Cancelled by Murder Read Online Free

reading from notes to update viewers on the state of the storm. Erin was in the middle of a boilerplate paragraph urging the citizens of North Ashcot and vicinity to err on the side of safety and stay indoors.
    â€œAnd please, folks, refrain from heavy power usage, even though this storm may turn out to be a dud, and not one for the books. Also, we want you to know—”
    â€œI’m afraid there’s some unfortunate news,” Rick said, interrupting. He held up a sheet of paper that had been handed to him. Erin looked genuinely surprised and eager to hear the tidbit. Rick continued. “As tireless as our city workers have been, on alert for the safety of all”—he turned to address Erin—“I’m sorry to say that we have our first casualty, Erin.”
    Erin’s face took on a somber look and I noticed a discreet gulp and a soft clearing of her throat. “What do we know for sure, Rick?”
    Probably nothing, ever,
I thought, but a negative outlook was the last thing we needed today.
    â€œEmergency workers arrived on the scene in downtown North Ashcot just moments ago, and have confirmed that the storm has claimed one life in that town,” Rick said.
    Erin took over, facing the camera. “This might be a good time for a break while we seek out the details. We’ll be back shortly with more news on this devastating storm.”
    In a minute, the storm had gone from “dud” to “devastating.” And my attention went from a dull interest to full alert.
    One life lost will do that.
    *   *   *
    I kept myself busy with paperwork I’d brought home from my PO desk and sat facing the muted television set, ready to tune in again when Rick and Erin or their counterparts returned with news. My mind kept drifting to the question: Who was the casualty of the storm?
    I couldn’t put a number to how many of the three thousand townsfolk I knew. Certainly the dozens of my highschool classmates who had never moved away. Now I handled their mail and knew a lot more about their lives than I did twenty years ago. I knew who had relatives out of town (in important jobs, unemployed, in prison), where and how often they took vacations, which catalogue companies they bought from, which magazines they read, what kinds of puzzles they were hooked on. Such was the life of a postal worker in any city, but especially so in a small town.
    When Terry Thornton, another quilter, walked up to my counter last week with a stack of “Save the Date” postcards, I became one of the first to know that she and Justin had set a wedding date. I made a private bet with myself that Terry would begin subscribing to a brides’ magazine, and, sure enough, I’d been right, though I would never have revealed her pseudoprivate business. I also knew the length and birth weight of former resident Mabel Foster’s new granddaughter. The more than two dozen postcard announcements, addressed to select people on her mailing list, passed through my hands and into the homes or PO boxes of her chosen recipients.
    Day after day, I learned things about North Ashcot citizens that perhaps only their closest friends were aware of—late payments, a high- or low-end shopping spree, a returned item, a prescription drug.
    Now one of those citizens was dead as a result of the wind and rain outside my door. Did I know the person, more than as his or her mail handler? Was he or she an old friend? A new friend? A customer? Selfishly, I hoped not. I wanted it to be a stranger, a drifter perhaps, realizing full well that any “stranger” to me would still have family and friendswho would grieve. But I’d been back only a year and had already experienced the loss of my aunt and a friend from high school. That should have been enough for a while.
    Rick and Erin never showed up again. Eventually, two beefy men took over the screen and treated us to a sports roundup—not