Free Murder at Fire Bay by Ron Hess Page A

quietly.
    “Okay,” she said.
    “How do you like the new arrangement of cases?”
    Her mouth turned up at the corners of her face. Was it a smile or smirk?  
    “I suggested we do this last year.”
    I nodded, sighed, and moved on, my feelings of being on top of things deflated. Still, postal life looked good at that moment.
    Just as I moved around to the other side of Martha’s case, Ashley came over.
    “Ah’m thinking we should move Martha’s case a little closer to the east wall.”
    I put my hand up to my chin, as if studying the situation. I glanced at a slot of Martha’s case to see her looking back at me through the slot with narrowed eyes. I got the message.
    “Let’s leave it here for the time being. We’ve done a lot of moving in the past few days. Let’s see how what we’ve done works out.”
    If Ashley felt anything about my wanting to leave things alone, it didn’t show. In the back of my mind though, I had the feeling tension could develop between those two. I determined I would walk the narrow path of righteousness. But as a manager, it would be hard to take the part of Martha over Ashley. Managers just don’t do that; they hang together, especially when dealing with the union.  
    Ashley and I moved on, talking over mundane admin stuff. Finding myself alone in my office again, I sat for a while staring out the window. Hell with it! The sun was shining outside. What the hell was I doing inside? I needed a break. I jumped up, grabbed my jacket, and put on my red baseball cap.
    Ashley looked up from her desk as I passed by her office. “Going out?” she asked.
    “Yeah, I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” I said.
    Outside the back door, I took a deep breath of early fall air. And felt homesick as hell. I needed to be back in Howes Bluff. It was hunting season. Last year, with guidance from the villagers, I had shot a bull moose. Well, there would be no moose for me this year.  
    I jumped into the Jeep with no idea where I was going. The Jeep knew though, and I found myself heading out to the ocean dock. The longhaired janitor had told me there were at least four hundred slips. I believed him. There were all kinds of boats for all kinds of different jobs: charters, commercial barges, small skiffs; name it and it was there.  
    I parked and walked down a ramp to the floating boardwalk. It was a beautiful day, and I heartily wished I were out on the bay somewhere hunting for halibut. But I was a postmaster, and I was supposed to be working, not indulging myself in fantasy. I meandered over to where a bunch of skiffs lay gently bobbing in the swells from passing boats. An old man sat in a chair with a For Rent sign propped against it. He looked like the typical old sailor with his black cap, denim jacket, and pants. The pipe and its smoke curling upward completed the picture.  
    “Want to rent one?”
    I shook my head. “I wish I could. Maybe on the weekend.”
    We were silent for a bit. It struck me the old gent might know about the deceased supervisor. Another minute went by. Finally, deciding nothing ventured, nothing gained, I spoke.
      “I understand the post office lady died in a skiff.”
    The old man’s blue eyes found mine. Just when his gaze was becoming uncomfortable, he spoke. “You’re new around here, aren’t cha.”
    I nodded. “Yeah, I guess I am. I’m the temporary postmaster here until a new one can be chosen.”
    “Thought so,” he said.
    A few more curls of smoke were dispersed into the slight breeze. Naturally, some of it came my way. Naturally, I coughed. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I heard him chuckle.
    “It was that skiff with the forty-horse motor and blue trim over there. The Troopers and just about everybody else have looked it over. Take a look if you want.”
    I shook my head and squatted down beside him, hoping to avoid the smoke, but that didn’t help. I got it straight in the face and began to tear up. The old man chuckled again, making no effort