Ed Lynskey - Isabel and Alma Trumbo 01 - Quiet Anchorage

by Ed Lynskey

  Making any commitment left him rattled, and he felt the need for more time and space to mull things over before making up his mind for good. Marriage was taking a serious plunge. Megan at first accepting of his ambivalence had more recently grown more agitated. She stalked around his shop, a frown pinching her face. Worse, his dad’s funeral had preempted their plans to spend a few days together at Colonial Beach. Then he told her that he didn’t want to take off any time away from his business after the funeral.

  For that announcement, she’d given him the cold shoulder. Jake without his dad to ground him felt lost at sea. It was easier for him to drift along from day to day than to deal with rendering any big decisions. So he continued sleeping in the barber chair as the summer dragged by, and here it was late August.

  The desk telephone rang, interrupting his reverie and, hopeful, he answered, but it wasn’t his day’s first customer.

  “I’m giving my last client a hair perm and can’t get away for another hour,” said Megan.

  “Meg, I’ve already put away all the business ledgers.”

  “I suppose you’ll have to drag them back out if you expect me to do this week’s invoices.”

  “All right, I’ll have everything spread out on the desktop for you.”

  “Have you rescheduled our Colonial Beach trip?”

  “When could I? I’ve been busy with oil changes and a brake job all morning,” he lied.

  “You’re waffling again, Jake.”

  “I’ll look into it this afternoon. We still have time.”

  “Huh? The summer is almost over, and we haven’t done anything fun together.”

  “Dad died in June and I haven’t been in a fun-loving mood.”

  “I know Hiram died.” She paused. “You must think I’m awful for bringing up Colonial Beach again.”

  “I understand your need to relax, and I’m overdue for a little break, too.”

  “Can you round up a mechanic to pinch hit on short notice?”

  “I know a couple of retired guys, and they always like making a few extra bucks.”

  “We still haven’t picked out our wedding rings.”

  “So much stuff needs doing. Right after Labor Day, we’ll drive down to Culpeper and shop. How does that sound?”

  “I’m ready anytime. Just don’t keep me waiting too long.”

  “I hear more to your warning than just shopping for wedding rings.”

  “Smart boy,” she said before they hung up.

  Jake arose from the desk and trudged out into hot, coppery sun, his eyes cowering. Marriage seemed better suited for years down the pike rather than in a few short weeks. Hearing a car’s drone on the state road, he smiled, grateful for the diversion. At last he welcomed his day’s first customer, but he’d no way of foreseeing within minutes he’d die of one .44 gunshot wound slammed straight to the heart.

  Chapter 3

  Many small towns sport a colorful story behind their name’s origins, but Quiet Anchorage had no such pedigree. It’d sprung up in the nineteenth century as another depot on the old railroad line wending north-south through the Virginia piedmont. Ironically enough, the landlocked town at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains had nothing to do with any maritime aspect.

  The older natives attributed the town’s name to its mellow pace. In sharp contrast, the town’s younger residents having to get up before the crack of dawn to make the two-hour commute to their city jobs hadn’t yet found this mellow pace to enjoy. The shallow Coronet River meandered along the town’s southern flank. A tow truck driver had winched up the two rusty anchors from the silty river bottom, and the mayor ordered them posed in front of the VFD’s brick station. Resident historians said Robert E. Lee’s Confederate army had used the anchors to stabilize the pontoon bridges he ordered erected across the river. Schoolchildren taking the walking tour of Quiet Anchorage heard the fire chief’s spiel on the twin anchors’ history.

  Cat’s-paw breezes now batted the red and purple blooms on the crepe myrtle and powder puff mimosas. Sheriff Roscoe Fox driving his Crown Vic cruiser, its windows down, took stock of the fire station’s new roof. A benefit supper had raised the funds. This afternoon his wind-burned face was stretched taut. For the first (and he prayed the last) time, he had to tackle a homicide investigation. In a half-daze, he returned from the crime scene he wished he never had to process.

  Murder in his small town had been unheard of until this afternoon.

  He ran his fingers through his premature balding, iron gray hair. Twenty-odd years ago, he’d served as an MP at Fort Riley, Kansas. His cop duties never exceeded rounding up AWOL soldiers, patrolling the pancake flat streets, and issuing traffic summons.

  He’d received some classroom training in homicide investigations, but that summer, like this one, had been a blast furnace and he’d dozed through the course. Though he’d flunked it, his superiors had curved the grades enough to pass him. Even back then, new MPs were in big demand.

  When his shoulder mike crackled, he ignored it. The GPS map display on the dashboard computer flickered but no directional aid was necessary, and he looked away from it. He muttered to himself.

  “Jake Robbins lies dead so what now, Roscoe? Arrest his fiancée Megan Connors because I’ve got solid enough evidence to charge her.”

  His turn signal at Church Street blinked. His deputy had let off Megan at her aunts’ house, and he decided to initiate his search for her from there. He punched the gas pedal. Alma and Isabel Trumbo came across as sweet, old ladies, but he knew they didn’t back down without a badger’s fight. Mashing on the brakes, he slid over the cruiser to park under a leafy canopy.

  His visual cop’s sweep took note of the navy blue sedan in the short driveway beside the burnt orange brick rambler. The summer drought had browned the lawn teeming with grasshoppers. He climbed out and unclipping the shoulder mike saw the curtain flicker at the picture window. He’d been discovered.

  “Just relax and switch on that good ole boy charm,” he muttered before standing at his cruiser door. “They’ll melt in my hands.”

  He’d no sooner reached the slate pavers walkway and hiked up the porch steps as the front door swung wide. The compact human form imprinted behind the screen door spoke.

  “Hello, Sheriff Fox. I know this can’t be a social call.”

  “Far from it, Alma. I’m afraid there’s been a homicide.”

  Unimpressed, she didn’t gasp or turn ashen. “You’ll want to talk to Megan again, as if she hasn’t been through enough already.”

  “As I can well imagine,” he said, now inside the cooler, dimmer living room. “Good afternoon, Isabel,” he told the other elderly sister on the sofa next to the sad-faced young lady. Neither of them returned his greeting nod.

  “Megan has been run through the wringer, so you better keep this brief as possible,” said Isabel.

  His gaze scoped the living room. “Which seat do I use?”

  “Isabel’s armchair works fine,” replied Alma. “Do you have any suspects?”

  He perched his haunches on the edge of the lime green armchair. He didn’t care for the color. “Alma, this is still the early going, and I don’t know too much yet.”

  She sat down to protect Megan. “There’s no need to play coy or evasive. We already know what’s what, don’t we, Isabel?”

  “Let Sheriff Fox pose his questions, and he’ll leave that much sooner.” Isabel looked sharp at him for confirmation, but he didn’t react.

  Instead, he ran his thumb pad along the damp sweatband inside the Smokey the Bear hat he’d removed from his mussed hair.

  “I’ll say up front your sleuthing capers make for interesting newspaper copy,” he said. “Your solving the case of the toppled gravestones amused townspeople, but this is a far different animal. I’m in the manhunt for a murderer with ice water in his veins.”

  “Just make your point,” said Isabel.

  Alma shifted to face Isabel. “He’s telling us to butt out of his poli
ce investigation for Jake’s murder.”

  He allowed a grimacing smile. “I’d never use that blunt language but, yeah, that’s the gist. Your tampering will only impede our progress.”

  “Your warning is duly noted, and we’ll talk to you soon,” said Isabel.

  “Hold on. I’m not finished.”

  “Go on then. We’re listening,” said Alma.

  He eyed Megan before glimpsing a sly look pass between the sisters. At his sharper glance, however, they just sat in deadpan innocence waiting for him to continue. He knew they were up to something. He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of a wrist over his nose.

  “Megan, did you talk to Jake this morning?” he asked.

  “We did for a few minutes on the phone, and I went over to do the books,” she replied.

  “Does she need her attorney?” asked Isabel.

  “Of course not. Where did you get such an outlandish idea?” He used his hat as a fan and wished the older townspeople relented and ran their air conditioning. “This is a routine interview where I let the factual details come to light and assist in building our case.”

  “Didn’t you question Megan earlier at Jake’s place?” asked Alma.

  Sheriff Fox quit fanning. “Right but a few minor points remain fuzzy.”

  Isabel took Megan’s hand to sandwich between hers. “Go ahead and we’ll coach you through the rough parts.”

  “Have Jake and you been a happy couple?” asked Sheriff Fox.

  “How is that germane?” asked Alma.

  “Alma, let’s let Sheriff Fox ask his questions and be off,” said Isabel.

  He stuck on his hat and knuckled up its brim to reveal his tired expression. “Megan, I’m afraid you’ll have to accompany me.”

  “Accompany you where?” she asked.

  “We’ll head to the station house, and my clerk will type up your statement. You can sign it, and we can finish everything within the hour. I’ll ask a deputy to bring you home, or else back here if you wish it.”

  “With Megan so torn up, right now isn’t a good time,” said Isabel.

  “It’s more sensible to do it while her memory is still fresh.” He pasted on an ingratiating smile. “The up-side is we’ll have closed this loop for good.”

  “I can appreciate Sheriff Fox’s urgency.” Megan stood up from the sofa. “I’m as anxious as anybody to know who murdered Jake.”

  Alma’s fierce blue eyes pinned on Sheriff Fox. “We’ll give you one hour and any minute longer, we’re coming to get Megan.”

  “Don’t sign anything and don’t admit to anything, Megan,” said Isabel.

  “Our lawyer will have the final say,” said Alma.

  Megan’s shaky hand grazed Alma’s forearm. “Hiring an expensive lawyer is hardly necessary.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Alma.

  Her silence stony, Isabel nodded once at them.

  “Megan will see you in a jiff,” said Sheriff Fox.

  Alma didn’t miss noticing him touch the pair of handcuffs clipped to his duty belt.

  With her chin up, Megan preceded him out the door. The sisters standing behind the screen watched the grasshoppers scatter from their departure.

  Using care not to bump her head, Sheriff Fox helped Megan into the cruiser’s rear seat. The engine rumbled, and the roof bar light strobed out its red-blue glints. As the cruiser nosed into the street, the siren’s blat pierced the humid afternoon’s quiet as he gunned it down Church Street.

  Isabel gave Alma an apprehensive look. “Why is he in such a big hurry?”

  “Because he takes himself too seriously,” replied Alma.

  Isabel continued staring at Church Street. “Can you believe this has gone on?”

  “Bad dream.” A resolute line set at Alma’s jaw and chin. “I’m burning up with curiosity to see where Jake Robbins died.”

  After retrieving her magazine from the floor, Isabel started to fan herself. “I’m not sure that’s a wise idea if the deputies are still working there.”

  “By now they’ve left, and we can’t sit around and twiddle our thumbs.”

  Again Isabel’s magazine dropped to the floor. “Why did we let Megan go by herself with him?”

  “Did we have a choice? He represents the law, after all.”

  “Will he arrest her?”

  “Most signs point to yes,” replied Alma. “I’d say he put her in his gunsights the instant he waltzed through our doorway.”

  “Then we better go see the crime scene for ourselves.”

  The large, black purse dangled by its straps from Alma’s forearm. While Isabel retrieved hers from her bedroom, Alma shooed out the mud dauber that Sheriff Fox had let in. She only wished the pushy sheriff was as easy to swat out of their orbits.

  Chapter 4

  Alma drove them in their sedan to the Robbins’ brown stucco house, recasting the recent events with Jake. At his request, Isabel and she had served as the honorary pallbearers at Hiram Robbins’s funeral in June. Alma smiled at picturing how that unusual scene had raised a few proper eyebrows. Later, Megan had prodded Jake to visit the town clinic located on the highway.

  High blood pressure alerted him that he’d inherited his dad’s coronary disease. The doctor ordered medication, diet, and exercise, all of which he chose to ignore. So she bought him a rowing machine and did his grocery shopping. Alma thought Megan fussed too much over him who in turn didn’t appreciate her attention or care enough about her.

  Alma knew he’d had a roving eye for the ladies, and the young couple had wrangled over it. His sleeping around had spawned vicious rumors throughout their on-again, off-again relationship. She let out a long breath and stole a glance at Isabel. Her window was also down, and she stared straight ahead at the blacktop where the bubbles popped up on its sun-baked tar surface. Both, wearing their out-of-vogue but functional sunglasses, surveyed the aquamarine landscape.

  Isabel felt the intensity of her sister’s gaze. “Do you wonder what I wonder?”

  “Did Megan actually shoot Jake?” said Alma.

  “Bingo. Did he go tomcatting again, and she find out? Did she lose it and do something regrettable and rash?” Isabel shivered at weighing the dark possibility.

  “Jake swore he’d stop, and I’ll accept him at his word until we find good reason to doubt it. Alma sized up Isabel’s floppy straw hat and unable to resist the spontaneous bedevilment asked, “Why don’t you break down and buy a new hat?”

  “Why throw away my hard earned money on a new hat when this one shades my eyes just fine?”

  “Because you resemble the Oz scarecrow.”

  “Well, I’m not making a fashion statement, and your teasing won’t sway me. The straw hat stays, so there.”

  “Seriously, something else bothers me.”

  “Besides my scarecrow hat, what is it?”

  Alma bit her lip before replying. “We know very little on how a murder investigation works. Now Megan faces arrest for homicide, and the stakes couldn’t get any higher. Can we do her any good?”

  “You’d better think we can. We’ll rely on our book learning. I’ve read Agatha Christie, and you’ve read Dorothy L. Sayers. Enough said.” Isabel flicked her wrist as if to sweep away any lingering qualms.

  “We did as young ladies, sure. But the times have changed.”

  “Those grand dames knew their stuff, and it all still applies today. Murder is murder. We derive our savvy from all of those mysteries we’ve read.”

  Swerving to straddle a pothole, Alma recalled how they’d solved a couple of small mysteries, but nothing approaching the same stratosphere as murder. Her memory centered on the spring when teenagers had vandalized Quiet Anchorage’s cemetery, and they never caught on as to who had reported them to Sheriff Fox. More recently, the sisters had proven a gray-haired lady at their church hadn’t lined her pockets by fleecing the missionary fund. Stricken by the early ravages of Alzheimer’s had left Ruth Brittle forgetful.

  A l
ocal reporter with a nose for a headline had called them. Alma and Isabel alternated at retelling both capers before a photographer arrived to snap their pictures at various poses. They held oversized magnifying glasses enlarging their eyes for the photo appearing with the article. Overnight they became local celebrities and when one kid in the florist’s asked for their autographs, Alma admitted how she felt like a famous rap star.

  Watching the road, Isabel interrupted Alma’s thoughts. “Murder is for the sheriff, not us, to take up.”

  “Why are you having these second thoughts?” asked Alma. “This is our niece, and we can ill-afford to leave anything to chance. What if Sheriff Fox never solves Jake’s murder? What if the critical clue is in plain sight, but he can’t see it? What if Sheriff Fox twists all the evidence to incriminate Megan? Even worse to think, what if she is sentenced to serve time? There are too many unnerving what ifs for us to dither on the sidelines and leave it up to Sheriff Fox.”

  Isabel shook her head. “You exaggerate by saying she’ll wind up in prison. He’s an honorable man, and he’ll flush out the truth.”

  “I’m not as naïve as you because he’s a small-town, badge-happy law officer. Voters in an election year will clamor to see justice served. Time will go by, and he’ll grab the quickest out he can lay his hands on. I’m fearful that she’s too handy.”

  “By interfering, I hope we don’t trip up.”

  “What if we do? What jury or judge will toss a pair of old busybodies into prison?”

  “That makes sense. By the way, you just overshot our turn.”

  Alma pumped the brake pedal and jounced into the wide mouth to a driveway. After slapping the sedan into reverse, she backed out to the state road and retraced their route to make the right turn.

  “Megan will resent us for tampering,” said Isabel.

  “How will she know?” asked Alma. “She’s off with Sheriff Fox, so we can snoop away at Jake’s. Once we get the ball rolling, we’ll let her in on it.”

  “The next driveway is Jakes’s. Please don’t miss it, too.”