Cancelled by Murder by Jean Flowers Page A

life, and I feared my tone suggested as much.
    â€œAnyway, you wouldn’t be letting Cliff drag you into some edgy detective work, or anything like that, would you?”
    From his perch (deliberate?) on the counter, Ben looked down at me. I could have sworn he could see through my desk to the folder marked CASSIE , with Cliff’s notes for just that task.
    â€œWhy ever would you think that?” I asked.
    Ben’s turn to stifle a laugh. “I might be old,” he said, and left me to finish the thought myself.
    â€œI know you’re not dumb, Ben.”
    â€œSo that’s a yes?” he asked.
    â€œYes what?”
    â€œThat’s what I thought.” He slid off the counter, his mouth twisted to the side, half grin, half frown. He draped his lanky body over the chair next to my desk, his face turning serious. “You know, they closed the post office over in Brookside.”
    â€œThe small town down near Hinsdale. Yes, I heard.”
    â€œIt’s a pet-grooming place now.”
    I grimaced. “It’s sad to lose facilities like ours,” I said.
    â€œThe flagpole is still outside,” he said. “Wonder if they’re just going to keep it.”
    â€œThere’s no law against it, I guess.”
    His eyes took on a faraway look. “Brookside wasn’t that much smaller than North Ashcot, you know. We could be next.” Ben’s tone was somber, as if he’d already received a memo with the bad news.
    Post office closings were a fact of life these days. I often thought of the possibility of losing ours. What would I do? Go back to Boston? Just as I was getting settled and satisfiedbeing back where I was born? And what about Quinn? I couldn’t allow my mind to go there, though I knew I should be more practical and concerned about other uses for my skills in the future.
    Meanwhile, I could convince myself that the North Ashcot Post Office was indispensable, a bustling place. I looked around at the piles of boxes and bags of mail ready to go out on Monday, and thought how we were thriving. People came from surrounding towns because we had a good track record and lots of parking, which mattered to a lot of busy people.
    I thought it admirable of Ben that he still cared about the future of the office. He’d earned his pension, after all, and didn’t have to bother anymore. I drew in my breath as a frightening thought entered my mind. Ben was still connected to administrators across the state. He chatted with higher-ups all the time. An unfailing old-boys network. What if . . . ?
    â€œDo you know something I don’t?” I asked him.
    â€œNot yet. But I know we have to be on our best behavior.”
    I folded my hands around the placket at the top button of my shirt. “Clean uniform every day,” I said.
    â€œIt’s a lot more than that.”
    â€œMeaning?”
    He shrugged. “You figure it out.”
    I didn’t like the sound of Ben’s comment. Was he warning me off, afraid I’d get hurt, or worried that nosing around a police investigation would earn bad marks for the North Ashcot Post Office? Or both? Was he uneasy about me or his legacy in the town? I studied his face and saw concern about both.
    â€œThere’s nothing to worry about, Ben,” I said, with nothing to back up my confidence.
    He drew a loud, deep breath. “I’ll walk you out,” he said.
    I retrieved my things, including my dinner from the fridge, hoping Ben wouldn’t ask details about anything I was carrying.

7
    I drove home with a fully occupied passenger seat—the take-out container with my aromatic shrimp dinner in a cooler, resting on the thick file of notes and to-do lists. Both legacies of my foodless lunch with Cliff Harmon.
    The evening was clear, the roads nearly free of debris, but as I approached Daisy’s Fabrics, I wondered if I’d ever again drive by without slowing down and