Murder at Fire Bay (18 page)

“No.”
 

She laid her hand on my arm and I looked again in her eyes.

“You must,” she said, and again, “You must.”

I nodded. “I know, but I’m afraid.”

“She will forgive you.”

“Perhaps so, but will she forget?”

She removed her hand and stared out to sea. “It is so beautiful here.”

“But it takes more than beauty to make a life,” I said. “By the way, if Chief Wattle tries to make you talk about me, don’t. I think he is in this up to his elbows.”
 

 
She nodded, closed her notebook, and turned off her recorder. “This is big. Bigger than I thought.”

“Scary, isn’t it?” I said.

We walked slowly down the hill to her car, each lost in thought, I suppose. In a fatherly way, I was taken with this young woman. Despite her buckteeth she had found a productive place in this world, an Alaskan world at that. Journalism jobs do not grow on trees in small-town Alaska. We stopped for a moment by her car.
 

“Thanks for coming,” I said.
 

I checked my watch. Eight-thirty and the sun was going down into the ocean. It was the time when the green color of the plant growth really stood out, making the scenery look almost surreal. Some would call it a magic time.
 

Emily reached into the back seat of her car. “May I take your picture?”

“Of a condemned man?” I tried to joke.

She shook her head. “I always take pictures of the people I interview. And you are, in a way, a unique person. Stand over by that alder, please.”
 

I still have the picture. In the twilight of that Alaskan day, she captured a bit of the soul that resides in me. Red baseball cap and all.

She left. I waved her off as she turned the corner onto the main road. Without warning, I shivered. I had a hunch why, and it wasn’t from the evening chill. The die had been cast; there was no turning back now that I had told someone. Was I being naïve? Maybe, but I had to have somebody local who stood on neutral ground. Someone who could be objective, and, if anybody could, it was Emily. I only hoped her editor was more committed to local politics than to the neutral ground that journalists were supposed to stand on. It would not do to have him publish anything about the post office and the drug scene.

The other reason for my shivering was the phone call I was about to make to Jeanette. Well, no time like the present, I thought and walked into the house. Mrs. Mordant was waiting for me, just inside the door.

“Your wife called. I told her you were at the bluff talking to that . . .that newspaper reporter.”

I thanked her and went upstairs to my room, where I sat down in my one easy chair to compose myself before I called back. I had a feeling that what I had to tell Jeanette would not make her angry, but only sad. I had failed her, and I was not the first. Her first husband was an alcoholic and Jeanette had for a time, drank with him. Her only child, by some Divine Providence was a beautiful teenager, suffered from fetal alcoholic syndrome or a mental malady and had died from a drug overdose. Tears welled up in my eyes. Dam it! Not now, Bronski!
 

It hit me from nowhere—the scene from long ago, the accident, my first wife’s voice.

“Leo, it’s late. We should be going home.”

“Yeah, sure, honey,” I had said with a wink at my host. Obviously, my wife thought I had had too much to drink and wanted me out of a social situation before I did something really stupid. This time I didn’t argue with her. She usually had an instinct for this kind of thing. One I hated. By the time I had my coat on and had dithered around getting to the door she was seething. I pushed past her, leaving her to scurry after me to the car.

Once we were in the car she came unglued.

“Leo! You know how important this client is to me. Now, I’m going to have to do all sorts of repair work because you couldn’t keep away from that bottle. Leo, I don’t know what happened over there in Vietnam, but you have got to get counseling.”

“I don’t need counseling!” I roared back. “Besides, what would those counselors know about the real Nam anyway? Just a bunch of pimple-faced kids working on their next degree!”

“Leo, keep your eyes on the road!” she snapped.

I jerked the car back into my lane. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Don’t forget, we have to pick up Cheryl,” she said. Then she went back to harping on how I was wreaking her career and ruining my life and obviously didn’t care or I’d get counseling.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. “Dam it, Charlene. Shut up or I swear I’ll smack you one!”

There was a sharp intake of breath. I never before had threatened her. She shut up, no doubt thinking up all kinds of reprisals for the next morning. It was still quiet in the car when we pulled up in front of the babysitter’s house.
 

She uttered just two words. “Stay here.”

I grunted a reply. She was probably worried I would say or do something embarrassing. Soon she returned, our daughter Cheryl in her arms.

“Aren’t you gonna put her in her car seat?” I asked.

She gave me a stony look. “She’ll fuss back there. I’ll hold her, thank you.”

“Suit yourself.” I answered. Charlene was one of those people who didn’t believe in seat belts. She had a horror of being trapped in a burning car or something. If I’d been sober I would have insisted she buckle her belt around herself and the baby, but instead I peeled off, squealing the tires as we left the sitter’s place. I don’t know why. Just a drunk’s answer to the world, I guess.

“Leo,” she said in a tired voice, “watch where you’re going.”

“I’m watching! I’m watching!” I guided the car carefully down the street, pleased with myself for keeping it between the lines. I was looking for the two side-by-side yellow paper boxes that marked my next turn.

I was getting real sleepy. If only I had a cup of coffee . . .

“Leo! Watch out! The bridge!”

I came out of the trance when I jumped straight up out of the easy chair. My mind evidently thought I had tortured myself enough. I was sweating like a pig. The trance was over with, but my thoughts went on about how things really went to hell after the accident. I lost my position with a good company, the whole works—my friends—everything. Yeah, Charlene should have had her seat belt fastened, but I was drunk and that took precedence. A tear drifted down my cheek and I automatically started to reach for the bottle at the head of my bed. Good Old Jack, just one sip . . .But for some reason—and maybe it was the vision of a waiting Jeanette—my hand took a detour. I lifted the phone off its hook and dialed. Jeanette answered on the first ring.

“Leo?”

“Jeanette, how did you know it was me?”

“I don’t know. It’s something I’ve always had—the ability to know the person on the other end. How are you doing?” she asked. Thank goodness, she seemed cheerful.

“Uh . . .so, so.”

“Leo, is it that bad?”

“Yeah, I’m afraid so. I’m being blackmailed.” There, it was said.

“Do . . .do you want to tell me about it?”

“No,” I said, “but I have to. I love you and want to keep you. I . . .I hope you feel the same way about me when I’m done talking.”

There was a moment’s pause. The silence through the phone was so complete I actually thought she’d stopped breathing.

“Jeanette?”

“It’s okay, Leo. I’m ready.”

I took a deep breath and went on to describe everything about Ashley and the drug scene as I saw it. That I had told the Boss but he didn’t believe me. That was how tight Ashley had him wrapped around her little finger. How she was starting to run the main floor with her rules, and every time I objected, she would haul out that damn picture.

“But I didn’t do what the picture suggested,” I said. “Only nobody would or will believe me. I think Emily Jems, the reporter, does, but I wonder if I didn’t make a mistake telling her.”

The whole time I was talking, Jeanette had not said a word. I knew she hadn’t hung up, but I did wonder if she was there. I said a quick prayer. 
“Jeanette? Are you there? Do you believe me?”

“Yes, Leo, I was just thinking.”
 

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Do . . .do you believe me?” I asked again.

“Oh, Leo, you poor man. Yes, I believe you. I knew you were under stress when you lied about getting home from the party. I knew something was wrong. But I decided that if you were worth your salt, you would eventually come to me with the truth. I knew you were a good man when I married you. No one is perfect. Now we must put this behind us and decide how you’re going to fight this evil. Are you drinking?”

“A glass or two in the evening until last Saturday evening, when I sort of . . .got carried away,” I answered.

Jeanette’s voice became firm. “A glass or two is okay, but no more getting carried away. I won’t put up with a man who is a drunk. Do you understand that, Leo?”

Okay, maybe that does sound like a parent talking to a child. But we drunks sometimes need to be talked to in that manner.

I gulped. “Yes, I understand.”

“Leo, I love you from the bottom of my heart.”

There was another moment of comfortable silence.

I told her I would try to keep her abreast of everything happening to me. She told me she sensed a storm was gathering, but not to worry, just keep bailing the water out of the boat and eventually I would come to safe harbor. With that, we said our good-byes and hung up. I felt like a new man, ready for Ashley and her evil.

Chapter 25

The new addition walked into my office promptly at eight o’clock. He wasn’t all that tall, around five-foot six or so was my guess. What set him off were those blue eyes, gold curly hair, and tan skin. He looked like he was just out of high school with that slim, trim build of his. Well, the women around here were going to be sorry they took sick leave. There was even an earring in his left ear. It was his pretty-boy Caesar looks that grabbed you at first sight. He walked up to the desk, extended his hand, and said in a mellow, cultured voice, “Good morning, sir.”

I half stood. “Good morning. You must be Sam Goodnight. The Boss told me you were coming.”

His handshake was firm. Whatever he was, he probably wasn’t a Mama’s boy. To me, a firm handshake bespoke all kinds of things—trust, integrity—those kinds of things. Close up, I saw fine lines around his eyes. So, our golden boy was not a spring chicken.
 

I motioned him to a seat. “I see by your records you’ve been with the Postal Service about two years.”

“Yes, sir.”

I stared at him intently, gauging how he was going to take the next statement. “Of course, you will have to start all over again to make regular. I’m afraid you will be a part time flex maybe as long as two more years. Think you can handle that?”

 
He batted not an eye. “Yes, sir, I’ve always wanted to live in a smaller place. I can take a delay in promotion.”

This “kid” was a postmaster’s answer to prayer. I went on.

“What jobs can you do? I see from your records you came from a favorite station of mine in Anchorage.”

“I can handle anything, from pushing mail into slots to counting money at the end of the day.” He said this in a positive non-bragging way.
 

I believed him. Had the Boss sent me a winner? “Well, I think we’ll start you out doing just that—pushing mail. One thing I can guarantee is forty hours. We’ve had people working as much as sixty-hour weeks and they’re tired. You do your job and you’ll be seen as a godsend.”

I went on to give him info about the local rules and sent him in to Ashley, who practically swooned. “Why, I declare, another member of the team,” she said, as she took him by the arm, which is a no-no in the post office world.
 

I had to admit I felt a twinge of jealousy. Not about Ashley, of course. It was just that he had the looks that made a woman want to take him to her breast. Well, good luck to him. I headed back to my office to answer a ringing phone.

“Bronski.”

I took a deep breath. It was the Boss who didn’t believe me about Ashley.
 

I said a quiet, “Yes, sir.”

“Well, has the new man arrived yet?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, what do you think of him?”
 

“He seems okay,” I answered.

“Are you okay, Bronski?”

I took another deep breath. I had to push the Boss, and I was very reluctant to. I had answered the phone on the first ring and had heard no click, to signify that Ashley was listening in. Hopefully, she was still out on the floor introducing Sam around.
 

I decided to take a chance. “No, I’m not. I told my wife, Jeanette, about what Ashley tried to do. My marriage is still intact, but Ashley has to go. She’s into drugs.”

“Bronski, I’ve heard all that before. Can you prove it?”

“Not yet, but I will.”