chief.
“Where the hell have you been?”
Eddie shrugged. “You told me to find the medical examiner. The man was out of cell phone range, so I had to track him down. It didn’t take me two guesses to figure out where to find Dr. Rubino.”
“At Mullet Point,” Ciders said.
Eddie nodded. “He’s going for your fishing championship title, for sure.”
Ciders waved that comment aside. “So where’s the good doctor now?”
“In the living room with the victim. He’s already begun his examination,” Eddie said.
The chief pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed the sweat off his neck. “Do you have an evidence bag, Franzetti?”
Eddie put his hands on his hips. “Sure, Chief, in my car.”
“Get it. Seymour’s clothes are on the kitchen table and there’s blood all over them. I want you to bag them up for the state forensics team.”
Eddie ducked out to his car, came back in, and crossed to the kitchen. He glanced at me again on the way. I nodded again but continued to keep my mouth shut. My mind, however, was still working.
“Jack,” I whispered to the ghost, “do you really think Ciders can pin this on Seymour?”
If he can, he will, and he’s not about to lose sleep over it, either. In case you haven’t noticed, your postal pal ain’t so popular with the local law enforcement.
“There’s got to be something we can do.”
Sure, baby. Put your palms together and pray for a miracle.
Eddie emerged from the kitchen a few seconds later, holding up Seymour’s shirt. The red stain was impossible to miss.
“Hey, Chief, we got a problem.”
Ciders scowled at Eddie when he saw the uniform. “I thought I told you to bag that up!”
“But, Chief, I don’t see why. There’s no blood.”
Ciders’s bushy eyebrows leaped north. “What?”
“There’s a big red stain, all right, but it isn’t blood—”
“I tried to tell you, Ciders!” Seymour said triumphantly.
Bull pointed a finger. “Shut up, mailman!”
Ciders stepped up to Eddie. “Since when did you become a forensics expert?”
Eddie rolled his eyes. “I don’t have to be a forensics expert to recognize my own family’s pizza sauce!”
CHAPTER 5
The Postman and His Second Slice
Do you realize what you’ve done? . . . You, with your sloppy mass of misinformation, your atrocious taste, and your idiotic guesswork?!
—“It’s So Peaceful in the Country,” William Brandon, Black Mask magazine, November 1943
CHIEF CIDERS SNATCHED the shirt from Eddie’s hand and put the cloth to his nose. With a grunt he turned to glare at Bull McCoy.
“I thought you said these clothes were covered in blood!”
“It . . . It looked like blood to me—” Bull said.
“It reeks of garlic and oregano, you knucklehead!”
“Sheesh, Uncle Wade! You didn’t expect me to actually sniff it, did you?”
Seymour stepped forward. “Can I have my clothes back now?”
“No,” the chief said. “They’re still going to the state’s forensics people. If there’s any blood, fibers, or anything whatsoever incriminating on here, they’ll pick it up, and I’ll want to know about it.”
Ciders shoved the shirt back at Eddie, who shrugged and stuffed it into a plastic evidence bag.
“Damn pizza stains,” Seymour muttered, folding his arms. “That uniform’s ruined anyway.”
“Wash them in white vinegar and cold water,” Eddie suggested. “Works every time.”
Ciders shot his second-in-command a nasty look. “You a law enforcement officer or a spaghetti bender?”
“Family traditions die hard. Here, Seymour, I had these in my trunk.” Eddie tossed the mailman a pair of navy running shorts and an extra-large white T-shirt with HOT PIZZA! emblazoned on the front and WE DELIVER! on the back along with the phone number of his family’s restaurant.
Seymour stuffed his chicken legs into the running shorts. They looked pretty tight over his boxers, even with the elastic band, but he didn’t have much choice in attire
“Where the hell have you been?”
Eddie shrugged. “You told me to find the medical examiner. The man was out of cell phone range, so I had to track him down. It didn’t take me two guesses to figure out where to find Dr. Rubino.”
“At Mullet Point,” Ciders said.
Eddie nodded. “He’s going for your fishing championship title, for sure.”
Ciders waved that comment aside. “So where’s the good doctor now?”
“In the living room with the victim. He’s already begun his examination,” Eddie said.
The chief pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed the sweat off his neck. “Do you have an evidence bag, Franzetti?”
Eddie put his hands on his hips. “Sure, Chief, in my car.”
“Get it. Seymour’s clothes are on the kitchen table and there’s blood all over them. I want you to bag them up for the state forensics team.”
Eddie ducked out to his car, came back in, and crossed to the kitchen. He glanced at me again on the way. I nodded again but continued to keep my mouth shut. My mind, however, was still working.
“Jack,” I whispered to the ghost, “do you really think Ciders can pin this on Seymour?”
If he can, he will, and he’s not about to lose sleep over it, either. In case you haven’t noticed, your postal pal ain’t so popular with the local law enforcement.
“There’s got to be something we can do.”
Sure, baby. Put your palms together and pray for a miracle.
Eddie emerged from the kitchen a few seconds later, holding up Seymour’s shirt. The red stain was impossible to miss.
“Hey, Chief, we got a problem.”
Ciders scowled at Eddie when he saw the uniform. “I thought I told you to bag that up!”
“But, Chief, I don’t see why. There’s no blood.”
Ciders’s bushy eyebrows leaped north. “What?”
“There’s a big red stain, all right, but it isn’t blood—”
“I tried to tell you, Ciders!” Seymour said triumphantly.
Bull pointed a finger. “Shut up, mailman!”
Ciders stepped up to Eddie. “Since when did you become a forensics expert?”
Eddie rolled his eyes. “I don’t have to be a forensics expert to recognize my own family’s pizza sauce!”
CHAPTER 5
The Postman and His Second Slice
Do you realize what you’ve done? . . . You, with your sloppy mass of misinformation, your atrocious taste, and your idiotic guesswork?!
—“It’s So Peaceful in the Country,” William Brandon, Black Mask magazine, November 1943
CHIEF CIDERS SNATCHED the shirt from Eddie’s hand and put the cloth to his nose. With a grunt he turned to glare at Bull McCoy.
“I thought you said these clothes were covered in blood!”
“It . . . It looked like blood to me—” Bull said.
“It reeks of garlic and oregano, you knucklehead!”
“Sheesh, Uncle Wade! You didn’t expect me to actually sniff it, did you?”
Seymour stepped forward. “Can I have my clothes back now?”
“No,” the chief said. “They’re still going to the state’s forensics people. If there’s any blood, fibers, or anything whatsoever incriminating on here, they’ll pick it up, and I’ll want to know about it.”
Ciders shoved the shirt back at Eddie, who shrugged and stuffed it into a plastic evidence bag.
“Damn pizza stains,” Seymour muttered, folding his arms. “That uniform’s ruined anyway.”
“Wash them in white vinegar and cold water,” Eddie suggested. “Works every time.”
Ciders shot his second-in-command a nasty look. “You a law enforcement officer or a spaghetti bender?”
“Family traditions die hard. Here, Seymour, I had these in my trunk.” Eddie tossed the mailman a pair of navy running shorts and an extra-large white T-shirt with HOT PIZZA! emblazoned on the front and WE DELIVER! on the back along with the phone number of his family’s restaurant.
Seymour stuffed his chicken legs into the running shorts. They looked pretty tight over his boxers, even with the elastic band, but he didn’t have much choice in attire
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