Death Takes Priority by Jean Flowers Page A

you,” he said, stretching his long arms above his head.
    Not likely. But the one dozen cupcakes in a pink box might also have contributed to his decision.
    â€œI’ll put on some coffee,” I said.
    Whatever the reason Ben stayed put, it was nice to have someone to talk to. Usually one or both of us were busy, our interactions limited to brief encounters over post office issues we couldn’t agree on.
    One trivial issue was Ben’s old office spindle, a five-inch-long green metal spike on a circular base, from his first post office job. I’d seen the objects in old movies, usually at a cash register in a diner. The clerk would slam the checks onto the sharp point. I never saw the point, as a matter of fact, of mutilating a transaction record.
    My main objection now was that the spindle was a hazard. Many customers who came in with children sat them on the counter while we conducted business, and I had nightmares about a child getting stuck with the needlelike object.
    â€œKids should not be on the counters in the first place,” Ben had insisted, in his usual show-stopping way of winning an argument.
    We had a truce of sorts, whereby he’d take the spindle out when he was working, and I’d put it in my desk drawer when he was off duty. The North Ashcot Post Office, like the rest of the world, ran on compromise.
    The first thing I learned in this afternoon’s more leisurely chat was that, as upset as Ben was by Wendell’s murder, he’d never liked the guy very much. When Ben had agreed to sub for me this morning, the “nice young fellow” he’d urged me to help was Scott/Quinn. He explained why.
    â€œA lot of times he’ll come by and change a fluorescent for me or give me a hand on something,” he said. “And I don’t think I ever told you about the time Quinn—well, he was Scott then, as far as I knew—came to my rescue on the day after Halloween last year. Some kids had made a mess of the outside of the building.”
    Color me startled. “Wait. How did you find out Scott and Quinn are the same guy?”
    â€œIt’s all over town. Didn’t you know?”
    â€œYes, I’ve known. I didn’t know you knew.” What would my grammar teacher have done with that sentence, other than circle all the forms of the verb “to know”? “And since when has it been all over town? And why did you label the letter addressed to Quinn Martindale as undeliverable if you knew who he was? Is.”
    â€œWell, now, I didn’t know yesterday, did I? I didn’t know until I had a date last night with a certain person who works in the police building. So maybe I exaggerated on the ‘all over town’ bit.”
    More startling: Ben was dating. Maybe he could give me some advice. Back to the leak—who worked in the police building besides cops? Before I could ask, Ben went on.
    â€œAnd before you ask, I’m not saying who told me exactly.”
    That didn’t mean I couldn’t try to guess. “Someone on the cleaning crew?”
    Ben gave me a look and pressed his lips together. “Did you want to hear my Halloween story or not?”
    â€œA clerical person?” The only administrator I’d seen was too young for Ben, but who was to say? I ran images through my head. What older women had I seen in the station? “One of the civilian volunteers? The lady who tags abandoned cars?”
    Ben made a move to leave. I put my hand on his bony arm. “Okay, I’m sorry. I want to hear the Halloween story.”
    â€œIt was trick-or-treat night, you know. A bunch of teenagers from the south end of town had TP’d the place, sprayed the front door with some kind of green monster paint, I can’t remember what else, but every old trick in the book. Quinn had only been in town about a month as I recall, and hehappened by and saw me trying to clean up out there. To make things worse,