by Ed Lynskey
Before Alma responded, Isabel asked, “How have you been bearing up, Megan?”
“I’m making out,” she replied.
“What have you learned inside The Big House?” asked Alma.
“It’s mind-boggling the amount of gossip you pick up,” replied Megan. “Clarence Fishback, I discovered, is tossing his hat into the ring for sheriff, and Sheriff Fox is in a royal stew over it.”
“Everyone knows it,” said Alma. “Who do the deputies support?”
“It’s difficult to say,” replied Megan. “They’ll probably throw their support to the one looking the most like the winner. If you bet on the wrong horse, you’re suddenly out of a job.”
“Jake’s murder must keep the grapevine astir,” said Isabel.
“Not so much as you would think,” said Megan.
Dwight tapped on his attaché case for their attention. “Don’t gaze over all at once, but the bailiff is shooting us daggers. They want Megan back in their custody, so might we wrap this up?”
“Let him wait. Go on with what you were saying,” Alma told Megan.
She fiddled with the frayed collar to the orange prison suit. “Jake’s murder is yesterday’s news. Their biggest buzz is the upcoming furor between Deputy Fishback and Sheriff Fox. On something else, I saw Bexley and Sheriff Fox acting friendly in the hallway.”
“So, the two-faced Bexley cozies up to Sheriff Fox,” said Alma. “From here on, we won’t confide in Bexley. Could you make out their words?”
“They mumbled too much,” replied Megan.
Isabel’s eyes grew large. “Oh no, Bexley is who tipped us off the file cabinets are in Sheriff Fox’s garage. Sammi Jo has to be walking into a trap.”
Megan reacted first. “Quick—go warn her.”
Nodding their rapid good-byes, Alma and Isabel left the group, taking their brisk strides to the exit. Judge Redfern enthroned again behind her bench nodded with a friendly wink at them. Goldenstein, the yawning Commonwealth Attorney, happened to observe her gesture. His tilted chair fell back and landed on the carpet. He first studied the backs to Alma and Isabel disappearing through the door and then Judge Redfern. She squared a sheaf of papers in her hands and tapped the bottom edge to neaten the corners. Despite her nonchalance, he didn’t like what he’d just witnessed.
“Roscoe, we’ve got a slight problem.”
A headshake was Sheriff Fox’s disagreement. “No, Carl, we’ve got two big problems, and we just saw them tear out of here.”
“All right, what are we up against exactly?”
“Pit bulls,” replied Sheriff Fox, but then a sly smile imprinted his face. “Except I arranged a trap to get these pit bulls, and they’re off to stumble straight into it. In a few minutes Bexley will call me to report a trespasser.”
“But will your trap be effective?”
“Oh, they won’t suspect a thing until it’s too late,” replied Sheriff Fox, smiling wider.
“There can’t be any screw ups,” said Goldenstein. “This is a big case, and scoring a quick conviction is crucial. The elections are a few months away.”
Sheriff Fox now grunted. “Tell me something I didn’t already know.”
Chapter 24
Sammi Jo heard the trouble before she saw it. She’d just lifted Sheriff Fox’s garage door and ducked inside the dim bay when a clumsy footfall outside scuffed over the gravel, and she froze in her tracks. After detecting a second and third step, she darted out of the bay where the sunshine in her poker face betrayed no emotion. The burly, freckled man shambled around the garage corner.
“Ha, I caught you red-handed, Sammi Jo.”
His accusation left her to laugh. “You caught me red-handed at doing what?”
Arms swinging at his sides, Bexley approached her, his doughy face growing smugger. “You’re a trespasser on Sheriff Fox’s property.”
She kept her poise. “You’re plain nuts.”
The smirk on Bexley’s face wilted a little. “When I turned the corner, I caught you inside the garage. The law says you’re trespassing on private property unless you’ve permission, and I know you don’t.”
By now she read through his subterfuge: she’d been set up. “This is a pathetic trap with the file cabinets used as the bait. You leaked the news to Alma they’re here. Then Sheriff Fox paid you to hide and nab whoever showed up for them. Too bad you were catnapping back there in the sun.”
“Never mind what I was doing. This is about what you were doing. If you’re so innocent, why were you ogling the file cabinets?”
“I strolled by on the sidewalk, saw the For Sale sign on this car, and came over to check it. The garage door was up so naturally I spotted the file cabinets.”
“What about the Plymouth?” His finger jabbed to behind them. “Are you going to be its proud, new owner?”
Her nose wrinkled. “I wouldn’t be caught dead riding in that hoopty.” She recalled Alma saying the file cabinets had probably been ransacked. “Those file cabinets only hold air, Bexley, and you stand guard over a lot of nothing. Dumb, right?”
He sounded defensive. “The sheriff gave me some overtime plus a bonus to watch them. He said you’d right along.” He was smirking again. “Sure enough, I nailed you pilfering stuff.”
“How can that be? There’s nothing in the file cabinets to steal,” she said.
Goaded by her haughty tone, he fished out a wad of paper from his hip pocket to smooth out. “Sheriff Fox gave me these combination numbers. Go ahead and open up the padlocks and prove you’re the dumbbell here.”
Figuring he didn’t excel at undoing combination padlocks, she took the scrap of paper from him. She wasn’t all-fired sure about playing Alma’s hunch on the file cabinets being empty. Sammi Jo’s heart became a hammer striking against her chest as the dial on the first combination padlock in her fingers didn’t turn. She gave up on it. The second padlock was also too rusty, and she skipped trying to unlimber it. The third padlock’s tumblers spun, and a clink let her break it free. She removed the vertical steel bar from its cabinet fittings and tipped out the top drawer.
“Just like I said: nothing,” she said, feeling a wave of relief.
“Huh?” Bexley huffed inside the garage bay and stopped short of her. His glance took in the top drawer, and he then went down the file cabinet, rolling out the lower drawers for inspection. Each drawer contained the same emptiness as the top one did.
“How could this be? I inventoried all the stuff at the station house.”
“What did you find?”
“Bunch of accordion folders, auto manuals, and whatnot.”
“Where is your inventory list?”
“Sheriff Fox took it.”
“Obviously he’s moved the files. Are the other file cabinets also bare?”
“It’s easy enough to check.” Bexley took down a can of Liquid Wrench on the shelves over the work bench. A squirt into each padlock eased twirling its dial. She spun the right combination to open the padlocks and a peek inside all the drawers confirmed their zero contents.
She re-secured the cabinets and floated a suggestion. “Bexley, if I were you, I’d stay quiet on this matter. I know I’ll never mention it, but you were played for a sucker, and Sheriff Fox is rolling on his office floor laughing at you.”
“It sounds like to me you’re trying to wiggle off the hook.” Bexley followed her from the gloomy garage bay into the bright daylight.
She gave a mild shrug, grasped the garage handle, and lowered the door. “If Sheriff Fox doesn’t want people in his driveway, tell him to take down his For Sale sign. As for you, hey, keep on guarding a lot of nothing here for all I give a fig.”
“After seeing this, I’m out of here,” said Bexley.
He lumbered off down the sidewalk, heading for the railroad crossing. She felt a little sorry for him until she glimpsed from the corner of her eye a navy blue sedan. At a full on look, she felt a surge of joy inside of her.
The familiar sedan veered o
ver, slowing to stop at the curbstone. As the window rolled down, she saw Alma and Isabel wore their out-of-vogue sunglasses over their stern looks. Something heavy plunged inside her. Their news had to be ugly, but then Isabel smiled.
“Did your morning go eventful as ours?” she asked.
Sammi Jo leaning her forearms on the car windowsill briefed them on Bexley and the file cabinet’s drawers full of only air.
Alma’s face showed her testy resentment. “Sheriff Fox has resorted to setting simple-minded traps to catch us.”
“That’s good if we’re making him extra nervous,” said Isabel.
“I also hope he’s the one sweating bullets for a change,” said Sammi Jo.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, Alma said, “Sheriff Fox is charging up like a hero. You better hop inside and be quick about it.”
As Fox glided up in his cruiser to his driveway entrance, the three ladies in the sedan were disappearing at the end of the short street. There was no sign of Bexley, and his clever trap had fizzled without producing any good results. He scowled into his rearview mirror at the sedan’s taillights, tempted to flip them half of the Boy Scout salute.
“Those two old pit bulls don’t know when it’s time to quit,” he growled instead.
Chapter 25
Alma whisked them down the highway past Quiet Anchorage’s clinic. Several sign-carrying pro-lifers picketed within several paces of its lobby door, leaving Sammi Jo with a puzzled frown. Their faces were unfamiliar to her, and she resented the outsiders’ intrusion in local affairs.
Alma parked under the patchy shade in their driveway on Church Street, and they waved back to the pair of young kids building a tree fort one yard over. Isabel and Sammi Jo sat in the cooler kitchen while Alma put on her favorite TV game show emceed by Bob Barker, the octogenarian still a dynamo in full stride. She relaxed and when their telephone rang, she quieted the television.
“We’re foundering, but not from the lack of trying,” Alma told the caller. “Have you had any better luck?”
“I paid a neighbor boy to scrounge through my attic for my scrapbooks.” Louise sounded concerned. “Do you suffer from hay fever due to the ragweed pollen?”
“Or something just as bad but I’m having my prescription refilled.” Alma sniffed again. “I didn’t know you kept scrapbooks.”
Found out, Louise laughed. “Looking at them, I’d forgotten our times when growing up on the farm. You should see this one photo of—”
“Uh, Louise, we’re a little pressed for time here.”
“All right. Did you know Jake’s paternal grandfather, Skeeter Robbins, and I once dated?”
“No, but why is he important to this situation?”
“Because I see the Robbins holding a gun in every photo I have. I also went through a batch of newspaper clippings. Jake crops up in a couple of the photos with his dad, a turkey shoot champion, and they’re always holding a shotgun. Let’s suppose during the fracas with his murderer that Jake pulled out a handgun. Suppose he waved it around. Can you predict the likely outcome?”
“It would heat up an already tense situation.”
“With two men jawing at each other, that’s my same thought. I think the murderer came with blood in his eye, whipped up Jake into an argument, and then shot him. Megan’s prints were left on the discarded murder weapon. The whole town must know how they quarreled, and it’s made-to-order to set her up for killing him in a crime of passion.”
“Well, good then. Your theory pretty much aligns with our thinking. Any good words for Isabel?”
“Just to say hi.”
Off the phone, Alma reflected on how Quiet Anchorage harbored a rich store of tales, and Jake’s murder and Megan’s subsequent arrest for it was the latest entry. Even if she cleared her name, the indelible stain was daubed on her. Going out in public, she became the object of talk and ridicule. Alma saw Bob Barker on the TV awarding a dryer and washer as a prize to a lady in a pants suit. The silly lady jumped up and down, squealing and clapping for all she was worth, and Alma never realized doing the laundry brought such ecstasy into a person’s daily humdrum existence.
“Alma, soup’s on!” said Sammi Jo.
Alma turned off the TV, went into the kitchen, and plopped down at the drop-leaf table. “That was Louise on the phone. She said hi, all.”
Isabel stripped the crust off her peanut-and-jam sandwich and nibbled to its center as Sammi Jo nuzzled a Co-Cola. Alma’s first sigh didn’t escape Isabel’s notice, and she gave Alma a closer look.
“What’s wrong, sis? Did Louise give you some bad news?”
“No, this deal with Megan gets me down in the dumps,” replied Alma.
“Shrug off the blues and eat your lunch because we’ve got a busy afternoon,” said Isabel.
Alma sighed again. Her moist, red eyes fell, and she turned her head.
The Co-Cola bottle halfway to Sammi Jo’s mouth went back down to rest on the table coaster. She craned forward in her chair and touched Alma’s wrist.
“You wall off those negative feelings since we know this isn’t nearly a done deal. Everybody we’ve seen agrees Megan got a raw deal. Any local jury will see things the same way and find her not guilty.”
“Sammi Jo is right so eat your lunch,” said Isabel.
Alma nudged aside her lunch plate. “Louise speculated the handgun was a plant because Megan is easy to frame. The murderer rigged the crime scene to resemble a lovers’ quarrel that flew out of control.”
“Louise’s idea tracks along the same lines as ours do,” said Isabel.
“Did Jake and Megan fight all that often?” asked Sammi Jo.
“Well…” said Isabel.
“Well what exactly?” asked Sammi Jo.
“You’ve heard that Jake did some extracurricular romancing,” replied Alma. “Megan had reached her fill, and they held a summit allegedly clearing the air.”
“She never gave us the nitty-gritty on what he did,” said Isabel.
“She mentioned Jake’s floozy lived in Mechanicsville,” said Alma.
“Maybe we better plan on a Mechanicsville trip,” said Isabel.
“Anyway they had enough rows to incite the gossips,” said Alma.
“I can relate. People talk about my breakup with Clarence, and I feel their stares when I venture out in public. They can take a flying leap for all I care.”
“What comes after lunch?” asked Alma, plucking a new tissue from the box kept atop the refrigerator.
“My thoughts keep circling back to Jake’s place,” said Isabel. “We’ve hit his shop and office but skipped the main house and woods.”
“Sheriff Fox beat us looking in there,” said Alma.
But Isabel stuck by her idea. “Sammi Jo, you’ll cast the tie-breaking vote. Which is it? Do we look inside of Jake’s place or not?”
“I say crawl through it like an army of spiders,” replied Sammi Jo.
A fussy Alma didn’t capitulate. “To make this an official tally, Louise also gets a say.”
“So call her, put it to her, and I’ll abide by the majority decision,” said Isabel.
“But Louise’s vote might create another tie, two against two.”
“Don’t worry, Sammi Jo,” said Alma. “We’re practically on our way to Jake’s now. Sly Isabel has been goading me back to my cranky, old self, and it worked in spades.”
Sammi Jo saw Isabel’s crafty nod.
They filled the toasty sedan, but at Alma’s insistence Isabel returned to rattle the doorknob to verify the forgetful Alma had locked it. The early afternoon sun blazed in the cobalt blue sky, and the day though oven-hot lacked yesterday’s humidity. Sammi Jo made a suggestion, and Alma stopped at Megan’s apartment. Phyllis Garner in a yellow ruffled blouse, billowy skirt, and yellow pumps walked out the front alcove. At spotting them, she gave a two-hand wave.
“Maybe Phyllis has seen more shady characters,” said Isabel.
“I hope she has picked up in Megan’s apart
ment,” said Sammi Jo.
“If not, don’t object. Pitching in together, we can do it,” said Isabel.
“Not without spending loads of more time, we can’t,” said Alma.
Isabel hailed the approaching lady. “Phyllis dear, how are you?”
The exuberant Phyllis had to share her news. “Guess what I’ve decided to do?” She snickered at their quizzical looks. “I’m tacking up the flyers for your detective agency on every telephone pole and street sign up and down Main. In three shakes of a dog’s tail, your office phone will ring off the hook.”
“Aunt Phyllis, let’s hold off on your idea for a little while,” said Sammi Jo.
Petulance clouded Phyllis’s face. “How do you expect to drum up any business if you hide under a crocus sack and don’t advertise?”
“We’re out to close Megan’s case,” replied Sammi Jo. “Speaking of which, did you pick up in her apartment?”
Phyllis gave the apartment building behind them a cavalier flick of her wrist, her copper bangles clacking together. “Bah, I’ve got no time for doing menial housework.”
“I’ll record that as a no, and now we’re stuck with it. Aunt Phyllis, we’ve already got a ton of work to do.”
“Well, I’ve also been busy doing my personal stuff.”
“But when Megan returns home, everything should look spic-and-span.”
“Phyllis, what if we hire you?” asked Isabel. “At four members strong, we’re very selective on who we let in our all-lady detective agency. If you accept, we’ll be a solid five, so what do you say?”
“Fine with me,” replied Phyllis. “Lay out my shamus duties.”
“Our principal client is Megan Connors,” replied Isabel. “Why don’t you search in her apartment for a new lead and while you’re at it, tidying up would be a feather in our cap.”
“Say no more. I’m all over it.”
Smiling again, Sammi Jo spoke to Agent Phyllis. “People have said Megan and Jake fought. Did you overhear their arguments?”
Phyllis shook her head, her snickers turning devious. “Any time I stole pass her door, all I heard were her mattress coils squeaking like the birdhouse waking up at the zoo.”