Murder at Fire Bay

by Ron Hess

While Martha went through this litany of problems, I realized there were a lot of people who might carry grudges. But were the grudges serious enough to commit murder?

  “Uh, Leo, why all the questions about Gloria? She’s dead.”

  “Just trying to get a handle on this place and what makes it tick.”

  “Well, I can tell you that deep down, underneath it all, people are relieved she’s not supervisor anymore. People actually like to come to work now. Before she died, the tension in the air was pretty bad.”

  I took a sip of coffee, more to keep from talking than anything.

  Martha looked directly into my eyes. “Some say her drowning was no accident, that she was murdered. What about it, Mr. Postmaster? Do you know?”

  Holy crap! How was I supposed to answer that? I had just talked about being honest and direct. I took another sip, but I couldn’t keep on drinking coffee; I had to answer. I set the cup down and returned her look. “There are those that say that. But I don’t know if it’s true or not.”

  “Well, Mr. Postmaster, it wasn’t me. Not that I didn’t think about it, but no manager is worth killing.”

  I smiled. “I haven’t seen one yet that is worth it.”

  She daintily wiped at her mouth with her napkin and gave me a lukewarm smile in return. I hoped I might be back in her good graces. A well-run shop needs to have good relations between the steward and manager. They don’t have to be lovey-dovey, but they do have to have respect for each other. And that’s all I wanted from her.

  I changed the subject. “By the way, I need a place to stay for a while. Like a month, I’m guessing.”

  She laid her napkin down. “You know, with tourist season about over, you might try a bed and breakfast. The High Bluff is a great place. It’s quiet and the scenery is beautiful. I know the owner from church. She runs a first-class operation. All the way from serving good breakfasts to having a fax machine.”

  Chapter 6

  I laid my head back on the pillow and reviewed my day. The breakfast meeting with Martha had gone well, I thought. True, she might report to the troops I was just another manager, but at least we had established a tentative dialogue. I made certain she understood my door was open at any time for her and that I would listen. Maybe I would be powerless to do anything, but I would listen.

  The rest of the day had been quiet, other than a complaint or two about the mail being slow. Of course, the mail from Paraguay is always a little slow. When I heard the country’s name, it was all I could do to keep from smiling. To my credit, I maintained a serious face.

  If there was a fly in the ointment, it was my appointment the next day with a local newspaper reporter. I hoped it would be somebody at least forty-five or so, because that usually meant less aggression than from say, a twenty-something bent on clawing their way up in the journalistic field. I could probably get by just giving out a few facts about myself. My worst fear was questions about Gloria’s death.

  Martha had been right; the High Bluff Bed and Breakfast had turned out to be a good choice. Cheaper than a motel and with a family atmosphere. The two-story house was light grey with a blue metal roof. There were five bedrooms and a large dining room with a table that could seat twelve. The house was perched a couple of hundred feet back from the edge of a bluff a thousand feet above the ocean. What was really good for me was that I was given a corner room on the second floor with an ocean view. And talk about luck, I was the only tenant!

  A Mrs. Mordant ran it. A bright-eyed divorcee in her forties with short, graying hair, she was a wee bit on the plump side. She not only took care of the day-to-day activities, but also cared for her father, who actually owned the place. I gathered the old boy had recently had a stroke. Mrs. Mordant said he’d made some slight improvements, but would never walk again. His brain was okay, but he mumbled when he talked, and his hands shook so badly he couldn’t write. Life has a way of handing out real clinkers sometimes. I earnestly hoped I was not looking at myself, in say . . . fifteen years.

  My thoughts drifted to Jeanette. I loved her, pure and simple. She was so self-reliant. No problem was too big for her. I had a feeling we’d make an unbeatable team here at Fire Bay. As it was, I felt I was operating on seven out of eight cylinders, traveling down the road okay as long as it was level, but having a few problems on the hills.

  When I’d told her about the upcoming visit from the reporter, she said, “Don’t worry, Husband, just be your likable self. If you can charm a grizzly on a crowded trail, you can charm a reporter. If the reporter is a woman, be careful how much you charm, okay?”

  I had laughed and said I doubted there was much danger in that.

  She had retorted in all seriousness, “Leo, life is where you find it. In addition, you have always walked close to the edge. Please be careful; there are people out there with their own agendas.” With that we said our “I love you’s” and hung up.

  I rolled over and stared at the other pillow. Jeanette should be lying there. I reached out and touched it, wishing her to be, staring back at me with those brown eyes. As I had on other nights, I whispered, “Jeanette, what am I doing here?”

  I could almost see her smiling back at me in that all-knowing way of hers. “Leo. You know. You’re here to see how close you can walk to that bluff without falling off. Go to sleep, my love. Go . . . to sleep. I’ll be here.”

  Chapter 7

  After a sumptuous breakfast that, if I didn’t watch it, would put the fat on, I drove down the hill to work. To be quite honest, I was looking forward to it. Maybe that’s what sleeping eight hours will do for a person. After checking the desk for anything important, I called Abby in and told her it was time for a stand-up meeting.

  “Okay, Leo, er, sir. I think 10:00 a.m. would do fine.”

  She gave me a relaxed smile. Good, maybe my irresistible charm was working. Now if it would only work with the paperwork piling up on my desk. With a sigh, I dug into it.

  Just when I thought I couldn’t go on doing what bureaucrats do, a knock sounded at my office door. It was Abby.

  “Leo, everyone’s ready for the stand-up.”

  “Great. Do we have somebody up front manning the counter?”

  “Yes, sir. Amie is handling it.”

  I nodded and followed her out onto the floor with my clipboard. I was not too nervous about this first meeting with the troops; after all, I had only been here a short three days.

  All twenty-plus of them were standing there, quietly waiting, some with their hands in their pockets, some with crossed arms, and that look in their eyes. The look that said, “I’ll give you one week to show me you know what you’re doing.”

  I took a deep breath and began with a smile on my face. I let them know that even if I had only been there a few days, I knew them to be experienced and professional. That as long as they did their jobs, they would get no trouble from me. That I was temporary and didn’t anticipate being there more than a month. I let my eyes sweep over their faces looking for both questions and troublemakers. There’s one in every crew and this one was no exception. A younger woman, with a face of stone, not much more than five feet tall and maybe four feet wide, spoke up.

  “When do we get some relief from overtime?”

  There it was: the question I knew had to come, and from the looks on many of the faces, I knew it was the burr in their socks. The problem was that I had no immediate answer. I tried to be logical about it anyway. “How many here desire overtime?”

  Not a hand rose. A feeling of standing on the edge of a black hole engulfed me. I had hoped for a better start. It looked like Abby had been right when she talked about being short of help. I might have made a mistake asking the question, but I did want to know.

  “How many here feel they have had too much overtime?”

  About three-fourths of the crew raised their hands. Three-fourths of this seasoned crew was more than there should have been. I decided to be honest.

  “I don’t know what I can get done in
the short time I’m scheduled to be here, but I’ll try to get some relief. Anything else?” I asked with a prayer in my heart there wouldn’t be. After a moment, I went on; saying how pleased I was to be here and that probably not much would change with the schedule, but that I would look into running a more efficient operation. There was a groan or two, but I hoped most of the employees were smart enough to know that not much could be changed in a month.

  Abby finished the meeting by handing out some information that came from the main office, on security in the building; I added a few words about being careful lifting packages. Old news to the employees, but required by the Postal Service that I talk about it. On the way back to my office, I noticed the floor still looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in a long time. This irritated the hell out of me.

  “Abby!” I yelled.

  In about five seconds flat, Abby was at my door, wringing hands and all.

  “Yes, sir?”

  I drummed my fingers on the desk while I counted to ten. I took a deep breath and smiled. “Abby, I want you to get the two janitors in here. We need to have a talk.”

  As she turned to leave, I said, “Better get Martha in here too!”

  I sat back in my chair to think. It had been a long time since I had actually chewed anybody out. Was I up to the task of doing a good enough job so the recipients knew I meant business? I fervently hoped so. Footsteps sounded. I stood up and put on what I guessed to be a grim face.

  Martha came in first. “Is this to be official?” she asked.

  “Not today. But I wanted you here so you would know how to react in the future.”

  She had time for a nod before the two janitors and Abby came sailing through the door.

  “All right,” I began, “who is supposed to be keeping the floor clean?”

  I gave the two janitors what I hoped was a first class glare. They could not have been more different. One looked like a clean Mr. Goodie Two-Shoes; the other one with the long hair was the one with the shifty eyes I noticed the first day. His eyes were doing double-time, avoiding mine. Oddly enough, after a few seconds, his eyes settled down and he looked back at me.

  “I guess it’s mine, sir.”

  “Oh, it is. Why in hell haven’t you been doing it then?”

  “We, have been short on supplies . . . sir.”

  I looked at Abby. “Do you know anything about this?”

  She wrung her hands. “I think it was something that was overlooked.”

  I gave her the opened mouth, raised eyebrow stare. “Overlooked?”

  She nodded, and her throat worked up and down, swallowing what I imagined to be dry spit. I took off my glasses and laid them down gently on the desk. I looked back up to see what I thought was a hint of a smile on Martha’s face.

  I dug into my back pocket and hauled out my billfold. After some deliberation I pulled a fifty out and handed it to Mr. Shifty-Eyed.

  “All right, I want you to go into town and get what you think is necessary to clean that floor. Think you can do that?” I asked softly.

  He nodded.

  I continued with the soft voice. “And by this afternoon, I want that floor to be shining. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I nodded and gave him a good stare. “Good. Don’t forget to bring me the change and a receipt!” I added for good measure. “Now, everybody back to work! I’m sure you must have something to do!”

  They filed out, Martha being the last to leave. As she left, she gave me a bemused smile. What it meant I had no idea and really didn’t care.

  I picked up my glasses, sat down, and let out a long sigh. I decided to give myself a grade of B. All in all, it was not a bad dressing down. Hopefully the floor would get done. The phone rang.

  I put my head in my hands. Now what? With some trepidation I lifted the receiver.

  “Bronski!”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Have I got news for you!”

  “I’m leaving sooner than expected,” I said, with what I hoped was a wistful sound to my voice.

  “Well, no, Bronski. You don’t have to worry about that. No, I wouldn’t do that to you.”

  I bided my time, listening to the wet sounds of his lips on his unlit cigar. No need to tell him that I was ready to leave anytime.

  “What I called about, was to tell you that we have found a supervisor for you.”

  Now that was music to my ears. “Great, sir! Tell me about this person!”

  “Bronski, I’m tellin’ you, you’re getting a first-class supervisor down there. This woman has been around for a few years and has handled every job from Part-Time-Flex carrier and clerk on up. You’re gonna like her.”

  “What’s her name and when is she going to be here?” I asked.

  “Her name is Ashley Norsbe, and she’s gonna be there this Monday.”

  “Good, we can certainly use her,” I said.

  I took a deep breath. Might as well do it now while he’s in such a good mood, I thought.

  “Uh, Boss.”

  “Yes, Leo?”

  “The morale down here is not good, due mostly, I suspect, to the overtime factor. Bottom line, sir: We need more workers. At least one, if not two more people in the clerk craft.”

  There was another long sucking sound and the sound of a lighter. The Boss’s day was starting to turn sour.

  “Sorry, Bronski. No more help. I want to see how Ashley works out. By all reports, she’s a Cracker Jack, good at morale building and smart as they come. Besides, Abby what’s-her-name will be going back to her old job. That ought to help.”

  Good cheer had crept back into his voice and I realized the battle was lost. So—brave old me—caved in. “Yes, sir,” I replied meekly.

  After a few more minutes of administrative trivia, we rang off. I sat there staring at the phone. Well, at least the Boss was happy and I was getting help, wasn’t I?

  Chapter 8

  The reporter turned out to be a young twenty-something. She was a tall drink of water, maybe five feet-eight or so, in a dark dress suit. Her coal-black hair was cut in what I would call an old-fashioned 1920’s bob. Buckteeth and black-rimmed glasses completed the picture. What she had going for her though, was legs. Beautiful long legs, and one swung continuously back and forth as she sat in front of me. Whether this was nervousness or her scheme to distract me, I wasn’t sure, but I put myself on alert anyway. It was her dark eyes that gave me the jitters. They glittered like a raven’s, and they were constantly darting here and there.

  I looked at her card and tried to smile. “Ms. Emily Jems. You work for the Fire Bay Journal?”

  “Yeth,” she lisped.

  “Well, Ms. Jems, what can I do for you?”

  “We always interview new people in town who work in positions of leadership and power.” Her lisp and her quiet way of speaking reminded me of a six-year-old girl with missing teeth. Despite my antagonism toward news reporters, I felt drawn to her.

  I put the card down on the desk and sat in my easy chair. I smiled and folded my hands on the desk like someone who was really in control of his environment.

  “I’m not sure I have all that much power, but thanks for the flattery,” I said.

  She reached in her black handbag and dug out a spiral notebook.

  Good, I thought, at least I wasn’t going to be tape-recorded. If push came to shove, I could always deny a statement if I had to. But that was bordering on politics and I hated politicians who did that very thing.

  Without further ado, she started asking questions starting with “Where are you from?”

  “I’m a Kansas farm boy,” I answered with what I hoped was a winsome smile. At that, one of her eyebrows made a perfect semi-circle. Exactly for what reason I was never to know. I went on to make what I thought were careful guarded answers to her questions and watched in fascination as she took them down in shorthand; seldom seen these days.

  We went along like this for the next few minutes. Meanwhi
le, that leg was swinging and her dress was hitched up to almost “you know where.” I caught myself wondering how much further up it would go before she pulled it back down. I realized then that I was starting to drift.

  “Would you repeat that last question?” I asked.

  “‘I said, ‘There is a rumor that Gloria was killed out there on the bay.’”

  “I don’t know where you heard that,” I answered, “but it is just a rumor, you know.”

  “Then there is no truth to it? I mean you are the postmaster . . . ”

  “Not that I know of,” I answered.

  With that, she snapped her notebook shut, stood and shook my hand across the desk, said her goodbye, and walked out the door. Well, goodbye to you too, I thought, and sat back in my chair. I went back over my answers and concluded I had pretty well covered myself. But the next day’s paper would tell the story. And I hoped there were would be no surprises.

  Relieved the interview was over, I wandered out onto the main floor to see how things were going. The black-tiled floor absolutely glistened. What a change from this morning! Maybe my little “pep talk” had made a difference. I heard a buffer going somewhere, and I meandered toward the sound, all the while getting nods from the various workers. I even looked back from time to time to check for the middle finger going up behind my back. Seeing none, I put a little extra bounce to my walk. Maybe this outfit was going to fly after all.

  I rounded a case and found the source of the noise. It was the longhaired shifty-eyed guy smoothly working the buffer back and forth. Seeing me standing there, he stopped the machine and gave me a questioning look.

  “Looks great,” I said, with what I hoped was an approving smile.

  “Yeah, it does look better,” he answered, and cast a shifty glance at the floor.

  “You know, I still don’t have all the names down in this place,” I said.

  He held out his hand. “It’s Halls, Jim Halls.”

  “Gotcha,” I said, returning his handshake. “I’ll try to remember from now on.”