Murder at Fire Bay

by Ron Hess

  Seeing the old man looking at me, I went on with the questioning. “Was she a customer?”

  He shook his head.

  It was at that moment the hair started to rise on my neck. Was it Ashley? “It was someone behind the counter?”

  He nodded. I was thunderstruck. Could it really be? I decided to forego asking if she had blond hair or wore glasses. Women have been known to change hair color and glasses.

  I leaned toward him and took his hand. “Thank you, sir, I’m sorry it took so long for me to figure out what you were trying to say. Would you recognize a picture of her?”

  He hesitated and then shrugged his shoulders.

  There was one more question I had to ask. “Did you see her actually murder Gloria?”

  He shook his head. Crap! This was going to take more work. He pawed at my sleeve. Getting my attention, he dug his binoculars out of their case and scanned the bay. He stopped scanning and put the binoculars down, then lifted them back up for a moment. He then made a buzzing sound and extended a quivering hand like it was a boat going through water. Or that’s what I guessed he was trying to say.

  Then a thought occurred to me, but it was a bit of a leap.

  “Okay, sir, you saw them in the same boat?”

  He nodded.

  “But your attention was diverted elsewhere?”

  He smiled and nodded.

  “And when you looked again the woman was already speeding away?”

  He nodded, and I bowed my head. At last, we had nailed it down. All I had to do was follow something like a flow chart. We sat quietly for a few more minutes. A cold wind came up. I shuddered, either from the wind or from the ideas running through my brain.

  I stood up. “Time to go, sir, and thanks, you’ve been most helpful.”

  I turned him around and smiled as he leaned forward, hands grasping the wheelchair’s arms. He was ready for that descent down the hill.

  “Ready, sir?”

  He nodded and we were off. I have to say Arness got a real thrill on that ride and I wished him many more.

  Later that evening I took a long time telling Jeanette about the day’s adventures. She wasn’t happy about hearing that my life could have been in jeopardy. Being who she was, and being much more in tune with spiritual things, she speculated Gloria or her ghost might have had something to do with the boat’s engine refusing to start.

  “However, Leo, I have heard of people accidentally kicking loose the fuel line to the gas tank in a small boat.”

  She was happy to hear about the old man and his story. Unlike some people, she had no trouble crediting the communications of an old man who had had a stroke. I went on to tell her about Arness and me sharing chocolate cookies from Mrs. Mordant’s bottomless cookie jar. I learned that if I inserted the cookie into his claw hand he could do a fair job of eating it by himself. So we sat there munching on cookies while I related to him the problems down at the post office. His right eyebrow would rise from time to time in surprise. Another little step on his road to recovery.

  “Jeanette, you ought to have seen the tears in Mrs. Mordant’s eyes when she walked in the door. Her gratitude was almost embarrassing.”

  “Good for you, Leo. I am a firm believer that God places us in the right spot at the right time. You are his instrument in all this.”

  “Maybe so,” I answered. I believed in God, but I wasn’t sure what part he played in the daily affairs of people. Theology was not my forte and I tended to stay away from such things. I heard a chuckle from Jeanette. She knew my feelings. We said our good byes and hung up.

  I spent Sunday doing Sunday things, like laundry, reading the newspaper, drinking coffee and stealing cookies from the cookie jar.

  Chapter 31

  After a quick bowl of granola, I was off to work early on Monday morning. Pulling up to my parking space at the post office, I noted the shipping van was gone. Good, one less thing to worry about. I rechecked my watch. Only six a.m. There shouldn’t be another person in the building, and after a quick walkabout, I determined that no one was hiding in the various nooks and crannies.

  Well, first things first. I got the stepladder from its spot and went into Ashley’s office. Within seconds I had pulled the tape recorder out of its hiding place behind the heat register and changed out the tape. I put the stepladder away, went to my office, and listened to the tape.

  “There’s something you should know. This Thursday there will be a big shipment. You remember what we talked about . . .? Well, it is happening this Thursday. I don’t know what they look like. But there will be two of them, as usual. You remember . . .? Yes, that’s right.”

  I would have given anything to hear the other end of the conversation. The rest of the tape, as far as I could tell, dealt with ordinary post office stuff. I turned off my recorder and sat back in my chair. What shipment? It must be a shipment of drugs, but what the hell was she referring to when she said there were two of them? Two boxes was my guess, but that was pushing it, and it didn’t make sense.

  I heard a clang out on the floor; the early morning person was on the job. Without further speculation I dialed John Crouch’s number and played the tape to his answering machine. I added that I wasn’t sure what Ashley meant, but I assumed she meant two packages of some kind. I set the phone back in its cradle. Well, I had maybe four days to find out what she was talking about.

  I was starting to have caffeine withdrawal symptoms, so I decided a little rest and relaxation was in order. After tossing off a cheerful good morning to the morning person, I went out back to pick up the Anchorage paper, which was flown to Fire Bay on the 4:30 plane and delivered to our back door by the local paperboy. Thanks to the airplane, I could enjoy the same-day news just like anyone in Anchorage.

  I sat down with a cup of coffee, and scanned the paper. I was just beginning to think my boating incident had escaped mention when I got to the Alaska local news section. And there I was, looking very relieved as I climbed out of the boat with a helping hand from the good chief of police.

  I sighed. That I was due for some ribbing was an understatement.

  The accompanying article, written by a certain Ms. Jems, alluded to the fact the engine wouldn’t run because the fuel line was disconnected, a reason even the most seasoned boatman should go to a refresher safety course. Of course, mention was made that Leo Bronski was employed by the U.S. Postal Service.

  My hand automatically reached for the telephone, which rang right on cue.

  “Bronski!”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, very respectfully.

  I could almost hear him smile, when he said, “You, ah, know you made the Anchorage paper.”

  I sighed, and wondered how the rest of the day was going to go.

  “Yes, sir, I did.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, sir, other than being embarrassed.”

  “Well, Bronski, even O.I.C.‘s are human.”

  I decided to change the subject. “Sir, I think I have a lead on the murder of Gloria Plinski.”

  “What? My God, Bronski, that is great news! Who do you think did it?”

  “All I know so far is that it was a woman.”

  “Oh . . .well, how do you know that?”

  I told him the skiff motor quitting out there on the bay had been a blessing in disguise, that the only witness had had a stroke and could barely talk, but that I had a plan for further identification. What I didn’t tell him was that I thought the guilty party was going to be a member of the Postal Service.

  I heard a suck of air. No doubt a new cigar was being savaged in the Boss’s mouth.

  “Well, keep at it, Bronski. Keep me posted. And stay out of those boats! I’m short on O.I.C.‘s right now.”

  There was a click on the other end of the line. My audience was over.

  I hung up the phone, my belated “Thanks for calling,” echoing back at me. I sat back in my chair and chugged down the rest of a cold cup of coffee. After a minute or so, I
heard voices out on the floor. I checked my watch: seven o’clock. It was time for the early morning crew to be at work.

  As I headed out onto the main floor, I stopped to talk with the janitor, already busy mopping the floor. I told Jim I thought he was doing good work and to keep it up. He reminded me that hunting season was coming on, that he had a Cessna 185, and asked whether I would like to take a few days off to go hunt moose. The invitation was a real temptation for me, because I loved to be in the great outdoors, walking through the woods, on the hunt for moose. Call it a primal urge or romantic inclination; it didn’t matter. All I knew is that it was one of the things I lived for: to hunt, to bring home the meat.

  I thanked him for the offer and told him I would see how things went; maybe I could go. I meandered back to the office to do paperwork and to think about the next step investigation of Gloria’s murder. I heard the back door slam and checked my watch: eight-thirty a.m. Time for the second crew to be at work. I got up from my desk and peeked out my office door. Good, Ashley was at work, on time. Would wonders never cease? Back at my desk I took another slug of my cold coffee and made a mental note that if I was to be here on a permanent basis, I would definitely need my own pot.

  The office door slammed open and then slammed shut. In came Martha, face full of fury and hell bent for leather. She slammed her clipboard down on my desk and stood towering above me.

  “Mr. Bronski, do you have any control over that woman? Any at all?”

  I took a deep breath and resolved to hold my anger. Now was not the time to reprimand someone for not knocking. “What seems to be the problem, Martha?”

  She paused, trying, I suspected, to gather her wits. “She’s . . . she’s doing it again! She’s following everyone around, especially me! And if she doesn’t stop it, I’m going to knock her in the chops!”

  “Martha, you don’t want to do that. You would end up in jail,” I said, trying to be as calm as possible. I waited a few seconds before going on, hoping she would settle down.

  “I’ll have a word with her.”

  She snorted. “Yeah, that’s all you ever do. Does she have something on you? Because your so-called talks never, but never, do any good. People out there are tired of it. We have one of the best production records in Alaska, and you cannot get blood out of a turnip. Does that ring any of your bells, Mr. Bronski?”

  I was just about to tell her that insubordination wasn’t going to look good on her record, when she picked up her clipboard and walked out, the door slamming even louder than before.

  I sat back in my chair. Ashley was bringing the house down. A phone call was in order.

  Without further ado, I dug my cell phone out of its pocket and dialed. “Yeah?”

  “Boss, it’s me, Leo.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Sir, we have to get Ashley out of here. She’s causing morale problems here.”

  “What’s she doing?”

  “She ís following people around. It’s making them nervous.”

  There was a slurping sound, which meant the cigar was being moved around.

  “So handle it, Bronski.”

  “Can I fire her?”

  “No, Bronski. You have to find some other way to handle her. Look, I gotta go.”

  There was the usual click and the phone went dead. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he didn’t want to talk to me. Why would my boss want to avoid talking to me?

  I had to talk to somebody. Maybe old Crouch would talk. I dialed his office.

  “Sorry, Mr. Crouch isn’t here at the moment. Would you like to leave a number?”

  I left my number, but I had a hunch he wouldn’t call back either. What the hell was going on? Was I simply being paranoid? Well, paranoid or not, I had to find a way to get Ashley off the troops’ backs for a while. I knew what her excuse would be: “It’s for production’s sake and the needs of the service.”

  I picked up the phone. Might as well get it over with. My attention was drawn to the pile of paperwork, paperwork that could be done by Ashley. A smile came to my face as I asked her to come to my office.

  The door slammed.

  “All right, Bronski, what is it?”

  I silently handed her the paperwork.

  Her eyelids dropped down. “What the hell is this?”

  “Paperwork,” I answered, “and I want it done by this evening.”

  She hauled out the picture again.

  I almost laughed, but I managed to hold on. “Ashley, you can show that picture to whoever you want to, but if you don’t finish this paperwork by this evening, I’ll put you on suspension. Is that clear?”

  Her manner changed, became almost pleading. “Leo, I could make you a rich man.”

  “Oh, really? Well, that’s nice, but right now I want you to do the paperwork and stop harassing the troops out there. They know their jobs and don’t need you following them. Now, get out of my office!”

  Without another word she left, paperwork in hand. Maybe it would keep her busy for the rest of the day. I threw my pen down and stretched. I needed a break and I knew exactly what I was going to do. I grabbed my jacket and took my time walking through the various cases to the back door. Martha darted looks at me as I passed by. She probably wanted me to stop, but I decided not to. If she had a problem, she would have to come to my office. Right now, she had no complaints because Ashley was in her office doing the paperwork, dull repetitive paperwork that just about anyone could do. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw wonder-boy Sam Goodnight watching me. As usual, his first-class mail was flying into its respective slots. He seemed to be so darn talented—too talented—which set me to wondering about his part in this drama.

  I opened the back door and stepped into the warm fall sunlight. The post office problems disappeared. I hoped they would stay forgotten until I walked back through the door.

  My first stop was at the Eat More, and there sat Emily at her usual table. Since there was no chance her lover would see us together, I headed in her direction.

  “Hi, Emily. Mind if I sit down?”

  She smiled. “Only if you don’t shoot me.”

  “Not in here,” I answered. “Too many witnesses. Still, it’s not a bad idea.”

  She cocked her head and frowned.

  I patted her hand.

  “Just kidding. So how’s Sam?”

  Her face turned its usual glorious red.

  “Fine.”

  The waitress came and I ordered the biggest apple fritter I saw under the glass counter.

  Emily put her cup down. “You’re in a good mood.”

  I carefully looked around and leaned forward. “Emily, I’m making progress on the Plinski case.”

  I went on to tell her about the old man and his stroke and how he finally was able to get me to understand what he saw that day. She asked me what I was going to do about it, and I told her that it was going to be one careful move at a time. I wanted no screw-ups. She pleaded with me to tell her what the next move was, but I resisted. There might be someone at the cafe putting two and two together.

  I then proceeded to put a pat of butter on that oversized fritter and closed my eyes as I took a bite. Pure ecstasy! I opened them to see Emily staring at me in amazement.

  “Bronski, you’re going to get fat!”

  I assured her I wouldn’t and took another bite.

  “You’re just jealous,” I said in a muffled voice. “Now that you have a beau, you have to watch your figure. By the way, is he the one?”

  “The one, what?”

  I gave her a look over my rims. “You know what I mean.”

  She smiled a mouth full of braces. “I have to go, Leo. After that monster, I hope you can get up out of your chair. Have a nice day,” she said sweetly as she headed for the door.

  I shrugged. Monster or not, it went down the hatch. Sometimes we have to sin. It’s when we don’t control our sins that we get into real trouble. I had a hunch that’s what had happened to Gloria. Someone co
uldn’t control his or her’s murderous thoughts. I sighed. All this thinking was going to ruin my pleasure in eating the fritter. I took a last swig of coffee and left.

  Instead of going back to the post office, I headed over to the drug store where I bought a cheap disposable plastic camera. I have found that for snapshots these cameras work as well as an expensive one, and I definitely was not going to be shooting scenery.

  As I walked through the back door of the post office and onto the main floor, I noted that the troops were chatting merrily away. No doubt some production time would be lost, but their morale would be higher, and that was important to me. I did notice that Martha was not at her case. A fellow worker at a nearby sorting table said Martha had left, saying she was not feeling well. Ashley was not in sight. Either she had gone to lunch or she was hiding out. I cruised on up to the front counter and noted that there were only six people waiting in line. Maybe I had an uneventful afternoon ahead of me. Finally, I went by Ashley’s office and saw that she was working on the paperwork I had given her. Good, everyone in their place and doing their job. What more could an O.I.C. ask for?

  I had just sat down when there was a knock at my door. I sat back in my chair, took a deep breath, and said, “Come in.”

  It was Ashley. She closed the door behind her and stood there, arms folded and foot tapping. “Well, I hope you’re happy.”

  I leaned forward and motioned toward a chair. “Happy about what?”

  She remained standing, as I knew she would. “The slow-down in production! They should have been done fifteen minutes ago with first class!”

  Keeping my temper in check, I reminded Ashley that we were missing an employee. An employee who had a great attendance record.

  “Why do you think she is sick, Ashley?” I asked.

  She shook her head. She hadn’t a clue.

  “It’s probably because you were following them around and making sarcastic remarks!”

  She actually blanched and took a step back when I said this.

  I also reminded her that most of the employees had at least 500 hours of sick leave coming to them. Paid sick leave. By now I was standing, and I’m sure steam was coming out my ears.