Addressed to Kill Read online

  I couldn’t talk myself out of a creepy feeling, however, and decided to go home. I added my scarf and hat, but not my gloves. I left my hands free to use my phone in case I needed to make an emergency call. I shoved the lighthouse snow globe into my pocket and left by the side door, the one closest to my car. I scanned the street. The group was no longer together on Main Street, but I could tell from their retreating figures that they’d just dispersed.

  I got in my car, locked myself in, and headed home. I checked my rearview mirror more than once on the short drive, but even in our small town there was enough traffic at commute hour to ruin my chances of noticing a tail. It wasn’t until I pulled into my driveway that I relaxed my grip on the steering wheel.

  * * *

  “You’re early,” Quinn said.

  “I wanted to see you with your apron on,” I said.

  “It gets kind of creepy out there when the shops close, doesn’t it?”

  How could Quinn know I’d been frightened out of my own office? Was I shaking externally as well as internally? “It’s warmer here” was all I’d admit to.

  “Did you get a chance to snap some photos?”

  I shook my head. “There’s nothing to look at. What would I photograph? My state-of-the-art paper cutter? The charming burlap delivery bag? If I had time to take a trip to the Boston facility, that would be worth a slide show.”

  “You might be underestimating the interest people would have in what’s behind the scenes. Everyone thinks their job is dull, but a behind-the-scenes look at almost any job can be fascinating to those who know nothing about it.”

  “I’ll give it some thought.”

  “Or you can get some historical photos, like the one you showed me with the early Oklahoma post office that was a converted chicken coop.”

  “You remember that?”

  “I even remember the young boy who stood guard with a rifle.”

  “I’ll think about it.” But I was no closer to doing so.

  We dropped the subject and agreed that I’d work in my newly developing home office and report for dinner in an hour.

  The first thing I did was place Dennis’s lighthouse snow globe on the corner of my desk. For inspiration? That would have to do for a reason. I studied the legend on the base and saw that the tiny replica was of the Annisquam Harbor Lighthouse in Gloucester, on the North Shore of Massachusetts. I’d been a South Shore person myself while I lived in Boston, heading to the cape whenever possible and very familiar with the lighthouses there. I’d taken many memorable trips to the walkable lighthouses like those at Hyannis Harbor and Chatham, and my favorite Three Sisters Lights at Nauset Beach.

  I was less familiar with tourist destinations like Gloucester, Marblehead, and Rockport, on the North Shore, apparently Dennis Somerville’s choice of outing. I searched for the Annisquam Harbor Lighthouse and learned a few pieces of trivia, such as: Rudyard Kipling once stayed there to work on Captain Courageous. A lot of help this would be in solving the murder of Dennis Somerville.

  I was keenly aware that this activity shouldn’t be my highest priority, given the looming of the eleventh hour before my talk. I should have been planning, outlining, and researching postal history, gathering quotes.

  Instead, I pulled out my phone and texted Linda.

  ready to skype?

  definitely.

  In three minutes we were face-to-face, in a manner of speaking. The wonders of technology.

  “Hey,” Linda said. “I’m glad you’re checking in early. I’ve been thinking all day that I must have worried you this morning and, really, there’s nothing big going on. You know how I get after a breakup. Like my whole world’s crashed, but it’s only Josh who’s bit the dust.” She paused and I knew she’d apologize. “Oh, Cassie, I’m sorry. I’m always doing that. There you are with a real crisis.”

  “It’s not really my crisis. And you sounded different this time. Like the issue is more about work?”

  “Yeah, well, that changed right after lunch.”

  It wasn’t the first time Linda had swung from a very low state to a very high one, but this might have been the fastest turnaround in a while. I had a feeling it hadn’t been a random pep talk, or the presence of a smiley face somewhere. “What happened after lunch?”

  “My boss—Lou, the new guy you haven’t met—came by. It seems a new position is opening up and I’m being tapped.”

  “That’s great, Linda. Tell me about it.”

  She did, while I tuned in and out, hoping my “cools” and “oh, wows” came at the right time. Not that I didn’t want to know about Linda’s career path, just not while I was stewing over a murder and a talk, in alternating bouts of worry and doubt.

  Linda sat as usual with her back to her window over Boston—giving me a brilliant idea. When it was my turn to talk, I presented it. “Linda, do you still have all those photos of the building that we took for the brochure a couple of years ago?”

  “I’m sure I have them somewhere. Why? Are you homesick? Are you coming back?”

  “Do you think you can find a few and send them to me?”

  I told her about my so-called speech and Quinn’s idea that I use behind-the-scenes or historically interesting photos.

  “What could possibly be interesting in this building?”

  “Compared to the North Ashcot PO? Everything, including the building itself.”

  “What you really need is pictures of the POs that are on the National Register of Historic Places, like the one in Beverly. It’s absolutely gorgeous with that little steeple-thingy on the top.”

  “Or we could take a quick trip to Manhattan to the Farley Building.” I was into this research now. “And take a picture of the only real site of what everyone thinks is our official motto.”

  It couldn’t be helped. We recited together, accurate with respect to most of the quote. “Neither rain nor snow nor heat nor gloom of night, stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.”

  “Or you can sing ‘Mr. Postman,’” Linda said. “Remember how my dad would go round singing that song? No wonder I followed him into the postal service.”

  Now we went into an ear-piercing imitation of the Marvelettes. “Is there a letter, a letter for me?”

  If Quinn hadn’t called from the kitchen; if the aroma of cashew chicken hadn’t reached my nose; if I didn’t have a real deadline in front of me, I’d never have signed off with my best post office friend.

  I felt better than I had all day.

  9

  “Sounded like a good time in there,” Quinn said. He was right—the phone sing-along with Linda had lifted my spirits. But I felt a certain pang of guilt now. Quinn had relieved me of kitchen duty so that I could work. Instead, I’d frittered away my time with lighthouses and Linda and the Motown of our parents’ generation. I decided to wait until I’d eaten a good portion of chicken and cashew-laden sauce before owning up to my failure as a researcher.

  Quinn had taken over my kitchen as he did more often than not lately, and I was only too happy to give it up. My electric mixer, which he’d miraculously located, was busy with a bowl of mashed potatoes. Next to it was a salad with fresh greens that he didn’t find in any fridge I owned. The dining room table was set to perfection, like the one on display at the front of his shop, except that the Attic boasted older, finer china. There was no extra place, so I assumed my friend the chief of police was on her own this evening.

  While I lived with Aunt Tess in her last days, I’d forced myself to cook so that she’d have appetizing meals to nourish her frail body. I learned all her favorite recipes—baked beans, clam chowder, New England boiled dinners, and even a halfway decent lobster bisque—eschewing the canned versions. She’d expressed great appreciation and had done her best to consume a few calories, but it hadn’t worked to keep her around forever, as I would
have liked.

  Back on my own again, I lived on grilled cheese and tuna. I missed the endless take-out possibilities I’d had around my Fenway apartment in Boston, and the great Back Bay restaurants, though I did not miss having to hang on Adam’s arm while he wined and dined his clients. Some exes were meant to be, I thought, gazing across the table at the handsome man who’d been wearing Aunt Tess’s apron minutes ago.

  But his return look now was challenging, and I knew he was waiting to hear the progress I’d made.

  “I’m not getting anywhere on the presentation,” I said, “except for collecting a few pretty pictures.” I put down my fork with great determination, as if I were throwing down a gauntlet, as if Quinn had called me to task.

  “I’ve been thinking about it,” said my knight. “People don’t realize how instrumental the post office was in the spread of information. You could start with something like that—how the Penny Post made the mail accessible to everyone.”

  “You don’t think that sounds a little preachy?”

  “Isn’t it supposed to be?”

  “You’re no help,” I said, though not with a great deal of sincerity.

  Through the rest of the meal—dessert postponed—Quinn and I tossed ideas back and forth, eventually moving to the living room, where I took up residence on my rocker with my laptop on my knees. Quinn laughed when I removed the bust of Sir Rowland Hill, a small replica of one in Westminster Abbey, from my bookcase to the coffee table for inspiration.

  “I need all the help I can get.”

  “Little did I know when I rescued that statue from a dusty attic.”

  I searched on my laptop for information on the Penny Post system, Sir Rowland’s answer to the involved, expensive method of sending letters in Victorian England.

  “Imagine,” I said. “He thought up the idea of prepaid stamps.” We both looked at the stern face of Sir Rowland. “And for that he was made a knight.”

  Quinn laughed, clearly pleased that I was finally drumming up enthusiasm for my talk.

  “My work here is done,” he said, rising from the couch to get his jacket.

  I hated for him to leave, but he had an eight o’clock commitment to a boys’ group in town. It had been such a nice evening, starting with my sing-along with Linda and ending with jokes that went back to Victorian England.

  But Quinn was right; his work was done, for the time being. I stayed in my rocker finding more information than I’d need in a lifetime. I downloaded dozens of photos that I’d have to sift through later. I shot an e-mail to Mercedes telling her I’d like to take her up on her offer to use the great audiovisual capabilities at Mary Draper Hall. I dragged photos onto my desktop: Sir Rowland himself, Queen Victoria as she appeared on the first postage stamp with adhesive backing, a British postman wearing the red-vested uniform that inspired their being called “robins.”

  I couldn’t stop clicking away at references. I’d never been a big fan of research, agonizing my way through term papers in college, but now I saw the addictive nature of having an endless amount of information at my fingertips. I read on, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to include most of the material, but determined to mention Queen Victoria’s reforms, embarrassed that I’d previously associated her only with ornate architecture and furniture.

  I might not have moved from my comfortable position, except that the doorbell rang a little before nine o’clock. I left my rocker to look out the front window. On the porch, leaning over the banister, was Sunni. She waved and smiled, dancing from one leg to the other, stomping her feet from the cold.

  “How come you don’t use your peephole?” she asked, entering my living room.

  “I’ve seen more than one crime show where someone was shot through the eye that way.”

  “Oh yes. I’m ever grateful to crime shows and B movies for educating the public on crime statistics and forensics. I hope you have food. I swear, one day soon, I’m going to take you to dinner.”

  “No need. I’m happy to share. Your choices are leftover chicken with cashews, or a lemon pie that hasn’t been touched.”

  “First things first. I’ll take a slice of pie while you heat the chicken.”

  Dessert first. No wonder we were such good friends.

  * * *

  I had the good sense not to bother Sunni with business—hers or mine—while she polished off a helping of chicken dinner with pie before and after. I knew that she’d probably skipped every meal since last night’s dinner here, or at best emptied out the police department vending machine. Sunni lived alone while her daughter was away at college, and she saw no need to grocery-shop or cook. That was a platform I understood.

  “So,” she said, on her second cup of coffee. “Aren’t you going to ask me for an update?”

  “May I?”

  Even after two years, I was never sure when to probe and when not to. I couldn’t tell until it was too late sometimes whether she was in friend mode, cop mode, or a combination. I told her once that I wished she’d wear a sign like OPEN or CLOSED to let me know. She’d suggested WILL TRADE INFORMATION FOR FOOD. “Except it might be misinterpreted as bribing a cop,” she’d added.

  Now she nodded. I had permission to discuss police business. “Not that I have a lot to report, but we’re making progress in the robbery cases.”

  I was disappointed but told myself there was a chance the murder and robberies were connected and progress in one might mean progress in the other. There was no proof either way whether the burglars who’d torn up the town were the same people who murdered Dennis. Just because I doubted it didn’t mean the theory could be dismissed. “You’ve caught them?”

  “Not yet, but with some results coming back on earlier cases, and a few new witnesses, and so on, it looks like there are three people involved. We’d been almost sure it wasn’t a single perp. Too well organized and coordinated.”

  Three people. Just like my going-away party of three as I’d left the office tonight. I gulped. What a coincidence. That was what it was, right?

  Sunni went on, not seeming to notice that the blood had drained from my face. “We think they’re from right across the river, and we’re going all out to find them. I’ve enlisted the help of two other departments. It looks like the incidents haven’t been confined to North Ashcot.” She drained her coffee mug. “We’re going to get them,” she said, in the manner of tough cops everywhere.

  I didn’t bother to tell her about the three people who had waited outside the post office earlier this evening. First of all, who said they were waiting? I asked myself. And second, I couldn’t even come close to making an identification, unless Sunni could arrange a lineup that mimicked average-size human figures in the dark, and across a street.

  “I didn’t get anything on the letters sent to Dennis,” I admitted, eager to erase the threefold image from my mind.

  “I figured, since you didn’t offer anything.”

  “I was wondering about everyone’s alibi. You’ve probably covered all the obvious people.”

  “We have—all accounted for, more or less.”

  “More or less?”

  “Some are more solid than others. Obviously, we can hardly cover every student. But he hasn’t flunked anyone recently, hasn’t had any actions taken against him. The overall sense is that he was well liked by everyone enrolled in his classes.”

  “Except for the one or ones who wrote the letters.”

  “Except for them.”

  I’d decided not to tell Sunni about meeting Joyce and Hank on campus, but now I felt I had to offer something.

  “You probably know all this,” I began, diffident. “I ran into two faculty members, one active and one former, that is, both part of the Ashcots. Uh, again one former member.” Why hadn’t I prepared this to sound halfway intelligible?

  “And?”

  “Well, I
know that Joyce and Dennis had a disagreement over calculus.”

  “Sounds intense.”

  Sunni appeared to be enjoying my discomfort. Some friend.

  I gave her a halfhearted summary of the dispute over scheduling.

  “I’ll look again at Joyce’s alibi, which was shopping with her sister, but family members aren’t the most reliable alibis.”

  I switched to my next suspect. “There’s something suspicious about Hank Blackwood’s behavior.” I knew that sounded like a line of dialogue from one of those B movies Sunni and I often ridiculed. I told her of his lying about having a meeting in Dennis’s building, and the fact that members of the Ashcots thought Dennis might have had something on Hank.

  “You mean Dennis might have been blackmailing him?” She’d reached for her jacket and scarf and I knew I had only a few minutes left to make some kind of showing. “Any idea what for?”

  “No, but I heard that Dennis was instrumental in forcing Hank to leave the Ashcots.”

  “I’ll check his alibi also. If I remember he said he didn’t feel well and took a nap, which is even less reliable than a family member. We’ll see.”

  “We’ll see” wasn’t exactly “I’ll let you know,” but I was heartened. I watched Sunni’s reaction carefully, amazed that she hadn’t told me to cease and desist, to put things like investigating the motive in Dennis’s murder out of my mind. But she hadn’t, so I considered pushing my luck. I tried to think of a way to ask if there was any progress in figuring out who sent nasty words in the mail to Dennis (somehow phrasing it this way gave me a keen sense of failure in my responsibilities as postmaster) and whether the letters had anything to do with Dennis’s death.

  “I’m going back to campus on Thursday morning,” I said, hoping the subtext was clear: another shot at trolling for information.

  “For your talk in Mercedes Davis’s class.”