The Mailman
Nelson Conway, who worked for the U.S. postal service in the small seaside village of Gull Harbor, Massachusetts, was not in favor of the politically correct job title mail carrier used in deference to members of the opposite sex. He preferred the term mailman since he considered himself "all man" and was proud of that distinction!
At thirty-five, he was handsome, strong, robust and blissfully single. Nelson saw no need for a wife; he much preferred the favors of other men's spouses. Most husbands, he had learned, took their wives for granted. Nelson sought out and showed interest in such women. He listened to their problems, complimented them frequently and made them feel attractive and desirable. The rewards he reaped from his efforts were many. Not only did he enjoy the no-strings-attached physical aspects of these relationships, but he also benefited from his paramours' domestic skills. In particular, there were currently six dissatisfied housewives in Gull Harbor who cooked his meals, cleaned his home, mended his clothes and did his laundry.
As you might assume, secrecy was essential to Nelson's successful philandering. He took great pains to prevent anyone from finding out about his arrangements. No husband suspected his wife of having an affair with the mailman, none of his coworkers knew of his dalliances with the women along his postal delivery route and, most importantly, none of the women he was involved with was aware of the other women in his life.
For several years, Conway enjoyed his unique lifestyle. Although at first he had to sidestep quite a few landmines, he eventually established a schedule, and he stuck to it religiously. Every Monday morning Rosemarie Hubbard, whose husband commuted to Boston where he worked in the city's financial district, went to Nelson's house to vacuum his carpets, wash his floors, scrub his kitchen and bathroom and generally pick up after the untidy bachelor. Thus, Nelson always went home for lunch on Monday to "reward" Mrs. Hubbard for all her hard work. On Tuesdays, the mailman spent his lunch hour with Tammy Chamberlain, who laundered his clothes every week. Wednesdays belonged to Dottie Gaines, who always gave him a variety of delicious home-cooked meals stored in plastic containers that could easily be reheated in his microwave oven. Thursdays were reserved for Patsy McNamara, who sewed on his missing buttons, hemmed his pants and mended his torn shirts. Fridays saw him at the home of Maria Barone, an enterprising woman who supplemented her husband's teaching income by making and decorating cakes for all occasions. She also found the time to bake cookies, pies and pastries for her amorous mailman. Finally, on Saturdays, he visited Yvonne Blackstone, who would cut his hair, trim his mustache and give him a manicure, pedicure and back massage when needed.
"This is the life!" he would often say to himself with gratification as he drove back to the post office along Harborview Road. "To hell with monogamy! A man ought to have a harem of beauties to see to his every need."
Another bonus of his unorthodox lifestyle was that he could spend his Sunday afternoons and evenings drinking beer and watching television, for he had no wife to nag him about mowing the lawn or fixing the broken latch on the screen door, to criticize him for leaving empty beer cans on the coffee table or to remind him to put the toilet seat down whenever he exited the bathroom. To the envy of his male acquaintances, he was left in peace to enjoy Monday night football as well as his weekly Friday night poker games.
* * *
Then came the day, however, when the delicate fabric of the mailman's carefree existence began to unravel. When Nelson woke that morning to the buzzing of his alarm clock, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. It was a Tuesday much like any other Tuesday. He got out of bed, showered, dressed and had a cup of instant coffee along with a piece of Maria Barone's homemade cherry cheese Danish. Afterward, he took his dirty laundry out of the hamper in his bathroom and put it in an old canvas mail sack, which he kept in the cargo area of his Subaru Forester. If the postmaster, a narrow-minded old Bible-thumper, were to see laundry in the back of Nelson's vehicle, he might get suspicious, and even though the postmaster was only six months short of retiring, he could still make life unpleasant for Nelson.
The mailman was cautious as he drove along the winding, wooded roads of his rural delivery route, the very nature of which aided him in his duplicity. The houses in the Harborview Hills area of Gull Harbor were few and far between. Consequently, there were no nosey neighbors peeking through slits in their living room curtains and no midday joggers or bicyclists to observe the mailman's vehicle parked in someone's driveway.
It was five minutes past noon when Nelson drove up Tammy Chamberlain's long, tree-lined, gravel driveway. The ever-present smile was on his face as he climbed her front steps with his dirty laundry sack in hand. Tammy was at the door waiting for him. This was the first sign that something was wrong since she was usually in the kitchen making lunch when Nelson arrived at her house.
"Oh, darling," she cried and ran into his arms.
"What's wrong?" he asked solicitously.
Nelson was curious but as yet not overly alarmed by her behavior.
"Gabe left me for another woman."
"He what?"
"He's in love with someone else, and he left me."
"Well, maybe he'll come to his senses and return," Nelson said hopefully.
Tammy was indignant.
"I'd never take him back! Not now. Besides, with Gabe out of the picture, we won't have to keep our love a secret any longer."
Nelson was flabbergasted. Was Tammy in love with him? Such an idea had never even crossed his mind. All along, he had assumed that his six ladies saw him only as a pleasant distraction, a much-needed break in their dull routine, nothing more than a little harmless dalliance. It was ludicrous that one of them should fall in love with him.
He had to think quickly and keep Tammy from making their relationship public.
"I don't think it's a good idea to let Gabe know you've been unfaithful to him."
"Why not? He hasn't kept his infidelity a secret."
"All the more reason for you to appear the loyal wife. Trust me. Once it comes time to divide the marital assets, you'll be glad you listened to me."
* * *
Although Tammy did not openly declare her feelings for the mailman, she did mention the affair to one or two of her closest friends. Naturally, word spread rapidly along the Gull Harbor grapevine. Most of the town's residents were delighted to hear so tasty a morsel of gossip—all except the five "other women" along Nelson's route, that is. By the end of the week, all six of the mailman's lovers were aware of his escapades, and not one of the housewives involved wanted anything further to do with him.
Even the old postmaster heard the gossip and believed it. While he could not discharge a civil servant on the basis of unconfirmed rumors, he could take steps to prevent the same behavior from happening again. Accordingly, not long after word of his multiple affairs got out, Nelson was reassigned to a position inside the post office, and a new mail carrier was given his former delivery route.
Life for Nelson Conway went from heaven to hell. Not only did he hate being stuck behind a counter selling stamps, issuing money orders and weighing packages, but he also had to assume all the duties his six lovers had given up. In a short period of time, Nelson was miserable. His house was littered with beer cans, cigarette butts, dirty laundry and unwashed dishes. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, and dust bunnies scurried across his hardwood floors. His diet consisted mainly of frozen dinners and takeout foods. His mustache had not been trimmed, and his hair was growing past his collar.
Finally, one morning Nelson got a good look at his reflection in the mirror: unshaven face; dark circles under his eyes; and oily, uncombed hair.
What has happened to the handsome, smiling face? he wondered. This can't go on. I have to pull myself up by my bootstraps and get on with my life.
While the thought of spending his days behind the counter of the Gull Harbor post office did not sit well with Nelson, he did not have the education or experience to get another job that commanded the same salary and benefits as he was getting from Uncle Sam.
It was when Mrs. Fiske, a retired nurse who lived on Poplar Street, came into the post office wanting to return a selection to her book of the month club that Nelson's life took another turn—this time for the better.
"I don't know who reads such trash," the old woman grumbled.
"What trash is that, Mrs. Fiske?" the mailman asked politely.
"These so-called bestsellers. Murder and sex; sex and murder. That's all authors write about nowadays. Well, some people might want to read about other people's sex lives, but not me."
Suddenly the smile on Nelson's face widened.
Thank you, Mrs. Fiske, he thought. You've just shown me the way out of this place.
* * *
When Patsy McNamara arrived at Rosemarie Hubbard's house, she was surprised to see all of Nelson Conway's other wronged women already gathered there.
"What's this about?" she asked suspiciously.
"For the past several months, each of us has been the subject of gossip concerning our relationship with our former mailman," Rosemarie began.
"I don't think I care to discuss ...."
Rosemarie then silenced Patsy's objections by announcing, "He's writing a book, and we're all going to be in it."
"Will he use our real names?" Yvonne Blackstone asked.
"It won't matter," Dottie Gaines replied. "The people in this town will know who we are."
Patsy, horrified, cried, "Our husbands and children will find out the truth. The resulting scandal will surely ruin our lives!"
"That's why I invited you all here," Rosemarie explained. "We have to do something. Nelson can't publish that book."
"But what can we do?" Dottie asked.
"I've already gone to see him," Rosemarie informed the other women. "I attempted to reason with him. Hell, I practically got down on my knees and begged him. I went so far as to offer him money to burn his manuscript, but he's adamant about seeing it in print."
Tammy Chamberlain began to sob.
"To think I actually wanted to marry that Express Mail Casanova. Marry him! Now I'd like to murder him!"
Her tears ceased when she saw the other women staring at her. The look on their faces at the mention of murder chilled her.
A week later the six conspirators met again.
"Are we all agreed then?" Dottie asked after finishing a slice of Maria Barone's strawberry cheesecake.
The five other women nodded.
"Which one of us is going to do it?" Yvonne inquired.
Dottie had a plan.
"None of us will ever know."
"What do you mean?" Rosemarie asked.
"In a firing squad, only one gun has live ammo," Dottie answered. "The others contain blanks. That way, no one knows for sure who fired the fatal shot."
"But we're going to poison him, not shoot him," Patsy pointed out.
Laughter eased the tension in the room.
"True, but we're going to operate under the same principle," Dottie explained. "There will be six vials, five of which will be filled with harmless tap water. The sixth will contain a poison strong enough to permanently dispatch our mailman to the dead letter office."
* * *
It was a mild December day, a busy Friday when many of the residents of Gull Harbor were in town. The shops along Main Street were crowded with Christmas shoppers, and dozens of people passed through the doors of the post office that morning, mailing packages and posting their Christmas cards.
All six of the conspiring women went in separately and at different times during the morning. Each snuck into the lunchroom and emptied her vial of clear liquid into Nelson's thermos of soup.
At noon, the mailman locked the outer door and went into the back of the post office to eat his lunch. As he chewed his roast beef sandwich, he thumbed through the real estate section of The Boston Globe. If his book sold well, he planned on leaving Gull Harbor. No doubt his former friends and neighbors would be furious with him for turning their quaint little community into the Peyton Place of modern-day New England, but what the hell!
While scanning the prices of townhouses in Beantown, Nelson poured himself a cup of clam chowder from his thermos. Shortly thereafter, the womanizing postal worker fell down dead, sprawled across the small kitchen table with his clam chowder spilling out of the fallen thermos onto the real estate section of The Boston Globe.
* * *
News of the mailman's demise spread quickly throughout Gull Harbor. The six women who had joined forces to eliminate the man who would have ruined their lives breathed more easily when the police investigation failed to uncover the murderer. Nelson's book might have shed light on the identity of his killers or at least on a possible motive for the crime. Unfortunately, the manuscript was never found—thanks to Rosemarie Hubbard, who still had a key to the deceased mailman's house.
On December 24, Nelson Conway was laid to rest. Only his next-door neighbors, his fellow employees at the post office and two detectives from the Gull Harbor Police Department attended his funeral. It snowed earlier that day, and the mourners were anxious to return to their homes. Christmas Eve was no time for a burial; it was a day to celebrate life, not death.
Dottie Gaines, meanwhile, was expecting her extended family for Christmas dinner the following day, so she spent the morning baking pies, gingerbread and sugar cookies. At 11:00 a.m., she took a break from her domestic chores to have a cup of coffee. Out of her kitchen window, she had a good view of the mailbox at the end of the driveway. The flag was up, indicating that the mail had been delivered.
She threw a jacket over her shoulders and walked out to the mailbox. Shivering, she ran back into the house with a stack of envelopes. Mixed in with the holiday greetings were the usual bills and junk mail. Near the bottom of the pile was a postcard—rare but not unheard of during the winter season. It was the picture on the front of the card that disturbed Dottie.
"Who would make a postcard from a photograph of the cemetery?" she muttered.
She turned the card over and read the back. WISH YOU WERE HERE was all it said. There was no signature, but Dottie recognized the handwriting: it was Nelson Conway's.
The coffee cup slipped from her hands, fell to the floor and shattered.
At five other houses along the rural postal route, similar postcards were delivered to the other women who had taken part in the murder of the mailman. None of the postcards had a return address or a signature, yet the addressees knew beyond all doubt who had sent the ominous warning. It was a special delivery from beyond the grave, one that could only mean they had not heard the last of Nelson Conway.
I'm sure our mail carrier knows whose mailbox this is.
