Alex Harris 00 - Armed

employee.”
    “Right. And being an employee, the killer would know Mrs. Scott’s routine. This kind of kills your theory on it being a serial killer.”
    “That’s okay. I really didn’t think that anyway. No one else has been killed.”
    “Yet.”
    “Yet. Sam, I was the last person in the office. Not Mrs. Scott,” I said softly. I sat bolt upright and suddenly felt very cold despite my sweater and the heat that seemed to be in ample supply throughout the office. I had been the last one. Did this mean the killer planned to come after me thinking I’d seen something?
    “I think you’d better talk to that detective,” Sam said, “because if you were the last person in the building and the killer thinks you saw something, you very well may be in danger. And you need to show him the note you found in Mrs. Scott’s house. He can confirm the MS with her doctor.”
    “I know you’re right but Detective Van der Burg’s not happy I’m here. Thinking I may be next in line on the killer’s list will give him an excuse to have me totally out of it. Or worse still, he’ll think I’m making it all up to cover the fact I killed her. That damned shovel.”
    “That might not be a bad idea.”
    Sam had a point but I felt like I had too much invested already to let it go. “I’ll be fine.” I started to tell Samantha about my visit to see Dolly when Joanne walked in.
    “Oh. You’re here,” Joanne said, not bothering to conceal her disappointment.
    “I’ve got to go. I have someone in my office.”
    “Your office? You’ve certainly made yourself at home,” Joanne snapped, one eye boring into me and the other looking toward the sofa.
    “Can I do something for you?” I asked impatiently.
    “No. I wanted to work in here today, but never mind.” Joanne turned and stalked across the hall to her own office.
    “You know, Joanne,” I said as I followed her. “I’m just here helping out. Why are you being so hostile?”
    “Why? Because that job should be mine.” She waved her hand indicating Mrs. Scott’s office. “Damn, I’ve worked hard for that job. I’m good at it.”
    “So was Mrs. Scott. And besides,” I added, “I didn’t know the job was up for grabs.”
    Joanne tossed a file on her desk. “Yeah, well. Now that she’s gone, it’s only natural I should be sitting in there.”
    “Maybe you will. Mrs. Scott hasn’t even been dead a week. I’d think you’d have a little more compassion for the situation and for the memory of a fellow worker.”
    “Yeah, well, excuse me if I’m not sympathetic,” Joanne started.
    “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but your behavior could be construed as wanting Mrs. Scott out so badly you resorted to murder. Personally, I can’t fathom someone killing another human being over a job, but you’re certainly giving me food for thought.”
    Joanne paused, walked around her desk, and sat down. “Look, Mitch and I have big plans. There’s nothing wrong with having ambition. He’s sick of designing dolls, for Christ sake. He’s got a lot of talent and we want to start our own business. But it’s going to take a lot more time to save up enough money to get started.”
    I shook my head in disgust and headed back across the hall. Joanne, still talking, followed. “Do you know how much they paid Elvira?”
    I shook my head.
    “A lot. A hell of a lot more than I get. I’ll tell you one thing, that job better be mine or I’m gone and so is Mitch.”
    I didn’t know what to say. In all my years of interviewing people I had never come across a Joanne before. One thing I did know—if I did have anything to say about it, the office, the job, none of it would go to Joanne, no matter what her qualifications. I walked around the young woman and out the door in search of another meeting with Monica.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

    The order center was empty except for Monica who sat at her desk amid a mound of candy wrappers. Judging by the assortment of wrappers she showed no discrimination in her choice of junk food. A half-eaten bag of potato chips propped up against the side of the computer monitor tempted me. I love potato chips. Sometimes more than M&M’s. Sometimes more than life, so it took all the strength I could muster to keep from reaching across her and grabbing the bag.
    “I wanted to ask a few more questions.”
    “If it’s about the fingerprints, I already spoke with Detective Van der Burg yesterday afternoon,” Monica