Dead Letter (2 page)

She slipped off the coat and laid it across her lap. “I don't want to make the hole any bigger. I'm going to take good care of this coat.”

She slipped her fingers into the hole. With her other hand she guided the piece of paper toward the pocket. Her fingers scissored around it.

“I've got it. I've got it!”

She pulled out the paper and ironed it smooth with her hands.

“I don't know why you're so excited,” Meat said. “It's just a piece of paper, probably a receipt.”

“I don't either. I can't explain it. It's just that I feel a kinship for whoever owned this coat. There's something that calls me.”

Herculeah looked at the paper. She gave a sigh of disappointment.

“What is it?”

“Oh, it's just a page from an address book. There's some scribbling on it. The writing's so little and cramped I can hardly make it out.”

“It's probably a grocery list. A pound of pork chops, a pound of potatoes, a chocolate cake ...” Meat realized he was making a wishful shopping list for his own supper.

“I need more light.”

Meat was glad to be of help. He clicked on the lamp behind the sofa.

Herculeah read the words to herself and drew in a breath. Her face grew pale.

“What is it?” Meat asked.

She didn't answer. She felt a chill. She leaned her head back against the sofa and closed her eyes. She took a deep breath to calm herself.

“What is it? Don't do this to me. You know I can't stand not knowing what's wrong.”

Herculeah did not answer for a moment. She couldn't. She felt as if a hand had gripped her throat. The sensation was so real that she lifted her own hand to her neck.

“There is something wrong, isn't there?” Meat persisted. “At least tell me that much. You can still nod your head, can't you?”

Without opening her eyes, her hand still circling her throat, Herculeah gave a faint nod.

“Very wrong, medium wrong, or—” He paused and added hopefully, “just some little thing?”

Herculeah opened her eyes then and looked at him.

“It's very wrong, isn't it?” he said, seeing the dread in her gray eyes.

“Dead wrong,” she said.

“Read it,” Meat said.

“Give me a minute,” Herculeah said. She took another deep breath. “I feel like somebody's holding me by the throat and I can't get air down to where I need it.”

“Well, it's catching. I feel bad, too. Read it. Or at least tell me what it says.”

When she didn't answer, Meat held out his hand. “Then give me the paper and let me read the note.”

“It's not a note. It's like a letter, the most important letter anyone could ever write.”

“May I see it?” Watching her, he added through his teeth, “Please.”

She handed over the sheet of paper.

Meat squinted at it. “I don't see how you could make it out. I can't.”

He held it under the lamp.

“I cannot make out one single word.”

“I can read them all,” she said.

She held out her hand. It was trembling. He put the sheet of paper in it. She began to read.

Herculeah said, “I can hardly stand to read it. It's as if I wrote it. Look, Meat, I'm actually trembling.”

“I am, too,” he admitted. He was not sure whether he was trembling because of the words or the scary way that Herculeah read them. “Let me see that again.”

She handed him the paper, and he peered at the small, cramped writing as if trying to make out the words. “Even though I know what it says, I can't read it. Maybe I need glasses. I always wondered how I would look in glasses.”

Herculeah did not answer.

Meat glanced at the note again. “It's not signed,” he said.

“No.”

“I wonder who she was.”

“So do I.”

“We'll probably never know.”

“Yes, we will.”

“How?”

“Meat, I have the feeling that this letter was written to me.”

“Herculeah, that's stupid. How could that be? The thing was probably written months ago, years ago. It could have been written before you were even born.”

“Yes, but when she died—if she did die—she left this note hoping that someone would find it. The fact that I am the person who found it,” Herculeah went on, choosing her words carefully, “means that the note was written to whoever would find it—to me.”

“I'm not sure I follow that.”

“It makes perfect sense to me.”

“Anyway, listen to this. Maybe it's some sort of joke—like a Chinese fortune cookie that says, ‘I'm being held prisoner in a fortune cookie factory.'”

“This is no joke, or I wouldn't be so scared.”

“I agree it's scary.” Meat decided to go on being reasonable. “Look, the woman who wrote it is probably walking around now doing perfectly normal things—trying on dresses at Belks, shopping at Bi-Lo, getting her hair done at Head Hunters.” Meat stopped, unable to think of anything else women did on a regular basis.

“If she is alive,” Herculeah said, “then why didn't she get this note out of the lining of her coat? And look at this pocket. She deliberately tore the lining and pushed the note through. The coat is absolutely perfect except for that one hole.”

She showed it to him. “The woman took something sharp, like a key, and she pushed the letter into the lining....” Herculeah trailed off thoughtfully.

“So maybe she is dead, Herculeah. What's the point of worrying about it now? You can't bring her back to life. Anyway, your father's a police detective. Why don't you just give the note to him and forget about it?”

“It's too late to get uninvolved now. I feel a kinship with this woman. ”

“Just because you're the same size?”

“It's much, much more than that. When I first tried on this coat, it felt right. Have you ever felt that some piece of clothing was meant for you?”

Meat, who as a boy had worn Huskies and Chub bies, and now wore clothes from the large-sized men's department, dumbly shook his head. He shook off the unpleasant picture so he could continue.

“Anyway, maybe she's crazy, Herculeah, did you ever think of that? Crazy people are always thinking people are going to kill them. It's one of the main symptoms of craziness. You don't know anything about this woman.”

“Right,” Herculeah continued, “I know nothing about this woman except that she was my size and that she valued life. I value life too, Meat. You can just hear how much she wants to live.”

Herculeah picked up the note to read it again. She began aloud, but Meat raised his hands as if to stop up his ears.

“Excuse me, but once is enough,” he said quickly.

Herculeah nodded. “I don't want to hear it either, but I might have overlooked something.” She read the note to herself. “I'm wondering about those last two words,
Look inside.
Inside what?”

Meat shook his head.

“I feel that he did kill her. Look how the last word,
inside,
goes all the way off the page, as if the man opened the door and she barely had time to stuff the letter through the lining of her coat.”

“It's like a message from the dead.”

“Exactly.”

“I had one of those once.”

Herculeah looked at him.

“My grandmother sent me a Halloween card with a dollar in it. She did that for every holiday. But she had a heart attack after she mailed it—and by the time I got the card, the funeral and everything was over.”

He felt tears come to his eyes at the memory. He swallowed so that he could continue. “It was a long, long time before I could spend that dollar.”

“A card from the dead,” Herculeah said, sighing in sympathy. “Now this.”

“And what made my card worse”—Meat gave a slight shudder—“was that it was a picture of a ghost, and you opened the ghost up and inside it said, ‘Boo from Granny Hop.' We all called her Granny Hop. Her last name was Hopkins. My mom saved the card and sometimes I would be looking through a drawer for a pencil or something and I'd see this ghost card.”

Herculeah nodded but she hardly heard him. She looked out the window, as if trying to see beyond the trees to a house where a woman was held captive.

Meat continued, not realizing he had lost his audience. “And I would forget about it—I'd probably repressed it—you know, like you see on TV? Something happens too terrible for your mind to accept? Anyway, my mind would be saying, ‘Oh, look at this, a cute little ghost card. What's it doing in the telephone drawer?' And I'd open it up. ‘Boo from Granny Hop.'”

He gave a slight shudder and glanced quickly at Herculeah to see if she was as moved by his story as he was. He was disappointed to see her gazing out the window.

“I don't know where the card is or I'd show it to you, but I know it's in this house somewhere, just waiting till I forget about it, open it up, and—”

Herculeah interrupted before he could get out the
boo.
“I am going to find out who wrote this.”

“How?”

“I don't know, but I am going to find out.”

Herculeah had that look of determination that always made Meat feel like a child in the presence of an adult.

He kept looking at her. He did not doubt that Herculeah would do as she said.

Meat said, “I hope she'll be alive.” This was actually a selfish thought. He was thinking of the inconvenience, no, the danger, that could be involved in tracking down a dead woman. Herculeah seemed to thrive on trouble and danger, but Meat got all he wanted of that in the halls at school.

“So do I.”

“And if she is dead?” Meat did not dare to hope that would be the end of it.

Herculeah's look got sterner. “If she's dead, I'm going to find the killer.”

“Police Department, Zone Three. This is Sergeant DiAngelo. Can I help you?”

“Hi, Sergeant, this is Herculeah Jones, and I'd like to speak to my dad—if he's not too busy.”

“Chico's out on a case. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No.” She hesitated, disappointed. “Just tell him I called.”

Herculeah put down the phone. “I really wanted to talk to him.” She shrugged. “Though I guess it's just as well.”

“Why?”

“Because he'd make me promise not to get involved.”

“Smart man,” Meat said. He was standing at the window. The note from Herculeah's coat and the
boo
from his deceased grandmother had made him uncomfortable.

Adding to this discomfort was a twinge of jealousy that Herculeah could phone her father anytime she liked. He couldn't remember ever talking to his father on the phone. He didn't even know where his father was.

“Maybe I ought to call Mrs. Glenn,” Herculeah said, interrupting his dreary thoughts.

“Who?”

“At Hidden Treasures. She sold me the coat. Can I use the phone again?”

Without waiting for an answer, Herculeah looked up the number in the phone book and dialed.

“Hidden Treasures,” Mrs. Glenn sang into the telephone.

“Oh, hi, it's Herculeah Jones. I was just in there a little while ago and bought a coat. Do you remember?”

“I do hope there was nothing wrong with the coat? Our clothing sales are final.”

“No, there was nothing wrong. I just wanted to ask if you had any idea who brought the coat in, who it belonged to.”

“I don't know, but Nellie might. It was here when I took over the shop three months ago. You want me to check with her?”

“Yes. Please. I found a note, and ...” her voice trailed off.

“Why, I'm sure Nellie went through those pockets. She told me that sometimes what you find in the pockets is worth more than the coat or the dress.”

“This was in the lining.”

“Well, I guess Nellie doesn't do linings.” She laughed at her own joke. “Oh, I've got to go. I've got a customer. Call me tomorrow or drop by.”

“I will.”

Herculeah put down the phone. She looked at Meat. He was still standing at the window.

“Mrs. Glenn's going to ask about the coat and let me know tomorrow, and my dad will probably call me tonight.” She gave a mock scream. “I want something to happen right now!”

Meat was still standing by the window. He paused as if making a decision.

Herculeah looked at him sharply. “Do you know something you're not telling me?”

He didn't answer.

“Meat?”

Meat knew it was impossible to keep anything from Herculeah. He said, “It's nothing. It's just that there's a man over on Oak Street who can analyze handwriting.”

Herculeah glanced at him, her eyes wide with surprise that Meat had come up with something even she had not thought of.

“Meat! What a wonderful idea!”

He gave a shrug to hide his pleasure.

“No, it's brilliant. It really is!”

This time Meat didn't bother to shrug. If Herculeah said it was brilliant, then he would just have to accept it.