Read Murder at Fire Bay for Free Online Page B

you and me, the manager had it coming, but of course I’ll end up backing him, no matter how I feel. I have a meeting with the Union rep at 8:00 a.m. to see if I can smooth some feathers. With the manager involved, it ain’t gonna be easy.”
    There was a pause as if he had more tales of woe, but was wondering whether it was worth relaying them to some out-of-town guy. Humbled, I muttered something about life getting better.  
    “Yeah, sure, Bronski.” He hung up.
    I sat back in my chair and had a few unsettling thoughts about my ability to handle this job. I began to realize how soft I’d had it the past year out West with a new bride. I actually felt a little sorry for the Boss. I wondered why he didn’t retire. He certainly had enough years to his credit. But to what? His wife had died of cancer some years earlier. He had no real hobbies. About the only thing he had was the Postal Service. It was the one constant in his life, this marriage. A marriage in which he didn’t have to worry about his partner dying first.
    I got up and wandered out onto the main floor. Where would a person hide for the night? Was there a nook or cranny that few people would think to check before they left? The thought occurred to me it might not be an outsider, but a Postal Service employee. That would make it much easier for stealing, if that’s what the mystery person’s game was.  
    I gave a cheerful “good morning,” to the early morning person that handled the must-get-done mail before the early morning flight and introduced myself. She seemed rather surprised, but in a pleasant way. We talked briefly about postal matters before I wandered off to give the place a good looking over. It didn’t take me long to see there were all kinds of places a person could bed down for the night. There was the machine room upstairs, the motor pool with its eight or so assorted vehicles, not to mention the other offices in the place. If there had been thievery going on, maybe my coming in early might put a stop to it. Well, I’d find out, but for now I’d take myself back to the office and start on my beloved paperwork.  
    It was budget time, and even though the previous O.I.C. was supposed to have drafted one, he had gone amok. The rumor floating around said the reason he had was simply so he wouldn’t have to do the budget. It would be interesting to see if he recovered in the next month or two and came back to the job happy as a clam. If it worked for him, then I might try the same trick myself. The rule of thumb is that you take the previous year’s budget and then metaphorically throw a dart at a set of figures, taking the next year’s figures one notch higher than where the dart landed. Then you submit the budget to the Boss, whereupon he sends a message back saying, “My God, Bronski, that’s higher than the biggest Anchorage post office budget. Pare it down !”
    So you pare it down, say . . . five percent, and resubmit. He takes it down another five percent and tells you to live with it. And so you pray there’s not too much sickness, and not too much overtime, and that the equipment works. If everything goes well, you’re a hero, but if not, you’re a bum. Every manager knows this; every manager sleeps with it.
    I looked up at the clock on the wall. My-oh-my, two hours had vanished without a phone call or an interruption. I stood up and stretched. Well, hell, might as well see what’s going on, I thought, and went onto the main floor. Aside from a quiet murmur of voices, things seemed to be fine. I walked up and down, exchanging greetings and making small talk with the troops. Soon I would have to call for a stand-up meeting to pass on a few words of wisdom. I smiled at this. Some of the people here probably had more time with the Postal Service than I did. Still, it was expected. It was a time the troops could ask questions and, hopefully, I would know the answers.
    I stopped by the case where Martha was sorting