The Snow White Christmas Cookie

Paulette sat there in stiff silence, rolling another piece of napkin into a teeny, tiny ball and setting it next to her spoon. There were already four tight little balls there.

Des shoved her heavy horn-rimmed glasses up her nose. “There’s more happening than Rut let on, isn’t there?”

Paulette responded with a brief nod of her head. “Last Monday a dog walker found a huge batch of Hank’s mail in a ditch on Johnny Cake Hill Road. Practically every envelope Hank delivered in the Historic District that morning had been slashed open. Some contents were missing. Others were simply discarded.”

“Did they take the credit card statements, bank statements and such?”

Paulette shook her head. “They weren’t interested in those. Or in the paid bills that folks had put out for Hank to take. We found dozens of personal checks to mortgage companies, Connecticut Light and Power, you name it.”

“Then it doesn’t sound like we’re dealing with identity thieves. What did they take?”

“Anything and everything of value. People mail all sorts of gifts to their friends and relatives this time of year. They send Christmas cards with cash or prepaid retail gift cards tucked inside. And a million small packages that’ll fit inside of any mailbox-DVDs, CDs, iPods, Kindles. It’s kind of ironic, really.”

“What is, Paulette?”

“This is the age of high-tech security. We have elaborate systems to protect our homes and our cars. Yet our mailboxes still sit there by the curb, unlocked and unprotected, twenty-four hours a day. Some folks in town prefer to keep a P.O. box for that reason, but not as many as you’d think.”

“Are things disappearing from other routes besides Hank’s?”

“Just Hank’s, near as I can tell.”

“And how long has this been going on?”

“About two weeks. Hank’s furious. He’s taking it personally.”

“Should he be?”

Paulette’s eyes crinkled at her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean is someone purposely singling him out?”

“I can’t imagine why they would. Hank’s my most popular carrier. I have no idea why his route is being hit- beyond the simple, obvious reason.”

“Paulette, nothing about this is simple or obvious to me.”

“Hank’s route is the Historic District, which has the highest concentration of wealthy people packed into the fewest number of miles.”

“As opposed to a rural route, you mean.”

“Exactly.”

“Has anyone reported suspicious behavior of any kind? A stranger rummaging through mailboxes, anything like that?”

“Nothing like that, Des.”

One of the town’s big orange plow trucks rumbled by on Shore Road, its plow blade shaking the foundation of the old wood-framed diner. On the radio, Nat King Cole was singing about chestnuts roasting on an open fire.

“The mail was discarded on Johnny Cake,” Des mused aloud. “That tells me it’s someone local. Out-of-town pros would have taken it with them.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s a couple of teenaged kids.”

Des gazed out the window at the marsh. The snow was coming down so hard she couldn’t make out the lighthouse in the distance. “How, Paulette? How do a couple of young cheese heads cruise through the Historic District on multiple occasions, raid peoples mailboxes in broad daylight-it must be broad daylight because the boxes are full-and not one person has noticed them? A lot of folks are home during the day right now. The schoolkids are getting one snow day after another. The college kids are back for Christmas break. Plus we’ve got our share of retirees living in the Historic District. The arrival of the mail is the highlight of their morning. I find it hard to believe that anyone could hit those boxes repeatedly without being spotted.”

Paulette made another napkin ball with her thumb and forefinger and placed it next to her spoon. That made eight, nine, ten of them. “Quite a few of the houses are set back pretty far from the road.”

“And quite a few of them aren’t. Plus the Historic District is busy. People go in and out of Town Hall all day long. I’m thinking our grinch must be someone who has a legitimate reason to be accessing the boxes. Like, say, one of Lem’s plow boys.”

Paulette’s eyes narrowed. “Or one of my other carriers?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Des, I can’t vouch for Lem’s people but I can vouch for all ten of my full-time carriers and my five part-time subs. They’re honest, hardworking people. Every single one of them has passed the postal exam and undergone a thorough background check-including my son, Casey. There’s no nepotism in the U.S. Postal Service.”

“Casey’s a part-timer?”

Paulette nodded. “I’m hoping he’ll be able to go full-time within the next two years- if they’re hiring. All we hear about these days are cutbacks and givebacks. But it’s still a good career. And Casey’s a good kid. Well, he’s not a kid anymore. He’s twenty-eight. But he’s one of those young men who…” Paulette searched for the words. “Some of them need extra time to find their way.”

“From the way Hank was talking last night, it sounded like he and Casey don’t exactly get along.”

“That was just the eggnog talking. They’re fine. He’d like to see Casey living in his own place, that’s all. So would I. Nothing would make me happier than Casey settling down with a nice girl instead of hanging around at the Rustic with that drugged-out skank Gigi Garanski.”

The Rustic Inn was Dorset’s designated skeejie boy bar. Most of the brawls that Des had to break up during the course of a month took place there. “So Casey’s into Gigi?”

Paulette nodded glumly. “And Gigi’s not even his girl. She goes with Tommy Stratton.”

Whenever there was a brawl at the Rustic, Tommy Stratton was usually in the middle of it. Most people in Dorset knew him as Tommy the Pinhead. He was unsavory, unbright and scary. Hired muscle who was connected with the Costagno crime family. The Costagnos had an iron hold on whatever bad went on in Connecticut, Rhode Island and Western Massachusetts.

Sandy came over and refilled their cups.

Paulette dumped more cream in hers. “Can you help me, Des?”

“I’m still waiting for you to tell me the rest.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Des glared at her. “Yes, you do.”

Paulette cocked her head at her curiously. “No, I don’t. And I don’t understand why you’re being so confrontational.”

“Because you’re disrespecting me and I don’t like it. Are you going to say the words or do I have to say them?”

Paulette sat there in tight silence, reddening.

“Fine, I’ll say them. I used to live with a seventy-eight-year-old woman who happens to be one of those people whose mail has gone missing.”

Paulette grimaced. “Mrs. Tillis, I know. She gave me an earful last night.”

“That wasn’t an earful. If you want an earful just get her started on Rush Limbaugh. Bella’s in good health for a woman her age. But she takes quite a few prescription meds-Lipitor for her cholestorol, Celebrex for her arthritis pain, Synthroid for her thyroid, Boniva for her osteoporosis and two or three others that I can’t think of right now. She gets them by mail from her online pharmacy. People of all ages get their meds that way. A lot of those people have high annual deductibles on their health plans. When December rolls around they try to stock up because they’ve finally met their deductible and, lo and behold, their insurer actually has to foot the bill. This happens to be December, Paulette. Those mailboxes on Hank’s route are bursting with little bubble- wrapped pouches full of meds. It’s a violation of the Controlled Substances Act for online pharmacies to send anabolic steroids or Oxycontin through the U.S. Mail. But they can send just about anything else. Meds that wake you up. Meds that knock you out. Meds that make you feel happy all over. The high school kids here in Dorset love to party with that stuff. Every time I bust up a late-night beer bash I find heaps of Vicodin, Percocet, Valium, Xanax,