Alex Harris 00 - Armed

ear.
    “What in god’s name.... Alex? What are you doing out here? And why are you screaming? I had my hearing aid turned up high. You scared me half to death.”
    “Oh, Mr. Poupée. Thank God,” I said, finding my voice after straining it screaming into the face of the poor man. “We’ve got to get help…Mrs. Scott is...dead. Murdered.”
    “Mrs. Scott is what? Red? Alex, what are you talking about?” Mr. Poupée took a step into the factory. “Oh, my! Elvira...”
    I gently pushed him toward the door. “There’s nothing you can do. I’m going to use the phone in here,” I shouted, leading William Poupée back into his office. “You need to turn your hearing aid back on.” I tried not to sigh too loudly, but he probably wouldn’t hear me anyway.
    I dialed 911 trying to keep my voice calm as I explained the situation and then turned to Mr. Poupée. “Will you be alright? I’m going to the ladies room but I’ll be right back. The police are on their way.”
    He looked dazed, but I figured he would be all right for a few minutes.
    I stood before the mirror in the ladies room and pressed the palm of my hand against my head in an attempt to get rid of a headache. I got a large red spot in the middle of my forehead instead. I clutched the sink, hung my head over the porcelain, and turned on the cold water splashing my face before I remembered my mascara wasn’t waterproof.
    “That was a mannequin arm lying next to the body?” I asked the ashen face with black-rimmed eyes looking back at me. Who would do such a thing? I splashed my face again and reached for the soft soap container only to find it empty. I pulled a tube of ChapStick out of my pocket and dabbed a bit around my eyes, which smudged them worse than before and stuck the lashes together in spiky clumps.
    “Jesus.”
    I slunk down against the wall until I sat on the floor; a floor with God knows what living on it. I pulled my knees up and buried my head as my thoughts turned to Mr. Poupée. He couldn’t possibly be involved. As a child I played in his backyard, and other than beating my mother in a mean game of Pinochle, I felt certain the man wasn’t violent.
    Or was he? In the far recesses of my mind I suddenly remembered how he wielded the pruning shears at the hedge along the back of his property leaving the lilac bushes nothing but bare stubs. Stub. Bloody mannequin arm. My mind raced and I worried I might go into shock. I shook my head vigorously trying to shake the thoughts away with little result. Could I be alone in the building with a murderer? I jumped up and turned around looking for something to use as a barricade but felt sure even seventy-something Mr. Poupée could knock over the small trashcan—the only thing available to place against the door.
    I grabbed the edge of the sink and leaned toward my frightening image. “Enough! If you’re going through hell, keep going ,” I said, and instantly stood a little taller. What with morale boosters like that no wonder the allies won the war, I thought, suddenly full of vigor. I wet a paper towel and gently wiped the black under my eyes managing to smear some across my right cheek.
    Then I heard the welcome sound of sirens coming up the long drive. I ran my fingers quickly through my short brown hair, grimaced at the state of my face, and went to let the police in.

CHAPTER THREE

    An ambulance and several squad cars pulled up.
    “Mrs. Scott—I mean the body—is through that door.” I pointed toward the end of the hall as two men in uniform hurried past.
    Stepping out of an unmarked vehicle, a tall man in a jacket suited more for a ski trip then a homicide site made his way up the path and entered the lobby. He stomped the snow off his casual shoes and then looked down at me. “I’m Detective Van der Burg.”
    His expression made my face feel flush. “It’s not waterproof. The mascara,” I said to his blank look. “I tried to wash it but there’s no soap.”
    “Are you the person who phoned it in?”
    “Yes.”
    The detective reached into the back pocket of his jeans and took out a small notebook. “Your name?”
    I pulled my coat tighter around me as the cold from the hard, tiled floor seeped through my wet shoes and crept up my back. I was really a mess.
    “Alex Harris.”
    The detective touched my elbow, startling me, and ushered me aside as an army of people began entering the building. People with camera equipment and large cases moved down the hall to the