After polishing off his last clam, Connor crinkled the stiff paper liner into a ball and set it inside the red plastic basket. Then he downed the glass of water. The ice cubes hit the back of his throat, almost gagging him. He sat for a moment, savoring the meal he had just finished and taking in the quietness of the restaurant. Everything was still, like the rest of the world ended at the restaurant door, and he was the only thing that existed. Maine was always calm. Besides the monster smallmouth bass gliding through the lake, that stillness was the reason he escaped here. But he knew this trip was now different. That calm was fleeting.
Connor left a twenty on the table and ducked out the side door. He walked back along the worn path toward the town dock contemplating how to find the person on the other end of the postcards. He had almost reached the dock when he stopped and turned back around.
The Meddybemps Community Center needed a paint job. The summer sun had done a number on the cedar planks, and no one seemed eager to do anything about it. In addition to hosting monthly meetings for the Meddybemps Lake Conservation Society, random Bingo Nights, and the local firefighters’ fundraiser, the building also housed the Meddybemps Post Office.
Until a few years ago, the post office was in Dorris Miller’s kitchen. When she died, whoever decided such things moved the post office into the community center. It was still a small operation. There was a mail sorting room, which was the size of a commercial walk-in freezer, a small office with a single desk, and a front counter where a clerk sold stamps and collected parcels.
Some two dozen island homes dotted the lake, and since the US Postal Service hadn’t yet invested in a fleet of boats to deliver mail to those properties, the residents each had a mail slot behind the front counter.
The brunette with long wavy hair, permanent smile, and light blue shirt with a USPS logo was Dana Walton. She was one of two postal workers who split their time between working in the office and delivering mail in the wood-paneled station wagon parked out front.
“Hey, Connor.”
“Dana.”
She scanned the mailboxes behind the counter and turned with disappointed eyes. “Sorry, no mail for you. Expecting something?”
“Nope. Got a question for you, though.”
“Shoot.”
“You know any postal inspectors?”
“I dated one in Bangor a few years back. I think he’s dead now.”
“Well, that won’t help.”
“Why do you ask?”
“I’m helping someone out.” Connor leaned against the counter like he belonged there. “He’s receiving anonymous postcards in the mail.”
“What kind of postcards? Are they threatening or harassing? If so, he can file a claim with his local post office and they can investigate it.”
“He’s not the type of person to go to the authorities. More of a do-it-yourself kind of guy.”
“And he wants to figure out who’s sending them?”
“Right.”
“Well, that’s going to be tough. No name or anything?”
“Nope. That’s why I want to talk to a postal inspector. To see how they’d go about investigating it. Maybe there’s something printed on a postcard they could track. Like that barcode on the bottom?”
Dana thought for a moment, then turned to the mail slots, grabbed something, and turned back.
“So, here’s a postcard Pete Jenkins got.” She flipped it over and pointed to a narrow white label that ran horizontally across the bottom of the card. Short black hash marks ran the length of the strip. “You see this? The post office in the origin city adds this. It’s coded information that includes a three-digit mail sectional center.”
“Is that for where the postcard is processed or where it’s going?”
“Destination only. It’s an internal code to help us route the card through the appropriate facilities to get to this particular mailbox. If you’re looking for processing info, the only thing that will help is the postage cancellation stamp.” She pointed to the black ink mark over the stamp with Old Glory. “They cancel the postage with a rubber stamp. It’s got the date and the office location where the postcard was mailed. So, at least your friend can determine the city the postcards came from.”
“So, that’s it then, no secret postal-service-only information hidden on there anywhere?”
“Afraid not. No secret watermarks or address data. We’re the post office, not the CIA.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
“Your friend should really contact the postal service. They have a harassment hotline. It’s on the website. Not sure how they would investigate it, but at least they could open a formal investigation.”
“Thanks, Dana.”
“You bet.”
Connor slipped through the front door and headed to his boat, the taste of fried clams still lingering in his throat.