by Jean Flowers
“Post office memorabilia don’t count as doodads,” she’d advised me.
The set of objects I inspected now comprised a flashlight that was not much bigger than my thumb; a pair of miniature neon green flip-flops; and a small key, not for a life-sized door, but something that might symbolize the key to one’s heart. No identifying marks that I could see.
The gloomy weather had settled in my body and I quit my search. I took the strap and my heavy heart to my front steps and waited for help. If things continued this way, I’d have to buy a chair for my tiny front porch. Maybe Ashcot’s Attic had an appropriate one.
* * *
“Might be some kind of personal message,” Officer Ross Little said, articulating my worst fear. He looked at my face and tried to smooth things over. “Not personal like you. I mean, personal as in, they wanted to aggravate some person. But not necessarily you.”
Strangely, I knew what he meant, and it did make me feel a little better.
Ross walked around my car as I had, stooping now and then, writing in a notepad, then slapping the pad against his hand. Thinking.
“I wasn’t sure I should bother you with this,” I told him.
“No, no, you did the right thing, Cassie. Someone will be coming by here to see if there are any prints or anything we can use. We’d like to go over the whole car, just in case.”
“Sure.” I handed him my keys.
In case what? My car was rigged to explode? I pulled my scarf up around my neck, above the collar of my parka. The temperature seemed to be dropping by the minute.
“You don’t have to stay,” Ross said. I have everything I need from your statement, and I can call the auto shop for you when I’m done. Can you get a ride to work?”
Ross seemed genuinely concerned about me, possibly from having seen me carless, stranded, for the second time this week. “Sure,” I said again, though I was far from it. With all the interactions of the week, was I any closer to being able to pick up the phone and find someone who’d drive me to work? Maybe a little.
I almost hated to leave before Ross did another search. What if I missed something important? But I knew I should get to work and let the police take care of my problem. Unlike murder, car vandalism was probably a specialty of the house. Like rabid skunks. I almost felt bad that I’d blamed last night’s clatter on an innocent animal.
I pulled out my cell phone. Quinn and Ben were the only ones I knew who would be willing to chauffeur me. Did I want Ross to know what my relationship was with Quinn? Worse, for him to speculate and come up with something it wasn’t? I hated to bother Ben, who was not a morning guy. He’d claimed he’d never have retired if he could open at ten or eleven every day.
But Ross already knew Quinn and I were connected in some way from all the events of the week, including prison visits, so to speak. In for a penny, I thought, and dialed Quinn.
* * *
Quinn took his own tour around my sagging Jeep, keeping his impressions to himself. He and Ross said barely more than “good morning” and we took off. True to his driving policy, he kept to the speed limit. As far as his meticulously full stops at the STOP signs, all of my Boston friends would have been disgusted with him.
“Stop signs are only a suggestion,” I’d heard from more than one of my city colleagues.
I reached into my purse for a mint and pulled out a long, thin piece of canvas with doodads on the end.
“Oops. I forgot to hand this over to Ross.”
Quinn turned to look at what I was holding, still with both hands on the wheel as we drove on an open road. It was as if he were saying, “See how I’m obeying the law, Officer. My hands are at ten and two o’clock.”
“I found this in the grass between my house and the one next door on the left. It’s probably nothing but trash,” I explained.
“You never know. Leave it in the cup holder. I’ll take it to Ross.”
“Thanks.” I had an “I’m glad I met you” moment. I was in a mood to take what I could get by way of friendship.
“I don’t suppose you have a clue how this happened? All four of your tires?” Quinn said.
“I wish I knew. I heard some noise last night before I fell asleep but I don’t think it came from out front. I was sure it was from the side or out back.”
“That could have been the getaway route. Are there trash containers back there that he might have knocked over?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you think it’s someone who knows you’re investigating Wendell’s murder? Are you getting too close?”
“I’m not investigating. And I’m not close at all.”
We both laughed at the internal contradiction. “Reminds me of that lawyer joke,” Quinn said. “The defense lawyer says, ‘My client is innocent of letting his dog loose, and if he did let it loose, it was of grave necessity, and my client may not have a dog.’ Something like that.”
I laughed. “I know the one you mean.”
“Seriously, Cassie. You’re seen with me, with Wendell’s sister, with the chief of police. Someone could misinterpret your role in all of this.”
“And how would four flat tires stop me?”
Quinn shrugged. “What if the killer thinks you’re on to him or closing in, and wants to scare you away?”
“It’s scaring me all right.”
“Enough so you really will stop thinking about it, stop trying to help the police department, stop trying to work on closure for Wanda, and maybe for yourself?”
“It’s just tires,” I said.
* * *
Even with Quinn’s overly careful driving, I made it to the post office in time to raise the flag, stuff the PO boxes, and open the doors to the retail counter by nine o’clock. To my surprise, none of my customers mentioned either my slashed tires or the fact that I’d been dropped off by Quinn Martindale. I decided the key to maintaining privacy in North Ashcot was to arrange for all embarrassing or confidential moments to occur early in the morning.
A highlight was a visit from a young llama. His keeper, an old-timer who lived in South Ashcot, learned from Carolyn and George Raley that the North Ashcot Post Office had an animal-friendly scale. He introduced himself as Vic, and his llama as Llarry—with two L’s, he explained. He raised the animals and shipped the wool around the world. From now on, he told me, all his mailing business would be conducted in my establishment. South Ashcot had lost his considerable business.
When my first break in the line came around ten-thirty, I thought I was doomed to lunch by myself. None of my potential dates had made an effort to schedule. My relief was short-lived when I checked my cell phone messages. Derek Hathaway’s secretary had called to ask me to please meet him at Betty’s at twelve. I wavered between ignoring the request, which left no room for confirmation (didn’t everyone know I couldn’t leave my post until noon?) and taking a chance on learning what, if anything, had been going on between Wendell and Derek. I told myself it was a simple way to follow up on Wanda’s tip that Derek was a new presence in her late brother’s life.
While the office was quiet for a while, I pulled a white tub from a shelf—a container of what we called “unattached items.” I’d already weeded out obvious trash, like coffee cups and crumpled paper napkins that had been dumped in the collection box, but it always amazed me how personal belongings ended up there. Teddy bears were a constant presence, as were CDs, books, and packages of cookies for Santa. Some of the items in the tub were incoming; that is, they’d arrived at the North Ashcot Post Office separated from their packaging. Others had simply been dropped into our collection box, accidentally or on purpose.
“Or maybe they’re meant as gifts to postal workers,” Linda had said more than once in our Boston office, as she was sorely tempted to confiscate a lovely silk scarf or a bestseller she’d been wanting to read. “Too bad it’s against the law to
give us presents.”
Once in a while Ben or I could identify and return an item, like a child’s sweater with a label sewn in, or the red sneaker with running lights that we’d seen on Mrs. Hagan’s granddaughter. Today I pulled out several items of clothing and a small camera—maybe deliberately discarded in favor of cell phone apps? I had some discretion as to how to dispose of such objects, but, for the most part, I took a conservative route. If neither Ben nor I had a hope of determining the owner, they’d be sent to the mail recovery center, where they would eventually be discarded or auctioned off.
I was fingering what looked like a computer part when the phone rang. Derek Hathaway’s secretary canceling our lunch? No such luck. Officer Ross Little, instead, letting me know that my car had been towed to the auto shop.
“Sorry they can’t give you an exact quote on how long it will take to replace the tires. They suggested that they look for other damage also, that might not be visible. I told them okay. You good with that?”
“I’m good with that. And thanks, Ross. I really appreciate all you did.”
“My pleasure . . . well, not a pleasure, but you know.”
I did.
* * *
The rest of the morning passed routinely with packaging items for the recovery center and dealing with the usual round of mailings, including two international packages that had to be rewrapped.
Sunni called just before noon, concerned. Ross had described my prework adventure.
“Who do you think did that?” she asked. I almost told her it was her job to find out, but I suspected that was my fear talking.
“Some vandals, I guess. A couple of mothers came in with their kids and told me there was no school today because of a teachers’ conference.”
“A possibility.”
“Do you know of others?”
“Not specifically, but I want to reiterate my warning to you.”
I figured it would be counterproductive to pretend I didn’t know what she meant. I tried not to read too much into the fact that Derek Hathaway came through the front doors at that moment.
“Oops, customers arriving,” I said. “I’ll talk to you later.”
Derek walked to the counter, leaned over. “Are you ready for some Derek time?”
I nearly gagged, but managed, “I thought we were meeting at Betty’s?”
“I know you don’t have a car, so I came to get you.”
Color me red. Had I really forgotten that my car was in the shop? The next question was more frightening.
“How did you know?” I asked Derek.
“It’s all over the news. Your Jeep was seen being towed to Marley’s.” He paused and laughed. Derek’s laugh was not so much light and fun as dark, bordering on mean. “Just kidding. So, are you ready?”
What were the chances Derek had slashed my tires, just so he could pick me up and take me . . . where? To the woods where Wendell had been killed? Was I being paranoid, or wiser than oh, so many victims of serial killers? I thought of a famous one who lured young women to ride with him by having one arm in a sling, looking helpless. Dozens of well-meaning girls stopped to help him and never came back.
I took a breath, came back to reality and reasonableness.
“I’m ready.”
For what? I wished I knew.
* * *
“We can go right in,” Derek said, bypassing the line at Betty’s. “I made a reservation.” I supposed there was no point in reminding him that Betty’s didn’t take reservations.
Once Betty’s had come into view, about a quarter of a mile down the road, I’d relaxed in Derek’s luxury town car, thinking it was hardly likely that he’d kill me in this part of town. I’d wondered if Wendell Graham had gone through the same kind of reasoning.
Derek had been quiet on the short ride to the restaurant, asking only about Ben’s adjustment to his new status (no problems; he’s been a big help) and mine also (no problems; all is well), and whether I planned to stay in North Ashcot permanently (hard to tell).
Now we were settled at the best table in the establishment, of course, far from the din of the kitchen and the drafts from the front door. As soon as our server set down our plates with the special of the day, which Derek had preordered, Derek dug into his agenda.
“Did you happen to read that brochure on the betting club?” he asked, after a healthy bite of crab salad.
I thought back. Hadn’t it been Selectwoman Gert and Coach, whoever he was, who’d given me the literature? It was possible I had that wrong. I’d gone from near-zero personal interactions last week to a record high this week. At this rate, the town would have to hire more gossipers just to take care of my news.
“I honestly haven’t had a chance,” I said. “It seems the office has been busier than ever since the terrible tragedy this week.” A lame segue if I ever heard one, but it was the best I could do to introduce my own agenda.
My attempt didn’t work. Derek continued on his own train of thought. “When you examine the very reasonable arguments, I think you’ll agree, it would be a very bad move to bring that kind of activity into North Ashcot. We don’t want the type of person it would attract in our town.” In case I still hadn’t been persuaded, he added, “Have you ever been to Las Vegas?”
“No, but it was good enough for Frank Sinatra.”
“My point exactly.”
“My mom and dad idolized him.”
Derek shrugged his shoulders. Had I really caught him? “I didn’t think you lived here anymore, Derek. Are you planning to move back to North Ashcot?”
“I still care about my hometown, Cassie. As I told you, my ex-wife and daughter live here.”
“I understand you were friendly with Wendell Graham. That you two reconnected recently?”
“We saw each other now and then, yeah. It’s bound to happen when you come back to a town like this. You know that, right, Cassie?”
Why did I cringe every time Derek Hathaway said my name? “His death must be hard for you. I’m sorry,” I said.
“It was quite a shock, yeah. I can’t say we were close, but he was a classmate after all.”
“But you also had some business together lately, isn’t that right?” I asked, all casual.
Derek sat back in the seat, puffed out his chest as far as he could. “What makes you think that?”
I buttered a piece of warm cheese bread. “Small town.”
“Why are you interested?”
“Just curious.”
“You know what they say about the curious.” He laughed, with the same unpleasant tone. “But, hey, this was supposed to be a friendly little reunion lunch.” He raised his coffee cup and motioned that I should do the same.
I turned my cup toward him. “All gone,” I said.
13
I exited Derek’s car and walked toward the side door of my building, collecting a few stray wrappers on the way. I’d never understood why my elegant colonial, so beautifully landscaped, flag flying high, didn’t inspire people to take care of the sight and dispose of their own trash.
I replayed my lunch, asking myself several questions. Why did Derek care so much about my one vote on the betting club referendum? He’d brought it up twice more before we left.
I wanted to tell him I had no desire to encourage a betting club. It would have ended the topic, but I felt it was none of his business which way I was leaning. In fact, his and Gert’s opposition might just push me the other way. I looked around in case the man named Coach, who’d accosted Gert in the post office, was around to provide some balance. Perhaps Derek was grandstanding in case voters were listening.
A bigger question in my mind was why did Derek avoid talk of Wendell? If Wanda was telling me the truth, her brother and Derek had renewed contact and appeared to have business dealings. I wished I’d asked what kind of bus
iness a big developer and a small-town telephone company worker could have together. I doubted a guy in Derek’s position would have to manage the day-to-day operations involving wires and phones.
I supposed I could give Derek the benefit of the doubt and conclude that he was grieving over Wendell’s death, and it bothered him too much to talk about anything to do with his friend. Possible. But hard to swallow.
Even more puzzling was my own behavior. Hadn’t I very recently received a “hands-off” warning from the chief of police and, maybe, a definite in-my-face warning in my driveway this morning? What had I been thinking, directly interrogating a very rich, very powerful man? This was not a case of mail fraud, which I knew a lot about; or of a few extra stamps here or there; or trying to stuff nonmedia items into a low-rate package. This was a murder case and I had no business even being curious.
I tried to strengthen my resolve and clear my mind of all but postal matters. I entered the building, walked to my desk, and glanced toward the front doors, where someone was waiting for me to open. I still had fifteen minutes, but an exception was called for.
Quinn Martindale stood with his back to the building, hands in his pockets, jockeying from one foot to the other, as if he were continuing a run, but more likely to keep warm. I gathered he hadn’t noticed that I’d entered through the side door. I was still expecting a fully cooked chicken dinner tonight; the least I could do was open the doors for him a little early.
“I want to show you something,” he said, once inside. He held out the piece of backpack strap I’d found by my wounded vehicle this morning. “I forgot to pass this on to Ross, so I did a little digging of my own.”
We sat on two folding chairs in the lobby. I congratulated myself on not violating the “Employees Only” rule for who was allowed behind the counter, even though his Scott James persona had already done that last weekend when he’d entered and carted my phone books away.