“I’m not saying he wasn’t nice or nothing, but he just seemed too prissy. You don’t want a man who’s prissy. You want a man who’s going to take charge and know what he’s doing if you get my drift.”
I became contemplative as I drove down familiar streets edged with soft light coming from warm homes. A sliver of moon hung in the sky, its white light sparkling off the snow. Meme had it right. Peter was prissy. A good man but truth be told life with Peter would never very exciting—in or out of bed.
“Now you take my James, God rest his soul.” Meme made the sign of the cross. “That man was hot.”
“Meme, you and Grandpa separated twenty years before he died,” I said. Meme had married James Redmond at the tender age of eighteen. I’d seen pictures of the couple and my grandfather, a tall Irish fireman, was hot. I could see why Meme always looked like a dreamy-eyed schoolgirl in all the pictures of the two of them together.
“Yeah, but he still came around most nights and not for my cookin’! He had it right up till the end,” Meme said with a cackle and Theresa and I started laughing too.
“You need to go out with Fred, Meme,” Theresa said. “He’s always talking about you.”
“He’s almost ninety years old!” Meme piped up, whacking Theresa on the back of her head with the tiny veil hat.
“Yeah, but he can still drive at night. He’s a real catch. Not too many of the guys in our neighborhood can make that claim.”
Meme seemed to consider this seriously before speaking. “True. But he takes that stuff. I don’t want no man that expects me to be going for four hours. I can’t do that anymore. Now, if he promised to take just half of one of those pills, I might discuss it.”
“Well, if you don’t put out for him, Esther will. She’s got the hots for him. Did you know she used to be a cocktail waitress way back? She knows her stuff.”
I smiled broadly at their banter and pulled into the parking lot of Saint Cashmir’s church and drove around to the back door.
“What time do you want me to pick you up?”
“Don’t worry about it, honey. Moira Mulroony said she’d give us a ride home. She’s got one of those new SUV cars. Bought it when her husband died. Found fifty-eight thousand dollars in a bunch of coffee cans in the cellar,” Meme said, as she heaved herself out from the tiny back seat.
“Well, you have your cell phone so call me if you need a ride.”
“Right here.” Meme pulled out the latest model capable of taking and transmitting pictures and snapped one of me. “One-thousand anytime minutes and I got you on speed dial. You’re my number one.” She sounded like Catherine Zeta-Jones.
I bent and kissed my grandmother on the cheek. “You’re number one with me too.” I stood up and pointed a stern finger at Meme. “No cheating. You’re almost out of churches and then where will you go?”
“The casinos. I can take one of those buses. Drops you off right in front.”
I rolled my eyes. “Jesus.”
Meme helped Theresa up the walk and called over her shoulder. “I need you to take me on my rounds on Sunday night. I don’t want to let a week go by without collecting and Theresa can’t drive for a few more weeks.” Meme took a few more steps and then turned to face me. “Shershay la fam, like the French say.”
“Huh?”
“That guy you told us about. If he told his wife he went to the office, then maybe he did and he killed that lady. But if he didn’t, where was he? Look for the woman.” Meme turned and walked away.
I got back in my car and dialed Information on my cell while a parade of white-haired women, in various shapes and sizes, filed into the bingo hall. I jotted down a number on a scrap of paper and started the car.
Twenty-five minutes later I pulled up across from the home of Richard Sheridan and sat there for the next couple of hours.
My fingers gripped the hand strap above my seat as the scenery flew past—different shades of brown and gray with an occasional chunk of white thrown in—an abstract painting of a snow-covered landscape. I wondered if Jackson Pollack had gotten inspiration this way. I shut my eyes and wished I had stayed in bed with my mannequin nightmare instead of heading down the turnpike with Sam driving.
I looked at my sister, half expecting to see a frightened Sam, or worse still, a maniacal Sam laughing hysterically as she took bends in the road at the speed of sound. But no. Sam projected serenity all the while driving like a lunatic.
“Hey! Slow down a bit. I’d like to arrive at our destination alive, if it’s all right with you.”
Sam looked at me. “I’m not driving fast. Am I?” She glanced at the speedometer and then back at me. “Oh, sorry.”
The minivan slowed to something just a tad lower than Mach One. I let go of the strap and adjusted my coat, which had hiked up my body.
“I’m a stalker,” I said. “I’m a stalker. Now the police have something concrete they can use to put me away.”
“Who are you stalking?” Sam took her eyes off the road and the car crept into the next lane.
“Richard Sheridan. And watch what you’re doing. I sat out in front of his house last night.”
“Why?”
“Because he doesn’t have an alibi and his wife said he went to the factory around the time Mrs. Scott got killed.”
“And?”
I frowned at my sister. “I don’t even know if he was home last night, for pity’s sake. What the hell was I thinking sitting out in front of his house like a common criminal?”
Sam turned on her signal and moved over a lane to exit the turnpike. “That there’re a lot of scary women in jail to keep you company?”
“I should have stayed in bed that morning. I wanted to, you know. The breakup with Peter made me depressed, and with the business slow, I thought why not. But no.” I shook my head vigorously. “No, I had to go and stumble onto a body. And I do mean stumble,” I rambled on, my voice raising an octave. “I actually stepped on her.”
At Sam’s opened-mouth gasp, I said, “Oh, yes. Well, not actually on
her
, more like her pant leg, but still. I’ve never seen a murdered person before, you know? So now I have. I guess I can cross that off my list of things to do in my lifetime.” I stopped for a moment and took a deep breath. “Do I sound hysterical? Because I think I’m losing it.”
“Could you lose it a bit later? We’re here.”
“I hope we get this,” I said, my voice still tinged with hysteria. I took a few deep breaths. “Okay. I’m fine. We’re going to get this account and then I’ll have so much work to keep me busy I won’t have time to solve a murder. I’ll just let the police handle it.”
Sam pulled the car into the driveway of a small complex of office suites housed in three two-story buildings, each constructed of red brick. “Sounds like a plan. I feel good about this. We’ve done our homework. We’re ready.” My sister sounded like a cheerleader.
We walked up the sidewalk and entered the main building and were directed to the second floor.
We were meeting with Mr. Brandon, one of the partners of Levy & Avery, which had just opened a new office in the Stamford area, supplementing their headquarters in Hartford. The fathers of two of the current partners had started the firm about thirty-seven years ago. They had made their mark within the specialized field of Health Care advertising, and though they kept their hand in this area, it now accounted for only a percentage of their business. Mr. Brandon wanted to staff the new office with as much temporary staff as possible, at least in the early stages. Sam and I had worked on our proposal yesterday afternoon; well, Sam did most of the work. We were confident our agency could supply Levy & Avery with administrative staff and the more specialized copywriters and editors they needed.
If Always Prepared could land this account and if Poupée Mannequins got the museum contract and used our agency for their temps, I felt sure the tide would turn and things would pick up again. I took a deep breath and smiled at my sister.
“It’s show time.”
An hour and a half later, still pumped up from our positive meeting with Mr. Brandon, Sam dropped me off at my car. I headed toward the factory feeling better than I had in the last few days. I suddenly changed my mind along with my course, and made a U turn managing to shave off half a mound of snow with my right fender in the process.
When I had cleaned out Mrs. Scott’s desk, I found her address. Now, for whatever reason, I headed my little black car in the direction of the neighborhood where Mrs. Scott had lived.
I quickly located the street tucked among an area of small, well-tended homes with yards dotted with fir trees laden with icicles sparkling in the pale winter light. Next to autumn, I liked winter the best. It was just so darned pretty if you discounted the slushy brown snow accumulated along roadsides. I scanned houses as I slowly drove down a block where people still had weathervanes on their roofs. I made a mental note to get one. I liked bears and wondered if I could find a weathervane with a bear on it. Having forgotten the exact street number, I was relieved to see a woman out retrieving her mail.
“Excuse me. Could you tell me where the Scott house is?”
The woman, dressed in a pair of sweat pants and a thick cardigan over a turtleneck sweater, slowly closed the mailbox and eyed me speculatively. “This is it. Right here. But if you’ve come to visit Elvira, I’m sorry to tell you you’re a bit late.”
I parked my car next to a mound of snow and walked over to where the woman stood. “Yes, I know about Mrs. Scott’s death. I work at the mannequin factory. I’m Alex Harris.” I extended my hand; the woman took it tentatively and then gave it a hardy shake.
“I’m Mrs. Haddock. Frances Haddock,” she said with a hint of an accent; Irish or Scottish, I surmised. “Just out collecting the dear soul’s mail. No one else to do it. Don’t know what to do with it all, but, well…” Her words trailed as she glanced behind her at the small house. The walkway to the front door had been cleared of snow. I wondered if this woman before me, who had to be close to Meme’s age, had done it herself.
“Don’t suppose you know if there’s anyone I should be sending all of this to?” Mrs. Haddock looked down at the mail she had just retrieved from the box.
“Do you mind?” I took the assortment. “It looks like junk mail except for this gas bill. I don’t know who’s handling things, but I’m sure Mr. Poupée, the owner of the factory, could help. Would you mind if I passed it along to him?”
Mrs. Haddock smiled. “I’d be very grateful. I’ve got a few more things back at my house if you’ve got a minute.”
“Certainly.” I followed the tiny woman to the house next door.
After we left our damp shoes at the front door, Mrs. Haddock ushered me into a small, but cozy living room. “Don’t imagine you’d like a cup of tea?” she asked, looking hopeful.
“As a matter of fact, I’d love one.” I smiled, and the woman took off toward the kitchen.
She returned a few minutes later carrying two china teacups. She handed one to me and then picked up a stack of mail from the coffee table. “Here’s the rest of the mail. I threw out all the flyers.”
I took the stack and noticed a few bills and not much else. No suspicious letter with a return address of the killer saying, ‘I’m going to kill you.’
After taking a sip of the tea, I looked up. “Did you know Mrs. Scott well, Mrs. Haddock?”
“Oh, my yes. We’ve lived next door to each other for a long time. I came here first, mind you, but then Elvira and her husband moved in. Can I get you anything else, some biscuits perhaps?”
“Biscuits?” I asked, wondering if she could throw in a few pieces of crisp bacon.
“Cookies.”
“Oh, no. Thank you, Mrs. Haddock. I’m fine. This tea is delicious. You were saying you and Mrs. Scott were good friends.”
“Yes. After Irwin died, Elvira came by in the evenings. Sometimes we took our dinner together. Of course, we did things before Irwin died, my own husband passed away many years ago. But once Irwin died, Elvira and I spent a lot of time together. Such a lovely woman.” Mrs. Haddock gave me a warm smile, but her soft blue eyes were misty.
I took a sip of the heavenly brew and wondered if tea tasted better when served in fine china. I would have to purchase a set.
“Mrs. Haddock,” I began, “I’m sure you know the circumstances of Mrs. Scott’s death.”
“I certainly do. I’ve been keeping my doors locked ever since.” Mrs. Haddock drew her cardigan closer to her body and gave a quick shiver. “Who would have done such a thing? Do the police know anything at all?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Actually, I hoped you might be able to shed some light on what happened.”
“Me? I’m sorry, Ms. Harris, I don’t understand.”
“Please, call me Alex. I think the police are of the opinion this wasn’t an act of random violence. If that’s the case, then someone wanted Mrs. Scott dead.”
Mrs. Haddock gasped. “But who? Who would want Elvira dead?” She shook her head. “No, that just can’t be. The police asked a lot of questions, but I never thought about why. Someone wanted to kill her?”
“That very well may be the case. Could you tell me a bit about her? Maybe there’s something in her past that would give us a clue.” Seeing Mrs. Haddock hesitate, I gave her an abbreviated version of what had transpired.
“Well, I guess it’s okay to talk with you. As long as Mr. Poupée asked. Elvira respected him and talked fondly of him on several occasions.”
Of course my ears perked up with the words
fondly
and
on several occasions
.
“Did he come over often?”
“Often? No. Just when Elvira needed help with something.”
“But they were close?” I prodded.
“Close professionally. He helped her after Irwin died. And he kept her on at Poupée. She was almost sixty-five, she was. She knew he could hire someone with a lot more of those computer skills everyone needs, but Mr. Poupée wouldn’t hear of it. It’s a good thing because she loved her job.”
“Did she have a lot of friends?”
“No. Not really. She and Irwin kept pretty much to themselves. They had a few friends they played cards with once in a while, but not much else.”