Addressed to Kill Page 8

  When I heard Gail’s “Have a nice day,” in a tone that said she wished the caller anything but, I grabbed the nearest thing to me. I stuffed the lighthouse snow globe in my pocket. A shrink might say I was desperate not to leave Dennis’s office—the whole campus—empty-handed. Sometimes shrinks are right.

  Gail clicked off her call and clomped over to me. I knew my time was up. “I’m not sure I got your name,” she said. Her tone was cold, suspicious. I was surprised she didn’t add “young lady.”

  She was right, of course. Another big decision. I could tell her that my identity was classified USPS information and run down the hall. I knew she’d never catch me. I could give her a false name, but why bother? In the end, I grabbed a business card from my purse and handed it to her. In almost the same movement, I pulled up my sleeve and tapped my watch.

  “Oops, it’s later than I thought. I have to get back to the office,” I said, perhaps the most honest thing I’d said to Gail since we met. “Thanks for your help.”

  I hurried down the hall, remembering that I never did like science.

  I turned left, down the short wing of the hall, toward the elevator. Two doors down on this section of the floor was an office with the same half-glass door and a sign that read H. BLACKWOOD. I stopped to listen for footsteps and heard none behind me. Gail’s pumps would have made it impossible for her to sneak up on me.

  I tried the door, not surprised to find it locked. I did note that the considerate Professor (or not) Blackwood had provided a way to leave a message for him. I’d seen this arrangement on other office doors in the department. Dennis Somerville had affixed a small whiteboard to his doorframe, with a marker dangling from a string. Hank Blackwood had chosen the paper and pen method, with a set of pockets for sticky notes. The setup contained a thick pad of blank notes. Though I couldn’t be positive, I thought they were identical to the note Hank had left on my counter the last time he bought stamps. I would never want to be held accountable for IDing math symbols, most of which looked alike to me. The low-tech communication system included a separate pocket for leaving your note. I was tempted to leave a note, such as Stop bothering me, but thought better of it.

  Once more hearing no footsteps—I was convinced that Gail was opening drawers and running her hand over all surfaces, trying to determine exactly what I’d done in Dennis’s office—I slipped my hand down into the pseudo “in-box,” on Hank’s door, hoping to find something pertinent. The pocket was empty, thus ruling out sticky notes as the investigator’s best lead.

  I gave up and summoned the elevator, my only takeaway a small lighthouse snow globe.

  * * *

  Outside, the campus at about forty degrees felt warmer than the building I’d just left. In the end, Gail’s cold good-bye had gotten to me. It was as if she’d figured out that my visit wasn’t legitimate, and had been about to execute a citizen’s arrest. Which I probably deserved. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she was on the phone now, calling Sunni or the post office to verify my credentials. At this hour the office was closed for lunch and she’d get the answering machine, fortunately. Maybe recognizing my voice on the recording chip would be enough to satisfy her that at least I hadn’t stolen the uniform.

  I trudged north toward the lot where my car was parked, the wind seeming to pick up. My head down, the way I tended to walk in the face of even small gusts, I nearly bumped into Joyce Blake, who was also paying no attention to what was at her eye level, which was the same as mine for all practical purposes.

  We both laughed and paused to exchange a few words. We remarked on the fact that the campus was so quiet, as if a blanket of snow had covered it, and adjusted our clothing accordingly—she tightened the sash on her coat and I adjusted the collar of my jacket upward.

  “Did you hold class this morning?” I asked her.

  She shook her head and blew out a visible breath, like the kind we had competed with on snow days as kids. “But we did go ahead with our faculty meeting. There were some forms we needed to finalize for grants we’re applying for in the math department. Nobody had much heart for it. And on another note”—she smiled—“Note. Sorry. I’m glad we’ll be going ahead with the Valentine’s Day gig. Dedicating it to Dennis, in a way.”

  “I haven’t talked to Quinn, but I’m sure he’s happy about it, too.”

  “Oh, and can you believe Hank Blackwood actually asked to rejoin the group?” Joyce shook her head, her long hair moving slightly under her tight knitted cap. “The gall. As if Dennis’s death cleared the way for him.”

  “It was Dennis who asked him to leave the group?” Quinn, not given to gossip, had never mentioned this, figuring, correctly, that I had no need to know.

  “Oh yes, and no one yet knows why Hank complied. He could be very stubborn. We think Dennis had something on him, but who knows?”

  It was unthinkable that someone would use the death of a friend or a colleague in that way. It crossed my mind that Joyce herself had much to gain in her department now that Dennis was gone. Hadn’t there been that calculus-now-versus-calculus-later debate? I brushed the thought away. This was what happened to amateurs at detective work. Suspect everyone. Be able to prove nothing.

  As Joyce and I talked, I’d pushed my gloved hand deeper into the pocket of my jacket, gripping the lighthouse globe I’d taken from Dennis’s office, so afraid that it would fall to the ground where Joyce would see it. She would surely recognize it as Dennis’s and be all kinds of confused about why I had it.

  Much like me.

  8

  Back at my familiar retail desk on Main Street, my spirits were lifted. Ben had left things in perfect order, of course, and even picked up a box of my new favorite cookies—French macaroons from our local bakery. He’d placed the box on top of the small pile of my personal mail that had come in.

  A much-needed laugh came around three o’clock. When you’ve managed counter service for as many years as I have, you become an expert on the behavior of people who are waiting in line.

  In Boston, or any big city, there are strict rules. Usually, several clerks are working, each at a different station. When a window comes open, the clerk calls out “Next,” and it’s like a bell going off. The person at the front of the line has a fraction of a second to beat it to the counter before there’s a clamor and everyone badgers and nudges him verbally, to the accompaniment of colorful language.

  “Hey, buddy, you deaf? You’re next.”

  “Hello? Number two is open. Are you waiting for an invitation?”

  “You want an escort, mister?”

  The aural abuse is not unlike the honking horn syndrome in traffic when the lead car is slow to respond to a green light. I missed the action.

  In North Ashcot, no one was in that big of a rush. Except for today, when a middle-aged man in a business suit, a stranger to me, expressed annoyance several times that there was only one clerk—me.

  Old Mrs. Frederich was the next person in line.

  “Any time before the sun goes down, huh, lady?” the man said when Mrs. Frederich didn’t lift her tennis-ball-footed walker and respond to her turn in a flash.

  I knew the betting would begin immediately.

  “Worcester,” called out Beth Keller, one of my high school classmates.

  “Springfield,” said Hank Blackwood, back for another transaction today.

  “Bridgeport,” said Edna, the school bus driver.

  “Hartford,” said Brooke Jeffries, the penny whistler of the Ashcots.

  “Providence,” said Mike from the hardware store down the street.

  My guess was Albany, thirty miles to the west, population one hundred thousand, more or less, but I always recused myself from the game, citing the number of a fictitious postal regulation.

  Three more guesses were entertained, then “Where are you from, sonny?” Mrs. Frederich asked the businessman in
a sweet voice.

  “Hartford, so what?” the man said.

  Wallets came out, purses were opened, and dollar bills were handed to our very own former Miss Berkshire County, Brooke Jeffries.

  “You might know, the banker won,” Mike said, with a big grin.

  The man in the suit caught on pretty quickly, huffed, and left the building, clutching his free Priority Mail envelopes. A loss of revenue for the USPS, but a fun time for my regular customers. Sometimes strangers from a big city broke down and enjoyed the joke; other times they ranted all the way out the door.

  Brooke waved her bounty in the air. “Next term’s tuition,” she said. Brooke was studying for her MBA on the campus I knew so well after my morning’s journey.

  When Hank Blackwood came to the counter, he was in a good mood even though he hadn’t bet correctly on the stranger’s hometown. “Third time’s a charm—right, Cassie?”

  I gave him a questioning look.

  “This is my third time seeing you in two days.”

  I smiled, as if I’d been counting also and was happy about the visits. “What can I help you with, Hank?” I asked, seeing no mail to be processed.

  “A sheet of stamps,” he said. “Those Forever ones.”

  I dug out a sheet of commemoratives with a patriotic theme. “These okay?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Plus, I need a sheet of those extra ounce ones.”

  I picked out a sheet with Abraham Lincoln’s image and handed them over. Hank fished through his wallet. He looked around and saw only one other person in line—our bus driver, Edna, who was holding an e-reader. He leaned into the counter. “You and Quinn are tight, right?” he asked me, in a conspiratorial voice.

  I pretended I didn’t know what “tight” meant in this context. “Quinn and I are friends, yes,” I said, in a normal tone.

  “Well, I’m trying to get back to playing with the Ashcots. I thought maybe you could put in a good word.”

  “I know nothing about music,” I said.

  “You don’t need to know music; you only need to have clout.”

  “I don’t have that, either. I’m just a groupie following the band around.” I shrugged and gave a laugh that I hoped signified the end of the conversation.

  “Yeah, well, you know, he’s a nice guy, Quinn. You know his shop is interested in some old stuff I have in my grandfather’s attic. I should remind him of that. Plus, I know he covets that old car I drive around. Anyway, I’m sure he’ll vote me back in, but just in case, I thought I’d let you know.”

  “Good luck, Hank,” I said, catching Edna’s eye and waving her over.

  I was proud of myself for not reminding Hank about his claims of how much better Pittsfield was the other times we’d met. I wondered why he was so eager to return to the Ashcots. I knew for a fact that they didn’t get paid, except for an occasional basket of fruit after a wedding gig.

  Not my problem, I told myself. I already had a few of my own. An empty lobby gave me a minute to review what those were as I cleared the counter of crumbs (the remains of a snack Melissa’s toddler enjoyed while sitting there), stray paper clips and rubber bands, and tiny bits of adhesive paper from the edges of stamp sheets. A sticky note was doing its job, sticking to the edge of my counter. I peeled it off and saw that it must have been discarded by Hank Blackwood. There were math symbols all around the edge, and the memo was a short list: “forevers,” followed by “xtra oz.” Exactly what Hank had bought. I had to admit I was surprised that his trip was legitimately planned—I would have bet that he dropped in randomly to rant, and faked his shopping list. I tossed the sticky and all the other paper scraps into the recycle box under my counter.

  I listed my concerns as I tidied my work area. Linda’s plight, for one. I hoped tonight’s Skype session would be useful and supportive. My talk, for two. It was dawning on me that I had only one day to prepare for a lecture to an entire stadium full of people, or a classroom full of kids, depending on how I looked at it. Either way, it was daunting.

  And then there was the murder. I glanced down at my bottom drawer, where I’d stashed the snow globe I’d taken from Dennis’s bookcase, my only physical link to Dennis Somerville. Had some invisible force been guiding my hand toward it while I was looking around his office? Or did I just want a souvenir? I could only imagine Sunni’s reaction if she knew what I’d done. My only defense was that I hadn’t violated a crime scene.

  I checked the clock. Less than an hour until I’d be able to close up. I sat at my desk and took out my phone, ready to satisfy my curiosity about the photos I’d taken in Dennis’s office. I hoped they weren’t all shots of the floor or the ceiling (it wouldn’t have been the first time) or the inside of my jacket pocket.

  I stopped at the clearest picture, a shot of Dennis’s bulletin board. I enlarged the picture and saw notices of meetings and a memo about physics club elections, plus class assignments and conference badges. Stuck to the top right corner was a button with a probably-famous equation that meant nothing to me.

  I scrolled through other photos, sending the better ones to my e-mail address for later study. When my lobby door opened and Quinn appeared, I clicked back to my home screen. No sense taking up his valuable time explaining a bunch of pictures that might turn out to be useless.

  Even with an otherwise empty lobby, I didn’t open the gate to my boyfriend. Rules were rules. Instead, we hugged over the counter (sometimes it came in handy to be tall). There was no explicit rule against that.

  “Enjoy your trip back to school?”

  “I had a delicious lunch,” I said.

  He pointed to the bakery box, open on my desk. “Are those cookies from the critically acclaimed cafeteria?”

  We laughed and I took the hint. I offered Quinn the box, where there were still a few pastel macaroons left. “Compliments of Ben,” I admitted.

  He took a pale green cookie. “Was it a useful trip to the campus? Anything you can use to help the chief?” The green cookie was gone in one mouthful. He took a pink one next.

  “Yes and no. That is, nothing useful.” I told Quinn about meeting Joyce and Hank.

  “Hank seems to think you’re dying to do business with him.”

  “It’s more Fred than me. I think the guy is more talk than truth, if you know what I mean.”

  “He thinks you have your eye on an antique car he drives sometimes.”

  Quinn made a pfft sound. “It’s a ’sixty-six Nova. Not exactly hot these days.”

  “I get that impression, about the hot air, I mean.” What was I doing? Gossiping when I had a class to face in less than two days. “The class is huge,” I told Quinn, who was rightly confused by the lack of transition.

  “Are you ready?”

  “What do you think I should wear?”

  He grinned. “That’s your problem? What you’re going to wear?”

  “That’s the one that’s easy to take care of.”

  “Your uniform, definitely.”

  “Really?” I pulled out the front of my shirt. “Really? This old thing?”

  “And your jacket. It’s a sign of authority. They’ll pay more attention.”

  “Hmm. I don’t have to rush out and buy a new dress?” Not that I intended to.

  He shook his head. “Now for the lecture.”

  I winced. “Don’t call it that.”

  “Chat?” he offered. I shrugged.

  “Oration?” he asked.

  I shook my head no.

  “Presentation?” He wasn’t giving up.

  I twisted my wrist in a “maybe” gesture.

  I noticed a group of women crossing Main Street, headed my way. I recognized a couple of them and guessed they’d just come from a crafts day at the back of Liv Patterson’s card shop. I let out a breath of relief when the women walked by my doors. I waved back t
o a couple of them. Lost revenue aside, I was ready to be done with post office business and get down to police work, which I considered my talk, or presentation, to be part of. If only Sunni knew the sacrifices I was making for her and the murder investigation.

  “Okay,” I said. “Presentation. Are you still willing to help?”

  “Of course I’ll help,” Quinn said. He looked at his watch. “Almost closing time. Why don’t you stay here after you lock up? Get some notes and thoughts together. Maybe take some photos of your work space.”

  I waved my arm and turned my body three-sixty. “Take pictures of this? I don’t think so.”

  “Whatever. I’ll go to your place and start dinner and you call me when you’re ready. I was thinking of chicken and cashews.”

  “Wow.”

  “I know. Cinderella, huh?”

  I nodded. “After the prince finds her slipper.”

  * * *

  “The flag should be hoisted briskly and lowered ceremoniously,” stated the guidelines in my handbook, “and any onlookers should stand at attention.” There were seldom people around when I hoisted the flag in the morning or took it down for the night.

  This evening, however, I saw three figures standing across the street. Main Street was pretty wide, and it was already past sundown, making it impossible to identify the onlookers or even to determine their gender, but I guessed from their postures that they were relatively young. They stood at attention, as appropriate. Did they really still teach that in schools?

  The strange thing was that they kept standing there, at attention, even after the flag was down and as I walked around to the side of the building. I carried the flag through the side door and looked out the front windows. They were still standing there. I now saw their posture not as patriotic or respectful but threatening. I lowered the shades and made sure all the doors were locked. I took a breath. Dennis Somerville’s murder was getting to me. Surely, there was nothing amiss in three people standing on the sidewalk. Main Street, North Ashcot, wasn’t exactly the drug capital of Berkshire County.