Murder at Fire Bay (9 page)

“Hi, Martha. How’s it going?” I asked quietly.

“Okay,” she said.

“How do you like the new arrangement of cases?”

Her mouth turned up at the corners of her face. Was it a smile or smirk?
 

“I suggested we do this last year.”

I nodded, sighed, and moved on, my feelings of being on top of things deflated. Still, postal life looked good at that moment.

Just as I moved around to the other side of Martha’s case, Ashley came over.

“Ah’m thinking we should move Martha’s case a little closer to the east wall.”

I put my hand up to my chin, as if studying the situation. I glanced at a slot of Martha’s case to see her looking back at me through the slot with narrowed eyes. I got the message.

“Let’s leave it here for the time being. We’ve done a lot of moving in the past few days. Let’s see how what we’ve done works out.”

If Ashley felt anything about my wanting to leave things alone, it didn’t show. In the back of my mind though, I had the feeling tension could develop between those two. I determined I would walk the narrow path of righteousness. But as a manager, it would be hard to take the part of Martha over Ashley. Managers just don’t do that; they hang together, especially when dealing with the union.
 

Ashley and I moved on, talking over mundane admin stuff. Finding myself alone in my office again, I sat for a while staring out the window. Hell with it! The sun was shining outside. What the hell was I doing inside? I needed a break. I jumped up, grabbed my jacket, and put on my red baseball cap.

Ashley looked up from her desk as I passed by her office. “Going out?” she asked.

“Yeah, I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” I said.

Outside the back door, I took a deep breath of early fall air. And felt homesick as hell. I needed to be back in Howes Bluff. It was hunting season. Last year, with guidance from the villagers, I had shot a bull moose. Well, there would be no moose for me this year.
 

I jumped into the Jeep with no idea where I was going. The Jeep knew though, and I found myself heading out to the ocean dock. The longhaired janitor had told me there were at least four hundred slips. I believed him. There were all kinds of boats for all kinds of different jobs: charters, commercial barges, small skiffs; name it and it was there.
 

I parked and walked down a ramp to the floating boardwalk. It was a beautiful day, and I heartily wished I were out on the bay somewhere hunting for halibut. But I was a postmaster, and I was supposed to be working, not indulging myself in fantasy. I meandered over to where a bunch of skiffs lay gently bobbing in the swells from passing boats. An old man sat in a chair with a For Rent sign propped against it. He looked like the typical old sailor with his black cap, denim jacket, and pants. The pipe and its smoke curling upward completed the picture.
 

“Want to rent one?”

I shook my head. “I wish I could. Maybe on the weekend.”

We were silent for a bit. It struck me the old gent might know about the deceased supervisor. Another minute went by. Finally, deciding nothing ventured, nothing gained, I spoke.

 
“I understand the post office lady died in a skiff.”

The old man’s blue eyes found mine. Just when his gaze was becoming uncomfortable, he spoke. “You’re new around here, aren’t cha.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I guess I am. I’m the temporary postmaster here until a new one can be chosen.”

“Thought so,” he said.

A few more curls of smoke were dispersed into the slight breeze. Naturally, some of it came my way. Naturally, I coughed. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I heard him chuckle.

“It was that skiff with the forty-horse motor and blue trim over there. The Troopers and just about everybody else have looked it over. Take a look if you want.”

I shook my head and squatted down beside him, hoping to avoid the smoke, but that didn’t help. I got it straight in the face and began to tear up. The old man chuckled again, making no effort to hide his amusement at seeing me move around. But he took pity on me and tapped his pipe on a leg of his chair, spilling the ashes onto the boardwalk. “What do you want to know about Gloria?
 

“Anything you know or want to tell.”

His head jerked back. “Why wouldn’t I tell everything I know?”

I shook my head. “Maybe there are personal things you would rather not discuss.”

He stared at me. “Who are you?”

I stood up. The interview was not going well. “I’m just a temporary postmaster trying to get a handle on things. That’s all.”

He put his pipe back into his mouth and sucked on it. He stared again at me. At last, he nodded. “I don’t know much about ‘er. She used to rent a skiff to go fishing. Said it cleared her mind. I can tell you she was true blue. She was not the kind to lie, cheat, or steal.”

“Did she have a boyfriend?” I asked.

The old man snorted and raised an eyebrow. He pulled the pipe from his mouth. “Now there’s a question.” He started to repack his pipe.
 

I took a deep breath and waited.

“Nope, none that I know of,” he said.

“She was a loner, then?”

He scratched a match on his Carhartts and lit the pipe. Great columns of smoke trailed upward and I moved a step away. Satisfied the furnace wasn’t going out, he wiped the air with his match. “Nope. She wasn’t a loner. Sometimes her woman friend was with her.”

By now the smoke had settled down into a small curl and I stepped back closer. “Do you know her friend’s name?”

“I think her first name was Martha, but I ain’t sure.”

I rocked back on my heels, a cold chill tickling my backbone. “Were they lovers?”

“Lovers? What kind of question is that? You mean like queers and lesbians?” He grimaced. “I wouldn’t know. I ain’t into that kinda stuff! That’s about it, Mr. Postmaster!”

“One more question and then I’ll go. Did the Troopers ask about her friend?”

He sighed. “Nope.”

The pipe found its way back into his mouth and I knew that was the end of the audience. I said my thanks and moved off down the boardwalk. Here and there, I saw other skiffs tucked between larger boats. The old man’s skiffs were not the only ones at the dock. Were they all listed with the harbormaster? That might be something to look into, but the Troopers and postal inspectors were sure to have done that.

I checked my watch and was surprised to see a couple of hours had gone by. I had spent enough time on the dock. People would be asking why the postmaster, with all his problems at the post office, was wasting time hanging around the dock talking with an old man.
 

On the way back to the post office, I speculated about Martha. Had there been a lovers’ spat? Was it that simple? Martha was a good-sized woman. She could have killed the supervisor easily enough. But she didn’t strike me as a person who lost her temper. Nope, she seemed too much in control of herself to do that. I had to find out, and soon. But how did I ask her about her whereabouts without her realizing what I was up to? A long, heavy sigh escaped my lips as I parked the Jeep back at the post office.

Chapter 10

There are times when you walk into a room and you just know something is wrong. People were working, but it was too quiet—the kind of quiet that tells you there’s a bear on the trail behind you. As I made my way up front to my office, I found out why.
 

“Where’s my boat part?” the gentleman demanded. This time it was not George Grosse facing Ashley across my desk. He was another charter boat skipper, judging by his black fisherman’s cap with the gold braid stitched on the bill. He stood taller than I did— maybe about six feet two—and I could tell he was used to getting answers. The crinkles around his eyes did not look friendly.

“May I help?” I asked.

He looked from Ashley to me. “Yeah, maybe you can. I ordered a prop from Seattle two weeks ago. They say they sent it out the next day, and it isn’t here yet!” He poked my chest with his finger.
 

I looked him in the eye, real . . . steady like, and braced myself. He didn’t look angry enough to hit, but one never knew.

“Sir, do not poke me,” I said quietly.

He’d been around long enough to know the sound of authority. Authority that said, “I mean what I say.”

He dropped his hand and nodded. “Fine, but where’s my prop?”

I looked at Ashley, who shrugged. I turned my head back to look him straight in the eye. “Sir, if that package is in this station, we’ll find it. Was it insured?”

He looked away and sighed. “No, I think insurance is a post office scam. It’s just a way to get more money out of people!”

I chose to let him have his mad. No need to tell him the Postal Service handles millions of packages every day.
 

“Well, we’ll do all we can, sir, to find your package. Where did it come from?”

“Oregon.”

Something clicked in my mind. “From a company that deals in boat parts?”

“Yeah, it’s a big place down there in Portland.” He went on to tell me the name and address.
 

I cast a quick nod to Ashley, who immediately wrote it on a sheet of paper. I knew the name well, but writing it down made us look like we knew what we were doing.
 

I held out my hand. “My name is Leo Bronski. And yours?”

There was a pause while he figured out whether a handshake was the right thing to do. I waited patiently. Sometimes it’s hard to shake hands with someone you’re angry with. Finally, with another sigh, he put out his hand. “Bill Stevens,” he said as we shook.

“Okay, Mr. Stevens, we’ll see what we can do.”

He nodded and left the office, his face full of resignation. There was no doubt what was in his mind. He wasn’t going to get his part. It was lost, and he would have to order another one right away.

As soon as the door closed, I turned to Ashley. “All right, Ashley, you and I are going to turn this place upside down.”

“Yes, sir. And may I say, sir, you handled him well.”

I gave her a small smile. “It’s what I get paid the big bucks for. Now, let’s go out to the package shelves and start looking.”

She gave me a dazzling smile of admiration that made me feel about ten feet tall. We spent the next two hours verifying packages. Of course the one we were looking for wasn’t there. I didn’t think it would be, but we had to check.

“What’ll we do now, sir?” Ashley asked.

I smiled. It was nice being called sir, but when it came to employee relations, I decided to stick to my name. “It’s Leo, Ashley, remember? You can call me “sir,” but Leo is better.”

She gave me another one of those smiles. That must be how she got promoted. Who could resist?

“You want me to spread the word about the package?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

On the way back to my office, I rounded a corner and ran into the janitor that looked like Mr. Clean.
 

“Oops! Sorry!”

I looked down at my Wellington’s now covered with floor wax, sighed, and remembered to smile. “It’s okay, uh . . . Ralph. These things happen.”

His face reddened. “Really sorry, sir.”
 

 
I again told him it was okay and left him standing there, hopefully reassured his job was safe. The incident reminded me of another time when I was on R & R in Okinawa at the Kadena BX when I backed up from looking at a display case directly onto a two-star general’s shoes. I had practically fallen to my knees. I sighed again. Old memories like that I didn’t need.

Back in the safe confines of my office, and after making sure the window blinds were closed, I put my feet up on the desk to relax and think, all the while trying to ignore the white stain of floor wax on my black boots. Was something shady, going on with the Oregon firm, or was someone in their shipping department simply being sloppy? Just when I realized I was getting nowhere, the phone rang. Without thinking, I picked it up.
 

“Bronski.”

“Yes, boss, ” I answered in a voice meek and mild.

“What the hell is going on down there?” In a quiet voice I could barely hear. A voice that I knew to be the quiet before the storm.
 

 
“Going on?” I asked.

“Now, Bronski, don’t get coy with me. I get enough of that stuff around here! I’m talking about that missing prop!”

There was a moment of silence when I again was privileged to listen while the Boss lit up his cigar. Then came the long drawn-out whoosh of air. I waited for the cough, but none came.
 

“You see, Bronski, I just got off the phone with a guy down there in Fire Bay. He was mad, and when a customer gets mad at me, somebody else is gonna catch hell. Get my meaning . . . Bronski?”
 

“Yes, sir.”

“What are you going to do about it?”