Death Takes Priority (7 page)

I was sure my face showed the disbelief rattling around in my head. “But the chief called me no more than a half hour ago.”

Ross nodded. “That was then; this is now. I thought she was going to get back to you, but she had to take care of some stuff at the coroner's office and I guess she forgot. Sorry.”

I waved away the apology. “Why was he released?” It was strange to realize that I wanted Quinn to be here so I could get an answer or two. I should have been happy he was free and on his way. I'd have to revisit that.

“A lawyer showed up and invoked a twenty-hour rule,” Ross said.

“A public defender?”

“Nooo.” Ross dragged out the word. “Big-time guy, Edmund Morrison. We had to admit we couldn't charge Quinn with what we had. The lawyer laid it all out. There wasn't a lot to connect him with the victim or the time and place of the murder. And no physical evidence at the scene.”

“I know you can't give me many details, but—”

Ross held up his hand. “You're right. I can't. I shouldn't
even have said that much. I know you're a good friend and all, but it's up to him and the chief what they want you to know.”

It was foolish to argue with Ross. In fact, I felt sorry for him. It was hard enough being new in any business, learning the rules, but not necessarily knowing the hierarchy of applying them. I'd been there. In some ways, I was still there.

“Have a good day, Ross,” I said, turning toward the door.

He removed his NAPD cap. “You, too, Cassie,” he said.

I was gone before he finished wiping his brow, and I was sure I heard a soft “Whew.”

*   *   *

I stopped at Café Mahican, a block from the police building. Ben wouldn't be expecting me back for a while, and I needed coffee that was as good as the police chief's. The aroma of dark roast seemed to carry enough caffeine my way as soon as I stepped into the room, and I inhaled gratefully. A small television set behind the baristas' workstation ran continuous loops of local news. The usual features had to do with new road construction, an equipment malfunction at a utility center, a ruling by the selectmen about a new tax. The biggest story might involve statistics from informal voter polls on the betting parlor issue.

Today was different. Like all the other patrons of the coffee shop, I sat facing the television screen, ears tuned to the announcement of the first murder in North Ashcot in ten years. The clicking of laptop keyboards, cell phone conversations, and the hissing of the coffee machine stopped
while we listened to Rick, a meticulously groomed anchorman from central casting.

“North Ashcot Police Chief Sunni Smargon told Channel 30's Erin Ryan today that the body of a man found here”—a map of the southeast side of town appeared magically behind the anchorman just in time for him to point to it—“has been identified as thirty-five-year-old Wendell Graham. Erin?”

I heard gasps from many and tried to determine who was most astonished. This was me, ready to ID the killer by his or her reaction to the news.

Erin was in the field, and therefore less well groomed than her counterpart in the studio. Her chestnut hair fell victim to the breezes as she told the story, stretching the few facts Sunni had given out into her full-time segment:

“North Ashcot citizens are stunned today, Rick, as they deal with the news that one of their own, Wendell Graham, a telephone company worker, was shot to death and left in this field.”

Behind Erin was the field she indicated with a sweep of her arm, as well as an old building—an abandoned factory surrounded by a chain-link fence, with rubble strewn around the lot. Lighter debris was lifted by the wind and floated around Erin's nicely made-up but sad face. All in all, North Ashcot looked forlorn.

“Chief Smargon says she has no suspects, but our crew caught a glimpse of this man leaving the police department building just before the chief came out earlier.”

A small rectangle in a corner of the screen showed an image of a man leaving the back of the police building, but,
between the great distance and the man's hat and wide sunglasses, there was no way to tell who it was.

I was sure that was how Quinn Martindale wanted it.

I hadn't learned anything from the broadcast, but now that the rest of our citizens knew what I did, maybe the newsmongers would get off my back.

Wishful thinking. I had my head in my smartphone for one last e-mail check before I left the coffee shop, and barely noticed that someone with a laptop took a seat at my small table—common practice in crowded coffee shops the world over. When I finally looked up, I saw young Ms. Cox, the woman who'd faced off with me at the post office. She'd edged her computer toward the center of the table and leaned on it. It would have been nice if she'd brought me a fresh muffin from the basket at the counter.

“This thing has really upset the town, hasn't it?” she asked. Strange that a reporter, if that's what she was, couldn't come up with a word or phrase better than “this thing” to describe the violent death of a fellow resident.

I nodded. “Uh-huh,” I said and kept my thumbs active on my phone, even though I was now scrolling through yesterday's messages. A universal way of saying, “Please don't bother me,” and the reason I always took my e-reader or book on an airplane flight.

“Big news, now that we know who the deceased is. I understand you were close to him as well as to the suspect?”

I frowned at her. If she could have read my mind, she would have seen some nasty phrases.

“And you've come back into town just as all this is happening. Is that right?” she continued.

I collected my coat and purse, reached to the adjacent
supplies stand, and grabbed a to-go cup. As I prepared to pour my coffee into the paper cup, she handed me her card, a third attempt. “I'd love to chat with you,” she said.

I headed toward the door, stuffing her card into my pocket, only to avoid littering.

Before I exited I heard the news clip repeat itself. This time there was an added interview with Selectwoman Gert Corbin, my favorite pot holder friend.

“We're all stunned,” the selectwoman said to the woman in the field. “On behalf of all the community leaders, I want to extend my condolences to the family of the victim and also assure our citizens that we are bringing all our resources to bear on finding the killer, who will be brought to justice, and we're determined to make North Ashcot the safe place it has always been.”

A long, run-on sentence, my grammar teacher would have called it. Like the kind every politician uses so he or she won't be interrupted. I was surprised she hadn't managed to wrap up her thoughts with a reference that furthered her own agenda against the proposed betting club.

I thought how unfortunate it was that our little television channel wasn't carried very far to the east. Linda, tuning into news in Boston, wouldn't have heard our local broadcast; she'd have to wait until I called her this evening, when she'd be forced to rethink her view of our crime rate.

I
'd hoped to go back to work with questions answered, but instead a few more stumpers had been added to my list. Why hadn't Quinn told me he was going to hire a lawyer, and a “big-time” one, no less? Not that he owed me anything, but I thought a spark was developing between us and I hated to think I was way off on that. Hadn't we essentially planned a second date before we'd finished the first? I remembered his look at the time. Serious, not joking. And hadn't he asked to speak to me specifically when he was first in custody?

Where was Quinn now? Hiding in another state with another name, probably. In other words, in the wind. And, still lingering in my mind: When would I get my phone books back? A coin toss would have helped me decide whether to go home or back to my job. I still had Quinn's letter to deliver, and though that might have passed muster
as being “on the job,” I couldn't bring myself to approve, especially since there was no telling where he was for sure. My regular duty was calling. And so were red velvet cupcakes.

I walked from the bakery to the post office enjoying the crisp air and the sweet smell of pink icing. I found Ben at the counter with only two customers, the first buying an armload of colorful special-event bubble-wrap envelopes. To speed things up, I stepped to the counter and took care of the second project in line, a tub of bulk mail for Tracy, who owned the beauty salon I'd passed so often in the last two days, walking to and from the police station. I ran my fingers through my hair. Why did I always feel so unkempt in Tracy's presence?

“I'm going to make an appointment soon,” I told her.

“Everyone says that when they see me,” said the fortyish woman who still looked like a teenager and, even more so, like a popular child actress Aunt Tess used to love. Today Tracy's curls were blue, bordering on purple. “When business is slow, I just walk down the street,” she joked.

With the office now empty of customers, Ben and I took seats behind my desk. “I think I'll hang around for a while, in case the police call and need you,” he said, stretching his long arms above his head.

Not likely. But the one dozen cupcakes in a pink box might also have contributed to his decision.

“I'll put on some coffee,” I said.

Whatever the reason Ben stayed put, it was nice to have someone to talk to. Usually one or both of us were busy, our interactions limited to brief encounters over post office issues we couldn't agree on.

One trivial issue was Ben's old office spindle, a five-inch-long green metal spike on a circular base, from his first post office job. I'd seen the objects in old movies, usually at a cash register in a diner. The clerk would slam the checks onto the sharp point. I never saw the point, as a matter of fact, of mutilating a transaction record.

My main objection now was that the spindle was a hazard. Many customers who came in with children sat them on the counter while we conducted business, and I had nightmares about a child getting stuck with the needlelike object.

“Kids should not be on the counters in the first place,” Ben had insisted, in his usual show-stopping way of winning an argument.

We had a truce of sorts, whereby he'd take the spindle out when he was working, and I'd put it in my desk drawer when he was off duty. The North Ashcot Post Office, like the rest of the world, ran on compromise.

The first thing I learned in this afternoon's more leisurely chat was that, as upset as Ben was by Wendell's murder, he'd never liked the guy very much. When Ben had agreed to sub for me this morning, the “nice young fellow” he'd urged me to help was Scott/Quinn. He explained why.

“A lot of times he'll come by and change a fluorescent for me or give me a hand on something,” he said. “And I don't think I ever told you about the time Quinn—well, he was Scott then, as far as I knew—came to my rescue on the day after Halloween last year. Some kids had made a mess of the outside of the building.”

Color me startled. “Wait. How did you find out Scott and Quinn are the same guy?”

“It's all over town. Didn't you know?”

“Yes, I've known. I didn't know you knew.” What would my grammar teacher have done with that sentence, other than circle all the forms of the verb “to know”? “And since when has it been all over town? And why did you label the letter addressed to Quinn Martindale as undeliverable if you knew who he was? Is.”

“Well, now, I didn't know yesterday, did I? I didn't know until I had a date last night with a certain person who works in the police building. So maybe I exaggerated on the ‘all over town' bit.”

More startling: Ben was dating. Maybe he could give me some advice. Back to the leak—who worked in the police building besides cops? Before I could ask, Ben went on.

“And before you ask, I'm not saying who told me exactly.”

That didn't mean I couldn't try to guess. “Someone on the cleaning crew?”

Ben gave me a look and pressed his lips together. “Did you want to hear my Halloween story or not?”

“A clerical person?” The only administrator I'd seen was too young for Ben, but who was to say? I ran images through my head. What older women had I seen in the station? “One of the civilian volunteers? The lady who tags abandoned cars?”

Ben made a move to leave. I put my hand on his bony arm. “Okay, I'm sorry. I want to hear the Halloween story.”

“It was trick-or-treat night, you know. A bunch of teenagers from the south end of town had TP'd the place, sprayed the front door with some kind of green monster paint, I can't remember what else, but every old trick in the book. Quinn had only been in town about a month as I recall, and he
happened by and saw me trying to clean up out there. To make things worse, the kids had hosed the place and the TP was soaking wet.” Ben shook his head as if he was still trying to figure out what would make anybody think that was funny.

“And Quinn helped you clean up?”

“Yup. A lot of other good citizens walked on by and said ‘Tsk tsk,' you know, but Quinn rolled up his sleeves and dug in. Didn't even ask. Then, this year, he suggested we take some seats and a bowl of candy out there and stay as long as we could without freezing to death. It worked, too. We gave out some candy, and then when it got late and we had to go in, Quinn took turns with me driving by once in a while until we figured the little monsters were all in bed.”

“I'm glad to hear that.”

I had no trouble picturing Quinn as a good neighbor, pitching in where he could help, making an effort to fit in without being ostentatious.

And I imagined Ben would be very grateful. On the whole, Ben was easy to please and things were pretty simple for him. I had to remember that the next time he irked me.

While Ben and I were bonding during this little break, I took the opportunity to broach a subject I'd been thinking about since I heard the newscast in the coffee shop. The cameras had caught the police department flag waving in the breeze, always a great photo op. The shot jogged my memory: Postmasters had the authority to fly the flag at half-mast to commemorate the death of a local citizen. I remembered a time when I was in the third grade and another teacher, not my own, died after three decades of service in the school district. I couldn't remember details like
time of day or why I happened to see it, but I know I was moved by the special gesture of lowering the flag in her memory.

“I think we should wait a bit,” Ben said, when I brought it up now, suggesting we might honor the late Wendell Graham that way. I had the feeling he'd have rushed to say yes for Quinn Martindale.

“You're not sure?”

Ben twisted his wide mouth, awakening the surrounding wrinkles. “We should just wait, is all.”

“Because of the way Wendell died? Because it was obviously a crime?” I asked, not one to back down easily. Or because he didn't offer to repaint the front door? I wondered. Ben shrugged.

I hadn't researched the practice sufficiently to know whether the manner of death or the popularity of the deceased mattered, as far as the flag-lowering rules went. Wendell was a native son who'd lived and worked in the community all his life. Wasn't that enough?

“What if Wendell was involved in some activities that he shouldn't have been?” Ben asked. “Something that led to him getting shot? We should wait and see.”

My head snapped up from its relaxed position. “Do you know something like that about Wendell?” I asked.

“What if? That's all I'm saying.”

“Are we talking about shady dealings? Is there someone you suspect of killing him?”

“Never mind,” he said.

“If you know anything, Ben, you need to tell Sunni.” When Ben didn't respond, I made it more clear, as if he might not know who Sunni was. “The police, Ben. If you
know something they don't about a motive for killing Wendell, or anything at all, you need to tell them.”

I was about to lay an obstruction of justice charge on him, when the front door opened. Ben unfolded his long legs, got up faster than I could even think of moving, and leaned over the counter, ready to serve.

“Evening, folks,” said Officer Ross Little. Only when I stood did I see that Ross had arrived with a dolly piled high with phone books.

“What do we have here?” Ben asked. I realized that I'd never mentioned the missing books to Ben. He probably thought I'd handed out every last one of them while he wasn't around. “Do you know anything about this, Cassie?”

“I'll explain later,” I said.

Ben looked relieved to have been handed an excuse to avoid my probing of who he was dating and what he might know about Wendell Graham. So much so that he didn't pay much attention to the oddity of our phone directories being in the custody of a cop.

“I'm on my way home and offered to drop them off,” Ross said. “Sorry you had to wait so long.”

Ben, not the least bit flustered, opened the door between the lobby and the retail counter. “Just wheel them over there if you would and the new postmaster will take care of them.” His chuckle brought on a cough, as usual.

“There's more outside in my truck,” Ross said, spilling the books over the floor in their proper corner.

Ben and Ross made two trips to his truck. When the third load was delivered, Ben suggested Ross just leave them on the dolly. “We'll return it in the morning,” he said.

“Sure you don't want me to help you stack them a little better?” Ross asked.

“Matter of fact, I was just leaving.” Ben put on his jacket and tipped his cap toward me. “Night, Postmaster,” he said with a grin. “I'll walk you out, Officer.”

Whatever dirt Ben had on Wendell wasn't going to be revealed today. Maybe I should have brought more cupcakes. I still hadn't gotten the hang of the North Ashcot system of bartering.

*   *   *

A small rush of customers forced me to ignore the newly returned phone books and take care of immediate business. Besides, I needed a stretch of quiet time first, to count the directories, check the bundles for any damage, and generally welcome them back, before handing them out.

A phone call came in while I was putting through a medium-sized flat-rate parcel. The caller ID was the NAPD. Priority interrupt. I collected high-schooler Joanie Campbell's money for a sheet of LOVE stamps with one hand, smiled at her, and answered Sunni's call with the other hand. I figured a teenager would surely understand this kind of multitasking.

“Sorry I didn't get to warn you about Quinn, Cassie. It's been a wild couple of days,” Sunni said.

“I second that.”

“A big-name attorney stomped into my office and showed me some paperwork and demanded that Quinn be released. To tell you the truth, I didn't give him much of an argument. We really had nothing, and I decided that Quinn
on the loose might lead us to something. He's in trouble for changing his name without going through proper channels with Social Security and the motor vehicles registry, et cetera, but that's not really our problem.”

This was the moment when I could have mentioned the quasi-UAA letter I had in my possession. But I found a way out in her comment that Quinn Martindale was no longer her problem.

“Thanks for that update, Sunni,” I said, and agreed that we needed to have lunch soon.

So many potential dates—Sue and Beth, to make up for leaving me stranded; Tim Cousins, who'd banged on my
CLOSED
sign; Derek Hathaway, who'd rather talk to me and follow me than have tea; a redheaded stalker who might or might not be a reporter; Gert Corbin, of our governing board, who wanted to officially welcome me to town and probably pitch her anti-betting agenda; and now the chief of police. If they all came through, I'd be one busy postmaster.

After Sunni's call, I had to handle an unpleasant incident. A woman I'd never seen before came to the counter with a postal money order for eight hundred dollars. I told her I was sorry, but I didn't have that much cash on hand.

“Of course you do,” she said. She tapped the multicolored check-sized piece of paper. “These can be cashed for up to one thousand dollars.”

Ordinarily, I would have inspected the paper for legitimacy—the Benjamin Franklin watermarks and the vertical thread of the letters “USPS” and other telltale features—but I didn't have the cash to begin with, so it was a moot point whether her check was legitimate.

“I'm sorry,” I said again. “So many people pay with credit
cards these days, I just don't have eight hundred dollars in cash.”

She leaned over the counter. If she had been any larger or fitter, I would have felt physically threatened, but she was a short, dumpy woman, older than me by a lot, with wiry gray hair. The only weapons I could see were a handful of long nails in a too-bright shade of red, now shaking at me.

“This is no way to run a business,” she told me. “I waited until the end of the day. I don't believe you don't have enough money on hand by now. You're simply a poor manager.”