by Ed Lynskey
“Some people just don’t click with each other,” said Isabel.
“Did Lotus dislike Ladybug with enough venom to go and murder her?” asked Blaine.
Alma gave him a frank gaze. “You knew both of the ladies, Blaine. Give us your read on that question.”
The noncommittal Blaine shrugged. “Hey, I just sell nails and deadbolt locks. That sort of outlaw question is best left for Sheriff Fox to answer.”
“We feel the same way,” said Isabel, turning on her heel for the aisle with the broom rakes out on display.
Chapter 19
While Isabel grew up on the Trumbo farm, her favorite season was autumn and her favorite autumnal month was October. The first hard frost killed the night insects, especially the cicadas, raising their discordant racket all summer long. The new silence reigning under the luminous harvest moon and smattering of stars grew deafening. The sisters’ evenings spent playing cards and board games on the wraparound porch ended, and they retreated to the cozy warmth indoors and circled the kitchen’s toasty woodstove.
Despite the utilitarian stressed over the frills farmhouse kitchen, Isabel loved it. After she was married and moved away to live on the city boulevard, she discovered the convenience and ease of using an electric range, and she would never go back to using a woodstove. The sisters had baked enough pies in the woodstove oven to feed a multitude of churchgoers lined up for dinner on the grounds.
While it wasn’t a bake off awarding the top blue ribbon to the most delicious pie, no sister was shy about showing off her baking skills. Louise excelled at making apple pies from the apples hand-selected from their farm orchard. Alma was proud of her cherry pies, the cherries harvested from the trees behind the raspberry canes. Isabel with her icebox persimmon pies thought she outdid Louise and Alma.
The Southern persimmon is a native tree. Late October’s frosts do their magic to bring the silver dollar-sized fruit to its sweetest flavor, a process known as bletting. The frosts neutralize the tannin causing the green persimmon’s chalky aftertaste that puckers the cheeks and tongue if eaten too soon. The opportunity to gather up the ripe persimmons is limited since the hungry wild critters go to work fast.
When the right time came, Isabel left the farmhouse. She leaped down from the ha-ha wall, a retaining fence erected from river stone, separating their yard from the fields. She was off to raid the persimmons growing interspersed between the staghorn sumac, pin oak, and sassafras. Sometimes Alma and less often Louise tagged along with Isabel, but she was most pleased to slip off with only her shadow for company.
The persimmons were easy to spot since most of the yellow leaves had dropped from the denuded branches, leaving only the clusters of fruit visible. The brown-amber persimmons resembled a wrinkly small plum. They yielded more thumbnail-sized dark seeds and leathery skin than they did the desirable tasty pulp she was after.
Isabel shaking the trunk as if the wind was passing through the branches detached the ripest persimmons to plummet to the ground. She also wore shoes, trousers, and gloves since she occasionally shinnied up the dark-gray, spindly trunks for the persimmons. The farm girls developed sinewy muscles from performing their daily physical tasks. Due to their small size, she had to collect enough persimmons to fill her tin pail.
Isabel bundled off her ambrosia to the kitchen. En route, she couldn’t resist chewing on a few mushy persimmons as appetizers. Once back home, she fired up the woodstove and then squeezed the persimmons through a mesh laundry bag to strain out the stems, skins, and seeds from the pulp. It was messy going, and she had to tie on the one-piece cotton apron Gwendolyn had passed down to Isabel.
She created enough thick, bright orange purée to fill the piecrust lining the fluted pie tin she used. Her secret ingredients—add one extra teaspoon each of nutmeg and cinnamon with a tad of lemon juice—made her golden brown pies taken out of the woodstove oven baked to perfection. Then she left out the pies to cool on the kitchen windowsill for a half-hour before she set them in the icebox. Later, she cut the first pie slice to serve to Woodrow.
“Excellent pie, Isabel,” he said after eating the slice.
“Thanks, Dad,” said Isabel. “I gathered the persimmons from behind the farm.” “I know where they grow,” he said. “I planted the saplings there before you were born.”
Alma and Louise felt gypped by Isabel protecting her baking secrets and holding back on them. A little culinary spying was in order. They peeped over the kitchen windowsill, and Isabel drew the red-checkered curtains closed. They whispered behind the doorjamb, and she shut the kitchen door. She plugged its keyhole with a wad of dough. One day she might divulge her baking secrets, but not as long as they tried to one up each other with their pie making. Even so, their sibling rivalry was all in good, clean, and delicious fun.
“Do you remember baking day on the farm?” Alma asked while Isabel and she ate at the table.
Isabel finished chewing before replying. “I do since I liked to lick the spoons, forks, and mixing bowls. What brought that up?”
“We had a passion for baking pies. Louise preferred cherry pies, I favored apple pies, and weren’t you the persimmon pie chef?”
Isabel knew where their conversation was headed. They’d held the same one no less than a week ago. Alma was tenacious as a badger when it came to learning about the different things that sparked her curiosity.
“We’ve already established I made the best persimmon pies,” said Isabel.
“Right, so we did. You were awful cagy when it came to sharing your recipe.”
“What troubles you so much to know about my recipe?”
“How did you make your persimmon pies taste so good? Was it the dollop of whipped cream we liked to add on the top of the slices?”
“That piece of information is locked away in a vault.”
“Are you telling me you will take your recipe to the grave with you?”
Enjoying their banter, Isabel shrugged. “I may decide to pass it on to Megan before I untie my apron strings for keeps.”
“Then our dutiful niece will whisper it into my ear, and I will be the new Chef Isabel,” said Alma.
“Assuming you go after I do, but I’ll have you know I’m healthy as a horse so be prepared for making a long wait.”
“Since I’m the younger sister, I believe I’m safe in assuming I’ll still be around after you go.”
“Shifting our perspective from persimmon pies to garden shovels, I’ve been mulling over Lotus’s purchase of hers.”
“It doesn’t take much of an imaginative leap to link it to her burying the money suitcase where we found it.”
“You mean where Petey Samson found it.”
“If you insist, yes, he did. Why did she leave Chicago after she had made it her home?”
Isabel set down her fork. “Evidently living in Chicago didn’t do a lot of good for Ladybug. She departed right after her divorce from Curt was official. My guess is she liked Quiet Anchorage because it is within driving range of Washington, D.C. while at the same time it’s still country enough to be able to see the many stars come out at night.”
“Then Ladybug and Phyllis got together and did their stuff again,” said Alma.
“They had been friends since Hector was a pup is what Phyllis tells me.”
Alma took a careful sip of her iced tea then locked eyes with Isabel. “I’ll ask you point blank, and you can tell me what your gut says. Did Phyllis Garner kill Ladybug Miles? Did Phyllis go to such elaborate lengths to cover up her bloody misdeed?”
“My gut tells me it never happened like that, and I always trust my gut.”
“You’ve read enough mysteries to know anybody pressured by the right set of circumstances is capable of committing murder.”
“All right, but why did Phyllis come seeking our assistance?” Isabel paused. “That is the last way we’d expect the killer to behave. Moreover, what possible motive did she have? If it was to steal Ladybug’s money, Phyllis missed the bo
at on getting her hands on it.”
“She almost jumped up and down insisting we split up the money.”
“But then you did the same thing, Alma. Are you the killer?”
“Of course not and Phyllis isn’t the murderer we’re after either.” Alma brooded with a scowl furrowing her forehead. “Just between you and me and the icebox, I’m as stumped as I’ve ever been on a case.”
“Three heads are better than two goes the wise saying,” said Isabel. “Give Louise a ring and see if she can shed any further light on it.”
“You can do it instead of me,” said Alma. “Right now I’m so fed up that I’m left almost tongue-tied.”
“Your tongue-tied frustration doesn’t seem to have affected your appetite any.”
“Just shush. While I clear away the dishes from the table, you can be talking to Louise.”
“Are you also volunteering to wash the dishes?” asked Isabel.
Alma picked up her plate and drinking glass. “I’ve got it all covered while you go on and pick our kid sister’s brain.”
Chapter 20
“Why did you wait and tell me about this mystery only now?” asked Louise after Isabel had laid out the basics of the Ladybug murder case.
“Louise, we just got involved in it ourselves,” said Isabel to her younger sister living in a distant city over their cell phones. “We’ve barely had enough time to take a breath much less to think to call you until this moment.”
“Well, I can’t argue with that.”
Isabel felt relieved. “We are finally making some progress. The difference this time is Sheriff Fox has asked us to lend him a hand.”
“That sends up a warning flare. Why did Roscoe Fox all of the sudden change his leopard spots? It doesn’t add up. Have you looked under the table to see what his ulterior motive is?”
“I agree it’s uncharacteristic of Roscoe but don’t lose any sleep over it. Sammi Jo and Phyllis are sleuthing right beside us.”
“Sammi Jo should be a help, but I’d say Phyllis is less so. She hasn’t got the good sense the Lord gave a goose.”
Isabel frowned a little. “I told you that is her brilliant disguise, and it might well come in useful someday.”
“Isabel, I hate to say it, but that someday is today. Phyllis better get busy sleuthing in her brilliant disguise and shake out some answers.”
“The garden shovel Ladybug purchased at Matthiessen’s Hardware Store puzzles us. We’ve assumed she used it to bury the money suitcase.”
“Did you ferret out the garden shovel when you rummaged through her townhouse?”
“I have to say no, but that’s not something she would’ve kept in the bathtub or linen closet. We looked in every nook and corner there.”
“Maybe she tossed it into the river when she was finished with her digging.”
“Wouldn’t she need the garden shovel when she was ready to dig up her money suitcase?”
“Then she hid the garden shovel in a hollow tree trunk rather than having to haul it home and stow it out of sight.”
“We didn’t run across any hollow trees at the swimming hole.”
“I would have been more selective in my choice of a burial site. The popular swimming hole must get visited even in October by the older kids seeking a private place to party.”
“The swimming hole with its road entrance made it quick and easy for her to drive in, bury the money suitcase, and depart. Do any other ideas spring to mind for us to try doing?”
“I have one idea. Have you spoken to Lotus and Rosie who always seem to know any town news that is worth knowing?”
“We visited Rosie’s house where she’s laid up with her leg in a plaster cast from a broken shinbone.”
“How did she manage to do that?”
“She slipped on a soap bar while she was in her bathtub shower.”
Louise had a short laugh. “She better keep track of her soap bar the next time she takes a shower.”
“Lotus and Ladybug got into a tiff after Ladybug called Lotus a name. Sensitive about her weight, she took offense. We haven’t been able to tell if their rancor went any further than that.”
“Didn’t the bad blood between the two ladies go back a ways?”
“They used to snap at each other, didn’t they? I’d forgotten about that detail.”
“It’s worth poking into a little more to see whether their feud escalated to where it got out of hand and foul play resulted.”
“We’ll have to be discrete because I don’t want Lotus to know we’re still checking up on her.” Isabel had grown weary of their discussing small town murders and changed the topic. “Have you got any big plans coming up, Louise?”
“I just returned from shopping at the grocery store. I bought the recipe ingredients to bake a homemade pie because my sweet tooth has been getting the best of me for one.”
“Are you prepared to bake an apple pie?”
“This time I’m going to tackle baking a persimmon pie. I’ve scoped out a grove of persimmon trees in the abandoned lot a handy three blocks from my front door. I’ll wait and let the persimmons get ripe. Then I’ll pay the neighbor boy Jeffrey to fetch me a plastic bag of them since my arthritis leaves me less spry these days. He’ll offer to do it for free, but I want him to do a good job, so I’ll pay him.”
Isabel could feel the hackles bristling on the nape of her neck, and she used her palm to smooth them back down. It was game on, and it felt every bit as competitive as it had back when they were farm girls. “You wouldn’t be experimenting to try and copy my persimmon pie recipe, would you, Louise?”
“Nothing of the sort, so don’t get so defensive. Because you are waist deep in another caper, Alma and you can’t take a break and bake your pies to send to me. I’m forced to settle for second best and attempt to bake my own persimmon pie.”
“I see.” Isabel’s blazing hazel eyes said otherwise. “Actually, Louise, it’s not all work and no play for us. Alma has a little spare time on hand, and she has decided to bake a pie, too. Can you guess what type it is?”
“As we just discussed, she’s famous for baking her cherry pies.”
“She is but today she is turning audacious and baking an apple pie.”
Louise gasped. “Hey, that’s my pie. Who does she think she is? I wish you hadn’t told me that.”
“Before you blow your stack, there is an easy solution.” Isabel couldn’t believe she would ever say what she suggested next. “We could swap our pie recipes and baking secrets.” She laughed. “I can see now it is plain silly and childish not to do it.”
“I didn’t see that idea ever coming from you. I tell you what. Let me give your proposal some thought. I might be able to convince myself to go along with it. How does that sound to you?”
“Sweet as pie, Louise.”
“Be sure to keep me up to date on your new murder mystery. I can’t wait to hear the whodunit part.”
Isabel smiled. “Stay tuned and happy baking. Bye, Louise.”
***
Alma greeted Isabel entering the kitchen with a distracted nod. The drop-leaf table where Alma sat had the folded down half abutting the wall. She’d been writing on the other side of an expired coupon. Without her reading glasses on, all Isabel could make out were the words to the heading LADYBUG’S MURDER SUSPECTS LIST Alma had printed in all capitals. She glared at her blank list while she tapped her pencil eraser on it.
“A watched murder suspects list never grows,” said Isabel.
“I’ve been racking my brain for murder suspects, and I’ve got nothing,” said Alma.
“Don’t feel bad. Even Jane Marple must have experienced moments like you are.”
Alma continued her tapping the pencil eraser. “What did Louise have to say for herself?”
“She is going to think about my idea to swap the recipes for our specialty pies.”
Alma quieted the tapping pencil eraser. “I absolutely love it! How long will it take her to make a
decision?”
“I don’t think she can wait for too long since the persimmons on the trees in her neighborhood will ripen soon and fall to the ground. Anyway, who should start off your murder suspects list?”
“Ladybug’s two other exes are both possibilities, but I don’t remember their names to scribble down.”
“True but they also strike me as long shots. Both exes live out of town, and they each went their separate ways from Ladybug many years ago.”
“If I scratch them, I’m back to square one with nobody.”
“Jot down Lotus Wang.”
“Lotus went to that bloody extreme just because Ladybug called her a fat cow. Folks have called me a lot worse names than that, but I didn’t get my revenge by killing the offender. That’s not to say I wasn’t tempted to throttle them.”
Isabel shrugged a little. “Who knows if that was the end of it? Louise reminded me of how Lotus and Ladybug had a long history of not getting along with each other.”
“I guess I never paid too much attention to them. Their most recent quarrel may have been the last straw, and it provoked Lotus to plot and carry out Ladybug’s murder.”
Isabel had a terse nod. “I’d hate to accuse Lotus of murder and then discover it’s not true because she is a longtime friend of ours.”
Alma sighed. “At times like this, I wished I hadn’t been cursed with the nosy gene.”
“You and I both do, sister. I think about what Max would have to say if he could see me now doing this sleuthing.”
Alma had an exuberant laugh. “He was also a big mystery buff, so it’s not hard to envision him as another operative working alongside us and cracking his corny puns whenever we hit a tough spot as we have now.”
“Max would do that,” said Isabel, thinking she had had the good sense and better fortune to marry a smart and caring man. She’d done all right for herself in that regard. Life had been good to her, but there was still important work left to do, so she closed off her nostalgic sentiments until she had the spare time to indulge them later.