Murder at Fire Bay

by Ron Hess

  “But this time it bothers you, doesn’t it?”

  I looked up at him. “Yeah, it does.”

  Father set his cup down. “He likes you, doesn’t he?”

  “Yeah, I guess he does, in a way.” Actually, I hadn’t thought much about it, but put to it, I guess the Boss did like me, kind of like a farmer likes his horse. A horse that never asks why, but just keeps pulling on the plow.

  “You ever stop to consider he wants to groom you to take over his job someday?”

  I put my cup down, nearly spilling its contents. “Lord, no!”

  Jeanette started coughing.

  Father Markoff looked down into his cup, as if studying how he was going to say his next words.

  “Leo, are you happy here?”

  “Of course I’m happy here,” I answered.

  He looked at Jeanette, as if wondering if she was strong enough to handle his next question. “Do you think he ought to take the job offer, Jeanette?”

  “I don’t want him to, but he must,” she said, her eyes misting up.

  He nodded and looked over to me. “It is to be a test,” he said. “God has given you a rest, and now he wants to see what paths or forks in the road you will take. To see if you can advance to your next level.”

  I cast an anxious glance at Jeanette. I was not happy about the direction of this little talk. “What do you mean, ‘advance to my next level?’ What level?”

  Father Markoff shook his head. “I don’t know. That’s for God to know and you to discover.”

  I sat back, stunned—and a little angry. I was happy here. And Jeanette, my soul mate, saying I should take the job? I took another big gulp of coffee, as did Jeanette, for she too had seen her share of life. A husband who had died from drinking too much of anything he could find, and her daughter, a teenaged woman-child killed from an overdose of some unnamed drug. I sensed she was surprised by her answer, like the words had been put in her mouth and she had been forced to say them.

  “I guess it’s settled then,” I said.

  Chapter 2

  I pulled my new Jeep Liberty into the parking lot overlooking Fire Bay and turned off the engine. I leaned back and took in the view. Hell, it was more than a view. It was like looking at a picture postcard of a seascape. The kind with mountains across a bay, with sailboats making their way into a stiff breeze to wherever it is that sailboats go. I removed my wire-rims and rubbed my eyes. When I opened them again, sure enough, Fire Bay was still there. Now, if Jeanette were here with me, this bliss would be complete.

  The trip to Fire Bay had begun two days before when I traveled from Howes Bluff to Bethel in a small single-engine plane. That took a half hour. Then after a two-hour layover, there was the hour flight in a small commuter jet from Bethel to Anchorage, a distance of some 300 miles with nothing below but wilderness. Alaska is huge. All of Scandinavia plus most of Ireland would fit nicely inside it. Every other place in this world pales in comparison, and I couldn’t see myself living anywhere else.

  After arriving in Anchorage I checked into a motel in a section of the city called Spenard, a section known for its shady nightlife, although loyal residents might dispute that. Of course, I had to go to an old favorite watering hole of mine. To my surprise the bartender still knew me. Come to think of it though, I probably had bought enough booze there in my self-pitying alcoholic hazes of years gone by to justify a partnership. I nursed a Jack Daniel’s and fended off a couple of old bar buddies looking for source of unlimited free rounds of their favorite poison. Thank God I had had the strength to leave that world of comfortable haze. I spent the rest of the night in the motel, listening to giggles and bedsprings squeaking that old familiar rhythm.

  Luckily, Fire Bay was within driving distance from Anchorage. It was a long trip, but the highway was in good shape, and the moose had kept to themselves. Best of all, I was in a brand new automobile. I had received a few sidelong looks from Jeanette about getting one, but we did have the money and, with winter coming on, I wanted a good car. I could have had the use of a Postal Service car, but every time I drove around town people would be asking what the heck was I doing, burning up post office money for a cup of coffee? Nope, it was better this way.

  I looked in the rear view mirror and passed my hand through my thatch of brown hair, trying to decide if I should go into the Fire Bay Post Office. To hell with the post office, it was three o’clock in the afternoon and I was tired. Tomorrow morning would be soon enough.

  I fired up the Jeep and headed down the hill to the town. A lot of people say the seascape around Fire Bay is some of the most beautiful scenery in the world. How do you beat blue glaciers, green hills, and mountains, lining a bay that is about fifteen miles wide at its mouth? You don’t. Add the excellent halibut fishing and you have a paradise, at least for some folks. But as someone once said, “You have to pay to live in paradise.”

  And, if it was true for Alaska as a whole, then I was sure it was true for the town of Fire Bay. Fire Bay had been around since the turn of the century, mostly serving as a coaling station for ships in the northern Pacific. Now it was a town that depended on fishing and tourism. Throw in a few artists and writers and you had a community. It was a community with a history, certainly different from your average town in Midwest America. A place not quite urban, but sure as hell not bush country either. A bumper sticker on a car I passed going down the hill perhaps said it best, “Fire Bay, a quaint little drinking village with a fishing problem.” With my history, I hoped I could bypass the drinking part.

  Before going to a motel, I decided to take a quick tour. Ocean View was the main street with the expected two or three gift shops still in their summer finery, still looking for the late-season tourist. There was a movie theater with its marquee only a couple of weeks behind those in Anchorage. There were four or five restaurants and I wondered if they stayed open in winter. There were at least two watering holes, places that I as the postmaster or O.I.C., had to avoid. But not to worry; the alcoholic person inside me noted that there was a liquor store. Then came a four-way stop—the only one in town. After a small hesitation I made a right down another commercial street past a lumberyard and hardware store, other small offices and, wonder of wonders, a MacDonald’s. Another stop sign, another right turn onto a bypass that went past the post office with its flag flying. After tomorrow it would be mine.

  Naturally, with all that rubbernecking, I almost ran into a car pulling out of a business next door. But all I got was a sour look from a woman. I smiled in return and drove on, hoping she would forget the incident. This bypass took me back to Ocean View and a nearby motel. After checking in at the motel, I dragged my baggage to my room, gave Jeanette a call to let her know I was safe and sound, and then I crashed.

  * * *

  I sat upright and shook my head in the darkness. I reached out for Jeanette, seeking the comfort of her warm presence. Then I realized that the security of Jeanette and the village were no longer within reach. My stomach rumbled. I needed food. I was ready for anything, but I decided to play it safe and go to the motel restaurant. No need to go out and expose myself to the community yet. Far better to sit in a lonely booth and read the Anchorage newspaper with a before dinner drink or two.

  I had just dived into a well-done steak, when a couple, two booths over, professional types by their dress, got a little loud. Since we were the only occupants in the dining room, they were easy to hear.

  “Damn it, Samantha, I don’t know what else to call it!”

  “George, you know better.”

  “Crap! I hate this!” The man’s fork clanged on his plate as he slammed it down.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw the woman shake her head. “Take it easy,” she whispered, “We’ll get through this, remember, we work for the medical examiner’s office, but we have to be careful what we say. This is the U. S. Postal Service we’re talking about and we’re talking about a federal crime, for Christ’s sake!”

  It was onl
y by the sheerest effort that I kept on eating, pretending I had heard nothing.

  Chapter 3

  The next morning I parked in the designated spot at the post office. I turned off the engine and sat for a moment, looking out the window at the large single-story building with its glass front and flat roof. Rumor had it that a U.S. Postmaster General visited Alaska in the early 1980s and saw how the employees were coping with limited space in old buildings. Some were little more than modified Quonset huts from World War II days. After a few days of wandering around in dark, dank places, he decided the good old Postal Service needed to upgrade Alaska as far as buildings were concerned. Whoever got him to Alaska in the first place deserved a medal. Nowadays, the post office building is the most modern building in many villages and is a source of pride.

  Well, this was it, not exactly the big time, but certainly a big step up the ladder from Howes Bluff in Western Alaska. If I made it here, then maybe I might be ready for something bigger someday. But I was on the other side of fifty. If I were a real climber, I would be in the district or regional offices by now. I really couldn’t see dealing with the politics in those places. Perhaps that was why I was a postmaster or officer-in-charge at Howes Bluff in Western Alaska.

  Okay, Bronski, you can’t sit in your Jeep forever, so get into that station and get to work!

  It was my subconscious at work and, as usual, it was right.

  I straightened my tie and heaved myself out of the Jeep. It was eight am. Time to make my appearance.

  I rang the back doorbell and stood waiting, holding my new briefcase with nothing in it. I noted a keypad beside the door with the numbers, zero through nine on it. Know the right combination of numbers and the door would open. Tomorrow I would definitely know the right numbers to punch. A minute went by. My foot started tapping. I rang the bell again. One long and one short. Maybe that would gain someone’s attention. This time it did.

  A young woman of short stature, in her Postal Service uniform, probably in her late twenties, opened the door. “May I help you?”

  “Sure,” I said. “My name is Leo Bronski and I’m the new O.I.C.”

  “Oh, yes, sir! Come on in. My name is Abby,” she said, and offered her hand. “I’m standing in as a temporary supervisor.”

  I returned her smile and shook her hand. She was cheerful enough, but she had forgotten to check my I.D. We would handle that in a stand-up meeting, and soon. I trailed her from the entryway onto the main floor, where I paused for a moment to look the place over. I was not pleased with what I saw. Although the cases appeared to be lined up where they were supposed to be, the floor was dirty and littered with paper. Paper dust floated everywhere. My disapproval must have shown because a worried look came over her along with a wringing of her hands.

  She motioned. “Your office is this way, Mr. Bronski.”

  “Leo,” I said, “call me Leo.”

  I followed her to the office in a corner of the building. I wanted to see and be seen by the employees. I was glad to see most of them working. There was some talk, but most of it was work related. We continued to the office where I set my briefcase down and removed my jacket.

  “Abby, do you have any coffee here?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  “Well, how about you and me getting a cup and sitting down for a talk?”

  “I’ll be glad to get you a cup, Mr. Bronski.”

  I smiled. “Leo, Abby, Leo, Mr. Bronski, takes too much time to say.”

  She nodded and left. I sat down in the swivel chair and looked around the office. It was a mess. Stacks of paper covered the surface of the desk, and more stacks were here and there on the floor. I closed my eyes and groaned. Now I knew why the Boss had sent the previous O.I.C. off to a drunk tank. I got up and cleared a stack off another chair and sat down just as Abby returned with a steaming cup of coffee. I took a sip. At least the coffee was good.

  I gave her a smile. “Coffee’s good.”

  She wrung her hands again. “I forgot to ask if you wanted anything in it.”

  “Black is fine,” I answered.

  I motioned her to sit down. She sat on the edge of her chair and folded her hands in her lap. Poised to listen or poised to run?

  “Okay, Abby, tell me about this place. I don’t know a thing about it.”

  She proceeded to talk, a little nervous at first, but soon she found her voice and gave an accounting of the Fire Bay office. The head office had already informed me there were twenty-five people at the Fire Bay office, including five carriers and two janitors. The rest were distribution clerks, who might be at the front counter or shuffling mail into boxes. But I let Abby go through with her version. From time to time I nodded and smiled. I sensed she needed the time to build her confidence in dealing with the new O.I.C. After a few minutes, she came to a stop.

  There was a moment’s silence as I took another sip of coffee. I set the cup down and looked her straight in the eye. “Abby, in your opinion, what could we do to make this place work smoother?”

  She took a deep breath. “More help, we need more help.”

  I nodded. I could see why she thought so. This office not only took care of Fire Bay itself, but also directed mail to and from other villages located around the bay. I could guess from her accounting that slackers didn’t last long in the building. She didn’t mention morale, but I could bet it was a little low. I sighed. What had the Boss gotten me into?

  I took a last sip of the remaining coffee and thought about my next move as Abby finished her account of the present situation at the Fire Bay Post Office.

  “Thanks, Abby. I’d like to meet the staff.”

  We proceeded to make the rounds. I had by now rolled up the sleeves of my white shirt. Hopefully, that that ready-for-work look plus my lean physique obtained from clean living out in Western Alaska would make the correct impression. That I was not somebody who sat in the office issuing edicts from on high. Call it a political move.

  One thing I learned from my old man was that when meeting somebody, you looked them in the eye and gave them a firm handshake. No squeeze contest, thank you, just a nice handshake. I always followed Dad’s advice and, right or wrong, I tended to measure a person by how he or she presented himself or herself. That old first impression rule still counted. Interestingly enough, there were only five men in the office. The rest were women. Most of the employees returned my eye contact, but there was one man, a janitor with long hair down to his shoulders, who looked sideways, up and down, every which way but at me. No big deal, but the total impression was not good. Put it down to a gut feeling. But I made up my mind to wait and see.

  Back in the office after meeting the staff, I said, “By the way, Abby. Who is the Union Steward?”

  “Oh, I forgot. That would be Martha August for the clerks. She was the tall, gray-haired lady.”

  I did remember the tall graceful lady with clipped, short, gray hair, who stood as tall as me. Unlike the janitor, she had looked directly at me. Her green eyes seemed to be asking a question, a crucial question, but what was it? Well, whatever it was, she offered her hand with a “ good morning, sir,” but she didn’t smile. She looked and spoke like she ought to be teaching at an East Coast finishing school.

  I would have to have a cup of coffee with her, and soon. I thanked Abby for the help. After she closed the door, I sat down, my hands gripping the arms of my swivel chair. Life was pleasantly slow-paced back in the village, but now I was back on the fast track of production work. It took an intelligent person to do this day after day. Most people think post office work is a cushy secure job for dummies. Well, it’s not true. Most Postal Service people earn every cent they make.

  The phone rang. I chuckled. Some things never changed. I reached forward, took the phone off its hook, and held it away from my ear, expecting the Boss’s cheerful “Bronski.” Instead, hearing nothing, I had to hold the phone close to my ear.

  “Good morning, Leo. Getting all settled in, are we?”
the Boss said, uncharacteristically soft-spoken.

  I checked my watch: nine a.m. Right on time. “Yes, sir. Good morning.”

  I heard the leather chair squeak. That meant the Boss was settling in for a long chat, and I’d better listen and examine every word like a lawyer. Sometimes the Boss threw in innocent little phrases that he would use later on.

  “Uh, Leo, there’s been a new development.”

  “New development?” I asked.

  “Yeah, a new development.” He liked to drag things out. I suspected it brought some color into his otherwise humdrum life.

  “You better close your door,” he said.

  “It’s closed.” I answered, and sat back in my chair.

  “Uh, Leo, this is a private line, right?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  He went on, still quiet, which was not normal for him. “You remember the supervisor who was found washed up on the beach? And how everybody thought she had fallen out of her skiff and drowned? Well, it seems she had some help. The Anchorage M.E. is calling it murder.”

  I leaned forward. This was serious. “What? What did you say?”

  “Gloria was murdered.”

  “Well, I’ll be, I said, and closed my eyes, the scene of the previous evening at the motel restaurant in my mind.

  “So what happens now?” I asked.

  The Boss had an answer ready. “We want to be as quiet about this as possible.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “Boss, I’m willing to bet the cat is already out of the bag on this one. This is a small town. A lot of people know a lot of people here. It’s not like Anchorage. Did she have relatives living here? Because if she did, the local news people will know about it within the hour.”

  The Boss upped his voice a couple of decibels to the growl I was used to. “Bronski, I know all about small towns. What I’m saying is the relatives here in Anchorage have agreed to keep it quiet—for now. Officially, she drowned, period. The state troopers and our own postal inspectors hope the killer will get careless. Hell, we don’t know! But we owe it though to the memory of Gloria Plinski to co-operate with the law however we can. Nobody should get away with murder!”