by Wendy Ung

 

            A man, who must've been in his early to mid thirties, stood outside a door, wearing a neatly pressed navy blue suit with a black rolling suitcase by his foot.

            The man shoved a card into the woman’s, Beverly Tilney’s, hand, smiled, and said, "Stanley Krunick." Beverly examined the card carefully and glanced at Stanley.

            "Knife salesman?"

            "That's right," he nodded. He cleared his throat and said, "Have you ever felt that your knife doesn't have the best cutting quality? Does it get dull easily? Does it fail to cut your food the way you want it cut? Do your forks and spoons get rusty faster than you can say Stanley Krunick? Well, I have the answer for you. With -"

            Beverly turned away from Stanley in relief as she heard the phone ring. "I'm sorry, but I have to get that."

            "It's -"

            She quickly closed the door before Stanley could utter another word.

            "...Fine." Stanley said, sighing. He grabbed the handle of his suitcase and headed down the porch to the next set of houses.

 

            With every house on Hearst Street that he went to, the woman of the house either slammed the door in his face or told him they weren't interested in what he was selling. It was rough the first week, but he was intent on selling these women the best product he could offer from his rolling suitcase. His boss sent Stanley to the West because Stanley was a top salesman for the past four years and was up for a promotion. He should have the ability to sweet talk a woman into taking out their cash and spending it on pieces of silverware. But in Berkeley, he felt that his charm was fading away and soon, his life would go down into the gutters because being a salesman was all he knew. He was not going to give that up because these women were not going to listen to him. He had to become more persistent and not take no for an answer.

            He went to the next house, hoping that they would hear his pleads and buy his knives.

xxxxx

            The Mailman is dressed in a shirt tucked tightly into his navy blue shorts and wears socks up to his knees. He walks up and down Hearst Street. Reaching into his big mail carrier bag, he places each envelope in its rightful box. Nothing strange has ever come up in the twenty-three years he has worked as a mailman.

            He knows everybody’s activities on Hearst Street when he comes by at nine o'clock. Sometimes they wave at him and he returns with a simple nod. Other times, they have small conversations about the weather or about their day’s plans. Mrs. Johnson sometimes comes out of her house to give the Mailman a slice of pie. He admits, they sure are tasty.

            The Mailman makes his way towards Beverly Tilney's house. A nice lady. He climbs up the stairs with mail in hand. When he reaches the top, he walks straight for the mailbox, but notices the door slightly ajar. The Mailman frowns, That is not like Mrs. Tilney to leave the door open. He pushes the door open and finds her body, face down, on the hardwood floor. In her back is a knife, its handle emblazoned with a cursive ‘Leutin’.

 

            The Berkeley Daily Planet sits on the porch, untouched, a few days later. The Mailman's eyes catch the title, "Murders on Hearst" and picks up the newspaper. "Four women were found dead in their homes earlier this week. A local mailman found the body of a young mother, Beverly Tilney, in the doorway..." The Mailman reads. "Another body, identified as Laura Stinson, was found in her prized rose bushes… Dawn Pierce was found in her living room…" The Mailman sighs and reads, “…Ashley Sutton’s body was severely mutilated…”

            Shaking his head, he continues to read until he feels a hand on his shoulder which startles him into dropping the mail onto the porch. "Mrs. Riley!" he shouts, then quickly calming himself. Old Mrs. Riley, dressed in her long white gown and pink fluffy robe, smiles at the Mailman.

            "Did I startle you dear?" she asks, putting her hand on his arm.

            The Mailman shakes his head, "No, no. Not at all." He picks up the mail he dropped and places it into Old Mrs. Riley’s wrinkly hands.

            "Looks like I have mail," she says, flipping through her pile.

            "Yes," the Mailman says. "And might I add, one from your daughter."

            Old Mrs. Riley nods and asks, "Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?"

            The Mailman shakes his head, "I don't want to intrude on your morning.”

            "You wouldn't be intruding. I would like the company," she replies. "Come in." She walks back into her house with the hesitant Mailman.

            She leads him into the kitchen, telling him to take a seat and make himself at home while she goes to fix him a cup of tea. The Mailman examines his surroundings, noticing the magnet pictures that sticks onto the fridge. "Is that Jen?" he asks Old Mrs. Riley with his finger pointing at the picture. Old Mrs. Riley nods, pouring the tea into a cup. "She looks...different," the Mailman continues.

            "Different from what you remember in high school?" The Mailman nods. "It's a shame you two didn't work out. You two were perfect together," she says.

            Deciding to change the subject, the Mailman says, "The newspaper's talking about the murders that've been going around on Hearst. Jen’s best friends. Do you know if she’s been in touch with Ashley and the others?"

            Old Mrs. Riley shakes her head. "It’s very frightening," Old Mrs. Riley starts to say. "It’s hard to believe...four women dead already and they were all Jen’s friends." She places the cup onto the dining room table.

            "I wonder who is killing those poor women," the Mailman says, taking a seat beside Old Mrs. Riley. He continues, "Have any idea who it is?"

xxxxx

            Stanley went back to Beverly Tilney's house where his first stop in Berkeley began. He knocked on the door with his head tilted to the ground. The door opened and closed, but Stanley caught the door before Beverly could fully close it.

            "I told you. I'm not interested," she said, hoping he would just leave her alone.

            Shaking his head, Stanley began his introduction, "Hi. My name is Stanley Krunick and I'm a knives salesman." He cleared his throat. "Have you ever felt that your knife doesn't have the best cutting quality? Does it get dull easily? Can it cut your food up the way you want it cut? Do your forks and spoons get rusty faster than you can say Stanley Krunick? Well, I have the answer for you. With the fast action Leutin deluxe knives, you don't have to worry about eating or cutting anymore."

            "I am in no need of any knives," she said and proceeded to close the door, but Stanley stuck his foot in the door.

            "Please," Stanley pleaded. "Just hear me out, okay?"

            Beverly sighed, opened the door wider, and said, "Come in."

 

            A few moments later, Stanley exited the house, wiping his hand on a handkerchief with a mischievous look on his face. He looked at the slightly open door and nodded. Complete, he thought. He moved to the dark blue house next door with the black railings that served as a boundary between the cement staircase and the light-colored rose bushes. Stanley ascended up to the black screen door and rang the doorbell. Straightening out his suit, he mentally prepared himself to be as charming as he was over at Beverly Tilney’s house.

            The door opened, but the screen remained in place. Laura Stinson, dressed in her baby blue sweats, stood with her arms crossed and said, “I told you last week that I’m not interested in anything you’re selling.”

            Stanley nodded his head, “I know you said you weren’t interested, but I couldn’t help but notice your rose bushes out in front. Do you have any trouble cutting some of those beautiful roses with your current scissor? If so, I have the perfect scissor for you.” Laura didn’t make any sounds to stop his sales pitch so he continued. “With my product, you’ll be able to cut your roses without any fuss about the blades becoming dull. You won’t complain about my product. If you don’t believe me, I’ll show you how it works.” Laura opened up the screen door and watched Stanley take out a pair of scissors from his suitcase.

 

            Climbing down the stairs, Stanley stopped to admire Laura’s prized rose bushes and to pluck a red rose from the bush. He pressed it against his nose and breathed in. Shaking his head, he went on his merry way to the next house.

xxxxx

            Old Mrs. Riley shakes her head, but replies, “I have my suspicions of course.” She looks up to the Mailman’s glaring eyes. “There’s this nice man that’s been coming around here.”

            “Oh?”

            Old Mrs. Riley nods her head, “Suit and suitcase. Charming smile. Selling a bunch of knives –”

            “And do you think he did it?” the Mailman asks, hastily.

            Shaking her head, she answers, “I don’t want to think like that. I almost invited him in.” She takes a sip of her tea. “And it’s a bit cliché, don’t you think? Traveling salesman. Going around killing women for god knows why. I think it’s too obvious.”

            “So not him?” he asks, placing his lips against the cup.

            “I think it could be anybody. For all I know, it could be you who’s the killer,” she says, laughing at the absurdity and taking another sip of her tea.

            The Mailman laughs along with her, awkwardly, and replies, “That would be interesting, wouldn’t it?”

xxxxx

            Stanley went down the street with a beaming grin on his face. He had made enough sales to satisfy his boss and he was sure that the promotion would be his when he got back home. His spirit was up and he felt like selling some more of his knives.

            He marched up the short steps of a dark brown house with trees that sat in front, shading the house. Before he reached the top, the door already opened up. A redheaded woman, Dawn Pierce, in a gray colored suit, rushed out of her house with a briefcase in hand. She slammed her door shut and started to head down the stairs when she bumped into Stanley.

He opened his mouth to say something, but Dawn quickly said, “I don’t have time. I’m late for work –”

“This will only take a few minutes,” Stanley replied.

“I don’t have a few minutes,” Dawn said, shaking her head. “Leave your card at the door and I’ll call you.” She started to walk away from Stanley.

“Mrs-”

“Pierce,” she answered for him. “Look…” She glanced at him and down to his suitcase. “Mr…Salesman. I am really late for work so if you don’t mind, I have to be going.”

“If you walk away now, you’ll regret it!” Stanley yelled after her departing figure.

 

Stanley furiously trekked up the next stairs of the yellow house next door to Dawn Pierce’s. He was pulling his suitcase up the stairs when he heard, “Do you need any help?” Stanley jumped and turned at the sound of the voice. He saw Ashley Sutton, with sweat perspiring down her forehead, remove her headphones.

Stanley shook his head and replied, “No, but you can help me by buying one of the finest knife collections.” He noticed how she looked at him hesitantly as she walked up the stairs. He followed her and pressed on, “I know that you think you don’t need any more knives and it’s a pain having a salesman on your doorstep, trying to sell you their products, but I really think you will be very pleased with my knives.” He watched Ashley open the door and spun her head to look at him. She motioned Stanley to follow her which caused a smile to grow on Stanley’s face.

xxxxx

            “It’s strange to think…I went to high school with those women and now…they’re dead,” the Mailman says.

            Old Mrs. Riley nods her head, not paying attention to what he’s saying. She opens the letter from her daughter and replies to the Mailman, “Yes…I wonder how Jen will take it.”

            “Me too,” the Mailman says, clenching his jaw. “Mrs. Riley.”

            “Hmm?”

            “I wonder why the murders center on Jen,” the Mailman ponders out loud to Old Mrs. Riley. “It seems like the killer is trying to say something by killing these women…like a message to your daughter.”

           Old Mrs. Riley was taken a back by his comment and shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean-”

“Mrs. Riley, these murders aren’t random. I have to say the murderer really has it all planned out,” the Mailman states, leaning back into his chair.

“That may be so but –” Old Mrs. Riley starts saying.

The Mailman ignores Old Mrs. Riley and continues, “If I had to think of a motive…It would be…all those little girls persuading Jen to break up with me…because I’m not good enough for her.” He slams his fist against the table, but shakes himself from his thought. He smiles at Mrs. Riley and says, “I think its best I’m on my way. Lots of mail to deliver.” He stands up, ready to leave.

            “Right…” she says, following his actions. “Just wait a few minutes. I have something for you in the other room,” Old Mrs. Riley says, cautiously walking into the den room and towards the phone.

She grabs the phone and begins to dial ‘911’. She puts her phone to her ear and hears the dispatcher on the other end say, “Hello, 911. What is your emergency?”

“Hello. My name is Beatrice Riley. I need an officer to come by my house. There’s a murderer here and -”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Old Mrs. Riley looks up from the phone and into the Mailman’s callous eyes, not noticing him take out a knife from his mail carrier bag with his gloved hand.

“Send an officer here! Please -”

“Put down the phone Beatrice,” the Mailman orders calmly. When Old Mrs. Riley fails to comply, the Mailman yanks the phone out of her hand and throws it across the room, disconnecting it from the dispatcher’s voice.  “I am really disappointed in you,” he says, waving the knife in front of Old Mrs. Riley. “If you had not called the police, I would’ve walked out of here without hurting you. But…” he sighs. “I guess I can’t do that. Jen will be very sad about this.”

Old Mrs. Riley backs away from the Mailman slowly and says, “The police are on their way. It wouldn’t be wise to do this.”

“That may be so, but…I have to,” he replies. “You understand.”

Old Mrs. Riley runs towards the front door, but trips on the red rug her daughter had sent her from New York. She tries to get on her feet, but the knife pierces her back. She screams as the Mailman turns her over on her back and proceeds to drag the knife down her chest.

 xxxxx

            The Mailman whistles a light tune as he makes his way down Old Mrs. Riley’s staircase.

            “How’re those knives working out for ya?” Stanley asks the Mailman.

         “Excuse me?” the Mailman says, noticing Stanley for the first time and stopping a step down from him.

            “Those knives I sold you earlier,” Stanley says.  

            The Mailman looked at Old Mrs. Riley’s closed door and smiled. “It worked very well,” he answered. “Very swift and sharp.”

            Stanley smiles, “I’m glad you like them. Do you want to buy any more?”

            The Mailman shakes his head, “No, no. I think I’m fine, but thank you anyway. You really have a fine product.”

            “Why thank you very much. I just hope this next resident won’t be hesitant to buy my product,” Stanley says.

            “I’m not sure about that. It’ll be…hard…to persuade her,” the Mailman says.

            “Nevertheless,” Stanley says as he shakes his head. “I don’t take no for an answer.”

            The Mailman nods his head and pats his hand on Stanley’s shoulder. “You’re going to have it,” the Mailman says. He climbs down the stairs as Stanley hikes up them. The grin stays on the Mailman’s face as he reaches the last landing of the stairs and the sound of police sirens can be heard in the distance.

xxxxx

The next morning, the Mailman treks up the cement stairs of a forest green house and notices the newspaper, sitting on the porch. He picks it up and starts reading, “Stanley Krunick, a knife salesman, was arrested for the murders of Beverly Tilney, Laura Stinson, Dawn Pierce, Ashley Sutton, and Beatrice Riley. The knives he sold were used as weapons against these women….” The Mailman smiles to himself as he drops the newspaper back onto the porch. He turns around and makes his way down the stairs, whistling a soft tune.