That’s pretty much all I did. It took a while—especially getting the books ready for mailing. I had to find tape and scissors, cut up a grocery bag, and be careful not to leave prints on any of the books or wrapping materials. A major chore.
I felt pretty good about doing it, though. I’d killed the poor guy, but at least he might get his chance at a movie deal.
Finally, all dressed and ready to go, I made the rounds one more time. I picked up a few odds and ends that shouldn’t be left behind, and gave a quick wipe to whatever I might’ve touched but couldn’t take with me.
I didn’t go into the bathroom, though. The floor was too wet from the shower, and the air was so thick with steam that I couldn’t even see Murphy in the tub.
Returning to the front door, I tossed a few things into the grocery bag with the money, books, etc. I didn’t think I’d be able to manage two bags, so I mashed down the one holding the dirty sheets and pillow case, and stuffed it into the other bag. Then I slipped my purse strap onto my shoulder. I put on my sunglasses and picked up the full bag.
It was pretty heavy. With my right arm, I hugged it against my chest. I used my left hand—wrapped in my skirt—to open the door.
For a few seconds, I stood there and looked out through the screen door. Nothing seemed to be going on outside.
From one of the nearby units came the noisy whine of a vacuum cleaner. I also heard television voices coming from somewhere.
But I saw nobody.
So I stepped out, pulled the main door shut, and walked briskly toward the sidewalk. I was several paces away from Murphy’s unit by the time its screen door bammed shut.
40
LAST TASKS
Eyes turned toward me as I entered the post office. Mostly belonging to guys, of course. Scoping out this flashy redhaired babe with the body to die for, the slit up her skirt and her blouse half open.
I recognized nobody.
I don’t think anyone looked high enough to see my face.
But I had my sunglasses on, just in case.
Holding the wrapped books low in front of me to keep the view of my cleavage clear, I walked straight over to the waiting line. There were ten or twelve people ahead of me.
I planned to send the books First Class.
I’d considered Overnight Express Mail, but it was after four o’clock by the time I reached the post office. I thought that might be too late in the afternoon for guaranteed nextday delivery, so why go to the extra expense?
Besides, if I sent the books Overnight, I would have to stand around and fill out a special label. I didn’t want to fool with that.
First Class would get the books to the producers soon enough.
If not tomorrow, the day after tomorrow.
While I stood in the line, I set the package down on the floor in front of my feet. Then I took a twenty-dollar bill out of my purse. I also took out a couple of tissues.
Squatting down, I casually used the tissues to wipe the outside of the parcel where I’d touched it. (Cops can lift fingerprints off paper, you know.) I didn’t pay attention to who might be watching, and didn’t really care. A person’s got every right to clean off a package before mailing it, right? It’s nobody’s business why, and who would ever guess I was doing it to ruin possible fingerprint evidence? Nobody, that’s who.
Keeping a tissue in one hand and my twenty in the other so that my fingertips didn’t touch the package, I picked it up again.
Then I just waited in line for my turn at one of the windows.
I kept my head down. Nobody talked to me, and I spoke to no one. It was a pretty long wait, though.
People are amazing. They’ll go to a place like the post office, and half of them don’t seem to have a clue. They’ll step up to the window with a box that’s still open, for instance, and ask to borrow some tape. Or when it comes time to pay, they’ll have to spend five minutes hunting for their checkbook. Amazing.
Not to mention, the postal workers were in no hurry to set any speed records.
Finally, my turn came anyway.
I set my package on the counter, smiled, and said, “Good afternoon,” to the clerk.
She gave me back a friendly smile, and said, “What can I do for you, honey?”
“I’d like to mail these books,” I told her. My parcel was too large to fit through the slot under the panel of bullet-proof glass (or acrylic, or whatever), so she opened the panel like a door. I slid the package toward her, leaving the twenty on top, and said, “I’d like it to go First Class, please.”
Nodding, she shut the panel. When she set the parcel on a scale, its weight and cost appeared on a computer screen. After slapping on some stickers, she pushed my change under the window and asked if I would like to have a receipt.
“No,” I said. “I don’t think I’ll be needing one. Thanks.”
“You have a nice day,” she said.
“Thanks. You, too.”
I turned away from her window.
“Next in line,” she called.
The line had dwindled. Only three customers were waiting. Two women—one in her twenties and the other at least seventy—and a young guy probably no older than eighteen. Guess which one was looking at me.
He gaped at me, his jaw drooping.
But I doubt that he saw my face at all.
I walked on past him and out the door.
Just so the flashy redhead who mailed Murphy Scott’s books would not be connected directly to Judy’s car (on the slim chance that an investigator might actually look into the situation), I had parked her car a block away from the post office and around a corner.
Nobody followed me around the corner.
I climbed in and drove away.
I had no more chores to run. Only one thing still needed to be done: ditch Judy’s car.
Abandon it somewhere, and walk home.
Walk home carrying the grocery sack loaded with my pretzels, my personally inscribed and autographed copy of Deep Dead Eyes, my souvenir pieces of rope, a pair of used bedsheets and a pillow case, and my five thousand dollars in small bills.
It wasn’t terribly heavy, now that I’d gotten rid of the five hardcover books.
But heavy enough. I didn’t care to trudge five or ten miles with it.
There was, of course, a simple solution to the problem. Why not drive straight home, park in the garage and haul the sack up to my room, then take off again to find a distant dumping-spot for the car?
Simple, but not for me.
I just didn’t have the guts to go driving Judy’s car brazenly all over creation. Even the trip from Murphy’s neighborhood to the post office had nearly undone me. Too much time had gone by since leaving Judy, Milo and Tony. Too much might’ve happened. What if Judy had already been reported missing? What if somebody had stumbled upon Milo’s camp? Suppose Judy had escaped from the woods and told the cops all about me? What if Tony’s body had already been discovered in the parking lot of her apartment building?
If anything of the sort had happened, every cop in Chester might be on the lookout for her car.