Free The Dead Letter by Finley Martin

Nearby was a dish of freshly cut grapefruit sections, a jar of brown sugar, and a container of milk. Anne was pouring cups of fresh coffee as Jacqui sat down.
    â€œWhat’s the special occasion?” asked Jacqui, looking around.
    â€œNo special occasion. I just had a little more time this morning. It’s pouring outside.”
    â€œAnd I was going to walk to school with Rada this morning,” she said. She sounded disappointed.
    â€œI’ll drive you, if you want, Jacqui.”
    â€œPlease and thanks.”
    â€œAnd it’s Jacqueline, not Jacqui, if you remember.”
    â€œRight. Jacqueline. I’ll try to remember.” Anne added a delicate glaze of sarcasm, which Jacqui didn’t notice.
    â€œSo, tell me about Rada.”
    â€œWhat’s to tell?”
    â€œWell, what are her parents like?”
    â€œThey don’t talk much, except among themselves, and then it’s in some other language. They seem nice, though. Mrs. Kikovic gives us treats when Rada comes home. Rada told me what it was, but I can’t pronounce it. It was good, though.”
    â€œDo they belong to any groups… Are they involved with the school…any hobbies…interests? Does Rada play soccer like you?”
    â€œNo, I don’t think she’s allowed. She can’t wear shorts or T-shirts or stuff like that.”
    â€œHow does Rada feel about that?”
    â€œLike everyone else. It’s hard when you don’t fit in.”
    â€œHow about you? Do you think it’s important to fit in?”
    â€œOf course, Mom. You can’t show up for rugby try-outs wearing hockey skates, can you?”
    â€œI guess not. Okay, comb your hair. It’s almost time to go.”
    Even though the rain had slowed to a trickle, the weather had dampened any desire for conversation and, during the drive to school, everyone in the car retreated into private thoughts. Anne swung the car into the stop-and-drop entrance. Their goodbyes were polite and subdued. As the girls left the car, the wind came up. Jacqui clutched her books and shielded her eyes. Rada gripped her skirt, and her long black hair heaved and swayed in the gusts.

17.
    At her office Anne found two messages on the answering machine. The first was from Ben. He said he had a case file for her—the Simone Villier file. Anne had had no hope of getting that police file on her own. So Ben’s news was a blessing, and a small thrill leapt through her.
    The rain had stopped, and clouds were breaking up in the east as she walked the six blocks to his new office. The door was half-open, and she stuck her head in.
    â€œHi,” she said. “Nice,” she added, surveying the room. “Great view up here, too.”
    â€œYeah, but there’s no handle to open the window.” Ben looked up from an empty desktop. “No fresh air. And if I’m driven around the bend by boredom, I can’t jump out. I’ll have to find a ground floor way of doing away with myself.”
    â€œGood grief! That’s a joyful sound. Can’t be that bad, can it?”
    â€œI’ve been sitting here for days. So far, nobody has briefed me on anything.”
    â€œYou haven’t been in the job very long, though,” she said. It was a dismal effort at being supportive.
    â€œMaybe not. But I get the impression that the Premier and the Justice Minister would rather not rock any boats.”
    â€œWhat makes you think that? What did they say?”
    â€œNothing yet. They haven’t spoken to me beyond the customary welcome-aboard phone calls. No agenda. No staff meetings. Nothing. I think they’d be happy if I just went away.”
    â€œYou sure you’re not overreacting? Everything takes time in government. You’ll see.”
    â€œI’m not so sure. I approached the Premier’s chief of staff, Wendell Carmody, about the direction I wanted to take with this office, but he got this blank look on