by Jean Flowers
“Surprised?” Sunni had asked the first time she caught me staring at the sleek black appliance. “My little indulgence, paid for it myself, of course. It’s fully programmable.” She’d run her finger along the steam pipe. “Espresso drinks, three cup sizes, timer, temperature control. The Cadillac of coffeemakers.”
“Dishwasher safe?” I’d asked.
She’d smiled and told me she was saving up for the newest model in red.
“Cappuccino?” she asked now.
I accepted Sunni’s offer and took a seat as she’d indicated. Soon, I was propped in a battered but comfortable chair across from her large oak desk, which bore stains and scratches from unnamed incidents over the years. Old wooden file cabinets, similarly scarred, and a bulky cast-iron radiator completed the look. Altogether, the furniture in Sunni’s office was of the kind our local antiques dealer would immediately put through the wringer of restoration. I wondered where said dealer was at that moment. Not downstairs in the two-cell jail, I hoped.
I sipped rich, strong coffee through whole milk foam and waited patiently while Sunni dealt with the crises of the day: a male officer with a flag patch on his sleeve, like his boss’s, gave a verbal report on a rabid skunk that was terrorizing Mr. Jayne’s backyard; and a female officer told another tale about a vandalized restroom at the high school shared by North and South Ashcot. Sunni checked off a sheaf of paper forms for each officer. Another time, I would have been curious to know what the paperwork was all about.
No one yet had mentioned the murdered man found in our woods. At least, not in front of me. The officers gone and her own steaming cappuccino ready, Sunni took her official seat and readied a pen and notebook. Her look was all business.
“How long have you known Scott James, Cassie?”
And we were off. I was grateful to still be “Cassie” to the woman in uniform. I cleared my throat. “Just since I’ve been back, about three months. I met him around the same time that I met you.”
“What do you know about him?”
I swallowed. “Not much. Not as much as you do, I’m sure. I don’t know what he did before he came to North Ashcot. I don’t even know where he’s from. Do you?” Ramble on, Cassie.
“You were at lunch with him today?”
“Yes, but just lunch. I mean it wasn’t really a date.” I hoped I wasn’t blushing. Dark hair notwithstanding, I’d been blessed with fair skin that reddened easily, whether I was embarrassed or just thought I might be embarrassed in the future.
“What did you talk about?”
“General stuff. A lot about me. How I came to be a postal employee. A little about his garden. He mentioned Chicago, but I don’t think that’s where he’s from. He said ‘out West’ but that could be anywhere. And I have no idea if he was in the antiques business there, or . . .” I shrugged and finally fell silent.
Like all good cops on television, Sunni nodded, wrote a few words on her notepad, and waited me out. She raised her eyebrows slightly, as if to ask, “Anything else?” At first no words came out, but like all good interviewees on television, guilty or not, I couldn’t stand the silence. “Can I ask, does this have something to do with the murdered man in the woods? Is Scott under suspicion?”
“Do you have reason to think he should be?”
I threw up a mug-free hand and let it fall onto my lap. “No, no. I’m clueless here.”
Sunni sat back. “Do you have any idea why there would be a stack of telephone directories in his apartment, a couple hundred of them, addressed to the Postmaster, North Ashcot, Massachusetts?” She paused. “That’s you, right?”
My phone books? I gulped. Loudly, I thought. This time there was no doubt that my face was red. I set my mug on a napkin on the corner of Sunni’s desk. “I should explain.”
“Uh-huh.”
I told Sunni as much as I knew—emphasizing that it was just this morning that I’d noticed the phone books were missing. I infused my narrative with numerous excuses as to why I hadn’t notified her office immediately about the theft: I’d thought maybe Ben had moved them; I wasn’t sure I hadn’t simply misplaced about two hundred pounds of paper; I’d had a flood of Monday morning customers; I didn’t want to bother her with something so trivial; I was going to do it right after lunch, but then . . . blah, blah, blah.
Sunni let me go on. When I was out of excuses and nearly out of breath, convinced that the theft was connected to the murder in the woods, I pulled the scrap of green plastic from my pocket. I placed it on her desk, smoothing it out while I explained how I came to have it.
“I should have known when I found this in Scott’s car,” I said, rubbing my wrists in anticipation of the handcuffs I was sure were coming. I needed to tell Ben I might never be back. I gave Sunni an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. I should have—”
“Okay.” Sunni took pity and stopped me, holding up her hand. She ignored the slippery green evidence. “Scott, or Quinn Martindale, as he’s also known, would like to talk to you.”
My eyes widened. A different name. Who uses an alias? A fugitive? Or just someone needing a change? Maybe I should have done that last spring. What would I have chosen?
I snapped to the present. “Scott has another identity? Is he in Witness Protection?”
“No, not WitSec, but we’re still checking out other possibilities.”
“Is he in jail?”
She shook her head. “We’re just holding him for now. The victim had Scott’s names and address on him.”
“A business card for his store or a memo to stop in?” I asked, as if five trained police officers wouldn’t have thought of that.
“Not a card, not business. A piece of paper with the names Scott James and Quinn Martindale, and Scott’s home address. We ran the names and that’s how we found they’re the same guy. Then we found the phone books in his home.”
“Addressed to me.” I inadvertently let out a loud sigh.
I thought back. It was more than a little likely that while Scott and I were eating delicate sandwiches and lifting our teacups, Sunni and her officers were going through his house. And probably his shop. I’d been to each location only once, while negotiating about pieces from Aunt Tess’s estate. Now I pictured the small blue cottage he called home, and its detached garage, being invaded by uniforms. I imagined the neat shop where he worked, with people carrying radios and clubs and guns marching down its narrow aisles.
“You didn’t know him by any other name?” Sunni asked.
“No, I swear.”
“Well, a flag has been raised. We’re checking to see if there’s maybe a warrant for him under either name in another state.”
I couldn’t help thinking how quickly the Boston PD would have had more information on the man I broke bread with. Sunni’s office seemed to shrink while I sat there, reminding me how small her operation was. No wonder I’d had to wait so long for transportation home.
Sunni sat back and looked at the cracked ceiling before addressing me again. “He’s declined a lawyer, but he’s asked to talk to you.”
I’d almost forgotten that part of Sunni’s revelation. “I can’t imagine why,” I said. Unless he wanted to apologize for taking the phone books.
“Are you willing to see him? There’ll be an officer in the room with you.”
“Of course,” I said, though I thought Scott/Quinn would be better off with an attorney. And maybe I would, too. “By the way, am I . . . uh . . . on the hook for not letting you know right away about the directories?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Sunni said. “Technically, you had twenty-four hours to track them down yourself. But next time . . .”
“You’ll be the first to know.” I mentally wiped my brow, the expression dodging a bullet coming to mind.
* * *
Officer Ross Little opened the door to a small room in the opposite corn
er of the building from Sunni’s office. Scott/Quinn was staring at the mirrored wall we all knew was also a window, his posture more relaxed than I expected, given that he was here involuntarily. Unless he had expected this interruption of his life. I had so many questions. I wondered just what right I had to answers, given that he’d asked to talk to me. But for all I knew he’d sent for me to ask me for a favor. Not that I could think of a single thing I could do for him, other than forgive him for taking my property, which I wasn’t ready to do until I had it back.
He stood and offered me his hand. Ross stepped in to discourage me from taking it, and then retreated to his corner spot once Scott and I sat down. I wondered at the strange circumstances. Scott wasn’t cuffed or restrained in any way, yet we couldn’t shake hands? Obviously, he hadn’t been charged with anything, or he’d have been downstairs, in jail. As it was, he had a plastic cup of coffee in front of him. Across the table, I could see that it was weak. I doubted it had been brewed in the fancy pot I’d been served from.
“Thanks for seeing me,” Scott said. Looking more closely, I saw that his face was gray and drawn, his eyes glazed. Not the funny, pleasant lunch companion of a few hours ago. Just being in a police station interview room could have that effect. It did on me.
“Do you know what all this is about?” I asked, turning my head from one corner of the room to another, my eyes meeting no obstruction other than Officer Ross Little.
“I have an idea why they brought me here. But first I want to apologize for, you know, the phone book thing.”
The phone book thing. I couldn’t wait to hear the why of the unlikely theft, but Scott started with the how. I sat back as much as possible in the very straight-backed chair.
“Remember that function in the community room on Saturday?” he asked.
There weren’t so many events in North Ashcot on any given weekend that I wouldn’t remember. “The Seniors Club crafts sale,” I said, and thought of the stale muffin offered to me by a nosy young woman named Wanda.
“It was a nice time.”
I agreed, recalling a special purchase I made from a local photographer, Siena Roberts. A set of lovely color prints of small-town Massachusetts and New Hampshire in all four seasons. I almost fell for Scott’s diversion by commenting on them. Instead, I said simply, “Yes.”
“You volunteered, which you do a lot, I notice, when there’s a cause you can help with.”
I blushed at the secret truth that my motives for volunteering didn’t always stem from altruism, but often from the need to connect with people and show support for the town I hoped to call home again. “So do you,” I said. “Didn’t you provide extra tables for the special exhibits? And weren’t you part of the cleanup committee for the weekend?” Not that I’d been paying attention.
“Yes, but I had an ulterior motive.”
“You, too?”
“Huh?”
“Nothing.” I looked over at Ross, who was shifting his weight from one foot to the other. I expected him to call a halt to the so-called visit any minute. “What about all that?” I asked in a hurried tone. “Why is the crafts event so important?”
“It got me a key to the community room for the weekend. And there was so much buying and selling and eating going on, it wasn’t hard to rig the door between the room and the post office so I could get back in on Sunday.”
“And on a Sunday, you’d have all the time you needed to haul away those phone books while my office was closed.”
“That’s right.” His look was just sheepish enough to take away my desire to slap him.
“I don’t understand why you took the directories in the first place. And what do the books have to do with the dead man and why you’re in the police station now? And are you really Scott James or Quinn Martindale?” I thought I’d asked enough questions. It was time for some answers.
Scott leaned on his elbows and put his head in his hands. When he came up for air, he said, “I don’t know where to begin.”
“Yes, you do.”
A wry grin. “With my mother, I guess.”
I gave him an annoyed look. We didn’t need flipness. “I’m serious, Scott.”
“So am I. Really, it begins with my mother.”
“What about her?”
“She’s been charged with murder.”
I was glad I hadn’t brought my coffee into the room. It would have been dripping down the table leg, and mine, by now. “What? You mean . . .” I stuttered. “She’s connected to the man they found in the woods today?”
Scott smiled. I don’t know how he did it, but he almost laughed. “No, no. Not our murder. She’s back home.”
“Chicago?”
“San Francisco.”
“Of course.” I was on the edge of many emotions. Sympathy. Anger. Resentment. Fear.
“I’d like to explain.”
“I’d like to hear it.”
But I wasn’t destined to hear any more today, it seemed. A knock on the door interrupted us. A signal to Ross apparently, since he approached us without directly acknowledging the tap, tap. “Time’s up,” Ross said, not harshly, but with no room for negotiation, either.
Scott and I both stood. “Will you come back?” he asked me. His slumped posture and shaky voice were enough to evoke my sympathy, even if I didn’t already feel sorry for him.
“If they let me,” I promised.
I had a couple of reasons to keep the promise. Though I now knew how he’d gotten into my inner sanctum, I was still curious about his motive for wanting the phone books in the first place. And even more curious about why he’d asked to see me. Surely not simply to apologize for his crime, which was small in comparison to a possible murder charge. Which, apparently, his mother was facing. I felt a shiver at the thought. If he and his mother were killers, maybe I shouldn’t keep that promise after all.
5
Sunni had left the building. I left, too, doubting that I’d get any information from Ross, who’d shown his mettle for maintaining secrecy when he picked me up at the tea shop; or from the other remaining officer, a stone-faced woman who muttered good-bye to me without making eye contact. I felt a wave of pity for Scott, left for the night with this crew. But, for all I knew, he deserved whatever they’d mete out.
The sun had set, lowering the temperature enough to make my light jacket inadequate for a leisurely walk. I retraced our steps back to the post office at a quick pace, only now and then slowing down to admire dried yellow leaves along the sidewalk. I loved hearing the crunch when I stepped on the leaves, and inhaling the scent of autumn. I was also glad I wasn’t responsible for raking them.
I regretted that I wasn’t much smarter than I’d been on the reverse journey, from the post office, with Sunni. Near the front of my building, I stopped at the row of dented newspaper vending machines, half expecting to see headlines about Scott/Quinn, but, of course, there’d be no new local paper until Friday and until then we’d be getting all our news from a not-very-local television station and the ever-accurate word of mouth.
My building was dark except for the lobby and the night-lights in the sorting area. Ben had kindly taken down the flag and closed shop. I picked up a few candy wrappers and empty chip bags from the parking area, stuffed them into the trash container at the edge of the lot, and walked around to the side door. I let myself in, my gaze reaching to the far corner, where the phone books had rested what seemed like ages ago. I smiled at the ridiculous idea that somehow the directories might be back, perhaps delivered by the police. I had a moment of satisfaction that I hadn’t filed a theft report with the postal inspectors. Though I’d always found them very helpful and dedicated, I was glad not to have taken attention away from more serious cases like identity theft and hazardous mail. There was hardly a crime they didn’t deal with, if it in any way involved misuse of mail service.
I’d forgotten to ask Sunni about the disposition of the books, and wondered if they were now considered evidence in a murder investigation. Who would break the news to Wendell, who’d facilitated the delivery, to the merchants who’d bought ads, and to those residents who may be counting on the updated books? New questions and problems were sprouting as if it were springtime and the trees were sending forth blossoms, instead of becoming more dry and barren every day.
I made myself some coffee, inferior to the police department’s, and decided to put in a couple hours of work to make up for my absence this afternoon. I needed the satisfaction of completing chores that could be checked off and put behind me. Ben had, unwittingly, I guessed, obliged by leaving me a list of things to be done in the next day or so. He often set aside a pile of special pieces of mail, labeling them with notes that said FUNNY, or STRANGE, or simply adding a large question mark.
I sat on my stool and surveyed the envelopes on the counter. One of today’s notes from Ben read DUMB. Under the note, I found what looked like a bill addressed to Masinmary Olly Pendergast. Our school principal Molly Pendergast, who lived a couple of streets over, had apparently failed in her efforts to spell out her first name. It was hard to figure who in Ben’s mind deserved the “dumb” label, Molly or a faraway clerk who took her literally. M as in Mary . . .
Under the FUNNY label was a news magazine with a cover article, “The State of the Service Industry.” The magazine’s front cover and first few pages had been nearly torn to shreds by the originating post office. “Mangled in Delivery” was the official designation, and OOPS might have been a better tag from Ben.
One more piece set aside by Ben was labeled DLO? for DEAD LETTER OFFICE. He’d written the letters with a red marker, which he used when there was an official issue in play. Like many older workers, Ben had yet to adopt the newer, more uplifting and hopeful designation of “MAIL RECOVERY CENTER,” or MRC. I could hear Linda in my head, ranting about how much money had been spent on the committee meetings involved in coming up with the new name.