by Ed Lynskey
Observing the lavender peony flowers poking out the gap between the white pickets nudged Alma’s memory.
“We haven’t gone to the cemetery and raked up the leaves and clutter around the family gravestones,” she told Isabel.
“Labor Day is our scheduled time to drive out there,” said Isabel. “The recumbent Trumbos as well as Max and Cecil won’t complain if we don’t hit it on the exact right day.”
“Do you have something in mind for doing on Labor Day weekend?”
Isabel shrugged as much as she could manage with Petey Samson yanking at the dog leash. “Maybe we’ll round up the usual suspects, fix some microwave popcorn, and throw a Scrabble Fest. How does doing that sound to you?”
“Like a goat in a briar patch,” replied Alma. She stooped down and moved aside a kid’s razor scooter with pink tassels on its handlebars left on the sidewalk. Today’s kids have the neatest toys to play with, she thought, almost wishing she was a kid again. “Ray Burl and his murder have been on my mind a lot as I recalled the different things from the past.”
“You mean since we’ve moved back to Quiet Anchorage?”
“Sure, that time period but also the years we lived away from town. Every once in a while, we’d return and visit, catching up on old times. Coming home made for a nice change of pace and welcome diversion from the city’s rat race.”
“I felt likewise,” said Isabel. “What point are you making?”
“Did you remember if Ray Burl was ever mentioned?”
“Now that you bring it up, no, he wasn’t the topic of many conversations I had with the townies. He never garnered a lot of attention, so he must’ve went about his personal business in his low-keyed manner.”
Alma nodded as they stopped at the intersection. The dynamo of energy Petey Samson tugged away on the leash, but Isabel restrained his exuberance to dodge out in front of an oncoming farm use truck.
“Here’s a different take I’ve been mulling over,” said Alma. “Ray Burl’s low-keyed manner may’ve been done to shield his leading a second criminal life that he kept hidden from his family and friends. Even Sammi Jo wouldn’t know what the chameleon was up to while she was growing up in the same house.”
“Criminals can lead second lives,” said Isabel. “It’s done in many our read mysteries, but we’re talking about small, tame Quiet Anchorage, not a hotbed of criminal activity like New York City or Las Vegas.”
“Small towns harbor their share of crooks,” said Alma. “I don’t like to badmouth Sammi Jo’s dad or speak ill of the recent dead, but what if he wasn’t the stand-up fellow he wanted us to believe he was?”
“As distasteful as I find it to consider, I suppose Ray Burl could’ve been killed by one of his criminal associates,” said Isabel.
“It’s still just a possibility at this point,” said Alma.
The intersection clear once again, Petey Samson towed them across the street to its sidewalk. The school-age kids had drawn a hopscotch grid in blue chalk, the left behind Mexican peso coin had been used as their tossed marker.
On this hot summer afternoon school-age kids swam at the community pool, not the Coronet River as the young Trumbos had done when not working on the farm. Either place for either generation made for good, clean fun.
“Are you up for playing a game of hopscotch?” asked Isabel.
“No, I believe I gave up my hop, skip, and jump when I lost half my foot,” replied Alma.
“Of course you did. Sorry.”
They headed downtown on Main Street instead of making the turn around the block and returning home.
“What bad stuff might have tempted Ray Burl?” asked Isabel.
Alma didn’t want to speculate. “I’m not sure, but I’m leaning toward it tells us why he got murdered, and who did it to him.”
“Oh drats, Petey Samson drawing us along like a kite made us miss taking our turn.” Isabel halted, pulling on the leash, and refused to let Petey Samson advance another step.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw his mistress had a different way in mind than to keep on following his keen beagle nose. She reversed their field, and they found the right street for making the home stretch.
The white sequentially numbered hash marks they passed on the street pavement marked where the entrants in each firemen’s parade lined up. It was held on the first night the annual carnival hit town, always a big festive ado, climaxing with a well-attended drawing for a new car giveaway.
Alma and she only lived two houses down from the parade route. They along with their guests Phyllis and Sammi Jo cheered and clapped on the front stoop by the American flag. Shiny red fire trucks, high-stepping blonde majorettes, and brassy marching bands playing Sousa from the neighboring towns like Warrenton, Culpeper, and Colonial Beach composed the parade’s procession.
Alma realized their gait had picked up steam with Isabel now in front of the reluctant Petey Samson who trailed along behind them. Elms and oaks lining the street offered the walkers some welcomed shade.
“Here’s a different question for us to bat around. Why did Ray Burl feel compelled to work so many hours?”
“I’ll bite. Why did he?” said Alma.
“Maybe because he found it a convenient excuse to use while he was off living his second shady life. Do the foremen usually stay late and work on weekends by themselves? Yes, and Mr. Barclay didn’t care how many hours Ray Burl slaved away. It could’ve been his perfect cover story.”
Isabel scrounged inside her pocketbook, found a doggie treat, and tossed it ahead of them.
Petey Samson, seeing it, loped to their front and gobbled it down. He got with the new program they were now homeward bound. Alma heard a blue jay scolding them and saw it was in a pyracantha bush. Petey Samson’s ears perked up until he realized he was on a leash, making any pursuit of the blue jay impossible.
“Let’s assume our theory is correct,” said Alma. “Let’s say Ray Burl was off doing these bad deeds when everybody thought he was so diligently working. We’re forced to find the evidence of his bad deeds.”
“The evidence gathering is too often exasperating, and my least favorite part when I read an old time mysteries,” said Isabel.
“That’s the easy part,” said Alma. “The tough sledding comes when you have to tell Sammi Jo her late father was a criminal. I don’t envy you doing that task.”
“Funny, sis, but here all along I thought this was a joint venture you and I had undertaken. Now I’m hearing this malarkey from you.”
Alma had to laugh. “Sammi Jo is a big girl who might take it better than we fear she will.”
“Remind her she’s her own person, and whatever bad guy he was is no reflection on who she is.” Isabel renegotiated Petey Samson’s wrong turn at the foot of their driveway, and he understood their adventurous walk had reached its end until the next time. He wagged his tail for his reward, and she accommodated him.
“No reminder will be needed because I’m certain the well-grounded Sammi Jo knows who she is,” said Alma.
Chapter 32
The quarter-moon hovering in the hazy Monday night sky over Quiet Anchorage had assumed a tangerine orange hue. Sammi Jo couldn’t recall ever previously seeing it that offbeat color, but their night had also veered off on a strange course. She along with Isabel and Alma were returning to the Cape Cod under the honey locusts where Sammi Jo had grown up, and her father Ray Burl had still lived.
She’d chronicled for the sisters how she came to discover his shotgun. It was stashed behind the column of cardboard boxes inside the storage locker he’d rented at the facility where she worked. Astonishment was also their initial reaction. They sat in the living room with Petey Samson who, after his recent escapades, lay dozing on the carpet remnant Isabel had just put in the corner. He was growing too pudgy to sleep curled up in their armchairs.
“So he did purchase the shotgun,” said Alma. “What did you do with it?”
“I put it back and resecured his locke
r door with my own padlock,” replied Sammi Jo. “Nobody can get back in there without going to a lot of fuss and bother.”
Isabel swiped a gray curl away from her forehead. “We’re dealing with a desperate enough character who’d go to a lot of fuss and bother.”
Nodding, Alma went on. “Had the shotgun been recently fired?”
“Its bore looked clean as a whistle, and I didn’t get a whiff of gunpowder off it,” replied Sammi Jo. “It wasn’t loaded, and I didn’t see any ammo lying around. I saw a few flecks of rust on its new-looking barrel, so he probably hadn’t oiled the shotgun’s surfaces since he bought it last winter. Oh, and I should also add I also found a new hacksaw with the shotgun.”
“Ah.” Alma hiked up an eyebrow. “Had Ray Burl used it to shorten the shotgun?”
“He never took the hacksaw out of its original packaging,” replied Sammi Jo.
“It leads you to think he bought the shotgun for his self-defense, but then he decided against using it,” said Alma.
“Was he fearful Mo would return to Quiet Anchorage and do him serious harm?” asked Isabel. She looked at Sammi Jo who didn’t react.
“Or somebody like a boyfriend or a hired thug would do her bidding,” said Alma.
“You mean to do her violent bidding,” said Isabel.
“Isabel and Alma, I’m a little amazed at how you’re sitting here so calmly talking about shotguns and their violence,” said Sammi Jo.
“I’ll show you a little something about that,” said Alma.
Isabel felt her breath stall in her chest. Surely, Alma wouldn’t dare, would she?
Alma untied her shoelaces and removed her right shoe customized with its weighted toe, and raised her foot, or rather her half-foot, for Sammi Jo’s inspection. The front portion, including all of Alma’s toes, was missing, as if she’d undergone an amputation that, in effect, brought about her graphic disfigurement.
“I had a mishap when I was a few years older than you are. I was out squirrel hunting—I never bagged any game and just liked being out in the fresh air—with a few of our cousins when it happened. Isabel wasn’t there on that hunt. Somehow I managed to snag the muzzle of my shotgun inside my trouser cuff.
“Like the amazing klutz I am, I accidentally tripped the trigger as I drew back the shotgun. I screamed at the blinding flash and then deafening thunderclap. You can imagine the tremendous pain I felt when I almost passed out from it.
“So, to address your point, yes, I am well-acquainted with firearms and their destructive power. Needless to say, I turned plenty gun shy, fixed the offending shotgun to sell for just scrap parts, and took up safer pursuits like Scrabble.”
Sammi Jo knew about Alma’s hunting mishap but had never witnessed the harrowing results. She didn’t walk using any discernible gimp. At a loss for the appropriate words, Sammi Jo also didn’t impolitely gape at Alma’s misshapen foot.
“Alma, put your shoe back on, please, since show and tell is over,” said Isabel. “I just now glimpsed out the window the lit roof bar lights to the deputy sheriff’s cruiser trawling by on Church Street.”
“Sheriff Fox has sicced his merry henchmen to spy on us,” said Alma, retying her shoelaces.
“I get the sense things are starting to boil,” said Sammi Jo.
“Exactly!” Hands clasped behind her back and her eyes downward, Isabel was out of her armchair and on her feet. She took to pacing the floor like while at a taxi stand impatiently waiting for a late pick up. “Alma, this mystery has gone on for long enough. We must keep missing the key clue in front of our noses.” She glanced over to be sure her sister was following her. “What in the blue dickens could it be? Help me suss it out.”
Petey Samson opened one eye on them, but otherwise he didn’t stir a muscle.
Alma leaned forward in her armchair, rubbing her palms together, creating a dry rustling noise. “I’m also racking my brain, Isabel, but I’ve got nothing to offer you.”
Sammi Jo picked up on the dire urgency straining the sisters’ voices. Her pulse also increased to pound away. “My discovery of Daddy’s shotgun didn’t give us any real advantage.”
“Aw, that blasted shotgun is nothing more than a blue herring, just sending us down the wrong rabbit hole,” said Alma. “I wish a thousand termites had eaten up its wooden stock.”
“Red herring is the correct usage, Alma.”
“It is red herring. I know that. The tension is getting so thick in here I can’t think straight.”
“Since we’re stuck like we are, is it worth our while to return to the starting place?” asked Sammi Jo.
Isabel stopped pacing and snapped up her chin with a pleased smile. “Starting place. I like it, so keep going. Where should that be, Sammi Jo?”
“The Cape Cod,” replied Sammi Jo. “This time I’ll tear apart Ray Burl’s bedroom and root out any safe deposit box keys that he may’ve concealed in there.”
“The Cape Cod is as good a place as any to search again,” said Isabel. “Alma, what about it?”
“Taking a second look can’t hurt anything,” she said no longer as agitated and rubbing her palms together. “Just be extra careful and keep the lights to Roscoe’s cruisers out of our rearview mirror.”
“Sammi Jo, since we’re laying our cards on the table,” said Isabel. “There is one more issue we should take up before we leave.”
“Oh?” said Sammi Jo.
Alma who as a rule didn’t mind being blunt this time was reluctant to say anything that might hurt Sammi Jo. Alma soft-pedaled articulating their suspicions. “Ray Burl may have been up to no good, and for his troubles, he was fatally shot,” she said.
Sammi Jo’s mouth tightened. “Are you suggesting he was involved in some illegal shenanigans?”
Isabel and Alma nodded in unison.
“I’ve prepared myself for dealing with that probability,” said Sammi Jo never in a solemner tone. “Look it, Daddy and I talked, but we didn’t get into the big things going on in our lives. That worked out fine. I grew up with a father who guarded his secrets as if he didn’t wish Quiet Anchorage to know what he did. That’s why he rented the secret locker I saw by sheer chance for the first time today. I can’t see any other reason for it except he was ashamed or afraid of getting caught.”
Isabel breathed out in a gush of relief. She smiled. “I’m glad to hear you can take into account all of the possibilities that might come true here.”
Chapter 33
Sammi Jo’s keener eyes first spotted the yellowish glare to the interior light shining out from the Cape Cod’s front pair of windows. She doubted if they’d gone off earlier and left the lights turned on. Ray Burl’s snarky ghost, even if he took a contrary mind to return and haunt the Cape Cod, didn’t have the mortal’s ability to toggle on electric light switches.
She blinked twice and used her index finger to rub one eye and then her other eye. However, the windows didn’t fall dark but remained bright, and her blood raced a little fiercer. A mystery intruder had to be up to some monkeyshine inside the Cape Cod. Who was it?
Driving the sedan after she volunteered to do so, she didn’t thumb on the directional blinker but elected to maintain their current speed and do a flyby of the Cape Cod to perform their first surveillance. She let Isabel and Alma in on the proposal.
“I can make out light in the windows.” Sammi Jo pointed her finger out the windshield. “Peer carefully that way, or better yet, wait until we’re closer to it…all right, can you see it there?”
“Now I can.” Isabel’s attention centered on the Cape Cod.
“Me, too,” said Alma, then, “That’s odd. I’m certain we cut off the lights before leaving earlier.”
“My identical thought,” said Sammi Jo. “A mystery intruder has invaded the Cape Cod. There might be a car parked in the driveway, or it’s been left to hide in the backyard.”
“No car is visible out front,” said Isabel.
Sammi Jo didn’t ease up her foot pressure o
ff the gas pedal and slow their engine noise to spook the mystery intruder that he’d aroused the passersby’s curiosity.
“Did Sheriff Fox return to pick up the memorandum he left us in the foyer?” asked Alma while they cruised out of sight of the Cape Cod.
“The line of goose bumps parading down my back warns me Roscoe isn’t the mystery intruder,” replied Isabel.
“I’ve got a few goose bumps myself,” said Alma. “Sammi Jo, do you care to cast your vote and make it unanimous?”
“My adrenaline rush has left my mouth dry.” She swallowed and reset her hands’ grips on the steering wheel. An inconvenient attack of the hiccups stirred in her diaphragm.
Good grief, she thought. “What should we do? Contact Sheriff Fox on my cell phone?”
Alma kiboshed that idea. “All we’ve got here is the house lights turned on, nothing approaching a criminal act to prod a small town sheriff into taking action.”
“Do we return to the Cape Cod? Or not?” asked Sammi Jo. She hiccupped.
“Hold your breath, dear,” said Isabel. “It works nearly every time for me.”
“Isabel? What do you say?” said Alma. “Do we go inside again?”
“Was there ever any question about it?” replied Isabel. “Turn this coupé around.”
“I’d like to know what they’re doing in my house,” said Sammi Jo before her next hiccup came. She held her breath.
The sedan’s high beams caught the scarlet glare to a reflector nailed to the white mailbox post planted inside an antique milk can. Beside it ran a rutty farmhouse driveway, and she swerved into it, shifted into reverse, and then backed them out.
When she toed the gas pedal, they spurted off in the direction of the Cape Cod. She held the steering wheel and squeezed it like a shopping cart’s handle while she stood in a slow-moving queue at a rookie cashier’s checkout lane.