Ed Lynskey - Isabel and Alma Trumbo 01 - Quiet Anchorage (9 page)

With the reporter running late, Alma and Isabel rested in their armchairs at home. Isabel called Dwight inquiring on the list of gun owners. He moaned, saying such a list was difficult if not impossible to dig out, so she told him to keep on digging. She also said he still hadn’t obtained Megan’s police report and to find out when the M.E. had scheduled Jake’s autopsy. They hung up. When her cell phone rang, Isabel expected it was the late reporter asking for better directions.

Instead an authoritative baritone spoke in her ear. “This is Mr. Oglethorpe from the Richmond office. Am I speaking to Ms. Trumbo?”

“Yes, Mr. Oglethorpe, I’m
Mrs.
Isabel Trumbo. How may I help you?”

“Confidential sources inform me that you operate a PI firm. Please confirm or deny that information.”

Isabel, her eyebrows veed, gave Alma an askance look. “Where did you hear such a thing?”

“I happen to have your local newspaper up on my computer screen. The article’s topic is a detective firm you run with your sister, Ms. Alma Trumbo.”

“I see.”

“The article goes on to say you solved a case of vandalism in your town cemetery, and a second mystery concerning some errant church money.”

Peering over her bifocals, Alma hissed at Isabel. “It’s not the IRS again, is it?”

Also whispering, Isabel cupped a hand over the cell phone. “A Mr. Oglethorpe from the Richmond office is asking me about our detective agency.”

“Mrs. Trumbo, tell me, do you hold a private detective license?” His emphasis fell on the last word:
license
.

“We’re unaware of any such license,” replied Isabel in an innocent tone belying the alarm making her heart gallop. “But then we don’t charge a fee for our work.”

“You don’t charge any fees.” He took a quick breath. “While the article doesn’t say that you’re professionals, the impression conveyed that you take money is unmistakable.”

Isabel welcomed the warm relief coursing through her. “Sorry to disappoint you Mr. Oglethorpe, but we haven’t collected one thin dime.”

His cadence grew snippy, his frustration apparent. “Does your business plan project to make future earnings, say, in three to five years?”

“At seventy-six, my taking any long-range view is impractical.”

“Oh. Imagine that. Like always, I only get half of the information I need.”

“I can empathize with your frustration.”

“But I intend to keep close tabs on you.”

“We’re always home if you wish to call again. Good-bye.”

She punched off and tapped the cell phone against her chin. “Our state requires a PI license and since ours came ordered off a box top, Mr. Oglethorpe questions why.”

“So send away for an application,” said Alma.

“As it turns out if we accept no money, a license is unnecessary.”

Alma doffed her shoes, one with a weighted toe. A hunting accident with a twelve-gauge shotgun had taken off half of one foot, and her balance sometimes grew wobbly and unstable. She sniffed and scratched the foot stub. “If Megan wasn’t in her can of worms, I’d drop doing this goofiness. Mature ladies our age shouldn’t be matching wits with the criminal underclass. I enjoy the adrenaline rush fine, but enough is enough, you know?”

Irritation crimped the longer lines in Isabel’s frown. “We can’t quit until Megan walks free out of Sheriff Fox’s prison.”

“Sure, but this PI stuff can get dangerous.”

“Then we’ll just have to be extra careful as PIs.”

A crisp knock at the door brought up Alma to let a young lady into their living room. Cathy Johnson had been poured from the same mold as Megan, starting with her petite frame. The striking difference was her jet dark hair instead of Megan’s blonde. Cathy slipped a tape recorder out of her straw handbag, but at catching Isabel’s perturbed glance, she returned the tape recorder.

“I’ll just jot down a few notes. Recording devices are obtrusive, and we need to talk freely. So, how many cases have you solved since my first article appeared?”

“Just the two covered in your article,” replied Isabel.

“You’ve cracked only those two cases?” With distress in her voice, Cathy’s smile wilted fast.

Alma carried the day. “Right now we’re in the middle of a homicide investigation.”

“Hey, that’s right. So fill me in,” said Cathy.

Alma used Cathy’s request as a lead in to do some lobbying. “Sheriff Fox arrested our niece, Megan Connors, for the murder of Jake Robbins. The charge is an unadulterated sham, and you can tack that quote in bold letters right above your byline.”

“Alma, Cathy knows how to do her job,” said Isabel.

“You make a thought-provoking lead,” said Cathy, scribbling away. “Are you busy clearing Megan’s name?”

“You hit the nail square on the head,” replied Alma. “We’re working day and night to exonerate her, and nothing less than restoring her good reputation is acceptable. Wait until you hear how Sheriff Fox tricked her to make his arrest.”

“Entrapment always angers readers.” Pleased, Cathy gave them a conspiratorial smile. “You know, this will rock my editor’s world.”

Alma offered a word of caution. “You’ll make few friends in the sheriff’s department if you hang your hat with ours.”

“My editor says controversy sells newspapers,” said Cathy.

She soon had gathered enough material to write her article and left with her effusive thanks. Alma and Isabel at the screen door waved as Cathy turned at Church Street, accelerating away to scoop her next headline.

“I hope you don’t as feel as guilty as I do,” said Alma, sitting back down. “I feel as if we just bamboozled Cathy.”

“She feels the fire in her belly to succeed as a journalist, and we merely added to the fuel. What vexes me is what will happen when her newspaper story hits the street. Sheriff Fox will fling a hissy fit with a tail tied on it. He doesn’t come off as looking too sheriff-like.”

“We didn’t tell Cathy anything untrue, and he can’t sue us for libel. Or is it slander? Regardless, Dwight will defend our rights.”

Isabel nodded. “I get the growing sense that Sheriff Fox realizes Megan’s arrest was a knee-jerk decision and regrets making it.”

“My take on him is a little more cynical. Cathy asked us if we expect to solve Jake’s murder before his funeral, but who is making his funeral arrangements?”

“I’d say we’re up for doing it. With Megan in prison, who else is there?”

Isabel telephoned the funeral home on the outskirts of Quiet Anchorage. The unctuous director said he’d take care of everything for “an affordable fee”. She approved of the amount and gave him her credit card number, and she called Dwight. He said the prison visiting hours ran from one to three in the afternoon, and they hung up. Alma suggested they bring Megan a few creature comforts from her apartment.

They traipsed out to the sedan, squirmed into their seats to buckle up, and rode all of a half-block down the street. The gravel lot they entered surrounded Megan’s apartment building, a tan brick edifice with small windows. Struggling to duck under her lap-and-shoulder harness, Isabel swore that next time she’d just walk the short distance.

When an older lady in a blue aloha dress materialized from a side door, Isabel arched her eyebrow looking at Alma, and they suppressed their smiles. Phyllis Garner, Quiet Anchorage’s closest thing to a town eccentric, relished the attention it earned her.

A waving hand shot up, and Phyllis hollered over to them, “How are you ladies doing?”

“Hallo, Phyllis,” said Alma.

“Sheriff Fox ain’t worth a pig’s curly tail, is he?” said Phyllis, approaching them. “Early this morning a posse of his deputies stormed into Megan’s apartment. They never spotted me watching them because I’m too cunning for them.”

Alma turned to Isabel. “Does Dwight know the rambunctious deputies served this search warrant? We haven’t heard anything.”

“We’ll know after seeing him in a few minutes,” replied Isabel.

“While we slept, Sheriff Fox ordered his deputies into Megan’s place.” Alma scowled her displeasure. “Isabel, he keeps beating us.”

“The deputies left empty-handed since the only damning evidence is what Sheriff Fox pulls out of the air,” said Isabel.

Phyllis led them into the apartment building’s musty hallway and removing their sunglasses made it easier to see. Alma turned the doorknob, eased in Apartment 13-B’s door, and their eyes grew big as Mason jar lids. Megan’s papers and folders lay strewn over the fern green carpet. Phyllis righted the spilled chairs while Isabel went around and switched off the overhead lights and table lamps.

“Executing a search warrant now seems to make it permissible to destroy personal property.” Alma’s hip gave the apartment door an angry bump to shut. “The expensive swag lamp we gave Megan for Christmas is broken beyond repair.”

“The deputies took what they sought, left, and didn’t bother to lock up,” said Isabel.

“We’ll clean and straighten up for Megan,” said Alma.

“No, leave it for now,” said Isabel. “Dwight can meet us at Sheriff Fox’s office, and we’ll ask about this.”

An intrigued Phyllis offered her watchdog skills. “Meantime I’ll stay and keep out an eagle eye.”

“I’ll give you my cell phone number to call me the minute you spot more trouble,” said Isabel.

“Go take care of your business,” said Phyllis. “I’m all over this.”

“Sheriff Fox!”

Recognizing the querulous shout, Sheriff Fox groaned. Alma and Isabel had stormed inside the station house, but he had little chance to gird himself. A split second before Alma bulled through his office doorway, he sat up, looking alert and authoritative, at his desk.

“Ladies, may I help you?” he asked.

“We’ve got issues.”

Isabel cringed at Alma who’d come fit to fight the devil. After taking the furthest chair, she gave Alma a nod to sit by her, but Alma remained standing.

“Sheriff Fox, you’ve gone too far,” said Isabel.

“Your deputies trashed Megan’s apartment,” said Alma.

“Sorry, but I direct a squad of deputies, not custodians,” said Sheriff Fox.

Alma gestured at Isabel. “Better try raising Dwight again and tell him we’re at Sheriff Fox’s office.”

“Ladies, please.” He shrugged at them. “There, there. Is all this fuss and bother with the lawyer necessary?”

“Don’t be disingenuous with us,” said Isabel.

“You made our niece a convict, so what do you figure?” said Alma.

“She’ll get her day in court,” said Sheriff Fox.

“Have her day in court?” Alma jerked at the straps to her purse.

“Naturally that’s where all this is headed,” said Sheriff Fox.

Alma seethed. “Not if we have anything to say on it…”

Isabel talked over her younger sister. “What did you find at Megan’s apartment?”

“I can’t divulge that sensitive information,” replied Sheriff Fox.

“Then what did you expect to find?” asked Isabel.

“I can’t reveal what items for seizure the search warrant listed,” lied Sheriff Fox. Nagged by a thought, he switched gears. “The scuttlebutt says a newspaper reporter visited you. Is there any truth to that rumor?”

“Scuttlebutt, hooey,” said Alma. “How do you know that unless your deputies are spying on us? Anyhow, we can’t divulge that sensitive information either. Next week you can buy a newspaper and read all about it.”

Sheriff Fox leveled his eyes on them. “Touché, ladies. Okay, I’ll tell you nothing of evidentiary value surfaced in Megan’s apartment. We’re running the forensics on her car.”

“What for? Of course Jake’s DNA will be inside of her car,” said Alma.

“I’m just telling you,” said Sheriff Fox.

“Then I’ll tell you that we told the reporter how our overzealous sheriff entrapped Megan,” said Alma.

“You’ve distorted the truth,” said Sheriff Fox.

“We didn’t tell the reporter anything not true about her arrest,” said Alma.

“Now who’ll set her apartment in order?” asked Isabel.

“Beats me. The taxpayers expect my people to run patrols, not to push vacuum cleaners,” replied Sheriff Fox.

“Who owned the .44 handgun recovered at Jake’s shop?” asked Alma. “Is it stolen or registered? Did you run the serial number in your police computers?”

“We’re processing that lead along with the others. In due course, we’ll comply with the law and turn over our evidence to your lawyer,” replied Sheriff Fox.

“Alma, the sheriff is swamped with work, and so are we.” Isabel elevated from her chair.

He raised his shoulders with a wondering expression. “You’re swamped with doing what work?”

“We’re working around the clock focused like a laser on Megan’s case,” replied Alma.

He put on an unpleasant face. “That’s just great.”

“Release Megan and we can pool our resources to find Jake’s real murderer,” said Isabel.

“Thanks, but I’ve already incarcerated the guilty party,” he said.

“You’re committing a colossal blunder,” said Isabel.

He switched to a different tactic to mollify them. “Put yourself in my shoes. A man gets murdered. His fiancée and he had a rocky past. It’s also common knowledge he liked to slip over to the cheating side of town. She hears of his latest escapade, and it’s the final straw. She goes planetary, finds the handgun, and shoots him dead. So, I’m forced to arrest her for his murder. It’s black-and-white case and a good, clean bust.”

Isabel repeated herself. “You’re making a mistake, Sheriff Fox. Alma, shall we go?”

* * * *

Following their war of words with Sheriff Fox, Alma and Isabel made a beeline for home. Wanting reinforcements, Isabel placed a telephone call to Louise, the youngest of the six Trumbo sisters who resided in a different Virginia area code.

She reacted to the news. “What’s going on in Quiet Anchorage?”

“Get a grip and think back with me. Did Megan tell you if Jake quarreled with anybody at his shop?”

“I can’t recall any such mention. Why?”

“We think somebody killed him and then framed her for it.”

“Then let Sheriff Fox do as he’s paid to investigate and catch this somebody.”

“But he has no reason to investigate any further with Megan in prison.”

“Ah, I follow your logic. Well, he did love the ladies, and she agonized over it, but I thought they’d reconciled. He vowed to behave, and relations were better between them.”

“We know of his infidelities.”

“Did a spurned ex-lover kill him? For revenge, the ex-lover set up his murder to put the blame on Megan. That way the ex-lover exacted her revenge twice over while also got off scot-free.”

“That’s an intricate plot for somebody to contrive. Any other ideas?”

“Jake’s dad, Hiram, had a wicked temper so was Jake also hotheaded? Did he start an argument with the wrong person?”

“No, Jake, reserved and aloof, took after his mother.”

“Then I wish I could drive down and help you, but my arthritis is a bear. Lately, Megan and I didn’t chat so regularly.”

“Why did you cut back on your telephone calls?”

“The rates ballooned, and neither of us had won the state lottery.”

“What’s your take on Sheriff Fox?”

“You better watch your back at all times. I’d trust a used car salesman before him. Who’s Megan’s attorney?”

“Dwight Holden.”

“He’s book smart but not real street smart. Why did you pick him?”

“Because he’s local and available.”

“You’re taking a gamble by using him,” said Louise, somber. “If the jury votes thumbs down, Megan will live in a bad place long after we’re dead and gone.”

“We know what’s at stake, Louise. Just leave on your thinking cap since we can’t seem to buy a clue.”

“Are you still doing this private eye stuff?”

“Of course. We just saw the newspaper reporter again, and the next article coming out should get us some good PR for Megan.”

“Then add my name to your masthead. Arthritis or not, I’ll be your agent-at-large, if there’s such a position.”

“If not, you’re our agent-at-large now,” said Isabel, and they disconnected on that bright note.

Alma glanced up from counting the letter spaces in her crossword puzzle. “Louise is now affiliated with us. I hope I’m there to see Sheriff Fox go ballistic when he hears about it.”

“You’re on the right track,” said Isabel. “We’ll try and keep him off-balance. If we can’t suss out the right answer and enough proof to make it stick, our efforts to free Megan are wasted. Who’s on our suspects list?”

“Number One?” asked Alma, her pencil ready to scribble on a tablet of paper.

“Louise proposed a jealous ex-girlfriend.”

Alma scrawled “jealous ex-girlfriend”. When no more possible suspects came to mind, she was pessimistic. “We have a tough nut to crack.”

Isabel’s frustration turned sardonic. “Did Willie’s miniature, pop-eyed aliens teleport down to earth and zap Jake with a ray gun?”

Striking the tablet with the pencil eraser, Alma gazed out the picture window. The sunny street appeared tranquil, and her catching the electric orange flash to a Baltimore oriole flitting into a blue spruce sparked a thought.

“Willie might be unwittingly on to something. Assume instead of aliens that a random traveler or an anonymous stranger came into Jake’s shop. Remember it’s not so far off the highway. For some reason, they squabbled, tempers flared, and this traveler turned the .44 handgun and fired at Jake. Then the traveler chucked it under the work bench and lit out on the highway with impunity.”

“How did he stamp Megan’s prints on the handgun?”

“Oh. Right. Well, I didn’t say my theory was airtight.”

“My stomach is growling.” Isabel’s glance took in the clean kitchen. “Should we go grab a bite of late lunch? I’m in no mood to warm up soup or wash any dishes afterward.”

“Sure, Eddy’s Deli is open. How is Louise?”

“It’s the same old story of beating down her arthritis.”

“You know it’s funny that Sheriff Fox hasn’t mentioned Jake’s will to us.”

“Well, I’m not doing his job for him by bringing it up.”

* * * *

A bit later, their sedan clattered over the iron-truss bridge spanning the Coronet River. Isabel tipped her glance below to glimpse a pair of tanned, sinewy canoeists gliding through the river’s main channel. Next, hauling by the Co-op, Alma breathed in the fermented odor of the shelled corn stored in the grain silos. A little further, the rusty anchors stood sentry at the brick fire station. A summer day’s languor overtook them by the time Alma steered a right off Franklin to Main Street. That’s where they spotted her walking.

The barefoot girl wore cut-off blue jeans below a blaze orange halter, and she sipped from a soda bottle. She sauntered immune to the lava-hot sidewalk in front of Lago Azul Florist, its wood bench unoccupied. The three gentlemen had retreated into the florist’s lobby during the day’s hottest part. Isabel said she hoped the August heat didn’t roast the poor girl alive, and Alma remarked on how much of her bare skin lay exposed to the August sun.

Isabel continued to look. “Who
is
that girl, Alma?”

“That’s Sammi Jo. She rents an apartment from Vernon above the drugstore.”

“Ah, that’s our scandalous Sammi Jo.”

On the next block, no SUVs or “farm use” pickups lodged in the patrons’ reserved spaces at Eddy’s Deli, and they parked. Isabel flipped down the sun visor to use the clip-on mirror. She cocked the floppy straw hat to tilt just so on her head. Her primping drove Alma to distraction. Why fuss over vain appearances at this late stage? She stayed silent as they braved the August heat, and Isabel clucked her tongue.

Catching the signal, Alma followed Isabel’s gaze.

The self-assured Sammi Jo was crossing the intersection without regard to any oncoming traffic. She chucked the empty soda bottle into the culvert and fished out a crumpled pack of cigarettes from a hip pocket. She strolled up to Isabel, the cigarette drooping from her insouciant smile.

“Got a match or lighter?” Sammi Jo used an upcountry drawl.

“I most certainly do not.” Isabel squared up to her full height. “Smoking poisons your lungs.”