Murder at Fire Bay

by Ron Hess

  Jeanette. I had betrayed her and I saw the immediate future of in sharp clarity. In short, I was going to be used, and there was little I could do about it unless I wanted to end my marriage. And I didn’t want that to happen. I needed Jeanette not only because I loved her, but also because she was the rock that kept my demons at bay.

  Ashley must have felt my movement. Her eye closest to me popped open, and I wondered how long she had been awake.

  “Mmmm . . . Leo.” Her hand came from beneath the covers to hold mine. “It was good, wasn’t it, Leo?”

  “Ashley,” I said in my coldest baritone, “I don’t know what you’re up to, but it won’t do any good. I was so out I could not have made love. Besides, I know when I have had sex, and when I have not.”

  She rose to a sitting position, trying to hold the sheet in front of her. “Why, Leo, honey,” she crooned, “don’t y’all remember? Of course we made love. That’s what everyone will say at the post office. But then I won’t say anything, unless . . . ”

  “Unless what?” I snapped.

  “Oh . . . if you fail to cooperate?” She was silent, watching me like a snake.

  “It’s the drugs, isn’t it? I don’t know how it all fits together, but you’ve been part of this all along, haven’t you? Ashley, do you honestly think you can get away with it? What about the employees? Aren’t you afraid they will know something is going on?”

  She released my hand and coyly traced her finger up and down my arm. I saw a snake, its tongue flickering in and out.

  “You know, Leo, just because we didn’t make love last night doesn’t mean we can’t now.”

  I shook my head. Another time, another place I would have been sorely tempted; she was one beautiful piece. But she was a viper and I was in her nest. She had struck and I was wounded.

  “Get your hand off me,” I said, and struggled to get up. Immediately, my head fell back on the pillow. It was one colossal headache I had, but I had to get out of there.

  Her voice took on a hardness. “What’s the matter, Leo? Head hurt?”

  “Yeah, you could say that. What the hell did you put in my drink?” I gave another try at getting up and that time I made it. I managed to stand, maybe a little wobbly, but I was standing.

  She too stood up and let the sheet drop. Her hands cupped her breasts. “See what you missed . . . Leo?”

  I tried to shake my head, but in doing so, nearly lost my balance. “Ashley, you’re sick. No. Come to think of it—you’re evil.”

  Her eyes took on a hard look again. “By the way, here is a picture you can have.” She threw a picture down on the bed.

  I didn’t want to look, but I had to. I took a deep breath, picked it up, and forced my eyes to focus. It was a picture of her leaning over me in bed as if she were about to plant a kiss on my lips. I began to feel sick in the stomach, and I had a feeling I knew exactly what she was going to say next.

  “Bronski, you’ll do what I tell you, or that little native wife of yours is going to get a phone call.”

  When she said that, I nearly fell back on the bed. My sense of guilt was so great I didn’t know if I could stand it. But I didn’t fall. Instead, through gritted teeth I asked, “Where’s my pants?”

  Chapter 20

  Saturday morning found me sitting at my desk at the post office. Normally I wouldn’t be, but Ashley was sick and couldn’t make it. At least that was the story I told the employees. Actually, Ashley was making use of her blackmailing privileges. And so I sat there, feet up on the desk with a splitting headache, the aftereffect of whatever Ashley had put in my drink.

  I wanted to kill her, but I couldn’t of course. While I waited out my hangover, that thought was the one thing that gave me comfort. Finally, knowing I had to put up a good front, I got up and wandered out onto the floor to check on the troops. Well, “wandered” would be putting it kindly. Truthfully, I was one notch above a stagger. I hoped the next twenty-four hours would see me through the worst of my “illness.”

  Things seemed to be moving along fine as I moved from case to case, offering a word of greeting here and there. Thank goodness the employees were a seasoned bunch. I don’t think there was a slacker among them. Maybe coming in on a Saturday wasn’t such a bad idea. It let the people know that even management had to work days they would rather not, plus being on overtime to boot. After checking the front counter, I moved slowly back to my office and began working on my fourth cup of coffee of the morning.

  I decided to catch up on my computer work, something to take my mind off what

  had transpired the night before. A few minutes later found me sitting back, flapping my tie up and down on my chest, and trying to think my way out of my predicament. I needed a compatriot. The Boss had said not to trust anyone, but I had to find someone I could confide in. Maybe I wasn’t looking at my problem from the right direction. Should I throw caution to the winds and tell Jeanette? Would she believe me? Something told me she would, but it would be better if somehow I could come up with proof I had not had “sex with that woman.” Any other time I would have smiled at the expression made famous by a former president, but not today.

  Who could I trust locally? The police chief? Maybe, but why was he a police chief instead of a state trooper as he used to be? My thoughts returned to the previous evening’s party. Two members of the town council had been there. They were part of the reason Ashley had a blackmail hold on me, as I was still sitting on the sofa obviously feeling no pain when they left. What with the silly grin plastered on my face, it was surely conceivable that I would stay the night.

  My thoughts were interrupted by a loud knock at the door to the main lobby. I quietly dropped my feet to the floor, took a deep breath, and barked, “Come in!”

  A small man in a green beret walked in, empty cigarette holder in hand. He was dressed in a red shirt and black leather pants. A very dark pair of shades covered a crinkled weather-beaten face. I would have smirked if I had seen this guy on TV. But after years of working for the post office, I had learned to hold my smirks.

  “Are you the postmaster?” he asked in a crackly cigarette voice.

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  He pulled off his sunglasses and eyed me a second to let me know with whom I was dealing. Another old trick. “I’d like to put a trace on a package I’ve been expecting.”

  I pulled out a pad and pen and asked where it was coming from.

  “Portland. Portland, Oregon.”

  He began to twirl his shades in the other hand. I could tell he was getting a little impatient by the way his eyes roamed my office. No doubt, he thought his package was sitting on a shelf somewhere.

  “The address?” I murmured, thinking it would be the boat and fishing supply company that had caused so much trouble. Instead, he gave me a different address. I felt a measure of relief; perhaps his package loss was legitimate.

  “All right, sir. I think we have everything. May I ask what is in your package?”

  He gave me the cold eye and a one-word sentence. “No.”

  “Ah . . . fine. We will do our best to locate it. And your name is . . . ?”

  “Lane, Bill Lane. I would appreciate your confidentially in this matter—Mr. Post Master.”

  “Yes, sir, we try to honor all our customers’ confidentiality,” I said. I stood, meaning to shake his hand, but he was out the door, shades on his face.

  Well, it took all kinds.

  I headed out onto the main floor to the package shelves and started looking at the various boxes.

  “Missing something, Leo?”

  “Yeah,” I said, and looked up to see Martha standing there, hands on hips, looking all trim and proper. I went on to explain that a certain Mr. Lane was missing a package.

  “Ah . . . Mr. Lane. I know of whom you speak. One of the town’s more colorful characters. I bet he wouldn’t tell you what was in it, either.”

  “No, he wouldn’t.”

  She giggled. “Probably nothing mor
e than a dildo or maybe one of those battery- operated things.”

  “Ah, he’s one of those guys?” I asked.

  “Not necessarily, but I understand he likes to walk on the edge. Want some help?”

  I gave her a return nod and we set to, looking for his package. But it was a no-go. From the package shelves, we meandered out into the garage, to check the trucks and Jeeps. On a hunch, I popped the lid off a trashcan over in a corner and, lo and behold, there it was, under some loose wrappers. Dam it to hell! I didn’t need this. I bent down to retrieve it.

  “Leo, don’t you want a pair of gloves on before you touch it?”

  I swayed a little as I stood up. I definitely was not thinking right. “Yeah.” Was it standing up fast that was making me lightheaded? “Could you go to my office and get a pair out of the center desk drawer? I need to stay here.”

  As Martha moved off to get the gloves, I bent over and grabbed the edge of the trashcan to steady myself. I had never felt so bad as I did right then. It had been over a year since I had had a hangover. I took a few deep breaths and stood up again just as Martha came through the garage door.

  She handed me the gloves. “Honestly, Leo, you are pale. Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, I do feel a little rough. Maybe it’s the flu?” I put the gloves on shaky hands, cursing Ashley under my breath.

  I turned to Martha. “Thanks for your help. You can go back to work and I’ll start making phone calls. By the way, have there been any other packages lost on Saturdays?”

  She wrinkled her mouth. “Yes, there have been two on the past two Saturdays. You don’t remember?”

  I thought fast. I didn’t want Martha to suspect that Ashley and I were on the outs.

  “Yeah, I just forgot. I believe I’m going to bed early tonight. Thanks again.”

  She moved off with a funny expression on her face. I hoped that by Monday I would be feeling better. So Ashley had two lost packages, eh? She hadn’t told me, and I wasn’t that far gone. I would have remembered.

  The phone was ringing as I walked back into the office. It was turning out to be a busy Saturday. I set the package down, removed my gloves, and picked up the phone.

  “Leo?”

  My heart fell another notch in grief and pain. It was Jeanette.

  “Hi, Jeanette. Yup, it is me, right here on duty at ye old post office. How goes it?”

  “Okay. Isn’t today Ashley’s day to work?”

  “Yeah, but she called in sick. So here I am, happy as a clam.”

  Jeanette giggled, she knew that was a lie, but it was a lie I could tell and still be right. All the same, my soul shrank a little.

  “Did you get home from the party all right?”

  Now, there was a question. I closed my eyes. Had she called last night while I was in Ashley’s bed? I decided she hadn’t; otherwise, evil Ashley would have taken some pleasure in telling me how she lied a way home for me.

  “Yes, I did. It wasn’t easy, but I made it. There were a lot of notables there, you know, the town council, etc. It was okay, if you like mixing with that bunch. Ashley evidently gets around.”

  I could hear Jeanette sigh. Was it a sigh of relief? We went on to talk of everyday things, and I thanked heaven for being married to this good woman. I wasn’t sure I deserved her. I would have to tell her about last night, but not here in the post office. She rang off when I told her I had an incoming call.

  It was Ashley. “Bronski, I understand you have found a package. Do not phone headquarters, I will handle it. Do you understand?”

  I decided to go along with her. “Sure, Ashley, anything you say.”

  “That’s a good little boy, Bronski,” she said, in perfect, cold, Mid-American English.

  The contempt in her voice would have eaten through sheet metal.

  She hung up and I returned the phone to its cradle, wondering how she got the word so fast.

  Chapter 21

  I sat up in bed and eyed the empty glass standing beside the as yet untouched bottle of Jack Daniel’s. It was that Saturday night and all was quiet on the outside, not a bird singing or the sound of a leaf falling. But my mind wasn’t quiet. It was in turmoil as I tried to think my way out of this mess that had occurred the previous evening. I reached for the bottle, but stopped in time reminding myself that once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic.

  Earlier in the evening I’d volunteered to wheel the old man up to the edge of the bluff thinking it might get me out of my funk. Even the fresh air and exercise did no good. I’m afraid in his eyes I was a poor companion. Still, he didn’t have much to offer except for the “blue” word, which was definitely blue. The “caw” word now sounded like “co,” or maybe cow. Anyway it did not make sense and I wasted little time trying to decipher his mutterings.

  The rest of the Saturday workday at the post office had gone okay, considering my splitting headache. I wondered again who was in league with Ashley. I tried to focus on the words “Is he out?” which was the last thing I’d heard before passing out at the party. It was a male voice, of that I was certain, but I couldn’t put the voice with anyone I knew. I tried to remember who was there. About the only one I knew was Chief Wattle, and even with all his troubles, I couldn’t imagine him getting into the drug scene. He was a man of integrity, and I wondered if I could tell him of the problem I had with Ashley. But the Boss had said, “Trust no one.”

  To hell with it. I needed something to get rid of my headache, and this time, my hand did not stop until the bottle was in my grasp. With practiced zeal I stripped off the seal, unscrewed the lid, and poured two fingers into the glass. I sat back against the headboard of the bed and took a sip. It tasted good. The smell overwhelmed me with pleasure, and the dancing brown liquid seemed to say, “Where have you been so long, old friend? Well, no matter, I’m someone you can trust.” I swallowed the two fingers in one long, frantic gulp. I couldn’t think why I’d been resisting it. But I was going to catch up. The memory of Jeanette and my troubles faded as I danced in the dim corridors of my mind, where there is no beginning and no end— nothing—but a forgetful bliss.

  Chapter 22

  It was Monday morning and, in a way, I was glad. It meant I had to crawl out of my room and face the world. I stepped outside the High Bluff B & B and sniffed the air. Something was different, all right. Fall had arrived at Fire Bay. It was something every Alaskan learned. Maybe it was the geese flying overhead or maybe it was the angle of the sunlight, but a real Alaskan could tell within a few days when fall arrived.

  I drove the Jeep to a lookout point over the bay where I ran the seat all the way back and reflected for a few minutes. Or maybe I should say I made a resolution that I was not going to drink like I did Saturday night. Those days were over. It didn’t matter how sorry I felt for myself. I was not going to get drunk again. I hoped that Mrs. Mordant would not find the bottle hidden on a shelf in the closet of my room. If she did, it wouldn’t take long for the rest of the community to know about it. Not that she was a bad person. It was simply that she lived in a narrow world. Anything other than running the B & B and caring for her father was something to talk about with her best friend. The best friend who swore she would never tell anyone. Of course, she would tell her best friend, and on and on it went.

  My stomach rumbled. Time to feed it. I reluctantly moved the seat back into position, started the Jeep, and drove into town. I had fallen into the habit of eating a bowl of cereal in the B & B’s kitchen, mostly because it was quick and easy, but because of Saturday’s lapse I decided it was time to do something different.

  I entered the Eat More restaurant and casually glanced around. Sure enough, there sat Ms. Emily Jems at her usual corner table, dressed in a black suit, her nose in a paperback. Well, this was it. I took a deep breath and headed her way.

  “May I sit down?” I asked.

  I must have surprised her because she looked up in a startled bird-like way, so absorbed was she in her novel.

  “Yes
. . . please do.”

  Please do? Now that was an interesting answer. I resolved that no matter what I thought of her personal demeanor I was going to get to know her for her good qualities. She had to have some.

  “What are you reading?” I asked, trying to be friendly.

  “Nothing much.” she slipped the romance novel into her bag.

  “Looks like it’s going to be a great day,” I said, and picked up a menu.

  I decided on sausage and eggs. I needed something to replace Saturday night’s fumes. I handed the menu to the waitress and gave Ms. Jems a smile. Smiles worked, even in the most awkward situation, and this was an awkward situation. Ms. Jems, whether she knew it or not, was to become a recorder of my life, yea, perhaps even my savior. I had the feeling she could be trusted.

  “Yes . . . ” she answered, now staring at me with those raven eyes, and I guessed she knew I chose to sit at her table for a reason.

  “The air feels different this morning,” I ventured.

  “Yes, it may be an early winter.”

  Despite myself I swallowed, and I’m sure my Adam’s apple bobbed at least two inches. Whether this amused her or not was difficult to say. Well, it was a beginning, and building on it we went from weather to the town’s football team, to who would be elected for mayor in the coming election. By then, the meal had arrived and I busied myself eating and talking between mouthfuls about inane things, like politics and the record snowfalls in years past.

  She sat there sipping on her tea, not saying much of anything. I was aware she was studying me from her bird-like angles and, like every good reporter; she knew I had a story. All she had to do was wait. Finally, the last piece of sausage was gone; the platter was metaphorically licked clean. I was all out of small talk.

  I threw down my napkin and leaned forward. “Ms. Jems, may I call you Emily?”