Death Takes Priority (3 page)

“This place reminds me of a shop in Harvard Square,” I said. I sniffed the slightly musty smell of clean but old clothes and dusty knickknacks.

“Same uniform?” Scott asked, tilting his head toward our waitress. Apparently he hadn't been oblivious to the nonverbal wardrobe communication between Tammy and me.

“Everything except the uniform,” I said. I swiveled to take in the inventory of vintage dresses and hats, cases of old jewelry, and small furniture pieces that surrounded the area set aside for lunch tables. I'd been looking for a newspaper and magazine holder and thought I spied the perfect candidate in a dark corner.

“Not to be pushy, but I have a couple of magazine racks at the shop that you might want to take a look at,” Scott said.

I felt my face redden, as if Scott were my boyfriend and I'd been caught cheating on him. As potential BFs went, Scott ranked high in the observant and sensitive-to-needs category. And with good business sense, too, if he was able to get rid of two aging dressers so quickly.

After I'd promised to stop by his shop soon to check out the racks, we took off on the usual banter runway for a first meal together. Scott was skillful in directing questions at me rather than telling long stories about himself. Thoughtful? Or a man with something to hide? I smiled to myself.
Green plastic aside, it was hard to imagine any wrongdoing from this man who shuffled back and forth from homespun talk about his vegetable garden to erudite questions involving nature versus nurture arguments in his college philosophy course. Not that he said which college.

I heard that he'd arrived in North Ashcot from “out West,” not quite a year before I did, but no info was forthcoming on his family, or why he moved, unless “needed a change” counted. I heard about his summers in construction work and his junior year abroad, with no clue about his professional life before becoming an antiques dealer. We compared big-city adventures, mostly mine in Boston, and the only specific geographical fact I pulled from him was that he'd ridden the Loop in Chicago.

The answer to my question, “How did you get into antiques?” was brief, and quickly followed by another question, from him. “What made you sign up with the postal service?”

I was only too happy to recount my initial love affair with the USPS, starting with a temporary job over a Christmas vacation. A small town post office north of Boston, one that offered home delivery, hired college students during the heavy rush of holiday mail—girls in the sorting room, boys out in the snow stuffing mailboxes.

“It was boring at first,” I told Scott, “until one day a couple of boys were no-shows, and they needed volunteers from the girls to brave the elements.”

“‘Neither snow nor rain . . .' Isn't that your motto?” Scott asked.

“Nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds,” I added. “Actually, the postal service has no official motto. That
phrase is the inscription on the main post office building in New York City. The building is a historical landmark, and so is the phrase, I guess.”

“It's a cool phrase, anyway,” he said, and I agreed.

“You wouldn't believe what a rush it was, delivering mail.” My story was unstoppable now. “I felt so important—unlike when I was cleaning motel rooms all through the summer before. Here I was taking a greeting card that someone wrote out in Colorado or even Germany, and delivering it in person to her friend in Massachusetts. Eventually, I realized that every job in the postal system was just as important in connecting people to each other, but there was nothing like that hand-to-hand delivery.”

Scott did his best to humor me with appreciative nods and exclamations as I rambled on like a true believer. Lucky for him, an alarm went off in my head as I remembered that I was on my lunch hour. Hour and a half, to be exact, but closing in on the end. “I almost forgot,” I said. “I need to be back at one-thirty.”

“No problem. I ought to get back, too. We're expecting a nineteen-forties estate delivery today. Five rooms of furniture and all the odds and ends you could hope for.”

“Save me a pink princess telephone if you see one,” I said.

“That would be the sixties,” he said.

“Oops.”

“Let's do this again,” he said, with a wide grin.

While I suppressed a too-girlish, “Okay,” Scott summoned Tammy, whose starched crown had fallen toward her left ear. She repositioned it with practiced grace, then, with an air of experience in diplomacy, she placed the check on
the table halfway between us. Even Tammy was unsure of the exact nature of this lunch. “My treat,” Scott said, slipping a few bills on the table.

He looked at me with what I felt was disappointment that our lunch was over. “Soon?” he asked, without further elaboration.

“I'd like that.”

I expressed my thanks for the lunch on the way to the front door, where we met an unusual sight. Sunni Smargon, chief of our five-person police force, in her muted blue-gray uniform, stood leaning against her patrol car, its blue and red lights winking in the cool air. Sunni's arms were folded across her chest, a serious expression on her face. Before we reached the bottom step, Ross Little, one of Sunni's officers, exited the car and he and Sunni came forward, in step, each with a hand resting on a holster. I could have sworn I heard dramatic music from an old Western in the background.

“Scott James.” Sunni, a small woman with red highlights in hair that was barely contained under her hat, announced his name with an air of authority. “We need you come to the station and answer some questions.”

“What's this about?” Scott asked. His voice was soft and shaky, with no conviction, as if he knew the answer.

Ross, a large man, despite his surname, opened the back door of the cruiser. Scott stepped back and the two officers took another step forward. I couldn't keep myself from entering the well-choreographed scene.

“What's wrong?” I asked, moving in front of Scott. It occurred to me that I was acting like his lawyer or his mother rather than the person who handled his mail service needs.

Sunni gestured toward the patrol car, directing Scott to enter. Without further argument, Scott slipped into the backseat of Sunni's cruiser. Ross positioned himself in the driver's seat of Scott's silver Jeep as my mind raced to keep track of the movements and understand what was happening.

Could this be connected to the tiny scrap of green plastic in my pocket? Had Sunni found out about the phone books? Did stealing free telephone directories count as a prosecutable offense? I saw myself turning the scrap in as evidence and hearing Sunni tell me I was too late, possibly charging me as an accomplice. I felt as though the green plastic was itching to jump out of my pocket.

Sunni walked toward me. “Deputy Little will be taking Mr. James's car in, Cassie.”
Mr. James
?
Deputy Little
? Something was way off. At least she hadn't called me
Postmaster Miller
. “Do you think you can get a ride back to town?” I must have looked forlorn, because Sunni immediately offered an alternative. “I'll call for another deputy to come get you, but it might be a while before I can free up someone. Are you okay waiting here? You know I'd take you—”

“No, no,” I said, interrupting. I knew the rules, small town or not. “I'll be fine.” I smiled as best I could, given the condition of my nervous system. “I'll get Ben to cover the office for me,” I said. Ben lived for moments like this. Not Scott's predicament, but the chance to take over his old post.

Scott caught my eye. He squeezed his lips together as if holding back what he would have said to me if he were free to do so. An explanation? An apology? I felt the connection, though all I could do was press my lips together, too.

The cars drove away, leaving me as confused as if the
postmaster general had announced an unlimited budget for widespread construction of new postal facilities in every town in the state. I climbed the steps to the tea shop and noticed that several patrons had moved to the window to witness the police action outside. I imagined the news of Sunni's official visit and Scott's ceremonious exit traveling from the young receptionist, back to the floor employees, on to the curious diners, and out to the nearest cell towers and to everyone in town. I took a seat on a bench in the entryway, hoping new patrons would think I was waiting for a late lunch companion and not a police escort.

My sense of duty to my post in town kicked in and I dug out my phone. Ben picked up on the first ring. “Heard everything on the scanner,” he said. “Don't worry. I'll be ready to open up in ten minutes.”

There might as well have been drones flying over North Ashcot, for all the privacy its citizens had.

A
t a time like this, stranded miles from town, a circle of friends would have come in handy. But I was still a virtual stranger in North Ashcot. Maybe worse—a native who'd taken off for a big-city college nearly twenty years ago and, except for infrequent, hurried visits to my aunt, never looked back. When I first returned three months ago, I had made a few attempts to contact friends from high school, but most of them had not only a new life, but a whole new generation to deal with. It was hard for them to find time for me between family dinners and carpools, sports tournaments and music performances. Or maybe they didn't want to try.

Opt-outs I heard were often of the form, “I'd love to visit, but Lily's recital is tonight,” or “You know, Jake has so much homework,” or “We have tickets to the (fill-in-the-blanks) game.” No one suggested I might enjoy the recital, or be
able to help with homework. No one offered to pick up an extra ticket for the game.

For a brief moment, I thought of calling Wendell Graham. After all, we did share a lot of movies and popcorn, and one special photo op, standing next to each other, arms at our sides, in stiff, formal outfits. It would be a way to reestablish at least an amicable relationship, and for me to mention the strange fate of the phone books he'd arranged for. As businesspeople in a small town, we had more in common now than we did in high school.

Bad idea, I decided. If Wendell took offense and heard my report as a complaint, an insinuation that he wasn't doing his job right, the distance between us would increase. Better not to contact him until the directories issue was resolved, and the best person to hear about that, I decided, was Chief Sunni Smargon.

But first, I had to get home. I could think of only two women who'd seemed open to a reunion and who might be able to pick me up in the middle of the day. Beth Keller was my old chem lab partner, never married, and now a grade-school teacher who might be on her lunch hour. Sue Olson, a homeroom pal, had stopped to chat for a while when I ran into her at the market. A significant welcome, relatively speaking.

I started my search for a ride by calling Beth. I'd hardly begun to describe my plight, stranded outside town, when she interrupted.

“Whoa, did you say you were having lunch with Scott James? Does that mean you were with that guy when he was arrested?” she asked, excited, as if I might give her a scoop.

I suppressed my astonishment at how far and quickly the news of Scott's predicament had spread, and at the same time it dawned on me that I hadn't heard the word “arrest” as Sunni and Ross carted Scott off. She'd simply mentioned “questions.” She might even have said, “Please,” but that was too much to ask.

“He's not under arrest,” I told Beth with as much assurance as I could muster. “They just want to talk to him.”

“Sure, sure. About the body, right?”

This time my surprise made its way out of my mouth. “What body? You mean a dead body?”

“Ohmygosh,”
Beth said, as one word. “You're kidding me. You were there when they came for Scott and you don't know? Really?” I heard deflation in her voice. Good-bye scoop.

“I guess not,” I said, in an only slightly annoyed tone. I did, after all, need pick-up service.

“I don't know all the details, but they found a body over past the reservoir by the old factory.” A pause, possibly brought on by her realization that I knew less than she did and, therefore, was of no further use. “Listen, Cassie, I'm getting another call and have to take it. It's crazy here. I have parent conferences all afternoon or I'd love to pick you up. Another time?”

“Yeah, thanks,” I said, now fully annoyed.
We can chat the next time I'm stranded and desperately need a ride
.

The other possibility for a lift to town didn't pan out either. Sue Olson was a full-time caregiver for her dad and had no one to take over for her. But she did have a few minutes and some sketchy details about the dead body that
was weighing on my mind. The victim was a North Ashcot native, male, shot in the chest, name still being withheld.

“Rumor has it that the guy worked for an Internet company,” Sue said.

My mind did a crazy spin as I imagined the Internet guy stealing my phone books to boost his online business, then getting shot with his own gun while Scott, my hero, tried to get the books back for me, leaving a small piece of green plastic behind in his car. Right, a very plausible scenario. In a movie, maybe.

Sue continued. “I also heard—this came from one of Dad's therapists who doesn't even live in town—I heard that he might have been a trucker, just stopping at Betty's for breakfast.” She paused. “Or was it closer to lunch?”

There was no way I could fit Scott into the trucker theory, and I gave up, even though Sue seemed proud to have more than one theory to offer. I signed off with her, promising to stop by for lunch with her and her dad sometime. No more candidates for a ride came to mind. I hoped the North Ashton police force, with its fleet of three patrol cars, hadn't forgotten about me. Maybe Tammy, the crowned tea shop waitress, would drive me back to town. We seemed to have gotten along pretty well.

I tried to keep busy for what was turning into a long wait for a ride. I moved from the cold, metal outside bench to the warmer, faux-leather inside bench and back again. I took short walks around the parking lot, checking my webmail on my smartphone. I played two games of solitaire (lost both) and made calls to vendors to order supplies and forms.

I called Ben, ostensibly to remind him that we needed to assemble the special box for Mrs. Hagan's parrot. She'd be bringing the bird in this afternoon for shipment to the Midwest. But my call was really to sniff out what Ben knew about Scott and/or the dead man and/or the missing phone books. He saw through me and offered, “There are as many stories about the murder as we have customers. Hurry on back and you'll hear them all.” If only. At least, it seemed, he hadn't noticed that the directories were not around. Maybe he had confidence in my efficiency and thought I'd already handed them out.

“Cassie Miller? I heard you were back.” I looked up from the mail inbox on my phone, which I'd checked only seconds ago, and noticed a familiar man standing over me. A boy, the last time I saw him.

“Derek Hathaway?”

“Still with that runway model figure,” he said, his eyes giving me a once-over that caused me to squirm.

I took the remark not as a compliment but as an assessment. I stopped myself before I brought up how much he'd changed, from geek to financial rock star. I settled for, “I've read great things about you.”

“Such as?” Derek took a seat beside me on the bench and turned toward me. He straightened his shoulders and raised his chin.

“Do you really want me to list all your creds as reported in business magazines and who's who listings?”

“Why not? I'm listening.” He sat back and cupped his ear with his hand.

A little pompous, but I decided to oblige him. I used my
right arm to cut a horizontal swath in the air and looked up, as if I were reading a headline in skywriting. “‘Small-town boy builds multimillion-dollar empire.'” Derek's grin reeked of satisfaction and the revenge of success. I felt sorry for anyone who'd bullied him in high school. “In real estate, right?” I added.

“Close enough.”

As if I wouldn't understand the details. He was probably right, but still, his laugh did nothing to smooth over his boastful attitude. Though it took me by surprise, I couldn't blame Derek for his confident,
I made it big
air. He'd survived an adolescence of thick spectacles and skinny legs at a school where the jocks were kings. He'd been a failure at every sport, and dateless every weekend. He was a geek before there were geeks. I was sure everyone on the yearbook staff of Ashcot High now felt foolish for not having appreciated his academic achievements and foreseen his great success.

“Don't let me keep you,” I said, gesturing toward the front door of the tea shop.

“Are you waiting for a ride?” he asked.

Strangely correct guess. “Yes, I'm expecting a ride back to work.”

“Hey, I can drive you. No prob. We can catch up.”

“Didn't you come to eat?”

He shrugged. “I was just going to have a snack between meetings.”

“I thought you lived in Albany now.”

“I do, but my ex and kid live here.”

In the nick of time, a police cruiser pulled up, with
Officer Ross Little driving. “My ride. I might as well take it,” I said. “He came especially to get me.”

Derek raised his eyebrows. “A police car, no less. I guess we really do need to catch up.”

“Right,” I said. Meaning “Wrong.”

Before I knew what was happening, he tucked a card in the pocket of my jacket. Not an endearing move.

“Call me,” he said.

“Yes,” I said. Meaning “No.”

*   *   *

It was two forty-five when I rode off with Ross. I was full of questions, and a lot of guesses.

“Is Scott still being questioned?” I asked. Ross busied himself looking into the rearview mirror, adjusting his sunglasses. I tried a more general query. “Being questioned is not the same as being arrested, right?”

“Did you say home or office, Cassie?” he asked. Well trained, in spite of his boyish look.

I blew out a breath and a sort of groan, hoping he'd hear my exasperation and take pity on me, but there was no change in Ross's expression and no tidbit of news forthcoming.

“Is there something wrong in town? Was Scott's house vandalized or something? A break-in at the shop?” I imagined teenage thugs carrying off Aunt Tess's floor lamp and area rugs that I'd taken in last week. I thought about the discovery of a dead body that Beth and Sue had been so fascinated with, and Beth's assumption that Scott's summons to the police station had something to do with it. I
quickly dismissed the two events. Coincidences happened all the time, and this timing of events was just that. Until I heard otherwise, that explanation worked for me.

“No need to worry. I can take you right to your door if you like,” he said, as if he'd misunderstood my question.

I sat back, resigned to my state of ignorance. “Drop me at the post office, please.” I relaxed a bit. Soon I'd be at the heart of the rumor mill.

“So, I've always wondered. What's it like, running the post office all by yourself?” Ross asked. “Is it interesting?”

“Yes.”

“I'll bet you see a lot. Like who's writing to who and how often. Or maybe who's stopped writing to who,” he added with a chuckle.

“Yes,” I said, this time closing my eyes and pretending to nap. A dose of his own clamming-up medicine. Information had to work two ways. If my lack of response discouraged a young man who was looking into a career change, so be it.

My resolve lasted about ten minutes. Then I opened my eyes, not wanting to miss the midafternoon sun on the last of the orange and gold birch leaves. We passed the occasional large white farmhouse, dots of gray barns, fields of lush, aromatic green grass, mellow horses next to weathered fences. The sounds of rustling weeds and little else. There might as well have been a sign reading “Small Town, Next 50 Miles.”

Did I miss the imposing skyline of Boston? The gold-domed capitol building and the endless brick plaza at Government Center? The mix of historic sites, shopping, and the nightlife of Downtown Crossing? The sailboats and the
regatta on the Charles? Yes and no. I wondered how long it would take me to be sure I'd made the right choice. I hoped the feeling of being home again would make up for what I was missing.

*   *   *

No one could remember the last time North Ashcot had been the scene of a murder. No wonder my post office looked like someone had called a town meeting and we were the hosts. To accommodate the overflow, Ben had opened the inside door off the lobby to the community room. It would have been much better for our business if the crowd were here to spread their gossip by using USPS products. Our little post office would have been overflowing with letters, postcards, overnights, and every other kind of special delivery available. But today's crowd consisted mostly of people who'd dropped in to chat about what they knew and what was showing on their smart devices. And once word got out that there were leftover snacks from the weekend crafts fair in the community room, there was no holding anyone back.

I spotted our Board of Selectmen, four men and one woman, wandering through the crowd. They didn't appear to be doing anything to manage the impromptu citizens' assembly, but were rather using the opportunity for informal campaigning.

Gertrude Corbin, the lone female board member, saw me and made her way through the pack. She was a tall, rather heavy woman with past-blond, shoulder-length hair and a loud voice that I figured she'd cultivated in order to be heard at meetings.

“Cassie Miller, isn't it?” she asked me, shaking my hand, an earnest look in her eyes.

“That's me,” I said, thinking of the small blue pot holder in my kitchen with her name on it.

“Gert Corbin,” she said, still grasping my hand. “I've been meaning to stop in and welcome you back to town. I'm sorry I had to miss the memorial for your aunt Tess.” She shook her head and tsk-tsked. “Tess and Uncle Mike, rest in peace, were big supporters of mine.”

Thus the pot holder in my kitchen. Today Gert, in her mid-fifties at least, I guessed, wore a full-length navy blue coat with a blue-and-red paisley scarf. Under it were traces of a light denim-colored dress. She carried a navy leather business tote and looked as patriotic as my post office décor, and ready for a campaign speech.

“Thanks,” I said. “For the welcome,” I added, lest she'd read my mind and thought I was thanking her for the pot holder.