Stanley Harris did not try to hide his displeasure at seeing us on his doorstep again. He threw me a quick glare then concentrated on Trav.
“I thought I made it clear yesterday that you two were no longer welcome here.”
“You may change your mind when you hear what I have to say.”
“I doubt that, but go ahead.”
“Well, sir, since we couldn’t find any peanut-containing food in the house, I got to thinking that maybe it came from a non-food source. Doctor Marconi came up with the idea that maybe there was a peanut-derived substance in the glue on one of the envelopes that came with the bills Mrs. Harris was paying.”
I took passing note of the credit Trav gave me for coming up with the idea, but I was more interested in Harris’s reaction.
If he was guilty, he hid it well. Bluster is a great camouflage.
“That’s ridiculous! Peanut protein in glue? You’ve been watching too much Seinfeld.”
So… Stan had seen that episode too. It might have inspired him.
“I know it sounds farfetched, sir, but it could help the coroner close the case.”
He stood staring at us, silent, his expression guarded. I wished I could read minds. What would it be like to be a fly on the wall of that nasty little brain?
“That’s an interesting theory,” he said at last, “but I’m afraid you’re too late.”
“How do you mean, sir?”
“I mailed the finished envelopes yesterday.”
To Trav’s credit he didn’t throw his hat on the ground and stomp on it, saying Shit!-Shit!-Shit!
I did, however, notice him swallow hard before replying.
“That’s unfortunate, sir. They might have answered a lot of questions about what happened to your wife.”
Harris turned his stony gaze on me. “I have no questions. I know who’s at fault.”
I wanted to say, Give it a rest! but I’d promised Trav to keep mum.
I’d watched Harris closely through all this. The evidence against him was lost in the US mail, out of reach, yet I detected no relief or triumph.
Trav looked at me. The disappointment in his eyes tugged at my heart. Harris had won.
Or maybe not. Not yet, at least.
I broke my promise and said, “Where did you mail them, Mister Harris?”
He pointed to his mailbox at the curb. “I put them out for pickup.”
I felt my thoughts kick into high gear. This was Sunday… no mail today. If he’d put the letters out after the mail truck had made its Saturday pass, they’d still be in the box.
“Can we check your mailbox?” I said. “It’s possible you missed the pickup.”
“I doubt it,” he replied. “But go ahead. Knock yourselves out.”
Trav started toward the street but I jumped ahead of him.
“I’ll check it,”
I didn’t want to be left standing alone with Stanley Harris. Not just because of his attitude or because he gave me the creeps.
I crossed the lawn to the box and pulled open the little hinged door. I didn’t hold much hope of finding anything, but as the door swung down I spotted a stack of four envelopes.
Please let it be outgoing mail, I prayed. Please.
I pulled them out and immediately checked the return address stickers: Margery Harris… 1242 Lantern Lane…
I suppressed an urge to do a victory dance and simply held up the stack.
“They’re still here!” I hoped it didn’t sound like a cheer.
The sudden light in Trav’s eyes sent a tingle of delight through me. He was still in the game.
He immediately turned to Harris and said something I did not hear. I hurried back across the lawn and reached them in time to catch the reply.
“Oh, I don’t think I can let you do that. I’ve got bills and checks in those envelopes. I can’t let you simply walk off with them.”
Oh, he was a cool one, this guy.
I said, “What if you remove the contents and just give us the envelopes?”
He opened his mouth to reply, then closed it.
Gotcha.
“How about it?” Trav prompted.
Harris thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. “I guess I could do that.”
I was stunned. I’d been sure he’d refuse. He had to refuse…
That is, if he was guilty.
But if he wasn’t, it wouldn’t matter to him.
Unless…
Unless he’d taken the precaution of substituting fresh envelopes for the doctored ones. He could have burned the originals or torn them up and flushed them into the sewer system.
I wouldn’t put it past him. He seemed sneaky enough.
I glanced at the faces of the envelopes. Three were of the pre-printed reply variety, but the fourth was handwritten. The script looked neat and vaguely feminine. Marge? Or Harris imitating her hand?
Harris started to nod. “Yes. Let’s do that.”
I handed him the stack and we followed him inside to the office. He sat at the desk and pulled a letter opener from the top drawer. He carefully slit the top of each, pulled out the check and the return portion of the bill, then laid them aside.
“There,” he said, holding up the empties but keeping them out of Trav’s reach. “You can have these on one condition.”
“What would that be, sir?”
“If you do find something, I want to know immediately—I want to know the guilty company and I want the fatal envelope returned to me.”
Trav said, “I don’t know when I’d be able to get the envelope itself back to you, but I’ve got no problem with letting you know the rest.”
“But the envelope will be kept safe?”
“As part of a coroner’s case, of course.”
Harris mulled this a moment, then thrust the envelopes toward Trav.
“Very well,” he said with a tight smile. “See what you can find.”
I’d watched his eyes the whole time and was unsettled by what I’d seen.