Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [103]
He slowly crossed the street’s center line, pulling up in front of his curbside mailbox so that it was within his arm’s reach from the driver’s side. The mailman had flipped up the red metal flag. That it remained up meant that Georgia hadn’t fetched the mail, which was what he’d hoped. She seldom did, seeming to never remember that it would be there, and it was his habit to grab it before pulling into the driveway. He pulled a clutch of mail from the box, almost allowing some catalogues and magazines to slip from his hand and fall to the ground. Another look around preceded his next move, which was to remove the letter he’d written at Michael’s apartment from his inside jacket pocket and slip it in with the day’s mail. It didn’t matter that his fingerprints would be on it. Of course they would be. He’d handled it along with the other mail.
“Hey, anybody home?” he yelled on his way to the kitchen where he dropped the mail on the countertop in the same spot he always did.
“What are you doing home so early?” Georgia asked as she came from the basement where she’d been folding laundry.
“I finished up early,” he said, hugging her. “Nice to be home at a decent hour for a change.”
She returned to the basement to complete her chore. He hung his jacket over the back of a chair, stripped off his tie, poured a small Scotch, and took it to the patio. It was a lovely day, warm but not uncomfortable. He drew a deep breath, sipped from his drink, sat at the table and extended his legs in front of him. She joined him a few minutes later.
“Drink?” he asked.
“Too early, thanks. What’s new? You were great on TV.”
“Thanks. I felt comfortable. Not much new at the paper. We decided that since there’s nothing new, we’d skip tomorrow’s edition.”
“Good,” she said. “Have you heard from Michael?”
“No. Robbie?”
“Not today.”
She turned in her chair and saw through the window the pile of mail on the kitchen counter. “Mailman bring anything interesting?” she asked.
“I didn’t look.”
She fetched the mail, brought it to the patio table, and started going through it. A home-decorating catalogue caught her attention, and she browsed it, pointing out items that appealed to her, including a set of vivid red silk sheets and pillowcases. “Like it?” she asked.
“Very sexy. We should have had them on the bed last night.”
“Our old sheets did just fine, don’t you think?”
He laughed. “Sorry, but I wasn’t thinking about the sheets last night.”
She squeezed his hand and continued perusing the catalogue. Finished, she went back to seeing what other mail was there. Joe watched out of the corner of his eye.
“What’s this?” she said, pulling the sheet of paper, sans envelope, from the pile and unfolding it.
“What is it?” he asked. “Some contractor drop off a flyer? That’s against the law.”
She handed it to him without a word. Her face went ashen, and she wrapped her arms around herself.
He pulled half-glasses from his shirt pocket and read. “Jesus,” he said. “He must have put it in our mailbox himself.”
“Call the police,” she said.
“Right. I’ll call Edith. This is hitting too close to home.”
Before placing the call, he made a copy of the letter on their fax machine that doubled as a photocopier and slipped it under other papers on the desk in the library.
Georgia stayed on the patio, her fist pressed against her lips. When he returned, she asked, “Did you reach her?”
“On her cell. She and her partner are heading here now.”
“I hate this, Joe.”
“I know, I know, but it’ll be okay. I’ll ask the police to provide security. If they won’t, we’ll hire our own. Don’t worry, Georgia, we’ll be fine.” He patted her hand to reassure, knowing it wouldn’t.
Vargas-Swayze and Dungey arrived forty-five minutes later and Wilcox handed them the letter.
“He’s ratcheting it up now, isn’t he?” Vargas-Swayze said, her reaction raising Georgia’s already elevated anxiety level.