Ed Lynskey - Isabel and Alma Trumbo 01 - Quiet Anchorage (20 page)

“He never pitched a thing in the trash.” Sammi Jo’s shoe tip punted a cardboard chicken bucket, striking the rowing machine Megan had bought him for his cardiovascular exercise.

“I suspect coping with the loss of his father in June contributed to Jake’s disorderliness,” said Isabel.

“Just gingerly pick your way around the rubbish,” said Alma.

“Hazmat suits might be in order,” said Sammi Jo.

“I’d settle for a six-foot pole,” said Alma before she went back to the sun porch/office to retrieve the State Bank of Quiet Anchorage yardstick. She used it to poke and prod at the trash piles.

Several paces took Sammi Jo to the beige brick fireplace where she picked up a gold-framed photograph from the roughhewn plank of red oak adapted as a mantle. The striking lady she studied had a lean, tanned face framed by white blonde hair but lifeless eyes.

“Was she his late mom?” Sammi Jo asked Isabel also taken by the photo.

“Reba died when Jake was a small boy,” replied Isabel.

“What from?” asked Sammi Jo.

“A mysterious insect bite is what the doctors claimed,” replied Isabel.

“Odd. Where’s Jake’s dad’s photograph?” asked Sammi Jo.

“Hiram’s truculent scowl always shattered the camera lens, he said,” replied Alma.

Sammi Jo returning the photograph to the mantle had a morbid thought on how Hiram fatally poisoned his wife Reba. “I’ll bet Reba knows who murdered her son, and it’s a pity her ghost can’t drop us a hint.”

“Don’t bring up ghosts around Alma who’s superstitious to a fault,” said Isabel.

“For what Sammi Jo says, I’ll make an exception,” said Alma.

“Careful on what you smudge,” said Isabel. “We’d have an awkward time explaining away our prints in here to Sheriff Fox.”

They pried around in the various rooms for the better part of an hour. An occasional groan, sigh, or even mild oath interrupted their rustling in the detritus. While unearthing treasures worthy to sell at a third-rate flea market, they struck out scavenging any that might lead to unveiling Jake’s murderer.

Alma voiced their disillusionment. “I’m too bushed to go on.” Wincing, she clutched at her lower back.

“Only the attic is left. Sammi Jo, are you game to crab around up there?” asked Isabel.

“If he couldn’t lift a broom, I can’t picture him climbing a stepladder to store anything there,” replied Sammi Jo.

Also massaging her lower back, Isabel peeked under the Venetian blind at their sedan gleaming navy blue in the mid-afternoon sun. She allowed her mind to freewheel and spin up an earlier aim they’d intended to do. “Touring the drag strip might be useful,” she said.

“We’ll be out of our element there,” said Alma.

“The drag strip is like my second home,” said Sammi Jo.

“Good. But first let’s have a go at the woods,” said Isabel.

They trooped out of Jake’s house and filed over the dry, brown lawn and past the auto shop. The grasshoppers springing up in their jumps scattered before their shoes. As the shadows to the trees engulfed them, they halted for Isabel and Alma to doff their sunglasses. But they could probe no deeper into the forest. The wall of undergrowth, its labyrinth of vines bristling with cat-claw thorns, proved impenetrable.

“Unless Jake’s murderer was Brer Rabbit, I don’t see how he poked through here,” said Alma.

Isabel patrolled the margin of the prickly scrub’s density. “Can you pick out any pathway tunneling through it?”

Sammi Jo tracked her glance along the obstacle and shook her head. “The murderer needed a quick escape route, and these brambles don’t allow for that.”

“He’d leave behind torn shreds of clothing and break off the vines, but I see nothing,” said Alma, her eyes watery and nose redder. “These savage thorns would claw his face and hands with heavy lacerations.”

Angry in her disappointment, Isabel picked up a long stick and beat at the undergrowth. “It’s clear Jake’s murderer didn’t come this way. Foiled again, it seems.”

Sammi Jo offered consolation. “Cheer up. I still haven’t taken us on our drag strip tour yet.”

Reynolds Kyle was to Quiet Anchorage, Virginia, what Richard Petty is to Level Cross, North Carolina, but Reynolds was more laid-back. His granddaddy, it was reputed, ran illicit moonshine over the hogback ridges to his customers, but one difference separated Reynolds from his forebears. He’d given up his seat strapped inside of a racecar and instead owned and operated Quiet Anchorage’s drag strip.

Growing up, Sammi Jo had heard all the reverential yarns spun on Reynolds Kyle. Families congregated at his church of speed on Sunday afternoons where the inspirational thrush of the hog-block engines drowned out their cheers. Even the worst rowdies stayed on their best behavior. Alcohol was permissible if it was sipped on the sly, but the young kids should never witness its consumption. Reynolds operated a clean-cut enterprise. If any rowdy acted up, he gave a subtle nod and his well-dressed, polite bouncers escorted the rowdy to the gate with a ticket refund and firm invitation to leave.

Sammi Jo centered on this while the backseat navigator directing Alma on which routes to take. Plumes of yellowish dust billowed in their wake. Isabel coughed and Alma sneezed until Sammi Jo suggested they roll up their windows and flip on the air conditioner. The stubborn sisters balked. Breathing in a little natural dust, they insisted, never hurt anybody so they rode on. A rustic cinderblock store bounded up, and Sammi Jo made another suggestion. Alma turned, slowed to circle the gravel loop, and halted.

“Country stores still sell Brownies,” said Sammi Jo.

“Brownies?” Isabel smiled at Sammi Jo. “Are you hungry?”

“No, I mean the chocolate soda pop,” said Sammi Jo.

“Then make it two Brownies,” said Isabel.

“No, order three cold ones,” said Alma, not to miss out.

Going inside, they read the “
Wilma Smith, Proprietress
” legend posted on the store’s lintel. Goose bumps chased the shivers down Sammi Jo’s spine. She heard an air conditioner compressor behind the store wheezing and chuffing to spew the Arctic blasts from the overhead vents. Alma and Isabel, their sunglasses off, saw the yellow patina of dust covering the flat surfaces. A lady behind the beaverboard counter stood up from a stool. Seams stitching her leathery face gave it a weather-beaten character, and her words issued in asthmatic rasps.

“Can I be of service?”

“Mrs. Smith?” said Sammi Jo.

“All of our Mrs. Smiths are buried in the Mount Holly Cemetery, and I’m just Wilma.”

“We’ll take three of your coldest Brownies, Wilma,” said Sammi Jo.

She cackled but in a nice way. “Is this a joke? Brownie Beverages went out of business years back. Antique stores sell their empty bottles for more than the two cents apiece I used to pay for their deposit.”

As if amazed, Sammi Jo shook her head. “Time marches on, doesn’t it?”

“You said it.”

Sammi Jo dropped in her next question. “Have you seen Clarence Fishback lately?”

“Most Sundays he’s goofing off at the drag strip.”

“Clarence at one time or another raced a Camaro, didn’t he? He partnered with, oh, who was the guy?”

“Jake Robbins,” said Wilma, beaming to know her local drag strip lore.

“Right you are. Do they still race?”

“Lord no, girl. Clarence and Jake had a sweet deal going, but the wheels fell off it.”

“I heard something or other of their squabble.”

Wilma turned distrustful. “How do you know that if you couldn’t recall Jake’s name?”

Having her gaffe pointed out, Sammi Jo crafted a quick lie. “Doesn’t your memory ever run spotty? Our talking jogged mine.”

“Well, they argued over car parts, and it turned nasty.”

“Clarence made a bad move there.”

Gumming her bluish lips, Wilma bobbed her double chin. “He was plenty PO’d and bragged how he’d do this or that to Jake to even the score.”

“What sort of this or that did he mean?”

“I can’t repeat specific threats. If it got back to Deputy Fishback, I’d be in deep yogurt with him.”

“He’s all bark, no bite.”

Wilma gulped, her double chin quivering. “I believe I’ve said enough. What else can I get you?”

“Give me a pack of smokes, non-filters please. Say, is Reynolds out at the drag strip now, you reckon?”

Wilma stuffed the pack of cigarettes into a small paper bag and rolled the top down. “He practically lives out there. Why do you ask?”

“I wanted to stop and say hey.”

She gave the total with tax, and took Sammi Jo’s money with a lewd smile. “Sure, go for it. Even at 77 young, I confess Reynolds takes my breath away, too.”

Sammi Jo winked with a devilish smile.

Riding again on the country roads, Isabel turned to peer back at Sammi Jo. “I saw you buy a pack of cigarettes, but I thought you’d kicked the nicotine habit.”

“A conversation starter is needed if I’m to pick Reynolds’s brain.”

“I’ve never been to the drag strip,” said Alma. “Misty summer nights out on our porch, I can hear the far-off din to the roaring engines. On Sundays, the souped up jalopies rumble through the streets of Quiet Anchorage on their way getting there.”

“It’s a religion in a lot of folks’ lives,” said Sammi Jo. “That’s why the fight erupted between Clarence and Jake.”

“Boys should learn to share their toys,” said Isabel.

“You’re asking for a lot from the boys I know,” said Sammi Jo as she pointed. “At the stop sign, go left. Drive up the grade and at the top we’ll see Reynolds’s drag strip. Follow the main road, and his office is in the faded red building.”

Alma steered them into the turn and navigated to the blue stone pad, stopping behind the faded red building. “What’s your plan?” she asked Sammi Jo.

“Hope that he’s in a gabby mood.”

“Ask him about Jake’s fight with Clarence,” said Alma.

“Just keep a third eye open,” said Isabel.

“You can sure bet I will,” said Sammi Jo as she winged out the sedan door.

As she sauntered off, Isabel followed her progress through the windshield. “That girl is something else, but the exact term to define her eludes me.”

“Moxie.” Alma used her tissue. “I’d say she brings us lots of moxie to the table.”

“Moxie. There’s a term that’s fallen out of usage.”

“What if things get out of hand, and she needs back up?”

“Then we’ll find out how much moxie we possess,” replied Isabel. “Maybe in future situations like this, we should come armed with more than moxie.”

“You know that’s for sure,” said Alma.

* * * *

The sunshine warmed Sammi Jo’s back. She’d casually known Reynolds Kyle from her Sundays spent here before she’d dumped the sorry, no-account Clarence Fishback. One sporty car, a carmine red GTO that she recognized, sat by the building. He was in.

Shouldering through the office door, she saw a baby moon hubcap over the lintel to catch any luck raining down. She made a wish that a little of it fell on her, too.

The fluorescent lights flickered down on a tall beanpole of a young man. Eyes closed, he rested prone on the red leather banquette. The movement of air alerted his curly eyelashes to flutter, and his onyx black eyes trained on her.

“Whoa there. Sammi Jo? Is that you, or do I dream? Pinch me, quick. But dream or not, you’re a glorious vision,” he said in a tuba voice. “How long did I doze off? What’s the time?”

“Time for a few answers to my questions,” she replied.

“You brought questions for me?” Rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palms, he sat up on the banquette. He swiped a hand over his tousled hair and then patted his shirt pocket. “I’d trade my left kidney for a smoke.” His hopeful dark eyes landed on her.

Anticipating his need, she tapped a cigarette from the bought pack she’d already unsealed. “Sorry, it’s a generic, but it’s free, and it’s here.”

“Then it’s doubly fine by me.” With the cigarette pinched between his lips, he flicked a kitchen match on the cinderblock wall. He drew down to fire a cherry-red conical ember and then exhaled through his nostrils with a contented smile at her.

“Long time no talk, Reynolds.”

“Not since you gave Clarence the heave ho.” Reynolds inhaled, vented out a second banner of smoke. “Heady move, by the way. What instigated it?”

She backpedaled to avoid his smog cloud. “The usual reason you get shed of a liar and a cheat.”

“Was the tramp a local gal?”

“I think you know who she was. Anyway, fill me in on Clarence and Jake’s infamous spat.”

“First off, there’s no rough stuff at my place. Period.”

“People respect you for it.”

“They do, and that’s why everybody feels welcome here. Even goofy Vernon Spitzer up in the bleachers offers a benediction at the start time.”

“He’s a regular choir boy but getting back to Jake and Clarence. Wasn’t their squabble over auto parts?”

“Dumb argument, too.” Reynolds squinted at the smoke curling between his less fidgety knuckles. “These cancer sticks will be the death of me yet.”

“Next to seatbelts, experts say it’s the cheapest insurance.”

“You alone?” He flashed her a risqué grin.

“Never mind. What auto parts did our two lads brawl over?”

“Jake popped for a set of Mag wheels at Lopez’s. Clarence said he’d paid Jake back, only Jake didn’t go for it.”

“Who did you believe, Clarence or Jake?”

Reynolds made a noncommittal shrug. “It didn’t matter since I made them take their fisticuffs outside the front gate.”

“What did they do next?”

Flicking cigarette ash to spill on the concrete floor, he gave a slighter shrug. “They went their separate ways because neither bought another ticket. Losing steady patrons like that hurts, too.”

Relaxed enough in his company, she decided to use a blunter approach. “What’s your take on Jake Robbins’s murder?”

“That throws me for a loop.” Reynolds snubbed out the half-smoked butt under his boot heel. “Clarence is stupid if he killed Jake after their big blowout.”

“If we strike Clarence off the list, who is left?”

“Beats me. Could be a faceless killer like those bloodthirsty gunslingers roving from town to town in the Old West.”

“It’s possible but my money says Jake knew his murderer.”

“How can you tell if he did?”

Smiling in coyness, she replied, “I rely on my feminine wiles.”

“Do your feminine wiles foresee any sparks for us?” Reynolds reached his hand to rest it on Sammi Jo’s hip. Grinning, he gave her a flirty squeeze.

“Chances look slim.” She stepped away and lobbed him the pack of cigarettes. “Keep ’em, Big Time.”

“Hey seriously, what are our chances for later?”

At the door, she leaned back. “Stay tuned, Reynolds.”

“My radio is always tuned in,” he said, returning her roguish wink.