Death Takes Priority (22 page)

I grabbed her ankle with my good arm and tugged as hard as I could at such a strange angle. The woman went
down with a loud thud, toppling a stack of bins, the mail they held flying all over. I heard the gun clattering across the floor, though I couldn't tell which direction it traveled. I made my way to my desk, still crawling, and caught the woman in my peripheral vision, moving slowly, facedown, in the same direction as me. I saw the gun now; it had slid across the nicely waxed floor, to a spot under my desk.

I rolled away, on my side, ignoring the pain in my shoulder and arms, ahead of her by a few inches. Above me on the corner of my desk, I saw what I needed. I struggled to grab it as pain shot up my back. I wished I'd kept all my resolutions to exercise, to do yoga, to ride my bike to work, to buy a set of weights. All I'd done was invest in a pair of leggings and a cute matching tank top. I swiveled, sending another sharp pain up my spine.

I lifted myself on one arm and stretched the other as far as I could. Just far enough. Ben's antique green metal spindle from the nineteen forties, its point as sharp as ever, was sitting where I'd put it yesterday when I removed it from its hazardous position on the retail counter.

I still hadn't figured out who my attacker was, whether I knew her or not. She was moving with labored breaths, sounding even more out of shape than I was. It hardly made a difference. I swung around and let my stiffened arm fall, sending me to the floor while my other arm plunged the spindle in an arc, hardly aiming, hoping to do just enough damage for me to make an escape. She screamed, a much healthier sound than I'd been able to make, as the point of the spindle sunk into her leg. A fleshy leg, I noted. I closed my eyes against the spurt of blood.

The wounded woman kept screaming, drowning out all
other sounds. I was together enough to realize that Quinn would have called Sunni immediately. If my attacker would only stop howling, I might be able to hear the sirens on an NAPD cruiser.

I finally opened my eyes and looked across the small piece of floor that separated us.

Selectwoman Corbin stared back, the spindle stuck in her leg, blood pouring around it, an angry look on her face. “Gert?” I cried.

*   *   *

The one other item on my desk that proved useful was a roll of packing tape. The red-white-and-blue-trimmed tape wasn't the strongest on the market, but it would do to keep the selectwoman's hands and feet banded together until I heard the cruiser. For good measure, I ran the tape around her legs all the way to her chubby knees. I wondered if I could charge the city for the roll of tape. I'd have to reread that administrative memo.

Gert was too smart to say anything. For all she knew her last words as a free woman would be sound bites on tomorrow's nightly news. I tried to take up the slack, to tease her into responding.

“I know about Derek Hathaway's operation,” I said. “Him and his bookies.”

No comment from the woman whose name was on a pot holder.

“I guess you used your power as a low-level politician to keep things in order for him. No nasty inspections or audits, I'll bet. And no problem having people look the other way when he was in a pinch.”

No comment from the woman who preached good, clean living, free of vices like legal gambling.

I tried another tack.

“Poor Wendell,” I said. “He was an innocent victim in all this. He didn't want to be involved in something so slimy. He just wanted to live his simple life, with his sister and his friends. He had no interest—”

“A lot you know,” Gert said. “Wendell couldn't keep his good fortune to himself. He was warned over and over not to overdo the spending. But he went out and bought everything he'd ever wanted, redoing his house, a look-at-me car. You can't do that when you're committed to a long-term operation. You have to stay under the radar.” Her ample bosom rose and fell rapidly. “That last time we met, when I tried to talk some sense into him, he asked me what was the point of having all this money if you couldn't enjoy it?” She shook her head, then winced at the painful aftermath. “But you have to be smart. Spend a little at a time. Get a loan even if you don't need one. That's the way the game is played.”

Gert finally stopped, before she gave away the store, but I felt she'd tied loose ends up nicely. Also, I was grateful to be learning how to handle newfound, dirty money. I'd remember it the next time I wanted to be part of a criminal enterprise.

At last I heard the sirens. Two cruisers and an ambulance pulled up, parking horizontally, thereby taking up all the spaces except the one occupied by my car.

With Gert neatly wrapped as priority mail, I limped toward the front door. And fell on my knees. The only way this was going to work was if I crawled.

Which I did, alarming Sunni and Ross, who checked for blood on me as soon as they were inside, then joined the EMTs taking care of Gert. I heard a chuckle from the ones who went back to my desk area, and assumed they appreciated the specially wrapped package I'd left for them.

“I guess a killer goes priority,” I heard one of them say.

That was before I blacked out.

S
taying overnight in the hospital wasn't my idea, but I didn't have either the strength or the authority to overrule the chief of police this time. I heard words like “fracture,” “separated shoulder,” and “possible concussion” bandied about.

“It's all over,” Sunni said. “Except to get you on your feet.”

“I'm fine,” I said. “Thanks to you.”

“And Quinn, and Ross, who knew enough to summon me immediately when he received Quinn's call.”

“If you won't let me go home, at least tell me an interesting story.”

“Once upon a time, there was a rich man who ran a gambling ring.”

I smiled. The only muscle movement that didn't hurt. “It
was really old-fashioned when you think of it. There has to be a way he could have used the Internet.”

“Do you want to look into it?” Sunni asked.

I shook my head. Bad idea. “More painkillers, please.”

“Actually, the rich man had started to branch out and use lines in his own larger office buildings, where he could operate independently of the phone company, though he still would have needed a guy like Wendell Graham.”

“Does this story have a happy ending?”

“It will soon enough. Tim is waffling a bit, trying to decide whether to take his chances with the same lawyer who'll be representing Derek Hathaway. Derek, of course, thinks he's in the clear. No one has proved anything yet, and at the time of Wendell's murder, he was forty miles away, in Albany having dinner with his current girlfriend, who swears up and down that Derek is a good man.”

“Does that mean he'll get away with it? With everything?” I asked.

“Not a chance. His crime crossed state lines, so the feds will be coming in, and Tim will have no choice but to talk to them.”

I gulped, concerned about my own victim. “How about Gert?”

“She's claiming no one will believe she went into the post office to attack you, even though the gun we found under your desk is registered to her father. She says she saw the light on and wanted to talk to you.”

“Hardly.”

“I know. And I'll be shocked if Ballistics doesn't come up with evidence that hers is the same gun used to kill
Wendell. I'm sure she'll eventually confess and tell her constituency that ‘mistakes were made.'”

“Is her leg okay?” I asked, though I cared less every time I thought of her as a cold-blooded killer.

“Oh, yeah. She's down the hall with a state trooper outside her door. I wouldn't advise dropping in with a get-well card.”

“I'm not happy about stabbing someone, even if she did murder Wendell.”

“I'm sure you're not. But as for your method of containing her, I don't think anyone who was there will forget how she looked wrapped in that tape. I wouldn't be surprised if photos of her adorned body go viral. Of course, I have no knowledge of any professional emergency worker who would do such a thing.”

I'd have joined Sunni in laughter, but it would have hurt too much.

*   *   *

I convinced Quinn that he didn't need to fly back immediately. I'd sustained only surface bruises and small fractures. I'd just as soon have them heal before I saw him, anyway. We talked and Skyped over the next couple of days as I recuperated at home, second-guessing what would have happened if Quinn hadn't seen the moving form in the background. I was sure Gert had been waiting in the restroom until I finished the Skype call, when she would have come out and done the deed before I knew what hit me. It unnerved me that I'd been working in the utility closet, next to the restroom, when Quinn's call came in.

We got regular updates from Sunni on the circle of
three—Tim Cousins, Derek Hathaway, and Gert Corbin—pointing fingers at each other. Tim had carried out his duties only because he thought Derek would kill him if he refused. Derek saw no reason why a simple sport like betting on a race should be illegal anyway, no matter how the operation was run. Gert Corbin had gone to the post office only to warn the postmaster that Derek might be coming after her.

The chief of police of North Ashcot had no doubt that they'd all fall down eventually and receive their fitting punishment.

Though it didn't bring her brother back, Wanda was smiling in the way that I remembered. She came by a couple of times with the most beautiful bouquets of yellow roses, claiming to have discovered a miracle powder that made them think it was summer.

*   *   *

My friends in my old/new hometown organized a party, timed for Quinn's return, a week after his hasty departure.

Sunni, who was in charge of food, ordered clam linguini for all. Wanda took care of baked goods. Ben, who could hardly contain himself (in a happy way) when he learned that his beloved antique spindle had been used in defense of his friend and his place of business, brought his niece, Natalie, and cardboard carriers with drinks of all kinds.

I gave only a fleeting thought to Adam, wondering briefly what he'd have thought of the first party I hosted in my new home. He would have been outraged that nothing matched. In fact, the glasses and platter were loans from Wanda, left over from her brief marriage—the only good thing about it, she said.

“Lending them for good causes makes me feel less guilty about not returning the gifts when the marriage collapsed.”

Linda got a prize—a box of the Berkshires' best candy—for traveling the farthest, and looking the greatest, though I didn't embarrass her with a best-dressed trophy. She was wearing designer everything, claiming to have started with Kate Spade shoes and a bag and built the outfit from there.

“A little prim, but also a little preppy to take the edge off,” she explained, indicating her accessories. “I had a hard time figuring out how much I wanted to blend in.”

“Did you think everyone would be in cowboy boots?” I asked.

“No, those are back in fashion. I figured classic pumps for the girls, tassel loafers for the boys.”

Though I had to sit down a lot during my own party, I took delight in watching my friends mingle and chat and laugh in my home. Quinn hardly left my side, which suited me fine.

North Ashcot was once again my hometown, where love and friendship took priority.

Cassie's connection to the U.S. Postal Service goes way back to when she was a kid and loved to see envelopes addressed to her. She admits to sending away for things just to receive letters or packages with her name on them. “Send for more information” was an invitation she never refused. As a result, she acquired such items as brochures from the army, surveys from drug companies, and pamphlets from universities far and wide.

Here's a small collection of her favorite postal stories, some funny, some strange, all very interesting.

HI, DWAYNE!

A friend of Cassie's was convinced that the postmaster, Dwayne, of her small town in West Virginia, read all
postcards as they passed through on the way to delivery. She was so convinced that she added a note to every card she sent from her vacations: “Hi, Dwayne.” (Dwayne swore he never saw or read them.)

THE BIRTHDAY BOY

When Cassie was a college student on one of her Christmas vacation shifts delivering mail, Nicky, a small boy on the route, greeted her nearly every day. From the number of swings in the backyard and toys strewn over the lawn, she suspected she was filling in for the missing companionship of his school-age siblings.

Nicky would be watching out the front window around ten every weekday morning, ready to pop out and wave from the top step of his front porch. Sometimes he engaged Cassie in examining a new toy, until his mother scooped him inside with a friendly smile for her.

On one of the last days of her working vacation, Cassie showed up as usual, to find both Nicky and his mother waiting on the steps with an envelope addressed to The Mail Lady.

“His birthday is next Monday,” Nicky's mother explained, “and when I asked who he wanted to invite to his party, he said, ‘The Mail Lady.'” The mother's tone was apologetic, but Cassie rushed to assure her she was flattered to be included.

Unfortunately, Cassie would have to leave for school next weekend, but on the Friday before, she brought Nicky a small package wrapped in birthday paper.

He opened it and pulled out a toy postal delivery truck. His wide eyes and happy dance were all Cassie needed by way of thanks.

RIDDLES

Q:
What's sent all over the world, but is always on the corner?

A:
A postage stamp!

Q:
What starts with P, ends in E, and has a million letters in it?

A:
POST OFFICE!

(Cassie can hear your groans.)

POSTMARK COLLECTING

There's a lot of action when postmark collectors get together! Ernie, one of Cassie's Boston colleagues, came into work with a big smile on his face and a Danish for everyone whenever he'd acquired a treasured postmark. She recalls one from Cool, California, which has a population slightly higher than that of North Ashcot; one from Whynot, Mississippi; and another from Quicksand, Kentucky, dating back to before their postal facility closed.

A first day of issue is a special postmark, along with the triangular stamps that accompany them.

CHANGE FOR A 20

The highlight of one of Cassie's first days at a new job: a customer with a package that cost $4.68 to ship handed her a twenty-dollar bill. “Can I have my change in stamps?” she asked.

“All of it?” Cassie asked.

“Yes, all of it. In stamps.”

“Okay. What denomination would you like?” Cassie asked.

“Doesn't matter.”

“Do you want different denominations? Commemoratives? Sheets?”

“Doesn't matter.”

“Okay,” Cassie said again, and handed the woman first one sheet of one-dollar stamps, then two sheets of ten-cent stamps. Then she tore off one more one-dollar stamp, careful not to compromise the adhesive backing. She added six five-cent stamps and two one-cent stamps and counted out the change: fifteen dollars and thirty-two cents—while the line grew longer.

The good news: Everyone except Cassie seemed to know the woman and stood patiently by.

FUN FACTS

• The U.S. Postal Service delivers to over one hundred fifty million addresses nationwide, and handles more than forty-three percent of the world's mail.
  
• Almost forty million changes of address are processed each year.
  
• The postal service has zero dependence on tax dollars, relying on the sale of products and services for its operating costs.
  
• There are nearly forty-two thousand zip codes in the country.
  
• As many as fifty thousand inquiries are received annually recommending stamp subjects and designs.
  
• The ZIP in ZIP codes stands for Zoning Improvement Plan, put in place in 1963. The lowest (00501) is assigned to Holtsville, New York, and the highest (99950) is in Ketchikan, Alaska.
  

CELEBRITY USPS EMPLOYEES

Many famous people have spent time in the postal service. A few examples:

• Presidents Abraham Lincoln and Harry S. Truman served as postmasters in New Salem, Illinois, and Grandview, Missouri, respectively.
  
• Rock Hudson and Walt Disney worked as mail carriers.
  
• Aviator Charles Lindbergh worked as an airmail pilot.
  
• Novelist William Faulkner served as postmaster in University, Mississippi.
  

POST OFFICE LINGO

Some phrases have a meaning all their own among postal employees:

• “Kill the lives” means “Cancel any stamps that aren't cancelled (‘lives').”
  
• A Mailhawk hawkbill reacher is a reaching tool used when snow is blocking the mailbox.
  
• “Franked mail” is official mail sent without postage prepayment, by members of Congress and other authorized individuals. The mail bears a written signature or other acceptable marking instead of a postage
  stamp.