The Postman is Late

by Vicki Vass

  “That’s Roger.”

  “Oh.”

  “He’s very nice. I’ve met him several times. I don’t know if he’s divorced or widowed but I do know he’s single,” I said. “James mentioned that him and Roger go out a lot. They spend a lot of time together. He must not have a girlfriend or wife waiting for him at home.”

  “That’s interesting. He’s kind of cute, don’t you think?” Marian asked, applying a rosy shade of lipstick.

  I studied Roger. I’d never thought about him that way. He was always very neatly dressed and polite but not quite my type.

  “What does he do for a living?” Marian asked.

  “I’m not sure. He’s retired. I think he worked in the fashion industry. I’ve heard James say that Roger used to be in women’s clothing.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “I’ll introduce you when the show is over,” I said. I thought Marian is on the prowl again. I’d never thought about another relationship after Gino passed.

  It was Danny’s turn to take the stage. He looked so small, standing there. James brought a stool up on stage for Danny to sit on. He sat down and stared out, his eyes wide. All the kids grew quiet. Roger turned the gym lights down and put a spotlight on Danny. He blinked and shaded his eyes. I got a lump in my throat. He appeared so nervous. His first note was a squeaker. He stopped. I wasn’t sure if he was going to run off the stage in tears. I went over to stand on the side of the stage. Danny glanced at me. I gave him an encouraging nod.

  He strummed softly at first and then grew louder as his confidence grew. He actually broke into a little smile. I could see the kids sitting in the front row, smiling back as they stared up at him.

  And, then, the gym doors burst open. Danny stopped playing and everyone turned around to see the source of the noise. The silhouette of Jim Reeney stood in the doorway illuminated by the fluorescent lights in the hallway. He was wearing a helmet, overalls and rubber boots. In his hand, he brandished a tranquilizer dart gun. He was out of breath. “Nobody move,” he yelled out in between wheezes and coughs. “Nobody move. I don’t know where it is. It could have run in here. It’s crazy I tell you. Do you hear me? It’s crazy.” His gaze, wild with excitement, scanned the gym.

  We didn't have a clue what he was ranting about until we heard the squeals. Behind him in the hall, the little sneak thief raccoon ran past him. Jim Reeney took off in pursuit. The door slammed shut behind him. Before I could open it, I heard a thud followed by a scream. And then another thud as his body hit the ground. I ran down the hallway, Chief Krundel hot on my heels. We rolled the body over expecting to see a knife or a bullet wound. What we saw was the three-inch tranquilizer dart sticking out of the bottom of his chin. I pulled it out and checked his vitals. The raccoon outsmarted the varmint hunter once again.

  As Chief Krundel called for the EMTs on his radio, I walked down the hallway which was only half lit. I could hear the animal gnawing and hissing in the corner. I carefully picked up one of the small garbage cans that lined the hallway and inched my way closer, quietly. The raccoon stood up on its back hind legs and threw up. The vomit was a mixture of fruit rinds, popcorn and frog legs. I threw the can over the sneak thief. He was not happy. I sat on top of it until animal control arrived to pick him up.

  After the excitement was over, Danny and I drove home. I made some popcorn and fresh lemonade. We carried it up to the tree house. Bill had made a small set of stairs on the side of the tree to make the climb easier for me. Danny used the knotted rope that hung from the main branch. The tree house wasn’t much larger than my guest bathroom, 5 x 6 feet. We brought sleeping bags, a battery powered lantern and two sets of binoculars for bird watching.

  Danny and I keep a notebook to log the birds we’ve seen. It hangs on a clipboard attached to the side of the tree house. This year we’ve seen finches, cardinals, blue jays and the red-headed woodpecker. We’ve seen green and red hummingbirds, a barn owl, a crane, a turkey vulture and yes, one bald eagle. At night, we look at the stars. I’ve taught Danny how to identify the constellations. Of course, the best time to be up here is the Fourth of July when you can see all the fireworks from the surrounding towns.

  The full moon hung low over the old growth oak trees that lined the entrance of the forest preserve. The woods from this view appear ancient, as the cooling forest floor rises a mist into the night. The crickets played their castanets, calling us to sleep. Danny gave out a big yawn. “Gran, Gran, how about a story?” he asked.

  I told him a story about his great-grandfather, Gino. As a young man, Gino boxed. He sparred with Jake LaMotta and Rocky Marciano. Danny recognized the name Rocky. I explained to him that this was the real Rocky. As I spoke, I could feel him drifting off, his little eyelids opening and closing. Finally he was out to the world. I looked around the little tree house at my sleeping bag. This was not going to be a comfortable night. At least it was a dry night, not too cool, not too warm. I stuck my head out the window to smell the pines. Breaking through them was the yellow glow of car lights. It was coming up the access road from Woodland View Road into the woods. I couldn’t imagine who would be back there at this time of night.

  Jim Reeney was at Alexian Brothers Medical Center, recovering from his raccoon fiasco so I knew it wasn’t him. I grabbed my binoculars. The car stopped a few hundred yards into the woods. It was a pickup truck. Moments later another car pulled up the access road and parked next to the pickup. It was a dark sedan. I couldn’t make out the driver but I recognized the shape of the car. I have seen a lot of Cadillac Sevilles. Both vehicles killed their lights as I watched. I tried hard to make out who the drivers were. A few minutes later the pickup turned on its lights again and took off. Inside the Cadillac, I could see the flick of a lighter, giving just enough glow so I could see Alderman Sabatini lighting his cigar.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was a month since I found Gary. The trail grew cold, colder than Gary. Chief Krundel told me there were no suspects. Agent Peabody told me very little and seemed like he had moved onto other tasks. I guess one less lowly, and in Gary’s case lazy, civil servant didn’t demand a cry out for justice. He was from Linden Avenue so good or bad he was one of our own. That made it personal to me, and I wasn’t going to rest until I knew what happened.

  It was now early summer, and South Linden Avenue was returning to normal. I did have to spend time training Gary’s replacement, Alex. I think he will work out fine. After I brought in the mail, I waited for Valerie to return from the garden center.

  When she arrived, I helped her unload the containers of hostas. Valerie wanted to plant them along the side of the house. I had spent the morning pulling out the Russian sage. They drove me crazy. It grew all wild and every bee in town flocked to it. I couldn’t take it anymore. Once I pulled the first one out, the rest were doomed. Valerie couldn’t stand a bare space so she ran off to the garden center. I promised to help plant whatever she brought home as long as it wasn’t Russian sage.

  While she was out, I prepared the soil, adding mushroom compost, pulling out weeds and turning it over. After spending a good part of the morning planting the hostas, we took a break on the front porch, enjoying a glass of fresh iced tea. “Ma, thanks for helping me,” Valerie said.

  “I am glad to see those Russian sage gone,” I told her.

  “They were never my favorite,” Valerie said.

  I agreed with her. We sat in silence and sipped our tea.

  “Ma, as I was driving home, I got a call from the bank that’s handling Gary’s house. I contacted them a few weeks ago about listing the house with me but they told me they went with another agency. I don’t know why. That agency is located in the south suburbs near Indiana. They don’t know the DuPage area like I do.”

  “I don’t know what they’re thinking.” I agreed with my daughter. In my mind, she is the best agent in DuPage County. “Have you been in the house?” I asked her.

  “No, there was no reason to since I didn't
get the listing.”

  “Is there a lockbox there?”

  “I haven’t checked. When I drove by I noticed the For Sale sign is already up in front of the house. There must be a lockbox,” Valerie said, giving me a wary look.

  “Do you want to go in?” I asked her. I knew I did.

  “I am curious. I’ve never been inside,” she said, putting down her iced tea glass on the wicker table.

  “You should go in. That way you can describe it to any potential buyers. They’re going to be new neighbors. They should know what’s wrong with the house, right?” I prodded her.

  My daughter knows me well. She knows I will wear her down until she gives in so she stood up and said, “Let’s go.” We walked the few houses down to Gary’s. The For Sale sign stood awkwardly in the front yard among the weeds. The brown paint on the cedar siding in front was peeling and green ivy was growing up the side. Gary didn’t take very good care of his house or his lawn. It didn’t have much curb appeal, and it would be a hard sell with the story attached to it. I was anxious to see the inside. I had talked to him on his porch before but he never invited me in. Normally I’m not one for going places I’m not invited but no invitation was needed today.

  “Ma, maybe we shouldn’t do this,” Valerie said as she unlocked the key lockbox to Gary’s house. The house key popped into her hand.

  “Valerie, you’re a real estate agent. You can go in,” I assured her, pushing her forward to the front door.

  “Ok, Ma, let’s not be long.” Valerie unlocked the door and stepped back. We were hit with the smell of mildew from years of water damage. The problem with having a ranch in a flood plain means you have a full basement, and the full basement means you get more floodwater. Gary’s house smelled like the damage crept upstairs. We stepped into the small entryway, which opened into the living room. There wasn’t much furniture, a lazy-boy recliner, couch and large TV. Gary hadn’t updated anything from the original 1960s décor.

  I didn’t know what I expected to find. The police searched the house before it was cleaned out by the bank and didn’t find anything. Or at least that’s what Chief Krundel told me. Agent Peabody took a look also but him and I don’t talk. Valerie and I wandered through the first floor from the living room to the kitchen to the small bedrooms. “Oh, Valerie, look linoleum kitchen floor. Just like our first house in Chicago, same tile, pink and white squares. And, the wallpaper is foil. It’s impossible to get off the wall. This whole house will have to be redone.” I pointed out features to her.

  Valerie half listened with her cell phone in one ear while checking her iPad mini in the other. Part of the tools of the trade. She was always on some electronic device.

  I peeked through the kitchen cabinets. They were empty. The house wasn’t much more than three small bedrooms, one full bath, a kitchen and a living room. I opened the door to the basement and got a big whiff of the mildew. Valerie went outside to get a better signal. I clicked on the light and walked down the stairs.

  Although finished, the basement lacked furniture or rugs. There was no warmth. I did the circle around the staircase back to the furnace room. Nothing unique. Forced air gas furnace, hot water heater, washer and dryer were still there. It was a nice set of Kenmore, white, extra large capacity. I thought about seeing if the bank would sell it to me. I gave it a good lookover. My husband, Gino, knew his way around appliances so I picked up a couple things about checking out washers and dryers. I pulled the washer away from the wall to get a closer look. The basement was dark except for the one single light bulb dangling over my head and a crack of white sticking out of the wall behind the washing machine.

  The whole wall was ugly wood paneling. From the water damage, one of the panels had warped enough where I could stick my hand between the two panels. I reached in and pulled out an envelope addressed to the Andersons. I pulled on the paneling. It popped right off the wall, revealing a large hole that went back to the pea gravel crawl space. I took out my flashlight which I always carry. I shined the light in there. I counted nine U.S. postage bags of mail. Stacks of catalogs, junk mail, packages, some opened, some not. All of them moldy and water damaged. Gary, you little sneak thief, I thought. For whatever reason, he was dumping his day’s worth of mail here. The spring floods ruined it so it could never be delivered. On top of one of the bags, I saw a shoebox wrapped in brown paper. I picked it up. It was addressed to Koji Hiro and covered with foreign stamps. It was unopened.

  “Ma, are you done?” Valerie called from the top of the stairs. “We got to go.”

  I wrapped my windbreaker around the box. I put the panel back and pushed the washer back in front of it. “I’m coming, Valerie.” I called up the stairs. No need to involve her more than she needed to be. I wasn’t sure what to do with the information yet.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I sat on my perch and watched my next-door neighbor, Anne Hillstrom, a pleasant young woman in her early forties. She was wearing flowered capri pants. I told her several times that the pants might not be her most flattering look but she wore them anyway. She did crop her long blonde hair like I suggested. She looked cute with her bob haircut. She was looking a little larger since her recent trip to Nashville. I tried to talk her into coming to James’ hot yoga class. She always found excuses.

  She is a sweet girl but, oh, her house drives me crazy. And, don’t get me started on the garage or her car. She thought herself a collector. I might call her a hoarder. All my offers to help her were refused. She is a good neighbor; we watch out for each other so I let it go. I even like Sassy, her white Persian. She is tolerable in her own way.

  “Sassy,” I heard Anne calling.

  “Oh, dear, did she get out again?” I asked, walking down the stairs and over to Anne.

  The fence between our yards is only chest high, making it convenient to talk over her knockout roses. “Hey, Jan, yes, Sassy is out again,” Anne said. “I was moving a couple things in from the garage and she snuck past me. Have you seen her?”

  “No, but I will come help you look.” I met Anne in the side yard between our two houses.

  We walked up and down the street, calling “Sassy,” and looking every which way. There was no answer. I didn’t expect one. We stopped in front of Mr. Hiro’s place. He was working in the front yard, raking some weeds away from his oriental poppies. He stopped. “Looking for the cat again?” he asked. He pointed to the backyard that was adjacent to his.

  As we walked along the side of the abandoned house, we saw Mrs. Hiro raking sand by the koi pond. She glanced up at us, I waved to her. She bowed. She was always very polite. I went over to say hello. I felt a hand grab my shoulder from behind. It was Mr. Hiro, pulling me back. “No,” he yelled. He pointed to the ground. I didn’t understand. “It’s disrespectful to step on the sand.”

  For the first time, I really saw what Mrs. Hiro was doing. She was making intricate patterns in the sand. Anne watched over my shoulders. I turned to her and said, “When my husband and I lived in Japan, we visited Zen gardens like this. The guide explained that raking the sand is a Japanese art form. Each design tells a story. The circles that she is drawing represent the ripples in a pond as a pebble skips across it. It’s beautiful, isn’t it, Anne?” I didn’t wait for her to answer. I stepped back, said, “Sorry,” and bowed to Mrs. Hiro. My shoulder ached from where Mr. Hiro grabbed it. He was very strong. He apologized for grabbing my shoulder.

  “The cat is in the house.” He pointed to the abandoned house.

  Anne and I followed the direction of his finger and stared into the large picture window. There Sassy sat staring out the window at us, watching as if we were her favorite television show. Something dangled out of her mouth. She appeared quite pleased with herself. “Sassy, you bad girl,” Anne yelled as she run up the steps to the porch of the bungalow. She tried the door but it was locked. When the door didn’t open, Anne turned to me. We were both trying to figure out how Sassy got in. “Jan, I don’t understand,” she said.<
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  Around the back of the house, we found the stairs that led down to the basement. That’s where we saw the doggy door that the nice family’s standard poodle used. The bank should have locked the doggy door but it was swinging open. Anne knelt down, swung open the flap and yelled for Sassy. “Come on, Sassy. Come on girl.”

  Anne reached her arm in as far as it could go. She was able to get her head in, trying to unlock the door. She really had gained weight since Nashville. With the tip of her finger, she was able to flip the deadbolt lock and open the door. I followed her inside and flipped the light switch. No such luck, the utility company shut the electricity off. I took out my flashlight and shone it inside. Sassy jumped at us, scaring the living daylights out of me, knocking the flashlight to the floor. It spun around in a circle like a lighthouse illuminating the basement and the piles of U.S. postal mailbags. Bags were piled up to the ceiling, overflowing with undelivered mail. Gary, you little sneak thief, I said to myself.

  I looked at Anne and she looked at me. “What is all this?” Anne asked.

  Hours later, Chief Krundel stood in the basement with the postal police as they collected all the undelivered mail. I stood next to him, helping supervise. I offered to deliver it all but the postal police declined my offer. “Chief Krundel, how come nobody searched the house after I found Gary?” I asked him.

  He pulled me over to the side out of earshot of the postal police. “It was a matter of jurisdiction between the FBI, Woodland View and the postal police. Between you and me, Jan, the postal police told me they were investigating Gary for months. He wasn’t arrested because they couldn’t find the evidence. When they did find it after we found Gary, they wanted to see if anyone else was involved.”