Alex Harris 00 - Armed

addresses?”
    “No. Not really. I didn’t pay much attention. Is it important?”
    “No. Probably not. It’s just that Mr. Poupée said he gave Mrs. Scott four packages, and she gave you five. I just wondered about the extra one.”
    “Beats me. Though, you know, all the packages were the same size and weight except one, which was a lot bigger.”
    “Hmm.” I shrugged. “It probably means nothing. Just another gift going out to a supplier or client. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
    “No, but I don’t know what I can tell you. I told the police everything I know. They asked a lot of questions about you, though.”
    I tried to muffle a groan. “They did?”
    “Yeah. I told them I just met you that day but they wanted to know if you ever worked here before, did you and Mrs. Scott get along, what did I think of you?”
    “Don’t worry about it. They have to cover all bases,” I said to reassure him. “After you went to the post office what did you do?” I asked more to verify Mitch’s story than to find out what Andy had been up to.
    “I went to the sports center. I got there late because the post office was packed. Mitch, he’s one of the designers here, and I played racquetball. Afterward I grabbed a burger and went home. I still live with my parents.”
    I nodded. But just to be on the safe side, I needed to get that receipt and verify the time. He may be a polite stud whose looks were better suited to some glossy magazine modeling expertly tailored suits or skimpy beach wear rather than that of someone working in a mailroom, but that didn’t mean I could wipe him off the suspect list so easily.
    “Did you notice anything going on around here? Did you ever hear any arguments Mrs. Scott might have had with anyone?”
    Andy casually ran a hand through his dark hair, with the resulting tousled look more appealing than before.
    “No. Nothing at all. I pretty much stay in the mailroom most of the day. The only time I see anybody is when I take the mail around in the morning or if someone comes in to make copies.”
    “Just one more thing. You know the shovel in the mailroom?”
    “The one behind the door that the police took?” Andy asked.
    I grimaced. “Yeah, that’s the one. Is it there all the time?”
    “Sure, unless someone’s using it. Do you need it? The police brought it back. I can go get it.” Andy started for the door.
    I groaned again. “No. I don’t need it. Just checking.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

    With a light snow falling I changed my plans for a walk and instead drove a few miles down the road to a small shopping complex. The center had a dollar store—Meme’s store of preference—so I picked up several bags of cheap candy and cookies she needed for her Bingo game. My grandmother, generous to a fault, would never dream of showing up without goodies—and there had to be enough for everyone.
    Next I walked to the small drugstore next door wistfully looking at hair color. I picked up a box and read the back. It promised to give limp hair much-needed oomph and would turn drab color into a glorious highlighted head of hair. Perfect. I paid for my stuff and went in search of something to eat.
    Just as I arrived at the restaurant door Monica Ballister pushed it open from the other side banging into my arm. She walked quickly past without a word and took off in her car.
    “She almost knocked you down.” The waitress gestured over her shoulder to the parking lot. “Pretty sure she’s from Poupée. Guess she’s still upset about what happened to that Mrs. Scott. Just awful. ‘Course, until they find the maniac who did it, none of us is safe. A couple girls here refuse to work the evening shift. Why anyone would want to hurt a lovely lady like that is beyond me.” The waitress shook her head and the little hat that went with her uniform tilted to one side.
    I sat at a table in the small restaurant not too far away from the factory—the same restaurant Mr. Poupée waited in for Mrs. Scott, and asked for a cup of tea.
    “She and that young girl who ran out of here must have been pretty close,” the waitress continued as she poured hot water in my cup.
    “Close? Why do you say that?” I asked.
    She gave me a suspicious gaze. “I’ve never seen you in here before.”
    “No, this is my first time. I’m new. Working up at Poupée.” I smiled, hoping it would get more information.
    Helen, according to her nametag, gave me a quick once over and continued with