Forgotten Boxes Read Free Page A

service and the big national delivery companies. Said
it took a local to serve the people of the Northeast Kingdom.” She all but sniffed
with disdain.
    “I take it he didn’t succeed.”
    “Kingdom Parcel was a colossal disaster.”
    Charity tried to hide her dismay. Hilda Brooks almost sounded
pleased that Harold Tillman had failed. Perhaps she had not been such a good friend
to her aunt, after all. “Do you recall how he died? I don’t believe I ever heard
the story.”
    The heavyset woman darted another nervous glance toward the house.
Again, she was vague, fluttering her hands in the air. “I think it was rather complicated.
Probably nothing they wanted to bother you with.” She abruptly changed tunes. “Well,
it was really nice to meet you, dear, but I really must be going. I just wanted
to bring you the last of Nell’s mail.”
    “Yes, thank you. It was nice to meet you, too. And thank you,
for all that you did for my aunt.”
    Tears moistened the neighbor’s eyes again. “It was the least
I could do for her, after all she went through, the poor dear.”
    “Such as…?”
    “Being a widow and all, you know? That sort of thing.” Hilda
Brooks made the lame excuse even as she backed her way out of the yard. It seemed
she could not leave fast enough.
    Totally perplexed, Charity watched the woman scuttle down the
walkway and disappear behind the cover of the vine-smothered fence.
     
    ***
     
    As soon as the strange neighbor was gone, Charity grabbed her
phone and typed ‘Kingdom Parcel’ into its search engine. Buried several hits down
was a woeful tale about a young start-up company in the early 80s that went under,
hardly before it even began. Amid rumors of a failed business venture, one of the
founders of the company, Harold Tillman, was found dead. There was mention of foul
play, but the case was ultimately ruled a suicide. The company was dissolved and
never heard from again.
    Poor Aunt Nell! Her husband committed suicide. Charity’s heart
ached for the lonely old woman and the pain she had endured. No wonder she became
a recluse.
    Charity looked around the yard again, trying to see it through
her aunt’s eyes. This had been her sanctuary. She obviously put a lot of love and
attention into the space; too bad, she had no one to share it with.
    Sorting through the mail in the basket, only a handful of letters
looked important enough to open: utility bills, something from the tax appraisal
district, and two letters. One came in a flowery envelope, the other addressed in
a bold masculine hand with no return address.
    She tugged at the flap of the small flowery envelope and pulled
the handwritten note free. Someone named Betty was thanking her aunt for the recipes
she submitted for the Ladies’ Auxiliary fundraiser cookbook. She ended the note
by inviting Nell to join them for their monthly meetings; practically begged her,
in fact.
    As Charity ripped open the second letter, she half-hoped it was
of a personal nature. She would like to think her aunt had some sort of romance
in her life over the past thirty years. A quick glance down at the stark, typed
words dispelled that notion.
    Don’t think we have forgotten.
    With her brow furrowed in a frown, Charity turned the single
sheet of paper over in her hands, searching for something more. That was all there
was. One simple sentence. It sounded almost… threatening.
    A sudden sense of unease slithered down her spine. She collected
the remnants of her lunch, gathered up the mail, and went back into the house.
    One step across the threshold and she remembered the bullet hole.
Inside was clearly no better.
    Charity forced herself to stay another two hours, scrubbing and
cleaning and sorting. When she came to the first obstacle, she jumped at the excuse
to quit early. What could she really do without boxes, trash bags and storage tubs,
anyway? Best to find a dollar store, buy what she needed, and come back tomorrow
morning.
    That would give her the entire