The Snow White Christmas Cookie

more pissed as the minutes ticked by. The man didn’t like to be kept waiting by the FBI. The man was feeling disrespected.

And, at precisely 9:17, the man decided he’d had enough. “What do you say we get started here?” he growled. “I got a full plate and I can’t sit around all morning waiting for the goddamned bureau to grace us with its presence.”

“Okay by me,” said The Aardark, slurping loudly from his container of coffee.

Yolie nodded her head in agreement.

Questa glanced down at a yellow legal pad. “Fine, then let’s get down to business here.…”

That was when the conference room door burst open and in strutted a twenty-something testosterone jarhead wearing a pair of aviator shades and a snug-fitting red ski jacket. He whipped off his shades, then off came the jacket, too. Underneath it he had on a white merino wool turtleneck that was stretched so tight across his pumped-up muscles that Des swore she could make out his entire six-pack of abs as he stood there styling self- importantly for everyone’s benefit, his granite jaw working on a piece of chewing gum.

“Lord help us, they’ve stuck us with Maverick again,” Yolie groaned under her breath. “Did we piss somebody off?”

“Possibly in a previous life,” Des murmured unhappily.

“You know him?” whispered Toni, who was positively goggle-eyed.

Yolie looked at her, aghast. “Don’t tell me you want that,” she whispered in response.

“Loo, I swear I’ve just laid eyes on the father of my children.”

“Trust me, you won’t feel that way once it opens its mouth.”

Toni continued to gape at him. “Oh, it doesn’t have to talk.”

“Oh, yes it does. And every single word that comes out of its mouth rhymes with ‘asshole.’”

“Sorry I’m late, people,” he declared in a booming, authoritative voice. “They closed I-95 because of a jackknifed tractor trailor and I had to make it out here on Route 1. I’ve never seen so many muffler shops in my life. Seriously, how do folks out here afford to eat three meals a day if they’re always buying so many mufflers? Am I right or am I right?” He went around the table and shook hands. First with Sam Questa. “Grisky, FBI, how are you? Then with Joey Amalfitano. “It’s Grisky.”

“We’ve already met, Agent Grisky,” The Aardvark pointed out. “We worked the Sour Cherry Lane case last spring.”

“Sure, we did.” Grisky’s eyes said he didn’t remember The Aardvark at all.

But he did remember Des. “Hey there, girlfriend,” he exclaimed, grinning at her wolfishly. “Sure never thought I’d find myself back in your sleepy little hamlet again.”

“It’s not sleepy and I’m still not your girlfriend,” Des said. “You remember Yolie Snipes of the Major Crime Squad, don’t you?”

“You kidding me? How could I forget a sweet-looking sister like Miss Yo-lan-da Snipes. How goes it, Sarge?”

“It’s lieutenant now,” Yolie informed him between gritted teeth.

“Moving on up, hunh? Good for you. And, whoa, look who they gave you for a sergeant-it’s Snooki. Are we on MTV right now? Seriously, am I or am I not standing in the presence of Miss … Nicole … Polizzi?”

“Actually, my name’s Toni Tedone,” she simpered breathlessly. This qualified as a major departure for Toni the Tiger. The last time someone at the Headmaster’s House dared to call her Snooki he got a knee in the cojones.

“Real glad to know you. And, hey, lovin’ the patchouli,” he said as he made his way to the other end of the conference table.

Toni gaped at him, awestruck. “I’m going to marry that man.”

Des and Yolie exchanged a horrified look before Des said, “Toni, there are two very important words you need to know about a man like Grisky.”

“What are they?”

“Premature and ejaculation.”

Toni frowned at her. “You say that like there’s some other kind.”

Grisky parked himself in a chair and said, “I just heard that the DEA’s jonesing to get in on this, too. That means they’ll be crawling up our butts if we don’t nail it in the next thirty-six hours-which I’ve assured my boss we will. We have to. I’m flying to Cancun late tomorrow night to hook up with my Quantico buds for a sacred ritual. We spend the week before Christmas down there every year and I cannot, will not, miss it. So let’s hit this out of the park and I mean now. So far it looks to me like we’ve got ourselves quite a little shitstorm. Possible organized drug activity, theft of the U.S. Mail, a dead mailman…”

“Postal carrier,” Questa grunted.

Grisky raised his chin at him. “Sorry?”

“They’re known as postal carriers, Agent Grisky. I thought you’d like to know since you seem to think you’re in charge of my investigation. What we’ve got here is a matter for the U.S. Postal Inspectors to deal with.”

“Well, that’s a big no,” Grisky fired back cheerfully. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t all be sitting here at this large table with you. We’re all working together on this one, Inspector. And we need to share what we know. So how about you put your dick in a box and tell us what you’ve got, okay?”

Questa shifted around unhappily in his chair. “I’ve had two teams of investigators on the ground since approximately nine o’clock last evening,” he said grudgingly. “One of my teams is presently up in Norwich working the supply chain. The other’s at the Dorset Post Office conducting interviews. I personally interviewed Postmaster Zander at her home early this morning. The victim, Hank Merrill, was her live-in lover. She’s grieving and extremely upset. I also spoke with her son, Casey, who’s a part-time carrier. I found him to be reasonably cooperative, although I did think he gave me an attitude.”

“It was nothing personal,” Des said. “He gives that to everyone.”

“At the present time,” Questa continued, “there is no reason to suspect Postmaster Zander has been complicit in any wrongdoing. But, based on my experience, the odds are good that she knows more than she was willing to admit about what’s been going on.”

“Which is what?” Grisky asked.

“High-value parcels have been disappearing from Hank Merrill’s route for the past two weeks-retail gift cards, choice little Christmas presents from the likes of Amazon and, most notably, prescription meds.”

“How much are we talking about? Can you give us a dollar figure?”

Questa shook his giant head. “We’ll have to canvass each resident on his route before we know that. Frankly, I’m still not entirely certain why Postmaster Zander didn’t contact us immediately when she became aware of the situation.”

“I may be able to help you with that,” Des said. “Dorset’s a small town with small-town traditions.”

Questa stared across the table at her. “What kind of traditions?”

“Folks put Christmas tips in their mailboxes for Hank. Some of them bake cookies, others leave him cash. Hank donated the cash to the Food Pantry.”

“I don’t care who he donated it to,” Questa blustered. “Mail carriers are prohibited from accepting holiday gratuities.”

“I know this. I also know that the boxes aren’t supposed to be used for anything other than official U.S. Mail. But in Dorset they are. Lem Champlain, our busiest private plowman, conducts his business by mailbox. That’s how he bills his customers and that’s how they pay him-mostly in cash. Lem told me he’s short about two thousand dollars this month in payments that his customers swear they put out for him, although I’m not one hundred percent sold on his credibility.”

Questa gazed at her sternly. “Sounds to me like you know an awful lot about this case. Was Postmaster Zander in contact with you?”

“Let’s just say I got wind of it, okay?”

“Homegirl keeps her ear to the ground,” Grisky said admiringly.