“Good. That’s a relief then. So who died?”
“Three women, actually. A woman was murdered over by the San Pedro last week. Two additional victims were found in New Mexico the next day.”
With her hand trembling, Irma picked up a piece of the puzzle and put it unerringly in the proper spot, sighing with satisfaction as it slipped neatly into place.
“That lets me out then,” she said as she resumed studying the other loose pieces.
“I’ve been shut up in here for years, so I can’t possibly be a suspect.”
“No,” Joanna agreed, “you’re not a suspect, but we thought 279
you might be able to help us find the killer. Your grandson thought the same thing.”
“Which one?” she asked.
“Bob.”
“You mean Bob Junior,” Irma said, nodding. “That boy’s always giving me far more credit than I’m due.” With that, Irma put down her magnifying glass and stared at Joanna. “Now tell me, how could I be of help?” she asked.
“All three women were murdered with the same weapon,” Joanna answered. “They were shot with ammunition that dated from 1917. We have reason to believe that the ammunition, and maybe even the weapon, may have come from a cache of weapons that was once stored in the safe in the General Office.”
“Oh, those,” Irma breathed. “The ones from the Deportation. I remember telling Mr.
Frayn, my boss, at the time they opened that safe-I remember saying, ‘We need to get rid of those things, Mr. Frayn. Burn them if need be. They were bad news when they were used in 1917, and they’re bad news now.’ But Mr. Frayn-Otto Frayn, his name was-wouldn’t hear of it. ‘We’ll just hand them out to whoever wants them,’ he said, and that’s what he did. Passed them along to the people who worked there.”
“Which is why I’m here talking to you, Mrs. Mahilich,” Joanna said. “We need to know who all was working there with you at the time.”
“You should contact the company for that,” Irma said, picking the magnifying glass back up and resuming her careful examination of the puzzle, pieces.
“We already tried that,” Joanna explained. “At the moment they’re unable to locate any official records that date from as long ago as 1975, but your grandson suggested we talk to you. He said you’d probably remember who “worked there. Maybe 280
you can’t remember all of them, but if you could put us in touch with one or two, perhaps those people can lead us to others.”
“I don’t suppose this can wait until after I finish the puzzle, can it?” Irma asked.
“No,” Joanna said, glancing at the empty expanse of open puzzle. “I’m afraid we need what information you can offer a little sooner than that.”
“Oh, all right,” Irma said impatiently. “You might want to go over to the desk and get me some pieces of paper and a pencil. Meet me at that table over there.” She pointed to a table in the still empty TV alcove. “That way we won’t disturb any of the puzzle pieces.”
While Joanna hustled off to the receptionist’s desk, Irma produced a folded walker from under her chair. She was just tottering up to the second table when Joanna returned.
Joanna reached to help Irma onto a chair, but Irma pushed her hand away.
“Leave me alone and turn off that TV set,” she snapped. “With all that noise, I can barely hear myself think.”
Chastened, Joanna located the remote and turned off the television. Then she took a seat at the table and pushed paper and pencil in front of Irma. When she was seated, Irma once again stowed her walker, picked up the pencil and began to draw, frowning and biting her lower lip in total concentration. Joanna watched while Irma drew a series of shaky rectangles on the first sheet of paper. Then she began to label each of them.
“This is the way the desks were arranged when you first came into the building,”
she explained. “It’s easier for me to remember where people were located than it is for me to remember their names. Nona Cooper sat here, for instance,” Irma said, pointing at one of the first rectangles she had drawn. “And the door was right next to her, so you had to come in past
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her desk. She always had a picture of her little boy on her desk. I believe his name was Randolph, but she called him Randy, and he was cute as a button. He died, though.
Got drafted into the army right out of high school and died in Vietnam in 1967. Poor Nona. She never got over it. She died in ‘76, just a year or so after she got laid off. Committed suicide. Can’t say I blame her.”
Joanna had her notebook out by then. Sorry she hadn’t brought spare tapes and grateful to be proficient in shorthand, she made swift notes of everything Irma said.
“Would Nona Cooper have been given one of the weapons from the safe?” Joanna asked.
Irma shook her head. “Certainly not,” she huffed. “Randy was killed by sniper fire.
Nona wouldn’t have had a gun in her house on a bet.”
Joanna and Irma worked that way for the better part of an hour, with Irma drawing and labeling individual desks in the various rooms, all the while delivering thumbnail sketches of each desk’s respective occupant. Irma had
