by Ron Hess
My watch beeped. That meant it was 7:00 o’clock. Time to get back for a bite to eat.
“Ready to go, sir?”
He bent his head down. I had a hunch he could have sat there much longer, maybe thinking pleasant thoughts from back in his day, when he was young and sure, perhaps when a young woman looked up to him and batted her eyes. How many times had that happened to me? And yes, even knowing the flattery, my chest always swelled.
“Here we go, sir.”
We went whizzing down the smooth path just one notch below dangerous, but he was safe with his hands on the wheelchair’s arms. He was leaning forward against his seatbelt, and with his cap’s earflaps splaying backwards in the wind, he was a kid again. I resolved then and there, whenever the weather was decent and the snow not too deep, I would take him to the place on the bluff. It was his magic place, maybe his only joy in life, and I had been chosen to be his transport. Was I paying back just a small amount of the debt I felt I owed to life? Careful, I told myself, you’re getting maudlin.
We burst through the doorway, like two kids coming in from play.
“Well, did you have a good visit?” Mrs. Mordant asked.
I walked around to the front of the wheelchair and saw a gleam in the old man’s eyes.
“Yes, ” I said, “we had a good time.”
Chapter 12
I snuggled into my sleeping bag and peered through the weeds down at the garbage bin not fifty yards away. Thank goodness I had thought to buy the sleeping bag while in Anchorage. At the time, I thought it was an extravagant purchase, but now it felt pretty darn good. My watch beeped. That meant it was all of 10:00 o’clock. Time flies, they say, when you’re having fun. I wasn’t having fun. All the same, it was kind of exciting to think I might get to see who was stealing parts.
Before making my nest in the weeds, I had made a quick pass by the bin to make sure the box was still there. I would have felt like hell if it hadn’t been, but it was. So all there was to do was wait.
* * *
My watch beeped midnight and I yawned for the umpteenth time. When in hell was Wattle going to show? I began to wonder about the wisdom of lying there in the weeds. Suppose I had been spotted in the garbage bin during the afternoon? Or suppose I had been spotted checking on the bin earlier this evening? Suppose, suppose, suppose. I was driving myself crazy.
Then I saw movement near the bin. Hot damn!
Well, hell, it was only a big dog most likely looking for a snack.
“Hey, Bronski, see anything?”
I must have elevated a foot off the ground, and I found myself reaching for a non-existent M-16. I turned over to look back into the darkness.
“Wattle! Don’t you ever do that again!” I whispered.
He chuckled. “You were in Nam, weren’t you.” It was a statement, not as a question.
“Yeah. And you?” I asked.
His face loomed out of the darkness close to mine.
“I was a SEAL.” He said it simply, in a non-prideful way. And I sensed it was a long ago chapter in his life, one he’d rather forget.
“I guess it’s been quiet?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’m afraid so. Do you think the word has got out about me finding the package?”
He shrugged. “Word gets around pretty fast. Who knows besides you?”
“Just my supervisor,” I answered.
His breath whistled through his teeth. “You told somebody?”
“Yeah, my boss in Anchorage told me to.”
“You always do what your boss tells you?”
“Wattle, don’t you give me that! Yeah, it’s how I keep my job.”
He sighed, as if putting up with amateurs was almost too big a burden.
“Well, climb out of that bag so it’ll still be warm when I climb in,” he said.
I have to say that climbing out of the bag and the thought of going home to a nice warm bed practically made me swoon.
“My thermos of coffee is cold, but you’re welcome to these granola bars,” I said.
“Thanks, Bronski, but I have a jug of hot coffee and some of these. “He thrust his snacks right under my nose. “Twinkies? You brought Twinkies? Does anybody know you eat Twinkies?”
He gave me a glare. “Nope, and they aren’t going to either.”
I held up my hands and suppressed a laugh. We were supposed to be in quiet mode here.
“Sir, your secret is safe with me,” I whispered.
He gave me another glare and snuggled into the sleeping bag.
“See you in the morning.”
He gave an answering grunt, and I departed, glad he was willing to watch through the wee hours of a chilly night.
I neither passed nor saw a soul on the way back to the B & B. Tourist season was long over, and the town was settling into its coming winter slumber. The only people that had a reason to be out were hospital or police types. Maybe a wrongdoer or two, not to mention a bed hopper, but that was pretty much it. I had a hunch the good police chief knew who they were.
I drove into the B & B’s yard and sat for a minute, asking myself if Jeanette would like this place. Probably not, but she was adaptable and would live anywhere to please me. It was a humbling thought.
I hit the sack at 12:30 a.m. having set the alarm for 5:00 o’clock. It was going to be a short night.
Chapter 13
It was still dark when I crept up to the place on the knoll. I determined that two could play this game of sneak. I wanted to see just how alert the old SEAL could be. I found out.
“Bronski, you were regular Army, right?”
I threw my hands up and turned around. Wattle had been hiding behind a big spruce tree just a few feet away from the sleeping bag.
“Yeah, but I did a lot of night work.” I lowered my arms.
“It shows,” he said, but I had a feeling he was giving me a break.
I decided to change the subject. “I take there was no action last night?”
He shook his head. “No. Are you sure the package is still there?”
I glanced at my watch and saw it was still early, only 6:00 o’clock. “Let’s go check,” I answered.
Without further comment, we took a path over to the street that ran alongside the post office. There were a few beer bottles lying here and there. Evidently, it was a place to party if you had nowhere else to go. As we descended the slight hill onto the street, a car came by.
“Hell,” said Wattle.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Of all the people in town. It was that young reporter from the newspaper.”
I felt a tightening in my chest. Wattle was right. Of all the people in town, it had to be her. Well, it couldn’t be helped.
“C’mon,” I said, “Let’s go see if the package is still there.”
Much to my relief, it still was. If it had been taken, my goose would have been cooked to a fairly well crisp nothing.
“Where do you suppose she’s going?” I asked.
The good police chief straightened up from cleaning off the grass seeds that were embedded in his pants. “To the Eat More,” he grunted. “That’s where she goes to eat breakfast.”
“Kind of early for a reporter, isn’t it?”
“You don’t know this reporter. I’m not sure she sleeps.”
I nodded to show my agreement. Those raven eyes . . .
“I think I’ll go eat at the Eat More.”
Wattle gave me a sharp look in the early morning light. “If you’re planning what I think you’re planning . . . good luck. I’ve tried to talk her out of a story or two, but it was ‘to hell with you.’ That’s not what she said, but that’s what she meant.”
I closed the lid on the garbage bin. “Well, I think I’ll give it a try, anyway.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
We parted ways after discussing whether we should watch another night. I agreed it would be my turn from midnight on if we did. But I was beginning to think
it was a hopeless cause. To prove my point, I left the package in the bin. Soon there would be people coming to work, and nobody dug around in a garbage bin at this time of day. For someone to take it now would be sheer lunacy.
After retrieving the Jeep on a side street, I headed in the direction of the Eat More.
The Eat More was like most small-town restaurants, a counter with its eight or nine stools and about five tables. Too much work for one server, but not enough for two. The place was full of noise, voices, clatter, and the scraping of chairs as people came and went.
The noise subsided somewhat when I walked in the door mostly because I was a stranger. It quickly went back to normal as soon as people saw I wasn’t carrying a weapon. People were more alert these days, what with 911 and its legacy always there in the back of their minds.
At a table for two near the kitchen sat the lady in question, nose in an Anchorage paper. A chockfull ashtray leaked a thin coil of smoke from a smoldering butt. Most likely this was the waitress’s rest stop.
She looked up as I approached. “Yes?”
“Ms. Jems, may I speak with you?”
There was one quick dart of glittery eyes around the room, then a gesture at the empty chair.
She got right to the point. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, I thought I might have breakfast with you.”
Her head cocked in its raven’s way. “I have a busy morning. I will have to leave soon. What is it you want?
I took a deep breath; this was not going well. Despite her hurry-up frame of mind, I decided to take my time. “You no doubt saw the police chief and me come off the knoll behind the post office?” I pushed the ashtray to the far edge of the table.
Her lips curled over her teeth as she set her coffee cup down. “Yes?”
“I don’t know if you plan to say anything about it in the newspaper or not, you know, in the column, ‘Seen about Town’? But if you are, I’m asking you to hold off for a while.”
“Why?”
“Because there is a criminal investigation underway, and I don’t want to have the news about it known in this town.” Getting no reaction, I added. “You would be the first to know, of course, when we bring it to an end.”
Her fingers tapped silently on her cup. “Does this have something to do with Gloria Plinski’s death?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I answered. “That’s one of the things we have to find out.”
“Okay,” she said, “I’ll hold off for now. But if I get a hint you are lying, I will report what I know. My editor has the final word, of course, but I will hold off for now.”
I’m sure when I let out my breath it was visible, as she gave me what amounted to a smile.
“Thank you, Ms. Jems.”
She dipped her head. “I have to go now, Mr. Bronski. Enjoy your meal.”
I watched as she walked toward the door. Mine weren’t the only eyes watching her. From the rear, in her business suit, she was a beautiful woman and I wondered if deep down inside she wasn’t soft and vulnerable. Had some boy or man taken her for a ride? My thoughts were interrupted by a harried middle-aged waitress, who took one look at the ashtray tamped out the offending butt, and hurled its contents into a nearby trash can. Finished with that, she took one swipe at the sweat on her forehead and took out her notepad.
“May I help you, sir?”
Chapter 14
As I pulled up to the rear of the post office and turned the engine off, I looked over at the garbage bin. Hell with it. One night of watching was enough. I got out of the car and walked over to it. Taking a quick look to see if anyone was watching, I heaved myself into it and retrieved the package. I had a hunch that no one would ever come for it. Either they knew I was aware of the package, or else there was a screw-up in the crime ring. Perhaps someone had gotten their wires crossed.
I walked into the rear of the post office with my arms wrapped around it, taking my own sweet time. I wanted to see if there were any unusual reactions. A few people glanced up from their work as I strolled by, but other than that I received no indication there was a problem. Well, it was a try.
I plunked the box down on my desk, wishing I could open the thing, but I couldn’t. Only the person to whom it was addressed could do that. Or a postal inspector, and he was two hundred miles away. I checked my watch. Hmm . . . nine o’clock. True to my expectation, the phone rang.
I picked it up. “Yes, sir.”
“Bronski. Is that you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well?” The Boss’s tone didn’t bode well. In fact, he sounded like a bubbling volcano.
I decided to choose my words carefully. “I’m afraid we struck out last night. No one showed to get the package.”
“So what are you going to do about it?” he asked.
“I think I’ll ask the package’s owner to come in and open it. Naturally I’ll have the local law here also.”
“You’re not going to wait another night?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Just a hunch. I think somebody either got the word we were watching, or else it was the criminal’s screw-up.”
I didn’t mention my suspicions about Ashley. I couldn’t help wondering if she tied into this crime scene. After all, she was the only one besides Wattle and me who knew.
“What was that, sir?”
“I said, Bronski, ‘you are in charge down there. I might have waited another night, but that’s just me.‘“ There was a sigh of exasperation. “Bronski, are you there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, try to stay awake!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good-bye!” There was a click and then a dial tone.
I nodded and thought, Good-bye to you too. The Boss was not having a good day.
There was a knock at the door to the main floor. Without waiting, Ashley poked her head around the corner of the door. Her eyes were red. She looked liked she hadn’t slept at all the previous night.
“Any luck last night?” she asked in that drawl of hers.
I motioned her to come in and to shut the door. I shook my head.
“No. I’ve decided to forego sitting out there another night. I think it would be a waste of time. Either the bad guys have gotten the word we’re waiting for them or else they’ve had a scheduling screw-up themselves. You didn’t talk to anyone about this, did you?”
“No. No sir!” came the angry denial.
I held up my hand. “I had to ask,” I said. “We have to cover all the possibilities, right?”
She gave a vague nod. I went on to explain how I was going to have the local cops show up when the owner of the package came in that afternoon. We went on to discuss a few admin things and then she left the office, maybe a little miffed I’d questioned her discretion.I threw my wire-rims on the desk, leaned back in my fake leather chair, and ruminated about previous illegal actions of my own. Like the time I tried to get a manager cohort to ship a case of whiskey out to a dry village in Western Alaska. Of course, I wasn’t thinking of it as illegal—just expedient. But the Boss caught me. It was not one of my prouder moments. Spilt milk that could not be poured back into the jar.
* * *
The stage was set for the opening of the package. Wattle came into the office first. All official with his no-see through dark glasses and dressed to the”nines” in his city cop uniform.
I threw out one little barb. “There’s no sun shining in here. You can take off your sunglasses.”
Without a word, he removed his glasses. His eyes were red and heavy, dark bags hung under them.
“Good God, Wattle, put them back on; you look like hell!”
Still without a word he put them back on and regarded me. Probably thinking what a dumb-ass civilian I was.
I decided to be gentle. “You . . . ah . . .get any sleep this morning?”
“I had a drunk and an accident to work at nine o’clock this morning, what do y
ou think?”
My attempt at pleasantries was saved by a knock at the lobby door to my office.
“Come in!” I barked, trying not to notice the good chief’ grimacing.
Bill Stevens burst into the office. “You have my prop?” he asked, hand still on the doorknob.
“Come on in, and close the door,” I said. “Well, I hope so. However, I do have a request.”
It was after he closed the door that Stevens noticed Wattle sitting in the chair. “Hi, Jim.”
The chief nodded in return. “Hello, Bill.”
“What are you doing here?”
Wattle gave the usual cop answer. “Just routine. Whenever foul play is suspected, we show up.”
Bill Stevens pursed his lips, looking at me. “Am I in trouble?”
Wattle interrupted with another usual cop answer. “I don’t know, are you?”
“We would like to see what’s in the box,” I said, trying to steer the poor guy away from feeling he was already in the poky.
“Yeah, sure, I guess so,” he answered.
In a heartbeat, I had my penknife out, slicing at the cardboard top. Wattle told me later I should have seen the look on Bill’s face. I probably should have been a little more diplomatic, but I was anxious to see the contents of the box. As might be expected, the prop was covered with good old foam peanuts, full of static. I personally hate the stuff, but it works. There was an empty trashcan nearby, so I carefully began to pour out the peanuts.
The prop was there all right, as was a six-inch square plastic container of a white powdery substance. It didn’t take long for everyone to guess it wasn’t talcum powder.
“Do you know what this is, Bill?” Wattle asked softly and pointed to it lying alongside the prop on top of the peanuts.
Bill sighed and shook his head from side to side. “No, I don’t,” he said, and started to reach for it.
“Don’t touch it!” Wattle yelled, “there may be fingerprints on it!”
Stevens withdrew his fingers as they’d been burnt.