Ed Lynskey - Isabel and Alma Trumbo 01 - Quiet Anchorage

by Ed Lynskey

  “Aunt Phyllis!”

  Alma burst out in a peal of laughter.

  “Mercy,” said Isabel. “Maybe I should look into remarrying.”

  “Just go on with you,” said Phyllis. “Megan’s apartment will soon look like a showroom.”

  Chapter 26

  En route to Jake’s house, Alma drove by the fire station. The twin rusty anchors salvaged from the Coronet River stood in front between the bay doors as stoic sentries. Sammi Jo failed to recall a time of not seeing them perched there, and her Coronet River memories followed.

  The town river’s name derived from the eccentric notion of the old-timers who claimed the water riffling over the black rocks and sandbars piped out the musical notes blown by a jazzman’s coronet. Having never heard a coronet played, she took their word for it. But Jake’s murder had bleated a dark, jarring note, she thought.

  She knew Quiet Anchorage had its favorite swimming hole on the Coronet. By day, the town kids dove off a rope swing into the cool river depths, and by night, the older kids skinny dipped by the light of the bonfires they blazed on the sandy bank. She had grown up participating in both rituals. Lately however, the local swimming hole had lost its appeal after the townspeople swore the Coronet River coursed with toxic pollutants flushed in it by a fertilizer plant upstream.

  The three Main Street benchwarmers no longer fished in the Coronet. The catfish and bluegill the anglers pulled out didn’t end up pan-fried on their dinner plates. Canoeists and kayakers from the suburbs flocked to Quiet Anchorage on temperate weekends and plied the waterways. The jaded townspeople didn’t warn away the diehard sport enthusiasts who enjoyed the contaminated river all to themselves.

  Jake had operated a canoe rental business to cash in on the public’s interest. He built a small office shack and boat landing just below the iron truss bridge the ladies now clattered across. Water enthusiasts rented his canoes and paddled downriver the ten miles to his second boat landing. They docked and drove home in their cars that he had driven down to have waiting for them. He turned a profit for a couple of seasons, but early one summer he shut down the operations, and Sammi Jo drew a blank over the details of why.

  “Why did Jake’s canoe rental outfit go belly up?” she asked.

  Isabel, speaking, shifted in her seat. “As I recall, one customer took deathly ill. The incensed family blamed it on the dirty water, and they sued him, and they settled out of court. Naturally, his insurance company dropped him, and our loyal town bank foreclosed. He tried to woo in other investors, but nobody would give him a second shake. He couldn’t beat the bad publicity, so he called it quits.”

  Alma nudged the sunglasses back up on the bridge of her nose. “Who did he get for his lawyer?”

  “Dwight Holden. Who else is there?” replied Isabel.

  “Several new lawyers have hung out their shingles,” said Alma.

  “They’re interlopers, not Quiet Anchorage natives,” said Isabel.

  “Right and that’s why we hired Dwight,” said Alma.

  “You can go your whole life paying premiums on time, and the insurance companies love you, but if you file one claim, you become their red-headed stepchild,” said Isabel.

  “What became of the freeloader suing Jake?” asked Sammi Jo.

  “The next summer he won a big tennis match. Louise sent me a newspaper clipping of his picture,” replied Isabel.

  “If this ill canoeist received a fat settlement, he’d go away happy and wouldn’t do in Jake who was his cash cow,” said Alma.

  “I didn’t say it was a murder motive. Sammi Jo asked why Jake closed up his canoe business, and I told her,” said Isabel.

  What amazed Sammi Jo, what left her shaking her head, was how Alma and Isabel could fuss with each other at the drop of the hat. Though she could tell their banter was good-natured, she moved to quell this round. “Seeing the old, rusty anchors raised my question.”

  “You know, bad karma always seemed to dog Jake,” said Alma. “The only thing he put in order and ran was the auto repair shop.”

  “You better credit Megan for that success,” said Isabel.

  “But she didn’t fix the cars,” said Alma. “Jake did and auto repair is greasy, back-breaking work.”

  “It’s true nobody can say Jake didn’t hustle,” said Isabel.

  “Bexley never told us where the stuff inside Jake’s file cabinets went,” said Sammi Jo.

  “A self-storage unit springs to mind,” said Alma.

  “That might be traced back to Sheriff Fox,” said Isabel. “I’d select a more creative hiding place.”

  They rattled over the railroad spur. Off to their immediate right stood a factory enclosed by a chain link fence crested with coils of barbed wire. A Canadian firm had originally built the factory to produce modular homes, and the flat cars transported the finished modular homes from the factory to market.

  When the economy soured, the Canadians riffed the local workers, pulled up stakes, and scooted back north of the border. Various entrepreneurs in the intervening years had attempted to make a go of it at the factory, but each business had flopped. Few local jobs since the modular home factory closed down paid anything approaching a livable wage.

  Sammi Jo vouched that the low-paying jobs were plentiful since at various times, she’d worked them all—waitress, cashier, fry cook, dishwasher, and for a long, hot summer a flag girl on an asphalt crew. Her bosses cut her back to a thirty-nine hour workweek to avoid giving her benefits. Right now she floated between prospects, and her two-figure rainy day fund reflected it. Wanting an exciting job with a real career, she wiggled forward on the seat.

  “Once Megan is home safe, are we still making the Trumbo Sisters Detective Agency into the real thing? You know, incorporate or syndicate, but we go professional.”

  Isabel giggled. “What did you have in mind?”

  Sammi Jo warmed up to her idea. “Quiet Anchorage is on the verge of boom times. Look around and you can see a tsunami of people is moving in. The homes are sprouting in the subdivisions and with them come people’s problems. A detective agency is one solution so why not ours?”

  “We’ve got no track record,” said the more pragmatic Alma.

  “Call me the eternal optimist, but I believe Megan’s case will soon turn in our favor. I’m taking the long range view.”

  “It’s a smart long range view, too. Between us, Alma and I have devoured a library of mysteries,” said Isabel.

  Alma gave a headshake. “We’re a little thin in the experience department. Besides I’ve read in the newspapers that modern PIs have gone high tech. Gumshoes are computer geeks, and we don’t know diddly jack about computers.”

  “I’ll master them,” said Sammi Jo. “How hard is it to point and click?”

  With an assured smile, Isabel looked at Alma. “Sammi Jo wears our computer geek hat, so there you go.”

  “Louise and Aunt Phyllis have already signed on,” said Sammi Jo.

  “Oh, I just love Sammi Jo’s scheme. How about it, sis? You wanted something more exciting to do. So, are you in or out?”

  “Oh, I’ve always been in,” replied Alma. “Don’t forget Mr. Oglethorpe. Can you con him into accepting us as bona fide PIs?”

  “As long as we pay for his silly license, we’re okay by him,” replied Isabel.

  “Who’s going to be the big kahuna at our agency?” asked Alma.

  “Since we’re equal partners, we don’t need a boss,” replied Isabel.

  “All right, we can give it a whirl,” said Alma.

  “We’ll free Megan and swing into action,” said Sammi Jo.

  “For now, any creative ideas on how we can access Jake’s house?” asked Alma.

  The fumbling in a purse came before Alma eyed a credit card appearing over her seat.

  “Do we bribe a crooked locksmith to drive out and pick Jake’s lock?” she asked with a sniff.

  “No, this old credit card can jimmy any ordinary door lock,” said Sammi J
o.

  “How are you savvy to that trick?” asked Alma.

  “In my troubled youth, I picked up a few pointers,” replied Sammi Jo.

  “There’s a more logical way,” said Isabel. “We know a spare key is always hidden in a fake rock near the door.”

  “I’d forgotten the spare key.” Alma’s face lined with palpable apprehension. “I swear I’m growing dottier by the day.”

  “All this adrenaline has unsettled your mind,” said Isabel.

  “You should see how I forget stuff like paying my light bill. When my apartment suddenly falls dark, I go oops,” said Sammi Jo.

  Alma’s arm flew out to catch Isabel as she slammed on the brakes. They pitched forward, then backward in their seats before they gaped out the windshield at a skunk toddling across the sunny blacktop.

  “You see, your mind and reflexes are still sharp,” Isabel told her.

  A more watchful Alma drove the remaining distance to Jake’s turnoff. She didn’t halt out front but pulled them around behind the brown stucco house and stopped by a scrubby mugo pine near the rear door.

  “We should be safely out of sight,” said Isabel.

  “Our tire prints pressed in the lawn will give us away,” said Sammi Jo.

  “This is Megan’s property now, and we’ve got her permission to be here,” said Alma.

  “We should first confirm that as a fact.” Isabel’s cell phone reached Dwight’s office, and his voice mail message said he’d gone to lunch, expecting to return by two. Alma told Isabel buzzing him at home to interrupt his siesta was hardly rude, and Isabel’s second attempt reached him.

  “Your timing is impeccable, Isabel,” he said. “I was set to phone you.”

  “Then I’ll yield the floor to you,” said Isabel.

  “Don’t forget Megan returns to court for her arraignment on Thursday. Now, how can I help you? Please be brief as I can spare only three minutes.”

  “Hold on, Alma has an important question,” said Isabel.

  “Did Jake will his property to Megan?” Alma asked into the cell phone.

  Dwight yawned to cover his nervousness. “Yes, Jake left his estate to her, but I’m bound by oath not to disclose any further details.”

  “We’re not out to get you disbarred,” said Alma. “By the way, is any member of the sheriff’s department also your client? We have to avoid any appearance of impropriety.”

  “Alma, you’ve got my pledge no such impropriety taints our chances.”

  “Then I’ll let you get cracking again on Megan’s case.”

  “Why did you call me about Jake’s will?”

  “Isabel and I had a vague recollection and wanted a confirmation.”

  “See you Thursday morning in court, and this time let me do the talking.”

  “We’re just backing you up.”

  Alma returned the cell phone to Isabel whose nod indicated through the windshield. “Sammi Jo is waiting on us.”

  They got out of the sedan and followed Sammi Jo through the still disheveled office/sun porch to enter Jake’s main house. They stood in the foyer appalled by the specter in the closest room. In every direction they turned, ankle deep trash—beer cans, pizza boxes, soda bottles, and plastic utensils—waited for pick up and disposal. The odor turned gamy, suggestive of rancid cheese.

  “Jake was a big slob or hoarder even,” said Sammi Jo.

  “I’d no idea he lived in this squalor, and Megan never hinted at it.” Alma turned sardonic. “Why did she sign up for such high maintenance? I did with Husband Number One, but I wised up fast, and I never repeated that error twice.”

  “She did it because she loved him unconditionally,” said Isabel.

  Alma scoffed. “But love, even first love, has its limits. After seeing this, maybe he wasn’t such a good catch, after all.”

  “He never pitched a thing in the trash.” Sammi Jo’s shoe tip punted a cardboard chicken bucket, striking the rowing machine Megan had bought him for his cardiovascular exercise.

  “I suspect coping with the loss of his father in June contributed to Jake’s disorderliness,” said Isabel.

  “Just gingerly pick your way around the rubbish,” said Alma.

  “Hazmat suits might be in order,” said Sammi Jo.

  “I’d settle for a six-foot pole,” said Alma before she went back to the sun porch/office to retrieve the State Bank of Quiet Anchorage yardstick. She used it to poke and prod at the trash piles.

  Several paces took Sammi Jo to the beige brick fireplace where she picked up a gold-framed photograph from the roughhewn plank of red oak adapted as a mantle. The striking lady she studied had a lean, tanned face framed by white blonde hair but lifeless eyes.

  “Was she his late mom?” Sammi Jo asked Isabel also taken by the photo.

  “Reba died when Jake was a small boy,” replied Isabel.

  “What from?” asked Sammi Jo.

  “A mysterious insect bite is what the doctors claimed,” replied Isabel.

  “Odd. Where’s Jake’s dad’s photograph?” asked Sammi Jo.

  “Hiram’s truculent scowl always shattered the camera lens, he said,” replied Alma.

  Sammi Jo returning the photograph to the mantle had a morbid thought on how Hiram fatally poisoned his wife Reba. “I’ll bet Reba knows who murdered her son, and it’s a pity her ghost can’t drop us a hint.”

  “Don’t bring up ghosts around Alma who’s superstitious to a fault,” said Isabel.

  “For what Sammi Jo says, I’ll make an exception,” said Alma.

  “Careful on what you smudge,” said Isabel. “We’d have an awkward time explaining away our prints in here to Sheriff Fox.”

  They pried around in the various rooms for the better part of an hour. An occasional groan, sigh, or even mild oath interrupted their rustling in the detritus. While unearthing treasures worthy to sell at a third-rate flea market, they struck out scavenging any that might lead to unveiling Jake’s murderer.

  Alma voiced their disillusionment. “I’m too bushed to go on.” Wincing, she clutched at her lower back.

  “Only the attic is left. Sammi Jo, are you game to crab around up there?” asked Isabel.

  “If he couldn’t lift a broom, I can’t picture him climbing a stepladder to store anything there,” replied Sammi Jo.

  Also massaging her lower back, Isabel peeked under the Venetian blind at their sedan gleaming navy blue in the mid-afternoon sun. She allowed her mind to freewheel and spin up an earlier aim they’d intended to do. “Touring the drag strip might be useful,” she said.

  “We’ll be out of our element there,” said Alma.

  “The drag strip is like my second home,” said Sammi Jo.

  “Good. But first let’s have a go at the woods,” said Isabel.

  They trooped out of Jake’s house and filed over the dry, brown lawn and past the auto shop. The grasshoppers springing up in their jumps scattered before their shoes. As the shadows to the trees engulfed them, they halted for Isabel and Alma to doff their sunglasses. But they could probe no deeper into the forest. The wall of undergrowth, its labyrinth of vines bristling with cat-claw thorns, proved impenetrable.

  “Unless Jake’s murderer was Brer Rabbit, I don’t see how he poked through here,” said Alma.

  Isabel patrolled the margin of the prickly scrub’s density. “Can you pick out any pathway tunneling through it?”

  Sammi Jo tracked her glance along the obstacle and shook her head. “The murderer needed a quick escape route, and these brambles don’t allow for that.”

  “He’d leave behind torn shreds of clothing and break off the vines, but I see nothing,” said Alma, her eyes watery and nose redder. “These savage thorns would claw his face and hands with heavy lacerations.”

  Angry in her disappointment, Isabel picked up a long stick and beat at the undergrowth. “It’s clear Jake’s murderer didn’t come this way. Foiled again, it seems.”

  Sammi Jo offered consolation. “Cheer up. I still
haven’t taken us on our drag strip tour yet.”

  Chapter 27

  Reynolds Kyle was to Quiet Anchorage, Virginia, what Richard Petty is to Level Cross, North Carolina, but Reynolds was more laid-back. His granddaddy, it was reputed, ran illicit moonshine over the hogback ridges to his customers, but one difference separated Reynolds from his forebears. He’d given up his seat strapped inside of a racecar and instead owned and operated Quiet Anchorage’s drag strip.

  Growing up, Sammi Jo had heard all the reverential yarns spun on Reynolds Kyle. Families congregated at his church of speed on Sunday afternoons where the inspirational thrush of the hog-block engines drowned out their cheers. Even the worst rowdies stayed on their best behavior. Alcohol was permissible if it was sipped on the sly, but the young kids should never witness its consumption. Reynolds operated a clean-cut enterprise. If any rowdy acted up, he gave a subtle nod and his well-dressed, polite bouncers escorted the rowdy to the gate with a ticket refund and firm invitation to leave.

  Sammi Jo centered on this while the backseat navigator directing Alma on which routes to take. Plumes of yellowish dust billowed in their wake. Isabel coughed and Alma sneezed until Sammi Jo suggested they roll up their windows and flip on the air conditioner. The stubborn sisters balked. Breathing in a little natural dust, they insisted, never hurt anybody so they rode on. A rustic cinderblock store bounded up, and Sammi Jo made another suggestion. Alma turned, slowed to circle the gravel loop, and halted.

  “Country stores still sell Brownies,” said Sammi Jo.

  “Brownies?” Isabel smiled at Sammi Jo. “Are you hungry?”

  “No, I mean the chocolate soda pop,” said Sammi Jo.

  “Then make it two Brownies,” said Isabel.

  “No, order three cold ones,” said Alma, not to miss out.

  Going inside, they read the “Wilma Smith, Proprietress” legend posted on the store’s lintel. Goose bumps chased the shivers down Sammi Jo’s spine. She heard an air conditioner compressor behind the store wheezing and chuffing to spew the Arctic blasts from the overhead vents. Alma and Isabel, their sunglasses off, saw the yellow patina of dust covering the flat surfaces. A lady behind the beaverboard counter stood up from a stool. Seams stitching her leathery face gave it a weather-beaten character, and her words issued in asthmatic rasps.