Murder at Fire Bay (7 page)

“Okay, Leo, er, sir. I think 10:00 a.m. would do fine.”
 

She gave me a relaxed smile. Good, maybe my irresistible charm was working. Now if it would only work with the paperwork piling up on my desk. With a sigh, I dug into it.

Just when I thought I couldn’t go on doing what bureaucrats do, a knock sounded at my office door. It was Abby.

“Leo, everyone’s ready for the stand-up.”

“Great. Do we have somebody up front manning the counter?”

“Yes, sir. Amie is handling it.”

I nodded and followed her out onto the floor with my clipboard. I was not too nervous about this first meeting with the troops; after all, I had only been here a short three days.
 

All twenty-plus of them were standing there, quietly waiting, some with their hands in their pockets, some with crossed arms, and that look in their eyes. The look that said, “I’ll give you one week to show me you know what you’re doing.”

I took a deep breath and began with a smile on my face. I let them know that even if I had only been there a few days, I knew them to be experienced and professional. That as long as they did their jobs, they would get no trouble from me. That I was temporary and didn’t anticipate being there more than a month. I let my eyes sweep over their faces looking for both questions and troublemakers. There’s one in every crew and this one was no exception. A younger woman, with a face of stone, not much more than five feet tall and maybe four feet wide, spoke up.

“When do we get some relief from overtime?”

There it was: the question I knew had to come, and from the looks on many of the faces, I knew it was the burr in their socks. The problem was that I had no immediate answer. I tried to be logical about it anyway. “How many here desire overtime?”

Not a hand rose. A feeling of standing on the edge of a black hole engulfed me. I had hoped for a better start. It looked like Abby had been right when she talked about being short of help. I might have made a mistake asking the question, but I did want to know.
 

“How many here feel they have had too much overtime?”

About three-fourths of the crew raised their hands. Three-fourths of this seasoned crew was more than there should have been. I decided to be honest.

“I don’t know what I can get done in the short time I’m scheduled to be here, but I’ll try to get some relief. Anything else?” I asked with a prayer in my heart there wouldn’t be. After a moment, I went on; saying how pleased I was to be here and that probably not much would change with the schedule, but that I would look into running a more efficient operation. There was a groan or two, but I hoped most of the employees were smart enough to know that not much could be changed in a month.

Abby finished the meeting by handing out some information that came from the main office, on security in the building; I added a few words about being careful lifting packages. Old news to the employees, but required by the Postal Service that I talk about it. On the way back to my office, I noticed the floor still looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in a long time. This irritated the hell out of me.

“Abby!” I yelled.

In about five seconds flat, Abby was at my door, wringing hands and all.

“Yes, sir?”

I drummed my fingers on the desk while I counted to ten. I took a deep breath and smiled. “Abby, I want you to get the two janitors in here. We need to have a talk.”

As she turned to leave, I said, “Better get Martha in here too!”

I sat back in my chair to think. It had been a long time since I had actually chewed anybody out. Was I up to the task of doing a good enough job so the recipients knew I meant business? I fervently hoped so. Footsteps sounded. I stood up and put on what I guessed to be a grim face.
 

Martha came in first. “Is this to be official?” she asked.

“Not today. But I wanted you here so you would know how to react in the future.”

She had time for a nod before the two janitors and Abby came sailing through the door.
 

“All right,” I began, “who is supposed to be keeping the floor clean?”

I gave the two janitors what I hoped was a first class glare. They could not have been more different. One looked like a clean Mr. Goodie Two-Shoes; the other one with the long hair was the one with the shifty eyes I noticed the first day. His eyes were doing double-time, avoiding mine. Oddly enough, after a few seconds, his eyes settled down and he looked back at me.

“I guess it’s mine, sir.”

“Oh, it is. Why in hell haven’t you been doing it then?”
 

“We, have been short on supplies . . . sir.”

I looked at Abby. “Do you know anything about this?”

She wrung her hands. “I think it was something that was overlooked.”

I gave her the opened mouth, raised eyebrow stare. “Overlooked?”

She nodded, and her throat worked up and down, swallowing what I imagined to be dry spit. I took off my glasses and laid them down gently on the desk. I looked back up to see what I thought was a hint of a smile on Martha’s face.

I dug into my back pocket and hauled out my billfold. After some deliberation I pulled a fifty out and handed it to Mr. Shifty-Eyed.
 

“All right, I want you to go into town and get what you think is necessary to clean that floor. Think you can do that?” I asked softly.

He nodded.

I continued with the soft voice. “And by this afternoon, I want that floor to be shining. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

I nodded and gave him a good stare. “Good. Don’t forget to bring me the change and a receipt!” I added for good measure. “Now, everybody back to work! I’m sure you must have something to do!”
 

They filed out, Martha being the last to leave. As she left, she gave me a bemused smile. What it meant I had no idea and really didn’t care.

I picked up my glasses, sat down, and let out a long sigh. I decided to give myself a grade of B. All in all, it was not a bad dressing down. Hopefully the floor would get done. The phone rang.
 

I put my head in my hands. Now what? With some trepidation I lifted the receiver.

“Bronski!”
 

“Yes, sir?”

“Have I got news for you!”

“I’m leaving sooner than expected,” I said, with what I hoped was a wistful sound to my voice.

“Well, no, Bronski. You don’t have to worry about that. No, I wouldn’t do that to you.”
 

I bided my time, listening to the wet sounds of his lips on his unlit cigar. No need to tell him that I was ready to leave anytime.

“What I called about, was to tell you that we have found a supervisor for you.”

Now that was music to my ears. “Great, sir! Tell me about this person!”

“Bronski, I’m tellin’ you, you’re getting a first-class supervisor down there. This woman has been around for a few years and has handled every job from Part-Time-Flex carrier and clerk on up. You’re gonna like her.”

“What’s her name and when is she going to be here?” I asked.

“Her name is Ashley Norsbe, and she’s gonna be there this Monday.”

“Good, we can certainly use her,” I said.

I took a deep breath. Might as well do it now while he’s in such a good mood, I thought.
 

“Uh, Boss.”

“Yes, Leo?”
 

“The morale down here is not good, due mostly, I suspect, to the overtime factor. Bottom line, sir: We need more workers. At least one, if not two more people in the clerk craft.”

There was another long sucking sound and the sound of a lighter. The Boss’s day was starting to turn sour.

“Sorry, Bronski. No more help. I want to see how Ashley works out. By all reports, she’s a Cracker Jack, good at morale building and smart as they come. Besides, Abby what’s-her-name will be going back to her old job. That ought to help.”

Good cheer had crept back into his voice and I realized the battle was lost. So—brave old me—caved in. “Yes, sir,” I replied meekly.

After a few more minutes of administrative trivia, we rang off. I sat there staring at the phone. Well, at least the Boss was happy and I was getting help, wasn’t I?

Chapter 8

The reporter turned out to be a young twenty-something. She was a tall drink of water, maybe five feet-eight or so, in a dark dress suit. Her coal-black hair was cut in what I would call an old-fashioned 1920’s bob. Buckteeth and black-rimmed glasses completed the picture. What she had going for her though, was legs. Beautiful long legs, and one swung continuously back and forth as she sat in front of me. Whether this was nervousness or her scheme to distract me, I wasn’t sure, but I put myself on alert anyway. It was her dark eyes that gave me the jitters. They glittered like a raven’s, and they were constantly darting here and there.

I looked at her card and tried to smile. “Ms. Emily Jems. You work for the Fire Bay Journal?”

“Yeth,” she lisped.

“Well, Ms. Jems, what can I do for you?”

“We always interview new people in town who work in positions of leadership and power.” Her lisp and her quiet way of speaking reminded me of a six-year-old girl with missing teeth. Despite my antagonism toward news reporters, I felt drawn to her.
 

I put the card down on the desk and sat in my easy chair. I smiled and folded my hands on the desk like someone who was really in control of his environment.

“I’m not sure I have all that much power, but thanks for the flattery,” I said.

She reached in her black handbag and dug out a spiral notebook.
 

Good, I thought, at least I wasn’t going to be tape-recorded. If push came to shove, I could always deny a statement if I had to. But that was bordering on politics and I hated politicians who did that very thing.
 

Without further ado, she started asking questions starting with “Where are you from?”

“I’m a Kansas farm boy,” I answered with what I hoped was a winsome smile. At that, one of her eyebrows made a perfect semi-circle. Exactly for what reason I was never to know. I went on to make what I thought were careful guarded answers to her questions and watched in fascination as she took them down in shorthand; seldom seen these days.

We went along like this for the next few minutes. Meanwhile, that leg was swinging and her dress was hitched up to almost “you know where.” I caught myself wondering how much further up it would go before she pulled it back down. I realized then that I was starting to drift.

“Would you repeat that last question?” I asked.

“‘I said, ‘There is a rumor that Gloria was killed out there on the bay.’”

“I don’t know where you heard that,” I answered, “but it is just a rumor, you know.”

“Then there is no truth to it? I mean you are the postmaster . . . ”

“Not that I know of,” I answered.

With that, she snapped her notebook shut, stood and shook my hand across the desk, said her goodbye, and walked out the door. Well, goodbye to you too, I thought, and sat back in my chair. I went back over my answers and concluded I had pretty well covered myself. But the next day’s paper would tell the story. And I hoped there were would be no surprises.
 

Relieved the interview was over, I wandered out onto the main floor to see how things were going. The black-tiled floor absolutely glistened. What a change from this morning! Maybe my little “pep talk” had made a difference. I heard a buffer going somewhere, and I meandered toward the sound, all the while getting nods from the various workers. I even looked back from time to time to check for the middle finger going up behind my back. Seeing none, I put a little extra bounce to my walk. Maybe this outfit was going to fly after all.
 

I rounded a case and found the source of the noise. It was the longhaired shifty-eyed guy smoothly working the buffer back and forth. Seeing me standing there, he stopped the machine and gave me a questioning look.

“Looks great,” I said, with what I hoped was an approving smile.

“Yeah, it does look better,” he answered, and cast a shifty glance at the floor.
 

“You know, I still don’t have all the names down in this place,” I said.
 

He held out his hand. “It’s Halls, Jim Halls.”

“Gotcha,” I said, returning his handshake. “I’ll try to remember from now on.”

After a few more pleasantries I moved on, conscious that I was being peered at from various places on the floor. I walked around, stopping at a case here and there to talk. Picture a big four-foot long suitcase with no back to it, sitting on a table vertically folded out with a grid work of slots with each slot open at both ends big enough for letters. One person stands in front of the case sorting mail from a big pile lying in a trough on another table. Later, mail carriers take the sorted mail out of each slot, stuff it into their respective trucks and deliver it to the street mailboxes.