“Hello, Mary.” Said Gregoire in his usual booming voice.

“Mail for the Petersons?” She Asked.

“You Betcha.” He said, handing Mary the heavily padded USPS envelope. “You do the best job of any house keeper I’ve ever laid eyes on. Not to mention you’re one of the prettiest girls round here.” Gregoire finished by shouting back into the house, as Mary placed the envelope on the Peterson’s table and locked the door behind her.

            “Well I reckon you’re the most sweet talking mail man there ever was.”  Mary replied as she made her way to the sidewalk.

            “Well that’s mighty fine of you to say Mary, think of all the mail men there ever was, and I’m the one who happens to run the rout of the best looking woman in the world.”

            “Why, thank you Mister Randall, but we must be back to business; you and I.”

            “I’ll walk you on down next door because I know it’s about time to check up on the Roberton’s residence.” Gregoire said.

            “You know my rutien all too well Greg. I just work my way along down until the end of the block. Fourteen houses in all. Most of them are vacation homes for the famous and elegant types. It’s a pity no one lives in them often.” Mary stopped at the path up to the Roberton’s, without a parting word the two split direction. Gregoire looked back with a sigh of relief as he walked further from the Peterson’s. That damn dog should be put to sleep. He thought to himself. I guess they took little Baker on their trip, thank God.

            Gregoire loved his job, he had been blessed. Running the rout of Tulkum pass for a mailman was like hitting the Lotto. Every Christmas fresh-baked cookies, made from scratch, not the canned stuff like Gregoire had at home. He loved coming home during the holidays and watching his two children delight at the elegant candies he would bring to them. All Gregoire could think about on his rounds was his two daughters.

 Tulkum Pass was like the model 50’s style town, every house had a white picket fence, and most had pools. Not much happened in Tulkum, the latest petty gossip seemed to always be the talk of the town, nothing like city talk, which was always who got robbed and who killed whom. While there wasn’t much excitement in Tulkum, there was something a bit peculiar; everyone who lived in Tulkum patronized the same maids service. They were good too. The whole phenomenon started when the Ferguson’s were the first to popularize the now Tulkum pass slogan; Do nothing for your self but earn money, and money will take care of you. So all the residents became workaholics and an interesting dynamic had arisen, it was the concept of paid housekeepers. Usually both Mother and Father would work full time, the parents would pay someone to take care of the children and the house.

Gregoire turned the corner swiftly and made his way back to his white and blue mail truck, he cleared his driver’s seat of miscellaneous mail, and ignited the engine. Almost simultaneously the Peterson’s house ruptures with a huge ball of fire. Gregoire revs his truck into action and speeds down the block to the scene of the explosion. The whole place was in an uproar. Mary had already called the police and fire departments and was currently fretting over the Peterson’s personal belongings.

Gregoire servied the damage; the whole front of the house had been blown off. He could see all the way through the house and half of the roof was missing; the rest was on fire. Gregoire stopped the van in the middle of the street. He sat, dumbfounded, for what seemed like an eternity. Gregoire was roused out of his stooper when Garrison, the local police chief, shouted Gregoire’s name for the third time.

Gregoire snapped back into reality. He saw Mary with a bucket of water fighting the blaze on the west side of the once elegant, once a fine blue and rich wooden home. The officer was yelling something about getting water and helping but somehow Gregoire didn’t have the strength to stand. He stumbled across the street and collapsed on the grass.

It wasn’t until after the blaze had been curbed that Gregoire had been attended to. Once they got to him they quickly took him Grover Medical Center for emergency treatment. The effects of the tranquilizer lingered when Gregoire came to. He looked around himself drowsily and his eyes came to rest on Police chief Garrison. The yellow fluorescent light cast upon his legs, tucked beneath his small wooden chair. The outline of the crest of his cap showed darker than the shadows in which the upper half of his body rested.

“I’m going to ask you some questions, Gregoire.” Gregoire rolled onto his side. “Is that okay with you?” Gregoire mumbled some inaudible whisper eand the officer fired his questions to a man incapacitated. I don’t know how a bomb turned up in my mail. The police had located the source of the explosion, and with some witness accounts had theorized that the USPS package was rigged. I know that USPS goes through security. I couldn’t say how the bomb got in my mail. I never knew that Boris Peterzoon sold pot. Gregoire was a suspect. He had just had a shit load of horse tranquilizers pumped out of his stomach, and now police chief Garrison was grilling him fast. He was getting little response from Gregoire though. What did Garrison expect? Gregoire fell back to sleep in the middle of Garrisons words and the Police Chief left in a hurry afterwards.  It had been the longest day of Gregoires’ life. And now he was a suspect.

The next day was a Thursday. Gregoire woke early to see his children off to the bus to school, but couldn’t drive them in his state. He rested until he couldn’t contain his curiosity anymore. He had to go speak with Mary about the events of the day before. He knew, generally, where she would be. He decided to walk, it was across town but Gregoire didn’t mind. He walked on unfamiliar side streets, making sure to stay off his mail rout. He didn’t want to think about work, or about any sort of mail, or package at that moment.

He arrived at the last leg of his rout, the block of the Petersons’, around mid-day. The block had quieted down significantly. Gregoire wondered when the family would be home. He imagined they should be leaving for Tulkum pass soon. Gregoire walked up to the door of Mrs. Roberton. He knew Mary was inside, so he slammed on the door 4 times. Mary opened the wooden door and stood in the doorframe.

“What do you want,” she said, and then glanced back into the house.

“I want to hear your story.”

“Come inside. Have a seat,” said Mary as she stood aside and motioned to the couch.

“Why, would anyone want to do that?” Said Gregoire. “Everyone seemed to get along with the Petersons.”

“People have their reasons. It’s best not to pry,” Mary said matter of factly. “but these is one reason that comes to mind.”

“Oh, and what would that be?” Gregoire inquired.

“Boris Peterzoon,” Mary said.

“Who is he and how is he connected to the Petersons?”

“He is the Mrs. Petersons’ father. He brought all sorts of bad thi..,.”

“How come I’ve never seen such a character around their house before, I’ve been around here for ten years.”

“He’s new around here, moved in a month ago. I think he caused what happened.”

“How could an old man cause this? Gregoire pointed in the direction of the wrecked house.”

“Because he sold drugs, he was a pusher, all his life.”

“So what are you saying? You saying that someone held a grudge against old Boris so they blew the house up?”

“Precisly,” Mary responded.

Gregoire had hit a wall. How was he supposed to figure out who Old Boris had ripped off to get the house blown up.

“Can you find out who Boris skimped, that could lead us to the bomber.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Gregore left to return the next day. He came at the same time, to the same house. But this time the was a cop car parked in front of Mrs. Robertons’s house. Gregoire approached from the street, walked up and gave a light tap to the door, which immediately swung inwards to reveal Police Chief Garrison standing over Mary’s cold dead body. Before Gregoire could say anything Garrison blurted out…

“She done it!”