Ed Lynskey - Isabel and Alma Trumbo 01 - Quiet Anchorage

by Ed Lynskey

  “I’ve done my best. Are you getting any closer to freeing me?”

  “Next we’ll go shake Dwight’s cage,” replied Alma.

  “Inside a prison cell isn’t much fun.” Megan stopped. “But I know you’re working hard, so I’ll quit with my wimpy complaints.”

  “We’ll keep on Dwight to step it up,” said Isabel. “When you arrived at Jake’s house, did you hear any noise from the direction of the woods? Say, like footfall tramping over the dry leaves?”

  Balling up the tissue in her fist, Megan clenched her eyes shut. “Didn’t I tell you already? I heard no noises.”

  “Isabel just hopes to jostle your memory,” said Alma. “Were the shop overhead lights on or off when you arrived?”

  “The lights were on, blazing down on Jake.”

  “How did he feel to the touch? Was he warm?” asked Alma.

  “Yes, hot even.” Eyes shut again, Megan swallowed, and the shiver jolted her shoulders. “Being inside there felt creepy, as if this pair of eyes were pinned on me, but I didn’t detect anybody.” Her eyes flew open. “My only wish is I could be more helpful to you.”

  Alma sat down on the other side of the wood bench by Megan. “We’re certain the murderer had left by the time you drove up and parked.”

  “Suppose the murderer did stay behind to spy on her?” asked Isabel.

  “He had a reason since her arrest saved his own skin,” said Alma.

  Megan supported between them shuddered. “You make it sound so predatory.”

  “As long as you’re in here, the murderer sits easy. I wager he’ll get plenty jumpy once we spring you.” When Isabel didn’t chime in to agree, Alma asked, “Sis, you look preoccupied. What’s on your mind?”

  “Don’t snap off my head, but toss this idea around with me. What if Megan doesn’t post her bond just yet, and she stays put. It’s an horrible thing to say, I realize.”

  Alma’s gaze on Isabel held steady. “It is, so what’s your logic behind it?”

  She went over and pulled out the door. Peering into the hallway, she searched both ways, but no eavesdroppers lurked there. She sat back down on the wood bench, her tone confidential. “Megan can be our ears. If we nail our suspicions on Clarence, only somebody on the inside can spy on him. Bexley just revealed this place is a hotbed of rumors.”

  Perking up, Megan threw off the yoke of her dismal trance. “Hey yeah, I can be the spider on the wall with an ear out for any good stuff being discussed. Why didn’t I think of it?”

  Alma’s tight mouth left her face grim. “Do the deputies actually talk it up in the hallways?”

  “I can hear the loud voices and laughter, but I’ve never paid any real attention.”

  “You can’t stay in this snake pit for another day,” said Alma.

  “We’ve almost exhausted studying the crime scene. What’s another day or two of Megan in here going to hurt?” Isabel looked at her. “Zero in on any chatter you overhear on either Clarence or Sheriff Fox.”

  Growing agitated, Alma stood and then paced the room. Her cadence turned cynical. “Why not bribe Bexley to steal Clarence and Sheriff Fox’s personnel files? Or better yet, we’ll hook up Clarence to a polygraph and grill him.”

  “I can stay safe a little while longer,” said Megan.

  Isabel’s sober face regarded Alma. “Your call. If you say it’s too dangerous, then we’ll pressure Dwight to expedite Megan’s arraignment.”

  “You both seem pretty jazzed by this idea, so I’ll go along with you,” said Alma.

  The door flailed open, and Bexley lumbered into Interview Room Two. “Quick.” His hand wagged at Alma and Isabel. “Quick. Sheriff Fox pulled in. Megan, lightfoot it back to your cell, duck inside, and pull the door shut behind you. Alma and Isabel, stick close to me. Move it.”

  Adrenaline goaded them into action. The sisters shadowed Bexley, Megan in tow. At the hallway corner, she left them, hurrying off a different way to her prison cell. A steel door out front clanged as they folded into an alcove.

  “Bexley!” a distant man hollered out. “Yo, Bexley! Did you doze off again? Where are you?”

  “Sheriff Fox sounds fit to be tied,” said Isabel.

  Bexley’s hand beckoned at them. “Escape out this emergency exit, and then put your car in the wind. Wait, let me flip off the fire alarm. There. Now be gone before Sheriff Fox throws us all in prison.”

  Isabel hesitated—Megan had looked so defenseless and helpless. Alma tugged on the strap to Isabel’s purse. “You heard Bexley,” she said. “Come on, now. Megan will be fine.”

  Bexley pushed out the emergency exit door to let in the flush of sunshine. “I’ll look out for her.”

  Alma and Isabel stepped into the bright alley, and the end gave way to the street where their sedan parked down the way shimmered in the hot morning. They merged to the sidewalk. Once buckled up, Isabel feeling their tires roll on the asphalt had a depressing insight.

  “Sheriff Fox enjoys a large staff to do his bidding, but it’s just you and me against all of them.”

  “Ah, that’s so true,” said Alma. “But…he doesn’t enjoy our secret weapon.”

  “What secret weapon is that?”

  “Sammi Jo.”

  Now also smiling, Isabel glanced at Alma. “You’re having the excitement of a lifetime with this investigating malarkey, aren’t you? Sammi Jo and you both love the thrill of the chase. I can see how it gets the juices flowing, and I’m the only rational one who’s left in this outfit.”

  Chapter 21

  The tidy, two-room flat with a closet bath and kitchenette over the drugstore was a castle to Sammi Jo. The rent didn’t break the bank, and she liked the serenity. Friday and Saturday nights grew boisterous enough to call the sheriff, although she hadn’t done so yet. Her back room’s window looked out on the canyonesque alleyway tracking behind the drugstore. The view in the morning, she thought, made it look rather drab. On the other hand, she knew of the long backlist to rent the apartments, so she stuffed her complaints to take up with Vernon Spitzer, her landlord.

  Earlier in the summer, she’d entertained Deputy Clarence Fishback in her flat. Discord ensued after he visited a different girl’s flat on the same hallway. On her trip out one night, Sammi Jo had overheard Clarence (scheduled, he’d told her, to work the night watch), and the little skank amplifying their obvious lovemaking noises from her squeaky mattress.

  Sammi Jo had banged a fist on the door, but neither had had the guts to confront her. Shortly afterward, the little skank moved back in with her mother. Speak of wanting to kill somebody, Sammi Jo fumed, before she decided to forget her ever knowing Clarence, not that easy to do since she still had some feelings for him.

  Her apartment had a long, colorful history. If she stayed within its walls, they whispered their secrets to her. She distrusted talking walls, and when they talked back, she knew she needed to grab some fresh country air and sunshine. At present, the quiet walls behaved, and she channeled her deliberations on her new avocation.

  While raised in Quiet Anchorage, she’d on occasion seen Alma and Isabel Trumbo riding in their navy blue sedan. Her memories of them remained constant. They bore the same look: silver, proud, and dignified. They were senior citizens who lived in the same hamlet she did. They waved if you passed them, and both were ready to share a smile. Being a private eyes appealed to her sense of adventure, and she thrilled that Clarence was their target.

  During her darker moments, her vengeful fantasy shot him down into a tailspin, the flames and smoke spiraling after him.

  After turning on three oscillating fans, she picked up her cell phone and saw it held enough of a charge. Her rings, three in, roused a man from sleep to greet her with a thick-tongued “hello.”

  “Hi, Daddy, just saying hey there.”

  “Sammi Jo? Wow. What’s the time?”

  “Eight o’clock.”

  “So it is. Don’t you need to be at work?”

  “Well, that’s why I
called. See, I landed this new gig.”

  An exaggerated moan came. “What’s the job this time?”

  “Before I say, promise you won’t blow your stack.”

  He laughed. “After all this, nothing you can throw at me is a shocker.”

  “I’ve taken up the private detective trade. Alma and Isabel Trumbo started a new firm, and they asked me to come and work for them.”

  He laughed again. “The gumshoes in the old movies are an odd bunch.”

  “What do you think of it?”

  “Any honest labor tied to a steady paycheck is cool by me. I didn’t realize we’d a demand for private eyes in town. Are they bonded and licensed or whatever?”

  “Not yet but it’s in the works. We’re still setting up shop, and Megan Connors is our first big case.”

  “I can flat-out say she is no killer.”

  “Same thought here. Any theories on who pulled the trigger?”

  “I’ve been too busy to give it much thought. Jake wasn’t a hothead to go out and pick fights. He kept to himself and fixed the cars. His daddy Hiram and I were road dogs back in the day. Now, Hiram had an Irishman’s temper, and I’d lay betting odds Jake also kept one buried inside of him.”

  “Clarence and Jake were pals who fought over their race car.”

  “Clarence lacked the grit to take out a gun and use it on Jake.”

  “Crazy Willie swears a UFO did in Jake.”

  Sammi Jo’s father had a dry chuckle. “True story. Ages ago on a whim, he rode the Greyhound to a powwow held in Roswell and got hooked on reading spooky stuff.”

  “That accounts for his bizarre slant on life.”

  “That’s just his shtick. Crazy like a fox, Willie is perceptive if you’re able to look beyond his goofiness.”

  “So, do you think this PI job can pay the bills?”

  “Go kick some major butt for Megan.”

  “Your vote of confidence is appreciated. How’s the turf farm treating you?”

  “My crew humped under the floods until midnight. An eighteen-hole golf course in Gainesville yelled for a rush shipment, but we made schedule.”

  “Now I know where I got my working fool genes. Well, I better also make some money. Swell talking to you,” said Sammi Jo before they disconnected.

  Her spirits boosted, she clambered downstairs to the drugstore and bought a sugar cone at the fountain. The older lady in a shrimp pink apron who piled on the Neapolitan ice cream three scoops high didn’t approve of the junk food breakfast, but her sour face didn’t faze Sammi Jo. She paid the lady and sidled out into the hot morning’s haze.

  As she tacked her course on Main Street’s sidewalk toward the trio on the wood bench, she hatched a scheme.

  The first pair of eyes scoped her, and a few glib nudges later all three parked their sights on her.

  In private, she smirked. Ah, men: so predictable, so shallow, and so pliable. Profiling her coltish legs, bronze midriff, and full top drawer conjured the desired spell. She added an extra spicy wiggle in her approach.

  Their jaws left dangling, Ossie Conger, Willie Moccasin, and Blue Trent kept on gawking at her.

  “Salutations, gents.” She hoisted the sugar cone to toast them. “How goes the battle?”

  “Why if life got any grander, Sammi Jo, we’d have to hire someone else to help us enjoy it,” replied Ossie.

  Willie placed his quail decoy on the sidewalk, scooted over on the wood bench, and patted the new vacated space. “Take a load off, Sammi Jo.” Ossie and Blue Trent grunted their encouragement.

  “Oh, thanks but a hundred things need doing.”

  “What keeps you hopping so much?” asked Willie.

  Feeling the goopy ice cream dribble down her knuckles, she lapped her tongue around the sugar cone’s nub.

  Watching, the men sat mesmerized.

  “I’m helping Alma and Isabel,” she said.

  “Megan behind bars is a miscarriage of justice,” said Ossie.

  “A travesty of justice,” said Willie.

  Sammi Jo nodded and posed her question. “Didn’t her boyfriend Jake and Deputy Fishback team up for a race car pit crew?”

  “Sure and Jake was their bang up mechanic,” said Ossie.

  “Without him, that race car was a scrap heap,” said Willie.

  “I never heard why they’d a falling out,” said Sammi Jo.

  “They mixed it up over some car parts. One said the other stiffed him,” replied Ossie.

  “The way I heard it was Clarence felt ripped off and vowed he’d kill Jake if they crossed paths,” said Willie.

  Sammi Jo’s eyes narrowed. “Clarence threatened to kill Jake?”

  Ossie snorted. “Aw, he was just talking trash.”

  “Sheriff Fox had to patch up things,” said Willie.

  “Why did he stick out his neck?” asked Sammi Jo.

  “Maybe he’s bucking for the Nobel Peace Prize,” replied Willie.

  Blue Trent weighed in. “It was more likely he didn’t want any hotheaded deputies giving his department a black eye. With the election bearing down, he always makes nice. The voters enjoy a genuine sheriff for a month or so. As soon as the election is in the bag, he’s back to his old, sunshiny self.”

  “Clarence will square off against Sheriff Fox this time,” said Willie.

  “That’s the first true thing you’ve said,” said Ossie.

  “Clarence will give Sheriff Fox a run for his money, too,” said Willie. “He’ll resort to anything that wins over the voters.”

  “Why are they so gung ho for the thankless job?” asked Ossie.

  Balancing his quail decoy on a thigh, Willie dished Ossie an astute stare. “Being sheriff is a position of power offering the perks we don’t see or know about.”

  “Despite your little, pop-eyed aliens Willie, sometimes you actually make sense,” said Ossie.

  Sammi Jo sensed she’d finished milking the senior brain trust. “My thanks, gentlemen.”

  “If you need more help, we’re always here,” said Willie.

  “Rain or shine,” said Ossie.

  While crossing Main headed for Jumpy’s store, Sammi Jo overheard Ossie say, “Just give me some fries and a burger with that shake.”

  Smiling, she shoved through the door, inspired to try some more canvassing.

  With a toothy grin, Jumpy down the aisles in the rear area returned her nod.

  She ambled to the meat counter, and Jumpy, clutching a meat cleaver, scratched at his temple. He smiled over the frosty glass counter.

  “Your store feels like I’m quaking inside an igloo,” she said, rubbing the goose bumps carpeting her bare arms.

  “The cool temperatures keep my produce and meat fresh. What brings you downtown so early? Are you scraping up old acquaintances or looking for a job or what? I could use a bag girl like you. The pay is one buck over minimum, a raise in thirty days if you hit the ground running. What do you say?”

  “None of my acquaintances qualify as old, and I’m a gainfully employed ‘girl’, but thanks just the same.”

  His face crinkled in amused surprise. “Gainfully employed doing what?”

  “I do private investigations with Alma and Isabel Trumbo.”

  “Peyton Places like our own little town must keep the PIs busy.” He laughed at his quip. “Didn’t I see you riding in their sedan yesterday?”

  “That was me,” replied Sammi Jo. “Didn’t you once hire Clarence Fishback?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I took him on one summer as my delivery boy. That isn’t done now. People use their cell phones to place orders. Eating frozen food trays delivered on a refrigerated truck can’t be healthy for you.”

  “Did he ever steal from the till?”

  “No, but he was an ornery cuss.”

  Sammi Jo gave Jumpy a chance to elaborate but after only a watchful silence she asked, “In what way did he act ornery?”

  Jumpy shrugged under his stained butcher’s apron. “Some kids carry a nast
y streak, you know. He was always in your face over some perceived slight. Look at him cross-eyed, and he’d tee off on you. It used to drive me crazy trying to deal with him and run a store.”

  “Did he like to pick fights?”

  “I was always breaking up a scuffle on the loading dock.”

  “He’s still combative.”

  “It’s not a winning quality for a deputy much less for our sheriff, is it? Anyhow, he got into one too many fights, and my patience ran out, so I gave him the axe.”

  “He couldn’t have been too happy about that.”

  “So you might reckon, but he didn’t seem to mind. He always kept a few irons in the fire. Within the week, I saw him driving a feed truck for the Co-op.” Jumpy paused, cleaning off his meat cleaver’s sharp edge on a brown paper towel. “Why do you come in with all of these questions? Don’t you two lovebirds still date?”

  “We did until he showed his true bird colors, and I didn’t like the way they looked.”

  “He screwed around on you, eh?”

  “He also enjoys being a bully.”

  “Truthfully, I never liked him. He ain’t welcome in this store, deputy uniform or not, because I threw him out for keeps.”

  “Is he mean enough to murder?”

  Jumpy stopped polishing his meat cleaver with a thoughtful nod. “You broke up with him. Let’s just leave it that you did the smart thing.” Jumpy draped his thickset arms over the frosty countertop. “Need any pork chops?” His thick finger pointed out a section to the freezer. “I just packaged and set out a fresh batch.”

  The shrink-wrapped packages oozing their vivid red meat juices left her queasy. “Thanks, Jumpy, but these days I’m more of a vegetarian.”

  “You’re nibbling gerbil food?” In disbelief, he wagged his head, the meat cleaver in his hand waving about. “You’ll wither away to nothing but teeth and eyeballs.”

  “Jumpy, get to your eye doctor because I look fine.” Throwing back her shoulders, she thrust out her chest.

  He took the free shot, his eyes soaking in her lush dips and curves. She didn’t rebuff his observation, but his self-conscious shame overtook him. “I’ve got produce, too, so go on and sample my kumquats and radishes.”