Ed Lynskey - Isabel and Alma Trumbo 02 - The Cashmere Shroud

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Ed Lynskey - Isabel and Alma Trumbo 02 - The Cashmere Shroud Page 11

by Ed Lynskey


  “We questioned the Three Musketeers, but Willie told us they’ve got nothing to give us.”

  “That doesn’t come as a surprise to me. You tapped the wrong oracle.”

  “Is that a fact? Who, then, might know better than they do?”

  “If it was me, I’d go see Rosie McLeod and Lotus Wang, your champion townie busybodies. If they don’t know anything, then you’re simply out of luck.”

  “How could I overlook thinking of Rosie and Lotus, especially when they’re in plain view? We’ve used them before, and I appreciate your reminder. Alma does, too, as she’s sitting here with a smile stretching from ear to ear.”

  “Glad I could do some good since I’m an honorary member of your private detective firm, but I hardly contribute to it.”

  “You offer us excellent quality in lieu of quantity, and we’re indebted. We’ll go pin down Rosie and Lotus the first thing after church lets out this morning.”

  “Tell them I said hi. That’s it, though. Say anything else to them, and it will be all over Quiet Anchorage faster than a pack of dogs on a three-legged cat.”

  “Alma and I have found the best policy is to get them primed to talk. Then we just hang back and let them cluck away like a couple of Domineckers. Most times we don’t have to give them any personal information.”

  “Then I’ll let you get along with it. Thanks for giving me a holler. Do it again at any time. I love hearing from you gals back home.”

  “Sure thing. Bye-bye, Louise.” Isabel hung up, smiling. “She’s always a help in one way or the other to us.”

  Alma nodded once. “I can’t stay angry at her for any real length of time. She’s still one of us even if she doesn’t live here anymore.”

  “Our campaign of enticing her back to Quiet Anchorage goes on,” said Isabel.

  “Maybe we should hold off on doing that until the homicide rate has declined a bit,” said Alma.

  “Good idea,” said Isabel. “I should hasten to add I wonder if we can hold off for that long.”

  ***

  Isabel and Alma tooled by the Lopezes’ yard, which was showing off blooming dahlias, hydrangeas, and zinnias, all colorful and vibrant enough to be the table arrangements at an August bride’s wedding reception. Alma had tied the knot twice, both failed social experiments and both exes—their names had been redacted from her memory—now buried in out of town cemetery plots. She preferred to shy away from cultivating any memories about her marriages.

  Instead, she centered her idle thoughts to recount Isabel’s marriage to Max. That came as close as you could get to a storybook one. He’d passed away a smart while back, and Isabel still grieved in her quiet, stiff upper lip way, most folks unaware of how much pain she’d suffered from the personal loss.

  Alma had also felt bad for Isabel who’d lost her only child, a son named Cecil, to lung cancer. The three-packs-a-day cigarette habit he couldn’t lick no matter how valiantly he tried had claimed him early. Max had been a happy-go-lucky guy always quick with a joke. By contrast, Cecil had been a reserved young man who took more after his mother than his father.

  “Today marks the anniversary of Max’s death,” said Isabel.

  Alma startled, spooked at how Isabel had read her thoughts. “How long has it been? I lost track of time very soon after I retired when calendars weren’t nearly as important anymore.”

  “The truth be told, so did I about the same time. The number of years is irrelevant since the loss never lessens its sting. But those were blue ribbon years, and I don’t regret living them. If I had the chance, I’d do it all over again exactly the same way.”

  “Max was a good man, and we were all a little better off from having known him.”

  “Thanks for saying that. Some days I ache for him more, and other days I pine for my boy Cecil more. The double whammy days are when I miss them both just as much. Today might be one of those double whammy days.”

  “I don’t mean to begrudge your right to indulge your melancholy, but we’ve got solving a big murder on our hands.”

  “Don’t fret, Alma. I keep everything under control because I know I can’t let you and Sammi Jo down. That wouldn’t be fair after I agreed to help.”

  “Did you and Petey Samson do the morning loop?”

  “Indeed we did. I was set to ask you if you wanted to go along with us, but I saw you nestled in bed snoozing away, and I couldn’t bring myself to wake you.”

  “That was probably for the best,” said Alma. “I’m not a morning person, especially before downing my first cup of coffee.”

  “Yes, I’m keenly aware of that idiosyncrasy,” said Isabel.

  Chapter 18

  Clean Vito’s Launderette located on Main Street sat further down from the IGA and the bench where the Three Musketeers held court. On Memorial Day a year ago, the three-alarm blaze had erupted at two o’clock in the morning, and the launderette roared up in a column of flames, sparks, and smoke. The VFD, responding to the fire station whistle going off, had battled the inferno for the remainder of the night, but sooty daybreak revealed how they’d been vanquished. Clean Vito’s was left as a smoldering char heap.

  “Excess lint built up and trapped in the dryer vent was sparked and caused the fire,” Alma had conjectured in private to Isabel.

  Arson was never suspected. Quiet Anchorage felt as if it had lost a large part of its soul. Such a profound reaction couldn’t be avoided. The townies regarded every small business on Main Street as a sacred institution since the majority had been in the same family tracing back for several generations.

  Vito Salvador had insured his launderette against fire, and he sprang into action after the insurance settlement money came through to erect the new, improved Clean Vito’s. Isabel and Alma hadn’t visited it since its opening earlier in the summer. They did their own laundry with the old but indestructible Norge washer and dryer at the brick rambler. Alma wouldn’t hear of their putting up and using a washline to demean the appearance of their yard.

  Rosie McCleod and Lotus Wang haunted Clean Vito’s, and if a townie wished to kibbutz with either or both ladies, the townie knew where to always find them.

  A decade younger than the sisters, Rosie gangly as a giraffe and Lotus rotund as a hippo could be retired from their careers. Nobody was sure if they’d ever seen them engaged in anything that could pass for a career, or if they’d ever held any gainful employment. Alma was of the mind Rosie or Lotus had inherited a large pot of family loot, making them independently wealthy and unencumbered to be the ladies of leisure.

  What leisure pleased them was spending their days at Clean Vito’s, chatting up any patron schlepping in with their laundry. Either lady was eager to pitch in and assist with the heavy lifting in exchange for hearing any juicy morsels of hearsay.

  Alma saw nothing wrong with their indulgence since they weren’t harming themselves or anybody else. Isabel reserved expressing her dim view on how they were lazy as house cats only because she realized their value as a source of information.

  Isabel parked next to the handicapped space occupied by a shopping cart and kid’s skateboard. She and Alma gawked out the windshield at the new Clean Vito’s Launderette. Vito had opted for a Classical flair highlighted by the pair of white Corinthian columns to flank the front entrance. Dusty rose-hued exterior stucco covered the walls, and mistletoe-green patio carpet paved the walkway and apron. Singing a wistful Hank Williams tune, Norah Jones crooned from the PA speakers mounted in the overhang sheltering the apron and front entrance.

  “Vito went a little over-the-top rebuilding his launderette,” said Isabel. “His new one is a gaudy attention-getter. I had no idea. Did you know this was here?”

  “We seldom venture this far down on Main Street and need to get out more to see the new sights,” said Alma.

  “Is it supposed to resemble the cross between an ancient Roman and Greek temple?”

  “Beats me, Isabel. If I didn’t know Vito was in the laundry business, I might
suspect he’s operating a bordello in a Texas border town.”

  “Alma, play nice. We’re headed inside, and I don’t want that picture lingering in my mind.”

  “Especially just after our hearing the preacher’s sermon on the wages of sinful lust.” Alma tilted her ear with her hand cupped behind it. “Vito does have good tastes in his music.”

  “Norah is blessed with a gorgeous voice. By the way, this morning I went to use the bathroom scales, and they seemed to have gone astray. Did you hide them again?”

  “The next run we make to Warrenton, we should stop at Walmart for new bathroom scales. Ours are defective.”

  “Picked up five more pounds, did you?”

  Alma shrugged. Isabel was out first, but Alma led their stride into the byzantine launderette.

  It resembled an ant colony. All the washers swished away while all the dryers tumbled with a whirring drone. Despite the dearth of vehicles in the lot, every customer who lived within walking distance must have picked the late Sunday morning to do their weekly loads. The working folks, some holding down two or three jobs, scheduled their domestic chores for when they could insert a free hour. Sammi Jo would schlep in her laundry baskets later.

  “Thank our lucky stars we don’t have to fight this jungle to do our wash,” said Isabel as they stood at the entrance surveying the activity.

  Three ladies sitting in molded plastic chairs twiddled with their cell phones instead of thumbs while they waited for their wash cycles to complete. One teenaged girl was stuffing her tangles of jeans and tank tops into a front-load machine. At the end of the nearest row, a thirtysomething man sporting young Elvis sideburns grinned over reading the Sunday comics. The refreshingly clean scents of laundry detergent was a powerful enough smell to please the sisters.

  “That reminds me there’s a load of towels I left in the dryer,” said Alma.

  “I folded them up to put away in the linen closet,” said Isabel.

  “Thanks. Vito must be pocketing a mint,” said Alma. “He’ll be able to open a chain of launderettes.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Isabel. “He’s got one up and running in Warrenton on South Main. He’s a business tycoon.”

  “And we’re private detectives, so where might our two favorite stoolies hang out?” asked Alma. She gave the bustling scene another visual sweep. “Don’t tell me they didn’t make it in this morning.”

  “Heaven forbid that should ever happen,” said Isabel. “The doorway over there might go to a lounge, ideal for our stoolies to accost the patrons.”

  Isabel’s guess was spot on. Rosie and Lotus occupied a pair of the molded plastic chairs placed before the bank of soda pop and vending snack machines. Both ladies clutched their cell phones like most ladies do their purses. Information was power, and they were the power brokers. Their tongues wagged like Petey Sampson’s tail when he wolfed down a doggie treat.

  “Would you look at who’s coming there, Lotus. Our very own Jessica Fletcher times two have arrived.”

  Lotus nodded with an amiable smile. “The game must be afoot, Rosie, because they’re also wearing their Miss Marple faces, always the dead giveaway.”

  “Speaking of the dead, might their consternation stem from the recently departed Ray Burl Garner.”

  “Indeed, Rosie. The most foul play has roused them out from their Scrabble game board to go hunt down his evildoer.”

  “If was a betting lady, I’d wager they seek our assistance.”

  “I happen to know you are a betting lady, Lotus, so name your wager.”

  “No bet, I’m afraid. Besides we never charge our dear friends but do it because we’re thrilled to pitch in whenever we can.”

  Lotus was the first one to acknowledge Isabel and Alma who waited for them to wind down from their witty banter. “Let’s cut to the chase,” said Lotus. “What might you like to know about Ray Burl?”

  “He remains something of a riddle wrapped in a mystery,” said Isabel. “Our speculations center on who may’ve killed him. We’re picking your brains for any news about any recent interlopers moving to Quiet Anchorage.”

  “They flock here by the legions with their SUVs and motor boats,” replied Lotus. “We’re not able to keep tabs on them all, so we limit our attention to lavish on the First Families of Quiet Anchorage.”

  “Like you Trumbo sisters, for instance,” said Rosie.

  “Do either of you happen to remember Ray Burl’s ex?” asked Alma.

  Lotus nodded but without a smile. “Maureen Lionheart rings a bell from a good ways back.”

  “What’s the skinny on her?” asked Alma.

  “Mo was a real piece of work,” said Rosie. “I once saw her shoplift a Slinky toy sold over at the drugstore, but I didn’t say a peep only because I didn’t want it to go on her permanent record. Adults bend over backwards cutting the kids so many breaks. She’d be middle-aged by now, and time is cruel to some of us ladies. We cover our mirrors, shun passing before any reflective glass, and save up for the Botox injections to fill in our frown lines and crow’s feet.”

  “Speak for yourselves,” said Alma. “Time hasn’t robbed us of our looks. Right, Isabel?”

  She said nothing with a straight face.

  “Nobody has gotten a follow up report on Mo although I wonder about her every then and now,” said Rosie. “A gypsy’s itchy feet sent her clambering aboard the Greyhound that morning after the barn party. She kissed off Quiet Anchorage, skedaddled, and vanished into the mist.”

  “What became of her parents and relatives?” asked Alma. “Are any of the Lionhearts still living around the area?”

  “All of them are either planted in the town cemetery or have moved away,” replied Lotus. “She has an aunt residing on the Upper Peninsula in Michigan. I don’t recall her name offhand but give me a day or so, and I’ll think of it.”

  “That wraps up our all on Mo Lionheart,” said Rosie.

  “Thanks for taking our questions,” said the disappointed Alma. “We’ll be getting along now.”

  “If we hear anything worth repeating, we’ll give you a quick holler,” said Rosie.

  “That would be swell,” said Alma. “Thanks again for your time.”

  “Always a pleasure to speak with you,” said Lotus. “Be sure to keep us in the loop, too, on anything of interest you may hear or learn on Mo or Ray Burl. We’d love to hear all about it.”

  Rosie’s smile coincided with her emphatic nod.

  “Yeah, I just bet you will,” said Alma, barely filtering the sarcasm from her voice.

  Chapter 19

  Isabel dealt with the same dismay as Alma did when their consulting Rosie and Lotus didn’t pan out any leads in tracking down Ray Burl’s killer. The large influx of new residents, the bulk of them residing in the subdivisions and the one or two gated communities ringing Quiet Anchorage, made it impractical to look at them all. The gated communities mystified Alma. She envisioned next their medieval use of moats with alligators as well as heavy-duty drawbridges to crime-proof their enclaves. But no moats or drawbridges prevented the Trumbo sisters from getting whatever dope they needed.

  The brassy flush of sunshine engulfed Main Street, and the heat waves shimmied up from the pitch black pavement. They strolled two-abreast along the sidewalk. Isabel wished she’d worn her floppy straw hat to shade her nose from where her doctor had removed a precancerous skin patch. Alma and she stuck to the shade cast by the green and white striped awnings.

  “Sammi Jo should be up and at ’em,” said Alma. “What’s say we get her and eat Sunday lunch at Eddy’s Deli, my treat? A cold chocolate malt and bear claw tempt my sweet tooth this morning.”

  Isabel was more aware. “I’d love to go, but she might frown on us for infringing on her Sunday morning.”

  “I hardly think it’s an indecent hour to pay her a visit, Isabel.”

  “Suppose she entertained overnight company, and they’ve slept in? Our presence might create an awkward situation f
or them and us.”

  The light bulb flared on in Alma’s gray matter. “Reynolds is the overnight guest.” She chuckled. “Sorry it took me a while to catch on. It’s been decades since I last had my Reynolds to—”

  “I see where you’re headed, so please spare me the tawdry details.” Isabel tipped her head forward to introduce her alternate suggestion. “Our time might be better rewarded by seeing our male brain trust.”

  Alma knew without glancing across Main Street that Isabel had in mind the Three Musketeers, and Alma wasn’t cheered by the prospect. “We’ve already tried them and left with nothing like we just got from Rosie and Lotus.”

  “The gentlemen said they didn’t have anything but Ossie’s outlandish hit man idea right then. But now they’ve had the time to think. Who knows what new developments they may have? All we have to do is ask them. That costs us nothing except the time and effort to cross the street.”

  “Even the thought of doing that taxes me out,” said Alma.

  She had no choice but to follow as Isabel cut to the right and approached the gentlemen arrayed on their customary perch. They wore their sunshades and dog tags from seeing live combat in the big one. Willie the woodcarver sat cutting the wood shavings from the partial sculpture. At least he didn’t use the knife to clean out the grime from under his toenails. He’d also be sure to sweep up the wood shavings later, or Corina would take away their bench. He gave the sisters the squinty eye before he elbowed his cohorts dozing in the sunshine. They had company, and it was time to look alive.

  After removing the broken match from his mouth, Blue grinned with an animated wave. “Salutations, Isabel and Alma,” he said.

  “Where is your Scrabble board?” asked Ossie, now wide awake. “Is it the collapsible or inflatable one you carry in your pocketbook?”

  Before Isabel could respond, Willie made a snap decision. “Round up the card table with the beach umbrella and steal a pair of chairs inside from Corina. See if she’s got a pitcher of iced tea chilling in the kitchen fridge and get the tall glasses from the cupboard.”

 

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