Death Takes Priority (5 page)

“Thanks for seeing me,” Scott said. Looking more closely, I saw that his face was gray and drawn, his eyes glazed. Not the funny, pleasant lunch companion of a few hours ago. Just being in a police station interview room could have that effect. It did on me.

“Do you know what all this is about?” I asked, turning my head from one corner of the room to another, my eyes meeting no obstruction other than Officer Ross Little.

“I have an idea why they brought me here. But first I want to apologize for, you know, the phone book thing.”

The phone book thing. I couldn't wait to hear the
why
of the unlikely theft, but Scott started with the
how
. I sat back as much as possible in the very straight-backed chair.

“Remember that function in the community room on Saturday?” he asked.

There weren't so many events in North Ashcot on any given weekend that I wouldn't remember. “The Seniors Club
crafts sale,” I said, and thought of the stale muffin offered to me by a nosy young woman named Wanda.

“It was a nice time.”

I agreed, recalling a special purchase I made from a local photographer, Siena Roberts. A set of lovely color prints of small-town Massachusetts and New Hampshire in all four seasons. I almost fell for Scott's diversion by commenting on them. Instead, I said simply, “Yes.”

“You volunteered, which you do a lot, I notice, when there's a cause you can help with.”

I blushed at the secret truth that my motives for volunteering didn't always stem from altruism, but often from the need to connect with people and show support for the town I hoped to call home again. “So do you,” I said. “Didn't you provide extra tables for the special exhibits? And weren't you part of the cleanup committee for the weekend?” Not that I'd been paying attention.

“Yes, but I had an ulterior motive.”

“You, too?”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” I looked over at Ross, who was shifting his weight from one foot to the other. I expected him to call a halt to the so-called visit any minute. “What about all that?” I asked in a hurried tone. “Why is the crafts event so important?”

“It got me a key to the community room for the weekend. And there was so much buying and selling and eating going on, it wasn't hard to rig the door between the room and the post office so I could get back in on Sunday.”

“And on a Sunday, you'd have all the time you needed to haul away those phone books while my office was closed.”

“That's right.” His look was just sheepish enough to take away my desire to slap him.

“I don't understand why you took the directories in the first place. And what do the books have to do with the dead man and why you're in the police station now? And are you really Scott James or Quinn Martindale?” I thought I'd asked enough questions. It was time for some answers.

Scott leaned on his elbows and put his head in his hands. When he came up for air, he said, “I don't know where to begin.”

“Yes, you do.”

A wry grin. “With my mother, I guess.”

I gave him an annoyed look. We didn't need flipness. “I'm serious, Scott.”

“So am I. Really, it begins with my mother.”

“What about her?”

“She's been charged with murder.”

I was glad I hadn't brought my coffee into the room. It would have been dripping down the table leg, and mine, by now. “What? You mean . . .” I stuttered. “She's connected to the man they found in the woods today?”

Scott smiled. I don't know how he did it, but he almost laughed. “No, no. Not our murder. She's back home.”

“Chicago?”

“San Francisco.”

“Of course.” I was on the edge of many emotions. Sympathy. Anger. Resentment. Fear.

“I'd like to explain.”

“I'd like to hear it.”

But I wasn't destined to hear any more today, it seemed. A knock on the door interrupted us. A signal to Ross
apparently, since he approached us without directly acknowledging the
tap, tap
. “Time's up,” Ross said, not harshly, but with no room for negotiation, either.

Scott and I both stood. “Will you come back?” he asked me. His slumped posture and shaky voice were enough to evoke my sympathy, even if I didn't already feel sorry for him.

“If they let me,” I promised.

I had a couple of reasons to keep the promise. Though I now knew how he'd gotten into my inner sanctum, I was still curious about his motive for wanting the phone books in the first place. And even more curious about why he'd asked to see me. Surely not simply to apologize for his crime, which was small in comparison to a possible murder charge. Which, apparently, his mother was facing. I felt a shiver at the thought. If he and his mother were killers, maybe I shouldn't keep that promise after all.

S
unni had left the building. I left, too, doubting that I'd get any information from Ross, who'd shown his mettle for maintaining secrecy when he picked me up at the tea shop; or from the other remaining officer, a stone-faced woman who muttered good-bye to me without making eye contact. I felt a wave of pity for Scott, left for the night with this crew. But, for all I knew, he deserved whatever they'd mete out.

The sun had set, lowering the temperature enough to make my light jacket inadequate for a leisurely walk. I retraced our steps back to the post office at a quick pace, only now and then slowing down to admire dried yellow leaves along the sidewalk. I loved hearing the crunch when I stepped on the leaves, and inhaling the scent of autumn. I was also glad I wasn't responsible for raking them.

I regretted that I wasn't much smarter than I'd been on
the reverse journey, from the post office, with Sunni. Near the front of my building, I stopped at the row of dented newspaper vending machines, half expecting to see headlines about Scott/Quinn, but, of course, there'd be no new local paper until Friday and until then we'd be getting all our news from a not-very-local television station and the ever-accurate word of mouth.

My building was dark except for the lobby and the night-lights in the sorting area. Ben had kindly taken down the flag and closed shop. I picked up a few candy wrappers and empty chip bags from the parking area, stuffed them into the trash container at the edge of the lot, and walked around to the side door. I let myself in, my gaze reaching to the far corner, where the phone books had rested what seemed like ages ago. I smiled at the ridiculous idea that somehow the directories might be back, perhaps delivered by the police. I had a moment of satisfaction that I hadn't filed a theft report with the postal inspectors. Though I'd always found them very helpful and dedicated, I was glad not to have taken attention away from more serious cases like identity theft and hazardous mail. There was hardly a crime they didn't deal with, if it in any way involved misuse of mail service.

I'd forgotten to ask Sunni about the disposition of the books, and wondered if they were now considered evidence in a murder investigation. Who would break the news to Wendell, who'd facilitated the delivery, to the merchants who'd bought ads, and to those residents who may be counting on the updated books? New questions and problems were sprouting as if it were springtime and the trees were sending forth blossoms, instead of becoming more dry and barren every day.

I made myself some coffee, inferior to the police department's, and decided to put in a couple hours of work to make up for my absence this afternoon. I needed the satisfaction of completing chores that could be checked off and put behind me. Ben had, unwittingly, I guessed, obliged by leaving me a list of things to be done in the next day or so. He often set aside a pile of special pieces of mail, labeling them with notes that said FUNNY, or STRANGE, or simply adding a large question mark.

I sat on my stool and surveyed the envelopes on the counter. One of today's notes from Ben read DUMB. Under the note, I found what looked like a bill addressed to
Masinmary Olly Pendergast.
Our school principal Molly Pendergast, who lived a couple of streets over, had apparently failed in her efforts to spell out her first name. It was hard to figure who in Ben's mind deserved the “dumb” label, Molly or a faraway clerk who took her literally.
M as in Mary . . .

Under the FUNNY label was a news magazine with a cover article, “The State of the Service Industry.” The magazine's front cover and first few pages had been nearly torn to shreds by the originating post office. “Mangled in Delivery” was the official designation, and OOPS might have been a better tag from Ben.

One more piece set aside by Ben was labeled DLO? for DEAD LETTER OFFICE. He'd written the letters with a red marker, which he used when there was an official issue in play. Like many older workers, Ben had yet to adopt the newer, more uplifting and hopeful designation of “MAIL RECOVERY CENTER,” or MRC. I could hear Linda in my head, ranting about how much money had been spent
on the committee meetings involved in coming up with the new name.

I picked up the first-class DLO/MRC letter to a person in Ashcot, Massachusetts. No street address. No clue about the sender through a return address label or a return zip code. Also, there was no such town as Ashcot. The letter had been delivered first to South Ashcot, whose postmaster forwarded it to us. In itself, not an unusual occurrence. At least a couple of times a month, mail was addressed either to North Ashcot when South Ashcot was intended, or vice versa. The two offices cooperated fully, not designating a letter officially “dead” until both facilities had signed off on it, in which case, the letter would be forwarded to our recovery center in Atlanta.

This letter had an added complication, however: The name of the person to whom it was addressed was QUINN MARTINDALE.

The name Sunni referenced as Scott James's real name.

I nearly fell off my stool. My amateur handwriting analysis led me to believe the envelope had been addressed by a woman. The modest flourish, especially in the upper case letters, and the tiny circles used to dot the i's gave the words a distinctive feminine flair. Finally, a dead giveaway to me was the peacock blue ink the sender used.

The day just got better and better. I stuffed the letter in my desk drawer and locked it. Later I'd decide what the official disposition should be.

A banging on the front door further startled me. I peered across the retail counter and was relieved to see, not a burglar, but Tim Cousins, the architect who had bought the
abandoned old church down the street. Not that I knew Tim very well, but at least he wasn't a stranger on a killing spree through our town, which was one of my first thoughts. A murder at my doorstep had affected me on many levels. It didn't help that Tim was a tall man, all in black this evening.

I figured Tim saw the light over my desk and thought I was open for after-hours business. I waved to him, shook my head and mouthed what I hoped was a clear, “Sorry. Closed.”

Tim waved back but kept pointing at me and then the door, signaling that he wanted to talk to me. I had no interest in establishing a precedent that said any time a customer saw me in the office, I was fair game for service. On the other hand, could I really afford to leave a bad taste in the mouth of any potential friend? If I could be nice to Tim, my friendship score for today would balance out. One friend lost to the police, one gained if I gave Tim a little leeway.

Continuing our nonverbal conversation, I motioned Tim to go to the side door, where I'd meet him.

“Hey, Cassie,” he said, seeming delighted to have a chance to talk to me. “I heard about all the excitement today. Sounds like you were in the thick of it.”

Tim had a boyish look about him and the physique of a desk-bound architect rather than a carpenter, though I knew he was doing most of the rebuilding of the church himself and I'd even seen him in action on its roof. I guessed he was probably at least five years younger than me. He'd made an effort to enter my building as soon as I opened the door, but I discouraged him by standing firm in the doorway.

“It's been a long day, as you can imagine, Tim, and I'm just about to pack up. Was there something you needed?”

“No, no. I'm just curious, you know. It's not every day something like this happens in North Ashcot.”

“It's very sad for the family of whoever the victim is.”

“Oh, yeah, of course. They're all sayin' he's a local, huh?”

In spite of his charming Southern accent, he was starting to annoy me. I was eager for him to be gone.

“I don't know any more than you do, Tim, and I really would like to finish up here.” I smiled through my tense jaw. “I'll be back in the morning, same as always.”

I made a move to close the door again, with me on one side and Tim on the other. I had a creepy feeling, which subsided when he didn't resist. It was hard to account for my reaction. Tim hadn't been intimidating in any way, and it was early, after all, not even five-thirty in the evening. But it was already dark and there was no one else around. I chalked my reaction up to exactly what Tim had observed: It wasn't every day that someone was killed in North Ashcot.

In any case, Tim backed off. We agreed we should have lunch sometime, and said good night.

I watched his car drive off, then rushed out to my car and headed home.

*   *   *

I knew that the house I'd inherited from Aunt Tess didn't need to reflect her taste any longer. The trouble was I couldn't decide what my taste was. Aunt Tess's furniture was heavy, characterized by dark wood trim even on the living room chairs. Too old and serious for me, but neither did I want light and pretty cottage chic. I couldn't see myself curling up with my laptop or e-reader on a white wicker chair with floral cushions.

My one-bedroom apartment in Boston's West Fenway neighborhood had been small enough to remain undefined as far as style. A simple beige couch, vertical blinds instead of curtains, an eclectic mix of concerts and plays represented in posters—the Boston Symphony Orchestra on one wall, a revival of
Blithe Spirit
on another, along with an oversized movie still from
Casablanca
. And to keep in touch with my hometown roots, some C&W tunes from Reba McEntire or Tim McGraw on my computer.

Linda, whose apartment had a definite modern twist, mostly black and chrome with touches of red, claimed I hadn't moved on from the college dorm motif. Whereas, if she changed one item in a room, the rest of the furniture had to go as well. I had to admit I preferred to surround myself with images that meant something to me personally, rather than worry about whether the pillows and bedspread provided the proper color accents for the drapes in the bedroom.

Adam, who agreed with Linda, had tried to reshape my environment and bought me furnishings and accessories more suited to his executive suite. Geometric, abstract wall art in primary colors; a kitchen chair that looked like a giant suction cup on a pedestal; a lamp with a cylindrical chrome shade and a base that resembled a triad of alienlike legs. As far as I knew, they were now all part of the flea market scene or the landfill around Boston.

Right now, I was glad I'd had my faded blue glide rocker and ottoman shipped here last summer. I'd kept Aunt Tess's grouping of two stuffed easy chairs on either side of a coffee table, but added my glider to the arrangement.

Sobered by the thought that I could no longer call downstairs and order-in from several different ethnic eating establishments, I'd fallen back on my second favorite meal plan: When in desperate need of food, sprinkle bits of cheese over whatever's left over in the fridge, nuke the mound of food, add bread, and eat. I plopped onto the rocker and dug into a hot, cheesy faux-casserole of broccoli, carrots, mushrooms, tomatoes, and zucchini.

Something seemed off about the angle of my rocker this evening, as if someone had moved it. Impossible. Nevertheless, I put my plate on the coffee table, stood back, and surveyed the configuration. It wasn't my rocker, but one of the easy chairs that was off. Probably nudged the last time I vacuumed. No more vacuuming, I vowed, as I fixed the setup and smiled at my own joke. I couldn't help thinking that Adam would have been proud of me, fussing about a couple of inches left or right. I was tempted to shove everything around to annoy him in absentia, but decided he wasn't worth the effort.

Back on my rocker, I bit into a stale-but-warmed buttermilk biscuit and pondered the current events of my life. Starting with the most recent, I mentally listed pressing concerns.

Priority one: I needed to decide how to handle the first-class letter to Scott/Quinn that I figured was burning a hole in my desk drawer at the office. At least I hadn't already broken the rules by taking it home with me. By now I'd convinced myself that an old girlfriend had written to beg him to come back—wherever that was. I warned myself that I was on the edge of investing in a friendship that was
doomed. But I wasn't exactly famous for heeding my own advice.

There were a number of reasons for a piece of mail to be designated UAA—Undeliverable As Addressed, formerly called “dead letter,” as Ben had labeled the one now on my mind. In my career, I'd seen standard anomalies like incomplete addresses, deceased addressees, damaged packaging, and failure to comply with a business code. More heartrending were letters to Santa and the Easter Bunny that would never find a home.

An ordinary piece of UAA would be opened at the center and checked for enclosures or clues as to the identity of the correspondent on either end. Valuables like jewelry, coins, or electronics would be removed. If there was no way to determine who had sent the letter or who was to receive it, the rest of the contents would be destroyed to protect the privacy of both parties, whoever they were. Appropriate items would be sold at auction. Case closed.

In this situation, I first had to answer Ben's written question. Was this a dead letter? He couldn't have known at the time that there was indeed a Quinn Martindale in town. To the best of my knowledge, Chief Smargon had told me, but not the general public, about Scott James's earlier identity. Ben must have passed the letter on to me in case I knew someone that he didn't, someone new in town named Quinn. He'd been half right.

On the surface, the letter was UAA, undeliverable. It was lacking the necessary information for delivery by a postmaster. On the other hand, it
was
deliverable by this postmaster, me, since I knew the addressee and where he
lived. In fact, I knew where he was at that exact moment. I could simply drive a couple of miles to the police station and deliver the letter. Case closed.

But not so fast. To further complicate things, I knew that Quinn Martindale was also Scott James only through a confidential discussion with the chief of police about a pending investigation. Unless she was wrong about that. I hadn't actually heard Scott James admit to being Quinn Martindale. Case wide open.