The Curious Detectives

Five minutes later, Tom followed his dad through the tattered old wooden door of the post office, putting his hands into his pockets, not sure what to expect. But he did have an odd sensation in his stomach, knowing the original mysterious letter from M.S. had been mailed from this very building. It was almost like seeing the hospital room where you'd been born or a house your ancestor had built. Despite how he felt, this was where any investigation would have to begin—he just hoped it didn't end here as well.

The place was boring, nothing but half termite infested wooden walls and floors. The counter wasn't spared either. The only thing breaking the monotony was the black radio pumping out something that looked like music but in the native language. No workers were in sight.

  "Hello?" Dad called into the emptiness. A little bell sat on the main counter. He gave it a ring.

A few seconds later, sturdy footsteps were heard as an old man with bushy eyebrows and white stubble on his cheeks and chin appeared from the back, which left Tom wondering if there was really a back door, but to where? Looking none too happy that he actually had to serve a customer, "What can I do for you?" he asked in a gruff voice before his feeble attempt at a smile.

"Uh, yes, we have a question for you." Dad stumbled on his words, as if not sure of himself now that the investigation had officially begun. "We received a letter—postmarked from this town—in the middle of last month. In April. And, we're trying to find the person who sent it to us, and, um, so here we are." He rubbed his eyes with both hands and groaned. "Tom, your turn."

"Oh, sure." Tom pulled the original envelope from his diary, where he'd stuck it between two pages, then placed it on the counter. "Here it is. Does this look familiar to you at all, or the handwriting?" 

The man leaned forward and, for some reason, sniffed the envelope. "Doesn't mean a thing to me. Good day." He turned and took a step toward the back of the office.

Tom's heart began to sink toward his stomach. His dad gave him a worried look and then quickly said to the man, "Wait! Does anyone else work here? Could we speak to them?"

The old man turned and gave them an evil glare. "This is a small town? You hear me? I retired a long time ago, until I was forced to come back last month because one of the workers decided he was a psycho and up and quit. Good riddance. If you want to talk to him, be my guest." 

"What was his name?" Tom asked. "Where does he live?"

The formerly retired postal worker sighed. "Mugler Georges. He lives north of here, in the very last house on Main Street. Don't tell him I sent you."

 The man left the room without another word or a good bye. 

                                               ~

They arrived at the dead end of Main Street, staring at a small house that appeared to be huddled in the cold, miserable, and heartbroken. Tom didn't know if it officially approached haunted house status, but it was close—two stories, broken shutters hanging on for dear life, peeling white paint. A couple of bright lights shone through the window like a burning fire. Two wilted trees, looking as though they hadn't sprouted leaves in decades, stood like undernourished sentinels on either side of the short and broken driveway.

"Son," his dad said, "maybe this time you should do the talking."

"Dad, you're supposed to be the grown up in this group."

  "Well, that's why I'll provide the muscle and protect you from harm. You're the brains of this outfit; you do the talking." He winked at his son, then climbed out of the car.

Tom grabbed his diary and followed him down the cobbled driveway, up the creaky wooden stairs, and then to the sad-looking front door, brown and sagging on its hinges. His dad knocked without hesitating.

A long moment passed with no answer or noise from inside. Tom felt a shiver within him and rubbed his arms. His dad knocked again, then found a doorbell and pushed it, though it didn't work. Another half-minute went by without so much as a creak from the house.

  Dad moaned. "Don't tell me we came all this way and the man we need to talk to is on vacation in sunny Florida."

Tom craned his neck to look at a window on the second floor. "There's light on inside. Someone has to be home." 

"I don't know—we always leave a light on when we go on a vacation—scares burglars away." He knocked again, half heartedly. "Come on, let's go."

With slumped shoulders, they started down the porch steps. They were halfway down the sidewalk when they heard a scraping sound from behind and above them, then a low, tired voice. "What do you folks want?"

Tom turned to see a disheveled, black-haired man peeking out of an upstairs window, his eyes darting back and forth around the yard, looking for anything and everything.

"We're trying to find Mugler Georges," Tom shouted up to the window. "We have some questions about a letter mailed from here."

The man muttered something unintelligible before letting out a little shriek. "Do. . .do you work for the chubby man or Mistress Christine?"

Tom and his dad exchanged a baffled look before he whispered to him that M.S. seemed to be a man.

  "The chubby man. . . ." Dad said under his breath, then looked back up toward the man at the window. "Never heard of either one of them, but my son got a letter from someone named M.S. Could be the same person, I guess."

The man paused, his squinty eyes scrutinizing the man and boy below him for signs of trouble. "Do you swear you've a-never heard of a woman named Mistress Christine in your life?"

"Never!" Tom and his dad said in unison.

"You have never seen or worked for a lady dressed all in black who has a white lining on one end of her hair?"

Tom couldn't believe how weird this whole conversation had become.

  "Never."

The man slammed his window shut without saying another word, leaving Tom to wonder if this Mugler guy really had gone bonkers like the old postal worker had suggested.