingers through my hair. “I grew up listening to Big Band music with my parents. And my grandmother loves old movies and I watched them with her all the time. One of our favorites is Mrs. Miniver, a war movie. I love the forties. I love the clothes, the simpler way of life. I’ve always wanted to go to Europe. I have a feeling it probably doesn’t look much different than it did then. One of these days I’ll get there. Anyway, I found some travel books; one thing led to another and I picked up a book on World War II. Then I found one about Winston and Franklin Roosevelt and just started reading.

  “Believe it or not, I grew up listening to the same music. My parents love to dance and they always played music from the forties. I agree it seemed like a nicer time.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “In a house my grandmother left me. It’s old and needs a lot of work but no one else wanted to take it on. My brother and sister are both married and didn’t want it. Me, I like something with a bit of character. It’s a lot of work, though.”

  “I can imagine. Can I get you a drink?”

  “A brandy would be nice if you have it.”

  “I do.”

  “You won’t join me?”

  “No. I’m not much for alcohol, though I do like a good piña colada or margarita. But mostly it just gives me a headache so I avoid it.” I handed John his glass.

  “Well, cheers.” He clinked his glass against my cup of tea.

  “John, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. That first night you walked us out and asked to look in our trunks. Why? You already had the murder weapon.”

  “Yeah, but someone wiped it clean of prints. Which means whoever killed Mrs. Scott wore gloves or something. If it had been either of you, you wouldn’t have had much time to dispose of them. Besides we searched that place thoroughly. I thought the best
bet would have been to stash it in your car.”

  “Hmm. You found nothing and yet you still suspected me?”

  “Not right away, but when Officer Corliss found the shovel, I had to follow that lead.”

  “You didn’t mention Mr. Poupée. Do you still suspect him?”

  John paused. He leaned up against the sofa with his legs stretched out. He ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. “I’ll be honest here. I didn’t put him high on my list at first.”

  “But now?”

  “Mrs. Scott, who worked for him for twenty years, I might add, didn’t trust him—for whatever reason we’ll never know—enough to take the box of eyes with her to her meeting with him. She mailed them away because she wanted to see his reaction to her theories first, whatever they were. Personally, I don’t understand why she did that. Mailed them to Mr. Absher, I mean. They’re just a box of colored eyes. Why not leave them in her desk or at home.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, still fearing Mr. Poupée might be involved. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  We sat in silence looking into the fire until John’s beeper buzzed. “Sorry.” John pulled out a cell phone and pressed a button. “You’re not going to believe this,” he said a few minutes later.

  “What?”

  “The lab. I left the letter and box with them to confirm the prints came from Mrs. Scott.”

  “And?”

  “The eyes are full of diamonds.”

  ******

  “Diamonds! Are you absolutely sure?” demanded Mr. Poupée a half hour later.

  “Yes, positive.”

  I found myself at the police station for the second time in a week. I didn’t even know Indian Cove had a crime lab. This made me feel proud of our little hamlet.

  The men talked and I watched the intent way John took in Mr. Poupée’s reaction. On the way to the station John told me smuggling diamonds usually involved more than one person and Emmanuelle would have needed help.

  Mr. Poupée lowered himself onto a wooden bench. “I can’t believe it. Emmanuelle a diamond smuggler?”

  “I thought of something else earlier,” I said. “If she’s capable of this, then maybe she’s the one who turned your proposal over to the competition.”

  Mr. Poupée shrugged. “Could be.”

  “Another thing I find puzzling. Why didn’t Mrs. Scott insure the package? I don’t know what diamonds are worth, but it’s got to be a small fortune.”

  “The only thing I can think of is she didn’t want to bring attention to the box.” Mr. Poupée slumped on the bench, the wariness contorting his face.

  I turned to John. “Are you going to have the police in Florida pick her up right away?”

  “No. She’s coming back tomorrow. I’ll have a few plain-clothes guys meet her at the airport. How did you get her to come back so soon?”

  “I told her we have a major problem with one of her new clients. She wanted to call the client so she could try to do a bit of damage control over the phone. But I told her it better to work from here where we had access to all the orders, etc.”

  Something still bothered me but I couldn’t bring it into focus.

  “She’s not suspicious?” John asked and I wondered if maybe he should have her picked up in Florida.

  “No, she’s coming back. This new client she’s trying to land in Florida would really open up the South American market for us, but Richard, or maybe even I, will have to go down. I think it’s a bit big for her anyway.” Mr. Poupée stood and looked at John. “I just can’t believe all this is happening. Not just the diamonds, but that Emmanuelle killed Elvira because she found out. And how did she find out? Why did she ask for the printout, why for that time period, why pin it on Emmanuelle in the first place? All these questions and no answers!” Mr. Poupée fumed. “It’s just too much. If you don’t mind, Detective, I’d like to go home.”

  “I think that’s a good idea. We could all use some sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a big day.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  The next night I backed my car out of my garage at six-thirty. Stars filled the night sky where only hours before it had been brilliantly lit by the sun. The air was as crisp as an apple plucked off a tree. I should know. I’ve plucked my share of apples off of other people’s trees, surprisingly only getting caught once.

  I headed for the turnpike anxious to meet my best friend, Mary-Beth Ramsey. Twenty minutes later I snagged a prime parking space just vacated by a woman with a minivan packed to capacity with packages and children.

  I stood in front of the Herbal Garden Restaurant and looked out over the flow of last-minute Christmas shoppers.

  “See anything interesting?”

  I turned and hugged Mary-Beth. Almost five months had passed since we last saw each other. We had a lot of catching up to do. A young hostess arrived at our table with a basket of freshly baked bread and a cup of soft butter laced with honey. I grabbed a slice still warm from the oven and heaped a large dollop of the softened butter on top.

  “You look like hell. What’s going on?” Mary-Beth never minced words.

  “A lot’s been happening. I’ll fill you in over dinner.”

  A cheery waitress recited the evening’s specials and we decided on the Cheddar Chicken. Then I told Mary-Beth all.

  She reached across the table and patted my hand. “Well, no wonder you look so bad. Diamond smuggling and murder in Indian Cove. Wow.”

  Our steaming entrees arrived: grilled chicken with a mustard sauce atop a bed of buttered noodles covered with bubbling cheddar cheese. How it managed to be on a health food menu I hadn’t a clue.

  “In all this, I did manage to make a few new friends.”

  Mary-Beth took a bite of her chicken. “Besides the detective, and I want up-to-the-minute bulletins on your progress with him, who else have you met?”

  “Mrs. Haddock.”

  “The woman who saw someone in front of Mrs. Scott’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alex, you look funny. What’s wrong?” Mary-Beth asked.

  I put my fork down and wiped my chin. “I never thought about it until now, but Mrs. Haddock saw the person in front of the house a long time ago.”

  “So?”

  “If what Mr. Absher said is correct, and if Sandy only heard Mrs. Scott and Emmanuelle arguing a few days before Mrs. Scott’s death, then why would Emmanuelle have been out in front of Mrs. Scott’s house over six months ago?”

  “Maybe the old woman got it wrong. Maybe she meant six weeks, not months,” Mary-Beth offered.

  “Even six weeks doesn’t fit.”

  “How about this, Mrs. Scott didn’t suspect Emmanuelle until recently, but Emmanuelle suspected that Mrs. Scott suspected her much sooner?”

  I replayed that confusing sentence in my head and pondered this new scenario for a moment. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Mary-Beth pointed her fork at me. “Why would she single Mrs. Scott out and stalk her?”

  “Hey, Mary-Beth! It was your idea.”

  Mary-Beth put the fork down and leaned on the table. “I’m just playing devil’s advocate.”

  “I don’t think it was Emmanuelle out in front of Mrs. Scott’s.”

  “Then who?” Mary-Beth asked.

  “I don’t know. But you know what? I’m tired of talking about murder. I want gossip! Tell me who you’ve seen and what they’re up to.”

  Mary-Beth Ramsey’s family had moved into my neighborhood when we were ten and we instantly hit it off. For nine years, our telephone rang every night with the words I loved to hear—Guess what I heard?

  Shorter and rounder than me, she wore her dark hair in an updated Dorothy Hamill look. She still had a handful of freckles sprinkled around her nose and perfectly round doe eyes with thick lashes. The gold balls at her ears where the same earrings she had been wearing forever.

  “Well? Give! What do you know?” I leaned forward on the table, all ears.

  Mary-Beth wiped a
bit of sauce from the side of her mouth and smiled, clearly delighting in drawing out the suspense. “It just so happens I did hear something recently.”

  My eyes sparkled, eager for something other than the goings-on at the factory.

  “Remember that dorky girl, Cathy Lyon?” I shook my head. “Sure you do. The one we always teased.” Mary-Beth rolled her eyes.

  “Oh, yeah. Whatever happened to her? I figured she’d probably become a nun.”

  “Well, think again.” Mary-Beth leaned across the table. “She got married. And you’ll never guess to who, or is it whom—I never can get that right.” Mary-Beth didn’t wait for me to render an answer on her grammatical dilemma. “Mike McGill.”

  “Mike McGill, Mike McGill? You mean the hunk? The best athlete in the whole class? That Mike McGill?”

  “None other.”

  “Wait a minute. I thought he married that Jane girl two years behind us.”

  “He did. Had a great big wedding out at the country club in Westport. Then they went to Hawaii and she stepped on a sand shark and had to have about thirty stitches in her foot. Stuck in the room and being sweet she insisted Mike go out and enjoy himself. You know, surf, soak up the sun, sightsee. She should have been a little more specific in what she meant by enjoying himself because he sure did.”

  “With Cathy Lyon?”

  “No! She comes later.”

  “Sorry.”

  “With the young girl that handed out towels at the pool. But she started getting a little pushy, wanting a commitment and all, and him being a married man, a newly married man, it just wasn’t possible. So he started hanging out down on the beach and met a local girl who arranged glass bottom boat excursions.

  “Seems they went out on a little tour of their own. Right out in the coral reef, with the boat’s floodlights on. Doing it right there in the bottom of the boat with all those glass panels so the fish could see. Unfortunately, some night divers saw too. Their first dive and, well,” Mary-Beth held up both hands in front of her, “let’s just say they saw a little more than the brochure advertised. When Mike and his little sea nymph brought in the boat, the owner fired her on the spot.”