August 2014
The UPS Store was tucked between a tire shop and a sushi joint in a small shopping center on Route 50. Henry and Anna headed straight for the mailboxes, in an alcove to the left. There were about three hundred, most of them small, although box 218 was in a quadrant of eight larger ones with five-by-ten-inch doors.
“Do the honors,” he said.
Anna unlocked and opened the door while Henry stooped to share the view. Inside was a pile of several dozen envelopes.
“Good God,” she said. “Could all of this have come in the past week?”
“I’m guessing she stored them here.”
“You’re right. Look at the one on top.”
It was a plain white envelope with no return address, postmarked from McLean, Va., in late August of 2002. Twelve years old. Below it in the pile, more white envelopes were interspersed with powder-blue airmail envelopes.
A UPS clerk appeared from around the corner, and they looked up like a couple of thieves caught in the act.
“Are you the guy who called? The executor for Ms. Hart?”
Henry stood a little straighter.
“Uh, yeah. And this is Ms. Hart’s daughter, Anna.”
“Hi there. Sorry for your loss. She was one of our regulars.”
“Thank you,” Anna said. “She always spoke highly of the service.”
“I don’t suppose you’ll be renewing. Would you like a refund for the extra three months?”
Henry answered, “Why don’t we just let it run its course, in case any more mail comes in?”
“Sure.” He turned toward Anna. “You look kinda familiar. Have you been here before?”
“No. First time.”
He probably recognized her from the newspapers, Henry figured. Or from TV footage at the funeral. All the more reason to get out of here quickly, although judging from the clerk’s reaction Henry doubted he’d made the connection to the murders. The fake name must have thrown him off, so Henry decided to prod for more information.
“Some of this stuff looks like it’s been here for years,” he said. “Did she ever take anything with her?”
“Just that big envelope the last time she came in. I think it might’ve been the oldest thing in there.”
“The big envelope?” Anna said.
“One of those nine-by-thirteen jobs, with padding. She put it in the day she first rented the box. Always made it a little crowded for the letters, but it wasn’t my place to complain as long as everything fit. Then she took it with her a couple weeks ago, right before, well…it must’ve been right before she passed away.”
“Oh.”
“You sound like you knew her pretty well,” Henry said.
“Just enough to say hello, maybe talk about the weather. But she was one of my first customers—I manage the place—and she was always real nice. A stylish lady, your mom.”
“Stylish?” Anna’s tone was incredulous.
“For her age, I mean. Must have been quite the blond bombshell at one time. No disrespect, of course.”
“Blond?”
“Sure.”
The wig. Had to be.
“You’re right, Mom had style. Guess I never realized how much until recently.”
They scooted out the door before he could ask another question. Anna headed for the car, all business.
“Want me to read them aloud?” she asked. “Or we could pull over, stop at a Starbucks along the way.”
“With this stuff? Out in public?”
“Right. Okay.”
“Let’s take them to my house. But tell me about the postmarks.”
Anna picked carefully through the pile, as if handling the rarest of artifacts.
“You saw the one on top. McLean, Virginia, August of 2002. But no name or return address on the outside.”
“That’s near Langley, CIA headquarters. Is it definitely the oldest one?”
“Yes.” She thumbed through to the end of the pile. “Oh, my God.” Her tone went from giddy to somber. “The most recent one is from only a week ago. She never even opened it.”
“Where’s it from?”
“There’s no return address, but it was postmarked in York, Pennsylvania. Cream-colored envelope, nice stationery. And it’s handwritten.” She rearranged the pile and started going back through it more slowly. “Same handwriting as on the airmail envelopes from earlier, which also go back to 2002. Whoa!” Suddenly, the bounce was back in her voice. “And all of those were postmarked in Paris. A woman’s writing, if I had to guess.”
“So they’re not all from the same person?”
“Two different people, it looks like. About half of them are typed, or maybe from a printer. Those are the ones from McLean…Check that. The last typed one was postmarked from some town in North Carolina. Currituck?”
“Near the coast. The first one from Paris, in 2002, what month was that one?”
“Late August, just like the first one from McLean.”
“Which was right around the time you and your mom saw that creepy guy at the mall, when you were heading off to college.”
“You think that’s what started this?”
“Just thinking out loud.”
“Interesting timing.”
“In looking around the house have you come across much old mail?”
“Just a box of Christmas cards. I think the only reason she kept those was to know who to write next year.”
“What about that big envelope the UPS guy was talking about? He said it was nine by thirteen. Seen anything like that?”
“No. And you saw for yourself, it wasn’t in her office, either.”
“Maybe she hid it somewhere else.”
“Or sent it away.”
“Or took out what was inside, and tossed the envelope.”
“Right before she died.”
That thought kept them quiet for a while. By then the smell of the letters filled the car, an essence of old paper, faded ink, the mustiness of an archive.
Scooter was waiting on the front porch when they pulled into Henry’s driveway, as if he knew something was up and didn’t want to miss it. Henry dumped a fresh supply of food into his bowl, and Scooter got straight to work while Anna spread out the letters on the coffee table in the living room, arranging them in chronological order.
The day was getting toward sunset, so Henry threw open the curtains to let in the last of the sunlight. The view through the picture window seemed to catch Anna by surprise, and he immediately saw why. The first thing you noticed was her parents’ house, right down Willow.
“I never realized what a front row seat you had for all the goings-on.”
“Yeah, that’s for sure.” He looked away from her, feeling like it was too risky to say anything more.
They were about to get started when they heard a low growl coming from the front door, where Scooter stood looking out through the screen. The fur on his back was bristled, and he was baring his teeth.
“Is he like that all the time?”
“He’s never like that. Laziest watchdog on the planet, unless there’s a squirrel within range. What is it, fella?”
Scooter growled again, and then Henry saw why.
A scruffy-looking fellow in jeans and a flannel shirt was coming up the sidewalk to the door.
“You know him?” Anna asked.
“Never laid eyes on him.”
They reached the door just as the fellow was about to knock. Henry started to open it, only to have Scooter lunge for the gap with a snarl. The fellow reacted like a boxer ducking a punch, taking a step backward and crouching slightly as his eyes widened. Then he uncoiled as he realized the dog wasn’t getting loose anytime soon.
“Lookin’ for Henry Mattick.”
“That’s me.” He kept the screen door closed. “Who are you?”
The man grinned, spit a brown stream of tobacco juice off the side of the porch and then wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“Ron at the labor pool says you was looking for Merle. Says you’re paying fifty to anybody who can help.” He reached into his pants pocket for a folded scrap of paper. “Gave me your address. I ain’t got no phone, but I just finished a catching job over the Morrison place and figured I’d come on over.”
“The Morrisons live across town,” Anna said in a lowered voice. “This guy must not have a car.”
“No, ma’am. Not since the repo man took it. Trans Am, too, and only four months behind on my payments, the fuckers.” He wiped his mouth again. “So I’m here for my fifty.”
“What do you know about Merle?” Henry asked.
“Ain’t seen him goin’ on a week now.”
“I already knew that.”
“You gonna invite me in, so we can talk proper and all?”
Henry, mindful of all the letters on the coffee table, shook his head.
“Not sure my dog would handle that too well. How ’bout we just conduct our business right here on the porch?”
“Suit yourself.”
He grinned, eyes shining. Henry guessed he’d either been drinking or was high, probably not a bad idea if you caught chickens all day. Anna grabbed Scooter’s collar while Henry stepped onto the porch. The dog was no longer growling but his fur was still tufted along his spine. Henry folded his arms and stood a few feet away from the visitor. They faced each other from opposite sides of the slab porch.
“You never told me your name.”
“You wanna hear what I got to say, or you wanna ask questions?”
“Depends on how bad you want the fifty.”
“He was livin’ in a motor court, Merle was. Out on Route 50.”
“How do you know that?”
“Why’s it matter?”
“For fifty, it matters.”
“ ’Cause I stayed there myself. Not in his room, I ain’t no fag. But same place, and he was there. Saw him coming out his door one morning.”
“Which motor court?”
“Where’s that fifty?”
“In my wallet. If you want it, keep talking.”
He grinned again, and then nodded.
“Place called the Breezeway, just this side of the Nanticoke Bridge. She’s back up in the trees a little.”
“How long ago was this?”
He shrugged.
“Three weeks, maybe. You gonna pay up or not? ’Cause I can always come back and get it some other way, you know.” He nodded toward Anna, who was watching through the screen.
Henry, the color rising in his cheeks, took a step forward and put a finger on the man’s chest, nudging him toward the side of the porch until his back was pressed against the prickly leaves of an overgrown holly. Up close he smelled like sweat and chicken manure, and his teeth were the same color as the tobacco juice.
“Keep talking like that, my man, and you’ll never get a dime.”
“Just funnin’ with you, ’cause I reckon you’re good for it, right?”
“You make sure that’s all it is.”
Henry stepped back and took out his wallet. By the time he’d pulled out a pair of twenties and two fives the fellow was practically salivating.
“Never did say your name.”
“Nope. Never did.” Another grin as he eyed the bills.
“If this turns out to be bullshit, the first thing I’ll do is tell that crew chief over at the labor pool about our little transaction, and I’m sure he’ll want a cut.”
“That spic with the mouth? I can deal with him.” He spit again, putting down another brown streak across the crabgrass. Henry handed him the bills. The fellow counted them twice, as if the math was a little complicated. Then he stuffed them in his pockets and mimed tipping a cap to Anna.
“Pleasure, ma’am. Nice doing business with the both of you.”
They watched him walk away until he turned the corner toward the highway. Only then did Henry let Scooter out. The dog sniffed at one of the brown streaks and sauntered off in the opposite direction.
“What do you think?” Henry asked. “Tackle the letters, or chase down this tip?”
“After that creepy little visit? Let’s check out the tip. Those letters aren’t going anywhere, but Merle probably is.”
Henry carefully stacked the letters in order, and then stashed them in a kitchen drawer behind a loaf of bread. They locked up and headed for the highway.