The post office was a brand-new building prefabricated at a shop in Anchorage and freighted in on a flatbed the summer before, yet another new addition to the scenery to which Kate had to accustom herself. It was small, brown-sided, and roofed with what might have been corrugated metal but was probably some kind of plastic. It had two windows in front, a small loading dock in back, and a handicapped-accessible ramp leading to the door. The ramp was probably great for wheelchairs but it was going to be one hell of a slippery slide for feet come winter.
Inside, the building was divided by a counter and mailboxes. Kate heard the faint thuds of mail being slid into mailboxes. “Bonnie?”
Bonnie was a tall, plump blonde, with silky, flyaway hair and pale skin in a constant state of flush. She wore glasses in large bright red frames that framed her sometimes brown eyes like stoplights. She dressed oddly for the Park, in neither jeans nor Carhartts but in loose, flowing dresses with pin-tucked bodices, dropped waists, and tiny flowered prints, draped about with long multicolored scarves made sometimes of silk and sometimes of wool, all fabric she dyed and wove herself, much of it painted with brightly colored flowers. She sold the scarves out of a corner of the post office, probably in defiance of every rule and regulation of the United States Postal Service, and she was eager to explain that all the flowers were indigenous to the area, from the Sitka rose to the forget-me-not and including the wild geranium, the lupine, and the Western columbine, all of which grew in profuse and undisciplined splendor in back of the post office. Kate had a vague notion that Bonnie might make her own dyes from roots and berries of various and also indigenous plants, but that was going far beyond her own ken and she wasn’t interested enough to get it right anyway.
In addition to the painted scarves, Bonnie also sold jewelry and sculpture made from beads, most of it free-form, very little of it representational, and none of it traditional. It was original and striking, looking more like it had grown into existence as opposed to having been created, and even Kate had caught herself spending time in front of the shelf, looking at pieces that didn’t look at all like a wave-washed beach caught midtide, a tidal pool full of finned, clawed, webbed creatures, a driftwood fire mimicking the sunset behind it, a smoking volcano. The rumor was that Bonnie’s pieces were on display in the museum in Anchorage, and Kate, viewing a piece made mostly of what looked like freshwater pearls and a matte beige bead so tiny it looked like a grain of sand, could well believe it.
The aroma of sandalwood incense drifted into the room. “I’m sorry, Kate,” Bonnie said from behind her. “I didn’t hear the bell.”
Kate turned and saw Bonnie with her hands clasped on the counter in front of her. Both arms were braceleted up to the elbow in silver, never repeating the same pattern twice, and large triangular earrings cut from mother of pearl and embellished with tiny leaves made from tinier beads swung from her ears.
Kate shrugged and smiled. “I just got here.” She nodded her head at the earrings. “That’s really nice work.”
Bonnie inclined her head, accepting her due. “Thank you.”
“I don’t know anything about beadwork, traditional or otherwise. But I like your stuff.”
“Thanks. I heard about your cabin. I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how you must feel. It must be horrible.”
“It sucks green donkey dicks big-time,” Kate agreed.
Bonnie didn’t quite know how to take that, and took refuge in business. “Did you want your mail?”
“Sure.” She accepted a handful of envelopes and a box from FATS Auto Parts in Anchorage, the new plugs she’d ordered for the pickup. Good thing her socket wrench set had survived the fire. Not to mention the pickup.
It occurred to her that she was taking the burning of her two-generations family home awfully well. She wondered how worried she should be about that, but right now her focus was on finding who did it and bringing him to justice. Her justice.
She became aware that her lips had thinned and her eyes had narrowed and that the back of her neck was heating up. Bonnie was regarding her with a puzzled and wary eye, and when Kate’s eyes met hers she took an involuntary step back.
Kate pulled herself together. “Thanks, Bonnie.” She tucked the envelopes into a hip pocket and the box under one arm. “Did you know Len Dreyer?”
Bonnie’s face creased with concern. “Of course. I heard what happened to him. That’s just awful.”
“Yeah. Not a fun way to go. He pick up his mail here?”
Bonnie nodded. “He didn’t get much, though.”
“What did he get?”
Bonnie hesitated. “I’m not really supposed to give out any information about the United States mail, or any of the patrons.”
“I’m helping the trooper investigate the events leading up to Len Dreyer’s death.”
Bonnie brightened. “Jim Chopin?” Her eyes behind their bright-rimmed glasses went dreamy and so did her voice. “Well, in that case, of course, Kate, I’m happy to help. Anything you need.”
Mentally, Kate curled her lip. Some women went weak at the knees over any man to come down the pike. Any six-foot-ten, 240-pound blonde. Smart. Built. With blue eyes. And a deep voice. And a great grin. And a charm of manner Casanova would have envied.
She blew out a breath. “When was the last time you saw Mr. Dreyer?”
“I don’t know, I guess that’d be the last time he came in to check his mail.”
“How often did he come in?”
“I don’t know. Maybe once a month.” She thought. “Maybe not even that often.”
“What kind of mail did he get?”
Again Bonnie was uncertain. “Packages mostly, I think. Tools, and parts. Stuff he needed for the work he did.” She brightened. “And catalogues. Lots of catalogues.”
There were probably more catalogues per Park rat than there were trees to make them from. The Park was an exclusively mail-order community. Kate remembered the session at Dinah’s computer. Or it had been. “Is there anything in his box now?”
“Oh, he didn’t have a box, Kate,” Bonnie said, happy to be able to provide at least one definite answer. “He had his mail sent to General Delivery.”
Of course he did, Kate thought glumly. Renting a post office box would require filling out a form. Filling out a form would require revealing personal information. And if there was one overriding characteristic Len Dreyer was revealing to her in this series of interviews, it was his determination to remain completely anonymous. “Any mail holding for him now?”
Bonnie shook her head. “Jim came and got it. It was only a couple of catalogues, and something from Spenard Builder’s Supply.”
“Almost everyone comes in here,” Kate said. “Do a lot of them ask you where they can get work done?”
“Sure,” Bonnie said.
“And did you send them to Dreyer?”
“Of course. He does -did good work. He put in my new toilet.”
“Did he.” A toilet was awfully uptown for the Park. Although Bobby and Dinah had one. Flushed and everything. “When was that?”
“The third weekend in August,” Bonnie replied promptly.
“You’re sure of the date?”
“Oh, yes. They were sending Brian Loy from Anchorage to talk to local businesses about the new services offered on USPS-dot-com. He always stays in my spare bedroom and I wanted the new toilet in before he got here.”
“We have local businesses?” Kate said, momentarily diverted from her quest.
“The Association and the school, I guess.” Bonnie leaned forward and dropped her voice. “I think Brian just wanted to go fishing.”
Wouldn’t be the first time an Anchorageite had manufactured an excuse to get out of town with a fishing pole in hand. “Do you happen to remember all the people you recommended Dreyer to beginning, oh, say early last summer?”