The Carpenter & the Queen by Michelle Lashier

marketed. This was
no simple matter of turning a dowel and adding a little decorative
work at the top. This was a sculpture out of wood. Paul swallowed
hard.
    The set was exquisite and would be difficult
to match. The customer had included a photo of the sheriff’s
queen—a witch with detailed and grotesque features and clothing.
The Maid Marian piece would have to match this witch in
craftsmanship but surpass her in beauty.
    Paul rubbed his chin in consideration. He
had to start with a design of some kind, but the customer’s photos
gave him nothing to go on. It was too bad the man didn’t want
another witch. Paul could imagine plenty of those, most of them
variations of Linda. She had been angry a lot, there at the end,
and when she yelled, Paul had thought of her as a queen of the
underworld, an evil spirit who raped his soul.
    He caught himself, as he always did when
thinking of Linda. She hadn’t gotten that way by herself. Women,
when left alone, turned hard and crusty, like paint when the lid
was left off. All those long nights, especially at the hospital,
when she had nothing left to say and he had four years’ worth of
thoughts he could have shared but didn’t.
    Well, time to get to work. He would do some
research and see what he came up with. As he wrapped up the set
that was going out that day, he considered what he could use for
inspiration for the piece. A regular web surfer, he knew many sites
displaying chess sets. He also owned a whole shelf of reference
books. But Paul already knew he wouldn’t find his answer there.
This job would require new resources, and the logical place to
start was the library. It was right next door to the post office,
so it wouldn’t be out of his way. He would stop there after mailing
the package, that is, if he could get away.
    Paul dreaded going to the post office,
mostly because of Mona the postmistress. Most people in a small
town claimed they liked the idea of walking into a bank or post
office and having the people there greet them by name. Paul had
enjoyed this as well when he moved to Lindberg three years ago, he
remembered ruefully. Mona had questioned him closely when he first
signed up for his post office box, and now, she knew everything
about him—at least, as much as anyone in town knew, and Paul
guessed what people in town knew came from Mona. She wasn’t one to
keep information to herself.
    He didn’t dislike her. He didn’t think she
was unattractive either. She just wasn’t his type. Maybe she would
be called out on special assignment today, and Irma, the stooped
little old lady who filled in sometimes, would be there. Irma
didn’t talk much because her hearing was so bad she had to shout to
hear herself. Any communication she could understand had to be
shouted as well. Paul could hear just fine, but since he didn’t
talk much, he and Irma were always able to settle business quickly,
if not quietly.
    He drove his pickup along the dirt roads
that dissected Michigan’s lower peninsula into squares, just like a
board, and Paul pondered if his own methodical and average
movements weren’t closer to that of a pawn than to some nobler
piece. He steered his pickup through snow drifts on his way into
town. Everything happened slowly in this small town. That was part
of the reason he had moved here. Silence. Reflection. Distance. He
could study life without having to play it.
    He pulled in front of the post office,
parked, then limped inside, his package under his arm.
    An older gentleman was at the counter,
buying a money order. Mona’s voice screeched as she tried to make
herself heard. Paul avoided eye contact and went to a side table to
fill out the priority mail slip.
    Far too soon, the old man was finished, and
Mona caught sight of Paul.
    “Another delivery today?”
    Giving a closed-lipped smile in response to
the obvious question, he set the box and the accompanying slip on
the counter and pulled out his wallet to pay.
    “More snow coming,”