Addressed to Kill Read online

  “I get it,” Quinn said. “It doesn’t fit the pattern, does it? They’ve always had impeccable timing at knowing when the owners would be away.”

  “That’s right. Except for one time. They were interrupted in one of those new condos over on the west side and they dropped everything and ran.”

  “They didn’t hang around and wrestle with the owner,” Quinn said, thinking it through. “And they certainly didn’t kill him.”

  Sunni shook her head. “No, they didn’t. And the owner thought it might be kids, they moved so quickly.”

  “You said ‘they.’ There was more than one burglar?” Quinn asked.

  “I’m using the universal ‘they,’” Sunni said. “The homeowner heard a noise in the back bedroom and saw a couple of chairs turned over, but by the time he got back there, whoever it was had gone out a window. So, no, we’re still not sure whether we have one or more perps, except that it seems it would take at least one accomplice to coordinate and carry out so many incidents.”

  I’d been thinking things through, also, and had my own theory. “Then it’s possible Dennis’s murderer was the one who wrote the letters he showed me. All the more reason I should have investigated.”

  “Is that true, Sunni?” Quinn asked.

  Sunni shrugged. Something in her eyes gave me the clue I needed.

  “You have those letters in custody, don’t you?” I said, realizing they would have been taken away by her crime scene guys.

  She shrugged again.

  “Blink once for yes, twice for no,” Quinn said.

  But I already knew the answer.

  * * *

  I convinced Quinn he didn’t need to help with the dishes. “Cooks don’t clean up” had been our rule, and I saw no need to change it tonight.

  Besides, I wanted Quinn to leave. I needed time to think about everything. Especially what Sunni might or might not have been implying about the student or students’ letters. It was clear that Sunni had brought me into her office this evening not only because I’d had dealings with Dennis today, but because she’d found the letters and thought there might be some connection.

  I decided it was time to have a serious, rational talk with her about what the USPS could do to help. Maybe if I approached the idea without whining about bearing some guilt, she’d be more inclined to let me work with her.

  But not tonight. I’d give her time to get caught up. I also ruled out returning to the post office to pick up the piles of handbooks and manuals stored in my desk. The most I could do now was try Linda, but I had to be satisfied with leaving a message.

  I got ready for bed, turned on the television in my bedroom, and caught the late-night local news. I listened intently as a well-groomed young woman stood in front of an oversize map of North Ashcot and gave her report.

  “A series of home invasions turned deadly today in North Ashcot when an instructor at the community college was found shot to death in his home. Apparently, Dr. Dennis Somerville”—the background shifted to include an image of Dennis in a jacket and tie, undoubtedly a staff photo—“came home to find a burglary in progress.”

  Finally, another detail. Dennis was shot. No surprise that reporters had their ways of getting questions answered when, ahem, best friends of the chief couldn’t.

  The somber voice continued. “Police say that the forty-seven-year-old physics professor surprised the burglars and . . .”

  I turned the set off. How do you know? I asked it, and waited for sleep.

  * * *

  Unnecessary worries swirled in my head, refusing to be replaced by woolly sheep jumping over fences. Who would take over Dennis’s physics classes? Did schools have backup teachers ready to step in at times like this? How was Dennis’s son holding up? If I remembered correctly, he was in college out of state. I’d seen him during school vacations when he sometimes played with the Ashcots. Dennis’s wife, Charlene, a nurse, had died a few years ago.

  Since the campus wasn’t a crime scene, I doubted they’d close it for very long, perhaps to accommodate a tribute of some kind, however. I thought of the argument Dennis had had with Joyce Blake from the mathematics side of the department. Was she feeling as awful as I did, stuck forever knowing that her last interaction with Dennis was contentious?

  The only thought that relaxed me was that there was still time for me to help find who killed Dennis, burglar or no burglar.

  As I drifted off, a plan took shape. I wanted to write it down so I wouldn’t forget, but in my semisleep state my arms were as heavy as a mailman’s sack and I couldn’t reach the pad of paper. I’d have to remember.

  5

  On Tuesday morning, Ben sent me a text. Not a phone message, which meant his lovely young niece, Natalie, was visiting. He offered me the morning off if I needed to recover from Dennis’s death. I knew that part of his motivation in wanting to work the desk was to keep the truth of his official retirement from Natalie. After all, Ben had known Dennis much longer than I had, so it would be he who would need recovery time. But the three of us—Ben, Natalie, and I—had been maintaining the ruse that Ben was still in charge. It was fine with me.

  I texted back my thanks and was only too happy to have time to put my plan into action. For once, I remembered a plan that had come to me, practically fully formed, in last night’s half-dream state.

  I wasn’t sure whether Mercedes and the other Ashcots would be rehearsing this morning, or perhaps simply meeting to discuss their future without their bass guitarist. In any case, I didn’t want to show up at the community room attached to the post office, lest Ben see me and change his mind about subbing for me. I called Mercedes instead and asked her to meet me at Mahican’s coffee shop, where Ben had not and would never set foot. “Too uppity,” he claimed. “With all the fancy names. Macchiatos, freddos, whatever. Coffee’s coffee.” And that was that.

  Quinn called to check up on me as I was leaving for my nine o’clock with Mercedes.

  “I’m doing okay,” I said. “Ben’s filling in for me.”

  “Anything I can do for you?”

  I paused, not wanting to share my plan with Quinn, but needing his help. I tried for a middle ground. “I’d like to talk to you about antiques.”

  “Ha. I think I can do that. What kind of antiques?”

  “More like the history of things. Or a period in history. Remember that bronze bust you found for me, of the British postal reformer, Sir Rowland Hill? We were talking about how expensive it had been to send mail in England at the time. Up to a day’s wage for a working-class guy, right? Until Hill worked to introduce inexpensive postage. And they cheered for him on the opening day of the Penny Post. So interesting.”

  “January 10, 1840,” Quinn said, unable to resist joining me in a discussion that related to history, with a piece of trivia on the side. He then broke into a heavy sigh, followed by a long pause—things that told me he knew what I was up to, even across telephone lines. “You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?”

  “Whatever do you mean?” I asked, feigning grave offense.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Can you spell investigate?” he asked, emphasizing each syllable.

  “I’m not a cop,” I said. “I just realize that I need to broaden my interests, and you’re such a great resource for that.”

  “And you say Ben will be at the office, so you have the whole morning free?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You’re going to tell Mercedes you’ll give that talk for her at the college, aren’t you?”

  I was stunned but thought it was worth a try to stall a bit longer. “That’s quite a leap.”

  “So you can nose around the campus. Where the late Dennis Somerville happened to work.” He took a breath. “Cassie.”

  “I guess I’m predictable, huh?”

  “I know I can’t stop you. Can you promise me that y
ou will be careful?”

  “Of course.” I’d have promised anything. I couldn’t wait to get started on my plan.

  * * *

  Mercedes joined me at the café downtown, wearing one of her signature cold-weather capes. With her severe hairstyle and a bright, flared garment covering her stocky body, she drew mixed appraisals from the patrons of Mahican’s. It was clear that she didn’t mind the attention. I thought it likely that with a name like Mercedes, and her interesting, slight overbite, she’d had a dramatic start in life.

  “Well, that was awful,” Mercedes began, draping her cape over the back of a chair. “It was more of a funeral than a rehearsal.” She sat down heavily and blew out what seemed like an exhausted breath. “Everyone’s in shock over Dennis.”

  I nodded in understanding. “Are you going ahead with your appearance at the Valentine’s Day dance?”

  “The consensus is yes, so far, but we thought we should talk to Dyson, Dennis’s son, to see how he feels about it. He’s probably a wreck. And there’s his sister-in-law, Charlene’s sister, but I think they haven’t been on speaking terms.”

  “She’s not local, is she?”

  “No, she and her husband live out West somewhere. I know that Dennis could be difficult. He had his ways and I think one of the reasons for their estrangement was his inability to meet his in-laws halfway.”

  “I wasn’t aware of that.”

  “Charlene was close to her family and it seemed there was always something that Dennis had a problem with, every holiday or celebration. He had no family himself and didn’t seem to feel any obligation to honor Charlene’s. There were years when they didn’t see each other at all. I never got the whole story.”

  Rather than comment, I took a bite of blueberry muffin. I was always taken aback at how quickly after death, a person’s life and character became the object of great interest and discussion. The saying about not speaking ill of the dead is seldom followed.

  Mercedes had started in on her apple turnover, a specialty of the house. Something Ben would love, if he could get past the nonfat lattes “with room.” When she picked up her chatting, Mercedes switched off Dennis’s personal life and moved to his murder. “I can’t believe it, Cassie. I have to admit I haven’t paid attention to those robberies that have been going on all over town. You always figure it’s not going to impact you or any of your friends, so you bury your head. And then something like this happens.” She let out a long, exasperated sigh.

  I couldn’t decide how to evaluate Mercedes’s responses. She’d come in upset, then lapsed into criticism of her deceased friend and his ability to relate to his in-laws. I chalked everything up to shock and to the fact that we all express our emotions in different ways. Good thing it wasn’t my job to judge.

  I didn’t disabuse Mercedes of her assumption that Dennis’s murder was tied to the string of robberies. For all I knew, she was right. I had only innuendo from Sunni and my own imagination that said otherwise.

  While Mercedes and I were talking, other musicians had entered the café and made their way to the counter. Now Joyce Blake and Shirley Peterson came to our table, both without their guitars, and pulled up chairs. The pair were polar opposites on any pop psychology scale, with Joyce a tell-it-like-it-is complainer and Shirley a perpetually optimistic smiler. Although I’d been counting on discussing my proposed postal history talk with Mercedes, I didn’t feel I could dismiss the other two women. Besides, maybe Dennis’s coworkers at the college could shed some light on the letters that preceded his murder. I hoped my companions couldn’t tell that I was operating in investigator mode. As I saw it, my desire to help in bringing Dennis’s killer to justice was part of my sorrow and regret over his death.

  “Poor Dennis,” Shirley said, propping her elbows on the table. “Dennis was the best teacher.” This was Shirley’s first year of retirement from teaching high school biology, and she’d taken up the guitar in earnest. “He was so patient. Once I retired I wanted to learn the guitar and he was so generous to me. I feel so awful about what happened.”

  “You can imagine how I feel,” Joyce said, still wrapped in a long winter coat and a scarf in a clashing color. With Joyce nothing ever matched. When she was onstage, she could have been the long-haired girl in any of the seventies bands I’d seen on videos, with rainbow-colored ribbons in her hair. “The last time I saw Dennis, yesterday morning, I was chewing him out over the curriculum. As if it was a matter of life and death whether calculus is or is not a prerequisite for physics. I said some stupid things.”

  “That’s not all you should remember,” Shirley said. “You two worked together well for years.”

  Mercedes and Shirley continued to assure Joyce that she should forget that last argument and try to focus on the better memories. I decided not to share my own final, contentious interaction with Dennis. I wondered if any of the three women knew of the letters he’d brought to me. I thought back to who was in the post office when Dennis showed them to me. I remembered that he’d come to the counter immediately following the Bertrands with their post office box crisis. Mercedes came after Dennis, but there had been a few other customers in between, so she might not have heard his low-volume rant. I suspected she would have mentioned it if she had.

  When the barista called their names, Joyce and Shirley took their coffees to go and we uttered good-byes all around, adding on “take care” each time.

  I’d hoped Mercedes would pursue her request for me to give a talk to her class, but apparently Dennis’s murder and other events of her life had taken over her thoughts. I’d have to broach the subject myself. I couldn’t think of a smooth segue except to get up for refills and come back as if I’d had a sudden idea.

  I plunked a fresh coffee in front of Mercedes. “Are you still interested in having me speak to your class about postal history?” I asked.

  Mercedes’s expression brightened, not merely from the coffee, I hoped. “Of course, of course. I’m delighted. I thought you were brushing me off yesterday.”

  There was nothing like being wanted, and Mercedes’s response was almost as rewarding as an attaboy from the postmaster general. “You caught me at a busy time, but I think I can fit it in,” I said.

  I felt Mercedes could see right through my pretense. Didn’t everyone in town know I had essentially a nine-to-five job, with Ben to help, and one hobby that I’d just taken up—quilting, at the behest of the chief of police? I was new to the quilting group and hadn’t become as obsessed as Sunni or some of the other members, who bought fabric the way I bought takeout when Quinn wasn’t around to cook.

  In short, I had lots of free time.

  “Great,” Mercedes said. “How soon can you be ready? We meet Tuesdays and Thursdays. I’d hoped you could take this Thursday’s class.”

  I gulped. I’d been thinking more like May or June, but, of course, the sooner I got to campus to look around Dennis’s environment—my real purpose for the trip—the better. “I can do Thursday, but I’m wondering if you’d mind if I visited the room ahead of time.” I screwed my face into a nervous wince, hardly faking. “It would make me less nervous.”

  Mercedes waved her hand. “No problem. We meet at eleven this morning. Though I don’t think there’s going to be much class work going on today. I fully expect the dean to call an assembly to announce some kind of service for Dennis.” She took a gulp of coffee and swallowed hard. “Can you be there a little before?”

  “That works for me.”

  “Good. You can stay for a few minutes, or as long as you like, and get a feel for the class.”

  I ran the timeline in my head. If I didn’t have to be at my real job until one, that would give me at least an hour on campus. “Perfect. I’ll drive over myself and meet you.”

  Mercedes took out a notepad and drew a quick sketch of the campus, marking an X on the building I’d be visiting, Mary Draper Hall. “
I’ll see you there,” she said. “I’m so glad you’re up for this. And remember, it doesn’t have to be restricted to Victorian England. The U.S. was around then, too.” She laughed and flung her cape over her shoulders, just missing my coffee mug, and left the café.

  Everything was going as planned. I’d managed to arrange to be on campus twice in the next couple of days. Now all I had to do was make good use of the time there. And prepare for a lecture to a group of college students. I shuddered, hoping it was a friendly, intimate group. I’d forgotten to ask the size of the class. I was committed now in any case, all for the sake of speedy justice, I told myself. No wonder I had to order a third cup of coffee.

  * * *

  Mercedes suggested I allow a half hour to drive to campus and park. I still had time to call Quinn.

  “Are you busy?” I asked.

  “Oh yeah, February in the Berkshires is brimming over with tourists, wanting to see the bare trees.”

  “Their loss. They don’t realize how beautiful birches are in winter.”

  “Neither did I until I moved here. Birch trees don’t do well in the drier parts of California.”

  “Since Ashcot’s Attic is not crawling with foliage fans, is it okay if I come by the shop and talk about my class? I meet them on Thursday.”

  “You’re not wasting any time, are you?”

  “I can be at the shop in ten minutes. Does that work for you?”

  “Why do I have the feeling I’m aiding and abetting a potential felon?”

  “That’s harsh.”

  “Obstructing justice.”

  “That’s usually a misdemeanor, like telling a state trooper your speedometer is broken and that’s why you might have been speeding. A felony would be—”

  “Okay, and a misdemeanor doesn’t worry you?”

  “I see what I’m doing more as participatory democracy.”