Free Murder at Fire Bay by Ron Hess Page B

to hide his amusement at seeing me move around. But he took pity on me and tapped his pipe on a leg of his chair, spilling the ashes onto the boardwalk. “What do you want to know about Gloria?  
    “Anything you know or want to tell.”
    His head jerked back. “Why wouldn’t I tell everything I know?”
    I shook my head. “Maybe there are personal things you would rather not discuss.”
    He stared at me. “Who are you?”
    I stood up. The interview was not going well. “I’m just a temporary postmaster trying to get a handle on things. That’s all.”
    He put his pipe back into his mouth and sucked on it. He stared again at me. At last, he nodded. “I don’t know much about ‘er. She used to rent a skiff to go fishing. Said it cleared her mind. I can tell you she was true blue. She was not the kind to lie, cheat, or steal.”
    “Did she have a boyfriend?” I asked.
    The old man snorted and raised an eyebrow. He pulled the pipe from his mouth. “Now there’s a question.” He started to repack his pipe.  
    I took a deep breath and waited.
    “Nope, none that I know of,” he said.
    “She was a loner, then?”
    He scratched a match on his Carhartts and lit the pipe. Great columns of smoke trailed upward and I moved a step away. Satisfied the furnace wasn’t going out, he wiped the air with his match. “Nope. She wasn’t a loner. Sometimes her woman friend was with her.”
    By now the smoke had settled down into a small curl and I stepped back closer. “Do you know her friend’s name?”
    “I think her first name was Martha, but I ain’t sure.”
    I rocked back on my heels, a cold chill tickling my backbone. “Were they lovers?”
    “Lovers? What kind of question is that? You mean like queers and lesbians?” He grimaced. “I wouldn’t know. I ain’t into that kinda stuff! That’s about it, Mr. Postmaster!”
    “One more question and then I’ll go. Did the Troopers ask about her friend?”
    He sighed. “Nope.”
    The pipe found its way back into his mouth and I knew that was the end of the audience. I said my thanks and moved off down the boardwalk. Here and there, I saw other skiffs tucked between larger boats. The old man’s skiffs were not the only ones at the dock. Were they all listed with the harbormaster? That might be something to look into, but the Troopers and postal inspectors were sure to have done that.
    I checked my watch and was surprised to see a couple of hours had gone by. I had spent enough time on the dock. People would be asking why the postmaster, with all his problems at the post office, was wasting time hanging around the dock talking with an old man.  
    On the way back to the post office, I speculated about Martha. Had there been a lovers’ spat? Was it that simple? Martha was a good-sized woman. She could have killed the supervisor easily enough. But she didn’t strike me as a person who lost her temper. Nope, she seemed too much in control of herself to do that. I had to find out, and soon. But how did I ask her about her whereabouts without her realizing what I was up to? A long, heavy sigh escaped my lips as I parked the Jeep back at the post office.

 
    Chapter 10
     
    There are times when you walk into a room and you just know something is wrong. People were working, but it was too quiet—the kind of quiet that tells you there’s a bear on the trail behind you. As I made my way up front to my office, I found out why.  
    “Where’s my boat part?” the gentleman demanded. This time it was not George Grosse facing Ashley across my desk. He was another charter boat skipper, judging by his black fisherman’s cap with the gold braid stitched on the bill. He stood taller than I did— maybe about six feet two—and I could tell he was used to getting answers. The crinkles around his eyes did not look friendly.
    “May I help?” I asked.
    He looked from Ashley to me. “Yeah, maybe you can. I ordered a prop from Seattle two weeks ago. They say they sent it out