Chapter 14 - The Anonymous Postcard
The rain beat a steady, depressing rhythm against the windows of the Crestview Terrace kitchen.
Arthur sat at the vast marble island, surrounded by yellow legal pads, old bank statements, and three empty coffee mugs.
Beside him lay the black leather pouch containing his presumed-dead brother’s passport and the Cayman transfer slip.
Every time Arthur closed his eyes, he saw Thomas’s face.
Thomas, the reckless, charismatic brother who had borrowed hundreds of thousands of dollars before vanishing off a sailing yacht eight years ago.
His body had never been recovered from the turbulent Atlantic waters off Block Island.
The Coast Guard had called it an accidental drowning. The family had held an empty-casket funeral.
"Was it all a game?" Arthur muttered, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. "From the very beginning?"
A sharp knock at the heavy front door broke the stillness of the house.
Arthur started, his hand instinctively reaching toward the heavy brass letter opener on the counter.
He stood up, walked into the foyer, and peered through the narrow sidelight window.
It wasn't a visitor. It was the postal carrier walking back down the long driveway toward his truck.
Arthur waited until the truck drove away before unlocking the deadbolts and pulling the door open.
A small bundle of mail lay inside the brass slot.
Mostly junk mail, overdue utility notices, and predatory letters from real estate investors offering to buy his "stigmatized property" for cash.
At the bottom of the stack was an oversized postcard.
It wasn't inside an envelope. It had no return address.
The front of the postcard was a glossy, faded color photograph of an old, secluded lakeside cottage surrounded by dense pine trees.
Arthur turned the card over.
There was no postage stamp.
Someone had slipped it directly into his mailbox by hand.
Written across the back in neat, elegant blue ink was a single sentence:
*She didn't start with your mother, Arthur. Look into the well behind the Kennebunk cabin.*
Arthur dropped the rest of the mail onto the floor. His fingers gripped the edges of the postcard so hard the paper creased.
Kennebunk, Maine.
That was where Eleanor’s family had owned a summer retreat years before she married him.
She had told him the property had been sold decades ago to cover her late father's mounting medical debts.
Arthur grabbed his coat, his car keys, and his cell phone.
He didn't call the police. Not yet.
May you like
He needed to see Detective Miller in person before someone else disappeared.
***
