Notes from Maine - 2023/11/26

Last weekend, I was waiting for a package. While I was out of the house, it was “delivered to an individual at the address.” Since nobody was home at the time I found that idea a little distressing. I imagined someone standing in my driveway masquerading as me as the dogs barked a symphony behind the windows. I should have realized that the “case of the missing delivery” had a much simpler explanation.

Years ago, my father and his neighbor formed the Mount Vernon Detective Agency. Their organization was ready to rollout whenever there was a mystery to solve on Dunn Road. They didn’t have offices, an LLC, or a payroll, but at one point they talked about getting shirts made up. Their biggest moment of glory was solving The Case of the Stolen Boat.

It was a cool morning, early summer, when my father got a phone call. 

“Hey Bruce, how’s things at your camp?” Dick Dunn asked.

“I dunno. Fine, I guess? Why?” my father asked.

“Hammond had a break-in.”

That was enough to get my father up out of his chair and headed for the door. Camp break-ins tend to cluster. If the perps hit one, they might hit a whole string of camps in a row, going from dock to dock for easy access. At the time, the “North Pond Hermit” had been living in isolation in the woods of that area for twenty-seven years. The Hermit subsisted on whatever he could pilfer from the local camps, although he never quite made it as far south as Dad’s camp. Still, any local burglary was reason to go check things out. 

Dad and Dick Dunn arrived at the camp to find everything in order, at least with the building. Then Dad turned and stood frozen in shock as he realized that he had been touched by a crime that morning—his boat was gone.

The two of them didn’t spend long investigating the scene. It was no mystery what had happened, and they had no time to waste. Back at Dad’s house, they notified the authorities and then jumped into Dick Dunn’s truck. There were only two good places for the thieves to pull the stolen boat out of the water, and both involved Castle Island. Either they would head for the boat ramp right near Castle Island, or they would travel under the bridge in order to reach the northern part of the lake.

Dick Dunn raced up Dunn Road, and then turned left on West Road. They covered the miles in absolute silence. It wasn’t anxiety that stilled their tongues—they just didn’t talk all that much. The two of them could spend a perfectly amiable afternoon sitting across from each other without really saying a word. 

When they arrived at Castle Island, all was quiet. The lake was a sheet of glass—undisturbed by any thieves making their getaway.

Dad and Dick Dunn stood on the bridge, squinting into the distance. The island, home to Castle Island Camps, doesn’t even seem like an island anymore. Castle Island Road runs through the middle of it with a short bridge on either side of the island. 

My father spotted the Game Warden’s boat to the north and waved, while Dick Dunn said, “Bruce, isn’t that your boat?” 

Dick Dunn was pointing south.

The two watched as my father’s boat approached the narrow channel that led under the bridge they were standing on. With a wave, they cautioned to the Warden to hold his position. 

“Hi, a**holes,” my father said with a nod as his own boat passed under the bridge.

The thieves spotted the Game Warden as they emerged from the other side of the bridge but it was too late. The Warden descended on them and took the thieves without a fight. After the Warden unloaded the stolen booty from the boat, my father was allowed to take possession of it again at the public boat ramp. He piloted it south and met Dick Dunn back at the camp.

That was how the Mount Vernon Detective Agency was born. It was their first and most glorious case. They never did get around to getting the shirts made.

Here in Topsham, last weekend, my case didn’t warrant forming an entire agency. I clicked a button on the USPS website to inform them that I hadn’t received my package, even though it was “delivered to an individual at the address.” After filling out information about the sender and the value of the contents ($400 of pinball parts that maybe two people in this state might care about), I got a response that my case was open and someone would contact me within one business day.

Monday morning, I called Marco Specialities and told them what happened. They were very sympathetic and duplicated the order to the best of their abilities. A couple of items were no longer available. I had ordered the last stock from their shelves for a couple of things. That’s the nature of forty-year-old parts. Oh well. They also said, “Next time, feel free to contact us first. We send a lot through USPS and we can usually expedite the claim process on missing packages.” Good to know.

By Tuesday (more than one business day since I had submitted my claim to USPS), I still hadn’t received status. On my way to the feed store, I stopped by the local post office. The clerk understood my concern—if someone was masquerading as me and accepting packages, “That’s creepy,” she said. But, the carriers don’t work out of the post office near me. They come from across the river, which happens to be right next door to the feed store. I picked up hay and then stopped at a bigger USPS office.

I figured they would nod and tell me that I should expect a response from the website soon. The other clerk was frank about the fact that, “They say one business day, but they’re never that fast.” I was surprised when the clerk at the bigger post office was immediately concerned and asked to copy down my tracking information. I waited for about ten minutes as they “researched” the issue out back. Whenever they deliver, the device they carry records a GPS location. When they returned, they let me know that the package had been “delivered to an individual” at the wrong address. 

For some reason it hadn’t occurred to me that they would just take my package to a completely wrong house and neither the carrier nor the occupant of the house would notice that the name and address wasn’t a match. But that’s what happened.

“What next?” I asked.

They took down my name and phone number and said they would get back to me. I nodded and rolled my eyes, expecting that I would never hear from them again.

The next morning I got a call.

“Do you have your package yet?”

“I don’t think so. I haven’t been out to the mailbox yet, but I don’t think it would fit in the mailbox anyway.”

“Can you check?”

“It’s raining. I’ll have to find my shoes,” I said.

“I know. I’m sorry, but could you check?”

The person stayed on the line while I walked out and picked up some junk mail from my box. With another apology, they said they would get back to me.

An hour later, a mail truck pulled into my driveway and the supervisor of the branch handed me the box. He went to my neighbor’s house (wouldn’t tell me who the neighbor was), knocked on the door, and asked for it back. The supervisor said that the box was sitting next to the door and that the neighbor, “Meant to bring it over, but hadn’t gotten around to it yet.”

It was unopened and undamaged. 

I got the replacement box from Marco the next day (via FedEx) and then an RMA label when I called them to say that I now had two deliveries. 

So, with a few smiles and some footwork, I got the original box. It’s anyone’s guess if I would have gotten it without stopping by the local offices. I suppose I should have thought to do that immediately, but instead I followed the process outlined on the website. Maybe a bigger post office would have turned me away. The next day, I received a survey from the website. I gave them both a “Very Dissatisfied” and a “Very Satisfied” in my responses to the questions, and I wrote a note longer than this one about the event. Next time, I’ll start with an in-person chat, but I guess if everyone did that the line would be out the door. Maybe next time they’ll just bring the box to me in the first place.