by Jill Behe
When word got around to me, I wasn’t surprised, per se. Probably did an eye roll, or maybe a shrug, possibly both. I can’t remember that far back unless I concentrate. Even then….
Cut that out.
He should have retired several years ago; he was 77 on his last birthday. The borough granted his request to retire from the library about eight months ago, and his former position was still vacant.
Helen Halloran had been filling in as head librarian ever since, and I knew for a fact she wasn’t happy about the delay in finding a permanent replacement.
“Who’s they?”
“Oh, the Borough Council had their monthly meeting last night.”
“Ah.” He had a habit of answering questions in that round-about way. Aggravating. Like trying to pull a splinter out from under…. Okay, maybe not that bad. “If you’d rather wait to tell the chief in person, he’s due back in the office on Thursday.”
“Dang it. Okay, looky here, tell ’m we had a discussion about— Um, they … we, agreed that—” There was a short embarrassed chuckle. His feet shuffled, and he crossed and uncrossed his arms before stuffing his pockets, and looking at me. Nervously apologetic? “Sorry. We decided that he and Officer Anderson could use some extra help around here. We’re gonna hire on four or five new police officers.”
My brain went numb for a split second, then, “Fo—? You’re hiring how many new—? What? When? Why?” Wisely, I then stopped blathering and stared at the man, not really even expecting a straight answer to any of….
Crud.
“The vote wasn’t a 100-percent, but majority took it.” Unhappy, he shrugged. “We’ll be advertising in The Mossy Creek Gazette, too.”
“Too?”
What in the world? How are five more people going to fit in this dinky space? And from where are they going to pull money to pay these new people’s salaries?
Crap. No wonder the borough taxes went up.
“Oh yeah, and Elias suggested we put a notice on the Greene County Website, to entice recent Police Academy graduates.”
Elias Heckman was the head borough councilman, and was also acting-mayor since Ridge Patterson, our former mayor, was beaten senseless (literally) by his wife this past June.
“But, but….” I couldn’t think of a way to finish the sentence.
“Oh I know, and I agree with you. Should be a local hire, and there might be some, but we don’t know of any.”
Stay calm, Maggie Lou. He was right about that, we hadn’t needed to know before now, but it didn’t make me feel better. Forced tactfulness would have to rule in this case. “I’ll, um, be sure to let the chief know, as soon as I see him.” I don’t have to be happy about it.
“’Preciate it, Miss Maggie.” Talbot tipped his head and tapped two fingers to the front of his wool diplomat-style hat in salute. “Say, have you two set a date, yet?”
(Sigh.)
Having lived my whole life in this town, I should be used to everybody knowing, wanting to know, and/or going out of their way to find out, all the juicy updates on any subject in which they happen to be interested.
As mentioned earlier, Wyatt and I are the most current curiosity in town.
But ya know? After a while it wears on a person, and you just want to tell ’em to mind their own business. LOUDLY!
But again, I was born here, so I don’t say it.
Not out loud, or even quietly under my breath.
But I wanted to.
I really, really wanted to.
One of these days I would ... will.
Maybe.
“No. No, not yet.” I could change the subject. “Have y’all selected any candidates for mayor? Don’t you think you should get that taken care of first, before hiring on these new policemen … women … persons?”
I’ve never gotten the hang of politically correct, either.
His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed. “Uh, no. That, um, that particular issue wasn’t on the agenda last night. We, uh, we can’t seem to agree on anyone specific so we can add it to the docket.”
“Why not? I would think the board would be anxious to get that taken care. Elections aren’t all that far off, you know? The council members should be making sure they’re doing a good job, or they might not have one.”
There was a moments pause. I hope I hadn’t insulted him.
“Um, yes they are, for sure, but Elias is— We have to go by the agenda of the evening, and as I said, it wasn’t on.… Wasn’t, uh— We had other things to talk about last night.”
Mentally shaking my head, I asked, “Has Gladiola McIntyre been nominated? She’d make a great mayor.”
“Glad?”
CHAPTER 4
BITE THY TONGUE
HIS EYES WENT EVEN MORE huge behind the thick black frames. “Oh, no. She, uh, she hasn’t— er, her name hasn’t— Not, not with Berto being…. Um. No. Oh no. That wouldn’t do at all. Conflict of interest, and such.” His jaw dropped and his cheeks splotched red. “Oh my. Oh, I … I didn’t mean to offend.”
I had to hold my breath to keep from laughing. Yes, you’re right, it was … is, hard not to be aware of the gossip. But offended?
Geez!
“Never mind.”
I so wanted to roll my eyes.
On a different track, he’d just let slip that he knew about Gladiola and Roberto’s semi, and apparently, not-so-secret romance.
Interesting. “Women are being considered, though, right?”
“I, uh, I couldn’t, um, say. Really, I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be seemly if I told whose names we were tossing, er, who we were considering.”
My shrug tried for nonchalant. “Just saying.”
“Well, I’ll be gettin’ outta your hair, now.” He nodded, in a hurry to leave. “If you could remember to mention to Chief Madison, what we discussed?”
“I will. Bet on it.”
“Thanks a bunch. We’ll be in touch.”
Another thing I’d bet on: They hadn’t even thought about nominating a woman. Darned old prejudiced male chauvinists.
Every single solitary one of ’em. This was the 21st-century, after all, not the Dark Ages.
The door closed behind the man—not soon enough—and I went to make coffee thinking evil thoughts. Well, not really evil, but not nice ones, about the council in general, and about what more people in the office would mean.
On the one hand, you have a handful of upstanding citizens, trying their best to make rational, credible, helpful decisions about the running and maintenance of Mossy Creek.
Trying.
Sorry, the assimilation of Jonas Talbot’s news flash was still grinding in the background of my gray matter.
Like ice cubes in a blender.
Our police department is okay just the way it is. Little, self-sufficient, yet with a high moral and judicious way of keeping crime at bay.
But I’m prejudiced.
I needed to stop my thought process and switch tracks, or I was likely to get myself in trouble. Because, in my opinion, the council were a bunch of narrow-minded men, mostly because they didn’t conform to my way of thinking, (or more precisely, expand to include us women) but I was just as stubborn about the coziness of our police department.
We three, Ricky, Wyatt, and I, know each other and get along well. We anticipate upcoming problems, and resolve them—for the most part—between ourselves.
Add more kids to the mix, and there’s bound to be squabbles and hurt feelings, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Yes, I called them kids, because I can almost guarantee they’ll all be Ricky’s age, or younger. Mostly younger. (I can only hope I’m wrong, and that we attract some mature, experienced officers, too.)
Would they fit in with our close-knit unit?
Hopefully.
Would we get a say in who gets/got hired?
Doubtful.
Maybe Wyatt could be persuaded to suggest he be part of the process.
On the flipside, we are small, and when—
especially in the winter time—both members of said little police department are out on calls, or like now, out at the lake volunteering their time for a community project, I’m left to deal with whatever or whoever comes in, until the official police presence is back in the office.
Most law enforcement agencies in boroughs the size of ours, have 15- to 20-officers and detectives, or more. We’ve gotten spoiled by the idyllically low crime-rate here in Mossy Creek. And, what crime we have had, we’ve been able to handle without any difficulty, and haven’t needed any more than … us.
But times are changing. Crime rates are going up all over the country. It even showed its ugly face in our peaceful municipality just last summer. So much so, for several weeks it was national news. Put the grapevine’s nose out of joint, too.
But our puny three (okay, two and a half) person police department handled it all, the maelstrom of the media descending on us, the backlash from the gossipmongers against said media invasion, and despite some help from state and county law enforcement.
We got the job done, and got it done right.
On the other hand, I shouldn’t get so bent out of shape about the addition of new staff. We could use a few extra official hands, sometimes.
Would the hiring of those extra hands also include the extra equipment needed to accommodate the expansion of our … squad, i.e., vehicles, weapons, desk space, the desks and accessories for those spaces, phones, computers, et cetera, just to name a few?
And would we, as a community, keep them busy enough to justify the expense?
Watching the coffee drip into the pot, I pondered.
CHAPTER 5
VANDALISM ON THE RISE
THE PHONE’S persistent jangle cut through my heavy, and not altogether nice, thoughts.
“Mossy Creek Police Department.”
“Hello, Maggie Mercer. This is Esther Thompson. Someone—” She took a breath. “My mailbox is missing.”
Uh-oh.
“Good morning, Miz Thompson. What do you mean, it’s missing?”
I had a bad feeling I knew what she was going to say.
“I mean, when I went out just now to send off my water bill, I couldn’t. The mailbox isn’t there, and the support post is leaning halfway to Denver.”
Yup. I was right.
Crud. Another one. “You didn’t happen to hear anything unusual last night, did you?”
“No. Well, not unusual. The Randolph’s black-and-tan was baying for quite a while. But he does that all the time when he sees a rabbit, or a squirrel, or something. Poor thing. They’re always hollering at him to shut up. Guess there must’ve been an or something out and about last night.”
“Do you remember what time?”
“Oh, my goodness, no. Well, not exactly. Sometime after supper’d be a close bet. Before the early news came on at ten. I know that much.”
About a four hour gap. Not much help. “All right. As soon as I can, I’ll have someone come out and see if they can find your box.”
Didn’t know who I would send, seein’ as how our whole force was out at the lake. Those additional bodies were looking more and more advantageous.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that. No. I’ll get my great-grandsons to come over and help Grampa Tom look for it. It’ll give them all something to do, especially if I promise to make cookies.”
Her cookies are better than mine.
“For one of your smell-icious, YUMMY-licious cookies, I might come by and help.”
The elderly woman laughed.
I was serious.
“Don’t you worry, Miz Thompson, I’ll write up the report, and make sure the chief sees it when he comes in. If one of your boys finds it, let me know, okay?”
“I will.”
“Take care, now.”
“You, too.”
Crapola.
There’d been a lull, about a year long, in this particular criminal escapade, but it looked like the vandal playing mailbox baseball was back at it.
I’d had several complaints for the very same thing over the last week or so, and the weekend county log had a few entries about it, too. The culprit wasn’t concentrating in just one area, either, but most of the destruction seemed to be confined to the more rural parts of town. Probably because it he was less likely to be seen.
No mailbox was safe.
I’m thinking he because, honestly, women don’t usually take out their aggressions on mailboxes. On other things, yes, but not mailboxes. Although I’ve been known to be wrong, it doesn’t happen often.
Are you snickering, again?
And no, no one has actually seen what he uses—nor the one doing the bashing, for that matter—but from some of the descriptions of the damage, it’s been surmised that a baseball bat is the probable weapon of choice.
By nine o’clock, the stress of the morning was getting to me. I decided a walk would fit my mood and went to get weatherproofed.
“Holy sunspots!” Momentarily blinded by the sun bouncing off the snow when stepping out the door, I went back inside for my sunglasses.
As the post office came into view on my return loop, I noticed Gladiola McIntyre behind the counter, and went in to say hello.
Gladiola is the Mossy Creek Post Mistress, and youngest sibling of Forsythia Morgan—self-proclaimed head of the Mossy Creek rumor mill. There were six sisters in all, nee Flowers. And, yeah, they’re all named after posies of one sort or another.
See? My mother wasn’t the only one to get creative on a birth certificate.
CHAPTER 6
BREAK TIME
“THIS TAG SAYS my package is here. I got this yesterday, and one on Friday, too. Why didn’t they just leave it on the porch?”
Hmm. Somebody wasn’t happy. I observed the exchange from the other end of the counter.
“Because the sender chose SIGNATURE REQUIRED, that’s why.”
“Okay. So, where do I need to sign?”
“You’ll sign the slip, but the package isn’t here, yet.”
“What do you mean, it isn’t here? This says it is.”
“The carrier hasn’t come back from her rounds. Fact is, she just started about half an hour ago, and isn’t expected back until two, give or take. See”—Gladiola turned the pinkish-colored notice he’d tossed on the counter—“right here: Available after 3 P.M.” She looked at the man. “Actually, she might not have gotten to your house yet. If you hurry, you might get back there before she does.”
“For God’s sake, it’s just a frickin’ jacket. Why the hell would I need to sign for a jacket?”
“Must be the way they filled out the postage form on the sender’s end.” She shrugged. “If Lemon doesn’t catch you at home, you’ll have to come back. But not ’til after three, like it says on the ticket here. You’re outa luck ’til then, bucko.”
“So she has it with her? I could sign for it when she drops it off at my house, right?”
“That’s what I said.” Gladiola nodded. “If she hasn’t already tried today. Depends on where you are on her route.”
The man let out a gusty breath. “Guess it won’t be today, either, then. I’ve got stuff to do before I go back to the house.”
“If you’re still in town, stop on by. We close at four.”
“I swear. This town is in the Dark Ages.” The man turned to leave.
Yes, I did mention that very era earlier this morning.
Our unflappable post mistress slid the small piece of paper forward. “Don’t forget your slip. Can’t pick up your package if you don’t have it.”
“Unbelievable.”
“Could be worse.”
He stared. “How’s that?”
“Could’ve been sent back already.”
“Crazy…. All this for a stupid coat.” He slipped the small rectangle into his jeans pocket, cocked his head—seemed to be thinking about whether to be mad, or just accept the facts—then nodded. “I’ll stop in later, after three.”
“We close
at four.”
“So you said.” With a wave, he went out.
I watched him, taking in the tall lanky build, the dark knit cap pulled low over his eyebrows, worn denims, and white Nikes. His thin nylon jacket made me shiver. No wonder he was so anxious to get his box.
“Maggie Mercer.” Gladiola slapped a hand on the counter. “To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”
She startled my attention back into focus.
“Out for a walk. Saw you in here and decided to say hey.”
She leaned her elbows on the worn polished wood. “Good to see you.”
“Who’s the guy? Don’t think I know him.”
Of course I don’t know everyone in town.
“Only been here a few days. Name’s Abel Blackwell. Brought in a change of address form last Friday, temporary. Looks like he’s renting Dillard Watts’s place for a coupla weeks.” Gladiola shrugged. “Just came in to pick up a package. He’s on Lemonade’s route, and as I’m sure you heard me tell him, she’s not back yet with it.”
“Obviously. Geez, it’s only a little after nine. What did he expect?”
She wagged her head, in agreement.
“I’d be upset, too, if I had to run around in this weather in that skimpy nylon thing. Where’s he from, anyway, Florida?” I was thinking I’d check him out later, and maybe place a call to Magnolia Pennington, the local realty agent.
Yeah, she’s another one of Gladiola’s sisters. Friends and family call her Maggie, too, sometimes.
“Nope. Ohio. Colder over there.”
“Not that much colder this year.”
“Makes no never mind to me what he wears. And if he’s so desperate about that package, he should stay inside where it’s warm and wait for it to come, not go traipsing around town in shirtsleeves.”
“No, well.” I moved down the counter. “He’s going to catch pneumonia if he keeps it up.”
“As I said, no skin off my nose.” Gladiola straightened. “If you wait half a minute, I’ll give you your mail. Got a skeleton crew here today, and they’re working in shifts to make sure all the mail gets delivered. Pontius is out sick; Rory’s not in ’til two. Brick and Lemon are out on their regular routes. Parks and Jones are at the lake with your fellas. Ronnie’s in the back sorting, but he’s never run the counter before, and Cletus is … well, Cletus.”
