Death Takes Priority (9 page)

For his part, Quinn kept to his pattern of engaging me in stories about jobs after college, and threw me only small bones now and then about what his life was like pre–North Ashcot.

He told me one typical frat story from his college days in Berkeley, and admitted to his part in keeping the tie-dye T-shirt tradition alive on campus. He then pointed to a small toy mail truck among my windowsill ornaments and asked for my favorite post office story. Lucky for him, I loved to tell mail tales.

*   *   *

Around eleven, we decided it should be safe for Quinn to sneak out and head home. Even so, I helped him work out an inner belt route from the back of my house to where he said he'd left his car. It was a cold night so we doubted anyone would have windows open or be sitting on a porch.

“Let's hope I'm not back at the police station, arrested for trespassing,” he said. I took it as a good sign that we could joke about his situation, at least for now. There was
still the matter of who murdered Wendell Graham, and I was sure Quinn wouldn't feel really comfortable until that mystery was solved. Neither would I.

“One more thing,” I said. I'd extracted the errant letter from my purse as Quinn was putting on his jacket, stuffing his arms, still encased in my UMASS sweatshirt, into the sleeves. “I forgot to give you this. It came to the post office yesterday, when you were . . .” I searched for a neutral word. “Unavailable.”

“Forgot” wasn't exactly the right word either, but every time I'd thought of it this evening, I found an excuse not to hand over the envelope. The pizza would get cold, for example, or the phone might ring.

Quinn took the envelope from me, glanced at it, and put it in his jacket pocket with a simple, “Thanks.”

What?
Just like that? Sharing time was over? Didn't I deserve to know what I'd been sweating about for so many hours? If I'd known I was going to be shut out of this letter-opening event, I might have kept the piece of mail longer and made a more active attempt to identify its source. Maybe even used the steam-from-a-kettle technique my college roommate had taught me.

“I hope I haven't inconvenienced you by forgetting to give you that letter sooner,” I said.
Hint, hint.

“No. I'm the one who should thank you for letting me drop in tonight. You saved my sanity.” He laughed and tilted his head. “I think. I know I had a really nice time, in any case.”

“Me, too.”
Except for these last two minutes
.

“Do we dare try lunch tomorrow?”

“Sure, but maybe we should drive separately,” I said.

Quinn smiled, and went down my back steps. At the
bottom, he turned and touched his cap, a salute of sorts. I felt like a teenager ushering her boyfriend out the back door before her parents caught on.

It made no sense, but, in spite of the way he kept things close to his vest, I trusted Quinn, and felt closer to him than to anyone else in North Ashcot.

Besides, now I had a few more details than I had earlier today. I could narrow my search a bit with confirmation on the place: San Francisco; a date: a year ago; and a scenario: a woman accused of stabbing her husband multiple times. Curiosity was an annoying addiction.

*   *   *

After a half hour, I'd ruled out the newlyweds in a town north of San Francisco who'd attempted to kill each other, and an older couple who'd gone on a shooting rampage. A better possibility reared its head: the case of a woman who lived in the Sunset District of San Francisco, close to the Pacific Ocean, who had been taken into custody when her husband was found in nearby Golden Gate Park, the victim of multiple stab wounds. Police were looking for anyone with information. Her adult son was unavailable for comment.

Aha
. I was sure I'd just shared a pizza with her adult son. It took me more time than it should have to realize that the stabbing had occurred only last week. Wrong time frame. I closed my laptop and called myself a failure at effectively utilizing search engines.

I was headed to my bedroom when I remembered I hadn't checked my messages. My routine had been thrown off by the busy social evening. And it wasn't over yet. I had three messages and three more lunch invitations. Derek Hathaway
was “eager to catch up” with me after all these years; Tim Cousins finally had a little free time to give me “a proper welcome to our little town,” as did Selectwoman Gert Corbin whose secretary had called: Could someone please call the office to schedule a date? In other words, my people should call her people. I didn't think so.

Two unappealing men and one woman who didn't care enough to handle her own lunch dates. No thank you. I'd been meaning to get rid of the landline handed down by Aunt Tess—who needed them anymore?— and now moved the chore to the top of my list.

*   *   *

Another fitful night. Last night, questions had kept me up; tonight, it was some of the answers that wouldn't let me sleep. I'd almost dozed off when I realized I'd double booked myself for lunch—with Sunni, and then with Quinn. Even aside from the annoying message-leavers, my social life was booming. If only it wasn't all wrapped up in law enforcement, murder, and legal issues.

The last dream I remembered on Wednesday morning was another twisted scenario where my phone books had been delivered with a special postmark that would one day be ranked high value on the collectibles list. I shouldn't have been surprised, since I'd read a blog article right before falling asleep. The article chronicled a recent convention of postmark collectors, a group who were less well-known than stamp collectors, but no less avid. I needed to monitor my bedtime reading more carefully.

One of the collectors in the (real) photograph I'd seen, looking a lot like Quinn, snuck into my dream and walked
away with phone books that had an outline-type postmark in the shape of California. Never mind that there was no postmark on the real phone books, or that nothing else in the dream made sense.

In that way, my dreams matched my real life.

T
he first thing I had to take care of on Wednesday morning was the disposition of the newly recovered phone books; the second was to unbook my lunch date with either Quinn or Sunni.

The first was easy. I spent about fifteen minutes before opening the doors, making sure the directory count was correct at two hundred and fifteen books, and that none were damaged to the extent that they couldn't be used. I'd checked the offensive ad for Ashcot's Attic and felt bad that I didn't have time to open each one and scratch Scott's name from the listing. I did note that his boss had been right: Scott James was definitely cute.

Following strict policy, I should have put a notice in each post office box, asking the customer to come to the counter, where I'd hand over a directory. But I decided that, since I was already a few days late with distribution, I'd cut that
corner. I placed a pile of books on the counter with a sign that invited box holders to take one, and replenished the pile through the morning. I trusted North Ashcot citizens not to cheat and take a book if they weren't box renters, or to take more than one book. After all, our crime rate was negligible. Except for this week's murder.

The second chore, straightening my lunch calendar, was harder to accomplish. Sunni or Quinn? How to make the decision? I could decide based on chronology—“first come, first served”—and keep my date with Sunni, the first to ask. Or I could follow the “keep on the good side of the law” principle, which still brought me to lunch with Sunni. Factoring in the nosiness principle— did I want to know more about Quinn and his life before North Ashcot, or more about the current investigation into Wendell's murder? That line of thought ended in a tie.

My final choice: I'd start with Sunni, and if she wanted to talk about her quilts or the kite festival instead of the murder investigation, I'd plead upset stomach and call Quinn as backup. The fact that it took so much thinking on my part to arrange lunch was a clue that I didn't get out much.

To complicate matters, my counter was very busy for the first half hour or so and I didn't have a minute to make a call to either of my potential dates.

Continuing the trend of animal week, Mrs. Spenser's cockatoo had an accident on the table that held the postal forms, requiring special cleanup. Happily, Mrs. Spenser's young granddaughter offered to take care of the mess. I handed her cleaning supplies and a pile of new forms and she assured me we'd be back in business in no time.

When Sally Aldritch came by with another large “media
mail” box for her son, I gave her a look that sent her ducking back and out the door. I figured she thought I was giving her a sign that in our midst today there was a mystery shopper—like an undercover cop, only a postal worker who'd come to check on operations and potential postal code violations. I wouldn't have been sorry if Sally had been afraid that she'd be led out in handcuffs. Maybe the frightening image would keep her from further testing my leniency.

I could have told Sally about the time I was enlisted to monitor a certain post office with respect to the conduct of a postmaster, only to learn that he'd been living in the building. It was a large enough facility that he had his own office, and he slept, ate, and lived in that room after hours. The stiff penalty might have sobered Sally to the realities of trying to put one over on the USPS.

The last customer before a break in the line was none other than my least favorite redhead in her green parka.

Wanda Cox came to the counter with a flat-rate envelope that I suspected was empty, a prop that she was willing to pay for to get my attention. If there were a postal inspector in my office that day, I knew he wouldn't care about someone willing to spend more money than necessary. After the transaction, real or not, Wanda did her best, given her small, short frame, to lean over for an intimate conversation. I noticed for the first time how young she was, probably nine or ten years my junior.

“Look, how about I buy you lunch, and we talk, just for as long as it takes to eat a salad. Huh? Can you give me that?” she asked.

“I'm booked. In fact, I'm double booked.” It felt good to say that with a free and clear conscience.

“After work then. Coffee?”

“I'm booked.” Conscience almost clear, since I planned to have lunch with Sunni and coffee with Quinn, if it worked out for him.

She slid her card toward me.

“I have one already.”

“Did you even look at it?”

By reflex, I looked down, ready to say, “Yes, now go away.” This time I read the name. Wanda Graham Cox.

“Please go”—I looked again—“Wanda Graham? Are you—?”

She nodded, seeming on the verge of tears. “I'm Wendell Graham's little sister and I need your help.”

My knees went limp and I had to grab the counter to keep my balance. The little girl who constantly lost her stuffed animals was back. How could I help her this time?

*   *   *

I took advantage of the break in the line to make two calls, one to Sunni and one to Quinn, cancelling lunch with both, through their voicemail. I fumbled around with phrases about something that had come up unexpectedly and I'd call later to reschedule and sorry, sorry, sorry.

I'd agreed to meet Wanda shortly after noon at Betty's Diner, even though there was a good chance that Sunni would end up there with an alternate lunch partner. I wasn't worried that Quinn would appear in that public a place any time soon. He'd taken home the leftover pizza from last night and I imagined it would be gone by noon if he hadn't eaten it already. A smile crossed my face as I thought of our impromptu dinner, quickly followed by a frown as I recalled
giving up the UAA letter without the satisfaction of learning its contents.

At noon, I closed up and struck out for Betty's, in the opposite direction from the police department, but not much longer a walk for me.

*   *   *

As the only eatery in town that wasn't fast food, Betty's was line-out-the-door busy. Wisely, they'd recently added a small takeout annex next door, and provided seating outside in a covered area. Tall heat lamps stationed around the perimeter made the patio bearable most of the year, including today. The only things outdoor diners lacked were the signature red Naugahyde booths and throwback jukebox that the indoor folk enjoyed.

I sat across from Wanda and searched her face for the little girl I knew, the one with skinny legs who showed up whenever her mom needed a break. It was clear that she loved to be with her big brother and his posse whenever she could. She'd wander into the Grahams' basement rec room and happily serve us sodas and snacks. Wendell feigned annoyance, but it was clear that the two shared a special bond. And the rest of us just thought she was cute, sometimes taking advantage of her good humor to send her on an errand or ask her to sweep the field before a pickup game at the park. Water girl. Bat girl. Errand girl. Groupie. That was Wanda.

“You're remembering when I was a kid and pestered you and the gang,” Wanda said, catching me in the act of putting braids on her again.

“I suppose so,” I admitted.

“People always said Wendell and I looked the most alike of all us,” she said. “There were four of us, but Wendell and I . . .” She stopped to catch her breath.

“I remember.” It was a strange feeling, eighteen years later, to be meeting the sister of a high school boyfriend, let alone one who had been murdered. While we waited for our salads, I apologized for brushing her off.

“It's just that the reporters wouldn't leave me alone, and I really had nothing to tell them,” I explained. “I thought you were one of them.”

“I guess I was testing you,” Wanda said, playing with her paper napkin. “I had to know if I could trust you, if you were the same Cassie that I looked up to. If you were just another gossiping pseudo-friend, I wasn't going to bother. I need the old friend of Wendell's who was willing to play my silly games.”

“I lost my teddy bear,” I said, mimicking a kid's voice, getting a big smile from her.

“I didn't want to just come out and yell, ‘Hey, I'm different. I'm not one of those reporters. I'm Wendell's little sister.'”

“Still, I didn't have to be snarky. I'm so sorry for your loss, Wanda. I'm sure it's a terrible sadness for all of you.”

She shrugged. “The family fell apart when Mom died. Except for Wendell and me, everyone split and we hardly keep in touch. Dad moved to Florida to be with my brother Walker, and my sister, Whitney, never came back from school in Maine.”

“It must be so hard for you now.” Were there any other trite phrases I could call up? I could say, “I'm here for you” or “You have my sympathy,” but I balked at those. At times
like this I forgave all those well-meaning people who uttered the same platitudes when I lost my parents.

Wanda overlooked my clumsy words and returned to who in her family left town, when, and why. “I always thought you and Wendell would stay together,” she said.

I gasped. Silently, I hoped. Then, salads to the rescue. “And, here we are,” our waitress said. “Sorry for the wait.”

I was grateful for the intrusion, and for the loud clatter of dishes and conversation that gave me time to recover from the thought of Wendell and me together as adults. More welcome distraction came, as patrons walked within inches of us. Betty's was set back from the sidewalk, so close to foot traffic that every passerby could reach into our bread basket and help himself to a free sesame roll if he were so inclined.

“It was a teenage thing,” I said, finally. “Wendell and I actually dated only part of our senior year.” I didn't mention that it ended around the time of the ugly green prom dress.

Wanda looked surprised. “It seemed like forever to me. I guess that's how things look when you're little.”

“Everything's bigger, longer, more intense,” I agreed. I had an image of her tugging on Wendell's shirt, asking him never to change.

For a few minutes we were silent as we dug into our salads. I snuck a glance at my watch, conscious of being on my lunch hour. I made the mistake of looking around the room at one point and caught Derek Hathaway smiling my way. He formed a phone with his thumb and little finger, and mouthed, “Call me.”

I decided that mouthing, “I don't think so,” back would be rude, and simply ignored the request.

Wanda still hadn't told me what she meant by needing my help, as she'd put it this morning. Maybe she'd meant simply that she needed to talk about her brother with someone who knew him at a happy time in their lives. I could do that.

“He never married, you know,” Wanda said.

Uh-oh
. Did Wanda think Wendell had hung around North Ashcot waiting for me to return? She seemed smarter than that, but the trauma of her brother's death could have sent her back to a time when her little-girl self envisioned the best part of her life lasting forever. Wendell and all his friends would never grow old and she and all her toys would always be loved and protected by all of us.

“What do you do, Wanda?” I asked, universal code for “Do you have a legitimate profession?” as if we were on a blind date, getting to know each other. Anything to move forward.

“I'm a graphics designer. Freelance. A lot of my work is designing covers for e-books.”

“I guess I'd have known that if I'd read your business card.”

We'd finished our salads, chatted about how important a cover was, even for a book that was distributed only online, and received our check. Still no clue what if anything Wanda wanted from me.

I made a move to gather my jacket and purse. “I'm due back at work,” I said, though I had a half hour left. It wouldn't be the first time someone left the most important nugget until the last few minutes of a meeting or a phone call. I wanted to give Wanda an opening while I still had
time to listen. “Is there something specific I can do for you, Wanda?”

Her face turned sober and she looked straight at me. The noise from the kitchen stopped, as did all the chatter around us and all the motion past our table. I heard only Wanda's pleading voice.

“Cassie, I need your help finding my brother's killer.”

I blew out a deep breath. I was sorry I asked.

*   *   *

Wanda walked me back to the post office. It was more of a stroll, with Wanda explaining to me how busy the North Ashcot Police Department was, with a series of vandalism incidents at the high school and a rash of vehicle pranks and break-ins along the back roads.

“They're really not equipped to handle a murder case,” she said. “The last one was not even in this century.”

I bristled at the implication that Sunni and her force were unqualified, that they might be more concerned about graffiti and slashed tires than the murder of one of our citizens.

“Chief Smargon has the training and she has her priorities straight,” I said, stretching what I actually knew for sure. “And if she needs to, she can get help from other towns, or even the state.”

Wanda used her trendy short boots to kick some leaves, a favorite pastime in North Ashcot at this time of year. “I tried to tell her I suspected my brother had fallen in with some questionable characters, and she said she'd look into it, but I got the impression she was blowing me off.”

Maybe Wanda wasn't so far off about Wendell's current
buddies. I thought of Ben's reluctance to consider lowering our flag in Wendell's honor and his hint of a shady involvement that should be investigated. On the other hand, “questionable characters” without names and documentation wasn't much of a lead for the police to follow.

“Is there something, or someone, in particular you think the chief should be looking at?”

“I'm not sure, but I know that Wendell had a lot more money in the last few months than he ever did. He bought a new car and he's been fixing up our old house. He still lives there and hasn't been able to afford an upgrade until, all of a sudden, he's hiring carpenters, redoing the bathrooms. I have my own place, but I go to the old homestead pretty often and I see the difference.”