I own nothing. More's the pity. Peter Gunn and friends belong to Blake Edwards and Spartan Entertainment. I borrow them occasionally for my own pleasure.

This story is the result of a challenge between myself and Melchy. We were to write a story of exactly 1,500 words as counted by FF, not including title or notes, and had to use two phrases and six words provided by online generators. The phrases and words were: The urge to interrupt him before he was finished was overwhelming; It was the best sandcastle he'd ever seen; intimacy, tree, sandwich, exclusive, attack, girlfriend. All words and phrases generated are in bold type. A/N: The story contains some narration from Pete's point of view, something which occurs in several episodes of the TV series.

Return to Sender

Charlie Dorsey had lived an unpretentious existence before turning to a life of crime on the eve of his thirtieth birthday. By all accounts he'd been raised a gentleman, disdained violence and avoided the harsher elements of lawlessness. He would have made the perfect lonely hearts con man but for his one great flaw – Charlie liked to rob banks. Tonight he'd robbed his last one. By the time Jacoby and I caught up with him he'd taken three bullets from the night guard at Union Bank. With considerable self-will and through obvious pain he'd managed a few words before he died, which explains why I was helping Jacoby search Dorsey's apartment at midnight when I should have been listening to Edie sing.

Jacoby shoved a drawer shut with an irritated bang, his disgusted gaze settling on Peter Gunn.

"Are you certain that's what he said?"

"Positive."

The PI carefully inspected the back of a large box-shaped mirror before settling it against the wall. The faded wallpaper around it sharply contrasted with that behind it, attesting to the many years it had been hanging there.

"Tell me again."

Pete repeated Charlie Dorsey's final gasping words. "Make sure...it's...all returned..." he had wheezed in a barely audible gurgle. "Map..."

Though Dorsey had been incarcerated for two bank jobs over a twenty year career, none of the money pilfered in those or others he'd been suspected of had ever been located. Gossip among crooks and cops alike suggested Charlie had stashed it where it would never be found. Now, based on what sounded like a dying confession, it appeared those rumors might be true.

The policeman followed Pete to the other side of the living room where knick-knacks and books lined tall shelves. He began tipping beer steins in case one had become a hiding place, vaguely hearing riffling pages as Pete searched through books. Sudden silence had him glancing at his friend, who stood patiently still, staring at the book in his hand.

"What are the odds?" He turned it so Jacoby could see the cover.

"Treasure Island? That's the first place anyone would look."

"Making it the perfect place to hide it."

The PI searched the pages of the book, finding nothing, but noticed the pastedown inside the back cover was loose. He pulled out his knife, made a slit and drew out a folded piece of yellowed paper. Deft fingers unfolded it as Jacoby watched, a crude map taking shape before their eyes. Compass directions were marked. Criss-crossed lines indicated roads. A short squiggly line might signify a trail through a patch of forest where one tree stood high above the others. Wave-like doodles identified a river. Several nearby towns were labeled. In the upper left corner were notes of a sort, words and numbers that might be shorthand for roads or special markers. On the opposite corner was one sentence. Look for the sandcastle.

"Hold it! Turn back." Pete shifted sideways to look over his shoulder. "I saw a sign just off the main road."

After driving around for hours in the dark the PI and the cop were at the point of giving up. Several false starts became dead ends before they decided to investigate the road to Glenbrook. It was forested and ran parallel to the river. The town wasn't labeled on Dorsey's map, which might mean something or nothing at all.

Jacoby made a slick u-turn, tires squealing as he jerked the steering wheel as far to the left as it would go, and headed back the way they'd come. The headlights fell on a dirt road that appeared to slope toward the river. He turned into what was nothing more than a double-rutted lane, the high beams finding a tattered white sign, the black paint of its wording chipped and fading but still readable. Sand Castle Lodge.

Hunched over the wheel as he peered through the gloom, Jacoby urged the car through brambles and tall grass, emerging into a clearing just as the sun rose. The men found themselves staring at a rundown building constructed of decaying yellow sandstone. Pete got out and stood looking up at the small crumbling turrets that gave the place an oddly medieval look. It was the best sandcastle he'd ever seen.

Jacoby plopped down on a log, removed his hat and ran a palm along his thinning hair. He glanced at his friend. Peter Gunn's sense of curiosity rarely allowed the PI the luxury of admitting defeat when it came to solving a mystery, but the cop figured there was a first time for everything.

"I give up. If there's anything out here it's going to stay out here."

"Don't be such a wet blanket, Lieutenant."

Pete rolled his shirtsleeves up another inch and pulled a handkerchief from his pants pocket to wipe his brow. The sun was high in the sky, the day warm for the end of April. He took the map and a pack of Lucky Strikes from his breast pocket, lit a cigarette and unfolded the worn sheet of paper as he pocketed his lighter. Eyes narrowed against the smoke, he studied Charlie Dorsey's notes. 300 what? Feet, yards? Paces, trees? His gaze shifted to the drawing. One tree standing taller than the others. Was it really taller or was its height symbolic, marking its importance? Maybe indicating it was different somehow?

"What's that old saying? Not seeing the forest for the trees? Maybe we aren't seeing the tree for the forest."

The little dogwood tree was out of place among the tall red oaks and pitch pines. Its white flowers stood out in the forest shade along the side of the trail three hundred yards from the road. I went back to the car for the shovel, giving Jacoby time to recover from the unaccustomed exercise. We found the box an hour later, covered by a foot of soil and another foot of crushed rock. Inside the box was a treasure, but not the one we expected.

Finding no clues on the back of the faded photograph found inside the crumbling wooden box, Jacoby turned it over and stared at the disturbingly familiar face of a young woman. His tired brain couldn't come up with a name so he handed the photo to Pete.

"Lorna March." The PI returned the photo to the box and picked up a stack of envelopes tied with string. "She was a big name during the final days of vaudeville and then worked the stage. She married that millionaire newspaper fellow who owns the Daily Times and mostly disappeared from public life."

"How do you know all that?"

"From Mother. There are pictures of Miss March in some of her old scrapbooks."

"How is she connected to Charlie Dorsey?

"Maybe these letters can tell us."

Pete untied the string and shuffled through the envelopes. The most recent, postmarked October 1938, was at the bottom of the stack. He slipped the letter out, a whiff of sweet perfume accompanying it even after all the years that had passed, unfolded it and began reading aloud.

"My Dearest Charles..."

He paused at the intimacy of the words and continued silently. Jacoby watched the PI's face. The urge to interrupt him before he was finished was overwhelming.

"Pete – "

"It's a Dear John letter. She was his girlfriend – but apparently for her the relationship wasn't exclusive. She dumped him for the millionaire."

"Leave it to a woman to drag a man up that slippery slope just to push him over a cliff when he reaches the top." Jacoby's expression turned sour. "Six months after he received that letter he robbed his first bank. Goes to show what love can do to a man."

"It wasn't love that did it, Lieutenant." Pete placed the photograph and letters back in the box and handed it to the policeman. "It was the rejection of that love."

"I think I'm going to enjoy delivering this to Lorna March. I want to see the look on her face when she realizes who it's from."

Peter Gunn returned from the kitchen with lunch and two mugs of coffee, eyes amused as he watched Edie Hart pause her activity to hungrily attack an egg sandwich. Curiosity getting the best of him, he asked what she was doing.

"Writing a letter."

"Oh." Amusement turned to apprehension. "To whom are you writing this letter?"

"You."

"Me? Why would you write a letter to me when I'm right here?"

"Every woman should write a letter to the man she loves at least once in her life."

"Uh, look honey - " He crumpled the sheet of paper into a ball and tossed it toward the wastebasket. "How about you forget about writing letters and whisper sweet nothings instead..."

~ The End~