The Philatelist. D.H. Coop

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СКАЧАТЬ from his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt and stepped into the house.

      Heidi Miller was dead, and she had been that way for some time. She was sitting on her overstuffed red chair facing the front door and seemed to stare back at Stan with large dilated eyes. Her grayish white arms lay limp on the armrests of the chair. The lower part of her forearms, where they touched the chair, had a strange purplish hue where gravity had pooled the blood. It gave her arms an unworldly look. Stan took a good look to be sure and then rushed out of the house into the fresh, hot air.

      His time in Los Angeles had prepared him for this type of situation. This was not the first time he had found a dead tenant—and it would probably not be the last. He took out his handkerchief and held it tightly over his nose and mouth as he went into the house again, letting the screen door slam behind him. Stan looked around at the sparse furnishings. Other than a stack of newspapers by the chair, there was little else in the room. Heidi obviously was not one to keep mementos.

      Stan did not care to waste time with pity. The rent had not been paid, and now it looked as if he would lose the rent altogether unless he found some cash or anything of value he could sell.

      The well-kept house reminded him of his grandmother’s home. She had come from the old country, like Heidi. In a small bookcase, there were some worn books in German, and over the small mantle were a couple of beer steins. He could not help thinking that, if not for the smell of death, the stale air would probably smell like his grandmother too. Funny, but this was the first time he had entered this house in five years, and it was almost familiar.

      Stan entered the bedroom and strode toward the nightstand. For some reason, people often kept their valuables near their beds; however, this time he was disappointed. Continuing through the other rooms, he could find nothing that could be turned into a quick sale to cover the rent. Just as he was about to give up and walk out, Stan noticed a blue binder that was different from the other books in the small bookcase. Removing it, he discovered that it was a well-worn Scott’s International Stamp Album with mostly German, North African, and South American stamps, with a few United States stamps thrown in. Stan was no expert, but this looked more valuable than anything else in the house. Though it might not cover the rent, it was better than nothing at all.

      Tucking the album under his arm, he walked out toward his car and dropped the album into the trunk. Stan looked at his watch. Nearly 2:00 p.m. He pushed the glasses up once more. It was hard to believe it could get any hotter, but the heat was rising. A fly landed on his arm, and Stan slapped it dead. Then he turned toward the house again. The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can get back into my air-conditioned car, he thought. He walked back to the house and found the phone.

      “Yes, um, hello, operator. Could you get me the sheriff’s department?”

      “Sir, is this an emergency?”

      “No, I am just reporting a death.”

      “Are you being sarcastic, sir?”

      “No! The individual has been dead for some time.”

      “One moment, please.”

      Stan heard a click as the phone was transferred to the sheriff’s office and a stern voice greeted him. “This is Sargent Allen, how can I help you?”

      “This is Stan Larson, and I am at a place I own on Foothill, where Heidi Miller lives. She is dead, so you’d better send out a unit!”

      The stern voice prodded him with a few questions.

      “What? No, I found her sitting in her chair… Yes, she’s definitely dead… No, I haven’t touched anything inside the house… Sure, I will be glad to stay here until the unit arrives. Thank you.”

      Stan waited on the front porch. It was just as hot in the house, and there was the unbearable smell to contend with inside.

      Chapter 2

      Fort Dearborn—issued May 25, 1933

      Franklin Delano Roosevelt approved this stamp to commemorate the Century of Progress World Fair in Chicago.

      August 2, 2001, at 3:27 p.m.—Oroville, California

      It had taken quite a while for Deputy Hoff to take Stan’s statement of how he found Heidi’s body. The deputy took careful notes, asked a few more questions, and thanked Stan for his cooperation. Then the deputy entered the house. Stan paused and peered through the screen as the deputy looked around the living room. He watched the deputy touch the bookcase and examine the dust-free spot where the binder had been. Then Stan strode toward his car.

      Stan’s white shirt now had large sweat stains under the arms and in the front and back, exposing his sleeveless undershirt. Starting the car, Stan stepped back out onto the driveway to allow the air-conditioning to cool the inside of the car. He pulled his sticky undershirt away from his chest and pushed the glasses up on his nose once more. Then he sighed and sat down on the car seat.

      As he drove away, Stan wondered how long it was going to take to rent the house this time. Do I have to disclose the death to the next tenant? As he recalled, the law said you had to disclose a death when you sold a place, not when you rented one. But what if someone gets wind of this? People could be funny, and some might have a problem renting a house where someone had recently died. Damn, he thought, did she really have to go and die now when I already had another vacancy?

      It was a good thing he had taken that album. What was she going to do with it anyway? She didn’t have any family that he knew of. And she owed him for the rent. He reached up with his fingers to push the glasses back into place.

      The air-conditioning kicked into high gear, and he turned his face toward the blast of cool air coming from the vents. Then he put the car into drive and turned left onto Foothill Boulevard and headed toward town. He decided to stop by Ed’s Coin & Stamp on the way home to unload the album.

      Detouring onto Montgomery Street, he headed straight for Fourth Street and was pleased to see a parking space right in the front of the store. At least something was going right. Stan sat in the car for a minute or two thinking about what he would tell Ed. Stan had learned that the best lies were the ones that made a connection for the person being lied to. The story had to have an element of personal truth—something that most people had experienced at some time in their lives. It was even better if that experience had a measure of guilt connected with it. Everyone had a grandmother or aunt they remembered, so Stan would pull out the grandmother’s story with the album. He got out of the car, opened the trunk, grabbed the album, and headed for the front door of the store, hoping it would be air-conditioned.

      Chapter 3

      National Recovery Act—issued August 15, 1933

      This stamp was used to advertise the cornerstone of Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s New Deal.

      August 2, 2001, at 4:07 p.m.—Oroville, California

      Ed Hegel was a short balding man with a large waist. He was always looking for that one “big deal” in his life. Anyone looking at Ed would think he was completely broke. He drove an old broken-down car and wore the shabbiest of clothes that did not appear to have been СКАЧАТЬ