By Esther Cohen
Every single day Beulah walked to the post office down the road on 145, her daily exercise. The postmistress, an 82-year-old woman named Irene, knew as much as possible about all of her customers, and she was happy to pass along her information. She could even tell you, if you wanted to know, what political advertisements people received. (One day she told Beulah that her next-door neighbor Karen received exactly twelve postcards from Democratic candidates. Imagine being that big of a Democrat, Irene said.)
On the Friday morning in August when Beulah walked in, Irene shouted: “You got a handwritten note. I think it’s a confession, or at least, a good clue. Would you mind opening the letter while you’re here?”
Martha was in the post office too. Martha, ex-policewoman from the Bronx, added her two cents. “I’ve been following the case since Tom at the police station brought me up to speed. Delores was the last person around here who should have been murdered.” “Agreed,” said Irene. “She’d bring brownies into the post office at least once a month. She was an angel.”
“Do either of you know anything else about her that could help?” Beulah asked. She didn’t want to tell Martha that never in a million years would they ever work together. Martha was controlling and difficult. And Beulah had enough problems trying to figure out how to solve a crime without someone telling her what to do and how to do it.
Irene handed over the letter to Beulah and then, she and Martha stood in wait for an oral recitation. Beulah took her time. She was rarely the center of attention, had never wanted to be either, but now at 71, a newly declared detective, she who’d been a total loner, non-descript in every possible way, took her place in the spotlight at last.
The envelope, one of those number 10 Mead whites that used to be used to mail checks before Paypal and Venmo existed, gave no clues. Her name and her post office box (how had the sender been able to find it?) were written in a clear cursive hand by someone who’d learned handwriting, long ago. On the back of the envelope the sender had written the words Greene County. That’s all.
She opened the envelope slowly, holding on to her newfound attention. Then she read the note out loud, her own small one-woman show.
Dear Beulah,
We know one another a little. Not well of course. Does anyone know you well? My guess is no. Years ago we worked together in a school in Coxsackie. We were not friends. Of course I knew Delores. Wonderful lady. I heard at church last week (you weren’t a church goer and probably aren’t now) that Delores had a lover, a married man named Jack with an unlikable wife named Emily. Jack and Emily go to our church too – the big old Catholic church in Hudson. Since Delores was killed, they’ve missed two Sundays. Jack loved Delores so it wasn’t him. But Emily’s always been angry. If I were a betting person, and I am not, I’d put my money on Emily. She had a motive, and she’s an angry person.
Don’t try to find out who wrote this note. You can’t. Just concentrate on Emily.”
At the end of her dramatic recitation, Beulah asked Irene and Martha what they thought.
“She absolutely murdered Delores,” said Martha.
“Never,” Irene replied.
“We’ll just have to see,” Beulah said.
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