by Vicki Vass
The Postman
is Late
(A Neighborhood Watch Mystery)
Vicki Vass
This book is fiction. All characters, events and organizations portrayed in this novel are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
For information, email the author at [email protected] or visit her website at vickivass.com.
Tedeschi Publishing
Cover design by Elizabeth Berry MacKenney
Berrygraphics.com
Copyright © 2015 Vicki Vass
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0692552353
DEDICATION
To the real Grandma Jan who keeps watch over our neighborhood. We sleep sound at night knowing you’re always on the watch.
© 2015, Tony Tedeschi
Chapter One – Jan’s Notebook, Today
Some neighbors might say I’m set in my ways but what other ways could I be set in? After 75 years on this planet, I’m not about to change. I have a routine, and I like to keep to it. My mornings start the same way every day. I have my first cup of Jewel Eight O’Clock Extra Bold coffee and then head outside. Today is no different.
I checked my watch and glanced up and down South Linden Avenue for Michael’s dark blue Dodge Neon. Seventeen houses on the east side, eighteen on the west. Ranches, split levels, bungalows, one or two colonials sprinkled in. Woodland View, Illinois, is fifteen miles west of Chicago. The thirteen thousand, nine hundred and seventy-two residents of Woodland View sleep sound at night, hidden from the danger of the big city. And, my street, Linden Avenue, is a dead-end street surrounded by the DuPage County Forest Preserve. We are an island to ourselves.
I looked up and down the street again for the Neon and checked my watch, a little after 6 a.m. and the newspapers were late. This wouldn’t do. I tapped my foot against the curb. Patience isn’t my virtue.
I walked to the corner to see if I could spot Michael. It’s not like him to be late. At the corner house, Mr. Hiro was out early raking leaves in his wildflower garden. I waved to him. His English is worse than my Japanese so we have an understanding and communicate through smiles and nods. Some of the neighbors complain about his native wildflower front yard but I appreciate his hard work and tenacity. And, if he misses any weeds I make sure to yank them out when he isn’t looking. I can’t help it if sometimes I can’t tell the weeds from the flowers.
6:07 a.m. still no newspapers. This would throw my whole day off. Each weekday is precisely organized according to my schedule. Tonight is Bunco night at the VFW hall. Yes, I had a full day. The Dodge Neon squealed around the corner off of Spring Oaks onto South Linden. Michael slammed on his brakes when he saw me standing in the street. “So sorry, Grandma Jan.” He handed me my Chicago Tribune.
“Michael, no need to speed. We’ll make up the time,” I said, taking the newspaper and sprinting alongside his car.
Michael is a nice young man working the extra job delivering newspapers to care for his new baby. As he threw the papers on my neighbors’ driveways, I strolled behind and delivered them to the doorsteps. Years ago when I started delivering papers, some of my neighbors thought I was stealing them. I explained that I was bringing them up to their doorstep to save them the trouble of walking down to the curb. Now they greeted me with a smile. I needed the exercise and it isn’t as if it was every house like in the past. Most people these days get their news on their computers or their phones. I still like the feel of paper though I don’t like the smudged ink on my hands.
I headed back to my house, a no-nonsense suburban split-level. Like most of the houses on Linden Avenue, it was built during the 1960s housing boom. It was time for my eight-year-old great-grandson Daniel to leave for school. His mother, Meg, my granddaughter lives in the main house with my daughter, Valerie, and her husband, Bill. Valerie built a second floor addition for me. I have my own little apartment complete with back stairs so I won’t disturb the rest of the family. It is quite cozy with its six by six foot porch. From my perch, I can see into all the neighbors’ yards. The nice family next door has a beautiful garden. Those are the Andersons, Jeffrey and Debbie, and their 20-year-old son, Tony. On the other side is Anne Hillstrom and her white Persian cat, Sassy. I’m not what you’d call an animal lover but Sassy and I have an understanding. I appreciate cats because they keep to themselves and aren’t as messy as dogs.
I made my second pot of Jewel Eight O’Clock Extra Bold coffee. I finished the rest of the pound of bacon I made earlier. Valerie constantly warns me about cholesterol. It isn’t anything that I worry about. I weigh the same 90 pounds I have since I was a showgirl at the Sabre Room. That’s where I met my husband, Gino, and Frank Sinatra. But that’s a story for another day.
I relaxed until 11 a.m. Now it was time for Gary, the postman. I went back outside. Next to Anne’s house is Bob Wilson’s house. He is on oxygen and can’t leave the house to get his mail. So I deliver it to him every day, rain, snow or shine. I was more reliable than the post office especially during the week when Gary was on duty. The neighbors constantly complain to me about how Gary tries to shove packages into their street side mailbox instead of delivering them to the door.
I went and checked my mailbox. There was nothing in it. Not too unusual for Gary. He was late. I breathed in the spring lilacs that Anne planted along her driveway. Sassy popped up in the picture window. We nodded at each other in recognition.
12:22 p.m. I checked the mailbox once again. Still empty. Watching for the white and blue Jeep, I walked back down to the corner. The neighborhood was quiet. Most people were at work. My daughter, Valerie, was at her real estate agency. She wouldn’t be home for hours. I walked north down South Linden Avenue as far as I could before entering North Linden Avenue. I was trying to avoid the other Jan, North Linden Avenue Jan. She’d have something to say about something. I didn’t have time for her nonsense.
I stopped in front of the bungalow that was foreclosed upon months ago. It is next to Mr. Hiro’s house. The nice young family with the large standard poodle just disappeared one day. Now the lawn had gone to seed and the weeds were three feet high. I pulled out my cloth measuring tape to double check and as I expected it was nearly 18 inches over city code. I called the city and the bank, complaining, but still no one came out. I might have to take matters into my own hands. I could feel Mrs. Hiro peeking out her front window at me. She must have been trying to figure out why I was measuring the grass. I put my measuring tape away back in my pocket and gave her a wave. She closed the curtains quickly. Some neighbors might think I’m a busybody and that I should mind my own business. I live here. This is my business.
The asphalt on the long driveway was cracking horribly. It should have been resealed last year. The whole house was an eyesore. I walked along, examining the cracking driveway which led to the detached two-car garage behind the bungalow. That’s where I saw the postal truck idling. Strange, why would Gary pull into this driveway?
I peeked inside the open driver’s cab. It was empty except for his cup of Starbuck’s coffee. I touched it, it was still warm. I thought I better not go any further in case nature called and he had to make a quick stop. This would be his best choice. The grass in the back yard was worse than the front. You could hide a body back here and no one would ever know. 12:38 p.m. I sat on the bumper of the postal truck waiting for Gary to fi
nish his business. I checked my watch again. 12:40 p.m. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move in the tall weeds. They parted. Sassy came out, carrying something in her mouth. “Sassy, you bad girl. Does Anne know you’re out again?” I asked her.
Sassy stared at me. “All right, dear, let me see what you have.” I bent down and tried to grab her. She dropped the package and ran off. I picked it up. It was a half-open Kibbles treat sample package wrapped in foil and addressed to Anne Hillstrom. “Why would Sassy carry that down the block?” I mused. I looked down the path of trampled weeds Sassy laid down. I followed the trail of letters, packages, junk mail and catalogs. At its end, a pair of size eight black Oxford work shoes pointed up to the sky like the Wicked Witch of the East from underneath a rusty wheelbarrow. I lifted the wheelbarrow. There was nothing I could do. Gary was gone. Now I knew why the postman is late.
Chapter Two
I directed the EMTs to the body, to Gary. Police Chief Mark Krundel answered my speed dial and sent out the full force. I find it’s always best to start at the top when you have a problem. Ambulances, fire trucks and police cars flocked to our normally quiet dead-end street. Dead-end street was an appropriate description for the matter at hand. Their sirens cut through the still afternoon air.
“Jan, are you all right?” Chief Krundel asked me coming up to where I was standing in front of the abandoned house. Now in his fifties, Chief Krundel started as a Woodland View Patrolman out of the academy and worked his way up through the ranks. He is a good cop, good neighbor and a friend. I first met him when I did a ride along twenty-five years ago. I helped launch the pilot Community Task Force. I was a young woman of fifty then, and my husband, Gino, didn’t relish the fact that I could be in danger and even more so that I might be late with dinner. But we worked it out. Chief Krundel, Patrolman Krundel, at that time, was just months out of the Marines and very green. I gave him directions around town. The first ride along was at night and as always things were quiet. We stopped at Chubby’s Drive-through for greasy cheeseburgers and fries. He was a handsome boy, no more than 175 pounds, which looked good on his five foot nine inch frame. You could tell he was in the Corps because every answer ended with, “Yes, ma’am,” “No, Ma’am.” Back then he kept a crew cut. I hold myself responsible for his Chubby’s double cheeseburger habit. The double cheeseburger with Italian beef and mozzarella topping habit. Since that first night, Mark has kept Chubby’s in business. Now as I stand here looking at him, I’m sure he’s pushing three hundred pounds.
“Mark, I’m fine.”
“Jan, tell me what happened?”
“I was doing my afternoon rounds, waiting to deliver the mail. Gary was late as usual. I walked down the block to see if I could get a glimpse of his truck. I stopped here to measure the grass. You know it’s almost a foot higher than city ordinance allows. I’ve told you about this before, Mark.”
“Jan, I know, we’ll get on it. But can we get back to the postman?”
“Yes, Gary.” I paused for a moment. “I found Sassy, Anne Hillstrom’s cat. You know Anne, my neighbor on the north side? Her white Persian was in the weeds in the backyard here. She was carrying a package. This one here.” I handed him the foil wrapped treats. “I followed her trail back through the weeds and found poor Gary sticking out from underneath the wheelbarrow.”
“Besides Gary, did you see anything else unusual today? Where there strangers on the block? Was there anyone else around?”
In my head, I went through the day’s events. Nothing out of the ordinary other than Michael was slightly late with the papers. “Mark, no, the street was empty.” I shook my head. “I don't understand, who would want to kill Gary? He was our mailman and he’s also a neighbor. He lives in the brown ranch.” I knew Mark would know which house I was talking about. There was only one brown ranch on the block.
“Jan, there’s going to be more questions. We will need you to come in and give a statement,” Mark said. “Gary was a federal employee so the FBI will be involved.” He started to turn back to the crime scene.
I stopped him. “Mark, what about the undelivered mail? Do you want me to take care of it?” I asked.
The police chief shook his head. “The postal police are on their way. Let them handle it,” he said.
I watched the beehive of activity, standing guard over the crowd of neighbors who gathered on the street. They all had questions, questions I had no answers for. After the EMTs took Gary away, the police secured the scene with their yellow tape. I helped them disperse the neighbors, sending everyone home.
5:17 p.m. Valerie would be home soon. My son-in-law Bill was working late. My granddaughter, Meg and her son, Danny, would be home for dinner by now. With all the excitement, I hadn’t taken anything out for dinner or had time to go the store. I examined my pantry for a quick meal and then remembered the cheese tortellini that I made at Easter and froze. Those could be cooked quickly in a pot of boiling water with a splash of salt. I heated olive oil, garlic, salt and pepper in a sauté pan. After I boiled the tortellini, I put them in the pan with a spoonful of the pot water. I grated some fresh Parmesan cheese on top.
I carried the bowl downstairs to the main house. Meg and Danny were sitting at the dining room table, working on homework together. I sat down next to them to watch. “Hey, Gran, can you stay with Danny for a couple minutes? I have a phone call to make for work,” Meg said.
“Sure, Meg,” I said. “Danny, what are you working on?”
“It’s a book report on Percy Jackson.”
“How’s it going?” I remembered the book. We read it together before bedtime.
“I kind of cheated because we watched the movie.”
I do that all the time I thought with our monthly book club. “How’s everything going at school?”
Danny got quiet.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
I took his face in my hands. “Tell Gran Gran, what’s going on?”
“There’s this kid, Jimmy, in my class. He’s like twice as big as me and when we play tag at recess you’re supposed to tap people on the back. Every time he’s it, he punches me really hard in the back.”
“Have you told him to stop?”
Danny shook his head.
“Why not?”
“Gran, Gran, I told you he’s twice my size.”
“Danny, the thing with bullies is that they’re usually big chickens. The reason they pick on smaller kids is because they’re afraid to fight anyone their own size. They’re afraid they’re not good enough. They’re not tough enough. The best fight to be in is the one where you just walk away. Next time he starts something with you, you walk away. If he follows you and he’s going to hurt you, punch him right in the nose,” I told him.
“Gran, Gran, I’ll get in trouble,” Danny said.
“I’m not saying start the fight. I’m not saying fighting is right, but you have to defend yourself. This world is full of bullies. There are good people, too, but you can’t be afraid. OK?”
“Ok? Gran, Gran.” Danny gave me a big hug.
“I want you to know I always have your back.” I held him a moment too long. He pulled away.
Meg came back in the room, talking loudly on her cell phone. Valerie walked in the front door. “Ma, what happened today? I heard it on the news. I tried to call you. You didn’t call me back,” she said. She looked concerned; she was always worrying about me. It’s funny I thought it should be the other way around. When do the kids become the parents? I guess it’s all part of growing old. I’m sure she’ll go through it one day with Meg. She came into the kitchen. When I look at her, I see myself at her age. At fifty years old, she is stunning. Her long dark hair with no signs of gray yet, her hazel eyes clear and bright, her olive skin free from wrinkles except the worry lines around her eyes. She is a worrier.
“Valerie, I’ve been too busy. I had to supervise traffic. There were news reporters, EMTs, the police. An
d I had to keep the neighbors from bothering them all,” I said.
“Ma, you must have been scared.” Valerie set her leather briefcase on the table.
My daughter knows me as mom, caregiver, cook. She doesn’t know how many dead bodies I’ve seen. “Valerie, there’s some pasta warming on the stove. I’ve got to get ready for Bunco.” I stood up.
“Ma, you’re not going out, are you?”
“It’s Bunco night. Of course, I’m going. I’m in charge,” I said, stopping to kiss Daniel and Meg before heading back upstairs.
I sprinkled powdered sugar on the Italian wedding cookies, a recipe passed down in my family for generations. The secret is you have to let them cool off after you take them out of the fryer. Then you can add the powered sugar. Otherwise it gets all goopy. It was my night to bring snacks, and I always say homemade is best made.
Chapter Three
Woodland View’s VFW hall is the family room of the community. Everything takes place here from Boy Scout pancake breakfasts to church spaghetti dinners. And, once a month our community Bunco game. I arrived at the VFW hall to find North Linden Avenue Jan taking over, setting up the tables for the night’s game. She was doing it all wrong. I knew there would be no avoiding the conversation. “Jan, how are you?” I asked.
“Fine, Jan. How are you?” She stood tall, her lanky frame and the lines on her face made her look like a wooden ruler. She doesn’t have the natural curves that I have. Maybe that was part of her problem with me. The boys always preferred me to her. “I heard the terrible news about South Linden this afternoon. How horrifying for you and your block,” she said. “I walked over but you looked busy.”
“Yes, it’s a tragedy but we have everything under control. Chief Krundel is on top of things. I’m helping with the investigation.”