Alex Harris 00 - Armed

long as you can and go out for a walk to absorb the sunshine, but I had to lie down. I didn’t wake until he came home about ten-thirty. Of course, then I couldn’t get back to sleep.”
    I didn’t think anyone else had been in the office that night. The police didn’t mention it either, but if Richard Sheridan didn’t arrive home until after ten, he had to be somewhere. “Did your husband tell you about the murder then?”
    “No. As a matter of fact, he went right to bed. I read about it in the paper the next morning. I never did think to ask him about all the police and everything. He left rather early the next morning.”
    I gave Mrs. Sheridan several more contacts at local hospitals and spent a few minutes with Sara. She seemed pleasant and I assured her we would be able to keep her busy during the summer. The agency needed to drum up business, and fast.
    My meeting with the copier man a little while later went as expected. I decided to stick with our rather old, but reliable copier rather than a more up-to-date color model that printed so well, the salesman assured me, it could copy money. At the price he quoted me for a yearly lease it had damned well better be able to print the stuff just to pay for itself.
    I spent the next thirty minutes sorting through mail and making a few calls all the while wondering, for the hundredth time, where Richard Sheridan had been when Mrs. Scott was killed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

    At a little after six, I pulled my car up to the curb outside Meme’s small but well-kept home and let the car idle while the heater ran. I could see my grandmother through the bay window filling up her bingo bag with all her paraphernalia—daubers in various colors, a deck of cards to play before the game started, and God only knew what implements of cheating she might have devised for this round. Meme hated to lose—a trait she had passed on to my mother, though with Mom, a losing hand elicited nothing more than a pout. In Meme’s case revenge would be plotted out methodically for the next game.
    When my grandfather died sixteen years ago, Meme remained in her brownstone in New Haven, but four years ago the family convinced her to move closer to us. Her little house sat on a tree-lined street in a small retirement community with about eighty other homes. In summer the seniors sat on their narrow porches playing cards or watching fireflies, and reminiscing about their youths. Meme vigorously settled in to life in the suburbs. The community offered a number of activities for the resident population, but Meme had a way of finding her own fun. And her own trouble.
    I hopped out of the car when my short, round grandmother came out, locking the door.
    “Hi, Honey, we gotta go pick up Theresa down the block. I’ll get in the back. Theresa with that bum ankle better sit up front.”
    I pulled the passenger seat as forward as it would go allowing her ample form to climb in the back.
    “You really need to get a car with a back door, Honey. You can’t expect an old woman to climb in here.”
    I’ll make sure my next car is a four-door, Meme.” I smiled as I righted the front seat. “There’s a bag with a bunch of goodies right there. Take that with you.”
    “Oh, good. I planned on having you stop at the market but now we don’t have to. I hate being late. That Lena Ditmeyer takes my seat just to bug me.”
    Four doors down, I stopped the car again and got out to help Theresa Calendrella hobble down the walk. For a seventy-nine-year old woman, Theresa packed a lot of energy into her small frame but with a sprained ankle she moved considerably slower. Theresa’s crutches tucked into the hatchback compartment, I got behind the wheel again.
    “It’s nice to see you, Alex. Your grandmother told me how you’re helping the police solve the murder of that factory lady.”
    I looked in the rearview mirror and raised my eyebrows at Meme, not possessing the talent to just raise one like Samantha. “I’m not exactly helping them, trust me. I’m fairly certain they’re plotting as we speak to throw me in jail just to keep me out of their hair.”
    I pushed a CD into the player and Glen Miller’s In The Mood filled the car. Meme and I shared a love of Big Band music so I kept a supply of CDs in my car. I turned the volume down a bit so I could hear what Theresa said.
    “So you haven’t found the killer yet?” Theresa asked, as she turned to give her leg a bit more room.
    “No, but I had an