Addressed to Kill Read online

  “That’s okay. I’m sorta double-booked myself.”

  I had no doubt the charming old man was telling the truth.

  3

  When Sunni entered the lobby with a long face and a halfhearted greeting, I knew the day was back on its downward spiral. I tossed her a key and she locked the front door behind her.

  The chief of police pushed on the low swinging door between the lobby and the retail counter and entered my work area, the only civilian (in the USPS sense) allowed to do so. Another reason I didn’t want to invite Mercedes to lunch today. It would have set a bad example for the rest of North Ashcot’s citizens. Or I imagined the awkwardness if I had her sit on the other side of the counter.

  Sunni removed her hat, shook out her auburn locks, and lowered her small body onto my extra desk chair. “Another one this morning,” she said.

  “Another break-in?” She nodded. “Oh no.”

  While I’d been dealing with angst over the small tribulations of life behind a service counter, my good friend had real problems to deal with. For the past two months, the usually quiet town of North Ashcot had seen a sharp rise in crime. It was getting so that the police briefs in the local paper were taking up more column space than the community events listing or the letters to the editor. In fact, many of the letters included cries of police incompetency and expressions of fear for the safety of our citizens. Not everyone knew, as I did, how hard Sunni and her four officers were working to find the person responsible for the upset.

  Sunni had the newspaper open to the page that listed house break-ins and vehicle crimes. The addresses were strung out across several lines of text: Houses hit were on Squire Road, Bennington Street, Wisteria Lane, Ravenwood Avenue, Park Circle. Vehicle break-ins occurred on Forest Lane, Crescent Circle, Gilmore Court, and Proctor Avenue. The standard “if you have any information” line seemed small and ineffective at the bottom of the column.

  “Who even has a car radio these days?” Sunni asked, stabbing the paper with her finger. “Doesn’t everyone listen to music digitally? It used to be the biggest problem in this town was loud stereos after ten o’clock at night or before eight in the morning. This almost makes me long for some old-fashioned shoplifting or the occasional cat in a tree.”

  I looked at the addresses again. “These locations are all over town,” I said.

  “Yeah, I know. East, west, north, south. All hours of the day and night.”

  It was true that the crimes were what might be called minor—home robberies and car break-ins. A few personal assaults. Nothing major like a television set had ever been taken. There were slight injuries, only a broken nose or two, but when it was your home, your car, or your bruised face that was the reality, all bets were off as far as perspective was concerned. It was a terrible situation for the residents of North Ashcot.

  “This guy seems to know everyone’s schedule. He hits during the one hour that no one is home—which is a good thing, in a way—and he seems to know where extra cash is stored and how to open a locked glove compartment. Sometimes it’s daylight, sometimes dead of night. He’s like a superhero, only the opposite.”

  I took the leftover cheese and rice casserole that I’d promised Sunni from the small fridge in my work area. I now added one more reason for eliminating Mercedes from the lunch equation. There wasn’t enough food for three. The deck was stacked against the needy history professor.

  “Maybe it’s not one guy, but some kind of team,” I suggested. “With recon people and lookouts.”

  “We’ve considered that. He, or they, never leaves fingerprints or any kind of forensics. And there’s not a lot of damage. He takes a few valuables and cash and leaves.”

  “No cigarette butts or candy wrappers to send to the crime lab?”

  “Nuh-uh. No hair and fibers. Anyway, you’d be amazed how seldom a case is solved by hair and fibers, except on television.” Sunni busied herself with nuking and serving the casserole on my best plastic dinnerware. She took in a deep breath and uttered a satisfied “Mmm” at the cheesy aroma. “I’m famished. I hope this is Quinn’s doing.”

  I should have been insulted that Sunni liked Quinn’s cooking better than mine, but it was no contest, since I never cooked if I could help it. I’d managed to find a nice guy who also enjoyed playing chef.

  “Speaking of Quinn—has Mercedes Davis asked you to give a talk at the college?” I asked. “Never mind why Quinn is connected to that question, by the way.”

  “Yeah, she has. I’ve been putting her off for years.”

  “That works?”

  Sunni smiled. “I guess we’re not being very community minded.”

  “At least you have a fascinating job.”

  “Huh. I guess it’s my fault Mercedes thinks so. One time I mentioned how interesting it was that in the early days, cops had other chores to do around town, like lighting the lanterns on the streets. And they weren’t armed, but they carried rattles, an adult version, in case they needed to raise an alarm.” She paused, a small frown creeping across her brow. “And, you know, I think it was Quinn who gave me a book on the subject, which is why it was fresh in my mind whenever it was that I talked to Mercedes.”

  It wasn’t surprising that Quinn would give Sunni a volume on police history that he happened on, in his never-ending search for merchandise for the antiques store he managed. He was always on the lookout for things someone might want, most of the time passing them on free of charge.

  “I’m going for the big-ticket items eventually,” he’d say to me. I realized his gifts were good sales strategy, but it was also his nature to be generous, even if he knew you were never going to invest in a Louis XVI armoire.

  “Did you intend for Mercedes to ask you to give a talk?”

  Sunni sputtered. “You’re kidding.”

  There was no time for me to clear things up, however, since Sunni’s cell phone went off. She glanced at the screen. I heard a heavy sigh, and then she stuffed a large chunk of casserole into her mouth and thrust her thumb toward the door. She managed a thank-you before following her thumb through the exit.

  I hoped the call was one that would improve her day, not make it worse.

  * * *

  The afternoon passed uneventfully, the most interesting first-class mail being addressed to Darling, Mississippi; Romance, Arizona; and Juliette, Georgia. The pink envelopes were brought in just before closing time by three teenagers from Ashcot High School, serving both South and North Ashcot. The girls approached the counter together and explained their strategy to me, as if I wasn’t well aware of the practice.

  “We do this every year,” said teenager number one, her long, straight brown hair hanging over a fake fur collar. “You just address your valentine as usual to your guy of the year”—a giggle—“and then put it in another envelope and address that envelope to the postmaster of a town named, like”—she tapped her envelope—“Juliette, Georgia, which I’m doing this year. Last year I did Honeyville, Utah.”

  “Yeah, we all know that last year you sent a valentine to a different guy,” said teenager number two, causing another eruption of giggles.

  “I did Loveland, Colorado,” teenager number three offered. She held up her bright pink envelope. “Mine are always extra postage, too,” she said.

  “The post office in that town mails it for you with their postmark,” the first teenager said, trying to be very clear, seeming unaware that she was speaking to a USPS employee, and one who was instrumental in marketing the practice several years ago. I remembered the project—signing up cities to emulate Valentine, Texas, which had a postmarking service going back more than thirty years. I’d read that they typically received about eighteen thousand special cancellations in a given year.

  “You have to remember to put ‘valentine re-mailing’” on the outside, said teenager number two, a slightly different shade of long, straight brown
hair pulled over her ears.

  I nodded and pretended to be learning a lot, but I felt obliged to issue a warning. “You know it’s a little late to be doing this. Usually, these post offices require a lead time of a couple of weeks.”

  The only short-bobbed teenager shook her head. “Nuh-uh. We do this all the time.”

  “Okay,” I said, stamping the last of the three cards.

  “It won’t be a problem,” said another.

  “Okay,” I said again, and handed each girl her change.

  “Besides, we don’t know who we’re going to send to that far in advance,” another offered, prompting more giggles.

  Oh, the confidence of youth. All was fine with me; I’d covered my bases. I noted that all of their valentines were over the one-ounce limit and, thus, our initiating committee’s idea that the gimmick would pay its own way had come true. Not only was the USPS getting an extra mailing, but most valentines, with their ribbons, puffy hearts, and three-dimensional Cupids, would require extra postage.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a familiar figure waiting for the excited teenagers to finish their business. Quinn Martindale leaned his long frame against the end of the table that held the USPS forms and other supplies. He caught my eye and touched his Ashcot’s Attic cap. I couldn’t read the subheading, but I knew it by heart. Where everything new is old.

  Quinn had come to the Berkshires from California nearly a year before I returned to the home of my youth. In some ways, we bonded over being outsiders, for different reasons. That connection had gone as we both gained acceptance and felt more comfortable, but a new one had formed and we were now officially dating. So much so that my fridge was full of concoctions by Quinn, and his home was acquiring various covers and wall hangings as I took up quilting, the sport favored by our mutual friend, the chief of police.

  When the girls left, Quinn came to the counter and leaned over. The day was looking up.

  “New jacket?” I asked, noting that he was making strides in building his winter wardrobe, unnecessary in his part of California.

  “It’s a castoff from my boss. You know I hate to spend money on clothes.”

  “So you weren’t out shopping all morning?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry I didn’t keep track of my phone. I was with Fred at this great site in Brimfield. The place was amazing. Furniture, dolls, books, military items. Fred’s thinking of arranging a special sale at the Attic on the stuff we picked up.”

  I pictured Quinn and his boss in ecstasy over the little Massachusetts town with the big antiques show, said to be the largest outdoor antiques show in the world. But the date was wrong. The show’s dates were in spring and summer.

  “But it’s February,” I said, as if I’d caught him in a lie.

  “It was a private sale,” Quinn said. “Fred got a call from a buddy down there, that there was a big event—an estate on the edge of town came up for sale. Everyone’s had their eye on this place forever, and finally . . .” He shrugged, a sheepish look taking over his handsome features.

  “Finally, someone died,” I said.

  “Well, yes, but that happens a lot in the antiques business. I mean, well, you know what I mean. The timing was good because the heirs didn’t want to wait for the big show in the spring. And it was good for our customers, too, because the Brimfield show can be overwhelming for a layperson. They count on us to scout for them. We’ve had this one customer who comes back to us every summer, looking for a certain watch, and now I think we have it. It’s a Tudor that actually has papers to go with it. It’s very rare to have documents that . . .”

  I hadn’t meant to frown, but I found my mind drifting toward my own agenda.

  “I’m going on and on,” Quinn said, raising his eyebrows and tilting his head. “Your turn.”

  “Do I look bored?”

  “A bit.”

  “Only because I’ve been wanting to ask you—have you been talking to Mercedes Davis?”

  “Uh-oh.” Quinn stepped back from the counter, where he’d been resting his elbows. He looked toward the door, hoping, I knew, for someone to interrupt us, like a last-minute customer. No such luck.

  “So you did offer me up?”

  “I thought it would be fun for you. You always say you like it when you get to do something different besides stand here all day.”

  “What I meant was I’d like to visit one of those unusual post offices I tell you about.”

  “Like the mail boat that’s operating as a floating postal zip code along the Detroit River?”

  “Yes, like that.” It was true that I’d been thinking about visiting that area ever since I saw a video on their “mail in the pail” system—a diesel motor ship glided up to a larger vessel; then a bucket attached to a rope was lowered to collect letters and packages. How cool was that? “Or it might be fun to see the country’s smallest post office, in the Florida Everglades, just seven by eight feet. Or go to Hawaii, where you can just write an address on a coconut and—”

  “I get it,” Quinn said. “But you’d be a great speaker. You’re always looking up post office facts and figures, reading stories, like that blog with all the odd stories. Like the town where, when the postmaster is out of town, you pick up your mail at his dad’s auto body shop.”

  “All that reading is for my own pleasure, not research for a speech. Besides, Mercedes is teaching the Victorian era, of which I know almost nothing, except what’s in that Sir Rowland Hill bio you gave me.”

  Quinn let out an exaggerated “Ahem.” He gave me a winning smile. “I could help you out there.”

  Of course, I should have thought before I spoke. Quinn knew Victoriana the way I knew post office lore. The red brocade love seat in his small house was a testimony to his excellent shopping skills, and the (almost) matching balloon fabric armchair provided seating fit for a papal visit.

  My phone cut off further discussion. “Sunni,” I said to Quinn, showing him the screen, as if that would be enough for him to understand why I’d accept the call.

  “Closing up?” she asked.

  “Almost.” I told her about my visitor. I was ready to bring her into the conversation about the Mercedes Davis requests, but she rushed in.

  “How soon can you be here?”

  “Be—?”

  “At the station.”

  “Ten minutes if I need to.”

  “You need to,” she said, and hung up.

  I made a quick call to Ben to close up and grabbed my jacket.

  My best guess was that since I’d seen Sunni at lunchtime, her day hadn’t gotten any better. Maybe I could help.

  * * *

  Quinn offered to drop me off at the North Ashcot Police Station, a couple of blocks from the post office, straight through the town’s main shopping district. We passed the card shop, fabric store, and bike shop, all within minutes of closing their doors for the day. There wasn’t much to do after dark on Main Street. Now and then, like this evening, I thought about the contrast with Boston, less than three hours away, where I’d spent most of my adult life, where the clubs and coffee shops in my old neighborhood would just be coming alive.

  Quinn’s words called me back from Faneuil Hall, with its plethora of restaurants and live music venues. “While you’re being grilled by the chief”—he grinned—“I’ll pick up some supplies and get the grill started at your house.”

  Now that I was back in the present, I was too nervous about this strange summons to the PD to fully appreciate Quinn’s humor, but I thanked him for trying.

  “Tell Sunni there’ll be enough for her, too,” he added.

  “Thanks. I’ll call you when I’m done.”

  It had taken me a while to get used to Quinn’s manner, the gentle and supportive way he treated me. One might even say he spoiled me. I had Linda to thank for being able to accept the chang
e. She’d seen me through my failed engagement to Adam Robinson in Boston. Adam’s idea of treating me to dinner was to take me to a five-star restaurant, in a dress of his choosing, either to impress his wealthy clients or to woo potential new ones. I’d finally admitted to myself that his dumping me was the best thing that could have happened. So what if he notified me of the breakup through text messages? More evidence of his lack of class.

  “What do you think the chief wants?” Quinn asked, driving up to the curb and pulling me back to the present once more.

  “I have no idea. She cut lunchtime short when she got a call. I presumed it was another robbery. I haven’t heard anything from her since.”

  “Yeah, Fred and I were talking about that. So far we’ve been lucky. I guess no one wants old stuff, but then no other shops have been robbed, either, that I know of. Maybe they realize there would be better security at a place of business.”

  I had a sudden thought. And gasped. “What if my house has been broken into? What if that’s why she wants me here?”

  Quinn shook his head. “She would have met you at your house.”

  “Let’s hope so,” I said, and got out of his SUV.

  * * *

  The police department building was redbrick with white trim, not much different from the post office except that it was two stories, shabbier on the inside, and housed a small jail in its basement. The main attraction was Sunni’s state-of-the-art coffeemaker, which she had put into service in time for me to catch the aroma of a delicious dark roast as I approached her office.

  Greta Bauer, the tall UMass graduate who was Sunni’s newest recruit, waved me in. “She’s waiting for you,” she said, her tone noncommittal.

  An NAPD mugful of cappuccino was waiting for me, along with the chief of police, half sitting on the front of her desk. Was this coffee treat a good sign or a bad one? I wondered. Was this the prelude to informing me that all my earthly possessions were now in the hands of the crooks who’d been terrorizing North Ashcot?