The Postman is Late Page 3

  “And then what happened?” Agent Peabody prompted me, raising his eyebrows and smiling at me.

  “I looked inside the truck and Gary wasn’t there. I thought maybe he had to do his business, you know what I mean. Gary is, I mean was, very lazy. And if nature called, I think Gary would take the easiest route to answer.” I paused. “I waited for a while and that’s when I saw my neighbor’s cat coming out of the weeds, carrying a package. I thought that was unusual. She’s a housecat. Then I noticed the mail lying on the ground. I followed it and found Gary.” The door opened, and I smiled at Chief Krundel as he brought me another cup of coffee. He made it just like I liked, black and strong. Agent Peabody gave the chief a pointed glance towards his empty coffee cup. Chief Krundel left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Agent Peabody shifted in his chair so he was facing me dead on. I glanced over at his hands. When we first started talking, his hands were facing up. Now they were facing down. He was trying to read my body language as much as I was reading his. I hadn’t given him any tell yet because there was nothing for me to hide. Everything I was telling him as far as I knew was true. I smiled and tilted my head to match the angle of his. His hands flipped back up, a sign that he was open to what I was saying. He believed me. The best lie detecting machine can be tricked but the human body always has a tell. Agent Peabody and I understood and trusted each other. We had silently made that agreement. “Did you see anything suspicious? Did you see anyone around the house? Or some one you didn’t recognize?” Agent Peabody asked.

  “No, at the time I was the only one out. I remember thinking how quiet our street was,” I said. “At that time of day, most everyone else is at work. I did see Mr. Hiro in the morning working in his garden.”

  “Mr. Hiro?” Agent Peabody scribbled in his notepad.

  “Yes, he lives in the house next to the abandoned house where I found Gary. Koji Hiro. I think he’s a contractor or he might be retired. He’s always working on his driveway and his garden.”

  “Koji. That’s K O J I.”

  “Yes, that’s right.” I continued. “We nodded at each other earlier while I was talking with Mike.”

  “Mike?”

  “Mike Henderson. He delivers our newspapers.”

  Agent Peabody jotted down Mike’s name. “I understand you’ve lived in Woodland View for forty years. You must know everybody on the block. Has Mr. Hiro lived on South Linden very long?”

  I thought for a moment and I couldn’t remember when they moved in. Mr. and Mrs. Hiro are always so quiet and keep to themselves. “Two, three years ago at the most.”

  Agent Peabody continued scribbling in his notebook. He had very fine penmanship. The FBI agents I had known in the past had chicken scratch writing. It was hard for me to decipher their notes upside down. I could read Agent Peabody’s with no problem.

  “How was Gary killed?” I asked him.

  The agent sat back in the wooden chair, stretching his fingers out. “The case is currently under investigation. We’re not allowed to give out any information.”

  A long time ago, I learned that what people say and what they write are two different things. I saw him start writing something next to Gary’s name. As we spoke, there was a tap on the office window, which distracted him. He never finished. It was Chief Krundel trying to get his attention. Agent Peabody excused himself and stepped out carrying his notepad.

  When he returned, he was carrying a coffee mug. He sat back down and opened his notepad again.

  “Is this your first assignment?” I asked.

  “I’m temporarily assigned to the Chicago bureau.”

  “So, this is your first assignment. I think you’re doing a fine job. I’ll be sure to let Deputy Director Claypool know.”

  “How do you know the Deputy Director?”

  “We’re old friends,” I said.

  He hesitated for a moment. I could tell he wanted to ask more questions about my relationship with the deputy director. I don’t like to name drop but I thought it might put the young agent at ease knowing that I was friends with his boss’ boss and that I would put a good word in for him. He thought better of asking and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Kustodia, Jan. If I have any further questions, I know how to contact you.” He closed his notebook.

  I stood up and walked toward the door. Chief Krundel stood there, waiting to escort me to my car. “Thanks for coming in, Jan,” he said. “I’ll see you at the council meeting.”

  We walked outside to my car. “Oh, Mark, let me know if you want James to move forward with his talent show idea, and don’t forget Sunday at 2 p.m. hot yoga,” I said, opening my car door.

  Chapter Six

  I stood in James’ gourmet kitchen. It is gorgeous, it is his masterpiece. It took him years to design and he labored over every detail. The brown-speckled granite countertop was flown in direct from Italy. The 10-foot long island slab took six men to carry it into the house. I should know, I supervised the installation. Like everything James does, it always has to be the best. The kitchen could be in one of those fancy home magazines with its Viking stove and Sub-Zero refrigerator. Not sure why he needs all that, I manage well enough on my Sears gas stove and Kenmore refrigerator. The stove gets stuff hot and the refrigerator keeps stuff cold. What else do you need?

  Today we’re preparing for book club. I came over early to help James. As always, James has an elaborate plan. His flare for dramatics is fun. I enjoy his company, and he is a wonderful cook. I don’t mind helping him out.

  James came back into the kitchen, carrying bottles of wine from his basement wine cellar. Another extravagance that could be in one of those home magazines. I was fine with my gallon jug of Gallo. “Jan, this is going to be the best book club ever.” James was wearing freshly pressed designer jeans, a cashmere sweater and hiking boots. I couldn’t imagine what the game plan was.

  “I’m not sure you can top the tour of the Frank Lloyd Wright studio,” I said. We toured the home of the famous architect but I couldn’t recall the name of the book.

  “Loving Frank,” he said as if he read my mind.

  “Yeah, Loving Frank. I thought it was about Frank Sinatra. That’s why I started reading it.” My Frank, Frank Sinatra, wouldn’t have liked the book either.

  “You never finish any of the books,” he said. “In fact, I don’t even think you pick them up.”

  “I come for the atmosphere. When we read Julie and Julia,”

  “Were supposed to read,” he interrupted me.

  “I didn’t need to read it. I saw the movie with Meg. Meryl Streep was wonderful,” I said. “Having the book club at Le Titi di Paris was a great idea. The food was delicious.” I sat back, recalling the beef bourguignon. James asked the chef to prepare it especially for our club. James knew a lot of people and he knew how to get things done.

  “Tonight, Jan, is very special. I’m sure if you read the book.” James picked up his copy of the book. I read the title quickly. It was In the Woods by Tana French. “I’ve picked the perfect spot to discuss this murder mystery.”

  “What’s it about, James?”

  “Oh, Jan, you’re kidding me, right?” He turned over the back cover and read, “In Tana French’s powerful debut thriller, three children leave their small Dublin neighborhood to play in the surrounding woods.”

  “So, you’re telling me we’re having book club in the woods. Is that what’s happening?”

  “Of course, it’s a murder mystery, my favorite. What better place to discuss a murder that happens in the woods than in the woods.” He paused. “We can walk right out my back door and enjoy a picnic lunch in the clearing a couple hundred feet from here. I’ve already scoped out the area. It’s perfect. There is a blanket of wildflowers blooming already.”

  “We’re going to sit on the ground. Is it damp?” I asked.

  “No, it’s dry, Jan. I put a blanket down with a tarp underneath to make it extra cozy. Isn’t it fun?” James asked.

  I kne
w better than to try to talk James out of his plan. He was smiling his perfect James smile, his turquoise contacts glistened. I thought we could certainly discuss the book sitting on his back deck looking out at the woods. But James was a purist. If the book was set in the woods then James would be in the woods. Next month’s book title was Sin in the Second City, I couldn’t image what theme location James would dream up for that meeting.

  James pulled things out of his fridge, piling them onto the island. “To keep with the theme, the entire menu features traditional Irish picnic food. We’re starting with Kerrygold cheese from Ireland. I’ve got cheddar, Emmental and Dubliner. To accompany the cheese, we have an Irish fruit chutney of apple and pear. I made it myself. And, of course, we have Branson pickles. They’re sour. It will cut through the sweetness. Water crackers and soda bread.”

  As James named the foods off, my head grew dizzy. His hands flew around the kitchen like he was directing an orchestra. He was very worked up. He got worked up over good books and good food.

  “I also have a nice red wine and for those who dare an Irish whiskey.” He added the two bottles to the growing pile by the picnic basket.

  “That sounds great.”

  “Wait, Jan, I'm not done. For the main course, I made bridies. It’s a meat pie. It can be eaten hot or cold. Perfect for a picnic.” He organized items into a large wicker picnic basket. “And, I’ve made an Irish whiskey cake. The lemon cake is tart and sweet, a perfect complement to the whiskey.”

  “Boy, that almost makes me want to read the book, James,” I said.

  “You’re bad, Jan.” He packed everything into the baskets. As he finished, I skimmed through the book. I needed a general idea for the discussion. It didn’t hold my interest. I peeked out his kitchen garden window through his collection of herbs and spices that grow in antique pots. I couldn’t remember what the pots were called. James knows every antique in his house, when it was made and where he found it.

  We gathered in the backyard. James told everyone to meet there. Over the past few years, James turned his backyard into an English rose garden complete with a fieldstone fence wall that surrounded the large double lot. His back deck is made of slate with a little walkway leading through the patches of English roses. James already told us that he wants to host the August mystery lover’s book meeting. The book title escapes me, it probably has to do with a garden murder or flowers. I’d get to it eventually. No, let’s be honest, probably not.

  We walked along the little path. There were seven of us in all. Helen, her daughter, Sandy, who moved back after graduating from Iowa State with her MBA. My old friend Marian from the library. Monika. And, Helen invited North Linden Jan. Helen lives on the border between the two Linden Avenues. She always feels obligated to include North Linden Jan.

  James opened the wrought iron gate that led out into the woods. It swung open with a creak. He turned around and smiled at me. “OOOH, Spooky.” Then he told the others, “I had my gardener mow a path to the clearing.”

  It was an easy walk, no more than a couple hundred yards. The elm trees that bordered the backyards gave way to old growth oak trees, the heart of the DuPage County Forest. Their canopy with the new leaves hovered over us blocking the sun until we reached the clearing. The April showers did bring May flowers. The little meadow was filled with purple sage, Irises and crocus. It was actually quite lovely.

  James had placed a blanket large enough for all of us to sit. I sat down slowly, hoping I would be able to get back up from the ground. I wasn’t what you’d call outdoorsy. My husband, Gino, and I traveled the country in a RV one year. We saw all the sights; the Grand Canyon and Mount Rushmore but we either stayed in the RV or a hotel. That was my idea of roughing it.

  James opened and poured the wine. The cheese was set out and we all helped ourselves. I listened to the conversation about the book, not joining in. When they got to the part of the story where the dead body was found, James stopped and everyone looked over at me. I had only been half listening. When I looked up from eating my piece of cheese I was surprised to see everyone staring at me. “What? What’d I miss?”

  “Jan, this isn’t upsetting you, is it?” Helen asked.

  “What do you mean?” I asked back.

  “The dead body. I mean after you know, Gary,” Helen said.

  “Oh, Gary. I’m fine.” I hoped my words would assure her.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Helen asked.

  I felt like I was at one of those interventions. I’d seen them on those reality shows that Meg watches. They never end well, and I didn’t believe they were so real either. “There’s really nothing to talk about. The police are investigating. I’m confident that Chief Krundel will find out what happened to Gary.”

  “That was only three houses away from me. What if it was me? What if it was my daughter? I’ve never been worried about our safety in this neighborhood until now,” Helen said. “I can’t believe you’re not upset.”

  I looked around at the faces of my dear friends, my neighbors. I felt like I couldn’t find the words to comfort them, to ease their fears. They were worried about me and for themselves. “I am upset, Helen. I’m angry but I’m not afraid.” I had seen worse. I don’t normally talk about the war, that’s behind me now. “I was one of the last surgical nurses in Saigon in 1975 before the Army evacuated. The boys that were left behind to cover our backs were hit hard by the Viet Cong. It was me and two other nurses. Gino was the only surgeon. He wouldn’t leave without me and I wouldn’t leave until all the soldiers were out of there,” I said. “I’ve seen the worst of what humans can do to each other, and at some point it makes you numb. You have to feel that way to go on. It’s the only way to survive.” I stared out at their nervous faces. I needed to reassure them that I was ok and that they would be safe. “Look, everyone, life goes on. This was a tragedy but we’ve got each other’s backs. We watch out for our own. We’re safe because we have each other.”

  The conversation returned to the book. I think my words comforted them in some way. While the others were talking, North Linden Jan came and sat down next to me. “Are you planning to go to the city council meeting?” North Linden Jan asked me.

  “I haven’t missed a meeting in forty years. Why would you think I’d missed this one?”

  “You’ve had a lot going on,” North Linden Jan said. “I went door to door to make sure everyone was coming. I think it’s important you do the same for your block.”

  I was getting upset now with NLJ. Nobody told me how to conduct business on my street. I had to get some air before I said something I might regret. “Excuse me, Jan,” I said. My knees creaked as I uncrossed my legs to get up from the ground. I walked over to the edge of the field to look at the Irises. I bent down to smell the sage. It smelled horrible. Or, something smelled rotten. I walked further into the woods and I found the source of the smell. It smelled like what it was -- death. I swatted the flies that were buzzing around me. And, then I found the rotting big bullfrog. It was covered in maggots. When I got back to the others, James was serving the meat pie.

  Chapter Seven

  After picking Danny up from the bus stop, I sat on the front porch, sipping my afternoon tea. He was playing street hockey with his friends in front of our house. I told Meg I would watch him while she went shopping. From my rocking chair, I could see Mr. Hiro out in his front garden, flashes of purple peeked through his evergreens as Mrs. Hiro fluttered about wearing her purple silk kimono. It was late afternoon and warm for spring. Valerie’s tulips were starting to break through the mulch. The crocuses and daffodils were already in bloom. The Anderson’s weeping cherry tree was awash with pink and white blossoms.

  Directly across from our house is the split rail fence that divides South Linden from the DuPage County Forest Preserve. It doesn’t do much to stop the deer from jumping over or the raccoons from crawling under. I have a slight tolerance for the deer but the raccoons try my patience. The little sneak thieves. Th
ey knocked over the garbage cans and refused to clean up after themselves.

  Mr. Hiro finished his weeding and got into his white panel van. He took off. I always thought it was a bit unusual that his work van has no name on it. Most contractors I’ve seen on the block have their company logo or phone number on their van. In fact, I wasn’t even sure what kind of contract work he did. I’ve seen ladders on top of his van. A few times I’ve noticed him carrying duffel bags and tools from his back yard to the van. I guess I assumed that he worked in construction.

  Meg’s gray Lincoln Navigator pulled into the driveway. It was a little flashy for my taste but these young folks are all about status symbols these days with their designer names. iPhones. Uggs. North Face. Prada. Where I grew up on Taylor Street in Chicago, the only labels we were concerned about were the ones we placed on each other.

  “Hi Meg.” I ran down to help her unload the groceries from the back of the SUV.

  Throwing his stick on the ground, Danny ran up, gave me a hug. “Gran, Gran, did you see me? Did you see that goal?”

  “Yes, Danny,” I said turning around to give him an encouraging smile. “You’re really good.”

  “Are you coming to my hockey game on Saturday?” He grabbed one of the bags from my hand.

  “Of course, I wouldn’t miss it.” I could never say no to him. I held back the urge to pinch his little round face. It is an Italian custom reserved for grandmothers, and in my case an Italian great-grandmother. Danny didn’t care for it especially in front of his friends.

  I watched him go into the house, carrying his bags of groceries. I followed him with the few remaining bags. Danny set his bags down on the granite island and went back towards the door. “Danny,” Meg said. “Grab your guitar. I want you to practice your lesson before dinner.”

  “C’mon, Mom, they’re still playing hockey in front,” Danny argued. “Can I practice later?”