Ed Lynskey - Isabel and Alma Trumbo 01 - Quiet Anchorage (2 page)

Earlier that same
afternoon found the future murder victim, Jake Robbins, disappointed. Business at his auto repair shop had been flat all morning. No customers, in fact, had dropped in for any mechanical work.

He fiddled around his office, the old sun porch on the rear of his brown stucco house, dumping the wastebaskets and catching up on his filing piled up on a desk corner.

Three green steel file cabinets, most of their drawers pulled out, stood beside the enormous walnut desk. He stacked the repair manuals (for autos, pickups, and motorcycles) taken from the drawers on the desktop. He had a valid reason to keep the repair manuals locked up in the file cabinets.

The repair manuals—Jake had spent years collecting them to work on used vehicles, the bulk of his fix-it trade—contained vital information he’d no wish to share with any competing local garages.
Let them dig up their own manuals,
he figured. To some in Quiet Anchorage, his reasoning bordered on paranoia, but he saw it as just sound business sense.

A traveling tool sales rep had told him the same repair manuals were available online and on DVD, but he wasn’t impressed. Other things besides safeguarding his repair manuals troubled him.

After he accounted for all of the repair manuals, he returned them to their respective drawers while grumbling under his breath.

“Megan expects too much from me. Girls dress skimpy in the summer, and flashing that much skin at hot-blooded males can’t be fair. Now you take Sammi Jo over the drugstore.” He whistled between his teeth. “At one look, I know she’s loose as a goose. I’m itching to take another midnight ramble to hook up with my blonde honey in Mechanicsville.”

Jake dragging his mind out of the gutter realized the challenge was to press on with his afternoon work. Since his dad Hiram had died of a sudden heart attack in June, Jake had let their house go to smash. Walking through the disheveled rooms and hallways dealt him a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. The fear of his own mortality had grown too intense, so he seldom ventured into the house area where his dad had lived.

So, the auto repair shop behind the house became Jake’s haven where he slept in a barber chair. Unlike thrashing on his narrow bed and finding little rest, Jake slept like a cat in the barber chair. He didn’t awaken until the dawn light spilled through the east window into his eyes. He believed he could stay all the time inside the shop.

Of course, once he and Megan got married, they’d move away to their own place and having to face that prospect chilled him. He’d never want to leave his auto repair business and work as a half-baked mechanic at some oil and lube shop or repair heavy equipment for a fly-by-night diesel garage.

He’d found living with Hiram tolerable. Like Jake, Hiram kept to himself, and their household resembled two independent bachelors sharing the same roost. They took half-hearted turns at taking care of the cooking and cleaning. The only contentious issue was Jake’s passion for speed. The stoop-shouldered, wiry Hiram deplored Jake’s toiling all week to fix a racecar only to tear out its gears or transmission while competing at Kyle Reynolds’s drag strip on Sundays. Jake had tried to explain the simple concept of fun to his dad. One recent conversation came to mind as he continued to fit the manuals into the file cabinet drawers.

“Your mother and I never took a vacation in our twenty-three years of marriage,” Hiram had told Jake.

“But don’t you see how much fun you missed out on? I’ll book a vacation as soon as my business gets some traction and I take in a little money.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a strong work ethic, son.”

He gave a frown. “Dad, I want to enjoy life before I get too old. Why is that so hard for you to understand?”

“But that’s what I don’t understand. Hard work is a source of personal pride and how a man stays happy.”

“So I’ll slave away for fifty weeks of the year, but the other two weeks I’d like to relax.”

“Uh-huh. Tell me, do your customers also take off those two weeks?”

“I’ll hire a stand-in mechanic and won’t leave them in the lurch.”

“They expect you, not some substitute gearhead, to work on their cars. What if the repairs are shoddy, and your disgruntled customers go to the competition next time?”

“What if you fill in for me?”

“I can fix the cars, but Megan has to do your books. My advice is don’t take any vacation until you’ve earned the trust of enough customers.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve worked too hard to slack off and let my business flop.”

“Quit extending credit to your pals, too. How do you plan to stay afloat if they welsh on their debts? Do you point a gun to their heads and demand they pay you?”

“Nobody is welshing on me.”

“Right, your pals like Clarence Fishback are as honest as Abe.”

“After our fight, we steer wide of each other.”

“Another thing since we’re jawing away. When do you plan on marrying that young lady?”

Jake didn’t reply at once as his angry lips compressed against his teeth. “What’s the big rush?”

Hiram grunted in annoyance. “She’ll soon get tired of your procrastination and find a guy who cares enough to marry her.”

“She isn’t going anywhere. She’s nothing but crazy about me.”

“You’re a crackerjack mechanic, but you don’t know jack diddly on women.”

“Why? Has she told you something that I don’t know?”

“I can tell she’s fed up with you always on the prowl.”

Jake heeled up his calloused palms. “Don’t go there, Dad. That’s all buried in my past.”

“Don’t go trying to dupe me. You’re made of my fiber, and I know how you think. You better make an honest woman of her. Have you told her lately that you love her?”

“Not in so many words, no, but we know how things stand between us. She’s not interested in seeing other men.”

“You’d better wise up because trust is a two-way street.”

Irritated with his dad for always having pushed him into marriage, Jake finished putting away his repair manuals and secured the file cabinet drawers with combination padlocks. He returned the business ledgers to the desk drawers and collapsed into the chair behind the walnut desk before interlacing the fingers to his hands, putting them behind his head, and stretching out his long legs.

He took another moment to reflect and had to admit that Megan offered many favorable points: she was a contoured wheat blonde, generous, though perhaps a bit too serious-minded for his temperament. They’d met through mutual friends in the high school cafeteria, and he’d found his sweetheart. He kept a framed photograph of them posing at their senior prom inside his tool chest. Every so often during the work day, he slipped out their photograph for a glimpse, and it left him with a bemused expression.

Making any commitment left him rattled, and he felt the need for more time and space to mull things over before making up his mind for good. Marriage was taking a serious plunge. Megan at first accepting of his ambivalence had more recently grown more agitated. She stalked around his shop, a frown pinching her face. Worse, his dad’s funeral had preempted their plans to spend a few days together at Colonial Beach. Then he told her that he didn’t want to take off any time away from his business after the funeral.

For that announcement, she’d given him the cold shoulder. Jake without his dad to ground him felt lost at sea. It was easier for him to drift along from day to day than to deal with rendering any big decisions. So he continued sleeping in the barber chair as the summer dragged by, and here it was late August.

The desk telephone rang, interrupting his reverie and, hopeful, he answered, but it wasn’t his day’s first customer.

“I’m giving my last client a hair perm and can’t get away for another hour,” said Megan.

“Meg, I’ve already put away all the business ledgers.”

“I suppose you’ll have to drag them back out if you expect me to do this week’s invoices.”

“All right, I’ll have everything spread out on the desktop for you.”

“Have you rescheduled our Colonial Beach trip?”

“When could I? I’ve been busy with oil changes and a brake job all morning,” he lied.

“You’re waffling again, Jake.”

“I’ll look into it this afternoon. We still have time.”

“Huh? The summer is almost over, and we haven’t done anything fun together.”

“Dad died in June and I haven’t been in a fun-loving mood.”

“I know Hiram died.” She paused. “You must think I’m awful for bringing up Colonial Beach again.”

“I understand your need to relax, and I’m overdue for a little break, too.”

“Can you round up a mechanic to pinch hit on short notice?”

“I know a couple of retired guys, and they always like making a few extra bucks.”

“We still haven’t picked out our wedding rings.”

“So much stuff needs doing. Right after Labor Day, we’ll drive down to Culpeper and shop. How does that sound?”

“I’m ready anytime. Just don’t keep me waiting too long.”

“I hear more to your warning than just shopping for wedding rings.”

“Smart boy,” she said before they hung up.

Jake arose from the desk and trudged out into hot, coppery sun, his eyes cowering. Marriage seemed better suited for years down the pike rather than in a few short weeks. Hearing a car’s drone on the state road, he smiled, grateful for the diversion. At last he welcomed his day’s first customer, but he’d no way of foreseeing within minutes he’d die of one .44 gunshot wound slammed straight to the heart.

Many small towns sport a colorful story behind their name’s origins, but Quiet Anchorage had no such pedigree. It’d sprung up in the nineteenth century as another depot on the old railroad line wending north-south through the Virginia piedmont. Ironically enough, the landlocked town at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains had nothing to do with any maritime aspect.

The older natives attributed the town’s name to its mellow pace. In sharp contrast, the town’s younger residents having to get up before the crack of dawn to make the two-hour commute to their city jobs hadn’t yet found this mellow pace to enjoy. The shallow Coronet River meandered along the town’s southern flank. A tow truck driver had winched up the two rusty anchors from the silty river bottom, and the mayor ordered them posed in front of the VFD’s brick station. Resident historians said Robert E. Lee’s Confederate army had used the anchors to stabilize the pontoon bridges he ordered erected across the river. Schoolchildren taking the walking tour of Quiet Anchorage heard the fire chief’s spiel on the twin anchors’ history.

Cat’s-paw breezes now batted the red and purple blooms on the crepe myrtle and powder puff mimosas. Sheriff Roscoe Fox driving his Crown Vic cruiser, its windows down, took stock of the fire station’s new roof. A benefit supper had raised the funds. This afternoon his wind-burned face was stretched taut. For the first (and he prayed the last) time, he had to tackle a homicide investigation. In a half-daze, he returned from the crime scene he wished he never had to process.

Murder in his small town had been unheard of until this afternoon.

He ran his fingers through his premature balding, iron gray hair. Twenty-odd years ago, he’d served as an MP at Fort Riley, Kansas. His cop duties never exceeded rounding up AWOL soldiers, patrolling the pancake flat streets, and issuing traffic summons.

He’d received some classroom training in homicide investigations, but that summer, like this one, had been a blast furnace and he’d dozed through the course. Though he’d flunked it, his superiors had curved the grades enough to pass him. Even back then, new MPs were in big demand.

When his shoulder mike crackled, he ignored it. The GPS map display on the dashboard computer flickered but no directional aid was necessary, and he looked away from it. He muttered to himself.

“Jake Robbins lies dead so what now, Roscoe? Arrest his fiancée Megan Connors because I’ve got solid enough evidence to charge her.”

His turn signal at Church Street blinked. His deputy had let off Megan at her aunts’ house, and he decided to initiate his search for her from there. He punched the gas pedal. Alma and Isabel Trumbo came across as sweet, old ladies, but he knew they didn’t back down without a badger’s fight. Mashing on the brakes, he slid over the cruiser to park under a leafy canopy.

His visual cop’s sweep took note of the navy blue sedan in the short driveway beside the burnt orange brick rambler. The summer drought had browned the lawn teeming with grasshoppers. He climbed out and unclipping the shoulder mike saw the curtain flicker at the picture window. He’d been discovered.

“Just relax and switch on that good ole boy charm,” he muttered before standing at his cruiser door. “They’ll melt in my hands.”

He’d no sooner reached the slate pavers walkway and hiked up the porch steps as the front door swung wide. The compact human form imprinted behind the screen door spoke.

“Hello, Sheriff Fox. I know this can’t be a social call.”

“Far from it, Alma. I’m afraid there’s been a homicide.”

Unimpressed, she didn’t gasp or turn ashen. “You’ll want to talk to Megan again, as if she hasn’t been through enough already.”

“As I can well imagine,” he said, now inside the cooler, dimmer living room. “Good afternoon, Isabel,” he told the other elderly sister on the sofa next to the sad-faced young lady. Neither of them returned his greeting nod.

“Megan has been run through the wringer, so you better keep this brief as possible,” said Isabel.

His gaze scoped the living room. “Which seat do I use?”

“Isabel’s armchair works fine,” replied Alma. “Do you have any suspects?”

He perched his haunches on the edge of the lime green armchair. He didn’t care for the color. “Alma, this is still the early going, and I don’t know too much yet.”

She sat down to protect Megan. “There’s no need to play coy or evasive. We already know what’s what, don’t we, Isabel?”

“Let Sheriff Fox pose his questions, and he’ll leave that much sooner.” Isabel looked sharp at him for confirmation, but he didn’t react.

Instead, he ran his thumb pad along the damp sweatband inside the Smokey the Bear hat he’d removed from his mussed hair.

“I’ll say up front your sleuthing capers make for interesting newspaper copy,” he said. “Your solving the case of the toppled gravestones amused townspeople, but this is a far different animal. I’m in the manhunt for a murderer with ice water in his veins.”

“Just make your point,” said Isabel.

Alma shifted to face Isabel. “He’s telling us to butt out of his police investigation for Jake’s murder.”

He allowed a grimacing smile. “I’d never use that blunt language but, yeah, that’s the gist. Your tampering will only impede our progress.”

“Your warning is duly noted, and we’ll talk to you soon,” said Isabel.

“Hold on. I’m not finished.”

“Go on then. We’re listening,” said Alma.

He eyed Megan before glimpsing a sly look pass between the sisters. At his sharper glance, however, they just sat in deadpan innocence waiting for him to continue. He knew they were up to something. He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of a wrist over his nose.

“Megan, did you talk to Jake this morning?” he asked.

“We did for a few minutes on the phone, and I went over to do the books,” she replied.

“Does she need her attorney?” asked Isabel.

“Of course not. Where did you get such an outlandish idea?” He used his hat as a fan and wished the older townspeople relented and ran their air conditioning. “This is a routine interview where I let the factual details come to light and assist in building our case.”

“Didn’t you question Megan earlier at Jake’s place?” asked Alma.

Sheriff Fox quit fanning. “Right but a few minor points remain fuzzy.”

Isabel took Megan’s hand to sandwich between hers. “Go ahead and we’ll coach you through the rough parts.”

“Have Jake and you been a happy couple?” asked Sheriff Fox.

“How is that germane?” asked Alma.

“Alma, let’s let Sheriff Fox ask his questions and be off,” said Isabel.

He stuck on his hat and knuckled up its brim to reveal his tired expression. “Megan, I’m afraid you’ll have to accompany me.”

“Accompany you where?” she asked.

“We’ll head to the station house, and my clerk will type up your statement. You can sign it, and we can finish everything within the hour. I’ll ask a deputy to bring you home, or else back here if you wish it.”

“With Megan so torn up, right now isn’t a good time,” said Isabel.

“It’s more sensible to do it while her memory is still fresh.” He pasted on an ingratiating smile. “The up-side is we’ll have closed this loop for good.”

“I can appreciate Sheriff Fox’s urgency.” Megan stood up from the sofa. “I’m as anxious as anybody to know who murdered Jake.”

Alma’s fierce blue eyes pinned on Sheriff Fox. “We’ll give you one hour and any minute longer, we’re coming to get Megan.”

“Don’t sign anything and don’t admit to anything, Megan,” said Isabel.

“Our lawyer will have the final say,” said Alma.

Megan’s shaky hand grazed Alma’s forearm. “Hiring an expensive lawyer is hardly necessary.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Alma.

Her silence stony, Isabel nodded once at them.

“Megan will see you in a jiff,” said Sheriff Fox.

Alma didn’t miss noticing him touch the pair of handcuffs clipped to his duty belt.

With her chin up, Megan preceded him out the door. The sisters standing behind the screen watched the grasshoppers scatter from their departure.

Using care not to bump her head, Sheriff Fox helped Megan into the cruiser’s rear seat. The engine rumbled, and the roof bar light strobed out its red-blue glints. As the cruiser nosed into the street, the siren’s blat pierced the humid afternoon’s quiet as he gunned it down Church Street.

Isabel gave Alma an apprehensive look. “Why is he in such a big hurry?”

“Because he takes himself too seriously,” replied Alma.

Isabel continued staring at Church Street. “Can you believe this has gone on?”

“Bad dream.” A resolute line set at Alma’s jaw and chin. “I’m burning up with curiosity to see where Jake Robbins died.”

After retrieving her magazine from the floor, Isabel started to fan herself. “I’m not sure that’s a wise idea if the deputies are still working there.”

“By now they’ve left, and we can’t sit around and twiddle our thumbs.”

Again Isabel’s magazine dropped to the floor. “Why did we let Megan go by herself with him?”

“Did we have a choice? He represents the law, after all.”

“Will he arrest her?”

 
“Most signs point to yes,” replied Alma. “I’d say he put her in his gunsights the instant he waltzed through our doorway.”

“Then we better go see the crime scene for ourselves.”

The large, black purse dangled by its straps from Alma’s forearm. While Isabel retrieved hers from her bedroom, Alma shooed out the mud dauber that Sheriff Fox had let in. She only wished the pushy sheriff was as easy to swat out of their orbits.