Left for Dead

33

10:30 A.M., Monday, April 12

Patagonia, Arizona

Patty Patton liked to say that she had worked for the post office in Patagonia since “Noah was a pup.” In view of the fact that her career with the U.S. Postal Service had started on a part-time basis when she was in high school and her mother, Lorna DeHaven, was the postmistress, that wasn’t far from wrong.

Patty had married her high school sweetheart, Roland Patton, two weeks after she graduated from Patagonia High. She and Roland, an “older man” of twenty, had planned on staying with her mother only long enough for them to get a place of their own. That plan had come to grief when, a month after the wedding, Roland had died in the crash of his crop-dusting aircraft.

Patty never remarried. She never left her mother’s house, and she never left the post office, either.

From the beginning, Patty had worn her blond hair in a bob, held in place by liberal applications of Aqua Net. Almost forty years later, the bob had turned gray, but it was still held in place by the same armor-like hair spray. Although Patty kept thinking about retiring, so far, that was all she was willing to do—think about it. When it came to husbands, jobs, or hairstyles, Patty Patton wasn’t interested in change for change’s sake.

For years the Patagonia post office had been downsized to a two-person operation. Patty hoisted the flag up the flagpole each morning and took it down at night. She sorted the mail into the individual boxes and into the plastic cartons Phil Tewksbury loaded into his truck. Phil took care of the janitorial end of the operation and kept their one mail truck in good repair. He also delivered mail to customers in outlying areas who didn’t have access to a post office box.

Over years of working together, the two of them had developed a fairly congenial relationship. They were both dependable and conscientious. They both came to work on time and went home on time. There were only two real bones of contention between them. One was Phil’s long hair, which he insisted on wearing in a limp comb-over, and the other had to do with the NFL. Phil was an avid Broncos fan; she was dyed-in-the-wool Dallas Cowboys.

That morning the truck dropped off the mail bags at seven. By eight, Patty had it sorted and was ready to open the window. Most of the time, her customers were in a hurry and totally focused on the mail. They wanted to buy stamps or pick up their general delivery or mail their packages. That morning one customer after another wanted to linger and talk. It was as though, in her capacity as postmistress, Patty Patton was also the source of all local knowledge. Everyone wanted to know if Patty had heard about poor Jose Reyes getting shot over the weekend. Did she have any idea how he was doing? Did she know which hospital he was in? How was his pregnant wife coping? Was there anything anyone could do to help?

Patty was so caught up in her conversations at the window that at first she failed to notice that Phil Tewksbury hadn’t arrived in his usually prompt fashion. At ten, she closed the window long enough for a restroom break. It was only then, when she went back to the loading area, that she was surprised to see his collection of mail-filled cartons stacked where she had left them.

Before opening the window again, she tried calling Phil’s house. There was no answer. She knew that if Phil were at home and able to reach a phone, he would have called to let her know he wasn’t coming in. As for Christine? Patty knew from things Phil had said that his wife had stopped answering their phone years ago.

Patty’s first concern and first responsibility was getting the mail delivered. Her next phone call was to Jess Baxter, the guy who occasionally drove the route when Phil was out sick or on vacation. After making arrangements for Jess to pinch-hit the mail delivery and before she reopened the window, she called the café.

“Has Deputy Carson come in yet this morning?” Patty asked Sally Drummond, the owner of the San Rafael Café.

“Not so far,” Sally answered. “He usually shows up around eleven. Is something wrong?”

Patty didn’t want to push any panic buttons. That was one of the reasons she hadn’t dialed 911. Patty was concerned, but she also knew that Phil was a very private man. Having a cop show up at his place with lights flashing and sirens blaring wouldn’t be appreciated.

“No big deal,” Patty said. “Just have him stop by when he finishes his lunch.”

It was almost noon when Jimmy Carson presented himself at Patty’s window. She remembered Deputy Carson from back when he was a little kid, missing his two front teeth. The first time he came to the window to buy stamps, he parked his two-wheeler, minus the training wheels, just outside the post office’s front door. Once inside, he had to stand on his tiptoes to reach the window. Because of the missing teeth, the word “stamps” came out with a double lisp—“sthampths.”

Today he was a hulking brute of a man in a starched, perfectly ironed uniform. His hairline was definitely receding. He wore a sheriff’s department badge pinned to his barrel chest and a firearm on his hip. He still lived with his mother.

“Morning, Ms. Patton,” he said. “Sally told me you wanted to see me?”

Patty smiled, noting the difference. Sally Drummond at the café was never referred to as Ms. Drummond. The postmistress was always referred to as Ms. Patton.

“Phil Tewksbury didn’t come in today, and he never called, either. Would you mind running by his place, just to check on him?”

Deputy Carson glanced at his watch as if he might not have enough time to drive the several blocks between the post office and Phil’s house. “Sure,” he said. “I suppose I could manage that.”

“You know about his wife, right?” Patty asked.

“You mean the Christmas Tree Lady?”

“Yes,” Patty said. “That’s the one. Be sure you talk to Phil himself. I doubt Christine will even come to the door.”