Up from the Grave by Marilyn Leach Page A

that to Cherry please.”
    Before Berdie could respond, the stack was in her hand, and she watched Pat the Postman hustle off in manic fashion to the next domicile. “You’re welcome,” she called after the woman.
    The large door opened. “Mrs. Elliott, please come in.” Cherry greeted her in denim jeans and a short buttoned cardigan, smart yet practical for the type of work a B and B required.
    Berdie handed Cherry the clustered mail. “Special delivery,” she chortled.
    “Thanks.” Cherry laughed and held the mail close to her body.
    The hostess showed Berdie through the wallpapered hallway into a side room with large glass double doors. It served as a sitting room for guests. It was cozy with upholstered furnishings, an inglenook that stood pertly in a fireplace surround, and a coffee table laid for tea.
    “Whatever happened to village postal service where the dear postman gave jovial greetings?” Berdie memorialized.
    Cherry nodded. “Patricia can be curt. Certainly not like old Mr. Orson.” She paused. “Oh please, sit down.” Cherry waved Berdie towards a sofa then did a rapid shuffle of the multiple envelopes.
    “Orson?” Berdie leaned back on the sofa.
    “Mum and I lived in a tiny village near the sea.” Cherry stilled the shuffling. “Orson was the postman. ‘Good morning, Mrs. Gordon,’ he’d say to my mum, very warmly, and he’d always have a sweetie for me. But then that was years ago.” Cherry eyed the top envelope in her hand. “Now that’s odd.” She squinted.
    “What’s odd?” Berdie asked with interest.
    “This letter’s addressed to my grandfather, but it has our street number.” Cherry took a closer look. “It’s from the continent.”
    “Really? Wilkie’s name and your number, from the continent?”
    Cherry handed the letter to Berdie. Indeed, the return address looked to be German.
    Berdie read aloud. “Doktor Herman Schultz, twenty-five Morgan Strasse, Heidelberg.” Curiosity getting the better of her, Berdie lifted the thin airmail envelope up to the morning sunlight that flooded through the glass doors. She tried to scrutinize its contents.
    Cherry spotted the backside of the envelope and emitted a quick gasp.
    “What?”
    “It’s slightly open.” Cherry looked at Berdie, chin down and eyebrows raised.
    Berdie tried to adjust her ‘vicar’s wife hat. “This is a personal correspondence,” she advised. And then the vicar’s wife hat went askew. “Is there a chance he may have intended the letter for you?”
    Cherry grasped the envelope from Berdie’s hand and gingerly moved her finger along, lifting the flap of it ever so carefully. Then, with great concentration, she pulled out a single tri-fold sheet of office paper and unfurled it.
    Berdie made every effort to stay glued to her seat. She tried desperately not to be overly eager.
    “Oh, it’s a bill,” Cherry informed with a bit of disappointment. Then her eyes enlarged. Berdie held back the impulse to grab the paper and read it herself.
    “A bill for thirty thousand pounds,” Cherry all but shouted.
    “Thirty thousand pounds?” Berdie lifted her well-kept brows.
    “Hang about.” Cherry ran her finger over the paper. “This is a confirmation of payment. It’s a receipt. He’s paid thirty thousand pounds.” Cherry was agog.
    Berdie calmly nodded while grasping the arm of the sofa.
    Cherry waved the paper in the air without caution. “Where did my grandfather get thirty thousand pounds?”
    I only wish I had the answer to that question Cherry , that and several other questions that surround your grandfather . “Nest egg?”
    Without warning, four very rapid rings of the door buzzer made Cherry jump and Berdie stand to her feet.
    “Guests,” quickly fled Cherry’s lips like a child caught in the Easter sweeties. “No clean rooms.” She tried to refold the letter, but her haste made it worse.
    “I’ll get the door.”
    “Oh, yes, please.”
    Berdie swooshed into the hallway.