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 washed all that recently. Clients would sometimes give him items for free when he was called out to appraise something because he seemed to need the money more than they did.
The little bell at the door sounded to announce Stan’s entrance. Sitting at the counter, Ed looked up from his coin magazine and smiled.
“Hey, Stan! What can I do for you today? Have you decided to become a coin collector?”
“Nah,” laughed Stan. “I just found this old stamp album of my grandmother’s in the attic and figured I might as well get rid of it, you know? It’s the collector, not me. Dust collector that is!”
“Well, let me have a look,” Ed said with a chuckle as he reached for the blue book.
Stan watched as Ed went through the book in a hurry, as if it was of little importance to him. After a few pages, Ed even began flipping through groups of pages at a time. Stan knew that Ed’s expertise was really in coins. But in a small town, one had to sell in general areas to stay in business.
Though his knowledge was mostly superficial, Stan knew a few things about stamps. Airmails, for example, were a good buy because of their high starting value and their limited circulation. And air travel had been limited for most of the century, making them even more unusual.
Stan looked expectantly at Ed as he leafed through the pages, pausing on the German and airmail stamps. As he neared the end of the book, Ed studied the last page for a moment and then looked up.
“I will give you one thousand and five hundred dollars for it as is,” Ed pronounced as he shut the book.
“One thousand and five hundred dollars?” repeated a surprised Stan. He had not expected nearly that much. That was nearly double what he was owed in rent.
“You might get more for it if you took it over to the Bay Area, but I doubt it,” said Ed.
“Your offer sounds fair to me,” Stan said. He felt a pang of guilt but quickly reminded himself that the extra money would make up for the lost rent while he was looking for a new tenant.
Ed moved toward the cash register and carefully counted out $1,500 in a combination of twenties and one-hundred-dollar bills.
“Thanks, Ed,” Stan said. “I have got to run, but I will see you around!”
After Stan pulled away from the curb to head back to Palermo, Ed looked out the shop window. “Did I offer