the business. That’s just the regular cycle of things. Up and down, up and down.” She gave me a reassuring nod. “So you’re gonna help the police find the killer.”
I stopped with a piece of salami almost to my mouth and gave my psychic grandmother an open-mouth stare. “How did you know—Samantha!” I put the salami on the plate and wiped my hands on a paper napkin. “Meme, you can’t let Mom and Dad know what I’m doing.”
“I won’t say a word, but you gotta help me with something. I need a ride to the bingo hall tonight.”
“Sure. But you always walk. Are you okay?” I asked, as alarm inched its way up my spine. I couldn’t fathom not having my grandmother in my life.
“Fine, fine.” Meme brushed off my worry with a wave of her hand. “But I gotta go to the bingo in Bridgeport. They won’t let me play at Saint Michael’s for a while.”
“Aha.” I rolled my eyes and smiled.
“Okay, so I cheated a little. It’s been two months since I won so I may have glued a winning number or two on my card. But they’ll let me back in a few weeks. I put a lot of money in their basket every Sunday.” Meme shook a gnarled index finger at me and went back into the kitchen for more salami. “Maybe you can take me to do my collections. Theresa sprained her ankle and can’t drive this week. It’s always something.”
I wrapped my hands around the tea mug letting the scent of orange and cinnamon fill my senses. “Ain’t that the truth.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Good morning,” I called into the dark hall clutching my tea. It unnerved me to be at Poupée Mannequins this early but after I dropped Meme off at Theresa’s house where they would happily play pinochle for hours—maybe all day—I went straight to the factory. Down the hall the caroling mannequin display still stood in the lobby. What a creepy business to be in. I waited for a reply as fear began to seep into every pore. Once again the silence frightened me more than of any noise I might hear.
“Hello?” I picked up a paper punch from the desk and walked back to the doorway.
A young man with sandy-colored hair and wire-rimmed glasses came down the darkened hall. “Well, good morning to you. You must be Alex.”
“Yes, I am. How did you know?” I relaxed a bit and lowered the paper punch.
“It’s a small company and there’s just been a murder. A sixth sense starts to kick in. Besides, I played racquetball with Andy Tuesday night. He told me who you are,” the young man said with an impish grin.
“Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee?” I offered, hoping he didn’t want the coffee. I had never had a cup of the stuff in my life and the few times I tried to make it didn’t turn out so well.
“Tea, no. Coffee, yes. Come to my office. We keep our own pot and special roast down there. Can’t stand the weak stuff most of the people around here drink.”
I stepped back into the office and dropped the paper punch on the desk. After all, if he planned to kill me, would he take me to his office? I followed him to an office that turned out to be a large room with several drawing tables in the center. Around the perimeter stood large file cabinets with wide flat drawers for keeping drawings, a large shelf with all kinds of drawing supplies, and a table with a coffee maker—state of the art, of course—and a small refrigerator from which the man took a small bag. He pulled out a coffee grinder from a shelf under the table.
“Boy, you really are serious about what you drink. I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I don’t know your name.”
He smiled and extended his hand. “Sorry. Mitch Monahan, at your service.”
“Nice to meet you, Mitch Monahan.”
He shoveled eight large spoonfuls of freshly ground coffee into the basket of the coffeemaker and adeptly set the thing in motion. I admit I didn’t know coffee, but it seemed that eight spoonfuls might be a bit of overkill.
“I spent a summer in
I stopped with a piece of salami almost to my mouth and gave my psychic grandmother an open-mouth stare. “How did you know—Samantha!” I put the salami on the plate and wiped my hands on a paper napkin. “Meme, you can’t let Mom and Dad know what I’m doing.”
“I won’t say a word, but you gotta help me with something. I need a ride to the bingo hall tonight.”
“Sure. But you always walk. Are you okay?” I asked, as alarm inched its way up my spine. I couldn’t fathom not having my grandmother in my life.
“Fine, fine.” Meme brushed off my worry with a wave of her hand. “But I gotta go to the bingo in Bridgeport. They won’t let me play at Saint Michael’s for a while.”
“Aha.” I rolled my eyes and smiled.
“Okay, so I cheated a little. It’s been two months since I won so I may have glued a winning number or two on my card. But they’ll let me back in a few weeks. I put a lot of money in their basket every Sunday.” Meme shook a gnarled index finger at me and went back into the kitchen for more salami. “Maybe you can take me to do my collections. Theresa sprained her ankle and can’t drive this week. It’s always something.”
I wrapped my hands around the tea mug letting the scent of orange and cinnamon fill my senses. “Ain’t that the truth.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Good morning,” I called into the dark hall clutching my tea. It unnerved me to be at Poupée Mannequins this early but after I dropped Meme off at Theresa’s house where they would happily play pinochle for hours—maybe all day—I went straight to the factory. Down the hall the caroling mannequin display still stood in the lobby. What a creepy business to be in. I waited for a reply as fear began to seep into every pore. Once again the silence frightened me more than of any noise I might hear.
“Hello?” I picked up a paper punch from the desk and walked back to the doorway.
A young man with sandy-colored hair and wire-rimmed glasses came down the darkened hall. “Well, good morning to you. You must be Alex.”
“Yes, I am. How did you know?” I relaxed a bit and lowered the paper punch.
“It’s a small company and there’s just been a murder. A sixth sense starts to kick in. Besides, I played racquetball with Andy Tuesday night. He told me who you are,” the young man said with an impish grin.
“Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee?” I offered, hoping he didn’t want the coffee. I had never had a cup of the stuff in my life and the few times I tried to make it didn’t turn out so well.
“Tea, no. Coffee, yes. Come to my office. We keep our own pot and special roast down there. Can’t stand the weak stuff most of the people around here drink.”
I stepped back into the office and dropped the paper punch on the desk. After all, if he planned to kill me, would he take me to his office? I followed him to an office that turned out to be a large room with several drawing tables in the center. Around the perimeter stood large file cabinets with wide flat drawers for keeping drawings, a large shelf with all kinds of drawing supplies, and a table with a coffee maker—state of the art, of course—and a small refrigerator from which the man took a small bag. He pulled out a coffee grinder from a shelf under the table.
“Boy, you really are serious about what you drink. I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I don’t know your name.”
He smiled and extended his hand. “Sorry. Mitch Monahan, at your service.”
“Nice to meet you, Mitch Monahan.”
He shoveled eight large spoonfuls of freshly ground coffee into the basket of the coffeemaker and adeptly set the thing in motion. I admit I didn’t know coffee, but it seemed that eight spoonfuls might be a bit of overkill.
“I spent a summer in
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