“Maybe it’s none of the above,” Nancy said. “After all, postcards are cheaper than letters.”
“Bingo,” I said. I asked Frank to do something for us on the case. That’s how I put it, for us. “Find out who owns that vacant lot next door. Do it this afternoon, even if you have to go over to the county seat.”
“You got it.”
I went outside and looked at the small lawn between the door and the street.
Even Lucinda Peaselee could see there wasn’t enough room for the driveway and gas pumps a QuickStop store featured. But there was plenty of room in the lot next door.
I drove out to see Donald Parks. If Albany couldn’t do anything, maybe I could. At least give him the benefit of the doubt. I called first, said I had something important to ask him, that I wasn’t trying to collect money.
It was nice to get out in the fresh air and sunshine. In a month this road would carry a lot of traffic, tourists visiting the attractions and fishermen working both branches of the river.
The Parks shop and home were easy to find — in addition to the mailbox there was a large sign reading UNCLE BOB’S WOODWORKING SHOP. It was trash pickup day. I had to step around the recyclable material placed neatly at the side of the road; separate containers for tin, glass, and plastic. Two big bundles of newspapers, one of magazines.
A driveway led to a largish parking area. The shop was the size of a double garage with big doors that could be swung open in good weather. Inside were displays of Uncle Bob’s products, little shapes of animals and birds cut from half-inch plywood and painted. Each object bore a decal that read SOUVENIR OF THE ADIRONDACKS. I didn’t see a price tag on any of them.
Donald Parks was waiting for me; a bit this side of fifty, bright blue eyes, medium build, thinning hair. He wore a carpenter’s apron with pockets full of pencils. It was more like a costume than work clothes.
I admired the shop for a polite amount of time, and we moved into Parks’s office, a little room at the rear of the house. There I saw a desk with a typewriter, a couple of file cabinets, a stack of trade magazines, the usual furniture.
“Does Uncle Bob do much mail order business?” I asked casually-
“A good bit. I’ve got ads in a lot of catalogues.”
He was polite, curious about why I was there. He made no attempt to introduce a Mrs. Parks. What I could see of the house was neat and clean.
Over many years of talking to strangers informally, I’ve found an approach that is almost guaranteed to put a man off guard and let you size him up.
Being as sincere as I could, I looked him in the eye and said, “Mr. Parks, a group of men want me to ask you if you would run for town supervisor this fall.”
He was flattered, as I knew he would be.
We had a nice talk about the rewards of office and civic duty, with me doing most of the talking. Parks smiled and thanked me and said he didn’t think his work would permit it.
When I left, I was sure that Donald Parks would never be running for office. He had something to hide. When I had the time, I would find out whether it was personal or criminal.
When I walked back to my car, I passed the recyclables waiting to be picked up. On impulse I grabbed the bundles of newspapers and slung them in the back seat. The vet clinic in Keeseville always needs papers to line their animal cages.
I had to go through Fountain to get home, and I stopped at Ray Maples’ Citgo station for gas. I’ve never cared much for Ray. I know for a fact that a few years ago he left a wounded deer in the woods; wouldn’t take time to track it and put it out of its misery.
He was doing some construction work at the station, building an addition on the side opposite the service bay. He had to tell me all about it.
“I’m puttin’ in a deli department,” he said proudly. “That’s the only thing I don’t have that the QuickStop stores have. I had to go to Keene to get the money; what we need in this town is a bank. And I’m goin’ to start renting videos. They don’t have that, you know.”
It’s interesting to see what the threat of competition will do. I wished him good luck and left.
I drove home slowly. I enjoy looking at the river from this stretch of Route 10. Today the water was high and fast because snow was still melting in the mountains.
What this town needs is a bank, Ray Maples had said. I thought about that while I did chores.
A bank needs a downtown location, parking for its walk-in customers, room for a drive-up window, a long service counter. Lucinda Peaselee could offer a bank almost all of that. Maybe she already had.
After dinner I telephoned Ted Culpepper. He’s a loan officer at the Harvest Bank and knows more about people and things going on in the valley than I ever will. And he loves to fish for trout.
I told Ted I knew where some eighteen inch rainbow trout were hiding.
Sometime after midnight the phone woke me. It was Trooper Frank Lee. He had arrested Davie Shalley for malicious mischief. Davie had been spreading straw on the lawn in front of the post office.
He would have to be held overnight at Ray Brook headquarters and see a judge tomorrow. I said it was important that Frank have Davie at the post office in the morning so we could clear everything up.
Frank said he would bring him.
“All right, folks, let’s go see Lucinda Peaselee,” I said.
We were in the rear of the post office, Thelma, Frank Lee, and I. Davie had been brought in, white and shaken. The look Thelma gave him would have melted bone. He was waiting in the troop car, in handcuffs. Nancy was at the counter, her eyes dancing with excitement.
I told Thelma and Frank that we had most of the answers we needed. Mrs. Peaselee could give us the rest.
“Frank, bring Davie in your car. Thelma and I will take mine.”
“No,” Thelma said, “we can’t leave now.”
“Why not?”
“What about Davie’s highway route? Who’s going to deliver the mail?”
I stared at her. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No, goddamn it. The mail’s my responsibility.”
“We’ll be back in an hour. Can’t it wait?”
“No. It has to be handled now.”
And it was. Davie Shalley was what is called a highway contractor, which meant he sorted and delivered the mail to patrons outside of town. He had to arrange his own back-up for when he couldn’t do it. Like today.
Under Thelma’s supervision the mail was sorted and boxed. A man who knew the route was enlisted to make the run. Finally Thelma was satisfied. She left Nancy in charge, and we were on our way.
The Peaselee residence was on the edge of town; a big three story house with bay windows and lots of chimneys. It had escaped the big fire of seventy years ago.
Bonnie Mae saw us drive up. She had the door open before we were half way up the walk. Her eyes got enormous when she saw the handcuffs. “Davie, oh, Davie...”
Lucinda stood in the doorway of the front parlor, her hands clasped in front of her. Her grey hair was in a tight bun, and there was a grim expression on her face. She looked less formidable without her hat. Her face sagged when she saw Davie in cuffs and escorted by a state trooper. She paid no attention to Thelma or me.
“What is the meaning of this?” Her voice was not quite steady.
“I think we’d all better sit down,” Frank said. It was more of a demand than a suggestion. Without a word Lucinda turned and led the way into the parlor. Frank didn’t sit down. He put Davie in a straight chair and stood over him. Thelma and Bonnie Mae took chairs, Lucinda stood against the wall.
This was the chance I was waiting for.
Bonnie Mae was The Hat’s secretary. There had to be an office somewhere, I hoped downstairs. I’d told Frank to spell things out for Peaselee while I went looking for the office, and a Smith Corona typewriter.