Death Takes Priority (21 page)

“Kidding. You can tell your guy I'll be home any time after about six.”

I let Sunni out, locking the door behind her. Which reminded me. If there had been one unauthorized key in Tim's overalls pocket, there were probably more of them around town. I researched locksmiths and found one who offered emergency and weekend service. He could accommodate me around seven this evening. Perfect.

It was looking good for sleeping well tonight. My house
had already been checked out by the chief of police, and it would soon be debugged and outfitted with new locks.

I sent a quick e-mail to Wanda, apologizing for bailing out of the service and promising to see her soon, then changed my clothes and headed out to my well-protected office.

I
parked in front of my building and entered through the front doors, the quickest way in. The first thing I did was pull the shades over the windows, to discourage anyone from thinking I was opening for business, fair game for mailing services on a Saturday afternoon.

I couldn't resist a few minutes of tidying up the lobby—tossing wrinkled forms and emptying the small wastebaskets into the larger receptacle in the back. I wanted Monday to be as pristine as possible.

On my laptop was a giant to-do list that I intended to check off before I left today. I took it out and started from the top. Number one was “Clear E-mails,” which was no small task, given all the outside solicitations and inside memos that landed in my in-box every week.

Linda had forwarded me links to several bulletins that
usually wouldn't be disseminated to local offices until a bottom line decision had been reached. This week an old debate had resurfaced about whether to provide packaging tape and other supplies to customers who arrived with boxes inadequately wrapped. The hard line was that we should sell the tape to the customer, not offer it free of charge, and certainly not wrap the package ourselves. Pitted against that position was the goodwill that such a small service would garner. The best parts of these memos were Linda's side comments, always either very wise or very funny, like the time she noted on a memo about upgrading equipment: “We're pushing the envelope here.” Post office humor; it wasn't for everyone.

Today I printed out memos on workplace harassment (inappropriate behavior from Ben? I chuckled), labor relations (between me and lovely, motherly Brenda, my part-time cleaning helper? Another chuckle), and the limited services of campus substations (useful when a college was established in North Ashcot. A soft “ha”). I set aside the memos for later insertion into a binder, and deleted the electronic versions.

Checking off tasks was so much easier without lines of customers in the lobby. I worked uninterrupted until almost five o'clock. I was deep in the utility closet, taking inventory of supplies, when my phone pinged. A text from an unknown caller. Why not? I slid my phone on and read:

Can u Skype? Quinn

Quinn?
The
Quinn? Had he decided to make his exit more formal? Might as well close that loop.

Sure.

OK. c u in a minute.

I arranged my laptop on my desk. Before I opened Skype, I fluffed my hair (embarrassing to admit), straightened my sweater on my shoulders (likewise), arranged the pad on my desk chair (might as well be comfy for a dismissal), and sat with my back to the side door, facing a set of three posters on the wall between the mail sorting area and the community room.

One poster warned of hazardous materials prohibited in the mail: explosives, poison gas, flammable liquid, infectious substances, and more. A second poster listed various restrictions regarding unacceptable activities on USPS property, including: no spitting, littering, gambling, or drinking of alcoholic beverages. I smiled as I remembered when Ben had circled one item on the third poster to make a point: DOGS AND OTHER ANIMALS, WITH THE EXCEPTION OF SERVICE ANIMALS, MUST NOT BE BROUGHT ONTO POSTAL SERVICE PROPERTY. As if he hadn't already made his position clear. As if I would stop weighing cute little coatimundi.

The posters, in patriotic colors, were meant to be visible to customers at or near the retail counter, but I'd always thought the printing was too small to be useful unless you were as close as I was now.

I opened a bottle of water and dropped the cap onto the floor when I heard the signal that Quinn was calling me on Skype.

Not that I was anxious about this chat. In fact, the events
of today had been so intense and, in some ways, satisfying that my issues with Quinn seemed to fade in importance. It was hard to match a home invasion that turned into a breakthrough in a murder case.

However, when Quinn's face popped into view, clear as it could be on a laptop, I felt a few twinges as my jaw tightened and my fingers itched to reach out and smooth the collar of his denim shirt.

“Cassie. Wow. It's so great to see you.” Big smile that I remembered well.

“Same here,” I said, neutral as possible.

“Looks like you're at work?”

“It was a busy week,” I said, before giving it much thought.

His face turned serious. “I know.” He hung his head, rubbed his forehead. “I can't tell you how sorry I am for running out like that. I'll make it up to you. Somehow.” The smile returned. “But there's terrific news.”

“About your mother's case?”

He nodded, in a jerky, digital way, as some bits were lost between North Ashcot and San Francisco, if that's where he was. He was sitting on a couch in what seemed to be a den. A dark drapery was closed over the window behind him. No glimpse of the Golden Gate Bridge or a cable car on a hill to reveal his location.

“Remember that letter you delivered to me by hand?”

I thought of saying, “Vaguely,” but settled for a simple “Uh-huh.”

“A witness was ready to come forward, if I'd come out here and talk to her, and make some promises, which weren't that hard since I'm only about four degrees of separation from someone who could get her what she needed, and . . .
well, the main thing is, my mom's home.” He shook his head and took a breath. “She got home this morning.”

“She's free? That's wonderful.”

“It is wonderful, but I didn't mean to imply that it's completely over. The charge against her was dismissed, but without prejudice, so technically she can be charged again, if something comes up. But it's unlikely, and I feel like a huge weight is off my back.”

“That's the best news, Quinn,” I said. “Do they know who did kill your stepfather?”

“The witness pointed to someone he owed a lot of money to, someone connected, as they say, who she claims was her boyfriend. To call my mother's late husband a gambler, betting beyond his means, is an understatement. There might be a trial for the accused, might not, depending on the lawyers.”

“You'd think they would have let your stepfather live to collect.”

“I guess in some cases it's more important to set an example.”

“Then why did they try to frame your mother for the murder?”

“I didn't say they were smart. Apparently that wasn't their intention, but as long as their other clients knew he'd been murdered, that's all they cared about. Then this girlfriend finally had enough and decided to come in.”

“That's the best news in a long time,” I said again, because I didn't dare ask any meaningful questions like, “Are you ever coming back here?”

“Here I am rambling and I don't even know what's going
on there. Did you go to the memorial for Wendell? I'm so sorry I wasn't there to support you. I felt I had no choice but to do whatever it took to get my mother out of that situation.”

“Out of jail,” he meant, but I could see why that would be hard to say.

“You did the right thing, Quinn. I'm really glad it worked out the way it did.”

“And you?”

“I'm okay,” I said, wondering whether this was a very sweet form of farewell forever, or . . .

“I can't wait to see you,” he said, leaning in toward the camera.

I cleared my throat and gulped, not too loudly, I hoped. “Are you coming out this way?”

“I'm on a flight back the middle of next week. I want to take a couple more days to make sure Mom is settled. But she has a great group of friends here, and she's happy that I've found a new home.”

A new home? I thought I heard right. Quinn had called North Ashcot a new home. Sometimes it was better not to see the person you were talking to. It was a lot easier to hide an emotion when you weren't face-to-face, technologically speaking. But it was too late for that. I knew my smile was as big as the distance between us. “I'm so glad to hear that, Quinn.”

“Then you forgive me? For all the subterfuge and crappy communication I've offered so far?”

We both laughed and I marveled at how much we'd said without really saying it. I hoped I was right, forgiving him so quickly, trusting him with so little to go on. I knew I'd
eventually have to let go of my bad experience with Adam. Maybe this was the time.

“Just don't let it happen again,” I said.

“Can you give me an update so I won't be too far behind when I get there?” he asked.

I pushed my chair back and put my feet up on the so-called guest chair while I briefed Quinn on the events of today, including the fortuitous intrusion by Tim Cousins.

“All that in little more than a day?” he asked.

“Hard to believe, I know.”

Moving around in my government-issue chair gave me a new perspective on the wall in front of me. I zeroed in on one of the red, white, and blue posters. One phrase seemed to stand out. NO SPITTING, LITTERING, GAMBLING
 . . .

“No gambling,” I said. Quinn had mentioned that his stepfather was a gambler. The word kept coming up.

“What was that? I missed something.”

“What if Derek is using those telephone lines to carry on an illegal gambling business?”

I thought of Derek's aggressive opposition to a betting parlor in North Ashcot. It made sense that he wouldn't want competition. Why would anyone participate in his shady deal if there were a safe, legal way to gamble right in town? Was I questioning Derek's motives as a citizen concerned for the morals of the community and its well-being? Yes, I was, and with a great deal of excitement.

Quinn came to it at the same time. “All he'd need is a secure way to talk to a crew of bookies.”

“Dedicated telephone lines that no one would be able to trace.”

“No problem if there was a telephone lineman in his pocket,” Quinn noted.

“Until Wendell's conscience got the better of him,” I suggested.

“Or he got greedy and wanted a bigger cut of the profits,” Quinn countered. “Betting is big business.”

I liked my theory better and would probably offer only mine to Wanda.

“It was right there in front of me all this time,” I said. “All that talk about how North Ashcot absolutely, positively should not introduce a betting establishment. The flyers all over my coffee table.”

“A place where people could gamble legally.”

“Wow,” we both said, more or less simultaneously.

“Do you want to hang up and contact Sunni?” Quinn asked.

I looked at the time on the laptop screen. Five-forty. “I need to be home by six for that electronics guy.”

“To debug your house.”

“Right; I can probably call Sunni on the way. I'd better think about moving along.”

“I hate for you to leave.”

“Me, too.”

I made a move to end the Skype call.

“Wait,” Quinn said.

“I don't want to go, but I really do have to—”

“No, something's moving behind you. Did someone come in through the side door?”

“No, it's always locked.” I turned and saw nothing out of the ordinary.

“It looked like a person. I'm going to hang on here while you check.”

“There's no one here, Quinn. The front door's locked, too. I came in that way and I'm sure.”

“Just humor me and go and check, okay? I'm staying on the line.”

I didn't want our call and happy reunion to end either, but apparently Quinn was even more determined to linger. I walked back toward the stuffing side of the post office boxes where there were a few cartons piled up, but no stack was tall enough to hide a person. The side door had a small window at the top, but not too high up for me. I stretched a bit and looked through it. No activity within the cone I could see.

The restroom door was closed as usual, but I thought I'd peek in anyway, to satisfy Quinn. How touching that he was concerned. Even more touching that he was coming back in a few days.

I waved to Quinn, across the room on my laptop screen, though I doubted he could see much detail. With the other hand, I turned the knob of the restroom door.

And was knocked off my feet. A strong arm dragged me partway into the lavatory, twisting my upper arm in the process. I yelped in pain.

I struggled to crawl back outside, hoping to be able to close the heavy door with me on the other side of whoever was fighting my efforts.

I let out another howl, maybe several of them. A cloth or scarf was wrapped around my head, covering my mouth, cutting off my breathing and any sound I might have been issuing. I tried to keep screaming, but it was useless and
exhausting. Besides, I felt a hard object poking my back and heard a breathy whisper.

“Quiet, or you'll be sorry.” A woman's voice. Familiar, but not too much. Had I surprised an intruder for the second time today? Not for a moment did I think she was a customer angry that there was no postal service on weekends. “Well, you'll be sorry anyway,” she said. “But let's not make this any more unpleasant than we have to. You're a nuisance to this town. Nosy and stubborn. Not even the chief of police can control you. You should have stayed in Boston.”

I was willing to agree with her, if she'd let me go. I could hear Quinn yelling in the background but the woman drowned him out. Not that I was in a position to follow any instructions he might have had, anyway. I was out of sight of the computer and so was my attacker. We were both just outside the restroom now, about halfway to my desk and my phone, both of us struggling to retain balance. If it weren't for my useless arm and that poke in my back I might have simply pushed myself off my knees and made a run for it.

My hands were more or less free and I thought of using them to feel around behind me, maybe to get some leverage to push away. If that really was a gun in my back, however, it wouldn't matter if I managed to run even a few feet.

I took my chances and twisted my arms around in a direction they were never meant to go. I ignored the pain that pulsed through them. What were my fingers feeling? Flesh, under silky fabric. Stockings? Was the woman wearing knee-highs? Pantyhose? What did it matter? I swallowed hard and tried to focus my energy.