by Ed Lynskey
Unfortunately, the boutique couldn’t woo in enough customers and profits to stay afloat. Isabel, who’d visited it, said the snooty proprietor peering down her aristocratic beak had also marked up her commodities. The expensive clothes could only be lifted by their hangers off the racks. The clothes’ styles catered to the yacht or country club crowd, and Quiet Anchorage had no yachts or country clubs.
Knuckles rapping on the front door brought Alma bustling from Siberia out to the living room. On the porch, Isabel looking frazzled as Petey Samson who woofed greeted Alma.
“I forgot my key.” Isabel stepped into the living room. “Petey Samson pulled at me to circle the block again, but he’s got to learn a lady of my age poops out fast.”
Alma closed the door to the late afternoon inferno. “He’s a bundle of energy and a handful to manage.”
“We love him just the same.” Isabel undid the leash from his collar. He’d full range of their brick rambler and snoozed anywhere he pleased except in Siberia. No dummy at keeping their affections, he visited both bedrooms during the night to slobber, snooze, and grunt.
Already cramped for bed space, Alma bemoaned how he was getting pudgier from his voracious appetite. She’d draw the line if Isabel began setting a third plate and linen napkin at their dinner table. Dogs ate on the floor, even the spoiled dogs.
“Did you remove any of the books from Siberia?” asked Alma.
“Mea culpa. I mailed them to Megan, hoping she’ll love reading them as much as we have.”
“I thought so. Who all did you mail to her?”
“I selected the grand ladies: Helen McCloy, Dolores Hitchens, Margaret Millar, and Dorothy Uhnak.”
Alma nodded once. “You done good. They’ll whet Megan’s appetite for reading if there are any lady authors who can accomplish it.”
“Exactly how I feel.”
“It’s also your roundabout way to arouse her interest enough to accept our library once we kick the bucket.”
Isabel shrugged. “Hey, the beat goes on.”
“Are you going to take your afternoon siesta?”
“I’m washing up after trotting Petey Sampson around in this heat then do some reading. You might be evaluating what our next move will be.”
“Nothing pops to mind, and there are only so many places you can go snoop in our postage stamp of a town.”
“Then unmasking the killer shouldn’t be this difficult,” said Isabel. “There are only so many candidates who can be our main suspect.”
“Are you assuming Ray Burl knew his killer?” asked Alma.
“For the time being, yes, I am,” replied Isabel.
Chapter 13
Despite Isabel’s pronouncement, she did lie down on her bed after she finished washing up from her walk. The comfortable mattress promoted sleep, so she decided to take advantage of it since she was right there. She closed her eyes tighter and willed herself to capture forty winks. She could just as well have wished for banknotes to ripen on the trees like apples for all the good it did her.
Ideas, some more credible than others, teemed and buzzed inside her brain. She harnessed them and focused to set them straight as the railroad line tracking like a backbone through Quiet Anchorage. As she saw things, Ray Burl hadn’t been the type of man she’d label as a trouble magnet. It wasn’t in his makeup to antagonize others and get into physical altercations. He had no bad reputation or arrest record. He’d been easy-natured and laid back like Sammi Jo was.
Given those facts, who killed cock robin? mused Isabel.
She sniffled. She held a disdain for late August when the ragweed and goldenrod grew with abundance, triggering her allergies. She had a prescription for a medication that did a halfway effective job of relieving her symptoms of a runny nose, frequent sneezing, and red shot eyes. All of Isabel’s sniffing, blowing, and rubbing drove Alma bonkers. Last year she’d suffered the allergies, and this August they’d switched places.
“For the life of me,” Alma would tell her, “I can’t understand your reluctance to take your pills except to attribute it to your innate stubbornness.”
“But I’m not that bad off,” said Isabel.
“Not yet,” said Alma.
Whenever they left the house, Alma remembered to tuck several extra tissues inside her pocketbook because Isabel always asked if she could “borrow” one. Alma wondered if Petey Samson’s dander and hair triggered Isabel’s allergies. If he did, it didn’t matter one whit since Isabel would never part with her beloved mutt. On the other hand, Alma had to admit she’d also grown rather attached to Petey Samson and couldn’t imagine their days and nights without him gallivanting under foot.
Isabel liked hearing the chirring drone the cicadas sent up beyond her window open to expose its screen. Before she knew it, the field crickets would be moving in with them to escape the chilly autumn nights and chirping to beat the band. Petey Samson would ignore them because he wasn’t the breed of dog who hunted measly crickets.
Ray Burl hadn’t been fond of hunting either. He derived no pleasure in bagging his game limit, and then cooking the wild meat on his Weber Grill.
“Dig a little deeper into his past,” Isabel coached herself. “There was a Mrs. Garner, Sammi Jo’s mother. Now, who was she, Isabel?”
More often than not, the names were tricky for her to recall, but not this time. She knew Mrs. Garner’s first name was Maureen, or Mo for a nickname. Isabel rolled over to rest on her side in bed. Mo hadn’t left much of a visual impression before she capered off to parts unknown.
Isabel couldn’t draw a mental sketch of Mo. Had she been a blonde, brunette, or redhead? She was another Good Time Charlene out to enjoy herself before her wanderlust got the best of her, and she blew town. Isabel had known a few Good Time Charlenes over the years and couldn’t wrap her mind around their scattershot thinking.
Sammi Jo had brought up her mom only twice with the sisters and then in brief passing. Sammi Jo had to carry lots of hurt and anger caged up inside her. Estranged mother and daughter probably didn’t stay in touch. What reason would they have? It was Mo’s tragic loss, concluded Isabel, because Sammi Jo was a sweetheart.
Isabel tried to paint a picture of the nomadic lifestyle Mo had adopted. Did she maintain any further contact, even the occasional postcard sent, with her ex? Did anything tie them together besides their daughter? Did the demons of guilt and remorse trouble her soul deep in the lonely midnight hours? Had she corralled another man, fallen in love with him, and started a new family, its members oblivious to her first one since she kept a tight lid on her past?
Such arrangements developed even in this tell-all, show-all social media age. That made it a challenge for Isabel and Alma to excavate any useful data on Mo. Sammi Jo was their computer guru who was well-acquainted with Mr. Google. If there was any way to trace the will-o’-the-wisp Mo and assemble a dossier on her, Sammi Jo was the right expert to accomplish it, or it couldn’t be done.
Isabel reined in her thoughts, deciding she was ranging too far ahead with the Mo idea. The cell phone was under the pillow. Isabel rang a familiar number, and Alma just out in the living room answered with a “bon giorno.”
“Italian for good morning,” said Isabel. “Crossword puzzle?”
“Yes, and today’s theme is foreign language phrases,” replied Alma tapping the ink pen, not pencil, on her chin. “What’s a seven-letter word for ‘running in circles?’”
“T-R-U-M-B-O-S.”
“That fits. Thanks, sis.”
“You’re welcome. Let’s now talk murder.”
“Wait one second, please…clank, there goes my shifting gears…okay, I’m all set…you may proceed.”
“Funny. Now reflect back years ago with me. Wasn’t Ray Burl married to a Maureen?”
“Of course. She was Mo to everybody. What a coincidence she also came up in my thinking while you and Petey Samson were out enjoying today’s steam bath.”
“What can you dredge up on Mo?”
“Was there any scuttlebutt about Mo carrying on any hanky-panky?”
“If she did, no guy was mentioned in the same breath. On the other hand, a gal who’s the life of the party has to find a place to roost after the party is finished.”
“Didn’t she wield a nasty temper?”
“She was like Mount Vesuvius ready to pop off any time she didn’t get her way.”
“Very interesting. Some townie might know of her fate.”
“Or if she had a burning reason to lam off so fast and without saying goodbye to anybody.”
“I’m getting up in a few minutes. In the interim, pick where our dinner out should be tonight. We’ll head up to Warrenton maybe. Are you in a more of tortilla or moo goo gai pan mood?”
“Either is fine with me, but you’ll have to postpone dinner. Sheriff Fox just braked in the driveway, and I can see he took his meanie pills this morning. Something big has torqued him up.”
“Oh brother, I can hear the rumblings of the Riot Act coming.” Isabel paused. “If he’s apprehended Sammi Jo, I’ll sic Petey Sampson on him.”
“See if you can beat Roscoe coming into the living room. Petey Samson is bristling and growling like I’ve never heard the pooch do before.”
***
“I warned you once, but I’m not going to warn you twice about your meddling,” said Sheriff Fox. They conferred in the living room, him seated on the sofa and the sisters in their armchairs. He used his sternest cop voice while scolding them.
He also used a handkerchief to mop the sweat droplets off his brow and forehead. Why they didn’t run the air conditioning baffled him. Freon or ice water had to circulate through their veins. More droplets beaded up, further tweaking his crabby disposition. Just then, a growl came, and he turned to see Petey Samson’s snarl and bare his fangs.
Hiding her smile from Sheriff Fox, Isabel shushed Petey Samson.
“Have you arrested, or do you have plans to arrest Sammi Jo?” asked Alma.
His hesitation gave him away to the shrewd ladies. He couldn’t snooker them no matter how early he got up in the morning, and he’d pay a king’s ransom to bask in the satisfaction of having bested them just once. That would add an extra glint to his sheriff’s badge. They always seemed to be one step ahead of him, so he’d just have to take longer steps to catch up and overtake them.
Alma resented his bossy attitude while seated in their living room, no less. “You harangue us to back off while you frame Sammi Jo for her dad’s homicide. Over my dead body first, Roscoe, and I’m not coining a pun either.”
“Are you defying my direct order?” he asked.
Again, Petey Samson growled.
Sheriff Fox gave him a circumspect glance while tempted to growl back louder at the little, flea-bitten Cujo that needed to wear a muzzle.
“What leads you to think we’ve been meddling, as you so ineloquently put it?” asked Isabel.
“I just got an earful from Blaine about your wheedling him. For your edification, I’d asked the same questions, and my department already knows Ray Burl purchased the Mossberg shotgun on January 13th of this year from Blaine. I’d bet my bag of Dunkin’ Donuts you hadn’t dug up that nugget.” Sheriff Fox smirked at them.
Alma cast her eyes to Isabel. Had Roscoe always been this careless? He’d just given away the information they now didn’t have to work to obtain.
“We stopped at the hardware store while running our errands,” said Isabel. “Naturally our chat gravitated to the gruesome murder. Everybody is in an upheaval about it. Citizens wonder if their sheriff can protect them.”
“My deputy sheriffs are on top of it, so you can allay your frets. I fully anticipate we’ll effect an arrest within the next week. At that time, I’ll convene a press conference at my station house to announce it, and you’re both cordially invited to sit in the front row where you can be sure to hear me.”
“If your boastful optimism runs so high, you have a suspect in mind,” said Alma. “That suspect had better not be Sammi Jo. That’s a fair warning.”
Sheriff Fox sat up straighter on the sofa, presenting a taller, more imposing authority figure in charge of this situation. “She’s been warned not to leave town, or she’ll be in big trouble, and that’s spelled with a capital T plus an exclamation point.” He mopped his forehead again.
“Roscoe, don’t go taking that high-minded tone with us,” said Isabel. “We changed your diapers and fed you from a bottle.”
Sheriff Fox felt his jaw muscles tighten to jut out his chin in a bellicose pose. He tamped down the rising embarrassment flushing red up his neck. He refused to let Isabel and Alma browbeat him with their disapproving scowls, schoolmarmish fuss, and berating words.
“Aiding and abetting a fugitive is a felony,” he said. “I’d hate to charge you with it.”
“We’re not harboring or helping any fugitives, Roscoe,” said Alma. “You know where to find us, day or night, to search to your heart’s content. Just be sure to bring the signed search warrant.”
“Also try to use your cell phone and call ahead,” said Isabel. “Petey Sampson is set in his canine ways and doesn’t like getting surprises, as you can see.”
“I’ll make every effort to extend that courtesy,” said Sheriff Fox, his cadence huffy.
Alma met Isabel’s eyes again, and they agreed on something.
“Dwight Holden,” said Alma.
Isabel nodded. “We need to retain our legal counsel since Roscoe sees fit to throw around his threats of our arrest like wedding rice.”
He laughed at them. “Dwight is a boob. He might know his law books through and through, but in real world terms, he’s clueless as a chimp shopping for a tuxedo and cufflinks.”
Pot calling the kettle black, thought Alma.
“Dwight will do the right thing,” said Isabel.
“That includes making any necessary phone calls to our good friend Judge Redfern,” said Alma.
“Judge Redfern? Your good friend?” Sheriff Fox lost his smug levity and swallowed. Hard. How had he forgotten about that pesky detail? He cleared his tightening throat with a scratchy cough. “Is that who you just said?”
“Your hearing is up to snuff,” replied Alma.
“But she’s like the dragon lady,” said Sheriff Fox.
“Then I’ll offer some free advice: you better strap on your fireproof suit,” said Alma. “Because we intend to fight your fire with our fire.”
“I’ve got to get back to the station house,” said Sheriff Fox.
Petey Sampson growled louder.
“I believe that would be for the best,” said Isabel.
Chapter 14
Dwight Holden, as the best Alma could discern it, was powering through a midlife crisis, or perhaps it was male menopause, if such an ailment existed. In short, he’d become a bigger wreck than a demolition derby since they’d last seen the criminal attorney.
First he’d moved from his high-scale condo into a tinted glass A-frame he’d had erected on the southern edge of town in a forested lot of weeping willows and sycamores. Then he wore his salt-and-pepper mane gathered into a Colonialist’s pigtail. As if all that wasn’t incongruous enough, he’d gotten his ear pierced and flashed a gold stud earring similar to the one of his sports idol, Michael Jordan.
Alma, Isabel, and he conspired in his home office. They’d eaten dinner at home, and so had Dwight judging by the dirty dishes they observed stacked in the kitchen sink. The lingering charred odor matched to burnt pork chops. Even Alma with her diminished sense of smell could register how Dwight was a subpar cook in addition to a reluctant dishwasher.
Isabel was also stunned. “Dwight, are you having a difficult day?” she asked.
A slight man not much taller or heavier than the sisters, Dwight stroked his chin, acting is if her question flummoxed him. “I’m not sure I tak
e your meaning, Isabel. Pretty much everything is coming up roses, thanks.”
Alma could no longer stifle her exasperation. “What ails you, Counselor? We’ve heard of being stuck in the August doldrums, but seeing this is obscene.” She swept a hand to signify the A-frame’s disheveled condition. “For starters, you live in this glass fish bowl instead of the condo. Why is that?”
“I like the tranquil views into the woods and Mother Nature.”
“What’s up with the unwashed dishes left in the sink?” asked Alma. “Can’t you hire a maid service? Did you run out of dish detergent? Ever heard of keeping a shopping list?”
“I find it more efficient to wash a large batch of dishes at once.”
“Meantime you attract a plague of mice and roaches,” said Alma.
Dwight steepled his fingers and centered his chin on them. “Oh.”
“Yeah, oh. And why on earth are you wearing ladies’ jewelry?” asked Alma.
Isabel broke in. “Gentlemen do that now, Alma. Earring studs are considered in vogue for manly wear.”
“Well, I, for one, don’t like it,” said Alma.
Sighing, Dwight clasped his hands in his lap. “Anyway. What brings you to my humble abode after my office hours may I inquire? I have a sneaky feeling I already know what the topic of this meeting is set to become.”
“If your sneaky feeling points to Ray Burl’s murder, then you’re correct because we find ourselves in the throes of its investigation.”
“Uh-huh,” said Dwight, kneading his temples with his thumbs. “Have I ever brought up you are my most controversial clients?”