Free Murder at Fire Bay by Ron Hess

Jeep Cherokee sitting in the supervisor’s slot. I checked my watch. Hmm … seven o’clock. What had Jeanette said about the new supervisor? I had a hunch I was about to find out.
    Briefcase in hand, I moseyed in the back door.  
    “Good morning, Mr. Bronski!”
    I’m sure I looked as startled as I felt. My flight-or-fight instinct honed by days lost behind lines in a Vietnam jungle, I could feel the blood rushing in my ears. Then, I spotted her coming at me down a line of cases. A smirk showed on the face of the woman nearest me. Probably wondering how this cheerful dynamo and I were going to get along. She held out her hand. “I’m Ashley Norsbe,” she said in a southern accent.  
    Now I knew why Jeanette had seemed apprehensive on the phone. The figure before me was, well . . . stunning. She had curly blond hair down to her shoulders, with eyes so blue against a tan skin, I knew they couldn’t be natural, but, as I was later to find out, they were. Slim, around five feet seven, dressed in a dark pants suit that accentuated her long legs, she was enough to make any grown man salivate. Fortunately, I kept myself under control. I had seen beautiful women before, had even worked with one. It was my judgment that beauty can be as much a burden as a blessing to women. Some have a hard time not using their beauty to get their way in this world. I was always a little suspicious of them. I would withhold judgment, but I was on the alert for any shenanigans on her part.  
    I took her hand and smiled. “Leo, you can call me Leo. Mr. Bronski takes too long to say.”
    “Oh, that’s wonderful. I just know we’re going to get on,” she said in that bubbly southern drawl.  
    I was sure I heard a snicker somewhere.
    “Let’s go to my office, shall we?” I asked.
    “Yes,” she said.
    “Abby!” I yelled.
    “Over here, sir,” she yelled back, and I saw her at a case, looking for all the world like a worker who had found a home.
    “How about coming to my office?”
    “Be right there!”
    I opened my door and practically fell over in shock. The place was neat as a pin. Not that I mind neatness; it just doesn’t come naturally.
    “The place looks great, Abby.”  
    “Uh . . . I didn’t do it, sir. Ms. Norsbe did.”
    Ashley practically dimpled and fluttered her eyebrows.
    “Ah had some spare time? So ah thought I’d spruce the place up?” she said, with that questioning inflection that so many Southerners affect.
    I gave my thanks and we sat down. The long transfer of power meeting I had anticipated turned out to be a fifteen-minute session of smiles and platitudes. Abby and she had already gotten together, Ashley said, on Saturday evening, so she was pretty much up to speed. I thanked Abby for her help, and she walked out with a free-as-a-bird look on her face. Ashley waited until the office door closed. “She certainly was glad to get back to her old job.”
    “Yes,” I said, “and she may have the best position, who’s to say?”
    That over with, we got down to the meaty business of running a post office. Come noon, after a few interruptions, things were starting to look in order, meaning, we’d decided which employee was to show up at what time and what his or her job should be. Ashley took notes and made a couple of excellent suggestions about the placements of carts and cases. I began to think she was going to work out.  
    * * *
    By the following Thursday I was twiddling my thumbs. It was as if Ashley were reading my thoughts. Cases had been moved around in relation to the ramp area where the trucks unloaded. Everything seemed to be moving more smoothly. I got up from my desk and wandered out onto the main floor, bored to death. I wasn’t sure, but the place seemed quieter. Had Ashley told the troops they were talking too much? I stopped by Martha’s case and watched in admiration as the letters flew from her hands into the respective slots.
    “Hi, Martha. How’s it going?” I asked