The Case of the Old Man in the Mailbox

by Brian C. Jacobs

  Chapter 12

  An Unexpected Gift

  “Stanley Peter Mathisen, 8010 Windy Ridge Place, San Francisco, CA 94117,” I announced as I held up a California Driver’s License. “Wow, this expired ten years ago! No wonder he didn’t carry it in his wallet anymore. Hey, maybe he still has family somewhere in San Francisco!”

  Scooter and AJ rushed over to get a closer look at the ID. Scooter then noticed the phone bill still in the shoebox. He picked it up and started scanning down the list of long distance calls.

  “Does anyone know the area code for San Francisco? I don’t recognize this one, 650, but it shows up with a couple different numbers that he called multiple times last month. I bet you anything that this is a San Francisco area code. I wonder what other clues might be in here.” He set the phone bill down and went back to the shoebox.

  “Well, he got a letter from that Brett Hull guy back in Chicago,” I said. “Mr. Hull already told us they went to college together. Maybe he remembers where Mr. Mathisen is from or some of the names of his relatives? I can call him; I probably should call him anyway and let him know what happened.”

  “What about this letter from the furniture company?” AJ asked as he grabbed another envelope. The envelope had a distinctive logo—two yellow triangles, one pointing up and the other pointing down, with a smiling monkey overlapping both. “Jungle Furniture Company. Hmm, I think I recognize this logo from one of the letters that your dad intercepted.” He unfolded the letter and began reading silently.

  “Hmm. Looks like they’re recalling some furniture; must be this stuff down here. Let’s see, A-15BLU and A-14RED. Do you guys see a tag on anything with either of those numbers?”

  I looked at the blue chair I was sitting in. Its wood frame was supposed to look like bamboo, but I am pretty sure it wasn’t actually bamboo. On the wood frame sat a poufy blue cushion for a seat and a similar blue cushion for the back of the chair. The back cushion had a thin sheet of wood attached to its back so the cushion wouldn’t get scrunched and lose its shape. I found the tag attached to the seat cushion and verified that the number matched with the letter AJ was holding. Scooter found a similar tag on the red couch, and it also matched.

  “I don’t see why they are recalling this stuff,” Scooter said, scratching his head. “I don’t see anything wrong with it. Maybe they found it’s very flammable or something.”

  “Well, I say we don’t worry about it. I don’t think we’ll have any open flames down here, do you?” I joked.

  AJ looked down at the letter again. “Yeah, the letter doesn’t even say what the recall is for.”

  “Yeah, that sort of bothers me,” Scooter said. “Maybe I’ll check out their website and find out what the recall is for—just to satisfy my own curiosity. Well, let’s take that whole shoebox with us and head up to my room. It’s only 8:15, and I’m hoping we can call a couple of these phone numbers tonight before it gets too late. Tyler, would you do the honors?”

  “How much do you think I should say when I call?” I asked. I knew the truth was probably stranger than anything I could make up.

  “I don’t know, Ty, but I hope you figure it out before they answer the phone.”

  We all moved toward the door, and Scooter made AJ hold the key up in the air for all of us to see before he was willing to shut the huge door. We climbed the ladder, shut the lid, and then decided the safest place to put the one and only key was back on the nail in the tree. AJ ran it over while Scoot and me crossed the lawn toward the back porch.

  When we got inside, the rest of Scooter’s family still had their eyes glued to the TV, watching some reality show where people were trapped on an island and in some singing competition at the same time. Sheesh, what will they think of next?

  As soon as we got up to Scooter’s room, he was on his computer. It was very easy for him to prove his hunch that the phone numbers did indeed have a San Francisco area code. He then did an internet search on the first phone number, and it came back belonging to a jewelry store. So he tried the second number, and it came back as the greyhound bus station in SanFran. He tried the third and last phone number with a 650 area code, and the search engine returned “Unavailable Residence.” That was promising.

  “It appears that the third time is the charm.” He reached for the phone and handed it to me. “Here, Ty, you’re up!”

  I dialed the number, and as it was ringing, I turned up the volume so that even though it wasn’t on speakerphone, hopefully the other guys could still hear. After a couple rings, a woman’s voice answered the phone.

  “Hello?” It sounded like an older woman’s voice. That was a good sign.

  “Uh, yes, Ma’am, do you know a Stanley Mathisen?” I asked as politely as possible.

  “Yes… that’s my brother. Who is this?”

  We all looked at each other with grins. We had guessed correctly! But the smiles faded in an instant as I remembered the point of this conversation. I decided to go with the “most of the truth” route.

  “Well, Ma’am, my name is Tyler, and I live up here in Silverdale, Washington. I am really calling on behalf of my good friend Scooter. He is super shy and stutters a lot.”

  Scooter shot me a dirty look, but I continued, “Scooter’s family has an extra room behind their house, and your brother, well, he has been living there for quite some time now.”

  “Yes, he was down here about a month ago to visit me and my husband, and he said he has really enjoyed the last few years living up there,” she said proudly. “And, young man, please just call me Bonnie.”

  I cut right to the chase, “Well, Ma’am… er, I mean, Bonnie, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but Mr. Mathisen apparently died of a heart attack a couple days ago.”

  Bonnie chuckled, “So it was Number Four that got him, huh?” Her response had me puzzled and worried that she might have misunderstood me.

  “Uh, excuse me?”

  “Oh, this makes his fourth heart attack. He had his first three while he was still down here in California. After the third, he decided not to mope around and wait to die as some lonely man sitting in a rocking chair.

  “He had a friend named Willy Bloomenthal whom he used to teach high school with, who moved up your way when he retired. Stanley decided he wanted to stop teaching history and go make some! He seemed happy, too. Told me so himself when he was down here last month. Bought me a nice set of earrings for my birthday and everything.”

  That explained the call to the jeweler in California. I continued, “Well, I am truly sorry for your loss.”

  “Oh, don’t be. He had a good long life, and a happy one, too.” She paused for a brief second. “He didn’t suffer, did he?”

  “Well that’s the thing, Ma’am. I truly don’t know. We hadn’t seen him around for a while. And then we read in the paper that an unidentified man died of a heart attack in the produce section of the grocery store. So we went down there and showed them a picture of Mr. Mathisen, and they confirmed it was him. But Scooter thought it would be best if someone from his family actually did all that official stuff and not some junior-higher who didn’t know him very well.”

  “Produce section, huh? Well, Stanley did love his oranges. That is the one thing he said he really missed about California—good citrus.” She laughed again and then asked, “So how did you know to call me?”

  I went on to explain how we actually did not know who to call, how we had gone to Mr. Mathisen’s room and found the phone bill. I then gave her the number to the Bag ‘N’ Save so she could call and figure out what to do next. Lastly, I told her about all of Mr. Mathisen’s things in his room and asked what we should do with them.

  “I don’t care. Give it away, throw it away, keep it all if you want. Just send the framed picture, if you don’t mind. That day was pretty special. Harold and I are celebrating twenty-five years in November. We got married kind of old, but that hasn’t stopped us from getting older together!” I could tell she was beaming�
�even through the telephone.

  “Are you sure you don’t want any of his stuff?” I asked.

  “You bet. Stanley was never married and has no family but me, and Harold and I have no kids. So what are we going to do with all that stuff? Besides, you boys were kind enough to track me down; it’s the least I can do. In fact, when you send me the picture, I am going to send you back some money, in case any bills pop up or you find anything else you may need.”

  “Oh, Ma’am, that is totally not necessary.”

  “No, I insist! I am old enough to be a grandma, remember? Give me a chance to spoil somebody!”

  “Alright, if you insist. I will get this picture sent off to you as soon as I can. Good luck with the funeral arrangements and stuff. And again, my condolences.” I don’t even know what that word means, but I have watched enough funerals in cop shows that I am pretty sure that was the right one to use there.

  “Thank you, Tyler,” she said as her goodbye.

  I hung up the phone. AJ then chimed in, “Tyler, remember that picture the locksmith from Chicago e-mailed to you? You could send that picture, too. That would be a great picture for her to remember Mr. Mathisen by.”

  “Great idea, Aidge,” Scooter replied. “And I think I should be the one to send her the pictures. I would like to send her a sympathy card anyway. Tyler, can you forward that e-mail to me? At school tomorrow, I can print a copy off one of the library’s color printers. An extra picture is the least I can do to thank that lady for what she’s giving us.”

  Of course, Bonnie had no clue just how big a gift she was giving us. But we all knew what that was: our very own, fully furnished, secret hideout!