Addressed to Kill Read online

  I took the seat in front of Sunni as directed and waited as she picked up from her desk a slip of paper encased in plastic. “Here’s why I needed to see you,” she said, handing me the paper.

  My eyes focused on a receipt, three inches wide and about ten inches long. Only one product was listed, a cash purchase for which a one-hundred-dollar bill was used. The rest of the strip contained boilerplate with tracking information, a notice about a self-service kiosk, a URL for ordering products online, a warning that all sales were final, and other messages, including THANK YOU FOR YOUR BUSINESS and HELP US SERVE YOU BETTER, with a plea to take an online survey about the shopping experience today.

  I couldn’t have imagined a more caring, friendly receipt. I thought of the two customers I hadn’t served well today—Dennis, with his student complaints, and the unnamed lumberjack, with a damaged package. Add to that my refusal to serve the college community by sharing my knowledge, and I was batting zero for customer service. I needed to make some changes to our automated receipts, or change my attitude.

  Printed at the very bottom of the long strip was CUSTOMER COPY. At the top was the name and address of the North Ashcot Post Office and today’s date. In between, covering much of the text, were red spatters.

  I ran my fingers over the red splats and felt a shiver even though there was a layer of plastic between my skin and the splats. I gave Sunni a questioning look.

  “Yes, that’s probably blood. The receipt was found on a body of a murder victim.”

  I gulped. It wasn’t only Sunni’s day that had gotten worse since lunchtime. I placed my mug on the floor near my chair, knowing I couldn’t trust myself to keep it upright otherwise. “Dennis Somerville has been murdered?”

  It was clear that the winning candidate for worst day of all had gone to my customer, musician and physics professor Dennis Somerville.

  4

  I turned to the window in Sunni’s office, looking for answers in the darkening sky. I’d arrived at the police station expecting to hear the news that my home had been broken into, some of my belongings stolen, a window broken, or a carpet ruined. All of that paled in comparison as I thought of Dennis Somerville, who’d lost not just a set of china or a DVD player, but his life. It seemed the North Ashcot home invaders—I thought of them now as a team—had ratcheted up to murder.

  Sunni had given me a moment to compose myself, but I noticed her eyes had widened, a surprised expression still on her face. “Do you recognize every receipt you hand out?”

  “No, but this one’s from this morning, and it’s the only hundred-dollar bill I handled today, so . . .” I shrugged.

  “Well, you’re right. It’s Dennis Somerville’s. His body was found this afternoon. A neighbor called it in. She noticed his front door was open and went in to check.”

  “I can’t believe it. I just saw him.” I uttered a nervous chuckle and held out the plastic-enclosed receipt. “Obviously, I just saw him. Sorry. He bought a roll of Forevers,” I said, and heard a similar uneasy chuckle from Sunni. How could anything be remotely funny at this moment?

  Sunni straightened and walked behind her desk, a mahogany fixture scarred from years of service. She arranged a pad of paper and pen in front of her and prepared to write. “From the time stamp, it looks like you were among the last to see him.”

  My head snapped up. A chill went through me as I eyed the blood spatters, most likely right next to my fingerprints. By now I was used to the way Sunni could go into cop mode at the drop of a hat. I always knew she’d eventually come back as my friend, the woman who had welcomed me when I first came back to town, who’d introduced me to quilting and brought me into her group, but I knew enough not to mess with her official persona while she was on the job.

  “Does that mean I’m a suspect?” I asked.

  “Should it? Make you a suspect?”

  “I assumed it was the home burglars.”

  “Should you be a suspect?” Notwithstanding her petite figure and lovely red hair, Sunni in uniform and all that implied was scary.

  “I . . . No, no, no.”

  She put her hand on my shoulder, a calming gesture. “I’m not worried about you, but we’ll be checking the cameras in the post office, just for completeness. I assume they’re in working order.”

  “Uh-huh.” I was grateful that I’d been able to talk Ben into an upgrade of our security system. Too bad his agreement had had to depend on a scary incident during my first months as postmaster.

  Sunni took the receipt from my hand. I was glad to be rid of it. “This transaction occurred at nine eighteen. That’s not long after you opened, right?”

  “Right. I opened at nine.”

  “Can you tell me what Dennis was like this morning?”

  “What he was like?”

  “How did he seem to you? Nervous in any way? Looking around? Jittery?”

  I thought back to Dennis’s first appearance in my line of sight, arguing with Joyce Blake as they left the rehearsal; then as he stood in front of my counter, complaining about his hate mail. “He was having a bad day, except for parking.”

  “What?” Sunni was understandably confused.

  “He plays with the Ashcots. He must have arrived early for rehearsal, because he had the best spot in front of the building. After their rehearsal, he put his guitar in the trunk of his car and then came into my lobby.”

  “And then?” she prompted, her tone suggesting I move on to something more significant.

  “Before that, as he was walking toward his car, he was arguing with a colleague at the college. Joyce Blake also plays guitar, but not the big bass version. They’re in the same department at the community college. Well, she’s in math and he’s in physics, but they’re sort of combined.”

  “Could you hear what they were arguing about?”

  “Nuh-uh. I could just tell from their body language. But Quinn says Dennis and Joyce are always at odds about the math and science curriculum and the catalogue. I thought it was funny that their classes and schedules are all lumped together in the same department. I guess it’s a small college.”

  I took a breath from what I realized was useless rambling, and dared take another moment of Sunni’s time to reach down for my coffee. I needed both my hands to manage a sip. Although Sunni had essentially cleared me already, I felt a chill wind wash over me and zipped up my jacket. More stalling, as a guilty person might do. Was I guilty? Could I have done something to prevent Dennis’s murder? Kept him longer at the counter, for example? Maybe if I’d engaged him and tried to help with his mail, he wouldn’t have walked in on the robbers.

  “You okay?” Sunni asked.

  I nodded. “Just flustered, I guess.”

  Sunni’s phone rang, but she ignored it. Maybe Greta would take care of it, I thought, as if it mattered to me. Sunni tapped her pen on the pad in front of her.

  “Eventually, he approached your counter . . . ?” she prompted, not as impatient as she might have been. She put the bloody receipt behind her, out of sight, and I relaxed a bit.

  “Yes, he came into the lobby and waited in line a short time. When he got to the counter, he wanted to show me some letters he’d received from students. He assumed they were from students, but there were no return addresses, so he couldn’t be sure, except they were criticizing his teaching practices. He didn’t actually show me the letters, just the envelopes.”

  Sunni took notes while I described Dennis’s plight over the threat of having to appear before a grievance committee. “How did he take it when you couldn’t help him?”

  “He was a little upset, I guess.” I cleared my throat. “A lot upset, truthfully. Then he just asked for the roll of stamps and gave me a hundred-dollar bill. He grumbled some more, then took his change and his receipt and left.” I realized I’d moved to the edge of my seat. I sat back now, finished with my report. “How di
d he die?” I asked. “Did he refuse to cooperate with the robbers, trying to protect his home?”

  Sunni rolled over my questions and continued with her own. “Did Dennis mention any possibilities as to who he thought wrote the letters? Did he name any students he thought might have been involved in the mailings?”

  “No, nothing like that. Isn’t this related to the robberies? I assumed—”

  “Usually, a person would have someone in mind, some clue, or warning before getting nasty notes. Or if it was a group, maybe he’d know who the ringleader might be,” Sunni said, trying to shake something loose from me.

  “He didn’t say anything like that. You can’t tell me how he died? Or where he was found?”

  “We’ll be releasing information shortly.”

  “Do you already have a suspect? I guess not, since you brought me in.”

  “You’re the best thing we have to a material witness, Cassie, someone who interacted with the victim close to his time of death.”

  “I wish I knew more.”

  “You might, without being aware of it now. I’m going to ask you to think about Dennis Somerville’s time in the post office. Try to remember who else was there, any interaction he may have had with someone other than you. Anything he might have said. Did he talk to someone in line, take a phone call? See if anything else occurs to you, then let me know.”

  “Of course, of course,” I said, dreading the idea of going over the matter again.

  I blew out a long breath, as if reliving a few minutes of post office business had already taken a lot out of me. As indeed it had.

  * * *

  I walked the short distance to my car, keeping my head down against the cold wind, and stuffed my hands in my jacket pocket. I’d left my hat and gloves in my car this morning and wished I had them now. Snow had been predicted, but there was no sign of it yet. Dennis Somerville had been murdered, I told myself, so what if a freezing storm blew through? So what if power lines came down or a car was battered by a falling tree? Nothing compared to what had happened to Dennis Somerville.

  I crossed at Second Street and passed the still-open salon where the last customers of the day were kibitzing with Tracy and Becca, two of the stylists. Even through the closed door, I could hear the soft rock the owners favored. Life goes on, I thought.

  When I reached my building, I saw that the lights were out and Ben Gentry was leaving by the side door. Ben had closed up for me, as attested to also by the absence of Old Glory outside. Although he never admitted it, I suspected Ben had a police scanner. No doubt he knew about Dennis and also knew that Sunni had called me in.

  “I figured you’d be glad to just go home when you were done at the PD,” he said, pulling on thick gloves.

  “You’re wonderful, Ben,” I said, managing a brief hug before he waved me away.

  “Course. Terrible thing, with Dennis Somerville, huh?”

  I nodded. “It was one thing when it was just robberies, but this . . .”

  “Yup. Well, you go on, now. And if you want to sleep in or something in the morning, let me know.”

  “Thanks, Ben. I’ll be fine.”

  But not too soon, I thought.

  * * *

  On the way home in my car, I replayed this morning’s interaction with Dennis Somerville again and again. Not because of Sunni’s request, but because I couldn’t clear my head of our brief, unpleasant encounter. I saw Dennis hoist his guitar case from the street behind his car. He was such a large, fit man that the task seemed effortless. Maybe that was why he thought he could overpower the robber, tried to be a hero and capture the person who’d been making us all double-lock our doors and add to our home security systems. Maybe he’d seen only one, when in my mind, there was a group. No wonder he’d lost the fight.

  Dennis’s guitar case was navy blue with some kind of gold braid trim around the edges. Had I mentioned that to Sunni? Might that be an important detail? I’d also noticed that the inside of his trunk had a large cooler that Dennis had to move in order to accommodate the guitar. Was that another detail I should have mentioned?

  My cell phone rang, filling my car with a Bach tune, then Quinn’s voice when I touched the screen to answer.

  “Dinner’s ready,” he said.

  “I’m on my way now,” I said.

  “I know. I talked to Greta. She said you left ten minutes ago. I was worried. I would have picked you up, but I couldn’t leave the roast, you know.” He laughed, as he always did when he knew he sounded like a 1950s housewife.

  “There’s a roast?”

  “Well, no, but you won’t go hungry.”

  “I’m sure I won’t.” In fact, I doubted I’d be able to eat at all. “I’m pulling onto Birch Street now.”

  “Coffee and appetizers waiting.”

  For a minute, I was able to let go of the Dennis Somerville murder and be thankful for the life I still had.

  * * *

  I could smell tarragon chicken as I climbed the steps to my front porch. I looked at the ages-old Nantucket pine swing Quinn had found for me, its seat now covered with a thin layer of ice. Why did everything have to be so cold tonight? Quinn opened the door before I could think of getting out my key. He hugged me and led me to my favorite easy chair, treating me with great gentleness and compassion.

  “I don’t know why this is hitting me so hard,” I said, flopping onto the seat. “It’s not as if Dennis was my best friend.”

  “What’s the point of calling anyone a friend if they’re not all best ones?”

  “I didn’t think of that.” I accepted a napkin holding a cracker and a hunk of Gouda and set it on the end table next to me. I thought of times I’d worked with Dennis. He was in charge of the arrangements for using the community room and the official renter of the post office box for the Ashcots. “I wish I could have helped him more.”

  “What could you have done?” he asked. From his tone, a rhetorical question. But I answered it anyway.

  I briefed Quinn on Dennis’s problem mail. “We have facilities and services beyond my little counter where I give out stamps and the little wall where I stuff post office boxes. Not everyone knows that the USPS has forensics laboratory services. They do things like analyzing paper and ink, restoring impressions on paper, detecting altered or counterfeit writing. Linda has been involved in lots of these cases. She’s even been able to return money to people who were fleeced of their life savings by mail fraud.”

  “Have the postal inspectors handled lots of cases of teacher-student relationships, where students don’t like their grades?”

  “No, but—” The doorbell cut me off. Only then did I notice that the dining room table had been set for three. “I forgot we’re having company.”

  Quinn nodded and opened the door. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said.

  “She’d better not mind,” said the chief of police as she entered my living room.

  “We can’t have our top cop going hungry,” Quinn said.

  “As long as she’s not going to arrest me,” I said, and accepted another warm embrace, counting my blessings.

  * * *

  Sunni made it clear that she had to eat and run, but not before dessert. “It’s going to be an all-nighter,” she said. “I promised Greta I’d bring her a doggy bag. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all,” Quinn said. He went to the kitchen to fill the take-out order. Since he’d shopped, bought, and cooked the food, I didn’t feel that I had to add my permission.

  I’d picked at my chicken and passed on the rich-looking mound of mashed potatoes. “It’s horrible,” I said. Fortunately, Quinn seemed to understand that I wasn’t referring to his cooking.

  “You’re thinking you could have prevented Dennis’s murder, aren’t you?” Sunni said.

  I nodded. “You said it yourself. I was one of the last people to se
e him.”

  “What could you have done?”

  “Uh-oh. Don’t get her started,” Quinn said, returning with containers for Greta. He made one more trip and came back with apple pie and dessert plates. He hadn’t tried to hide the pink box from the great bakery in town. “I leave the baking to the pros,” he often said.

  “I could at least have offered to look into our policies on mail fraud,” I said. “Maybe Dennis’s letters came under the heading of official hate mail.” I gave Sunni a summary of the role of the USPS forensics lab, as I’d done for Quinn.

  “Does the USPS handle teacher-student relationships?”

  “My question exactly.” Quinn beamed, pleased that his thinking was in league with that of the chief of police, I guessed.

  “Most of Linda’s cases were about deceptive ads, like lotteries, mail theft, that kind of thing,” I admitted.

  “In all honesty, can you say that Dennis’s letters might have been something of interest to a national forensics lab? Or that they had anything to do with his death?” Quinn asked, directing his questions to both Sunni and me, his head ping-ponging between us.

  “It doesn’t matter. The point is that I didn’t even try to find out. Instead, I just dismissed him. I threw up my hands and said, ‘Not my job.’”

  “Cassie—” he began.

  I held up my hand. “And, if you must know, yes, there’s a chance that I did contribute to what happened. What if the burglars were almost finished? And just then Dennis comes home. If I’d asked him to wait while I checked out his case, then he wouldn’t have stormed out, angry and frustrated over his post office experience, ready to take on even a burglar.”

  Sunni shook her head. “That’s some creative thinking, Cassie, even for you.”

  “Meaning?” I was ready for battle, but when Quinn chose that moment to take his seat and put his hand on mine, I knew I’d better take a breath.

  Sunni had finished her pie in record time and now pushed her chair from the table. “I wish I could say more. But let me tell you this much. Dennis’s murder was not a matter of bad timing. It’s very unlikely that he walked in on a robbery.”