Alex Harris 00 - Armed

maniacal laugh, and brought the hard plastic down on my head.
    I awoke with a start, sweat bathing my face, my breathing labored. Then I heard a sound. I sat bolt upright and strained to hear it again. Nothing. For the next several minutes, nothing—only my own heart. At times like this I wished I had a little dog whose bark could alert me to intruders. Or maybe a big dog whose teeth could tear the intruder to shreds. But the only other living thing in my home, besides an assortment of house plants, was a tiny Beta fish with even tinier teeth.
    I waited long enough to conclude I had heard nothing nefarious and swung my feet out from under the covers. I might as well get up.
    I love this part of the day—early morning. Too bad I had to get up so early to enjoy it.
    I pulled on a pair of red socks and a blue terry cloth robe, and padded cautiously into the kitchen, my eyes darting back and forth taking in all the shadows. I pulled opened the refrigerator door knowing what I would find before I even looked. Nothing. At least nothing I felt like eating at the moment. Yogurt, string cheese, and a bag of lettuce would not do it this morning. I stood there for a moment gazing at a jar of pickles and then slammed the door with a sigh. I usually had a well-stocked fridge but my mind had been occupied lately with my agency. I leaned against the counter looking out to my small but manageable yard.
    All was dark beyond the window. Black. Like the factory last night. I reached for the kettle, filled it with water, and absentmindedly placed it on the gas burner. Why had Mrs. Scott gone out there? Did she hear something? She had been about to leave. The police found her purse on her desk with her coat draped over it and Mr. Poupée had said the foreman always locked the factory. But still she had gone out there. “Why, Mergi?” My little fish happily swam in his bowl oblivious to anything more sinister than not getting fed. I took three miniscule fish food pellets from a tiny packet and dropped them into the bowl.
    Mergitroid swam to the top of the bowl, opened his mouth and took in the tiny grains. “Well, I’m glad you’re getting something to eat,” I told him as I stole a wistful glance at the fish food and wondered what it tasted like.
    Forty-five minutes later I stood in front of my bathroom mirror clad in a black lacy bra and black French hi-cut briefs. I’m five-foot seven, thin, but not skinny, and most of the time I’m content with what I see in the mirror. I have an addiction to M&M’s but manage to keep pounds off by riding my bike and doing a lot of walking. I pulled on a pair of slacks and groaned. The briefs peeked out over the top of the pants. I have a hard time keeping up with the rapid changes in fashion and staying well stocked with all the accoutrements necessary to achieve the latest look. I hadn’t given any thought to underwear when I bought the sits-below-natural-waist pants and didn’t feel like changing. I pulled a light sweater over my head, put the final touches on my hair, and headed out in search of something to eat.
    After a muffin and another cup of tea at a local coffee shop, I now sat behind my desk watching my sister pull off a boot.
    “I called a few times last night,” Sam said, as she yanked off the other boot. “That must have been some mailing. I tried calling until about ten o’clock. You weren’t alone with them , were you?” Sam raised an eyebrow.
    She knew, of course, about my phobia with dolls. I hate them. They’re scary. Especially at night when you wake up and one is just sitting there looking at you ready to pounce the minute you fall back to sleep. Sam had taken full advantage of this as a child, placing one on the chair by my bed in the hopes I would wake up and have a coronary.
    “Something terrible happened.”
    Sam slipped her feet into a pair of black pumps and grinned at me. “What—do they come alive after six?”
    “Someone killed Mrs. Scott last night,” I blurted.
    My sister, Samantha Daniels still bent over fiddling with her shoes, sat up. “Good Lord! In a car accident?”
    I reached for a tissue and shook my head. “At the factory. Murdered.”
    “Murdered?”
    “Someone bashed the back of her head in with a mannequin arm.”
    Sam gave a small laugh. “Is this some kind of sick mannequin factory joke?”
    I sniffled and silenced her with a hand. “It’s true. Horrifically true.”
    “Were you there when it happened?” Sam asked, panic