by Ed Lynskey
“There’s not much else left to say. I dispatched two deputies to Jake’s shop and drove over myself a little later. We processed the crime scene where I questioned Megan, and she told me she came to see Jake to do the books. Her knocks on the house door went unheeded, so she proceeded to the shop. There she hollered out his name but raised no response. She claims she entered through the bay doors and spotted him, the victim of foul play—”
“Skip over to the part on your evidence.” An impatient Alma snapped open her purse, plucked out a tissue, and wiped her nose. “That’s what I want to hear.”
Isabel seconded Alma’s request before Dwight could protest. “Yes, show us what evidence you’ve accumulated, Sheriff Fox.”
He went on. “If I can get in a word edgewise, I’ll tell you Jake died of a .44 round. Shortly after I let Megan leave, our follow up canvass of the premises uncovered a.44 handgun the murderer had tossed under the work bench. Playing a hunch, I sent the.44 back to our lab where my technician dusted for prints and raised two matching hers. Yep, that forensic evidence sure put a lock on the guilty culprit.”
“Where did she obtain the weapon?” asked Isabel.
Sheriff Fox shrugged. “Maybe Jake owned it. Maybe she bought it at a gun show. We’re still checking.”
“How do you happen to have her prints on file?” Alma sniffed into her tissue.
“We printed her for her Federal security clearance when she applied to work at the training center,” replied Sheriff Fox.
“This weapon, I assumed, had checkered grips,” said Isabel.
Sheriff Fox rolled his tongue inside his cheek. “It did but so what?”
“Prints aren’t left on rough textured surfaces like checkered grips,” replied Isabel.
“We lifted Megan’s prints off the barrel’s smooth surface.” Sheriff Fox had a triumphant smile. “We also took her print off the trigger. Both prints matched to her, and we couldn’t ask for better ironclad evidence.”
The pastiness blanched Alma’s face as she felt the blood rush from her head. Sheriff Fox’s glance in Isabel’s direction, however, disturbed him. A shrewd glint made her eyes dance. His discomfort puzzled him until he realized how the two sisters had always looked the same—silver and formidable—since he was a kid. Even in adulthood on some basic level, he still regarded them as his elders, but he today was the sheriff of Quiet Anchorage, and the one voted and paid to be in charge here.
“This .38 handgun you pulled out from under the work bench sounds too pat to me,” said Isabel.
Sheriff Fox shook his head. “I said the murder weapon is a .44, not a .38, and why is it too pat for you?” His voice grew defensive. “Are you implying my deputies planted the evidence?”
Dwight, his hand raised to play the mediator, looked flustered, and Alma reclaimed some of her fiery temperament.
“What Isabel means is some creep had to frame Megan for Jake’s murder. Besides she would be incredibly stupid to shoot poor Jake dead and then phone you to say she’d tripped over his corpse.”
“As I said, this behavior pattern occurs more often than you might think,” said Sheriff Fox. “The corpse is discovered—dang it, Alma, don’t interrupt me again—and reported by the actual murderer. It’s like how the arsonist first torches the abandoned warehouse and then reports the blaze to the fire station. As for your frame up theory, you’re grasping at straws, and no jury is going to bite on it. Trust me.”
“Megan would also be a buffoon to leave the murder weapon under the work bench,” said Alma.
“Maybe panic-stricken, she didn’t possess the presence of mind to think of a better hiding place.” Sheriff Fox narrowed his curious eyes on them. “How is it you two sisters know so much on homicides?”
“We’ve been reading murder mysteries before you were born,” replied Alma.
“Impressive but there’s one critical difference. This is the real world and not something lifted off the printed page,” said Sheriff Fox.
Isabel asked a few real world questions. “Have you Mirandized our niece? Did you record an entry log at the crime scene? Did you photograph and videotape the crime scene? Did you test for gunpowder residue on her? Dwight, are you paying attention to all of this? And last, have you constructed a timeline of events?”
“Naturally I know to do all of those things,” replied Sheriff Fox.
A frosty silence settled in the small interview room until Dwight scraped back in his chair. “Well. That does it for us. Thanks for your valuable time, Sheriff Fox.”
He gave them a frank nod. “I’ve detailed what’s what, and now the gears of justice will grind forward.”
“We aim to throw a monkey wrench into those gears of justice,” said Alma.
Sheriff Fox wasn’t left in a convivial mood. “This is my last warning. You should watch your step. Dwight, you better keep a tight rein on your client’s family, and I’m drop-dead serious, too.”
“Bad pun,” Alma had said.
Now smiling at Sheriff Fox’s unintentional pun, Isabel propped up on her pillows, and she felt the glow spread liquid warmth through her. She recognized it as confidence. Despite the ominous turn of affairs, her optimistic nature foresaw a positive outcome where Megan soon returned home. Just as fast a fresh insight struck Isabel.
“Motive,” she said. “Sheriff Fox harped on the means and opportunity, but he didn’t say boo on why he contends Megan shot and murdered Jake.”
Isabel patted the folds to the sheet as her pulse drummed in its new excitement. She found the cell phone snagged in the pillowcase. Her signal beamed from her bedroom through the house to the other wing.
“Hallo,” said Alma, a fellow insomniac.
“It’s just me. Say, did you notice how Sheriff Fox disregarded something significant earlier?”
Alma stifled a yawn. “No, but it’s put you in a tizzy so just tell me.”
“Did he hint at why he believes Megan killed Jake?”
“He never came within a country mile of touching on a motive.”
“I’m sure he’s diligent at building a motive to stand up his case, and we should concentrate our efforts there, too. By the way, did you soak the grease stain in your new blouse?”
“No, I put it in the rag bag since it brings bad luck, and we’ve already had our fill.”
“I see. Well, good night then.”
Isabel hung up and stretching her legs under the bed sheets, she recalled leaving Sheriff Fox at the prison and driving to the drugstore on Main Street. It’d been rather late, almost nine o’clock, but the glints of light peeped through the plate-glass front. They trooped inside and hailed Vernon Spitzer straightening the comic books and graphic novels racked in the wire display carousel.
“Ladies, it’s one minute until I close,” he said, striding over to the cash register to wait on them.
“We came in the nick of time,” said Alma. “How are you doing on my prescription refill?”
“Oh. Sorry. I forgot it.” Vernon wrinkling his forehead propped his elbows on a Bible. “My grasshopper mind seems to jump in so many directions, but I’ll refill it by tomorrow. Promise.”
Isabel’s frank gaze sized up the slim, suave, and athletic Vernon. His pencil-thin mustache reminded her of the actor Gig Young, and she found Vernon amiable enough.
“What keeps a young man like yourself so busy?” she asked.
“Running a small business is mayhem,” replied Vernon. “I don’t know if you’ve had any experience in retail.”
Isabel nodded. “A fair bit. I worked for forty-eight years at the home office of a major grocery chain. They’re still going strong, so I suppose we did something right.”
“Is that a fact?” His eyebrows tilted, and his mustache twitched at her. “I would’ve never guessed you for a business lady.”
“It now seems like a long time ago.”
“Did you retain Dwight to defend Megan?” asked Vernon.
Alma looked at him. “Why do you ask?”
Alma and she had left the drugstore and returned home.
Now sighing to try and rest, Isabel mashed the pillow flat on her bed. She snuggled to get more comfortable in the pillow and pulled up the sheets, but sleep didn’t overtake her. Desperate to relax, she thought of drinking a glass of warm milk, but the traditional folk remedy had never left her drowsy. Instead, her thoughts turned to Megan’s first harrowing night spent in prison, but that was a useless worry so she dismissed it.
Isabel put on the light, sat up, and conjured up their graveyard caper. In her cozy bedroom she could smile over it, but their midnight stakeout spent in the dank, murky graveyard in April hadn’t been so funny. The obelisk gravestones in the Trumbo family plot had toppled to the soggy ground. Alma and she lobbied the part-time groundskeeper into righting the gravestones. Several days later they drove past the cemetery and saw the gravestones had tipped over again.
“Sheriff Fox can’t blame it on the wind again,” said Alma.
Isabel nodded. “Even a hurricane gale force can’t blow over a tombstone.”
“Truants bored by their free time did it.” Alma scowled at Isabel. “We should take this vandalism personally.”
“I do but Sheriff Fox hasn’t done anything about it.”
“Evidently graveyard vigils aren’t his main concern.”
“It’s Friday. The vandals will probably return to get more kicks tonight, and we can be there ready to catch them.”
Alma shivered. “We’ll catch the death of cold.”
“The nights have been unseasonably warm.” Isabel measured up her younger sister. “I think something else is behind your reluctance.”
Alma scoffed. “What?”
“I count three rabbits’ feet dangling on your key ring.”
Alma smacked her lips, a sign of irritation. “So, I like to collect rabbits’ feet, but I’ll have you know I don’t have a superstitious bone in my body.”
“Then I dare you to play the graveyard sentry with me.”
“Fine only because I want you to see I’m not superstitious.”
* * * *
Later that evening, they hunched down behind a hedge of quince shrubs in the town cemetery. The night felt warm in the low seventies, and they removed their corduroy jackets. The aroma of fecund dug earth and hyacinths was the evidence of a recent funeral. Alma shifted her large, black purse to her other forearm. Isabel had left her purse at home, but she wore her floppy straw hat.
“The moon is luminous tonight,” she said.
“Have you heard any strange noises?” asked Alma.
“The only noise I’ve heard is our talking. Moving closer to the gate will give us a better vantage point.”
“We might give ourselves away.” Alma gave a backward glance. “Coming in from the cemetery’s rear is the smart approach.”
“No, our merry pranksters will arrive by the road.”
Alma sneezed into a tissue. “These maples are pollen factories.”
“I told you to refill your prescription.”
“I can’t see spending money on what I don’t need. My allergies haven’t reached the crisis point.”
“Yet.” Isabel sniffed. “Did you bring any extra tissues?”
Alma plucked one for each of them from her purse.
“How do you lug around a purse big as a wrecking ball?”
“It’s not that heavy. Having Megan or Jake here would be nice.”
“She had to prepare his taxes tonight.”
“Oh, he’d be lost in blue limbo without her.”
“She’s a big asset to him even if he stays largely blind to it.”
“Promise me you won’t tell her we ever did this. If it leaks out, we’ll be certified as the new town idiots.”
“My lips are a sealed vault.”
Isabel shifted her stance behind the quince. She pushed aside a branch and surveyed the moonlit graveyard studded with the tombstones of various shapes and sizes. “Did you think to recharge your cell phone?”
“That’s been taken care of, yes.”
“Can you pick up any clear signal in this dead zone?”
“I’ve already checked, and the answer is yes.”
“Careful now. I can hear a car slowing on the road.”
The thud to the car doors shutting reached their ears. A boyish whoop sailed up, and a flashlight beam bobbed in the distance.
“Oh-oh, they’re back,” said Isabel.
“I’d better contact Sheriff Fox.”
“A stellar idea,” Isabel had said.
Now turning in her bed, she subdued her reveries with a deep yawn. She flipped off her bed table light, and her heart slowed its beats. Her heavy lids drifted shut, and a few breaths later a dreamless sleep claimed her.
Chapter 10
Early Tuesday morning, a thunderclap rattled the windowpanes in their frames. Her heart beating like the wings of wild geese, Alma jolted awake. She knew without peeping out the slats to the Venetian blinds the source to the infernal racket. The longhaired, surly boy from next door had cranked up the V-8 engine to his monster truck, leaving for his day job.
Alma made a mental note to ask Sheriff Fox about what mufflers were legal to install on trucks. She remembered with a start she’d more pressing business to take care of today. Imagine Megan enduring a night alone behind bars for a crime she didn’t commit. Charged with murder, the most heinous offense, doubled the horror. Alma heard a ringtone, and her hand slipping under the pillows retrieved her cell phone. She flipped it open, her first words saying, “Hallo, Isabel.”
“Did Young Thor’s hammer jar you awake, too? Doesn’t it make you want to stamp next door and throttle him?” asked Isabel in her cotton-mouthed irritation.
Alma replied with her own question, “Did you sleep well before the thunder struck?”
“Fair to middling. How about you?”
“A bit better, thanks. Do we first discuss the topic of motives for murder with Dwight?”
“I already did no more than five minutes ago. He listened as any tactful lawyer does and thanked me for my valuable inputs. No doubt his legal bill will reflect our chat time.”
Alma stretched her arms and legs in bed. “He isn’t a morning person, so we better go see him later today. What else is on our post-breakfast agenda?”
“We’ll want to meet with Rosie McLeod and Lotus Wang.”
“See you in a bit then.”
Thumbing off their connection, Alma marveled at the convenience to chat on a cell phone. Hadn’t telephone science, or whatever it was called, advanced by leaps and bounds since the telephone party lines relied on back in the Middle Ages? She abhorred their indolence to lounge in bed and speak rather than walking down the hallway to hold a normal face-to-face conversation. She let out a sigh, thinking, well, that was progress for you.
Their hasty breakfast was hot grits, a wedge of honeydew melon, and skim milk. Alma sipped her cranberry juice, but Isabel abstained before they piled into the sedan gleaming navy blue under its coat of morning dew.
“I hope the prison serves hearty meals,” said Isabel.
Nodding, Alma twirled the key in the ignition. “That topped my list of Megan worries, too.” The engine, recently tuned up by Jake Robbins, hummed in its smooth idle.
“We should pick up a few items,” said Isabel. “But first, where do we catch up with Rosie and Lotus this morning?”
“You must know they practically live at Clean Vito’s.”
“Different strokes. I hate musty laundromats and almost never go inside one.”
“The commercial detergent odors irritate my sinuses.”
Within minutes, they found Clean Vito’s Laundromat, a colorful, boxy structure shingled in plum red with double-hung windows painted lemon yellow. A shopping cart blocked the last vacant parking space. After an annoyed Isabel climbed out to move the shopping cart to t
he cart stall in the grocery store’s lot, Alma nosed the sedan into the free space. Before joining Isabel, she re-centered the Bible—it’d extricated her from more than one traffic ticket—on the dashboard.
“We stick out with no baskets of laundry,” said Isabel.
Alma dropped the key ring into her purse. “Don’t act sneaky about the reason we came here. Megan is behind bars falsely accused, and we intend to clear her name. If folks like to lend us a hand, we’re grateful and if not, who has the time for them anyway?”
They navigated their path over the chunky stones mingled with the gravel without wrenching an ankle. Alma spotted a praying mantis perched on the step—a sign that autumn lurked around the corner, and Megan couldn’t be left in her chilly prison cell. A columnar ashtray stand propped open the laundromat door. Their smelling the clean laundry detergent coincided with hearing the whir to the dryers and the slosh to the washers.
First in, Alma scanned the knots of chattering ladies to key on Rosie and Lotus, the only other ladies not armed with a clothesbasket, making their rounds. Alma and Isabel threaded down the first aisle between the different ladies’ sympathetic smiles and gentle nods offering their support for Megan. Isabel pressing the ladies’ forearms thanked them. Tall and lanky, Rosie by looking over Lotus’s head first spotted Alma.
“I hope you don’t mind us bending your ears,” she said.
“But we brought a few questions to ask you,” said Isabel.
Wary, the stout Lotus tilted her eyebrows. “What sort of questions?”
“Did Jake Robbins make any known enemies or disgruntled customers?” asked Isabel.
“How the devil might we know something like that?” asked Rosie, more suspicious.
Alma moved to reorient their conversation. “I know Jake’s daddy Hiram Robbins had an Irishman’s temper and every once in a green cheese moon, it got the best of him because he always loved ripping into a good brawl.”
Never to be outdone telling a story on the locals, Lotus jumped in. “But that’s not true of Jake. Quiet and serious, he took more after his mother and kept his nose pressed to the grindstone.”