Who's Sorry Now?

by Jill Churchill

  “The only one I know who needs a motorcycle is my new deputy. But he has no car to trade."

  “Would the police budget allow you to buy it?"

  “Nope. But maybe Deputy Parker could pay you in installments and I could kick in a buck or two when it's available.”

  That afternoon, Robert found Lily reading a book in the library. The French doors were open and there was a nice warm breeze. She looked up from her book. "It's spring, Robert. I thought it would never come again."

  “What are you reading? One of the books I bought you?"

  “No. I'm spacing them out. I don't want to gobble them all up at once. This is one of the books Dr. Toller lent me. First-year anthropology. It's interesting. Just the basics.”

  She set the book aside and asked, "How is the petition going? Have lots of people signed it?"

  “Thirty-nine so far. I hope to find another twenty before submitting it to the town council."

  “I haven't signed it yet. Find me a pen. Is Mr. McBride willing to be the unofficial postman?”

  Robert was temporarily speechless. "Didn't you know? He's been murdered.”

  Lily gasped. "Why has nobody told me this? I don't know him well. I've only seen him when I take Mr. Kessler's little carved animals to New York to refresh Jimmy Anderson's supply and collect my royalty on the sales."

  “You're still doing that? I never noticed you being gone for a day," Robert admitted.

  “That's because I don't mention it much. I only go to the city every six months. Mr. Kessler has increased his supply. And Kessler's carvings are getting better and better.

  “Who killed Mr. McBride? And why didn't you tell me about this?"

  “Howard doesn't know who did it yet. And I didn't tell you because I thought everybody in town knew about McBride's death. Jack Summer mentioned his death in his last newspaper. I thought you always read it."

  “We're both supposed to since we inherited the Voorburg Times, but I've come to trust him. Why hasn't Howard mentioned this? After all, he lives here," Lily said.

  “His job isn't the subject of dinner talk, Lily. And we don't own the police department. It's just like you don't mention Mr. Kessler's carvings."

  “How was Mr. McBride killed?"

  “Strangled. In that little shed the Harbinger boys fitted up for him to sleep in. Dr. Polhemus swore it was a piano wire. I'm glad to say he was proved wrong. It was a long strand of wire that jewelers use to cut off rings when they can no longer go back over a knuckle.”

  Lily turned pale. "I'm sorry I asked. Sorry, too, that I didn't know. Did he have a family?"

  “Yes, a mother who bought cemetery plots for both herself and her only son. Howard told me this."

  “I suppose that's a good thing. Did we inherit cemetery plots? Our mother and father are buried in one. Did they buy two for us?"

  “Golly, Lily, how would I know? Or want to know?”

  “Who's going to take the job of sorting the mail?" Lily asked.

  “Unfortunately, it's me. But just if and when the sorting area is built. I don't want to spend my life doing this. And I don't really need to."

  “Wouldn't you be paid something?"

  “I would. That's why I don't want the job," Robert explained.

  “Are you crazy?"

  “Lily, we're okay financially. We made a lot of money on those awful people who stayed here when their kingpin was murdered. Then there are those fake books. Lots of people need a job worse than we do."

  “But it's what Great-uncle Horatio specified that we had to do. Earn our own living," Lily objected. "Great-uncle Horatio has been dead for years."

  “But Mr. Prinney isn't," Lily said. "And he's responsible for making sure we earn our own living.”

  Robert opened his mouth to speak, then changed his mind. What he'd been about to say was that Lily was merely sitting around reading while he was busy trying to get enough signers on the petition to create a place to sort mail.

  He knew this wasn't fair. Lily worked with Mr. Prinney most of the time sorting out matters of the estate. Collecting rents on properties that could pay them. They often gave some of the companies and farms the estate owned permission to miss a payment or two in order to keep going. She more than paid her way. If he had to do what Lily did, he'd go insane with boredom.

  “I'm off to see if I can get a few more signatures. I thought I'd hang out at Mabel's cafe.”

  It turned out to be an even better idea than Robert anticipated. He got there at four-thirty and stayed until eight, when Mabel's closed. He sat at a table at the front of the shop and explained what the petition was about. He collected twenty-two more signatures, including one from one of the nasty women who had been interfering with the mail. Apparently, she herself was illiterate and only commented on what the other two told her. She signed with an X and Robert had to ask her name and put it down, saying it was her mark.

  Her friends, if they found out, would be furious.

  Tomorrow he'd consult privately with the town treasurer to see if the town council would meet and let him explain what had happened that caused him to circulate this petition.

  Around the same time Robert was entering Mabel's, petition in hand with several pens, in case one ran out of ink, Howard was taking a phone call.

  It was the fingerprint expert. He sounded as if he were delivering a present. "Easy as pie, Chief. The same thumb that was on the window is also on the trash barrel. Now we have the whole set of prints on file. Every single finger.”

  Howard wished he could be as thrilled as his informant. But he made a good pretense of being excited by the information. Both the swastika and the attempt to burn down the building were done overnight. Did that mean the person was local? Did he (or she) know where everything in Voorburg was? Would a stranger know where to find a can of red paint? Or a trash can full of dry slats? Probably not.

  Perhaps, though, it was someone from a nearby town who had cause to visit often. Maybe somebody who had a grown child or children living in Voorburg and visited often.

  He wished he could fingerprint everybody, but that wasn't possible or even legal. He'd have to have just cause to fingerprint anyone, although he'd fudged the law by tricking Mario.

  Still, knowing there was a record of all of the perpetrator's fingerprints was reassuring. He wouldn't have to depend on the man or woman leaving a single left hand thumbprint, if there was another attack on Mr. Kurtz's person and safety. He was glad Jack Summer had interviewed him for the local paper. That might stop the perpetrator, knowing that Mr. Kurtz was an American returning to his own country for fear of the Nazis.

  He hoped that would stop whatever prejudice had led to the insult of the paint and the more serious attempt to burn down the building with Kurtz inside.

  It didn't help, however, in finding out who'd succeeded in the horrible murder of Edwin McBride.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Wednesday, May 3, and Thursday, May 4

  LILY HAD GONE TO BED early with her textbook on anthropology. Her dog, Agatha, thought it smelled interesting since so many people had handled it when reading it. She had to keep pushing Agatha away. "I'm glad my sense of smell isn't as good as yours. Though how you can think a long-dead animal smells good enough to roll in defeats my imagination.”

  She eventually fell asleep with the book on her chest and Agatha sprawled on her feet.

  Thursday morning, after breakfast, she and Robert remained behind to chat.

  “Does Jimmy Anderson, who has that expensive gift shop in the city, still call himself the Duke of Albania?" Robert asked.

  “Of course. And I address him as such in case a customer is in the shop."

  “How does this work? I don't think I'd trust him an inch to be fair," Robert said.

  “We agree on a reasonable price for each piece. He can add his profit to that, I take my meager commission out of the reasonable price and pay back the remainder to Mr. Kessler. What Jimmy and I agree is 'reasonable' is quite a
high price to begin with because they sell so well.”

  She went on to tell Robert about Agatha smelling her well-used textbook because it smelled like so many other people. Then she asked, "Did you get a lot of signatures last night?"

  “More than twenty, including one of the old bats. She apparently can't read or write so she signed with an X.”

  Lily laughed out loud. "She just goes along for the other ones to read the return addresses? So what happens next?"

  “I made an appointment to talk to the town treasurer and show him the signatures and explain the rest.”

  “What is the 'rest'?"

  “That the Harbinger boys will make the letter boxes with scrap wood, but will charge for the work. Then they install hardware—which the city also pays for—that will hold combination locks. Customers buy these for themselves. We then buy duplicate numbered coupons that the fIrst two hundred people sign up and pay a dollar for."

  “Who gets the money?"

  “Well, I do at first. But I have to give half of it back to the city treasurer. Then once a year, everybody who wants to keep their box, pays another dollar, and again half goes back to the city. If somebody doesn't get enough mail to make it worth it, and wants to give it up, whoever is sorting gets to resell the box for the full price and keep all of it."

  “Sounds complicated to me."

  “Not really. The sorter makes half the money up front, and half each year, the whole amount if somebody gives up a box. And a meager payment back from the city every month."

  “So there's actually money to make at the job?"

  “Up front, of course. Not so much as it goes on. But I've been thinking of saving half of whatever I make when it goes into business, then give the other half to whoever takes over from me," Robert explained.

  “Who are you considering passing the job to?"

  “Maybe that Susan person who works at the movie house selling tickets. She probably would make more money on this for less work and wouldn't have to get her sister—who raises rabbits—to take care of Susan's kids every night."

  “So it would be a day job while her kids are in school? What a good idea. Did you really think this all out for yourself?"

  “Well, I had a little help from Howard and Harry Harbinger. And I ran into Mrs. White, who asked about it after signing, and she suggested Susan Gasset. By the way, is that ladies' group still going on?"

  “The Voorburg Ladies' League? Yes, but it doesn't meet as often as it used to. Mrs. White had to give up the idea of the trading truck going around to houses. It was too complicated to compute what equaled what else. Especially for foods that got old fast. We only meet every other month now and make things for the poor. Blankets, quilts, winter gloves, and two in the group are experts at knitting woolen socks for every size. It's a bit hard to get excited about it in nice weather like this. But by winter we'll have a good supply."

  “I must go," Robert said, consulting his watch. "My appointment is at ten and I want to be early.”

  At dinner that night, Robert bragged, deservedly, on his coup. "First, I told the treasurer why I'd become interested in this. About the old ladies going through other people's mail and speculating if one person's mail should be destroyed before she saw it. The treasurer was appalled."

  “So he should have been," Mrs. Tarkington said. "Then he started asking me questions about what it would cost and what percentage of the profits should be returned to the town council—if any. I thought that remark boded well. I never expected he'd not automatically demand reimbursement."

  “Maybe he feels that the town council is truly responsible for the welfare of Voorburg residents," Lily said.

  “He'd fund the grade school more generously if he felt that way," Mrs. Tarkington said. "We're teaching with old books that we keep having to paste back together. They're all out of date."

  “Then you take up a petition, too," Robert said.

  “I may do so. It seems to have worked with you," Mrs. Tarkington said, realizing too late that she'd offended him.

  Mrs. Prinney spoke up. "What's the next step, Robert?"

  “The treasurer is calling a special meeting of the whole council tomorrow. He wants me there to explain to them what I told him."

  “Doesn't anybody else get to help make the decision?" Howard Walker asked. "Shouldn't there be some sort of public meeting? After all, the town council receives the money they can dispense from public taxes."

  “I don't know," Robert admitted. "We didn't talk about that. You may be right. I'll make a note to myself to ask that tomorrow.”

  Robert had one more piece of information to find before the meeting. He went to locate Harry Harbinger to find out what Harry and his brother Jim would charge to construct the boxes, what the hardware would cost, including their fee for putting it on.

  “I've been thinking about this. We're talking two hundred boxes, tops. The labor for it I'd estimate at a week, plus another day or two to get the hardware and the sorting table inside installed. I'd need the cost for the hardware to be paid in advance. I'd estimate thirty dollars for labor and ten for the hardware, maybe five for the sorting table, door lock, and labor. If it's less, I'd settle on the actual cost."

  “That sounds reasonable to me," Robert said. "It's a lot of work.”

  He wrote it down in the notebook he'd bought. Ten up front for hardware. Thirty for labor, five for the table, door, and lock.

  Robert was early for the meeting. It was held at the dining room table in the treasurer's house. The treasurer, Peter Winchel, a man who was at least fifty and had a very deep voice, was already at the head of the table, going over the notes he'd made of their earlier conversation. And other questions and suggestions he thought of and anticipated.

  “You're a bit early, Mr. Brewster. It's good that you are. Are you prepared to tell us the cost of building the sorting area?"

  “I am, sir."

  “And the estimated time it will take?"

  “Yes."

  “Another thing I want to bring up," Winchel said, "is what to call it. I don't think we can call it a post office. The real postal system wouldn't like it. So we'll need to talk about a different title for this project, if the rest of the council approves it."

  “I'll give this some thought. Do you think it's going to be approved?"

  “I'm fairly certain it will. I want you to be ready to tell what you saw and heard that made you bring this to our attention. The women going through everyone's mail and don't forget to mention the woman who said that someone else's letter should be destroyed for her own good. Don't name names, of course."

  “I don't know their names anyway.”

  The other four members were prompt. A Mr. Horsely was the secretary and opened his notebook, and laid out a pen and inkwell. He was a thin, scholarly-looking man, probably in his forties. Next was a big, scowling man who looked a bit like a bulldog, with a projecting lower jaw and mottled red, freckled flesh pushed up by his tight collar. He was introduced as Arnold Wood. "What's this all about?" he barked as he took his place at the table.

  The treasurer said patiently, `All will be explained when the rest are here, Arnold.”

  The other two joined them the next moment. Men in their fifties wearing rather shabby clothes, but pleasant expressions. Robert learned these were Todd Taylor and Jake Wilson, who had a cobbler's shop in town.

  “Gentlemen, this is Mr. Robert Brewster, who lives up on the hill at Grace and Favor. You may already know him."

  “The boy who drives the fancy big yellow car all over the place." Arnold Wood sneered.

  Boy? Robert thought, but kept his face from showing his irritation.

  The treasurer ignored this remark, and proceeded. "Mr. Brewster and Mr. Buchanan observed something going on at the train station that they've reported to me that needs attention. I'll turn this over to Mr. Brewster to explain.”

  Robert stood up. He felt he'd have a better presence that way. He told, briefly and unemotionally, ab
out the three women going through everyone else's mail, which was in sacks on the floor, and making personal comments, including one about a certain woman in town. She had received a letter with a return address; they thought the letter shouldn't be delivered because it was from someone they didn't approve of. They had debated destroying it. At that point, Robert was called away to the train that was arriving with a package for him. "I don't know if they destroyed it or not," he said in an effort to be fair.

  There was silence except for an audible gasp from one of the cobblers.

  The other cobbler said, "That's horrible. What can we do about it? I don't have any guilty correspondence, but I wouldn't want to have three old bats pawing over my mail!"

  “Nobody would," the secretary said, as he was writing down what Robert had reported. "May I ask a question?" The treasurer nodded.

  “Does this happen regularly?"

  “I've only observed it once. But the stationmaster, Mr. Buchanan, says they do it almost every day. You can check this with him, if you wish.”

  The treasurer said, "Mr. Brewster figured out how much this would cost and has a floor plan to show you. He's also consulted with local workers, Harry and Jim Harbinger, about the cost. I'll let you explain this, Mr. Brewster.”

  Robert did so. He passed around copies of the plan, showing the area behind the boxes, the worktable, and the locked door. "The station, as you know, is enormous. It won't crowd the seating area or the booking area. The boxes will be open at the back and customers will pay for their own locks. The hardware to attach these locks is included in the bid from the Harbingers.”

  Everyone agreed that it was not only a good idea, but a reasonable price.

  Mr. Horsely asked, "How long would it take?"

  “The Harbingers say two to three weeks. Closer to two. But they want to allow for three," Robert informed them.

  “Now, there's a question or two I have," the treasurer said. "Mr. Brewster and I already touched on this. We can't call it a post office. We need to think up another name.

  “Letter and Package Center?" Mr. Horsely suggested. There were nods to this and a vote was taken. Only Arnold Wood abstained from voting.