Addressed to Kill

by Jean Flowers

  “She’s on her way,” Greta told me. I wondered if Greta deliberately made her announcement as a warning to me, in case I was doing or saying something neither of us would want Sunni to know about. Greta had, after all, nearly blown her job earlier when she supplied me with an advance copy of a news bulletin. I liked that we could cover each other’s backs. I knew it would come in handy in the future.

  By the time Sunni arrived a few minutes later, I’d taken out my e-reader and, I hoped, looked so engrossed in a thriller that I had no interest in what might be in my surroundings.

  “I ran into Joyce on the way here,” I said.

  “Morgan is about to get herself a deal,” Sunni said, taking a seat behind her desk. “Which could break the case.” I guessed we’d come back to Joyce later. “Thanks to you,” she muttered.

  I gave her my best nonthreatening, quizzical look. “I didn’t think that sympathy card trick got us very much.”

  “That wasn’t the first time she’d interacted with you. She’d seen you with me a number of times, and then saw you on campus near Dennis’s building. She passed the info on to our trifecta of thieves, warning them that you might be onto them and their route.”

  “And they’re the ones who’ve been following me.”

  Oops. Did I really say that out loud? I guessed I’d held it in too long. I hadn’t seen the three shadowy figures since they were in custody and figured there was no sense telling Sunni if the threat was contained.

  “Yes, nice of you to let me know about the tail.”

  “They never approached me. I was going to. If they spoke to me, or anything, I would have said something.” Throwing everything out there. “So Morgan knows the thieves?” Digressing now.

  “Correct. I guess they all know each other.” Sunni smiled. “Like all chiefs of police everywhere know each other.”

  And all postmistresses, I thought. “But you don’t think she was in on the robberies around town?”

  “That’s how it looks right now. The feds are giving us another day to work the murder angle with all four of them, but I honestly doubt that any of them have branched out into violence. Morgan has had her own gig going for a while—she’s really in her twenties, fakes her way into colleges as a base. When she landed in North Ashcot, she saw that she had competition. They decided they’d all cooperate, separate but equal marks.”

  “Wow. She’s been doing her own break-ins and following the crew’s jobs? How does she ever get her math homework done?”

  “Apparently, she has a very high IQ, one of these little geniuses, and she can pass for much younger than she is. In the end, it’s her pride that was her downfall. Dennis Somerville gave her something less than an A and she fell apart and engineered that ridiculous letter campaign against him. Which you followed up on. As I told you, I’m not sure we would have caught up with her otherwise.”

  “So you think they’re all innocent of Dennis’s murder—Morgan and the group of three—but you’re still holding them all?”

  “The longer we can keep them, the better the chance they’ll give us something. Remember these creeps know the towns they work. They’re onto people and places better than we are. That’s all they have to do, day and night, is figure out where homeowners are and what are the easiest places to break into. And there are a lot more of them than us.”

  I was newly impressed by Sunni’s reasoning. It must take a while, I figured, not only to track criminals, but to think like them. “I get it. They’re out there, watching everyone, casing potential sites for opportunities to commit crime. They’re like your auxiliary force.”

  Sunni laughed. “That’s a strange way to put it. But right on. I get the sense that Morgan in particular saw something outside Dennis’s house around the time of his murder. She’s holding out for a deal.”

  I thought I did well, containing my excitement that my charade with Joyce’s math majors had panned out even better than I thought. So what if Joyce wasn’t happy? Once Dennis’s killer was brought to justice, she’d be fine. I figured it was safe to bring her up now. “I met Joyce on the way in here today.”

  “So you said.”

  I waited. No matter how much help I was to my friend, she’d always have a hard time including me fully in her investigation. I knew it was her way of trying to keep me safe. “I guess she’s in the clear. Didn’t you say she’d been with her sister at the critical time?”

  “Good memory. Yes, her alibi is solid. She and her sister took her nieces shopping for clothes for some junior high Valentine’s Day dance. I guess it hits all ages.” I sensed a cynicism in Sunni’s remark. It occurred to me that I didn’t know very much about Avery’s father, except that they’d divorced years ago. “Anyway, no one is going to make their little kids lie for them.”

  “She’s upset with me for cornering her majors,” I said.

  “She’s probably embarrassed at being tricked into defending and protecting a career criminal, working out of her department.”

  “That department has had its problems,” I said, thinking of Hank’s ignominious departure.

  Greta came to the door and alerted Sunni that “We’re ready for you.”

  Sunni moved from her position behind her desk. “That’s it for now, Cassie,” she said.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  She laughed, handed me my jacket, and pointed to the exit. “You’re going that way. I’m going downstairs.”

  “Okay, maybe later,” I said, but she’d already left the room.

  It wasn’t my fault, then, that I didn’t get to tell her about the snow globe notes.

  20

  Walking back to my car in the post office parking lot, I checked my phone for messages. I had to accept the fact that I’d become one of those walk-and-talk people I often criticized, oblivious of their surroundings. I liked to think at least I’d never use my phone while crossing the street. That was some concession.

  I had messages from the usual array of people—if the FBI or NSA ever dumped my phone records, they’d be bored to death, seeing the same list every day. Except for the recent addition of Dyson Somerville, now an orphan, I realized.

  I called Dyson back on his landline, where his call had originated. I stopped short when I heard Dennis’s voice asking me to leave my name and number. I hung up without doing so. Too upsetting to respond to a dead person. I’d follow up later, when I was sitting in my living room, able to check my contacts for Dyson’s cell number.

  My mind was turning over what Dyson’s faculty visitors had told him about my activities relating to his father’s murder. Even stranger was their request that Dyson report back to them. And strangest of all was Hank’s request to visit his nemesis’s office. I thought I had it right that only Joyce didn’t make that request. I felt that Mercedes had more of a sentimental reason, but why not ask to see the bedroom or the exercise room, too? The probing would seem most reasonable coming from Dennis’s killer, but they couldn’t all have killed him.

  I wondered how the word got out that I’d been to Dennis’s campus office. I doubted Gail would have told Hank, since she’d expressed displeasure even referring to him as part of the faculty. I imagined that Dyson, in his naïveté, would have let it be known that I’d also visited Dennis’s home office. For now, I thought it was just as well that I couldn’t reach Dyson. It wouldn’t be very sensitive of me to keep querying him about the faculty visits.

  Too bad all the fuss over what I knew was wasted. If anything, I had more questions than anyone.

  Dinner was also on my mind. Quinn and I had made tentative plans for a celebratory dinner out. I smiled as I thought how, thanks to my nervousness, everyone was making such a big deal out of a single talk—something real teachers did every day without fanfare. But I’d also invited Dyson for dinner and now thought it would be better to have it at home.

  It took only a
couple of quick texts with Quinn to straighten it out. He’d cook in my kitchen for all of us. I couldn’t have wished for anything better.

  I had a flashback to many similar situations with my ex-fiancé. Adam Robinson could turn a simple change of plans into a major incident. What if the important councilman he’d planned to meet got upset and crossed Adam off his list? What if he lost time at the office because the timing had to be changed by thirty minutes? Even worse, what if the only tie that went with the Tuesday evening suit had not been cleaned properly? I felt relieved and lucky that Quinn offered no such drama over small things.

  My timing was good. I reached my car as I wrapped up a text to Linda, confirming her arrival tomorrow evening. I’d also had an e-mail from Linda, who must have been especially bored today. She’d attached a clip from the police brief in a suburban Boston paper. I scanned it to learn that an angry resident in West Milton, Massachusetts, punched out his mail carrier when a package he was expecting didn’t arrive. The unnamed attacker, twenty-five, was charged with aggravated assault, with possible federal charges pending. The mailman was injured but drove himself to the hospital. Was Linda trying to send me a message?

  Out of habit, I looked at the darkened windows of the post office. A small night-light in the lobby and another behind the counter cast odd shadows around the space. I resolved that next week I’d put in five full days behind that counter and would cook dinner for Quinn every night. I felt secure making the second promise, since I knew Quinn would never allow it as long as he was upright.

  I checked the corner across the street, where I’d first seen the trio of stalkers. All was quiet. I wondered if Morgan or any of the other three crooks in custody had given up useful information in the murder case. I imagined Sunni, arms folded across her chest, waiting them out.

  I drove home, conscious of the notes in my pocket. I might have shown the page to Sunni, if I hadn’t been summarily ushered from her office. Now I thought it better to wait until I had more of an idea, or any idea at all, what they could mean. I had the startling thought that the notes might even be left over from a silly game Dennis had been playing with his son years ago. Maybe I should ask Dyson if there was ever a game that went unfinished. Of course that would mean explaining to him where I’d found the paper in the first place. Another dead end.

  No wonder I needed a nap.

  * * *

  Quinn had his own key to my house, like any trusted home helper, but he never used it if he thought I was home. I woke, therefore, to a persistent ringing of my doorbell.

  I’d fallen asleep on my easy chair, fully clothed except for my jacket, the one with the eagle patch, which had inspired such confidence in my listeners during my classroom presentation.

  I staggered to the door, noticing the time on the way. Close to eight o’clock. “I can’t believe I slept this long. What about Dyson?” I asked Quinn. “I was expecting him to come for dinner.”

  “He called me earlier and said some old high school friends were luring him away with the promise of pizza at their old haunt. I told him I knew you wouldn’t mind. I texted you, but . . .”

  “I fell asleep.”

  “It’s just as well he reconnected with his buddies. He couldn’t hang around with us, uh, folks forever.”

  “Were you about to say ‘with us old folks’?”

  He smiled. “Possibly. You realize we’re almost a generation older than Dyson. He’s barely twenty, and we’re—”

  “Ouch. No wonder I fell asleep.”

  “And now I have to tell you that I’m going to be leaving soon. But I can throw together something for you from leftovers before I go, if you want.”

  My face reddened at the thought that Quinn felt he was responsible for my every dinner. “No, please don’t. I’m not even that hungry.”

  “Okay, if you’re sure.”

  “Where are you going? It’s not the boys’ club night, is it?”

  Quinn shook his head and explained that he had an emergency, which was how he and Fred labeled a prime business opportunity. An estate lawyer had requested their presence as the family made their decision about who would be trusted to manage their auction. Fred was out of town, so it fell to Quinn to meet and woo the potential lucrative client.

  “It sounds like a shoo-in,” he said. “They’re not even considering other options, like a tag sale. The bad news is it’s all the way down in Northampton, at least sixty or seventy minutes, even at this hour.”

  “Do you want some company?”

  He pushed the hair from my eyes and stared at my face. I knew what he was seeing. Fatigue, among other signs of stress. “I couldn’t put you through that.”

  As much as I would have liked time to talk to Quinn about all the loose ends of the Dennis Somerville case, I thought I’d only be a distraction. Or asleep in the passenger seat.

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” I said. “Another rehearsal, right?”

  “Unless we cram on Saturday before the gig.”

  We hugged at the door and I waved Quinn off. I found myself suddenly wide-awake with no one to talk to. And full responsibility for getting my own dinner.

  * * *

  I solved the first problem with a Skype call to Linda. I caught her up on the developments—how the crooks might turn out to be a help in finding Dennis’s killer, how some old notes might also be useful, and how all my suspects were lining up.

  “I wish I could get you to stop,” she said.

  “Stop what?” As if I didn’t know.

  “I know you’re good at this investigating stuff. But I worry about your safety.”

  “I appreciate your concern.”

  Linda laughed. “Don’t treat me like one of your customers.”

  “That’s how you sound.”

  Linda was in her Fenway apartment, completely color-coordinated in black and chrome, with dashes of red. Nothing Quinn would have bought or sold. “Maybe you should apply for a position in the Inspection Office. I’ll check to see what the dates are for applying. You know they have all these special windows of operation.”

  “I don’t think so, Linda.”

  “Why not? You’d at least have a bulletproof vest and gun training.”

  “I’ll pass.”

  “Well, be careful, Cassie.”

  “What time do you think you’ll get here tomorrow evening?” I asked.

  “I leave right after work, so probably around eight. What are you going to wear?”

  “Didn’t you threaten to take me shopping on Saturday?”

  “Yes, yes. The timing’s perfect, by the way,” Linda said. “I like this new guy, but not enough for a Valentine’s Day date, you know.”

  “Too soon for big expectations,” I offered, having been there.

  “Yeah, so I have the perfect excuse. My old friend in the boonies needs some company.”

  “Whatever you need,” I said. “I’m all yours.”

  * * *

  My so-called dinner was particularly uninspiring. I’d tried to make a soup out of old veggies and new pasta, but the broccoli was soggy and the pasta tough. Nothing like the wonton soup I could have in Boston at the touch of a button, or the sushi offerings I used to have on speed dial. I settled for toasted cheese and tomatoes.

  Done with food for a while, I cleared a spot at the kitchen table for my laptop, paper notebook (a low-tech backup plan I couldn’t shake), and the sheet of copied notes I’d found hidden in Dennis’s snow globe.

  I smoothed out the paper and studied the words.

  Professor—1 K is steep. LJ.

  Prof. One week to finals How much? B.

  Professor ~ Merci! Such a bargain. C.

  Prof.—You can’t stop now. A. Mc.

  I ran through all the scenarios I’d already concocted and got nowhere all over again.

  I was ready
to give up and call it a night when I had a flash of insight. I’d been struggling to figure out the wording on the notes. One thousand what? What did final exams have to do with anything? Who’d use French? Don’t stop what? Did the A, B, and C signatures represent grades and not the senders’ initials? Then what did LJ represent?

  I’d been intent on examining the message, parsing the phrases, when I should have been considering the medium. The paper they were written on, the original notes, in the shape of standard sticky notes, except that these notes had a border on each edge. It was hard to make it out because the copy process had smudged the letters. On closer inspection, they weren’t actually letters. They looked like Mrs. Wyman’s algebra class, with symbols and Greek letters. I was proud that I recognized the letter pi. Or was that from geometry class? Finally, I realized I’d seen the characters more recently—on the office door of Hank Blackwood.

  Did that mean the notes had been sent to Hank? If so, how did they end up in Dennis’s snow globe? With no real proof, I made a leap. If I couldn’t be a cop, then why not take leaps that cops couldn’t legally take? What if the speculation about a professor taking bribes was true, and Hank was the professor? If Dennis found out, he would have a great deal of leverage against Hank, forcing him into early retirement at the college and out of the Ashcots.

  I considered that Dennis was blackmailing Hank but ruled against it (why not be a judge also?), since I liked him and his son.

  After those leaps, it was all clear. LJ didn’t want to pay Hank a thousand dollars for a good grade; B was still negotiating; C was very happy with the outcome; and A Mc was unhappy that Hank either was closing down his little side business, or simply wouldn’t accommodate A Mc.

  I picked up the phone to call Sunni at the same time that my doorbell rang. It was almost ten o’clock and I wasn’t expecting anyone. Quinn would still be in Northampton. And anyone else would call first at this hour, even Sunni.

  My dining room and living room combo space was dark. I decided to go to the window onto the porch and get a look at my guest. It was impossible, however, to do this with complete privacy, since the window was at the same level as the door. As soon as I moved the curtain, the person would see me.