Chapter 20

 

Saturday morning found me sitting at my desk at the post office. Normally I wouldn’t be, but Ashley was sick and couldn’t make it. At least that was the story I told the employees. Actually, Ashley was making use of her blackmailing privileges. And so I sat there, feet up on the desk with a splitting headache, the aftereffect of whatever Ashley had put in my drink.

I wanted to kill her, but I couldn’t of course. While I waited out my hangover, that thought was the one thing that gave me comfort. Finally, knowing I had to put up a good front, I got up and wandered out onto the floor to check on the troops. Well, “wandered” would be putting it kindly. Truthfully, I was one notch above a stagger. I hoped the next twenty-four hours would see me through the worst of my “illness.”

Things seemed to be moving along fine as I moved from case to case, offering a word of greeting here and there. Thank goodness the employees were a seasoned bunch. I don’t think there was a slacker among them. Maybe coming in on a Saturday wasn’t such a bad idea. It let the people know that even management had to work days they would rather not, plus being on overtime to boot. After checking the front counter, I moved slowly back to my office and began working on my fourth cup of coffee of the morning. 

I decided to catch up on my computer work, something to take my mind off what 

had transpired the night before. A few minutes later found me sitting back, flapping my tie up and down on my chest, and trying to think my way out of my predicament. I needed a compatriot. The Boss had said not to trust anyone, but I had to find someone I could confide in. Maybe I wasn’t looking at my problem from the right direction. Should I throw caution to the winds and tell Jeanette? Would she believe me? Something told me she would, but it would be better if somehow I could come up with proof I had not had “sex with that woman.” Any other time I would have smiled at the expression made famous by a former president, but not today.

Who could I trust locally? The police chief? Maybe, but why was he a police chief instead of a state trooper as he used to be? My thoughts returned to the previous evening’s party. Two members of the town council had been there. They were part of the reason Ashley had a blackmail hold on me, as I was still sitting on the sofa obviously feeling no pain when they left. What with the silly grin plastered on my face, it was surely conceivable that I would stay the night. 

My thoughts were interrupted by a loud knock at the door to the main lobby. I quietly dropped my feet to the floor, took a deep breath, and barked, “Come in!”

A small man in a green beret walked in, empty cigarette holder in hand. He was dressed in a red shirt and black leather pants. A very dark pair of shades covered a crinkled weather-beaten face. I would have smirked if I had seen this guy on TV. But after years of working for the post office, I had learned to hold my smirks.

“Are you the postmaster?” he asked in a crackly cigarette voice.

“Yes, sir, I am.”

He pulled off his sunglasses and eyed me a second to let me know with whom I was dealing. Another old trick. “I’d like to put a trace on a package I’ve been expecting.” 

I pulled out a pad and pen and asked where it was coming from.

“Portland. Portland, Oregon.”

He began to twirl his shades in the other hand. I could tell he was getting a little impatient by the way his eyes roamed my office. No doubt, he thought his package was sitting on a shelf somewhere.

“The address?” I murmured, thinking it would be the boat and fishing supply company that had caused so much trouble. Instead, he gave me a different address. I felt a measure of relief; perhaps his package loss was legitimate.

“All right, sir. I think we have everything. May I ask what is in your package?”

He gave me the cold eye and a one-word sentence. “No.”

“Ah . . . fine. We will do our best to locate it. And your name is . . . ?”

“Lane, Bill Lane. I would appreciate your confidentially in this matter—Mr. Post Master.” 

“Yes, sir, we try to honor all our customers’ confidentiality,” I said. I stood, meaning to shake his hand, but he was out the door, shades on his face. 

Well, it took all kinds. 

I headed out onto the main floor to the package shelves and started looking at the various boxes. 

“Missing something, Leo?” 

“Yeah,” I said, and looked up to see Martha standing there, hands on hips, looking all trim and proper. I went on to explain that a certain Mr. Lane was missing a package.

“Ah . . . Mr. Lane. I know of whom you speak. One of the town’s more colorful characters. I bet he wouldn’t tell you what was in it, either.”

“No, he wouldn’t.”

She giggled. “Probably nothing more than a dildo or maybe one of those battery- operated things.”

“Ah, he’s one of those guys?” I asked.

“Not necessarily, but I understand he likes to walk on the edge. Want some help?”

I gave her a return nod and we set to, looking for his package. But it was a no-go. From the package shelves, we meandered out into the garage, to check the trucks and Jeeps. On a hunch, I popped the lid off a trashcan over in a corner and, lo and behold, there it was, under some loose wrappers. Dam it to hell! I didn’t need this. I bent down to retrieve it.

“Leo, don’t you want a pair of gloves on before you touch it?”

I swayed a little as I stood up. I definitely was not thinking right. “Yeah.” Was it standing up fast that was making me lightheaded? “Could you go to my office and get a pair out of the center desk drawer? I need to stay here.”

As Martha moved off to get the gloves, I bent over and grabbed the edge of the trashcan to steady myself. I had never felt so bad as I did right then. It had been over a year since I had had a hangover. I took a few deep breaths and stood up again just as Martha came through the garage door. 

She handed me the gloves. “Honestly, Leo, you are pale. Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I do feel a little rough. Maybe it’s the flu?” I put the gloves on shaky hands, cursing Ashley under my breath.

I turned to Martha. “Thanks for your help. You can go back to work and I’ll start making phone calls. By the way, have there been any other packages lost on Saturdays?”

She wrinkled her mouth. “Yes, there have been two on the past two Saturdays. You don’t remember?”

I thought fast. I didn’t want Martha to suspect that Ashley and I were on the outs.

“Yeah, I just forgot. I believe I’m going to bed early tonight. Thanks again.”

She moved off with a funny expression on her face. I hoped that by Monday I would be feeling better. So Ashley had two lost packages, eh? She hadn’t told me, and I wasn’t that far gone. I would have remembered. 

The phone was ringing as I walked back into the office. It was turning out to be a busy Saturday. I set the package down, removed my gloves, and picked up the phone.

“Leo?”

My heart fell another notch in grief and pain. It was Jeanette.

“Hi, Jeanette. Yup, it is me, right here on duty at ye old post office. How goes it?”

“Okay. Isn’t today Ashley’s day to work?”

“Yeah, but she called in sick. So here I am, happy as a clam.”

Jeanette giggled, she knew that was a lie, but it was a lie I could tell and still be right. All the same, my soul shrank a little. 

“Did you get home from the party all right?”

Now, there was a question. I closed my eyes. Had she called last night while I was in Ashley’s bed? I decided she hadn’t; otherwise, evil Ashley would have taken some pleasure in telling me how she lied a way home for me.

“Yes, I did. It wasn’t easy, but I made it. There were a lot of notables there, you know, the town council, etc. It was okay, if you like mixing with that bunch. Ashley evidently gets around.”

I could hear Jeanette sigh. Was it a sigh of relief? We went on to talk of everyday things, and I thanked heaven for being married to this good woman. I wasn’t sure I deserved her. I would have to tell her about last night, but not here in the post office. She rang off when I told her I had an incoming call.

It was Ashley. “Bronski, I understand you have found a package. Do not phone headquarters, I will handle it. Do you understand?”

I decided to go along with her. “Sure, Ashley, anything you say.”

“That’s a good little boy, Bronski,” she said, in perfect, cold, Mid-American English.

The contempt in her voice would have eaten through sheet metal.

She hung up and I returned the phone to its cradle, wondering how she got the word so fast.