Addressed to Kill Read online

  “Yes. I’m very excited about it. I’ve been reading about the evolution of the patch on our uniform sleeve. We had the Pony Express rider before the eagle appeared, and now, of course, we call it a sonic eagle. Even the hats—”

  She opened the front door, ready to leave. “Fascinating, especially to college students, I’m sure.”

  “You’re not helping.”

  “Just see what you can come up with when your standing ovation is over.”

  “You bet, Chief.” It was hard not to salute.

  * * *

  Wearing my warmest pajamas, I carried my laptop and a mug of cocoa to my bedroom and settled in for an early night. I wished I could reschedule my talk for tomorrow, both to get it over with and to get to campus again. I was eager to get back there, to see and quiz Mercedes—maybe we could have lunch after my talk. I took a breath, almost a gasp. My talk. My presentation, as Quinn called it.

  As engrossing as I’d found my research on postal history, the idea of standing in front of a classroom full of students sent shivers through my body. I was able to calm down by reminding myself that the presentation was the price of admission for gathering information at Dennis’s place of business.

  Place of business. Another phrase that caught me by surprise.

  I took my eyes off my screen, where I’d come across a page of images of the most valuable stamps in the world. The Cape of Good Hope Stamp, the Qing Dynasty stamp, and many more, all worth tens of thousands of dollars, up to more than three million for the Treskilling Yellow. I looked up, as if to read the writing on the ceiling. The words “Dennis’s business” echoed in my brain and it dawned on me—

  Dennis’s campus office, which I’d penetrated, was never a crime scene. It was Dennis’s home that was a crime scene. My latest duh moment.

  Why hadn’t I headed right for the crime scene?

  I’d been to Dennis’s home only once, when he hosted the Ashcots and their guests for a holiday gathering. I knew the area well, a new development on the west side of town, where a couple of members of my quilting group lived.

  I leaned back on my oversize reading pillow, snug and warm, covered by the first quilt I’d made, under the tutelage of the women in Sunni’s group. The quilt had too many obvious glitches for me to give it as a present, but I couldn’t bring myself to toss it. Even imperfect quilts were cuddlesome.

  I told myself it would be foolish to leave this cocoon. I didn’t have to search for the exact temperature to know that outside was freezing. And dark. And I was tired from the tensions of the day; tomorrow would be a full day of work and more prep for my talk. I envisioned long lines of customers wanting express delivery in time for Valentine’s Day. I had mountains of paperwork; I needed a trip to the bank and one to the card shop for my own valentines. I needed my sleep.

  As these thoughts ran through my head, my feet edged their way from under the blankets, into my slippers. I trekked across the room. I found myself pulling a pair of dark sweats over my pajamas, adding socks, boots, and a down vest, picking up my keys, heading out the door.

  My internal debate continued as I got into my car and turned the key. This is foolish, said one of my voices. But when else can I get to Dennis’s home? asked the other voice. Why do you need to get there? was followed by Sunni is expecting you to help.

  Ben had agreed to take over for me on Thursday morning and part of the afternoon while I went to campus. There was only so much I could ask of a retiree, even though he did hang around a lot. I looked at the clock on my dashboard. Ten thirty-nine. Not that late. I shifted to D and drove west, telling myself I could always turn back.

  * * *

  Dennis’s house was a gray Colonial with green trim, set back from the street, with a detached garage. A cobblestone walkway led to the front door. I could tell from the plantings that in the spring lovely peonies would line the path. Few lights were on in the development, none in Dennis’s house. He’d been a widower for many years, with a son, Dyson, who was at college in Maine. I wondered how soon the young man would be able to get here and whether he had any support in town.

  I knew what it was like to lose your parents at a young age, and I felt a pang of sympathy for him. How had he heard the news? I hoped he hadn’t been alone. I’d been unlucky enough to have my news delivered by a seemingly inconvenienced night-duty cop who came to the door of my girlfriend’s house, where a sweet sixteen party was just beginning.

  Rather than sit in my car now and have a good cry, I took my mental self to another place and time—to the present, with Quinn, my job, my new friends—and reined in thoughts of the past.

  I was parked at the end of Dennis’s drive, bewildered that I was there. There was no crime scene tape, so at least I wasn’t breaking that law. As I considered restarting my car and going home, I opened my door and stepped onto the quiet, deserted street. I couldn’t remember a time I’d experienced such a disconnect between my head and my feet as there had been that evening. Otherwise, I’d have been fast asleep under an amateur quilt instead of playing amateur sleuth.

  Aided by the light of a streetlamp, I walked down the path and around to the right side of the house where I knew I’d be able to peer through patio doors into Dennis’s dining room. I arrived at the doors, pleased that the drapes were open. I remembered the large area rug with a pattern of gold and brown swirls, under a highly polished table.

  A breath of relief came as I realized I’d been subconsciously dreading the sight of blood or the outline of a body. No matter that Sunni had told me the police hadn’t done the chalk outline for years, since chalk or tape contaminated a crime scene. “It makes for good TV, though,” she said. I brushed thoughts of her aside as I stood at Dennis’s window, intruding on her job.

  What had been a lavish buffet on the dining room table for the party I’d attended had been replaced by mountains of paper, folders, and books of all sizes. It was hard to tell whether Dennis had been using this area as his office or the burglars had disrupted the normal dining room scene.

  I moved along the edge of the expansive, well-kept lawn to the back of the house. In the dim yellow light of the streetlamp, I could barely make out the short metal fence that marked the end of Dennis’s property. The lawn, however, continued uninterrupted onto the next plot, where Dennis’s nearest neighbor’s house sat, set back a considerable distance from the fence. All the better for me to remain unobserved. And unheard as I shivered from the cold. I was aware that my face hurt, my nose was running, and sounds close to brrr were coming from my throat.

  Farther on, a night-light in a small uncarpeted room illuminated two exercise machines, one a typical treadmill, the other a more elaborate, shiny black machine that resembled a robot with cables drooping from the frame and arms jutting out. Maybe if I’d kept my promise to sign up at the gym, I’d have known what the second machine was for, other than a torture device. I could make out a large calendar and framed photos on all the walls.

  Except for the messy dining room table, I’d seen no evidence of a crime, no trace of the possibly three men who had robbed and maybe killed Dennis. I looked up at the second-floor windows, wishing I could propel myself to them. Apparently, the damage had been done up there.

  I traveled to the last set of doors that would allow me a look inside. Only a thin window covering blocked my view into the living room, dominated on one side by a brick fireplace and on the other by a large television set. Another decorative area rug lay in the center of the hardwood floor. I recognized this one as being from Ashcot’s Attic, similar to one that Quinn had picked out for my living room. No telltale bloodstains, if that was what I was hoping for.

  It was time for me to leave. I hoped this fruitless trip in the freezing temperatures would cure me of making any other such journeys, without a plan, without permission, without proper clothing.

  I turned to head back to my car.

  An
d ran into a beam of light that blinded me. I jerked back, my breath catching in my throat.

  “You looking for something?” A male voice, deep, and not friendly. A cop? A neighbor? Or the very burglars I’d been thinking about?

  I shielded my eyes, keeping my glance downward. I doubted I could speak, but words came out eventually. “Yes . . . I mean, no. I . . .” That was it.

  The man lowered his flashlight, and once my eyes recovered, I saw a young man who looked familiar in the dim light. “Dyson?” I asked, hoping I was right. Dennis’s son. Not an attacker, which was good news, because he was also carrying a baseball bat.

  He nodded, then squinted, studying me. “I remember you. Quinn’s friend. The postmistress.”

  I was so relieved I suddenly felt overheated. Surely, Dyson wouldn’t attack a friend of a friend of his dad’s or have her arrested, especially if she was also an official government worker. I remembered that Dyson had played with the Ashcots a few times on school breaks. A large man, like his father, he also followed in his father’s musical footsteps with the bass guitar.

  “Cassie Miller,” I said, to put a face to the woman he was not going to slam with a baseball bat. “You’re home,” I added, needlessly.

  “A buddy drove me down on his motorcycle. We got here a couple of hours ago.” He swung the flashlight up to a second-story window. “Oops, sorry,” he said, when he realized he’d caught my eyes again. “My friend Noah is upstairs sleeping.” He showed me the bat. “And sorry about this. I didn’t know what to expect since the break-in and all.”

  The break-in, but not his father’s murder. I suspected the word, let alone the reality, would be too much for him to handle.

  “Dyson, I can’t tell you how sorry I am about your dad. I . . . uh. You’re probably wondering why I’m snooping around.”

  Dyson shrugged. “I figure you want to know what’s up.”

  Exactly. “That’s right. If I’d known you were home, I’d never have intruded.”

  “It’s okay. I can’t sleep anyway.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Do you want to come in? I wouldn’t mind talking for a while.”

  “Neither would I.”

  10

  It had felt strange to walk into Dennis’s house by the front door. Strange also to be settled now by the fireplace, legitimately, in the blue recliner I’d viewed through glass as I trudged around in the cold. Dyson, on the two-seater sofa across from me, didn’t offer to light a fire and I didn’t request it. I kept my jacket on and my hands around my mug of hot coffee.

  Dyson was in dark gray sweatpants and a MAINE sweatshirt. I wished I’d brought some of my lemon pie, for the boys and for me. He told me about his last day and a half. Sunni’s office had tried to reach him yesterday afternoon, but he’d been out of reach in the woods of Maine until this morning. I didn’t envy the officers in his small town who had to break the news to him. One of his roommates, Noah, had offered to drive him here on his motorcycle, an eight-hour trip.

  “By the time we got here, it was too late to go to the police station,” Dyson said. I didn’t tell him that when it came to Chief Sunni Smargon, there was no “too late.” “And I didn’t want to wake up Mrs. Larson. She comes in to clean for my dad and she’s the one who found him.” He took a breath, gazed at the cold, unresponding fireplace. “I don’t have that many close friends around here anymore. It’s been almost four years and you lose touch.”

  Tell me about it. “It can be hard to come back.”

  Dyson was more soft-spoken than his dad, with a larger quantity of light brown hair, and a music major, much to Dennis’s chagrin. “I named my son after Freeman Dyson, one of the greatest theoretical physicists and mathematicians of the times, whom I met personally,” Dennis had often told us. “And it didn’t work. He wouldn’t do the right thing and major in physics.” Dennis had such affection in his voice, every one of us knew how proud he was of his only son.

  “I didn’t know what I was going to find, but I guess the police had come and gone and the only place that was really tossed was my dad’s office upstairs. The burglars must have gone into my parents’ bedroom, too, because I noticed my mom’s jewelry box is missing—I know my dad still kept it in the same place on her dresser. It’s been almost four years and he didn’t want to change anything, like he didn’t want to record over her voice on the old answering machine. Then someone who led a bereavement group told him to keep that recording, but make a new one, so that’s what he did. I’m not sure how you’d do that now.”

  “And you say the office was upset?” I nodded toward the upper floor.

  “Yeah, books and files and papers everywhere, bookcases tipped over. I guess that’s where it happened. I didn’t hang around to see if there was anything missing. I figured the police had been here and taken what they needed. I didn’t look for any sign of . . . anything.” Dyson swallowed hard, and I guessed he couldn’t bring himself to use the word blood.

  I tried to calm him with meaningless words like “It’s okay, Dyson.” The same kind of platitudes I’d hated when I was in a similar situation.

  “And my dad’s kind of a neat freak,” he said, in a hoarse voice. He’ll be so . . .” He choked up again, realizing his father would no longer be angry at anything. It didn’t surprise me that he’d be thinking of his father in the present tense.

  “It’s going to take a while, Dyson,” I said. I had the feeling that without my saying so, he understood that I knew from experience what he was going through. And it wasn’t the first time for him. I tried to figure how old he would have been when his mother died, but I didn’t know the exact numbers. Whatever they were, they were wrong for losing a parent.

  We stayed quiet until Dyson was ready to break the silence. “I guess I’ll go to the police station first thing in the morning, but I was wondering if you can tell me anything else. Like, do they have a suspect or anything?”

  My heart went out to him. Although I’d come here for information or clues, I was glad to turn the tables and give Dennis’s son whatever he needed to get him through this time. I briefed him on the string of robberies that had been making headlines, such as they were in our tiny paper, and on how Sunni had a lead that there were three burglars.

  “I know she’s doing everything she can to track them down,” I said.

  I didn’t mention the letters to his father, allegedly from disgruntled students, nor did I want to bring up the fact that some of us, especially me, thought Dennis’s killer might have been someone he knew and not random crooks. I pushed to the back of my mind the fact that his father might have had enemies over issues as small as scheduling classes or as large as blackmail. There would be time enough for complicated theories, if they survived the investigation, once he came to grips with the basics.

  Dyson seemed to want to reminisce and I was happy to listen. I heard how hard Dennis had tried to interest Dyson in physics, with frequent trips to Boston’s Museum of Science, enrolling him in science programs for kids and quizzing him at dinner about what he’d learned.

  Dyson smiled for the first time, remembering. “I’d have none of it, but one trip to hear the Boston Symphony Orchestra and I was hooked. Of course, I’d also heard my dad play in his little group.”

  I was tired, but no way was I going to call an end to this visit. That privilege went to the grieving son, an orphan at that. I hoped somewhere there was an Aunt Tess or an Uncle Someone who would take him under their wing. “Did he take you to classes, too?” I asked, just to keep things going.

  “Yeah, I’d be sitting there, like ten years old, with all his physics majors. But it gave me something to talk about when it was my turn to give a presentation in class about a field trip.” I wished he hadn’t used the word presentation, but I was sure he meant no harm. “Hey, Cassie, would you consider coming with me to the police station tomorrow? It would be awkward for
Noah, not knowing anyone, and he has to go back to school first thing anyway.”

  I remembered Dyson’s upstairs guest. “I hope we haven’t woken him up,” I said.

  “Nothing short of a SWAT team would do that. He’s a great guy. I’m glad I didn’t have to make the trip alone.” He cleared his throat. “That brings up something else. I know you have to work and all and, like I said, Noah will be leaving at dawn. It would really be great if I didn’t have to go to the police station alone.” He shrugged. “I’ve lost touch with my classmates here.”

  “I’d be happy to go with you, Dyson. I’m glad you asked.”

  “Thanks a lot. That’s a relief.”

  For me, too, I thought. Until Sunni sees me.

  * * *

  Dyson walked me to the door while we made a plan that he’d come to the post office around ten in the morning and we’d go to the police station together. I offered to pick him up, but he thought the walk would do him good. He waved me off, waited until I pulled away, until he turned toward the house.

  I wondered if he saw the three figures standing under a large tree across the street. Was Dyson in danger? I thought of calling Sunni, but I was so tired by then that I wasn’t sure I saw the figures myself. In the wee hours, shadows could play tricks. That was probably the case now. I looked back. I was right. All I saw was a cluster of trees that hadn’t lost their leaves. It had been a long day, a long night, and in only a few hours I’d be hoisting the flag in front of my place of business. Of course I was susceptible to uneasiness and a measure of fear.

  Rationality aside, I checked my rearview mirror constantly on the way home. I was never so glad to crawl under my less than perfect quilt—once I’d checked the locks on all the windows and doors.

  * * *

  There was no good reason for me to show up at the post office before eight in the morning on Wednesday. No reason other than to visit the group of people the late Dennis Somerville had hung out with on a regular basis, the Ashcots. His campus environment hadn’t yielded much by way of insight into his life or the manner of his death; maybe his music group would provide more information or inspire a direction for me to take in my so-called investigation.