time last week, I believe, someone overheard you say to Mrs. Scott ‘you better not’ with a raised tone. Can you tell me what you meant by that?”
Emmanuelle picked up a pen and began taking off the cap and replacing it, over and over. “I don’t remember saying such a thing. Your sources must be incorrect. Perhaps you need a bit more experience at snooping. I suggest you go elsewhere for practice. Now,” she dropped the pen and rose from her chair, “if you don’t mind I have some important things to take care of as I’ve already explained.”
I made no move to leave. “My source isn’t in the habit of exaggerating,” I exaggerated. I had no idea as to the validity of anything Sandy said. For all I knew, Sandy could be some psycho weaving nefarious tales about her colleagues to cover her own part in the murder and had followed me to the boutique last night to make sure I concentrated my meager efforts in Emmanuelle’s direction. I made a mental note to get my facts straight before I started accusing people.
While I mentally berated myself for not being the best fact checker, Emmanuelle’s exquisitely manicured hands gripped the sides of the desk with such strength I thought the molding would break. Despite the expensive manicure, those hands could probably wield a mannequin arm with little effort. Abruptly Emmanuelle let go of the desk, smoothed her skirt and sat back down.
“Oh, yes. I do remember a small incident that may have been misconstrued. I believe it must have been last Monday. I really needed to see William. Of course Elvira said he couldn’t be disturbed. I got a little peeved and we had words. Like I told you, we always seemed to rub each other the wrong way. Most of our conversations, if overheard, would probably sound rather abrupt. But nothing that would lead to murder. Does that answer your question?” she asked, green eyes blazing.
“Can you think of any reason why anyone would want to kill Mrs. Scott?” I added before leaving.
Emmanuelle closed her eyes for a few seconds and when she opened them her manner seemed to soften. “Our personality differences aside, no, I can’t think of a reason why anyone would want to kill her, and in such a horrific way.” Emmanuelle shook her head. “I mean a mannequin arm. It was an arm, right?”
“Yes. One more thing and I’ll let you get back to work. Are you from Indian Cove?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” she asked, but more out of bewilderment than annoyance.
“Nothing. Just curious. I’ve lived here all my life and we’ve never run into each other.”
“I’m from California.”
“I’ve never been. I hear it’s nice. Lots of sunshine. Why’d you leave?”
“I got a job offer right out of college and came here.”
Emmanuelle made no mention of the previous positions she held before coming to Poupée but I had gotten what I wanted; there must be a reason why she had left both positions rather quickly.
I thanked Emmanuelle for her time and left.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mr. Sheridan was back in his office—and back on the phone. With his door ajar, I could hear his conversation. “It’s not out in the factory. The shipping people checked their records and the whole order went out on the same day. In two separate packages, but shipped together. Look, Murray, you don’t have to tell me how important it is you get that shipment. No, I don’t know what to do! Well, that might be possible. I could ask them to check on all the orders that went out that day. Maybe it got sent somewhere else. We’ll find it! Murray, haven’t I always come through before? Okay, okay. I’ll get back to you. Yes, today!”
If this continued, I wouldn’t have any reason to talk with Richard Sheridan. I could just position a chair outside of his office and take notes. I peeked inside and saw that he had put the phone down.
“Excuse me, Mr. Sheridan. May I interrupt you for a few minutes? I’m Alex Harris.”
He didn’t
Emmanuelle picked up a pen and began taking off the cap and replacing it, over and over. “I don’t remember saying such a thing. Your sources must be incorrect. Perhaps you need a bit more experience at snooping. I suggest you go elsewhere for practice. Now,” she dropped the pen and rose from her chair, “if you don’t mind I have some important things to take care of as I’ve already explained.”
I made no move to leave. “My source isn’t in the habit of exaggerating,” I exaggerated. I had no idea as to the validity of anything Sandy said. For all I knew, Sandy could be some psycho weaving nefarious tales about her colleagues to cover her own part in the murder and had followed me to the boutique last night to make sure I concentrated my meager efforts in Emmanuelle’s direction. I made a mental note to get my facts straight before I started accusing people.
While I mentally berated myself for not being the best fact checker, Emmanuelle’s exquisitely manicured hands gripped the sides of the desk with such strength I thought the molding would break. Despite the expensive manicure, those hands could probably wield a mannequin arm with little effort. Abruptly Emmanuelle let go of the desk, smoothed her skirt and sat back down.
“Oh, yes. I do remember a small incident that may have been misconstrued. I believe it must have been last Monday. I really needed to see William. Of course Elvira said he couldn’t be disturbed. I got a little peeved and we had words. Like I told you, we always seemed to rub each other the wrong way. Most of our conversations, if overheard, would probably sound rather abrupt. But nothing that would lead to murder. Does that answer your question?” she asked, green eyes blazing.
“Can you think of any reason why anyone would want to kill Mrs. Scott?” I added before leaving.
Emmanuelle closed her eyes for a few seconds and when she opened them her manner seemed to soften. “Our personality differences aside, no, I can’t think of a reason why anyone would want to kill her, and in such a horrific way.” Emmanuelle shook her head. “I mean a mannequin arm. It was an arm, right?”
“Yes. One more thing and I’ll let you get back to work. Are you from Indian Cove?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” she asked, but more out of bewilderment than annoyance.
“Nothing. Just curious. I’ve lived here all my life and we’ve never run into each other.”
“I’m from California.”
“I’ve never been. I hear it’s nice. Lots of sunshine. Why’d you leave?”
“I got a job offer right out of college and came here.”
Emmanuelle made no mention of the previous positions she held before coming to Poupée but I had gotten what I wanted; there must be a reason why she had left both positions rather quickly.
I thanked Emmanuelle for her time and left.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mr. Sheridan was back in his office—and back on the phone. With his door ajar, I could hear his conversation. “It’s not out in the factory. The shipping people checked their records and the whole order went out on the same day. In two separate packages, but shipped together. Look, Murray, you don’t have to tell me how important it is you get that shipment. No, I don’t know what to do! Well, that might be possible. I could ask them to check on all the orders that went out that day. Maybe it got sent somewhere else. We’ll find it! Murray, haven’t I always come through before? Okay, okay. I’ll get back to you. Yes, today!”
If this continued, I wouldn’t have any reason to talk with Richard Sheridan. I could just position a chair outside of his office and take notes. I peeked inside and saw that he had put the phone down.
“Excuse me, Mr. Sheridan. May I interrupt you for a few minutes? I’m Alex Harris.”
He didn’t
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