Read Online Christmas Carol Murder (A Lucy Stone Mystery) by Leslie Meier - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Leslie Meier
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said.
“Right. Just when people’s budgets are stretched to the max buying presents and fancy food and all the Christmas stuff. Even the electric bill goes sky high, what with all the lights.”
Phyllis’s expression was thoughtful as she examined her freshly manicured nails, done in Christmasy red and green stripes. “But if you’re realistic, it’s not much of a job,” she said in a consoling tone. “My pay barely covers my manis and hair appointments.”
Lucy scowled, acknowledging that she had a valid point. “If I get some overtime my check might cover the week’s groceries and a tank of gas—but it’s my job and I like it.”
“I know. It’s kind of fun. . . .” Phyllis paused, then added, “Some of the time. But face it, I can’t remember the last time we got raises. And there’s no benefits, none. It’s not a real job like Wilf has with health insurance and a pension plan.”
“I hate to rain on your parade,” Lucy said, “but the postal service is in trouble, too. They’re talking about huge layoffs.”
“They’ll work it out, they always do,” Phyllis said, adding a long sigh. “Frankly, I’d be more than happy if he would take early retirement. I’ve been sick with worry ever since that bomb. He must’ve delivered it, you know. He handled it. What if it went off? It could’ve been him who got killed and not mean old Jake Marlowe.”
Just then the little bell on the door jangled and Ted marched in, apparently full of vim and vigor. “What’s up? How come you’re gossiping? Don’t you have any work to do?”
“Just keeping our fingers on the pulse of news in Tinker’s Cove,” Lucy said, hurrying over to her desk.
“And what exactly is so interesting this morning?” Ted asked, stuffing his gloves in the pocket of his parka.
“Cuts in postal service,” Lucy said. “I think we ought to interview the postmaster, see what the effect would be. Talk to Country Cousins—they send out all those catalogs.”
Ted hung up his coat on the old-fashioned stand that tipped this way and that with each new addition. “Actually, that’s a good idea, Lucy. Why don’t you get on it?”
“Righto,” Lucy said, booting up her computer. While it clicked and groaned with the effort of turning itself on, she wished she’d kept her mouth shut. Now, in addition to the town committee meetings that she routinely covered, she also had two stories that required a lot of research: foreclosures and postal cuts. Sighing, she reached for the phone, dialing the post office. She was listening to it ring, unanswered, when Wilf Lundgren arrived with the morning mail.
“Hi, sweetie,” he greeted his wife, setting the bundle, neatly fastened with a big rubber band, on the counter.
“Hi, yourself,” she said, slipping the band off and giving it back to him. “You can use this again.”
“Sure will,” he said, beaming at her. Wilf had a round face and his cheeks were red from the cold; he was wearing the regulation blue gray postal uniform. “How’s your day been so far?”
“Looking better now that you’re here,” she replied, with a wink.
“Cut it out, you two,” Ted groaned. “You’re making me sick.”
“Party pooper,” Phyllis snapped. She turned to Wilf. “Have you got a date for lunch?”
“Do now,” Wilf said, turning to go.
“Hold on,” Lucy cried. “Don’t go. I need to talk to the postmaster, but nobody’s answering the phone.”
Wilf adopted a concerned expression. “What for? Do you have a complaint?”
“No, no. I’m just doing a story about these proposed service cuts, that’s all.”
“I can give you the postmaster’s private line, but you’ve got to promise not to say I gave it to you,” he said.
Lucy jotted it down. “Thanks.”
Ted was pouring himself a cup of coffee. “How’s everybody holding up over there?” he asked, taking a long drink. “Are they worried?”
Wilf shrugged and shifted his heavy bag from one shoulder to the
“Right. Just when people’s budgets are stretched to the max buying presents and fancy food and all the Christmas stuff. Even the electric bill goes sky high, what with all the lights.”
Phyllis’s expression was thoughtful as she examined her freshly manicured nails, done in Christmasy red and green stripes. “But if you’re realistic, it’s not much of a job,” she said in a consoling tone. “My pay barely covers my manis and hair appointments.”
Lucy scowled, acknowledging that she had a valid point. “If I get some overtime my check might cover the week’s groceries and a tank of gas—but it’s my job and I like it.”
“I know. It’s kind of fun. . . .” Phyllis paused, then added, “Some of the time. But face it, I can’t remember the last time we got raises. And there’s no benefits, none. It’s not a real job like Wilf has with health insurance and a pension plan.”
“I hate to rain on your parade,” Lucy said, “but the postal service is in trouble, too. They’re talking about huge layoffs.”
“They’ll work it out, they always do,” Phyllis said, adding a long sigh. “Frankly, I’d be more than happy if he would take early retirement. I’ve been sick with worry ever since that bomb. He must’ve delivered it, you know. He handled it. What if it went off? It could’ve been him who got killed and not mean old Jake Marlowe.”
Just then the little bell on the door jangled and Ted marched in, apparently full of vim and vigor. “What’s up? How come you’re gossiping? Don’t you have any work to do?”
“Just keeping our fingers on the pulse of news in Tinker’s Cove,” Lucy said, hurrying over to her desk.
“And what exactly is so interesting this morning?” Ted asked, stuffing his gloves in the pocket of his parka.
“Cuts in postal service,” Lucy said. “I think we ought to interview the postmaster, see what the effect would be. Talk to Country Cousins—they send out all those catalogs.”
Ted hung up his coat on the old-fashioned stand that tipped this way and that with each new addition. “Actually, that’s a good idea, Lucy. Why don’t you get on it?”
“Righto,” Lucy said, booting up her computer. While it clicked and groaned with the effort of turning itself on, she wished she’d kept her mouth shut. Now, in addition to the town committee meetings that she routinely covered, she also had two stories that required a lot of research: foreclosures and postal cuts. Sighing, she reached for the phone, dialing the post office. She was listening to it ring, unanswered, when Wilf Lundgren arrived with the morning mail.
“Hi, sweetie,” he greeted his wife, setting the bundle, neatly fastened with a big rubber band, on the counter.
“Hi, yourself,” she said, slipping the band off and giving it back to him. “You can use this again.”
“Sure will,” he said, beaming at her. Wilf had a round face and his cheeks were red from the cold; he was wearing the regulation blue gray postal uniform. “How’s your day been so far?”
“Looking better now that you’re here,” she replied, with a wink.
“Cut it out, you two,” Ted groaned. “You’re making me sick.”
“Party pooper,” Phyllis snapped. She turned to Wilf. “Have you got a date for lunch?”
“Do now,” Wilf said, turning to go.
“Hold on,” Lucy cried. “Don’t go. I need to talk to the postmaster, but nobody’s answering the phone.”
Wilf adopted a concerned expression. “What for? Do you have a complaint?”
“No, no. I’m just doing a story about these proposed service cuts, that’s all.”
“I can give you the postmaster’s private line, but you’ve got to promise not to say I gave it to you,” he said.
Lucy jotted it down. “Thanks.”
Ted was pouring himself a cup of coffee. “How’s everybody holding up over there?” he asked, taking a long drink. “Are they worried?”
Wilf shrugged and shifted his heavy bag from one shoulder to the
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