Death Takes Priority (10 page)

“Maybe he got a raise or a promotion, or . . .”

She shook her head. “I'm talking very high-end stuff. He couldn't make that kind of money working for the phone company. And it's certainly not an inheritance.”

“You really think your brother was breaking the law in some way?”

She kicked another leaf. “Wendell always felt he was the loser in the family. It was such a letdown for him after being so popular in high school. Whitney and Walker went off to college and now they have really good careers and families. Even I make more than he did, though my little foray into marriage”—she spread her palms—“thus the Cox on my business card, didn't work out so well.” Wanda took a long breath, perhaps revisiting her marriage. “Believe me, I don't want to think Wendell was into something illegal. It's taken me a long time to look at things realistically, but now that he's been”—
she stopped, as if unable to say the word—“murdered, I have to consider that might be why.”

It was a lot for a little sister to bear. It was even a lot for a former-if-brief girlfriend to think about. “Is there anyone new in his life, someone who might have enticed him into a scheme of some kind?”

It took all the limited word power I had to dance around crime-related words like “bribes,” “kickbacks,” “payoffs,” “fraud.”

“He didn't have much of a social life at all. The only person I can think of is an old classmate. They weren't especially friendly in high school, but he's been seeing a lot of this guy in the past few months, maybe a year. His name is Derek Hathaway. I'm not saying he's a criminal or anything, but he is super rich. Did you know him?”

I managed a combination nod and frown, not too obviously skewed, I hoped. “He's in construction, isn't he?”

“He's a developer, actually, according to Wendell. He has buildings all over Albany.”

Why did I not have any trouble picturing Derek Hathaway at the top of an illegal enterprise? Just because he was rich? Not fair. I found myself defending him.

“You haven't told me anything about Derek that makes me think he or your brother was engaged in anything sketchy.”

“Well, that's what the cops are supposed to do, aren't they? Investigate and find out if there was anything going on?” she asked, her tone heavy with frustration.

We'd come full circle. “I'll tell you what: I'm on good terms with Chief Smargon,” I said. At least before I
cancelled a lunch date with her. “Do you want me to try to find out how the investigation is going?”

“Of course that would be great, but I also think you could be a big help to her. Detective work is your thing, right?”

I stopped walking and so did Wanda. “What? Where did you hear that?”

“I've kept up with you, Cassie. Every now and then, you've made the local news for some postal reason or other, and then there was that big fraud case, where you busted it wide open.”

I shook my head more than was necessary for a simple no.

Wanda had latched on to my fifteen minutes of fame. A few years ago, my diligence with regard to metered mail from my office in Boston paid off. My discovery had led to the arrest of a businessman who'd been using a stolen postage meter to the tune of thousands of dollars a month. Heads rolled, people went to jail, and I was a hero. For fifteen minutes.

I had a vague memory of talking briefly to a North Ashcot reporter who called me at the time. He'd gotten the story from our public affairs office, noticed that I was from his hometown, and wanted embellishments from me. I gave him the correct spelling of my name but little else. He filled in the rest from his creative imagination.

“You've got it all wrong. I was just doing my job then,” I explained to Wanda. “Checking my collection box to be sure the permit number was legitimate. Something every postmaster is supposed to do. I found a discrepancy, followed it through, and reported it. Not exactly leaping tall buildings.”

“Isn't that what detective work is? I read that you had to track down where the unauthorized mail was coming from and stuff like that, too.”

“Wanda, that was still a long way from a murder investigation. And your brother deserves the best investigators we have.”

“That's what I'm trying to make sure happens,” she said.

We'd resumed walking and had reached the post office, with a few minutes to spare before I had to open up. I turned to face Wendell's grown-up sister.

“I'm not sure what I can do about this, Wanda. I'll see what I can learn from the chief, and I'll let you know if I find out anything.”

She reached over and hugged me. I felt tears coming on—for both of us. I was sorry for Wanda, for Wendell, for all the losses in our lives since we were both naïve kids.

“Thanks, Cassie. I knew you'd come through.”

I gave her a comforting pat, suppressing my question. “Come through how?”

I
couldn't remember a more distracted afternoon of retail work. Loose threads of nagging questions floated in my mind no matter what else I was doing. I came close to giving one customer twice as many commemoratives as he'd paid for, and almost charged another person forty dollars for a sheet of twenty one-dollar stamps. It was a good thing my patrons were on the ball and corrected my errors.

I felt as though someone had forced me to make a quilt, then gave me patches of fabric with threads hanging from every edge, each patch with a different, unfinished pattern. And my sewing machine was broken. If I had a sewing machine. I knew I had to stop thinking of quilting and find myself a viable hobby before Sunni swooped in and gave me one of her old machines. I'd never known a quilter who had only one sewing machine.

As I hefted another pile of phone books onto the counter, I realized the burning issue of directory theft that began the week was the only incident now resolved. Nearly fifty customers had picked up their directories this morning, none of them seriously inconvenienced or wise to the fact that their books had taken a weekend vacation trip first to Quinn's house and then to the police station.

All the loose ends in my mind began to take shape into a long list. Whether Quinn's mother had murdered her husband in San Francisco. Why Quinn ran away rather than testify. Why Wendell had Quinn's names and address in his pocket. What the UAA letter I'd passed on to Quinn contained. Whether Wendell was involved in a criminal enterprise. What Ben knew about Wendell. Who Wendell's killer was. And finally, what Derek Hathaway had to do with anything.

I stopped counting before I ran out of fingers. Since simply telling myself to mind my own business hadn't worked, I needed to attack the list. I knew Wanda expected more of me than I could give, but I owed her my best shot. It was the least I could do.

The last thread seemed the easiest to take on. After all, Derek Hathaway had already invited me to lunch. When the lobby was empty at three o'clock, I steeled myself for a call to him. I put on my headset to free my hands, and lined up chores I could do while carrying on a conversation. I found Derek's card in a pile of unsorted papers on my desk, along with the betting club literature that Selectwoman Gert and her friend Coach had handed me—all material that accumulated each time I emptied my pockets. I punched in
Derek's number in Albany, the only information on the card. No title or company name. I wondered if he had separate cards for different purposes and had judged that I needed to know only his phone number. Either that, or he assumed everyone knew who he was and what he did; all anyone needed was a line to his office.

As expected, “Hathaway Enterprises” answered and I left a message with a professional-sounding woman. I could tell she didn't recognize my name, so who knew when, if ever, the great man would receive the message and return my call? I reminded myself that the reason for contacting Derek was simply to satisfy Wanda. His was the only name she'd been able to come up with as someone tied to Wendell in his recent dealings. If lunch with Derek didn't work out, too bad. I could at least tell Wanda I'd tried.

My first customer after that break was another lunch date left hanging, Tim Cousins, who'd tried to work his way into the office on Monday night. I greeted him as he hoisted a heavy, dented tub onto my counter. He wore a paint-splattered formerly white hat and the same dark parka I'd seen him in the other night.

“Doing a favor for my friend,” he said. “I think this is all legally metered and all.” He paused for a long breath. “Hey, I'm sorry I hassled you Monday night. I was just, you know, freaked out by the murder.”

“We all are.”

“I'll bet it's really hard for Wendell's sister Wanda right now. I saw you with her today.”

I nodded. “Uh-huh.”

Why was I surprised? Everyone saw everyone in North Ashcot. It annoyed me, however, that in one private moment for Wendell and his killer, no one had been watching. Where were all the busybodies then? What were the chances that no one had been snooping around Wendell, collecting gossip, during the murder? Maybe they'd seen the murder take place, but were too afraid to come forward. My opinion of my fellow townsfolk was deteriorating.

“I wonder if she has a clue about who might have killed him,” Tim said, leaning on the white plastic tub. “Wanda, I mean.”

I extracted the tub from under Tim's arms and moved it to the floor where I could rifle through the flyers more easily. “Everything seems to be in order here,” I said. “I'll have your receipt in just a minute.” I was getting to be an expert at not buying into the gossip game.

A short line had formed behind Tim, and I shifted my gaze to Mrs. Hagan, the next customer. Tim moved to the side and eventually walked off. For a minute, I thought he was going to invite me to lunch first, like every other curious citizen in town. If he was put off by my surly manner, so be it. I made a point to be sweet to Mrs. Hagan, though, who was free of animals today and simply needed extra insurance on whatever was in her large padded envelope bound for a post office box in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

Mrs. Hagan was in a sharing mood. She pointed to the zip code on her envelope and said, “My niece went to college out West ages ago and never came back.”

Smart girl.

The next time the phone rang, I saw NAPD in the caller ID window.
Uh-oh.
Could one be arrested for breaking a date with a police chief? I tried to remember what excuse I'd given her in my message. A vague “something's come up” I thought. I hadn't exactly lied; something really had come up.

“Did you enjoy your lunch with Wendell Graham's sister?” Sunni asked. I stuttered through another excuse until she stopped me. “Don't worry about it. Wanda can use a lot of support right now and I'm glad she feels she can talk to you. I suppose she wants me to deputize you.”

Too close for comfort. I was glad to see a customer arrive at that moment. I had to put the chief of police on hold even though it might mean another punishable offense.

I dealt as swiftly as possible with a young man's special delivery letter to the Division of Motor Vehicles in Utah. Each time I sent through a personal mailing like this, it occurred to me how much trust is placed in the postal service. Many people in town knew that Josh, standing in front of me, had just returned from being best man at his friend's wedding in Salt Lake City, but how many knew that he'd had some kind of run-in with the traffic laws? I made it a point to handle the transaction with a smile and no comment, and clicked back for Sunni.

“It's busy here right now,” I said, which was more of a lie than “something's come up.”

“Can I take you to dinner?” I offered.

“Sure. Shall I be prepared to defend myself against incompetency charges from Wanda?”

“She's grieving,” I said.

“She should focus on that.”

“I'll pick you up around seven and we'll head to a place in Pittsfield. Italian okay?” I asked.

“Okay, except let me drive. I have a hard time giving up control.”

“I'm good with that,” I said, wondering if we were still talking about cars.

Just my luck that three more customers came in, turning my “busy” fib into the truth.

*   *   *

When Ben stopped by a little after three, I thought I'd messed up another date. Lately, it had been hard to keep straight which appointments I'd made and which ones I'd broken or forgotten.

“Just stopping by,” he said, clearing it up for me. Ben didn't walk behind the counter, but stayed in the lobby and leaned over next to the scale.

“Something on your mind?” I asked him.

“I know it was kind of unfair of me yesterday, when I started to talk about Wendell and the whole flag-lowering issue.”

“Whatever do you mean by ‘unfair'?” I teased.

Ben grinned. “I don't like speaking ill of the dead, is all, and it's not as though I know anything for sure. So can we just forget I said anything?”

“Or you could tell me, and then I could forget it.”

Ben laughed. “Boy, you young people sure are quick on your feet.” His turn to tease.

“Will it make a difference if I tell you that his sister already has suspicions that Wendell was involved in something illegal?”

“That true?”

I crossed my heart. “You must be the only one in North Ashcot who doesn't know I had lunch with her today.”

“Oh, I knew that. Timmy Cousins told me. He didn't know what you talked about, though. But what could it have been besides her brother?”

I was hoping my entrée to the subject, creds from Wanda, might entice Ben to share what he knew. If he knew more than Wanda. If Wanda was right. If. If. If. I was not enjoying the role of detective.

I had a real job to do and I was falling behind. Not that I would ever be late with my collections. But, this week so far I'd been delinquent in so many areas—keeping up with memos and updates from management, freshening the postal products displays, making sure the lobby was neat and clean, digging out the seasonal decorations. Besides those regular duties, I was still fielding queries from my former job in Boston, and had a backlog of several e-mails to answer in that regard. I was tired thinking of it all.

“Help me out, Ben. Wanda wants me to look into things. She's hurting and a few insights into her brother's life would go a long way toward helping her make sense of his death.”

“I know they were pretty close, the brother and little sister,” Ben said.

I nodded. “From back when I met her, when she was just a kid.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot about you and Wendell way back when.”

I let out a resigned sigh and waved my hand. “That's okay. Everyone forgets I ever lived here.”

Ben reached his long arm over the counter and rubbed my shoulder. “Things have been tough on you, too, huh?”

I hadn't meant to whine, but a supportive hand on my shoulder felt pretty good.

“Part of it's Boston's fault, you know,” Ben said.

I looked up and met his watery blue eyes. “Meaning?”

“A lot of people around here resent Boston and the east coast of Massachusetts. If you were going to go AWOL after high school, it would have been better if you hadn't headed for Boston. Chicago would have worked. Or even some place in New Mexico.”

“Because?”

“People see the capital as draining our resources and neglecting our needs. The state legislature is supposed to be for the whole state, right? But we don't get our fair share; funds are diverted to take care of Boston and Cambridge, all those famous cities to the east, as if the Berkshires and Western Massachusetts didn't exist. A few years ago, the state dismantled towns out here to reroute water for Boston. And the Big Dig? Let's not even go there.”

“How come I never realized this?”

“You were a kid when you left.”

“Thanks, that was useful. Now I'll just think of myself as a traitor and not expect much.”

“Yup. You should have found a college in Vermont or Rhode Island. Reentry would have been easier.” Ben laughed at his own wit. “Back to Wendell Graham and his hobbies.”

“I don't want to pressure you, Ben. It's Sunni's job to figure all this out anyway.” I moved away from the counter and took my seat at my desk. The next minute, Ben
came through the door from the lobby and took the seat next to me.

“You're going to find out sooner or later. Might as well hear it from me. Though it's really not worth all this fuss.”

Ben planted his feet on the side of my desk and used the leverage to push his long body back, to the limit of the swivel chair. I'd seen him perform this maneuver successfully many times, but I still worried that one day he'd push too hard and end up head over heels on the floor.

“Comfortable?” I asked.

He smiled. “Better than my expensive recliner at home, but don't tell my niece. She bought it for me. So, there was a time a while back, maybe last year, when one of the phone company customers had a problem with his bill. He was charged for two lines and he was only using one. He went on a mission to find out what happened, even though the charge for the extra line was cancelled. The guy ended up blaming Wendell for fooling around with his lines.”

“You mean, like listening in?”

Ben shrugged. “Could have been.”

I didn't get it. “Wendell was wire-tapping a telephone company customer?” The image of Wendell in a trench coat and fedora, prowling around undercover as a spy, wasn't working for me.

“Could have been that, or maybe using the guy's line for something else. There's a lot you can do on a rigged phone line. I remember Wendell was a wreck, but then Timmy got involved and the whole thing went away.”

“Tim Cousins?”

“Yeah, I call him Timmy. He was just a little kid when I met him. I knew his father.”

“Does Tim work for the phone company, too? I thought he was an architect.”

“You're right. It was his father who worked on phones. Passed away now. But Timmy was having phone lines installed in his new place at the time. It all got straightened out as far as I know, and I can't imagine it had anything to do with Wendell's murder.”

“I wonder why Wanda didn't know this.”

“It's not like anyone went to jail or anything. It was over in a flash, is the way I remember it.”

“Wanda didn't mention Tim; she thought Wendell might be involved in something with Derek Hathaway.”

Ben rolled his eyes. “You mean just because he owns a piece of everything from here to Albany and back?”

“Apparently so.”

The arrival of a customer cut our conversation short, but I felt we'd probably taken a small incident as far as it could go. Ben jerked up from the chair. “Hey, Buster,” Ben said to one of our senior customers, “caught any big ones?”