Alex Harris 00 - Armed

“Her head hit the wood pile. I scrambled on top of her and whacked her head with a piece of wood.”
    I took a sip of my tea and used the moment it took to set the cup on the table, to gather myself. “For one brief second her eyes bore into mine. For that one moment I felt bad. But at the same time I knew she’d kill me if she got up… I got ready to hit her again…but then her head fell back onto the ground and her eyes closed.” I looked at John. His eyes held sympathy and concern. “Did I kill her?”
    “No. She’s in the hospital. She’ll be okay,” John said.
    “How did you know I went to Monica’s?” I asked of no one.
    “Henry,” Sam said. “He wouldn’t tell us until I convinced him it was the one-hundred and fifty percent right thing to do.”
    I looked out the window again. Henry stopped his assault on his sister for a split second. He looked up at the window and smiled at me, our eyes locking. He had saved my life.
    “Alex,” Mr. Poupée said, bringing me back to the conversation, “I will never forgive myself for getting you involved. This is all my fault. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”
    “Done. It’s not your fault. I walked into the lion’s den on my own. I knew better. I just didn’t think she would try to kill me, too. Stupid, I guess.”
    “Well, I hope you two have learned your lesson.” This time Dolly Poupée gave out the admonishments, first to me and then to her husband. “Especially you, William.”
    “What I don’t understand is what in God’s name made you go to her house?” Samantha asked not for the first time.
    “The geography book. When I saw Redding, California, a few things clicked into place. Remember in Mr. Poupée’s office when Mr. Absher told us about his suspicions of Emmanuelle?” I asked John.
    “Yeah.”
    “Well, it all started at the annual sales meeting, a month ago. Monica told me she gave Mrs. Scott the printout six weeks before that. Mr. Absher hinted at the fact that Mrs. Scott seemed to suspect Emmanuelle of something even before he enlightened her with his own suspicions.”
    “So you’re saying Monica set up Emmanuelle?” Mom asked.
    “Yes. Or anyone actually, as long as it cast suspicion elsewhere. Another thing, Mrs. Scott bookmarked a college in Redding. She obviously saw the similarity to Irwin and found a picture of Monica on the Internet at some school she had attended. Monica planned to kill Mrs. Scott. Totally premeditated. And then there was the shorthand note. Once I figured out the Redding connection, could it be MS fell into place.”
    Mom shook her head. “Could it be Monica Scott? How awful. I read in the paper she used her grandmother’s maiden name of Ballister.”
    “She legally changed it a few years ago. She had this planned for a long time,” John said.
    That sent a chill up my spine to think someone plotted to kill another for so long.
    “I spent all of last night in the hospital interrogating her and she really is crazy.” John’s eyes locked with mine. I noticed small lines around his eyes, but something else, a real tenderness I hadn’t been sure about.
    “She told me she planned on killing Mrs. Scott on Christmas but Mrs. Scott figured it out and then Monica overheard Mrs. Scott and Mr. Poupée planning to meet that night. That same day another bit of information fell into her lap by chance. Monica overheard Ruth phoning Emmanuelle. She knew, as most everyone did, that Emmanuelle worked at home at lot, and probably wouldn’t have a good alibi for the time of the killing.”
    “One other thing, Monica is the person who broke into Mrs. Scott’s house. She wanted a picture of her father,” John added.
    “Well, the murderer is caught, but what about the diamond smugglers?” Sam asked.
    “Richard, Jerry, and Mr. Schwartz, right?” I looked toward John for conformation.
    “Yes, that’s right.”
    I squirmed in my chair, feeling uncomfortable on a whole lot of levels. I could’ve died yesterday. I could’ve died.
    “Are you all right? Let’s go into the living room. It’s more comfortable,” Mom suggested.
    We grabbed our drinks and sandwiches and went into the other room. Sam carried the platter with the turkey so she could pick off the rest of the meat.
    “What about Emmanuelle—what happens to her?” Sam wanted to know.
    “I haven’t made any decisions yet,” Mr. Poupée started, “but I don’t see any reason to fire her. She had nothing to do with