Ed Lynskey - Isabel and Alma Trumbo 01 - Quiet Anchorage

by Ed Lynskey

  “I bet Megan could do with some company this afternoon,” said Isabel.

  “We won’t breathe a word about Jake or his funeral,” said Alma.

  “Sheriff Fox will say it’s late,” said Sammi Jo.

  “Surely for today he’ll make an exception,” said Isabel.

  Sammi Jo parked and they marched into the station house to find the duty desk. Their excuse of Jake’s funeral didn’t win over the presiding squat deputy with the bushy sideburns.

  “Visiting hours ended at three pm, funeral or no funeral. Strict adherence to regulations is the hallmark of a well-administered penal institution.”

  “Quit putting on speechy airs, Rodney,” said Sammi Jo. “We’re hardly impressed.”

  He cracked his knuckles, rocked back in his chair, and tweaked his lips into a leer. “Should I call in Clarence? He can better explain it to you.”

  “Call Clarence or the Seventh Cavalry for all I give a fig.” Angry, Sammi Jo leaned her weight on her other hip.

  Isabel interrupted them. “The deputy is correct, so tomorrow we’ll return during the scheduled visiting hours.”

  Rodney’s smirking nod addressed Sammi Jo. “You see, Ms. Trumbo is a smart lady. You should take a page from her.”

  “Oh drats, where are my sunglasses?” While pawing through her purse, Isabel leaned forward into the stronger light under the duty desk. “I had them right here.” Just then a crumpled ten-dollar bill spilled from her purse to land on the desktop. Her search was distracting her, but Rodney fastened his eyes on the money.

  Alma’s elbow jab clued in Sammi Jo to pipe down.

  “Didn’t you wear them inside?” said Alma.

  “Did I? I must have, yes.” Biting her bottom lip, Isabel delved further in her purse. “Lately, I’m so mixed up, and I’d like to die if I lost those particular sunglasses.”

  “Well, Rodney, which is it: yes or no?” asked Sammi Jo.

  “On reconsideration, you do raise a good point.” His meaty hand swallowed the ten-dollar dollar bribe. “It’s not like a dude can pick his time to go. I’ll allow some leeway to approve of a five-minute visit.”

  Frowning, Isabel rooted deeper for her errant sunglasses. A second balled up ten-dollar bill dropped to the desktop near the same spot. His eyes latched to the money as his tongue scraped his thick lips.

  “Ten minutes rings twice as nice,” said Sammi Jo.

  “Oh yeah, and fifteen minutes rings nicer still.” Grabbing the second ten-dollar bill, his greedy eyes moved up from the desktop to Isabel’s purse.

  “Ten minutes will do us fine,” said Alma.

  “Then ten minutes it is then.” Rodney, twenty dollars richer, sprang to his feet. “Hang loose and I’ll be back in a flash with Megan.”

  A rolling strut sent him into the station house’s recesses, and Isabel slipped her sunglasses from a dress pocket and into her purse for safekeeping.

  Sammi Jo grinned at her. “How did you know he’d go for the bribe?”

  “He has a dishonest smirk, so I plucked out a trick I’d read from a mystery book,” replied Isabel.

  “Smirkers are dishonest and can be bought,” said Alma.

  In a few minutes, he strolled back to the duty desk. “Ms. Connors is in Interview Room Two. Head on down, if you like. But first for the record, are you toting any weapons or contraband on your persons?”

  “Did you win the lottery?” asked Sammi Jo.

  “Wow, you cracked a joke, and here it almost sailed right by me,” he said.

  “Jake’s file cabinets disappeared,” said Sammi Jo. “Do you know their whereabouts?”

  “I have no idea,” replied Rodney. “All right, go on and finish your visit.”

  The window air conditioner installed in Interview Room Two was chuffing away in its labor. After hugging the ashen Megan, Alma punched off the power switch for quiet and they sat.

  “Megan, Sammi Jo is our new assistant,” said Isabel.

  “We went to school together,” said Megan, her voice husky and tight.

  “Actually I was one grade behind you,” said Sammi Jo.

  Megan quit fidgeting with her hands as her pale face contorted in its anger. “Why are you helping my aunts, Sammi Jo? What’s in this for you? Are you Sheriff Fox’s hand-picked spy?”

  “Not at all. Clarence made me look foolish, and I’m thrilled to knock him down two or three pegs,” replied Sammi Jo. “As for me and sneaky spies, no, my style is more like in your face.”

  “You can trust Sammi Jo,” said Alma. “We do.”

  Megan let her glare drop from Sammi Jo. “Okay, I will. For the time being.”

  “Megan, how have you been?” asked Isabel.

  “I missed not being at Jake’s funeral. How was it?”

  “Everybody was there, and Bexley recited the Dylan Thomas poem you like so much,” said Isabel.

  “It was a dignified funeral,” said Alma.

  “Thanks for being there in my stead.” Megan fidgeted again with her hands. “It’s not as creepy as you might imagine. The food is pretty drab, but I’m alone in my cell. Since it has a bunk bed, my status might change. I spend a lot of my time reading paperbacks the lady deputy lent me. I have gotten blisters from pacing back and forth so much.”

  “First off, we get you out of that orange hazmat suit,” said Alma. “Then we negotiate another deal with the deputies to keep your accommodations private.”

  Megan’s distressed eyes sought Isabel’s, then switched to Alma’s. “You’ll negotiate another what deal with the deputies?”

  “Alma is just letting off a little steam,” said Isabel.

  “Just a little,” said Alma. “Have any new details while at Jake’s shop occurred to you?”

  Eyes downcast again, Megan’s head wagged. “No, I’ve replayed the scene over and over, but I can’t add more.” Her tone grew matter-of-fact and her sentences choppy. “I stopped at Jake’s. He wasn’t in the house. Or the office. I ran to the shop. Went inside it. Jake lay in front of me. Shot dead. His chest bloodstained. It was horrid. In a daze, I phoned the sheriff. That’s it.”

  “You should’ve called us first, said Alma.

  “Megan did fine. It’s not like we’ve got any influence with Sheriff Fox,” said Isabel.

  “You’d have to tell it all to him anyway,” said Sammi Jo.

  “Did you see a handgun on the floor, Megan?” asked Alma.

  “If I did, I’ve no memory of it,” she replied.

  “Do you own a handgun?” asked Sammi Jo.

  “No, I’ve never touched one. Guns scare me,” replied Megan.

  “Then the .44 can only be a plant,” said Sammi Jo.

  “Clarence, I can recall hearing, is the one who discovered it,” said Megan.

  “Then sneaky Clarence definitely left the .44,” said Sammi Jo.

  “It’s a distinct possibility,” said Alma.

  “Think back, Megan. Did you smell any whiffs of cordite?” asked Isabel.

  Megan scratched at an eyebrow. “What’s cordite?”

  “Gunpowder smoke that has an acrid smell so you’d’ve covered your mouth and nose,” replied Isabel.

  “The strong fumes made my eyes water,” said Megan.

  “She came in seconds after the murderer had left,” said Alma.

  “I don’t recall hearing any gunshots fired,” said Megan.

  “Did a car engine start up?” asked Alma.

  “No, I heard nothing at all,” replied Megan.

  “The murderer escaped into the woods,” said Isabel.

  “We’ll go canvass there.” Alma looked at Megan. “Dwight should’ve met with you.”

  “No Dwight. I assume he’s been too busy working on my case.”

  “We know Jake kept several file cabinets locked up. Did you open them?” asked Isabel.

  Megan’s eyebrows canted. “They’ve always sat by the big walnut desk, but he rarely undid their padlocks. I believe he told me once he stored old car manuals and b
usiness records inside them.”

  “Rodney might know if we grease his palm again,” said Sammi Jo.

  Megan’s face knotted into an anxious tangle of furrows. “You bribed the deputy out front right under Sheriff Fox’s nose?”

  “Bribe has a negative connotation. We did like the Senators and CEOs do to expedite their business,” said Sammi Jo.

  Before Megan responded, Isabel asked, “Did Jake tell you Clarence owed him money?”

  “I know Jake and Clarence owned and raced a car,” replied Megan. “But something, probably money, caused a rift. They quit speaking, and I played their go-between for a while, but I never learned many details. Clarence fell out of the picture, and I was only glad to see him go since I don’t like him much.”

  “You ain’t alone in feeling that way,” said Sammi Jo.

  “Did he two-time you?” asked Megan.

  “He’s no better than a rabbit hopping from one girl’s bed to the next,” said Sammi Jo.

  “Welcome to the fold. Jake pulled the same crap until we had ‘The Talk’. As far as I know he flew straight, but the distrust lingered like a bad taste in my mouth.”

  “But you both had weathered that storm. He had to grow up, and he worked hard at the shop,” said Isabel.

  Megan averted her teary eyes. “I’m sure you must be right.”

  “Did Sheriff Fox run paraffin tests, or whatever they’re called now, for gunpowder residue on your hands?” asked Isabel.

  “After my booking, I’ve only sat in my cell except for a trip to the prison showers,” replied Megan.

  “He doesn’t need more physical evidence with the .44 handgun as his Exhibit A,” said Alma.

  “So it appears.” Isabel tipped up her watch. “Alma, do you have any parting words? I hate to rush us along, but our allotted time is almost up.”

  “Megan, we’re doing everything possible,” said Alma.

  “I already know it, and thanks.”

  “You’ll be out of here in next to no time,” said Sammi Jo.

  They watched Rodney escort Megan back to her prison cell and left the station house. Quiet Anchorage had dipped into late afternoon, and as they neared the sedan, a series of deafening whistles went off. Their fire department even in this high tech age of cell phones, pagers, and beepers still called its crew the old-fashion, loud way. Each new whistle blast pealed out shriller.

  A driver revved up the fire pumper truck inside the station and began the frenzied honking of its air horn. The three ladies watched in awe as the firefighters roared down the side streets and sprang out of their cars. The second fire pumper truck pursued the first one. As the furor subsided, Isabel pondered again why the fire department hadn’t responded swift enough to the house fire claiming Megan’s parents.

  “Rodney sure bit on that bribe.” Sammi Jo put the sedan into gear. “It makes you think of things, now doesn’t it?”

  “Like how deep the graft runs in our local law enforcement,” said Alma.

  “For twenty dollars, I proved one deputy is crooked,” said Isabel.

  “Pair Rodney with Clarence, and a disturbing pattern emerges,” said Sammi Jo. “It only takes two bad deputies to frame Megan for Jake’s homicide.”

  “The same two deputies can also shred the contents of Jake’s file cabinets,” said Alma.

  “And to think they’re paid to serve and protect the citizens,” said Isabel in a miffed but glum voice.

  Chapter 18

  On the way home, the ladies decided to check on Megan’s apartment. The parking lot at this hour overflowed with the vehicles of the residents home from their jobs. At Alma’s request, Sammi Jo made a vigilant circuit around the apartment building as Isabel fanned herself with her floppy straw hat.

  They spotted no lurking deputy cruiser, marked or unmarked, so they parked, and exited the sedan.

  A shaggy, orange tomcat hunched on the dumpster hissed as they approached the apartment entrance. A knot of kids dressed in baggy, solid-colored khakis jerked their heads and necks in time to a boom box blaring a discordant noise. Despite straining her ears, Isabel couldn’t make out the lyrics chanted over the staccato bassline.

  “Gangsta rap sucks,” said Sammi Jo. “I’d die laughing if the world awoke tomorrow morning infatuated by Gregorian chants. You could kiss off all the bad ass rappers with their fake steel teeth and macho swagger.”

  Alma nodded off to their right. “Is that our Phyllis?”

  “It is and why is she out here?” said Sammi Jo.

  Phyllis looked chipper dressed in all blue from her floppy hat to her sneakers.

  Sammi Jo handed the car keys to Alma and went over to her aunt, the exasperation putting a noticeable hitch in her stride. “Why are you hanging out in the parking lot?”

  Phyllis smiled, hooking her elbow in Sammi Jo’s, and led them over to Alma and Isabel. “Because I’m an undercover agent.” Phyllis’s whisper evoked the atmosphere of mystery and intrigue. “My mission is a stakeout, and this bag lady getup that’s giving you hysterics is my latest brilliant disguise.”

  “Phyllis, you’ve accomplished enough mission for one afternoon,” said Isabel.

  “Aw, let her report in. Did you see anything suspicious, dear?” asked Alma.

  “It’s been Dullsville, and I missed my beautician appointment,” replied Phyllis.

  “You don’t use a beautician. I cut and perm your hair,” said Sammi Jo.

  “Your quality has slipped a notch or two.” Phyllis touched her pin curls under the floppy blue hat. “I can pay a bit more for a superior cut in Warrenton.”

  “You haven’t been to Warrenton lately since neither of us owns a car,” said Sammi Jo.

  “Sammi Jo, I’m not pleased by your impertinent tone. Alma, am I right?” Phyllis’s glance appealed to her.

  Her pat on Phyllis’s forearm was reassuring. “I asked Sammi Jo to help us straighten up at Megan’s apartment. Can you also lend us a hand?”

  “Go ahead and I’m hot on your heels,” replied Phyllis.

  They strode halfway down the building’s hallway when a goateed man backed out of his apartment door. His batik shirt over his chino pants offset the yellow guitar he slung over a heavy shoulder. Their stares caught and held his eye.

  “Hiya, Bradford,” said Phyllis.

  “Bradford, we need to get into Megan’s apartment,” said Isabel.

  He looked doubtful. “I’m not sure if I should let you inside.”

  “Then you’re stuck with cleaning it. This morning the deputies left it as a pig sty,” said Sammi Jo.

  “I’m too busy to fool with it.” He walked on with them before he set down his yellow guitar, selected a worn key on a ring, and undid Megan’s door. “Have at it, ladies. I’m late for my rooftop gig.”

  The irrepressible Phyllis strummed her air guitar. “You’ll croon stardust memories.”

  He grinned at her. “It’s just cooler and breezier up there.” He picked up his yellow guitar, and left for the nearby exit to the stairs.

  Isabel, the last one through, shut the door. “I admire his stick-to-itive-ness. Is he any good at his singing and playing?”

  “He’s vastly underappreciated,” replied Phyllis. “I’m his biggest fan, and he knows it. In ten years, I predict all of his CDs and DVDs will become collectors’ items. I’ll be sitting on a gold mine.”

  “All singers like to think that way,” said Isabel.

  “Meanwhile we’re left straightening up this squalor.” Alma’s hand circled to signify the disheveled rooms.

  “Seeing it also upsets me,” said Phyllis.

  Megan’s magazines, recipe cards, and phone directories sat heaped at the living room’s center. The deputies had pitched the cushions to her divan and upended the ottoman. Potted shamrocks had fallen off the window ledges and shattered on the floor. The pieces left to her swag lamp made it a total loss. Alma poked into a closet to rescue a broom and dustpan.

  “The deputies were thorough.” Alma swept
the potting soil and broken pieces to the lamp into the dustpan.

  “No, Sheriff Fox was truthful that his deputies struck out,” said Isabel.

  Alma leaned the broom against the butcher block table. “I only hope you’re right.”

  Sammi Jo retrieved the tossed phone directories from the floor. “Bradford knew the deputies would go nuts and do this.”

  “Bradford who’s pals with the deputies also knew we’d spruce it up,” said Alma.

  “When Megan walks through her door, she can’t face this mess,” said Isabel.

  “Go on, the bunch of you.” Phyllis shooed them back into the hallway. “I’ll scour the apartment from top to bottom, and Megan will never know the deputies set foot in here.”

  “Aunt Phyllis, this can’t be a lick and a promise. You better come through,” said Sammi Jo.

  “I said I’d do it, so I will,” said Phyllis.

  “What a tremendous help,” said Isabel.

  Phyllis halted at her apartment door, and the others strolling on to the outdoors heard Bradford’s guitar riffs filter down from the rooftop to replace the rap music. Alma drove them to Sammi Jo’s apartment over the drugstore on Main. She climbed out and waved as the sisters tooled away. The tinsel bugs splatted on the windshield, and Alma said it was a harbinger of ill luck. She agitated the windshield washer, and the wipers scraped the luminous bug remnants off the glass as if their ill luck could be cleared away.

  “Who was that boy with the guitar who was sweet on you?” asked Alma.

  “You’ve confused me with somebody else.”

  “You and he sat on the wraparound porch—what Mama called ‘the verandah’—in the ladder-back chairs. You listened to the radio, ate his cherry-filled chocolates, and he made goo-goo eyes at you.”

  “Did you kneel down in the hydrangeas and spy on us?”

  “And you never knew it until now.”

  “Of course we knew you were there.”