Murder at Fire Bay (3 page)

Out of the corner of my eye I saw the woman shake her head. “Take it easy,” she whispered, “We’ll get through this, remember, we work for the medical examiner’s office, but we have to be careful what we say. This is the U. S. Postal Service we’re talking about and we’re talking about a federal crime, for Christ’s sake!”

It was only by the sheerest effort that I kept on eating, pretending I had heard nothing.

Chapter 3

The next morning I parked in the designated spot at the post office. I turned off the engine and sat for a moment, looking out the window at the large single-story building with its glass front and flat roof. Rumor had it that a U.S. Postmaster General visited Alaska in the early 1980s and saw how the employees were coping with limited space in old buildings. Some were little more than modified Quonset huts from World War II days. After a few days of wandering around in dark, dank places, he decided the good old Postal Service needed to upgrade Alaska as far as buildings were concerned. Whoever got him to Alaska in the first place deserved a medal. Nowadays, the post office building is the most modern building in many villages and is a source of pride.
 

Well, this was it, not exactly the big time, but certainly a big step up the ladder from Howes Bluff in Western Alaska. If I made it here, then maybe I might be ready for something bigger someday. But I was on the other side of fifty. If I were a real climber, I would be in the district or regional offices by now. I really couldn’t see dealing with the politics in those places. Perhaps that was why I was a postmaster or officer-in-charge at Howes Bluff in Western Alaska.
 

Okay, Bronski, you can’t sit in your Jeep forever, so get into that station and get to work!
 

It was my subconscious at work and, as usual, it was right.

I straightened my tie and heaved myself out of the Jeep. It was eight am. Time to make my appearance.
 

I rang the back doorbell and stood waiting, holding my new briefcase with nothing in it. I noted a keypad beside the door with the numbers, zero through nine on it. Know the right combination of numbers and the door would open. Tomorrow I would definitely know the right numbers to punch. A minute went by. My foot started tapping. I rang the bell again. One long and one short. Maybe that would gain someone’s attention. This time it did.
 

A young woman of short stature, in her Postal Service uniform, probably in her late twenties, opened the door. “May I help you?”

“Sure,” I said. “My name is Leo Bronski and I’m the new O.I.C.”

“Oh, yes, sir! Come on in. My name is Abby,” she said, and offered her hand. “I’m standing in as a temporary supervisor.”
 

I returned her smile and shook her hand. She was cheerful enough, but she had forgotten to check my I.D. We would handle that in a stand-up meeting, and soon. I trailed her from the entryway onto the main floor, where I paused for a moment to look the place over. I was not pleased with what I saw. Although the cases appeared to be lined up where they were supposed to be, the floor was dirty and littered with paper. Paper dust floated everywhere. My disapproval must have shown because a worried look came over her along with a wringing of her hands.
 

She motioned. “Your office is this way, Mr. Bronski.”

“Leo,” I said, “call me Leo.”
 

I followed her to the office in a corner of the building. I wanted to see and be seen by the employees. I was glad to see most of them working. There was some talk, but most of it was work related. We continued to the office where I set my briefcase down and removed my jacket.

“Abby, do you have any coffee here?”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“Well, how about you and me getting a cup and sitting down for a talk?”

“I’ll be glad to get you a cup, Mr. Bronski.”

I smiled. “Leo, Abby, Leo, Mr. Bronski, takes too much time to say.”

She nodded and left. I sat down in the swivel chair and looked around the office. It was a mess. Stacks of paper covered the surface of the desk, and more stacks were here and there on the floor. I closed my eyes and groaned. Now I knew why the Boss had sent the previous O.I.C. off to a drunk tank. I got up and cleared a stack off another chair and sat down just as Abby returned with a steaming cup of coffee. I took a sip. At least the coffee was good.

I gave her a smile. “Coffee’s good.”

She wrung her hands again. “I forgot to ask if you wanted anything in it.”

“Black is fine,” I answered.

I motioned her to sit down. She sat on the edge of her chair and folded her hands in her lap. Poised to listen or poised to run?
 

“Okay, Abby, tell me about this place. I don’t know a thing about it.”

She proceeded to talk, a little nervous at first, but soon she found her voice and gave an accounting of the Fire Bay office. The head office had already informed me there were twenty-five people at the Fire Bay office, including five carriers and two janitors. The rest were distribution clerks, who might be at the front counter or shuffling mail into boxes. But I let Abby go through with her version. From time to time I nodded and smiled. I sensed she needed the time to build her confidence in dealing with the new O.I.C. After a few minutes, she came to a stop.

There was a moment’s silence as I took another sip of coffee. I set the cup down and looked her straight in the eye. “Abby, in your opinion, what could we do to make this place work smoother?”

She took a deep breath. “More help, we need more help.”

I nodded. I could see why she thought so. This office not only took care of Fire Bay itself, but also directed mail to and from other villages located around the bay. I could guess from her accounting that slackers didn’t last long in the building. She didn’t mention morale, but I could bet it was a little low. I sighed. What had the Boss gotten me into?

I took a last sip of the remaining coffee and thought about my next move as Abby finished her account of the present situation at the Fire Bay Post Office.

“Thanks, Abby. I’d like to meet the staff.”

We proceeded to make the rounds. I had by now rolled up the sleeves of my white shirt. Hopefully, that that ready-for-work look plus my lean physique obtained from clean living out in Western Alaska would make the correct impression. That I was not somebody who sat in the office issuing edicts from on high. Call it a political move.
 

One thing I learned from my old man was that when meeting somebody, you looked them in the eye and gave them a firm handshake. No squeeze contest, thank you, just a nice handshake. I always followed Dad’s advice and, right or wrong, I tended to measure a person by how he or she presented himself or herself. That old first impression rule still counted. Interestingly enough, there were only five men in the office. The rest were women. Most of the employees returned my eye contact, but there was one man, a janitor with long hair down to his shoulders, who looked sideways, up and down, every which way but at me. No big deal, but the total impression was not good. Put it down to a gut feeling. But I made up my mind to wait and see.
 

Back in the office after meeting the staff, I said, “By the way, Abby. Who is the Union Steward?”

“Oh, I forgot. That would be Martha August for the clerks. She was the tall, gray-haired lady.”

 
I did remember the tall graceful lady with clipped, short, gray hair, who stood as tall as me. Unlike the janitor, she had looked directly at me. Her green eyes seemed to be asking a question, a crucial question, but what was it? Well, whatever it was, she offered her hand with a “ good morning, sir,” but she didn’t smile. She looked and spoke like she ought to be teaching at an East Coast finishing school.

I would have to have a cup of coffee with her, and soon. I thanked Abby for the help. After she closed the door, I sat down, my hands gripping the arms of my swivel chair. Life was pleasantly slow-paced back in the village, but now I was back on the fast track of production work. It took an intelligent person to do this day after day. Most people think post office work is a cushy secure job for dummies. Well, it’s not true. Most Postal Service people earn every cent they make.
 

The phone rang. I chuckled. Some things never changed. I reached forward, took the phone off its hook, and held it away from my ear, expecting the Boss’s cheerful “Bronski.” Instead, hearing nothing, I had to hold the phone close to my ear.

“Good morning, Leo. Getting all settled in, are we?” the Boss said, uncharacteristically soft-spoken.

I checked my watch: nine a.m. Right on time. “Yes, sir. Good morning.”
 

I heard the leather chair squeak. That meant the Boss was settling in for a long chat, and I’d better listen and examine every word like a lawyer. Sometimes the Boss threw in innocent little phrases that he would use later on.
 

“Uh, Leo, there’s been a new development.”

“New development?” I asked.

“Yeah, a new development.” He liked to drag things out. I suspected it brought some color into his otherwise humdrum life.
 

“You better close your door,” he said.

“It’s closed.” I answered, and sat back in my chair.

“Uh, Leo, this is a private line, right?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

He went on, still quiet, which was not normal for him. “You remember the supervisor who was found washed up on the beach? And how everybody thought she had fallen out of her skiff and drowned? Well, it seems she had some help. The Anchorage M.E. is calling it murder.”

I leaned forward. This was serious. “What? What did you say?”

“Gloria was murdered.”

“Well, I’ll be, I said, and closed my eyes, the scene of the previous evening at the motel restaurant in my mind.

“So what happens now?” I asked.

The Boss had an answer ready. “We want to be as quiet about this as possible.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Boss, I’m willing to bet the cat is already out of the bag on this one. This is a small town. A lot of people know a lot of people here. It’s not like Anchorage. Did she have relatives living here? Because if she did, the local news people will know about it within the hour.”

The Boss upped his voice a couple of decibels to the growl I was used to. “Bronski, I know all about small towns. What I’m saying is the relatives here in Anchorage have agreed to keep it quiet—for now. Officially, she drowned, period. The state troopers and our own postal inspectors hope the killer will get careless. Hell, we don’t know! But we owe it though to the memory of Gloria Plinski to co-operate with the law however we can. Nobody should get away with murder!”

“I’ll agree with you there, Boss.”

“So, what I want you to do, Bronski, is keep your eyes and ears open. Maybe somebody there in the office had a grudge or something.”

The hell! I thought.
 

“Damn it, Boss! You remember when you sent me to Howes Bluff? Almost two years ago, right? And how you asked me to keep my eyes and ears open there too? And you remember what happened? I almost got myself killed! That’s what!”

The Boss’s voice became soft again and melodious, as if he were talking to a child.

“Now, Leo. Don’t blow a gasket. This is a different situation. You’re not out in the wilderness this time. You’re in the civilized part of Alaska.”

By now I was standing on my feet. “Civilized, my ass!” I said. “If a killer wants to get rid of you, he will. Doesn’t make any difference where you are!”

“Leo,” the Boss went on in his nicey-nice tone. “You don’t have to worry. If an emergency happens, or something that can’t be handled by the postal inspectors within a couple of hours; turn it over to the local law. They’ll take it from there. As a matter of fact, it might be a good idea to make contact with the locals; state troopers or city cops.”

I sat down. “Yeah, sure,” I muttered.

“What was that, Bronski?”

“Nothing, sir. Must be the phone line.”

“Uh-huh.” He changed the subject. “Tell me how things look in the office.”

I leaned back in the chair, put my feet up, and told him how the place looked physically and that I guessed the staff was carrying on in their normal screwed-up way.

“By the way,” I asked, “how did the staff get along with the old O.I.C.?”

The Boss paused, as if pained to reveal the full story. “Not good. He was a drunk, a real drunk. Not somebody who just had a drinking problem. He was abusive at times. Tried to get one woman in a corner, a Martha somebody. We finally got him out of there. So we have to start again from ground zero trying to get the employees’ confidence back. That’s where you come in, Leo. I know you can do it.”

I sank lower in the chair. The thought that I needed a drink fleeted through my mind, but I chose to ignore it. If Jeanette could have seen my face at that moment, she would have given me a hug, because that’s what I needed. Father Markoff had been right; I was to be tested. The Boss continued discussing a few administrative problems and then rang off with the admonition to get my paperwork, meaning computer work, done on time. I hung the phone back on its receiver and sighed. If I could have escaped, I would have, but at the tender age of fifty, plus a few, there were not many places to go. Nope, I was stuck, deep in it, pure and simple.