by Ed Lynskey
“Can I be of service?”
“Mrs. Smith?” said Sammi Jo.
“All of our Mrs. Smiths are buried in the Mount Holly Cemetery, and I’m just Wilma.”
“We’ll take three of your coldest Brownies, Wilma,” said Sammi Jo.
She cackled but in a nice way. “Is this a joke? Brownie Beverages went out of business years back. Antique stores sell their empty bottles for more than the two cents apiece I used to pay for their deposit.”
As if amazed, Sammi Jo shook her head. “Time marches on, doesn’t it?”
“You said it.”
Sammi Jo dropped in her next question. “Have you seen Clarence Fishback lately?”
“Most Sundays he’s goofing off at the drag strip.”
“Clarence at one time or another raced a Camaro, didn’t he? He partnered with, oh, who was the guy?”
“Jake Robbins,” said Wilma, beaming to know her local drag strip lore.
“Right you are. Do they still race?”
“Lord no, girl. Clarence and Jake had a sweet deal going, but the wheels fell off it.”
“I heard something or other of their squabble.”
Wilma turned distrustful. “How do you know that if you couldn’t recall Jake’s name?”
Having her gaffe pointed out, Sammi Jo crafted a quick lie. “Doesn’t your memory ever run spotty? Our talking jogged mine.”
“Well, they argued over car parts, and it turned nasty.”
“Clarence made a bad move there.”
Gumming her bluish lips, Wilma bobbed her double chin. “He was plenty PO’d and bragged how he’d do this or that to Jake to even the score.”
“What sort of this or that did he mean?”
“I can’t repeat specific threats. If it got back to Deputy Fishback, I’d be in deep yogurt with him.”
“He’s all bark, no bite.”
Wilma gulped, her double chin quivering. “I believe I’ve said enough. What else can I get you?”
“Give me a pack of smokes, non-filters please. Say, is Reynolds out at the drag strip now, you reckon?”
Wilma stuffed the pack of cigarettes into a small paper bag and rolled the top down. “He practically lives out there. Why do you ask?”
“I wanted to stop and say hey.”
She gave the total with tax, and took Sammi Jo’s money with a lewd smile. “Sure, go for it. Even at 77 young, I confess Reynolds takes my breath away, too.”
Sammi Jo winked with a devilish smile.
Riding again on the country roads, Isabel turned to peer back at Sammi Jo. “I saw you buy a pack of cigarettes, but I thought you’d kicked the nicotine habit.”
“A conversation starter is needed if I’m to pick Reynolds’s brain.”
“I’ve never been to the drag strip,” said Alma. “Misty summer nights out on our porch, I can hear the far-off din to the roaring engines. On Sundays, the souped up jalopies rumble through the streets of Quiet Anchorage on their way getting there.”
“It’s a religion in a lot of folks’ lives,” said Sammi Jo. “That’s why the fight erupted between Clarence and Jake.”
“Boys should learn to share their toys,” said Isabel.
“You’re asking for a lot from the boys I know,” said Sammi Jo as she pointed. “At the stop sign, go left. Drive up the grade and at the top we’ll see Reynolds’s drag strip. Follow the main road, and his office is in the faded red building.”
Alma steered them into the turn and navigated to the blue stone pad, stopping behind the faded red building. “What’s your plan?” she asked Sammi Jo.
“Hope that he’s in a gabby mood.”
“Ask him about Jake’s fight with Clarence,” said Alma.
“Just keep a third eye open,” said Isabel.
“You can sure bet I will,” said Sammi Jo as she winged out the sedan door.
As she sauntered off, Isabel followed her progress through the windshield. “That girl is something else, but the exact term to define her eludes me.”
“Moxie.” Alma used her tissue. “I’d say she brings us lots of moxie to the table.”
“Moxie. There’s a term that’s fallen out of usage.”
“What if things get out of hand, and she needs back up?”
“Then we’ll find out how much moxie we possess,” replied Isabel. “Maybe in future situations like this, we should come armed with more than moxie.”
“You know that’s for sure,” said Alma.
* * * *
The sunshine warmed Sammi Jo’s back. She’d casually known Reynolds Kyle from her Sundays spent here before she’d dumped the sorry, no-account Clarence Fishback. One sporty car, a carmine red GTO that she recognized, sat by the building. He was in.
Shouldering through the office door, she saw a baby moon hubcap over the lintel to catch any luck raining down. She made a wish that a little of it fell on her, too.
The fluorescent lights flickered down on a tall beanpole of a young man. Eyes closed, he rested prone on the red leather banquette. The movement of air alerted his curly eyelashes to flutter, and his onyx black eyes trained on her.
“Whoa there. Sammi Jo? Is that you, or do I dream? Pinch me, quick. But dream or not, you’re a glorious vision,” he said in a tuba voice. “How long did I doze off? What’s the time?”
“Time for a few answers to my questions,” she replied.
“You brought questions for me?” Rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palms, he sat up on the banquette. He swiped a hand over his tousled hair and then patted his shirt pocket. “I’d trade my left kidney for a smoke.” His hopeful dark eyes landed on her.
Anticipating his need, she tapped a cigarette from the bought pack she’d already unsealed. “Sorry, it’s a generic, but it’s free, and it’s here.”
“Then it’s doubly fine by me.” With the cigarette pinched between his lips, he flicked a kitchen match on the cinderblock wall. He drew down to fire a cherry-red conical ember and then exhaled through his nostrils with a contented smile at her.
“Long time no talk, Reynolds.”
“Not since you gave Clarence the heave ho.” Reynolds inhaled, vented out a second banner of smoke. “Heady move, by the way. What instigated it?”
She backpedaled to avoid his smog cloud. “The usual reason you get shed of a liar and a cheat.”
“Was the tramp a local gal?”
“I think you know who she was. Anyway, fill me in on Clarence and Jake’s infamous spat.”
“First off, there’s no rough stuff at my place. Period.”
“People respect you for it.”
“They do, and that’s why everybody feels welcome here. Even goofy Vernon Spitzer up in the bleachers offers a benediction at the start time.”
“He’s a regular choir boy but getting back to Jake and Clarence. Wasn’t their squabble over auto parts?”
“Dumb argument, too.” Reynolds squinted at the smoke curling between his less fidgety knuckles. “These cancer sticks will be the death of me yet.”
“Next to seatbelts, experts say it’s the cheapest insurance.”
“You alone?” He flashed her a risqué grin.
“Never mind. What auto parts did our two lads brawl over?”
“Jake popped for a set of Mag wheels at Lopez’s. Clarence said he’d paid Jake back, only Jake didn’t go for it.”
“Who did you believe, Clarence or Jake?”
Reynolds made a noncommittal shrug. “It didn’t matter since I made them take their fisticuffs outside the front gate.”
“What did they do next?”
Flicking cigarette ash to spill on the concrete floor, he gave a slighter shrug. “They went their separate ways because neither bought another ticket. Losing steady patrons like that hurts, too.”
Relaxed enough in his company, she decided to use a blunter approach. “What’s your take on Jake Robbins’s murder?”
“That throws me for a loop.” Reynolds snubbed out the half-smoked butt
under his boot heel. “Clarence is stupid if he killed Jake after their big blowout.”
“If we strike Clarence off the list, who is left?”
“Beats me. Could be a faceless killer like those bloodthirsty gunslingers roving from town to town in the Old West.”
“It’s possible but my money says Jake knew his murderer.”
“How can you tell if he did?”
Smiling in coyness, she replied, “I rely on my feminine wiles.”
“Do your feminine wiles foresee any sparks for us?” Reynolds reached his hand to rest it on Sammi Jo’s hip. Grinning, he gave her a flirty squeeze.
“Chances look slim.” She stepped away and lobbed him the pack of cigarettes. “Keep ’em, Big Time.”
“Hey seriously, what are our chances for later?”
At the door, she leaned back. “Stay tuned, Reynolds.”
“My radio is always tuned in,” he said, returning her roguish wink.
Chapter 28
After relating what she’d gleaned from Reynolds, Sammi Jo took a quick breath. Alma drove, hands at ten and two on the steering wheel. A tight-lipped Isabel watched a stretch of slash pines blur by them. The greedy loggers had harvested, leaving behind an army of stumps. To her mind, a clear-cut pine barren was a haggard scene. Bulldozers had cleared the stumps to make way for another new subdivision, an even more haggard scene.
“So their disagreement turned ugly enough for Reynolds to toss them out,” said Sammi Jo.
“We might ask Clarence about it and gauge his reaction,” said Alma.
The idea provoked Sammi Jo’s headshake. “I don’t give any good odds that will work. He’s a liar and he’ll deny everything.”
She recalled Reynolds had said Jake bought the contested Mag wheels at Lopez’s, and she suggested pitstopping there. A short distance later, Alma parked them on a packed clay pad under a grove of Osage orange trees. They saw the hood to a maroon sedan flipped up, and three oilcans lined up on the radiator. Sammi Jo didn’t recognize the skinny kid upending the spout to glug in the next quart of oil to the crankcase, but his multiple body piercings made her flinch. Squeamish over any needles, she nodded at Isabel also giving the skinny kid a skeptical look.
Lopez’s sales room was akin to a frosty October dawn. They heard an air wrench’s whine behind the plexi-glass door to the shop area. The smell of motor oil reached their noses. Sammi Jo hailed Monty, the teen-ager bearing a moon-face, pointy nose, and burnt brown hair working the counter.
His easy nod greeted her. “Air filters, oil filters, and batteries are all on sale.”
She hatched her most captivating smile. “Just a little info, Monty. What’s that cost?”
“For you, a buck seventy and a doughnut.” Amused by his jibe, he grinned at her. “If I know it, no charge.”
“Reynolds Kyle told me Jake Robbins bought a set of Mag wheels. Did you wait on him?”
“Reynolds is mixed up,” replied Monty. “I sold Jake a ton of car accessories but nothing that flashy. That’s too much inventory for us to carry, my boss says.”
Alma edged up to the counter. “Have you any ideas where Jake bought these Mag wheels?”
Monty filed his fingernails across the smooth countertop. “My guess says he ordered them from a car parts catalog.”
Alma swabbed a tissue at her uncooperative nose. “Do these catalogs deliver the parts directly to your house?”
“That’s how they turn a profit,” replied Monty. “Why do you ask?”
“Clarence Fishback and he had a quarrel over the Mag wheels,” replied Alma.
“Some quarrel. Jake takes a bullet to the ticker,” said Monty.
An eyebrow arched, Sammi Jo leaned in, and Monty’s eyes stayed glued to her. “Did you pick up any rumors on his murder?”
“Who me? No-no.”
“Monty hon, my eyes are above my nose, not below my neck,” she chided him.
“So much better. Let’s try again. What have you heard for real on his murder?”
“The same as everybody else,” replied Monty, meeting her eyes.
“When did Clarence last stop by here?” she asked.
“He no longer does,” replied Monty. “My boss and he jawed, and my boss banned him.”
“What instigated it?”
“Clarence was outside the door handing out campaign pamphlets, and my boss took exception to it. He shouldn’t feel alone. My boss also gave Vernon Spitzer the hook.”
Sammi Jo smiled. “What did Vernon do?”
“The same as Clarence except Vernon was pushing religious tracts,” replied Monty.
“Were the religion tracts for his church?” asked Alma.
Monty drifting down the counter shrugged. “You got me. I believe he was out of sorts over the abortion doctors.”
“He should stick to running the pharmacy,” said Sammi Jo.
“Thank you for your time and help,” Alma told Monty fiddling with the cash register.
Halfway to the exit behind Alma and Isabel, Sammi Jo heard Monty say, “You guys hurry back.” She glanced over her shoulder and smiled at him. Outside, she ducked into the sedan’s rear seat, and Quiet Anchorage became their destination. They passed a full lot at the clinic—the sign-carrying protestors had left—and made the turn off the highway to Main Street. Sammi Jo said she better go home and tackle doing some laundry from her Mount Rushmore of dirty clothes.
Alma nodded, aware of how many generations of singles had used the quaint apartment rentals over the drugstore. In fact, she’d moved off the farm to live in one before finding Husband Number One. At the corner of Main and Franklin, they spotted the trio on the wood bench basking in the sun. Ossie was the only one alert enough to wave.
“Why do they put me in mind of three iguanas?” asked Isabel.
“Iguanas without body heat use the sun to warm their blood,” replied Alma.
“Did you get that trivia from a crossword puzzle?” asked Isabel.
Alma just nodded.
Disappointment soured Sammi Jo’s face. “I hate to admit it, but today we got skunked.”
“Tomorrow is a new start,” said Alma, trying to be philosophical.
The sedan occupied one of the empty parking slots in front of the drugstore. A loud engine sounded. Their turned heads saw a maroon car with a white vinyl roof snake out of the alleyway from behind the drugstore and accelerate heading the opposite way.
“Where is Vernon off like a streak?” asked Isabel.
“He tears off like that all the time,” replied Sammi Jo.
“What he needs is a wife and family to settle down,” said Isabel.
“He’s too busy with being Vernon,” said Sammi Jo.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m set to faint from hunger,” said Alma.
“We’ve put in a full day’s work,” said Isabel. “Let’s go to dinner, my treat. Is Eddy’s Deli acceptable?”
“You don’t have to twist my arm,” replied Sammi Jo. “Chowing down at the deli always trumps doing laundry at Clean Vito’s.”
“My allergy meds should be ready,” said Alma, sniffing.
Inside the drugstore a hatchet-faced blonde in a crisp blue smock—Vernon’s new part-time assistant, she proudly said—waited on Alma. She took her allergy pills with a Dixie cup of water drawn at the soda fountains.
The sedan ferried them to Eddy’s Deli where Deputy Clarence Fishback’s cruiser parked at a diagonal stance took up two slots. A wise guy had etched in the trunk’s coat of dust, “Wash Me!” However Clarence’s spare time had been curtailed from scrubbing his cruiser. They watched him through the deli windows rotating from booth to booth, shaking hands and chatting it up with the locals who for the most part didn’t reciprocate his attention.
“Clarence is a regular politicking machine,” said Sammi Jo, the first one out of the sedan.
“Are you okay with eating here?” asked Isabel.
“Let’s get a pizza in Warrenton,” said Alma.
“No, we picked Eddy’s, and Clarence isn’t running us off,” said Sammi Jo.
Isabel the first one inside the deli said, “Grab the booth closest to the door.”
“Sit wherever it suits your fancy,” said Sammi Jo.
Once again the plunging temperatures set teeth chattering and turned lips blue. Isabel tugged Alma’s sleeve, and they hung back while Sammi Jo stalked up the aisle between the booths. With his back to her, Clarence leaned into a booth to reach for a shirking lady’s hand.
Isabel whispered to Alma. “This was a terrible idea I had.”
“Too late to stop Sammi Jo,” said Alma. “She’s in rare form, fangs bared to mangle Clarence.”
“At least we can lend her any moral support,” replied Isabel. Still on their feet, they poised near the door, their eyes wary.
Hearing footsteps behind him, he turned and lowered his militant eyes to skewer Sammi Jo.
“Gee, all, look at what the pole cat coughed up,” he said as a snarl. “If you’re here for us to get back together, sorry, baby cakes, no can do. We’re history.”
The orange-haired deputy’s taunt seemed to lash at her. Her eyes moistened, and her sandy face crumbled into jagged pieces.
“Clarence, you hurt me,” she said, emotion thickening her voice.
“Well, boo-hoo-hoo. What, you’ve never broken up with a man before me? If you want pity, go look in the dictionary.”
“You’ve twisted around why I called it quits. But people know what you are.” Her glance swept across the attentive diners. The nearest lady nodded in agreement. “You’re just a cheat as well as a liar.”
“Hey, careful how liberally you fling around those slurs.” He wagged his finger at her. “You’d better respect this uniform.”
Knowing a thing or two about how to counter smart alecks, Alma spoke up. “It looks wrinkled. Who’s your dry cleaner? Next time I’ll know who not to use.”
A run of amused titters circulated through the seated diners. The deputy’s sight shifted over Sammi Jo’s shoulder. “Alma, is this conversation any of your affair?”