The Dead Letter by Finley Martin Page B

flash of red and blue lights from a Charlottetown police cruiser.
    Mary Anne MacAdam was waiting at the curb.
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œI came in early to check last night’s receipts and noticed your door ajar. I thought you might be up for a cup of coffee. I went upstairs, I pushed the door open, but you weren’t there. Then I phoned the police…and you.”
    They reached the second floor. Inside were Constables Frieda Toombs and Jeremy Willis. They turned when they heard footsteps.
    â€œI’m Billy Darby. This is my office. Whaddaya got?”
    â€œA mess,” said Constable Toombs with a sweep of her arm.
    Anne looked at the overturned furniture and ransacked filing cabinets. She looked past them into her private office. It was the same there.
    â€œWhat’ve you found?”
    â€œThere’s tool marks on the front door and the door to the office inside,” said Willis.
    â€œâ€¦and more on the safe,” said Toombs. “But their pry bar couldn’t open it.”
    â€œAny ideas?”
    â€œMost break and enters are drug-related.”
    â€œWell, that narrows it down to a few thousand suspects,” said Anne. “What now?”
    â€œWe’ll make some inquiries. There’s a couple of security cameras in the area. Maybe we’ll get lucky. For now, we need you to check what’s here…and what isn’t. Make a list. The sooner we get it the better.”
    The police left. Anne walked into her office, stood by the window as the police car pulled away, turned around and stared back at the trail of debris leading back toward the front door. She felt like hitting something. Anger welled up, and like a passing wave, it sank into dejection. Mary Anne rested a hand on Anne’s shoulder.
    â€œCome down for a coffee. You can deal with this later,” she said.
    â€œI’ll be there in a bit,” Anne replied.
    Anne heard a scrape against the fractured doorjamb as Mary Anne closed it behind her. By then, the anger had diminished. The dejection had dissipated, and Anne began her clean-up in the reception area.
    Chaos , she thought. Friggin’ chaos.
    The filing cabinet and her desk had been ransacked. Notes, memos, invoices, notices, manuals, bills, directories, and magazines littered the floor. Cabinet drawers dangled open, and the contents had been strewn about. Knick-knacks had been swept off tables and desktops. The more fragile ones were broken. The bulb in a lamp had shattered, and the shade had twisted.
    The scene in her private office followed the same theme: overturned furniture, a shambles of paper from files, and damaged bric-a-brac, but it took less time to put back in order than the reception area. Anne went to the safe. It was a large floor safe, something that could have come out of an old payroll office. She noted the tool marks on the door. She spun the dial and entered the combination. The door swung open.
    She reached for a file labelled “Carolyn Jollimore.” It was intact, and Carolyn’s last letter was inside, where Anne had last put it.
    Mary Anne brought a fresh coffee to Anne’s table in The Blue Peter and slipped a Danish on a small dish alongside it.
    â€œHow ya feeling now?”
    â€œThis helps a lot,” said Anne taking a long sip. “Thanks.”
    The Blue Peter was empty except for the wait staff preparing lunch. Mary Anne had brought a coffee for herself and sat down across from Anne.
    â€œAnything missing?” she asked.
    â€œDon’t think so.”
    â€œWell, that’s a relief.”
    â€œIt is, and it isn’t.”
    â€œI don’t follow.”
    â€œIf it were druggies, like the cops say, something would be gone…computer…something. I’m not sure I buy that story. First of all, an upstairs office like mine isn’t an ideal target. What’s to steal in an office? No cash, no jewellery, no guns. No fancy electronics.”
    â€œI