A/N: Standard disclaimer applies – I do not own them, they belong to the wonderfully talented Martha Williamson. I also want to apologize for anyone who read Chapter 3 within the first few hours of me posting it last night: I had taken my computer to dinner and left it on the table while I used the restroom, and the waitress (a family friend, but with a bizarre sense of humor) thought it would be funny to take advantage of my absence from the table to "rewrite" some of my paragraphs so that they made little to no sense whatsoever. I only noticed them when I was rereading the chapter on last night and thought that something was not right with the server. Anyhow, I fixed the chapter and now I will NEVER post a chapter without reading it thoroughly first.
Now, on to the story! This is still Monday, our POstable friends are returning to the DLO to find Theresa performing her dance, they go to lunch at the Mailbox Grille, and return to Lendimer Manor. Please, read and review!
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Monday, June 29, 2014
11:30 AM
The four friends entered the DLO, tired and dejected after their disappointing morning at Lendimer Manor. The sound of piano music brought their attention to the present, however, and they looked up to see Theresa, utilizing every spare inch of floor space in the office, performing an amateurish, unpracticed ballet. They tilted her heads, trying to make sense of the dance. Growing imperceptibly closer, they step forward as one, skirting the edge of the office, still watching their new supervisor.
"I wonder if your grandfather taught her that," Shane teased Oliver in a whisper once they had stopped in front of the refrigerator, pleased when she saw his neck grow slightly pink around his collar. Good! I'm glad I make you blush sometimes. You need a little shaking up, Mr. O'Toole!
The dance came to a dramatic close, ending with Theresa leaning backwards over the banister behind Oliver's desk, her head hanging upside down, and eyes just then noticing that she had an audience.
"Oh dear," she muttered, slightly embarrassed.
"I told you we should have gone to lunch," Norman complained to Rita.
"Uh, I believe lunch is an excellent idea, Norman," Oliver acknowledged slowly.
"Yeah! Starving!" Shane exclaimed.
Not wanting the four of them to appear rude, Oliver asked, "Ms. Capodiamonte, would you like to join us?"
Shane, not thrilled with the idea of Theresa joining them for lunch, but also recognizing that Oliver – ever the consummate gentleman – would be mortified if they did not at least make a pretense of welcoming their new supervisor for their meal since she was directly in front of them when they decided to go, added, "Yeah, we were just going to try out the Mailbox Grille. It's just re-opening in a little less than half an hour."
"They were closed all weekend because they were renovating," Rita explained. "They are a restaurant now but before, they were a bar."
"Sounds wonderful!" Theresa agreed, pleased that her dance did not appear to have put the four members of the DLO staff – particularly Oliver – out of joint with her.
The five walked the block up the street to the newly-renovated restaurant, surprised to see that it appeared to have opened its doors early. They crowded into a booth in the back, accepted menus from the waitress, and ordered waters to drink.
"I believe it is your turn to decide, Ms. McInerney," Oliver offered, sliding the menu closer to her.
"And you would be mistaken once again, Mr. O'Toole," she laughed. "That celebratory dinner you arranged on Saturday night must have mixed you up a little. I chose the Maryland Benedict for breakfast last Friday, remember?"
"Ah, yes," he agreed, then inclined his head to hers. "But I chose the meal on Saturday night at that selfsame celebratory dinner, if I recall rightly. It is your turn to decide."
Rita glanced at the two, smiling fondly. If only Holly would let Oliver go once and for all…he would be free to pursue Shane. It's clear that he wants to, that he likes her. I think she could like him, too, if there wasn't such a—an elephant in the room, separating them.
"What are they talking about?" Theresa asked Norman, gesturing to Shane and Oliver.
"Oliver and Shane share meals," Rita replied automatically. "Since neither of them are very big eaters, they split an entrée whenever we go out to eat."
"How…interesting," Theresa stated, grinning.
Blushing, Shane held the menu over a little so she and Oliver could both look at it. "Maybe we should decide together this time," she suggested quietly.
"Yes," he agreed. They glanced through the menu for a moment, before each pointing to the same thing at the same time on the "Specials" page.
"It sounds delicious," Shane stated, impressed at the menu already.
"It does," Oliver agreed. "If this menu is any indication, I believe we will be spending a lot of our time here."
The waitress, Angie, came up with their waters, ready to take their food orders. Rita and Theresa each ordered a BLTA with a cup of soup du jour and a side salad. Norman requested a double bacon cheeseburger with fries.
When Angie turned to Oliver, he said, "We will share an order of the DLO Special Delivery, please."
"The what?" Norman asked, picking up the menu again. "Where did you find that?"
"Last page, under 'Weekly Specials', Norman," Shane replied, taking a sip of her water.
"Did you want a soup or salad with that?" Angie asked.
"Soup," they responded simultaneously.
"A cup of soup each," Oliver clarified.
"I found it!" Rita announced. "'DLO Special Delivery – Pan-seared Duck Breast over a warm Lentil Salad, drizzled with a spicy Orange sauce. All entrees come with choice of soup or salad,'" she read. "Oh, I get it! DLO: Duck, Lentils, Orange…clever! Can I change my order to that? With the soup?"
"Same here," Norman requested, handing his menu over.
Angie scribbled their orders down and returned to the kitchen.
Once she had gone, Theresa – knowing that she had to explain about her behavior earlier in the DLO – chuckled. "I ran away once to New York," she began. "To tread the boards and become a real Hoofer!"
"Ah!" Norman exclaimed. "You wanted to shoe horses?"
"No, a 'Hoofer' is a dancer on Broadway, Norman," Shane explained. She would have needed much more practice to actually make it as a Hoofer, however.
"I think that's lovely," Rita breathed longingly. "And very romantic."
"But I thought the Postal Service was in your blood," Oliver objected. Wait, she didn't want to work for the U.S. Postal Service? How could anyone decide to do anything else? To me, there is no higher calling than what I do.
"It was in my father's blood," Theresa countered. "Not mine. He never had a son, so I was the one who was carrying on the Family Tradition." She chuckled again fondly. "The things we sacrifice for the people we love. Hmm?"
How can she call it a sacrifice in front of Oliver? Shane asked herself. To him, the Postal Service in general – and the DLO, in particular – is "a high calling indeed, Cheryl". Surely she must know he believes that if she knows the O'Toole men as well as she claims!
"But hey," Theresa pulled Shane out of her thoughts. "Look at me. What did you call me? A Goddess in the Postal Acropolis?"
"Did you ever get to New York?" Norman asked after they had all had a good laugh.
"I got as far as the bus depot," she chuckled for the third time. "And my parents caught up to me and brought me home. But they were right. I was too young. But then I waited too long, and I woke up one day, and I…was too old. So, 'To thine own self be true,' right? That's what your grandfather always said."
OK, that is sad, Shane acknowledged. I suppose, just because Oliver, Norman, Rita, and I love our jobs doesn't mean that the Postal Service is for everyone. For her to work for nearly fifty years at a job she clearly didn't want in the first place, just to wake up one morning and understand that she would never be able to realize her true passion, must be a hard pill for her to swallow. She decided then that, no matter how odd or peculiar Theresa seemed to her, she would no longer judge her for it.
"Yes, he loved his Shakespeare," Oliver replied fondly.
"And you loved him," Theresa insisted. "I can tell."
"Well," Oliver clarified. "I wish he had lived longer so I could have…known him better." He sighed, remembering that last Christmas in the San Juan Islands when his grandfather was sick and dying. He remembered being so scared he would never see him again, and he had been correct. After that trip, he never had seen his grandfather again.
Theresa, sensing he was lost in memories, said, "You're a good boy, Oliver. Yeah. So!" she changed the subject brightly. "Tell me. Did you find your 'Gramma'?"
"We think we did," Rita sighed. "But she wouldn't admit it." I wish I knew why, though. She seemed not to like that Donna person so much, but that's understandable. What kind of person introduces themselves without stating a last name?
"I think that Owen is her grandson," Shane insisted. "And there's something that she's not saying, because—I don't—it just doesn't add up." There is something we are missing here, if we can just figure out what it is, we can solve this case in time to help Owen.
"Did you notice how Mrs. Lasseter became upset when she saw Owen's drawing on the back of the envelope?" Oliver queried. I know you noticed it, Ms. McInerney, since you mentioned the drawing to her after Rita had gone to fetch her sweater, but I want the others to understand what happened when they were not around.
"That's when she asked Donna to leave, to get her sweater," Rita realized, something, some detail still niggling at the back of her mind. "But when I brought it back, she never put it on."
"Vivian wanted Donna to leave the room," Oliver pointed out. That much had been painfully clear to both himself and Shane. Lord, we are so close. Reveal the key to this puzzle, please. Help us discover what it is that Mrs. Lasseter is afraid of so that Shane and I may speak to her privately in order to help Owen. This is important, Lord, and it seems especially so to Ms. McInerney. Please, I don't want to disappoint her, and I don't want anything to happen to Owen if we can prevent it. Guide our way, I pray. Amen.
"And Donna was awfully eager to read that letter," Rita added.
"And Vivian made an awfully big deal about how she didn't know anybody named Owen," Shane finished. That was after Rita left, I think, but it is still an important piece to this puzzle.
"Wait a second!" Oliver exclaimed. "Didn't Donna say she knew everyone's birthday?"
"That's right!" Shane realized. "Except she didn't know Sally's. And Vivian made sure that we heard that."
"So Donna's taken a real interest in Vivian," Oliver theorized. "But why?" What are we missing, Lord? Help us decipher this. Provide some sign, some trigger, some key that will unlock the door for us.
Norman, not having anything much of value to contribute to this brainstorming session due to his time spent with Arlene, idly tapped his spoon against his water glass.
Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink.
"Oh! Spoons!" Rita gasped. "I saw them! She had windchimes in her room made out of old spoons! I bet you that's why Vivian got me to go get her sweater!"
"And Owen was bringing more spoons 'to make another one,'" Norman pointed out, excitedly shaking the spoon he held.
Shane got an idea. "What was it you said about family and how we make sacrifices for those that we love?" she asked Theresa.
"Yes!" the older woman agreed.
Shane looked at Oliver. "Vivian wasn't rejecting Owen," she began as his gaze met hers.
"She was protecting him," he finished for her. She nodded, tears welling up again. Wordlessly, he handed his handkerchief to her so she could dry her eyes, just as Angie came up with their soups, which happened to be French Onion that day.
Shane grinned at Oliver, who gazed at her wryly. "I should have asked what the soup of the day was," he grimaced, tasting a spoonful of it anyway. "Mmm…it's delicious, though."
"Do you not like French Onion soup, Oliver?" Theresa inquired.
Begging Shane with his eyes to keep quiet on the subject, he merely responded, "Just a private…joke…between myself and Ms. McInerney."
Shane, unable to contain her mirth anymore, giggled, coughing when the spoonful of soup she had been sampling went down the wrong tube. "Very private," she squeaked, ignoring the mock glare he sent her. Still coughing, she took a sip of water to clear her throat.
"Are you alright?" he asked in some concern.
"Fine," she answered, finally able to catch her breath. They finished their soups without further incident and, within ten minutes, their entrees were coming out.
"A BLTA sandwich with a side salad," Angie announced, placing the plate in front of Theresa. "And three DLO Special Deliveries," setting a plate each in front of Norman and Rita, and the last one between Shane and Oliver, along with an empty plate.
"Wow, this looks fantastic," Shane stated as Oliver began to place half their meal on the extra plate.
"It smells amazing," he agreed, handing her one of the plates and pulling the other one in front of himself. The duck had been seared perfectly and was a nice medium rare in the middle. The Lentil salad had quinoa, tomatoes, arugula, pine nuts, dried cherries, and goat's cheese in it, and the orange sauce drizzled over the duck slices but did not interfere with the presentation in any way.
"Oh, this is so good," Rita announced after she had swallowed a bite of duck with some of the salad and a tiny bit of sauce.
"I think we have found our go-to restaurant," Oliver announced, pleased with the direction their old watering-hole had taken.
"Absolutely," Shane agreed. The others nodded.
After lunch, Shane walked up to the register to pay the bill, Oliver following behind. "Ms. McInerney," he began. "I believe, when we get back to Lendimer Manor, it would be best if you and I spoke to Vivian privately."
"I agree, Oliver," she replied, signing the credit slip and leaving a tip. "We can have Norman talk to that woman, Arlene, who he was with this morning, to find out anything he can on Donna. And Rita, well—"
"…Can be used as a distraction for Donna," he finished the thought she did not want to voice. She nodded, abashedly. "Excellent thinking, Ms. McInerney. Our Rita can hold a spirited conversation on almost any subject, given that she remembers everything she reads or hears."
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"So, Norman, dig up anything you can about Donna," Oliver instructed as they entered the lobby. I don't know what we will do with such information, but if it keeps Donna from ever seeing Norman, that might come in handy at some point. Who knows? "Rita, do whatever you have to do to keep Donna away from Vivian. We rendezvous back here in 20 minutes."
"She was in Room 224," Shane recalled once they left the lobby.
"I think it's this way," Oliver pointed, leading Shane down a corridor. "Yes, here it is," he announced a few minutes later as they stopped outside a door.
Shane knocked softly on the door. "Mrs. Lasseter?" she called softly, opening it. Hearing no reply, she stepped in, followed by Oliver, who gently shut the door.
Seeing the windchimes, Shane approached the window. "Do you remember what Owen said?" she asked Oliver, running her fingers through the chimes. "'I miss making spoons with you. I have mine hanging on the apple tree outside.' I bet…they both made one." She walked back to Oliver, turning when she heard the voice come from behind her.
"We did," Vivian admitted quietly. "The day we made those windchimes…was the last day I saw him. I said they sounded like little birds saying a prayer. And he said no matter how far apart we are, we should always leave them up…so that when the wind blew, it would be as if our windchimes were saying their prayers together." She smiled sadly, thinking of her son, daughter-in-law, and grandson hiding out goodness-knows-where with no freedom, no choices. It was almost as if they were in prison themselves. She sat in her rocking chair. "You never imagine when you get to be my age, that a nine-year-old boy could be your best friend, or that I could be his." He is, though. He is my pride and joy, my best friend. And I miss him and worry about him terribly. About all of them.
"Mrs. Lasseter," Oliver promised. "Your grandson needs you very much. If you trust us, we'll do everything in our power to help you."
"I know you would try," Vivian acknowledged with a sigh. "But you can't." I don't believe for a second that you are simply a Postal Worker as you say, Mr. O'Toole…what Postal Worker goes to such lengths just to deliver one letter from a little boy to his Grandmother? You and your friends must work for the government in some other official capacity and simply use the Post Office as a cover.
"Mrs. Lasseter…" Shane insisted, crouching beside her. "Please. Where is Owen?"
Lord, Oliver prayed. Only you can soften her heart and get her to trust us with the truth. Give Shane and I the words to say that will accomplish that goal, as she certainly has no reason to believe us. Guide our hearts and our minds, Lord, and direct our speech so that we my minister unto this woman who, even now, is grieving for a grandson she has not seen for what must be no small amount of time.
"His name is Casey," Vivian corrected, crying. "And, uh, I don't know where he is. I don't know where any of them are."
"Do you mean your family?" Shane asked sympathetically. "Are they in trouble?" Why? What could possibly have happened to them? Have they been taken? Is that the "they" Owen…Casey…had been talking about in his letter?
"They're in Witness Protection," Vivian explained, gazing steadily at Oliver.
Shane stood, gathered her purse, and sat on the edge of the bed, pulling her computer out of its pocket. She began to type as she heard the story from Vivian.
"So," Oliver inquired. "Owen's, uh, Casey's father witnessed a crime, then?" Lord, no wonder she is so afraid to say anything! She really is protecting them, all of them. What a burden this must have been for her to carry alone! Let me relieve that burden from her, Lord. Let me reunite this strong, amazing woman with her family so they need not be separated anymore.
"No," Vivian replied emphatically. "Casey did. He was riding his bike down an alley and he stumbled onto some sort of lowlife narcotics ring just before a shooting. And now my grandson is the star witness, and he and the family have had to hide out at some 'undisclosed location' until he can testify against them at the trial next week."
Wow! Shane thought. That is terrible! That poor little boy…what a responsibility he has at such a young age. No wonder he misses his Gramma; his whole world is turned upside down and he's powerless to stop it! He probably just wants something familiar to hold on to…even if it is just making windchimes out of spoons and sharing peanut butter banana pancakes for a birthday breakfast with the person he loves most in the world. I understand that; I would have given anything to have had the same opportunity after my dad left.
"Here it is," she announced, still typing. "'The trial of Drug Kingpin Laszlo Sarrazin begins next Monday in Federal Court, and—' wait, there's a picture of the guy, and…Oh. Wow."
She turned her glance from Vivian to settle her gaze on Oliver, sending him an unspoken message in addition to her spoken one. "Oliver, you might want to take a look at this." There's no might. Come over here, please. This is huge. We knew there was something not right about her!
Once he had moved next to her and crouched down to where he could see the screen, she pointed to what she was looking at. "It's a picture of Donna," she whispered to him. "Only she's blonde and her name is Sylvia. She's suspected of drug trafficking."
Lord, Shane and I suspected something was odd about Donna's behavior, but we never would have suspected anything so vile, so devious. We must remove Mrs. Lasseter from this facility, Lord, and from Donna's—Sylvia's grasp, because if that woman finds out where Casey is, that little boy's life doesn't stand a chance, and I would never forgive myself. More importantly, Shane would never forgive me, and I can't live with that. We have to find him, Lord. We have to stop him.
"Someone made terrible…terrible threats against my Casey's life, and if that letter has anything in it that could lead them back to him or the family…oh…Donna must never read that letter," Vivian pleaded.
"Mrs. Lasseter," Oliver broached. "He's planning to run away tonight to surprise you for your birthday."
"Oh, no," Vivian moaned. "Oh, my. Oh—no. I should have gone with them. When this whole thing started they wanted me to, and I was afraid I was just going to be a burden. And now, with Casey looking for me, I'm worse than a burden. I'm a liability."
Oliver crouched in front of her, a peace about him. He knew he had the words – given to him by the ultimate Orator – to win her trust in his team. "Mrs. Lasseter," he held out his hand for her to take. "I know how he feels. If I could get on a bicycle and ride to my grandfather tonight, I would. But I can't. You are a strong and brave woman who loves her family so much, she was willing to sacrifice the rest of her days with them in order to keep them safe."
He pulled the letter out of his inside breast pocket and offered it to her. "Maybe Casey didn't write that in so many words, but the words he did write…of spoons and apple trees and peanut butter pancakes, those words might as well be a sonnet by Shakespeare, because they say the very same things—that you are known and loved and missed. Casey's words…are beautiful, Vivian."
He thought about it for a moment, making a decision. "They are gonna lead us right to him tonight…" he glanced at Shane, who looked surprised – although not displeased – to hear him say such a thing. "…if you just trust us."
Vivian looked back and forth between the two Postal Workers in front of her, turned her gaze to the letter in her hands, then looked back at Oliver and nodded her acceptance. I will do whatever you need me to, just please, find my grandson. Stop him.
"Ms. McInerney," Oliver straightened. "Can you please fetch Norman, bring him back here, and help Mrs. Lasseter finish packing? Shane nodded her acquiescence. "I will collect Rita and we will return to this window," he gestured to the large one behind the rocking chair. "It looks like it swings open, so you and Norman should be able to climb out of it relatively easily. We will take Mrs. Lasseter's belongings to the Jag. You will have to go through the front door," he addressed Vivian, who nodded. "And meet us at my vehicle. It's—"
"The little blue Jaguar in the drive," Vivian supplied. "I saw you all leaving earlier."
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Ten minutes later, Shane returned to knock on Vivian's door before pushing it open and entering, Norman following behind shyly. "Mrs. Lasseter, this is my associate, Norman Dorman," she stated. "He was otherwise occupied with another resident this morning, so I don't believe you were able to meet him."
"Hello," Norman greeted, waving.
"He will keep watch for us, in case Vivian might be watching your room," Shane explained.
"Do you have a pair of binoculars?" Norman requested.
"Yes," Vivian replied, fishing them out of a drawer. "I use them for bird-watching."
"They're perfect," he insisted, gaze sweeping the grounds through them. "I can see everything."
Shane noticed the filled carpet bag. "Okay," she sighed. "Anything else?"
"No," Vivian replied in a shaky voice. "That's it. I didn't bring much." I didn't want anything personal that might point even accidentally to Casey's location.
"So, when Oliver gets here," Shane instructed, "…we're only gonna have a minute. You ready for this?" This is it, Vivian, it's the point of no return. There is no changing your mind once you decide to leave Lendimer Manor, so be sure that this is the course of action you want to take.
"Absolutely," Vivian insisted. I have been so miserable here, so lonely, and so worried. Plus, I have had Donna breathing down my neck for the last few months, which hasn't been pleasant, either.
"I wish that we could walk out with you," Shane told the older woman. "We can't risk running into Donna." They heard a knock at the window and turn to see Oliver gesturing to the other wall, where the window was located that they would use. "There they are."
Shane and Vivian opened the windows and made room for Norman to exit first. "Thank you," he said, handing the binoculars back to Vivian and accepting the carpet bag from Shane once he had gained the ground.
"Mrs. Lasseter," Oliver insisted. "Are you sure about all this? Once you leave, you cannot return." Even if we don't find Casey, there is really no way for you to return here. Donna would never let you live through it. Please be sure that you are prepared to cast off your only safety net.
"Yes," she replied firmly, placing Casey's letter in her pocket.
"Alright," Oliver assented softly.
"I don't mind trying to climb," Vivian offered, desperate not to need to exit through the lobby where she might have to explain her activities to Donna.
Shane laid a hand on Vivian's shoulder, shaking her head. "No," Oliver stated, voicing the thought that Shane had been about to state. "We can't risk it. Besides, if you fell, Casey would never forgive us."
The mention of her grandson reminded her of something. The chimes! I almost forgot them! "Oh! Wait a minute," she exclaimed, as Shane stepped up onto the window ledge, preparing to climb down.
"Please," Oliver offered, holding out his hand to help her down. "Allow me, Ms. McInerney."
Grinning wryly, she took his hand, ignoring the jolt of pleasure she felt when his fingers clasped tightly around hers to support her weight as she stepped off the ledge. The man is definitely swoon-worthy, she thought. What is wrong with his wife that she would rather live alone in Paris than here in Denver with him?
Once she was securely on the ground, Oliver reluctantly released her hand and turned to accept the windchimes from Vivian, turning to the car only once he saw that the windows had securely been shut by Vivian.
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A/N: Well, there it is! Please, let me know what you thought! Since the Mailbox Grille is a fictional restaurant, it was fun for me to imagine a menu for them! There are only two more chapters (I think…probably) left in this story, then it will be on to "To Whom it May Concern"! Up next: their trip to Fort Collins.