Ed Lynskey - Isabel and Alma Trumbo 01 - Quiet Anchorage (19 page)

Alma whisked them down the highway past Quiet Anchorage’s clinic. Several sign-carrying pro-lifers picketed within several paces of its lobby door, leaving Sammi Jo with a puzzled frown. Their faces were unfamiliar to her, and she resented the outsiders’ intrusion in local affairs.

Alma parked under the patchy shade in their driveway on Church Street, and they waved back to the pair of young kids building a tree fort one yard over. Isabel and Sammi Jo sat in the cooler kitchen while Alma put on her favorite TV game show emceed by Bob Barker, the octogenarian still a dynamo in full stride. She relaxed and when their telephone rang, she quieted the television.

“We’re foundering, but not from the lack of trying,” Alma told the caller. “Have you had any better luck?”

“I paid a neighbor boy to scrounge through my attic for my scrapbooks.” Louise sounded concerned. “Do you suffer from hay fever due to the ragweed pollen?”

“Or something just as bad but I’m having my prescription refilled.” Alma sniffed again. “I didn’t know you kept scrapbooks.”

Found out, Louise laughed. “Looking at them, I’d forgotten our times when growing up on the farm. You should see this one photo of—”

“Uh, Louise, we’re a little pressed for time here.”

“All right. Did you know Jake’s paternal grandfather, Skeeter Robbins, and I once dated?”

“No, but why is he important to this situation?”

“Because I see the Robbins holding a gun in every photo I have. I also went through a batch of newspaper clippings. Jake crops up in a couple of the photos with his dad, a turkey shoot champion, and they’re always holding a shotgun. Let’s suppose during the fracas with his murderer that Jake pulled out a handgun. Suppose he waved it around. Can you predict the likely outcome?”

“It would heat up an already tense situation.”

“With two men jawing at each other, that’s my same thought. I think the murderer came with blood in his eye, whipped up Jake into an argument, and then shot him. Megan’s prints were left on the discarded murder weapon. The whole town must know how they quarreled, and it’s made-to-order to set her up for killing him in a crime of passion.”

“Well, good then. Your theory pretty much aligns with our thinking. Any good words for Isabel?”

“Just to say hi.”

Off the phone, Alma reflected on how Quiet Anchorage harbored a rich store of tales, and Jake’s murder and Megan’s subsequent arrest for it was the latest entry. Even if she cleared her name, the indelible stain was daubed on her. Going out in public, she became the object of talk and ridicule. Alma saw Bob Barker on the TV awarding a dryer and washer as a prize to a lady in a pants suit. The silly lady jumped up and down, squealing and clapping for all she was worth, and Alma never realized doing the laundry brought such ecstasy into a person’s daily humdrum existence.

“Alma, soup’s on!” said Sammi Jo.

Alma turned off the TV, went into the kitchen, and plopped down at the drop-leaf table. “That was Louise on the phone. She said hi, all.”

Isabel stripped the crust off her peanut-and-jam sandwich and nibbled to its center as Sammi Jo nuzzled a Co-Cola. Alma’s first sigh didn’t escape Isabel’s notice, and she gave Alma a closer look.

“What’s wrong, sis? Did Louise give you some bad news?”

“No, this deal with Megan gets me down in the dumps,” replied Alma.

“Shrug off the blues and eat your lunch because we’ve got a busy afternoon,” said Isabel.

Alma sighed again. Her moist, red eyes fell, and she turned her head.

The Co-Cola bottle halfway to Sammi Jo’s mouth went back down to rest on the table coaster. She craned forward in her chair and touched Alma’s wrist.

“You wall off those negative feelings since we know this isn’t nearly a done deal. Everybody we’ve seen agrees Megan got a raw deal. Any local jury will see things the same way and find her not guilty.”

“Sammi Jo is right so eat your lunch,” said Isabel.

Alma nudged aside her lunch plate. “Louise speculated the handgun was a plant because Megan is easy to frame. The murderer rigged the crime scene to resemble a lovers’ quarrel that flew out of control.”

“Louise’s idea tracks along the same lines as ours do,” said Isabel.

“Did Jake and Megan fight all that often?” asked Sammi Jo.

“Well…” said Isabel.

“Well what exactly?” asked Sammi Jo.

“You’ve heard that Jake did some extracurricular romancing,” replied Alma. “Megan had reached her fill, and they held a summit allegedly clearing the air.”

“She never gave us the nitty-gritty on what he did,” said Isabel.

“She mentioned Jake’s floozy lived in Mechanicsville,” said Alma.

“Maybe we better plan on a Mechanicsville trip,” said Isabel.

“Anyway they had enough rows to incite the gossips,” said Alma.

“I can relate. People talk about my breakup with Clarence, and I feel their stares when I venture out in public. They can take a flying leap for all I care.”

“What comes after lunch?” asked Alma, plucking a new tissue from the box kept atop the refrigerator.

“My thoughts keep circling back to Jake’s place,” said Isabel. “We’ve hit his shop and office but skipped the main house and woods.”

“Sheriff Fox beat us looking in there,” said Alma.

But Isabel stuck by her idea. “Sammi Jo, you’ll cast the tie-breaking vote. Which is it? Do we look inside of Jake’s place or not?”

“I say crawl through it like an army of spiders,” replied Sammi Jo.

A fussy Alma didn’t capitulate. “To make this an official tally, Louise also gets a say.”

“So call her, put it to her, and I’ll abide by the majority decision,” said Isabel.

“But Louise’s vote might create another tie, two against two.”

“Don’t worry, Sammi Jo,” said Alma. “We’re practically on our way to Jake’s now. Sly Isabel has been goading me back to my cranky, old self, and it worked in spades.”

Sammi Jo saw Isabel’s crafty nod.

They filled the toasty sedan, but at Alma’s insistence Isabel returned to rattle the doorknob to verify the forgetful Alma had locked it. The early afternoon sun blazed in the cobalt blue sky, and the day though oven-hot lacked yesterday’s humidity. Sammi Jo made a suggestion, and Alma stopped at Megan’s apartment. Phyllis Garner in a yellow ruffled blouse, billowy skirt, and yellow pumps walked out the front alcove. At spotting them, she gave a two-hand wave.

“Maybe Phyllis has seen more shady characters,” said Isabel.

“I hope she has picked up in Megan’s apartment,” said Sammi Jo.

“If not, don’t object. Pitching in together, we can do it,” said Isabel.

“Not without spending loads of more time, we can’t,” said Alma.

Isabel hailed the approaching lady. “Phyllis dear, how are you?”

The exuberant Phyllis had to share her news. “Guess what I’ve decided to do?” She snickered at their quizzical looks. “I’m tacking up the flyers for your detective agency on every telephone pole and street sign up and down Main. In three shakes of a dog’s tail, your office phone will ring off the hook.”

“Aunt Phyllis, let’s hold off on your idea for a little while,” said Sammi Jo.

Petulance clouded Phyllis’s face. “How do you expect to drum up any business if you hide under a crocus sack and don’t advertise?”

“We’re out to close Megan’s case,” replied Sammi Jo. “Speaking of which, did you pick up in her apartment?”

Phyllis gave the apartment building behind them a cavalier flick of her wrist, her copper bangles clacking together. “Bah, I’ve got no time for doing menial housework.”

“I’ll record that as a no, and now we’re stuck with it. Aunt Phyllis, we’ve already got a ton of work to do.”

“Well, I’ve also been busy doing my personal stuff.”

“But when Megan returns home, everything should look spic-and-span.”

“Phyllis, what if we hire you?” asked Isabel. “At four members strong, we’re very selective on who we let in our all-lady detective agency. If you accept, we’ll be a solid five, so what do you say?”

“Fine with me,” replied Phyllis. “Lay out my shamus duties.”

“Our principal client is Megan Connors,” replied Isabel. “Why don’t you search in her apartment for a new lead and while you’re at it, tidying up would be a feather in our cap.”

“Say no more. I’m all over it.”

Smiling again, Sammi Jo spoke to Agent Phyllis. “People have said Megan and Jake fought. Did you overhear their arguments?”

Phyllis shook her head, her snickers turning devious. “Any time I stole pass her door, all I heard were her mattress coils squeaking like the birdhouse waking up at the zoo.”

“Aunt Phyllis!”

Alma burst out in a peal of laughter.

“Mercy,” said Isabel. “Maybe I should look into remarrying.”

“Just go on with you,” said Phyllis. “Megan’s apartment will soon look like a showroom.”

En route to Jake’s house, Alma drove by the fire station. The twin rusty anchors salvaged from the Coronet River stood in front between the bay doors as stoic sentries. Sammi Jo failed to recall a time of not seeing them perched there, and her Coronet River memories followed.

The town river’s name derived from the eccentric notion of the old-timers who claimed the water riffling over the black rocks and sandbars piped out the musical notes blown by a jazzman’s coronet. Having never heard a coronet played, she took their word for it. But Jake’s murder had bleated a dark, jarring note, she thought.

She knew Quiet Anchorage had its favorite swimming hole on the Coronet. By day, the town kids dove off a rope swing into the cool river depths, and by night, the older kids skinny dipped by the light of the bonfires they blazed on the sandy bank. She had grown up participating in both rituals. Lately however, the local swimming hole had lost its appeal after the townspeople swore the Coronet River coursed with toxic pollutants flushed in it by a fertilizer plant upstream.

The three Main Street benchwarmers no longer fished in the Coronet. The catfish and bluegill the anglers pulled out didn’t end up pan-fried on their dinner plates. Canoeists and kayakers from the suburbs flocked to Quiet Anchorage on temperate weekends and plied the waterways. The jaded townspeople didn’t warn away the diehard sport enthusiasts who enjoyed the contaminated river all to themselves.

Jake had operated a canoe rental business to cash in on the public’s interest. He built a small office shack and boat landing just below the iron truss bridge the ladies now clattered across. Water enthusiasts rented his canoes and paddled downriver the ten miles to his second boat landing. They docked and drove home in their cars that he had driven down to have waiting for them. He turned a profit for a couple of seasons, but early one summer he shut down the operations, and Sammi Jo drew a blank over the details of why.

“Why did Jake’s canoe rental outfit go belly up?” she asked.

Isabel, speaking, shifted in her seat. “As I recall, one customer took deathly ill. The incensed family blamed it on the dirty water, and they sued him, and they settled out of court. Naturally, his insurance company dropped him, and our loyal town bank foreclosed. He tried to woo in other investors, but nobody would give him a second shake. He couldn’t beat the bad publicity, so he called it quits.”

Alma nudged the sunglasses back up on the bridge of her nose. “Who did he get for his lawyer?”

“Dwight Holden. Who else is there?” replied Isabel.

“Several new lawyers have hung out their shingles,” said Alma.

“They’re interlopers, not Quiet Anchorage natives,” said Isabel.

“Right and that’s why we hired Dwight,” said Alma.

“You can go your whole life paying premiums on time, and the insurance companies love you, but if you file one claim, you become their red-headed stepchild,” said Isabel.

“What became of the freeloader suing Jake?” asked Sammi Jo.

 
“The next summer he won a big tennis match. Louise sent me a newspaper clipping of his picture,” replied Isabel.

“If this ill canoeist received a fat settlement, he’d go away happy and wouldn’t do in Jake who was his cash cow,” said Alma.

“I didn’t say it was a murder motive. Sammi Jo asked why Jake closed up his canoe business, and I told her,” said Isabel.

What amazed Sammi Jo, what left her shaking her head, was how Alma and Isabel could fuss with each other at the drop of the hat. Though she could tell their banter was good-natured, she moved to quell this round. “Seeing the old, rusty anchors raised my question.”

“You know, bad karma always seemed to dog Jake,” said Alma. “The only thing he put in order and ran was the auto repair shop.”

“You better credit Megan for that success,” said Isabel.

“But she didn’t fix the cars,” said Alma. “Jake did and auto repair is greasy, back-breaking work.”

“It’s true nobody can say Jake didn’t hustle,” said Isabel.

“Bexley never told us where the stuff inside Jake’s file cabinets went,” said Sammi Jo.

“A self-storage unit springs to mind,” said Alma.

“That might be traced back to Sheriff Fox,” said Isabel. “I’d select a more creative hiding place.”

They rattled over the railroad spur. Off to their immediate right stood a factory enclosed by a chain link fence crested with coils of barbed wire. A Canadian firm had originally built the factory to produce modular homes, and the flat cars transported the finished modular homes from the factory to market.

When the economy soured, the Canadians riffed the local workers, pulled up stakes, and scooted back north of the border. Various entrepreneurs in the intervening years had attempted to make a go of it at the factory, but each business had flopped. Few local jobs since the modular home factory closed down paid anything approaching a livable wage.

Sammi Jo vouched that the low-paying jobs were plentiful since at various times, she’d worked them all—waitress, cashier, fry cook, dishwasher, and for a long, hot summer a flag girl on an asphalt crew. Her bosses cut her back to a thirty-nine hour workweek to avoid giving her benefits. Right now she floated between prospects, and her two-figure rainy day fund reflected it. Wanting an exciting job with a real career, she wiggled forward on the seat.

“Once Megan is home safe, are we still making the Trumbo Sisters Detective Agency into the real thing? You know, incorporate or syndicate, but we go professional.”

Isabel giggled. “What did you have in mind?”

Sammi Jo warmed up to her idea. “Quiet Anchorage is on the verge of boom times. Look around and you can see a tsunami of people is moving in. The homes are sprouting in the subdivisions and with them come people’s problems. A detective agency is one solution so why not ours?”

“We’ve got no track record,” said the more pragmatic Alma.

“Call me the eternal optimist, but I believe Megan’s case will soon turn in our favor. I’m taking the long range view.”

“It’s a smart long range view, too. Between us, Alma and I have devoured a library of mysteries,” said Isabel.

Alma gave a headshake. “We’re a little thin in the experience department. Besides I’ve read in the newspapers that modern PIs have gone high tech. Gumshoes are computer geeks, and we don’t know diddly jack about computers.”

“I’ll master them,” said Sammi Jo. “How hard is it to point and click?”

With an assured smile, Isabel looked at Alma. “Sammi Jo wears our computer geek hat, so there you go.”

“Louise and Aunt Phyllis have already signed on,” said Sammi Jo.

“Oh, I just love Sammi Jo’s scheme. How about it, sis? You wanted something more exciting to do. So, are you in or out?”

“Oh, I’ve always been in,” replied Alma. “Don’t forget Mr. Oglethorpe. Can you con him into accepting us as bona fide PIs?”

“As long as we pay for his silly license, we’re okay by him,” replied Isabel.

“Who’s going to be the big kahuna at our agency?” asked Alma.

“Since we’re equal partners, we don’t need a boss,” replied Isabel.

“All right, we can give it a whirl,” said Alma.

“We’ll free Megan and swing into action,” said Sammi Jo.

“For now, any creative ideas on how we can access Jake’s house?” asked Alma.

The fumbling in a purse came before Alma eyed a credit card appearing over her seat.

“Do we bribe a crooked locksmith to drive out and pick Jake’s lock?” she asked with a sniff.

“No, this old credit card can jimmy any ordinary door lock,” said Sammi Jo.

“How are you savvy to that trick?” asked Alma.

“In my troubled youth, I picked up a few pointers,” replied Sammi Jo.

“There’s a more logical way,” said Isabel. “We know a spare key is always hidden in a fake rock near the door.”

“I’d forgotten the spare key.” Alma’s face lined with palpable apprehension. “I swear I’m growing dottier by the day.”

“All this adrenaline has unsettled your mind,” said Isabel.

“You should see how I forget stuff like paying my light bill. When my apartment suddenly falls dark, I go oops,” said Sammi Jo.

Alma’s arm flew out to catch Isabel as she slammed on the brakes. They pitched forward, then backward in their seats before they gaped out the windshield at a skunk toddling across the sunny blacktop.

“You see, your mind and reflexes are still sharp,” Isabel told her.

A more watchful Alma drove the remaining distance to Jake’s turnoff. She didn’t halt out front but pulled them around behind the brown stucco house and stopped by a scrubby mugo pine near the rear door.

“We should be safely out of sight,” said Isabel.

“Our tire prints pressed in the lawn will give us away,” said Sammi Jo.

“This is Megan’s property now, and we’ve got her permission to be here,” said Alma.

“We should first confirm that as a fact.” Isabel’s cell phone reached Dwight’s office, and his voice mail message said he’d gone to lunch, expecting to return by two. Alma told Isabel buzzing him at home to interrupt his siesta was hardly rude, and Isabel’s second attempt reached him.

“Your timing is impeccable, Isabel,” he said. “I was set to phone you.”

“Then I’ll yield the floor to you,” said Isabel.

“Don’t forget Megan returns to court for her arraignment on Thursday. Now, how can I help you? Please be brief as I can spare only three minutes.”

“Hold on, Alma has an important question,” said Isabel.

“Did Jake will his property to Megan?” Alma asked into the cell phone.

Dwight yawned to cover his nervousness. “Yes, Jake left his estate to her, but I’m bound by oath not to disclose any further details.”

“We’re not out to get you disbarred,” said Alma. “By the way, is any member of the sheriff’s department also your client? We have to avoid any appearance of impropriety.”

“Alma, you’ve got my pledge no such impropriety taints our chances.”

“Then I’ll let you get cracking again on Megan’s case.”

“Why did you call me about Jake’s will?”

“Isabel and I had a vague recollection and wanted a confirmation.”

“See you Thursday morning in court, and this time let me do the talking.”

“We’re just backing you up.”

Alma returned the cell phone to Isabel whose nod indicated through the windshield. “Sammi Jo is waiting on us.”

They got out of the sedan and followed Sammi Jo through the still disheveled office/sun porch to enter Jake’s main house. They stood in the foyer appalled by the specter in the closest room. In every direction they turned, ankle deep trash—beer cans, pizza boxes, soda bottles, and plastic utensils—waited for pick up and disposal. The odor turned gamy, suggestive of rancid cheese.

“Jake was a big slob or hoarder even,” said Sammi Jo.

“I’d no idea he lived in this squalor, and Megan never hinted at it.” Alma turned sardonic. “Why did she sign up for such high maintenance? I did with Husband Number One, but I wised up fast, and I never repeated that error twice.”

“She did it because she loved him unconditionally,” said Isabel.

Alma scoffed. “But love, even first love, has its limits. After seeing this, maybe he wasn’t such a good catch, after all.”