by Lynde Lakes
“Hold it,” Dory said. “Don’t seal it, yet. Give me your Wind Song.”
“Oh, come on. This is ridiculous.”
Her pushy friend held out her hand until Jen reached into her purse, withdrew the tube of spray perfume and complied. Dory sprayed the fragrance over some heart-shaped confetti and tossed the bits into the envelope with the letter. She inhaled. “Ah, a scent to tame the wild beast.”
Jen laughed at the expression of mock rapture on Dory’s face then snatched the letter away. “I’ll hand-deliver our pages of malarkey to the South End post office, zip code oh-two-one-oh-four, before I lose my nerve.”
****
The next morning, Jen camped out near Mr. Billboard’s post office box. She stationed herself behind a rotating postal display stand next to a writing counter. From there, she had a clear view of Mr. B’s post office box and, through a glass partition, the service counter. The wide-brimmed picture hat and scarf covering her hair blocked the air flow and the nape of her neck grew damp. What insanity made her wear this getup in August? It probably drew more attention than no disguise. She blew air upward and fanned herself with a booklet on moving hints.
She pushed her sunglasses higher on her nose and lowered her hat. Glancing around, she fought the prickly feeling of someone’s gaze devouring her.
A portly man in a long-sleeved shirt and baseball cap stood at a counter across the lobby filling out some kind of form. His steel-wool beard looked pasted on. Although his eyes were hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, the silvery lenses seemed to be aimed right at her. She aimed her own dark lenses right back at him. He shifted his weight and yanked his baseball cap lower on his forehead, shadowing his already obscured features.
She scanned the rest of the people around her. No one else caught her eye as being suspicious, except maybe the gray-haired man near the newsstand outside the lobby door. He lowered his newspaper slightly, and then lifted it again.
Is either of those men spying on me? She wondered. Or is this creepy feeling the result of my own subterfuge? Jen shook her head. I can’t let this get to me. This stakeout is my only chance to snag a look at Mr. Billboard. And I must admit Mr. B. has piqued my curiosity big time.
If he showed up, it’d be worth the wait. Besides, she was at a standstill on her other assignments until her contacts got back to her with their information.
Her smart-phone vibrated against her waist. She flipped it open and saw the message was from Dory.
This better be important, kiddo, she thought. But it merely read: Has he shown yet?
With rigid fingers she typed, Not yet.
Jen huffed in exasperation. That was the problem with modern communication you were at everyone’s beck and call. She loved Dory, but didn’t need the added pressure. After pacifying her friend, she checked her e-mail. An icy chill of apprehension crawled up her spine as she scrolled through the messages. Finding nothing scary, she exhaled in relief and went back to people-watching. The day dragged by, but she forced herself to stay past the dinner hour.
****
Wednesday morning Jen’s wait finally ended. The guy who showed up to pick up the mail from box 48613 had the most striking chiseled features she’d ever seen. He moved with the confidence of someone in authority. His white shirt and gray trousers suggested a measure of prosperity and a white-collar profession. His well-defined thick, black brows arched over intelligent, alert eyes. Why would a guy with so much going for him need to advertise for a wife?
He unzipped a black leather case and swept all the contents of the stuffed box into it, except for a yellow card, which he took to the postal counter and presented to the clerk. A lady holding the hand of a boy of about three got into line behind Mr. Billboard. Mr. B’s eyes lit up at the sight of the boy, and he began to play peek-a-boo with the child while he waited for the clerk to return. The boy squealed with delight.
His mother smiled and batted eyelashes too long to be real at Mr. B.
Flirt.
Within seconds, the two talked like longtime friends. The boy’s mother must’ve said something funny. It fascinated her how Mr. B’s whole face brightened. His lips fell naturally into the charming upward curve; it would be difficult to believe the smile might be practiced.
Was he friendly with all women? Was charm his secret? Charisma like that would come in handy if he was a scammer. What if he was the copycat Boston Strangler? Or what if he was just as he seemed—a nice guy?
The clerk returned and handed two baskets of mail to Mr. B. He extracted a large green trash bag from his pocket and emptied the contents of the baskets into it. After a wave bye-bye to the child, he tucked the leather case under his arm and hoisted the bag over his shoulder and left the building.
She followed, staying well behind him. He slid behind the wheel of a new white van, Massachusetts license plate number RENO777, and sped away. She barked the number into her recorder, then raced to her own Toyota Camry and tailed Mr. B at a non-threatening distance. He increased his speed and zigzagged in and out of lanes. He disappeared. Damn. She’d lost him in the maze of traffic. She inhaled a calming breath. No problem. She had his license number as well as the make and model of the van, more than enough for her connection at the DMV to run the ownership.
The van turned out to be owned by Thurlo Wade. She checked on him through a buddy at the police department and learned Thurlo was serving sixty days in jail for nonpayment of parking tickets. So how could he be out driving the streets? She looked at a mug shot of Thurlo and discovered he wasn’t the man who’d picked up the mail. This didn’t add up. Who was Thurlo Wade to Mr. Billboard? Friend? Relative? Partner in crime?
She could visit Wade in jail and ask, but she wasn’t ready to go that route.
Later that afternoon, she and Dory wrote a second letter. They were really getting into this now.
“Let’s end with something to play into his male fantasy,” Dory said. “Like: Being a thoroughly old-fashioned woman, I am a virgin and plan to remain pure until I marry.”
“I won’t write that,” Jen said, laughing. “Who’d believe it?”
“This egotistical male who thinks women will line up to be his old-fashioned bride, that’s who.”
“Are you kidding? Plenty of women would line up if they got a gander at his wide shoulders and flat stomach. You should see all the mail he’s already received.”
“Well, I’ll keep Clark, my own sexy doctor. You can have Mr. Billboard.”
“I don’t want him, or any other man on a permanent basis. I just want the interview.”
Dory groaned. “Oh, I forgot. Your whole life is the pursuit of that elusive Pulitzer. What a drag.” Jen sighed. On the strangler story she wanted more than that—she wanted to expose Gordon’s killer. Her friend knew that. “Don’t knock it. The goal is so close I can feel the electricity from it, and I won’t let myself get distracted by any mere man.” Her mother had set aside her dream for a lousy hunk of testosterone and she wasn’t about to make the same mistake.
“That’s what I thought until Clark came along.” Dory picked up her camera and fine-tuned the focus. “Back to Mr. Billboard. What we need to reel him in is a picture.”
Jen threw up her hands. “Of whom? Not me.”
“Yes, you. Don’t worry. When I get through no one will know it’s you.”
Dory’s enthusiasm and the heady excitement of the game enticed her. “Oh, all right.”
****
The next day, on their lunch break, decked out in the outfit Dory coordinated, and with her hair flowing in loose waves down her back, Jen met her partner in the subterfuge in one of the Garden Club’s prize-winning gardens. Dory posed her on her knees next to a wealth of marigolds, holding a basket and pruning shears. Jen arranged the long dress apparently to suit her photographer’s eye, then tilted the wide-brimmed straw hat a little lower.
“I’m trying for an interesting shadow to conceal your identity.”
Later that afternoon when Jen examined the photo, she l
aughed in satisfaction. Her figure had never looked more slender, or her hair more glamorous. The talented little photographer had captured a breathtaking composition of light, color and shadows.
She smiled. “I love it. No one will recognize me as the woman in the photo.”
“Just like I promised,” Dory said. “The outfit and hair style are nothing like your usual tailored work getup.” She dropped the photo into the envelope with the second letter and sealed it. She removed the camera hanging from the strap around her neck. “Take this with you. The long range lens might come in handy.”
Jen laughed. “It just might. If Mr. Billboard eludes me in traffic I’ll have his picture to show to my connection at the police department. Mr. B won’t get away this time.”
****
Jen hand-delivered letter number two to Mr. B’s post office then camped out the rest of the afternoon in case he came by to check his box for other mail. When the post office opened the next morning, she continued her vigil. She camped out all day Friday in her car in the parking lot without success. She didn’t try again until Monday. After several hours, she glanced at her watch for the umpteenth time—it was almost eleven. She was sweaty and her neck ached from looking up from her laptop at every person who entered the post office. She considered giving up her surveillance—it had been eight days since she first saw the billboard and trying to track down the man behind the ad had taken entirely too much time. The only thing in favor of continuing the vigil was a gut feeling the ad might be connected to the Boston Strangler story. An image of Mr. Billboard’s laughing eyes and outstanding body flashed in her mind. Okay, she admitted, she was curious on a personal level. It came back to why would a good looking hunk like him have to advertise for a wife?
Another long hour passed. Then she saw Mr. B! She could’ve kissed him.
He strode into the post office in a quick pace and ten minutes later came out with another bulging plastic bag. She adjusted the long-range lens and chuckled as she snapped his photo. Obviously his billboard ad was working. It didn’t matter that her letter was buried in the deluge of mail; she had his picture and soon she’d have his name. With excitement bubbling inside, Jen followed Mr. B from the South End post office into the desirable and well-located Beacon Hill area. It was like driving back in time. The modest hump of land still retained its seventeenth century air of grandeur and refinement.
Mr. B headed up a narrow, two-lane cobbled road lined with brick sidewalks and dotted with gas streetlights. Could he live in one of these elegant, row-style homes?
Abruptly, he swung to the curb and stopped in front of a brick dwelling with a quaint, shuttered window and gracefully arched doorway, the nicest on the block. Leaving the door on the driver’s side open, he raced inside the home carrying his satchel and bulging trash bag of mail.
Jen drove to the end of the block and made a U-Turn, while gathering her courage to confront him. Before she could find a parking space, he came out and sped off.
Since catching him didn’t look promising, she parked in his space. Maybe he lived with someone. But no one answered the door and there was no name over the mail slot. With her heartbeat thudding in her ears, she rang the bell of the attached unit and heard a shuffling inside. She shifted her weight and glanced up the street. For such an exclusive area, the brick sidewalks and planters around the trees were in a terrible state of disrepair. She’d read somewhere when the mayor wanted to repair the walkways, the local women picketed against it. They didn’t want anything changed, not the sidewalks or the facade of their historic homes. She knocked again. Finally a gray-haired lady answered, and she introduced herself.
The well-coiffed, sharp-featured woman looked her up and down with narrowed eyes. “A reporter, you say?”
She nodded. “I need information about your next door neighbor for a human interest story.”
The woman tilted her head. “Is it about the way he redecorated his place?”
Jen tendered her biggest smile. “These houses always fascinate our readers.”
The woman’s eyes lit up. “They’re quite wonderful, aren’t they?” She twisted her long strand of pearls thoughtfully, then held out her hand. “I’m Mrs. Thacker. Since my Henry died, our house has been on the historic tour three times. Would you like to see it?”
“I’d love to. This is a real treat.” She stepped inside. Her breath caught as musty lavender swirled around her, giving a sense of being transported back to the Old World of yesteryear. Imagine, she was in one of the homes of the city’s social and cultural elite—the Astors and the Cabots. Perhaps Oliver Wendell Holmes or Louisa May Alcott had once lived here.
She followed Mrs. Thacker, fighting a desire to touch things. The spotlessly clean unit was four levels of seventeenth century furniture, portraits of family long dead, and bookshelves in every room. They walked out the back door into the small walled courtyard. The woman made several comments about Beacon Hill that pushed the edge of snobbery. In spite of her pretentiousness, she liked her. The dear woman was like a character out of a book.
Mrs. Thacker gestured to a silver tea pot on a circular wrought iron table. “Tea?”
The table was set with four China cups and a large plate of scones garnished with red grapes. The quirky little lady was expecting company. “No thanks. Can’t stay away from my office too long. But back to your neighbor—”
“York Wylinski,” Mrs. Thacker provided. “He bought his unit about two months ago. Practically gutted the whole inside before he moved in. Thank goodness the historic society prohibits him from changing the outside.”
Jen moistened her lips. “Sounds like he stirred things up a bit.”
A fluffy gray Persian cat crossed the brick patio and rubbed against the widow’s ankles. She picked him up and petted him with so much gusto he meowed loudly in protest. She eased her strokes. “Mr. Wylinski grabbed our attention. That doesn’t mean I don’t like him. Quite the contrary.” She pointed to a crooked willow tree that shaded the tiny walled garden, then looked down at her cat with love in her eyes. “He helped me get Muffy down from that tree. That makes him okay in my book.”
“Do you have his phone number?”
“Not yet. Perhaps when we get to know each other better...” Her voice carried a trace of loneliness.
“Do you know where he works?”
“Never said, although I asked him twice. Rather closed-mouthed, that one. But judging by how easily he rescued Muffy, and the fact that he’s gone so much, I’d guess he’s a fireman.”
Jen sensed that was all the information she was going to get. She thanked Mrs. Thacker and exited quickly.
She checked with a few more neighbors before leaving the neighborhood. They seemed to know even less about him, only that he was a pleasant fellow who seldom stayed home—or maybe they just weren’t willing to talk about him.
He wasn’t listed in the phone book, so later that evening she decided to go cold turkey to his door and straight-out ask for an interview. The lights were on, but he wasn’t home. She tried again the next day. Wylinski wasn’t home that morning, afternoon, or even later that night. It was Tuesday already and she still hadn’t managed to catch up with him. Days were passing. Didn’t he ever stay put?
The next afternoon—ten days after her first gander at the billboard and the hand delivery of the first letter—Jen waited for Dory to meet her for lunch in the food court in the Prudential Center. Her friend rushed up to the table waving an envelope.
“It’s from him!” she squealed. “It arrived at Aunt Kate’s post office box this morning.” It had been Dory’s idea to use an address that couldn’t be traced back to them. “That’s why I’m late. I had to pick it up.”
Jen’s heart almost stopped as her excited conspirator thrust the letter into her suddenly icy hands. She read it quickly, then read it again to be sure she’d read it right.
“What does it say?” Dory asked, slipping into the wrought iron chair across from her.
“He wants me to meet him tomorrow morning at 7:30 a.m. at Lobough’s coffee shop.” She handed the plain white half-sheet to Dory, feeling a little cheated. “We worked so hard to get back one measly sentence!” It was just the invitation and his first name. “There’s not even a phone number in case tomorrow morning is a bad time for me. Guess Mr. York Wylinski’s ego is so big he didn’t consider I might be busy.”
Dory leaned forward. “But you’re going?”
Jen laughed. “After all the trouble he’s put me to, I wouldn’t miss it.”
As she stuffed the letter into the giant tote bag holding all her news-gathering gadgets, the yellow manila envelope she’d been collecting evidence in fell out, spilling the contents.
Dory’s gaze locked on them. “More threatening e-mails?”
Jen gathered them up and stuffed them back into the envelope. A nonstop throng of shoppers rushed past their tiny round table, but she saw only a blur of color. She stirred her clam chowder, stalling to bring her quickened heartbeat under control. “Snail-mail notes, too. I’m acquiring quite a collection.”
“I don’t like it. When’re you going to the police?”
Jen wiped her clammy palms on a napkin. “When I have enough for them to take the threats seriously.”
Dory frowned and gripped her arm. “Don’t wait too long. Remember what happened to Gordon.”
****
The next morning at seven-thirty sharp, Jen paced outside the door of Lobough’s coffee shop. Just open the door and go in. No big deal. She nibbled at the corner of her lip. Perhaps Mr. Billboard hadn’t even arrived, yet. It amazed her he’d chosen her letter. She wiped her damp palms with a tissue. She looked down at herself. Her purchase of the flowery Laura Benedict dress was a mistake. She never wore stuff like this. When she and Dory spotted the creation in the window of the Newbury Street Boutique on their way back from lunch yesterday, Dory insisted that she would be more apt to get her story if she looked the part of Mr. Billboard’s ideal woman. She even persuaded her to wear her hair loose and flowing down her back. Jen felt ridiculous. She’d given in to foolish romantic thoughts about this perfect stranger with whom she had nothing in common. Well, she was here now, and she’d worked hard for this. She pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head, gripped the restaurant’s door handle and stepped inside.
