Murder at Fire Bay (12 page)

“Good God, Wattle, put them back on; you look like hell!”

Still without a word he put them back on and regarded me. Probably thinking what a dumb-ass civilian I was.
 

I decided to be gentle. “You . . . ah . . .get any sleep this morning?”

“I had a drunk and an accident to work at nine o’clock this morning, what do you think?”

My attempt at pleasantries was saved by a knock at the lobby door to my office.

“Come in!” I barked, trying not to notice the good chief’ grimacing.

Bill Stevens burst into the office. “You have my prop?” he asked, hand still on the doorknob.

“Come on in, and close the door,” I said. “Well, I hope so. However, I do have a request.”

It was after he closed the door that Stevens noticed Wattle sitting in the chair. “Hi, Jim.”

The chief nodded in return. “Hello, Bill.”

“What are you doing here?”

Wattle gave the usual cop answer. “Just routine. Whenever foul play is suspected, we show up.”

Bill Stevens pursed his lips, looking at me. “Am I in trouble?”

Wattle interrupted with another usual cop answer. “I don’t know, are you?”

“We would like to see what’s in the box,” I said, trying to steer the poor guy away from feeling he was already in the poky.

“Yeah, sure, I guess so,” he answered.

In a heartbeat, I had my penknife out, slicing at the cardboard top. Wattle told me later I should have seen the look on Bill’s face. I probably should have been a little more diplomatic, but I was anxious to see the contents of the box. As might be expected, the prop was covered with good old foam peanuts, full of static. I personally hate the stuff, but it works. There was an empty trashcan nearby, so I carefully began to pour out the peanuts.

The prop was there all right, as was a six-inch square plastic container of a white powdery substance. It didn’t take long for everyone to guess it wasn’t talcum powder.

“Do you know what this is, Bill?” Wattle asked softly and pointed to it lying alongside the prop on top of the peanuts.

Bill sighed and shook his head from side to side. “No, I don’t,” he said, and started to reach for it.

“Don’t touch it!” Wattle yelled, “there may be fingerprints on it!”
 

Stevens withdrew his fingers as they’d been burnt.

I took a deep breath. Stevens was not going to like what I had to say next. “I’m afraid I can’t let you have the prop.”

“What? Why in hell not?” he said, giving me a look of disbelief.

“I have to ship it north to Anchorage for them to have a look for fingerprints.”

Stevens looked like he could strangle me. “But I need to get going on some late halibut fishing!”

“Sorry,” I answered, “but this is on federal property, and since it is, the feds have to find out what this white stuff is. It’s probably cocaine, but it could be anything.”
 

I decided not to mention the “A” word. That would really start rumor mills going around town. “Yeah, did you hear they found anthrax in Bill Stevens’ box at the P.O?” The next thing would be CNN unloading camera equipment at the airport.

“Really, it’s for your own protection, Bill,” I added. “I know it puts a crimp in your fishing, but that’s the way it has to be. Have you ordered a new prop?”

Bill swiped at his forehead and looked at Wattle. “Yeah, but when I heard the package was here I called and cancelled it! Son-of-a-bitch! What the hell, Wattle! Can’t you do anything about this?”

“I wish I could, Bill, but the postmaster’s right, this is on federal property. I have no authority here. I doubt you’re part of a drug ring, but we have to play it straight. Okay?”

Wattle actually backed me up. I could not believe it. Without further word, with the plastic gloves still on, I began putting the peanuts, prop, and cocaine back into the same box they came in.

‘Listen,” I said as I worked. “I’ll get this sent off on the afternoon plane. And I’ll call ahead to make sure it gets special treatment. I wish I could promise when you’ll get your prop back, but I can’t.”

Stevens, with a worried look on his face, could only nod. “Am I free to go?” he asked.

Wattle jumped in before I could answer. “Sure you are, Bill. How about me buying you a cup of coffee and a roll at the Eat More?”

“Yeah, but I gotta make a phone call first to the prop dealer. Can I use your phone?” he asked, looking at me.
 

I nodded. It was the least I could do. “But do not tell him about the white substance. He may be part of this.”

“No, I won’t tell him, even though I’d like to give him a piece of my mind,” he said, and strode over to my phone.
 

I looked over at Wattle still in his shades. He returned my look with a slight shrug.
 

To make everything neat and tidy, I put the old box and its contents inside a new box and taped it shut. I handed it to Ashley who had been standing there all the time, her mouth a straight line.

“Would you put this in the outgoing mail?”

“Of course.” And she moved off, box in hand.

Wattle coughed behind me. “Some fine looking help you have here, Bronski.”

Chapter 15

“Boss?”

“Yeah, Bronski, what you got?”

“A box with a prop and a six-inch square clear plastic container filled with a white substance.”

The Boss’s chair let out a mighty squeak. I could imagine he was reaching forward for the unlit cigar balanced on the edge of a modified coffee can. He would stow the cigar in a corner of his mouth to get it nice and juicy. To his credit, he hid the coffee can whenever a big wig showed.
 

With a smile on my lips, I went on to explain what Bill Stevens had said, and that a local cop had been present when the box was opened.
 

“What’s a local cop doing there?” he asked.

“Because I thought we might need their cooperation in case a local ring was involved,” I answered.
 

There was a moment’s pause and I heard the cigar wiggle over to the other side of his mouth.

“So what are you going to do with the box?” he asked.

“I have Ashley putting the address of the Anchorage postal inspectors on it. I plan to send it to John Crouch. Boss, we need to get this processed as quickly as possible.”

There was a muffled chuckle. “I take it you want me to call Crouch and put a flame under his chair?”

“Well . . .uh . . .yeah, I guess so,” I said.

“Bronski, you are so socially polite sometimes. Yeah, I’ll do it. Listen, I got a meeting with the union in about five minutes. Anything else?”

“No sir” was barely out of my mouth when I heard the phone click. Would I ever want his job? Quite frankly, I doubted it.
 

There was a knock at my door and Ashley entered before I could say anything. This annoyed me, but I decided to let her off with what I judged to be my no-nonsense look.
 

“What?”
 

“The package is ready to go to Anchorage,” she said.

I nodded. “I needn’t tell you how important it is that it gets on the afternoon plane. I want you to hand deliver it all the way to the plane’s cargo door, okay?”

She nodded and, with her mouth still in a straight line, left the office. She seemed rather quiet and I wondered what was troubling her. Was something going on out on the floor I didn’t know about? Well, hell, I needed a break anyway. I locked my center desk drawer and wandered out onto the main floor, noting that Ashley was in her office.

It was unusually quiet. I walked around with what I hoped was a pleasant expression on my face. People spoke if spoken to, but that was all. Their eyes told the story. It was one of watchfulness. But watchfulness about what? Hands behind my back, I cruised behind Martha’s case, and saw narrowed eyes through an empty slot. That was my cue. I walked around to the front of the case, affecting a bored yawn. Ashley couldn’t see me from the office. I had a hunch that little fact was important.

“Hi, Martha. How’s it going?” I said.

She turned to face me and shook her head. “Depends.”

“Depends on what?” I asked.

“On who you are,” she answered in a low voice.

I took a quick look around. Nobody was in hearing distance.

“May I buy you dinner tonight after work at the Early Risers?” I whispered.

Her mouth wrinkled. “Sure, sounds fine,” she whispered back.

There was the swishing sound of a broom as Ralph, the neatly dressed janitor, came by. Had he heard our little exchange? And what if he had?

Ordinarily, a postmaster would not have supper with the union steward without the supervisor knowing. It could be construed as going behind Ashley’s back. But something was eating Martha. It was up to me to find out what. A post office does not need an unhappy, backbiting crew.

I wandered away from Martha’s case, giving Ralph a smile. Let him think what he wanted. I took the long way between the cases back to my office. It was becoming evident that I would have to pay more visits to the main room. Maybe I could sniff out problems before they grew. I had little doubt Martha thought Ashley was doing something wrong. Being a postmaster or general manager in a large facility can be taxing. The average manager finds little time to merely walk around the floor. I closed the door to my office with a sigh and spent the rest of the day doing paperwork on the computer.

* * *

I sat back in my chair and fiddled with the handle of my coffee cup. Was Martha coming? It was already 5:50 p.m. Had she forgotten? Just when I decided to order, the door of the Early Risers slammed shut. I looked up to see Martha making a beeline to my table.
 

“Sorry, I’m late, but I was trying not to be obvious. I wanted our meeting to be a private one.”

I looked around. There was only one other couple, older people by the looks of them, sitting a couple of tables over.
 

I don’t see any problem,” I answered quietly.

Martha slung her jacket around her chair back and sat down. “Ralph cruised by as I was entering the café. I don’t know if it was a coincidence or if he overheard us at the case.”

Great, I thought, just great. All we need is more grist for the rumor mill. It was too late though, we were here.
 

“What’s good to eat on the menu?” I asked.

“Steak” came the prompt reply.

“Then steak it is.”

While the steak cooked, we sipped on a glass of wine. All very cozy. I wondered what Jeanette would think if she could see me now. When was the last time we had wine with our supper? Maybe in Hawaii on our honeymoon?
 

“So, Martha, tell me what you think about our supervisor.”

She took a deep breath. “Not very much. She says we talk too much. She’s swapped us all around. ‘It’s for production’s sake,’ she says. I would be surprised if production has gone up one iota. She has also started to follow me around. I’ve had this done to me before because I’m the union steward and I don’t like it. Despite the overtime, we had a happy shop. It’s fast becoming something else. Did she have your okay for all this?”

That was the $64,000 dollar question. If I said no, that I didn’t know about it, I would look like I an idiot who couldn’t control Ashley. If I said yes, I would become a villain in Martha’s eyes. I opted for idiot and decided to be truthful.

“No, I didn’t know what she was up to. You have to understand, though, those cases will not be moved back tomorrow. She is the supervisor after all. Even if she’s wrong, it’s going to take time, and if it turns out that moving the cases around does raise production, then you have no real leg to stand on. Why she is following you around I have no idea. Remember the old axiom, ‘post office management reserves the right to mismanage’? We learn by trial and error. Obviously, I can’t walk up to her tomorrow and tell her to stop following you around, but I will try to spend more time out on the floor. Sound fair?”

‘I guess,” she answered, giving me a convince-me look.

I nodded and chewed on what was a tasty piece of steak, hoping I had made a good decision. There was no way I was going to stab Ashley in the back, but she had gone a bit over the line. She should have consulted me first. Decisions, decisions, worries, and more worries. It was enough to make a good man turn to drink, but there was no way I was going to do that.
 

The rest of the meal was spent on personal pleasantries. She seemed surprised to hear I was originally a Kansas farm boy. How I got to Alaska was a long story, one I chose not to dwell on, as there were too many things in the way of hurts to talk about. She was from Minnesota, which was no surprise since many people in Alaska are from the northern part of the lower-48.

We finished the meal in friendly silence. She waited patiently while I downed a piece of pecan pie a’la mode, which I never pass up if it’s on the menu. I could tell she wasn’t real happy that I wasn’t going to take immediate corrective action about Ashley’s switching cases around, but I hoped she understood.