Murder at Fire Bay (8 page)

I noticed the cases weren’t very well positioned on the floor. I made a mental note to discuss this with Abby and the new supervisor. Maybe we could gain a little efficiency and a few less hours of overtime. Anything to lift the morale and, in my mind, relief from overtime, was the top need here.
 

* * *

After I got back to the B & B that evening, the hostess asked me if I would mind taking the old man for a spin up to the bluff in his wheelchair.
 

“Sure,” I said, “I could use the exercise.”

So away we went, with me pushing the old man up the graveled trail to the edge of the bluff. I actually had to puff a little to get the job done. Wild roses lined the path. There must have been an acre of them. Very pretty. It felt good to sit on a bench and look out over the bay. The sea had always intrigued me. The waves just kept coming, crashing upon the shore—just like in the movies. Where did any particular drop of water come from? Was it from a drop of rain that fell in Russia somewhere? Or was it China? I smiled at myself, thinking such deep thoughts.

“Wue . . . Wue.”

Startled, I looked over to see the old man raise his arm and gesture out to sea, his mouth wet with slobber.
 

What on earth was he trying to say? Then it hit me. He was trying to say the word, “blue.” Of course, it made sense. The sky was blue and the ocean was blue.
 

“Yeah, it is a pretty blue, isn’t it?” I said.

He slapped his open palm on the armrest of the wheelchair and moved his head slightly from side to side. Again, he pointed. “Wue . . . wue.”

“Sorry, sir, but I don’t know what you’re trying to say, other than the sky and ocean are blue.”

He gave a sigh and dropped his arm, resigned, I suspected, to my stupidity. We sat there a while longer, but the enjoyment had left. A nippy fresh breeze sprung up, which made me decide to get the old man back to the house. He made one more try as I turned him away from the bluff.
 

“Wue, wue,” he slobbered.
 

When I looked down at his face, I saw a tear forming. Damn, it must be important, at least to him. On the way back, he let out another burst of guttural sounds in what I was sure was an effort to make me understand.
 

I lifted one hand off the wheelchair and patted his shoulder. “Sorry, I can’t make out what you’re trying to say, sir.”

He mumbled some more as I pushed him down the path to the house. I was sure that by this time he was saying something like, “What a dumb-ass!”

Back in the house, I mentioned the incident to his daughter, who said he’d done the same thing when she’d pushed him up to the bluff. “If only he could write, but he can’t do that either. I find this very frustrating, and I know it is for him,” she said.

She thanked me for taking him and pushed him off to his room while I went up the stairs to mine. It was time to check in with Jeanette. She had a way of putting things in order. I might handle the job okay, but when it came to handling my life, I needed Jeanette to let me really know how things were.
 

She answered the phone on the first ring. I loved that about her. She was always there, Johnny-on-the-spot. She began by telling me her problems at the Howes Bluff Post Office. Mostly paperwork stuff. I joked with her about losing my job security now that she knew all the secrets of making the Postal Service think everything was okay.
 

Her comeback was a quiet, “I’ll never know all your secrets, my husband.”

Right then, I hated the Postal Service. I belonged back in Howes Bluff in her arms, murmuring sweet nothings in her ears. I was quiet for a moment, trying not to break down. I took a deep breath. “The Boss tells me I’m getting a new supervisor on Monday. Her name is Ashley Norsbe. Ever heard of her?”

There was a quick sound of air being inhaled, as if Jeanette had just seen a grizzly coming at her. Her answer came slowly, as if she was afraid for what the future held.

“Yes.”

“And . . . ” I prodded.

Again, that moment of silence and I knew she was going to choose her words carefully. “She is very aggressive.”

“You mean pushy?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I took another deep breath. “Who did you hear this from?” I asked.

“The Boss’s assistant told me soon after she overheard the Boss tell you.” Jeanette went on to tell me that she rarely got to speak to the Boss as I did, that usually her questions were routed to him through the assistant. “You get to talk to him because he likes you. You are lucky man.”

I couldn’t see whether Jeanette had a smile on her face, but I was willing to bet she was teasing me.

“Yeah, thanks a lot, half-pint.” I retorted. I called her that only when she half-annoyed me.
 

That was her cue to jump on me and give me what I deserved, or at least what I craved.

“Leo Bronski, if I were there, you know what I’d be doing!”

“Yes, love, I certainly do know,” I said, my face breaking into a grin.

We were quiet for a moment, savoring this close time and the friendship that went with it.

“Leo. You okay?”

“Honey, the only thing that could make me more okay would be having you here with me.”

With that we said our good-byes and rang off. I lay back in bed and studied the ceiling, as if that would help. Jeanette was probably doing the same thing, examining my words, just as I was examining hers. There was no doubt she felt trouble was coming my way. That much I could sense. Part of it had to do with this new supervisor, I suspected. The Boss had called her a Cracker Jack, someone who was on top of post office operations. Well, we would see.

* * *

I went to work early the next morning, anxious to see what the paper had to say about the interview. I was hoping it would turn out to be a humdrum piece on the second or third page, but it was not. The article was on the first page and it wasn’t about me. It was about Gloria Plinski and how she died. By the time the raven-haired kid was done with me, I was either lying or else the biggest jackass to hit the streets. To quote: “Mr. Bronski would neither deny nor confirm that Gloria Plinski was murdered. If she was murdered, as many suspect, why is the Postal Service or the law enforcement agencies covering it up? Did someone go “postal”? There have been rumors of low morale at the post office. Perhaps someone got even.”

I threw the paper down on the desk, took my glasses off, and leaned back in my chair. It promised to be a long day.

* * *

And a long day it was too. While I sat at my desk ruminating about the interview, the phone rang. I answered thinking it would be the Boss, as it was too early for the post office to be open.

“Yes, sir?”
 

“Mr. Bronski, good morning!”

I hesitated; it sure didn’t sound like the Boss.

“Uh . . . good-morning.”

“Yes, sir, this is radio station KWIS. We’d like to give you the opportunity to comment on the murder of Gloria Plinski. Do you think it’s likely that somebody at the post office did it?”

“Who told you that?” I asked.

“Well, it’s common knowledge in the community.”

“It may be common knowledge in the community,” I snapped, “but I’m just here to do my job as a postmaster. Good-bye!”

Within a minute, the demon phone rang again. This time it was an Alaska State Trooper wondering whose side I was on by being belligerent with the news agencies. I tried to reassure the man I was definitely on his side, but I’m not sure he believed me. By the time he was through with me, I was shaking with anger and I wished mightily for a drink of cheap whiskey. Two years ago that’s exactly what I would have done, but now I was on the wagon with a certain person counting on me, and I was not about to let her down.

After taking some aspirin to ward off a headache I felt coming on, I wandered out to the main floor to see how the troops were doing. Everybody appeared to be at their post, and seemed to be doing okay. I stopped by the box section to tell Abby we were getting a new supervisor on Monday and that she might want to pass that around. I’m not sure, but I think I saw relief in her eyes. I couldn’t blame her, having the job of supervisor at an associate office is a tough job, even more so if your postmaster is cranky.

Chapter 9

I stood in front of my bathroom mirror and checked my face. Could anyone tell I had had three drinks in a local pub Friday night? And that worst of all, I had told Jeanette a little white lie about things being okay? I was only going to have two drinks— really. But with the law enforcement call, plus the problems that occurred at any busy post office, I was frazzled by evening. The third drink felt really good, and that tipped me off that I was about to get into trouble. I escaped just in time. Another guy and I had been playing darts. We were doing well and I’m sure he didn’t understand why I bailed out so soon.
 

Well, Monday morning came all the same. I picked up my razor and drew it across my face trying to stave off those three-drink guilt feelings. Wasn’t it Garrison Keillor, who said, “Guilt, the gift that keeps on giving?”

I arrived at the parking lot to find a strange Jeep Cherokee sitting in the supervisor’s slot. I checked my watch. Hmm … seven o’clock. What had Jeanette said about the new supervisor? I had a hunch I was about to find out.

Briefcase in hand, I moseyed in the back door.
 

“Good morning, Mr. Bronski!”

I’m sure I looked as startled as I felt. My flight-or-fight instinct honed by days lost behind lines in a Vietnam jungle, I could feel the blood rushing in my ears. Then, I spotted her coming at me down a line of cases. A smirk showed on the face of the woman nearest me. Probably wondering how this cheerful dynamo and I were going to get along. She held out her hand. “I’m Ashley Norsbe,” she said in a southern accent.
 

Now I knew why Jeanette had seemed apprehensive on the phone. The figure before me was, well . . . stunning. She had curly blond hair down to her shoulders, with eyes so blue against a tan skin, I knew they couldn’t be natural, but, as I was later to find out, they were. Slim, around five feet seven, dressed in a dark pants suit that accentuated her long legs, she was enough to make any grown man salivate. Fortunately, I kept myself under control. I had seen beautiful women before, had even worked with one. It was my judgment that beauty can be as much a burden as a blessing to women. Some have a hard time not using their beauty to get their way in this world. I was always a little suspicious of them. I would withhold judgment, but I was on the alert for any shenanigans on her part.
 

I took her hand and smiled. “Leo, you can call me Leo. Mr. Bronski takes too long to say.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful. I just know we’re going to get on,” she said in that bubbly southern drawl.
 

I was sure I heard a snicker somewhere.

“Let’s go to my office, shall we?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“Abby!” I yelled.

“Over here, sir,” she yelled back, and I saw her at a case, looking for all the world like a worker who had found a home.

“How about coming to my office?”

“Be right there!”

I opened my door and practically fell over in shock. The place was neat as a pin. Not that I mind neatness; it just doesn’t come naturally.

“The place looks great, Abby.”
 

“Uh . . . I didn’t do it, sir. Ms. Norsbe did.”

Ashley practically dimpled and fluttered her eyebrows.

“Ah had some spare time? So ah thought I’d spruce the place up?” she said, with that questioning inflection that so many Southerners affect.

I gave my thanks and we sat down. The long transfer of power meeting I had anticipated turned out to be a fifteen-minute session of smiles and platitudes. Abby and she had already gotten together, Ashley said, on Saturday evening, so she was pretty much up to speed. I thanked Abby for her help, and she walked out with a free-as-a-bird look on her face. Ashley waited until the office door closed. “She certainly was glad to get back to her old job.”

“Yes,” I said, “and she may have the best position, who’s to say?”

That over with, we got down to the meaty business of running a post office. Come noon, after a few interruptions, things were starting to look in order, meaning, we’d decided which employee was to show up at what time and what his or her job should be. Ashley took notes and made a couple of excellent suggestions about the placements of carts and cases. I began to think she was going to work out.
 

* * *

By the following Thursday I was twiddling my thumbs. It was as if Ashley were reading my thoughts. Cases had been moved around in relation to the ramp area where the trucks unloaded. Everything seemed to be moving more smoothly. I got up from my desk and wandered out onto the main floor, bored to death. I wasn’t sure, but the place seemed quieter. Had Ashley told the troops they were talking too much? I stopped by Martha’s case and watched in admiration as the letters flew from her hands into the respective slots.