Alex Harris 00 - Armed

her chattering. “Well, they stopped in here a couple times after work and had coffee over at that table.” She gestured to the booth across from me. “Always seemed to have so much to talk about. Come to think of it, seemed to be on the serious side so maybe they weren’t friends.”
    I looked up at Helen and smiled. “Yes, that’s probably it.”
    I considered the menu and settled on a goat cheese and spinach concoction in a croissant. Helen placed the order and returned to my table still holding the kettle of hot water.
    “I’ll bring your sandwich in a minute.”
    “By the way, were you working two nights ago?”
    “The night Mrs. Scott got killed? Yeah. We close at seven. We don’t get a lot of evening traffic out here but a lot of the employees stop by for takeout. We’re more of a breakfast and lunch kind of a place.”
    “Do you know Mr. Poupée?”
    Helen gave me a warm smile. “Sure. He’s been coming here for years. He’s a generous tipper. We all try to get him when he comes in.”
    “Did he come in that night?”
    Helen rested the kettle on the edge of the table and thought a moment. “Yeah.”
    “Do you remember what time?”
    She cut her tired blue eyes toward me. “What kind of work are you doing up there?”
    “Oh, I’m a family friend of Mr. Poupée. I’m helping out during this terrible time.”
    “I think he must have come in about six. Maybe a few minutes after. I usually refill all the salt and peppershakers about that time. It surprised me when he came in.”
    I thought for a moment. Mrs. Scott was most probably dead by then. Mr. Poupée could have killed her and gotten to the restaurant at six. Thinking of him as a killer didn’t sit well, but then thinking of those metal toilets with no paper seat covers didn’t do much for me either.
    “How was he?”
    Helen eyed me suspiciously. “What kind of question is that?”
    I ignored her. “Did he seem anxious? Upset?” Splatters of blood on his jacket? Of course, I didn’t ask about the blood. But I wondered who did Mr. Poupée’s dry cleaning and if they would tell me if they worked on any stubborn bloodstains in the last day.
    “These sure are odd questions. Are you working for the police?”
    I reached for my teacup and took a sip while trying to regroup. “No, no.” I waved my hand and gave a nervous giggle. “Like I said, Mr. Poupée asked me to help out.”
    Helen pursed her lips tightly. “Hmmm. He seemed okay. A little impatient. He ordered coffee but then left without drinking it.”
    Another customer came in and Helen walked away leaving me to ponder all she said. Helen confirmed what Mr. Poupée said, but that still didn’t mean he couldn’t have first stopped off at the factory and killed Mrs. Scott. But why? I still had no clear reason why he would—unless he wanted to cover up an affair that had gotten out of hand. And what about Monica? Maybe Helen got it wrong. So many people from Poupée probably came into the restaurant at lunch or after work, maybe she couldn’t keep them straight.
    My sandwich arrived and to my delight, it looked delicious. It came with a small salad and I ate every bite. I sat there for a while holding my cup and looked around. A Christmas tree stood by the door with brightly wrapped packages underneath and a large stone fireplace in the back warmed the place considerably.
    I had a small fireplace in my home. I lit it as often as possible with wood my father and I cut from the large lot behind my parent’s house—or rather wood he cut while I watched. Today, the soaring flames provided a peaceful backdrop while I mentally went over a few things. Why would Monica lie? She told me she really didn’t know Mrs. Scott and yet they met on several occasions over coffee. That really didn’t mean anything. The two women could have been at the restaurant at the same time by sheer coincidence, or maybe they worked on a project together.
    The brass bell above the front door jarred me out of my thoughts. Detective Van der Burg walked in and I quickly turned my face away and slithered down in my seat.
    Suddenly he stood right in front of me. “I thought I’d get something to go but I saw you sitting here. Mind if I join you?”
    He sat before I had a chance to protest. We sat in an uncomfortable silence; he staring at me while I fidgeted with my purse, feeling my face turn crimson.
    “Actually, I need to get going.”
    I started to get up but he reached up and touched my hand