Free Cancelled by Murder by Jean Flowers

with more than the usual number of money orders today and a couple of people who needed help wrapping unwieldy packages, but in between, my mind went to Daisy’s unsolved murder. I longed to know how the investigation was proceeding. I was dismayed that my status as best friend of the chief of police gave me no insight into the progress, if any, she and her staff were making, or what they were focusing on.
    Now and then I replayed sayings from Daisy in my head. One was embroidered on a T-shirt she had made up for each new member of the group: QUILTERS ARE PIECEMAKERS . Another was a sign above the door to the back room of her shop: BEFORE ANTIDEPRESSANTS THERE WAS QUILTING . And her most useful: WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU SCRAPS, MAKE A QUILT . It was hard to reconcile her playful outlook with the way she had died.
    Cliff had texted me sometime during the night saying he’d like to come by with lunch “to firm up some plans.” I imagined his list might include “break into the PD and copy police case notes” and “bring in all of Daisy’s friends, acquaintances, and customers and line them up forquestioning.” Short of those tasks, I couldn’t see what two regular citizens could accomplish. But I felt I owed Cliff a hearing, and when I was free enough to text back, I wrote sure
.
    I’d cleared the lobby line by ten minutes before noon, giving me a little time to look more carefully at the pile of questionable pieces that had been delivered this morning. Stuffing the post office boxes, my second duty after raising the flag every day, usually moved quickly. I inserted mail with correct addresses and tended to the problem pieces later, as time allowed. Generally, I could make up for mislabeled mail from memory. I knew that the Olsons rented box 457 and not 754, for example, and that the Carrolls lived in South Ashcot, not North Ashcot. But there were times when I had to do a little research before being able to take care of an incorrect label. I never liked writing RETURN TO SENDER unless I’d exhausted all other options.
    This morning, I’d left a postcard from Quinn on top of the stack. I read the
wish you were here
message, then looked again at the beautiful photo. On the front was a shot of the Eastern Point Lighthouse in Gloucester, a center of the fishing industry, north of Boston on Cape Ann. The vista made me wistful not only for my boyfriend, but for the days I’d spent walking the beaches along the Atlantic Ocean.
    I tucked the card in my desk drawer and worked my way down the pile of misfits. A letter addressed to David Rafferty, a name I didn’t recognize at first, had me stumped until I remembered that he was the Raleys’ nephew from Chicago, spending the month of August with them and their tiny animals. I placed the envelope in their box.
    Another anomaly was an envelope addressed to a formerbox holder who’d moved. I checked my register, added the forwarding address, and dropped the item in the bag for pickup tomorrow. If only every problem could be solved so simply.
    The last letter was addressed to “Postmaster.” I slit the plain white envelope open and read the handwritten note. I gulped and read it again, bringing on a shiver.
    Do your job or go home.
    My name wasn’t on it, I reasoned, once my breath returned to normal. It wasn’t a personal message. It could be meant for any postmaster, maybe Ben—though after a year on the job, I had to admit it probably wasn’t for my predecessor, and the “go home” part was suspiciously pointed. The most positive spin I could put on it was that an ill-humored customer was unhappy with my job performance and unwilling to face me directly with his or her issue.
    I tried to think of an altercation I’d had; nothing came to mind that would provoke this response. I’d opened the office a half hour late once this summer when a plumbing problem at home kept me longer than