Ed Lynskey - Isabel and Alma Trumbo 01 - Quiet Anchorage (22 page)

“It wasn’t so catastrophic,” said Isabel. “You exposed Deputy Fishback for what he is, and Eddy backed you up. Everybody was sympathetic. Clarence won’t endear a raft of voters, especially among the ladies. He’s astute enough to realize he just committed a possibly career-ending gaffe.”

 
“A man shooting another dead over a few shiny hubcaps is hard to swallow,” said Alma. “No jury will buy it, and I know juries are big on motive. They have to understand why a murderer acted as he did, or they won’t go thumbs up to convict him.”

Sammi Jo’s lips parted to speak when a red-faced Clarence banged open the door, barging out of the deli. He vaulted into his dusty cruiser, his engine grumbled to life, and lurched off to turn at the traffic light where the highway intersected Main. The ladies traded mild smirks.

“Do you speak from personal experience with juries?” Sammi Jo asked Alma.

Put on the spot, she described her episode serving in the jury box. “In the mid-nineties I moved to a garden apartment on Columbia Pike in Arlington and started a new job. My jury summons arrived in the mail, and the next week like any good citizen I reported to the courthouse.

“The jury pool I mixed with drew from all walks of life. When the deputy summoned us, I took the elevator to my assigned courtroom. The defendant, a young man fused with a vile temper, had allegedly shot his wife through the heart like what became of Jake. Man and wife bickered over who’d paid for a carton of non-filters, and he kept a handgun in the breadbox. He went postal, grabbed out the handgun, and cut loose on her. It was a brutal, stupid act, and the young man wept throughout the trial.”

“How did that shake out?” asked Sammi Jo.

“We found him guilty, and the judge sentenced him to life imprisonment.” Alma tweaked the ignition key to engage the sedan’s engine. “You know, I now doubt if Jake was killed in the heat of the moment. His murder wasn’t like this young man shooting his wife over the carton of non-filters.”

“It sounds as if Clarence no longer tops your suspects list,” said Sammi Jo.

“My leading hunch tells me he isn’t our guy,” said Alma as they left Eddy’s Deli.

Stopped at the drugstore, Sammi Jo bailed and waved to the sedan. She sidled through the drugstore and saw nobody behind the soda fountains or the pharmacy counter. After entering the cluttered back room, she took the inner stairway up to her hallway. Her key let her inside her apartment. “Home sweet home.” After she flumped down on the sofa and started to unwind, she saw her dirty laundry and then her top dresser drawer somebody had left hanging out.

“I’ve been robbed.” She hurried over to the dresser.

Panic set her pulse spiraling. She yanked out the top drawer and flipping it over poured out her socks on the bed. The business envelope taped to the drawer’s underside came off. In relief, she counted the nine ten-spots tucked inside the business envelope, the sum of her rainy day fund.

“Who broke into my place?” she said. “I’d call in the attempted robbery if I had a sheriff or deputy who I could trust.”

Like every VFD, Quiet Anchorage’s sponsored bingo matches. Every week the word of mouth, the sole means of advertising, lured in the crowds. Not fond of noisy gatherings, the sisters never attended; however, this Wednesday night was different. They’d go work the bingo patrons and glean any information on Jake Robbins murder.

Alma, the extroverted one, got a bigger kick out of gussying up and heading out to schmooze. Isabel favored a more subtle style, focusing her attention on a single lady or no more than three in their group. Still, she was no slouch when it came to gossiping. Just as they finished dressing, their living room telephone woke up. Alma strolled in, picked up the receiver, and her usual cheery “hallo” befuddled her caller.

The gruff male voice hesitated for a beat and then asked, “Isn’t this the residence of Mrs. Isabel Trumbo of Quiet Anchorage?”

“Yes sir, it is,” replied Alma.

“Well, is she the party to whom I’m speaking?”

“No sir, this party is Mrs. Alma Trumbo, Isabel’s sister. Now, just who is this party?”

“I’m not obligated to tell you,” said the male voice, a trifle snide.

Alma laughed. “Then I don’t feel obligated to speak to you.”

“Wait! Don’t hang up on me. This is Mr. Oglethorpe from the Richmond office.”

“You’ve have me at a disadvantage, Mr. Oglethorpe. Richmond has many offices. Which one is yours?”

“My office licenses the private eyes in the Commonwealth of Virginia.” Mr. Oglethorpe assumed a paternal tone. “Mrs. Isabel Trumbo and I had a previous conversation on this subject, and we arrived at an understanding. Or so I thought when we hung up. The trouble is she hasn’t lived up to her end, and I’m quite upset.”

“Well, I can tell you our circumstances have changed, Mr. Oglethorpe. Our detective agency has undergone a growth spurt. Before there was only two but now we number five, and I hope my niece Megan will shortly put us at six.”

“Very interesting.” During the delay, Alma visualized Mr. Oglethorpe hunched over his desk jotting down notes about them on his laptop. “What role do you fill in this new agency, Alma?”

She smiled. “I’m glad you asked. You might call me the brains. As you already know, Isabel is in charge of our PR work. Our sister Louise, the out-of-towner, is our agent-at-large. Phyllis Garner is, well, she’s our soul. Sammi Jo is the youngest and lends us the moxie as needed. Finally, Megan will bring the grace and charm that an all-lady PI firm thrives on.”

“Brains…PR…agent-at-large…soul…moxie…grace and charm. Okay, I’ve got all that down.” With sly ease, he segued into his main question. “Can you please summarize your fee schedule, moving from the low- to high-end services?”

“That’s impossible.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“We charge no fees.”

“That’s hard for me to believe.”

“Whether you do or don’t believe me is irrelevant. It’s the gospel truth. Our detective work is done free of charge.”

“Nobody can work for free.”

“Sorry to bust your bubble. We do.”

Dispirited, Mr. Oglethorpe fretted. “Surely you’ve put a quarter into the parking meter or bought a stapler for the office.”

“Are you kidding me? Isabel won’t even spring for a cold soda.”

“Then why does my Quiet Anchorage source report otherwise?”

“I have no idea. Do you care to share what you’ve heard from your source? Or better yet, which of our local busybodies snitched on us? We’d like the opportunity to confront our accuser.”

“Sorry, but that’s proprietary information.”

“Is Deputy Fishback or Sheriff Fox your spy?”

“I can’t disclose my confidential informant’s identity.”

“Well Mr. Oglethorpe, we’re late for bingo. Let’s leave it this way. If and when we decide to turn professional, you’ll top our list when we break the news.”

“That’s reasonable. I hear you’re pretty darn good at what you do.”

“We’re too modest to brag. On the other hand, we don’t discourage such impressions.”

“Your agency seems to fill a niche market.”

“We serve anybody, but right now we’re late for bingo.”

“Then I’ll let you go.”

Alma after hanging up said, “Finally, thank goodness.”

Isabel emerged from the hallway. “Who was that?”

“Our good friend Mr. Oglethorpe is from the Richmond office. He’s gotten an update about us. I guess our stirring the pot has scared somebody here into calling him.”

Isabel’s hands pressed the worst wrinkles out of her paisley dress. “Who keeps such a keen eye on us?”

“I wonder, too, but Mr. Oglethorpe says his source is officially hush-hush.” Alma tugged at the cuffs to her off-blue pants suit.

“It might be more ambitious than the one informant. Maybe a spy network watches us and feeds a steady stream of information to him.”

“Then I hope they get their eyes full.” Alma took up the straps to her large, black purse.

They waded into the stultifying night. Honeysuckle smothering the paling fence hung its cloying fragrance on the heavy air. A train whistle, soulful and long, wafted up the dark streets and yards to their porch. Both Trumbo sisters reveled in the familiar small town noises and smells. However now murder had cast its ominous pall over the tranquil scene they called home.

“While Judge Redfern mulls over Megan’s fate, the best we can do is play bingo,” said Alma.

“We’ll also stoke a hotter fire under the pot. I bet somebody knowing something and just needs a nudge to speak up,” said Isabel.

“Should we also post a reward for any useful information?”

Isabel folding into her side of the sedan gave a dry laugh. “Those never work. How much money does it take to lure out an informant?”

“A few hundred dollars is my guess.” Alma driving, they prowled into the darker street.

“I’d put it more like a few thousand dollars. Picture how it’d be. We’d set up a tips hotline, and we’d have anarchy, swamped with the calls from the greedy types saying anything that might lead to claim the reward money.”

“Anarchy does not advantage us.”

 
“Our Richmond watchdog might also bark at us for offering such a reward.”

“Mr. Oglethorpe is all bark.”

“He seems like a fellow with a lot pressing on his mind.”

“As long as we never accept a dime, we’ll be in the clear with him.”

“Amateur sleuths aren’t his worry. You know this might be our dream for filling the time in our retirement. We come and go as we please. We’re not beholden to any regulations. We can work when we want and quit any old time we feel like it.”

“But right now we can’t back off from helping Megan.”

“That goes without saying.”

They rolled up on the fire station and saw the interior light filling its loft windows. The cars and trucks parked on the streetside had overflowed into the gravel lot at the Baptist Church, the site of Jake’s funeral. The standing knots of people murmured, and the rusty anchors stood guard between the opened bay doors to the garaged fire pumper trucks. A patriotic fireman had tied the yellow “Support the Troops” bows to the anchors. Alma and Isabel crept through the intersection, each surveying her side of the activities.

“My, bingo is now a marquee event,” said Isabel.

“We need to get out more and soak up the nightlife,” said Alma.

The sedan glided into a berth not far from the church portico. They put up the windows, piled out, and made their way to the fire station.

“Can you believe Sheriff Fox is out making speeches?” asked Alma.

“We’ll just give him the cold shoulder,” said Isabel.

Their strides lengthened. Sheriff Fox in his rolled up shirtsleeves gave the appearance of a diligent peace officer. He planted his legs wide apart to project an aura of confidence while chatting with a pair of elderly ladies. Expressive hand gestures and easy smiles leading to a resonant laugh demonstrated his rapport with his audience.

His eyes roaming to line up his next targets of opportunity spotted the two ladies in the shadows approaching. It was a cinch to flatter the senior citizens, wooing their sure votes. Detaching himself with the proper excuses, he ambled toward these new ladies. He’d locked up four more votes simple as you please, but then his confident smile dissolved.

“Why, Alma and Isabel, I’d no idea you were bingo fanciers,” he said with fake cheer.

“We can stand and talk to you, or we can go inside to claim a good seat,” said Alma. “If you’ll excuse us, we’ll be on our way.”

A perfunctory smile came with his shrug. “I’m just out greeting my constituency.”

Isabel smiled as they edged past him. “Good evening, Sheriff Fox. I better not share my frank opinion with you, or a lightning bolt might zap me within the sight of the Baptist Church.”

“You just better not get up your foolish hopes,” he said.

Isabel’s saccharine smile deflected his words. “Megan will have her day in court, and we’ll see what the upshot is. Meantime tomorrow morning, Helen Redfern will set bail, and we’ll bring Megan home where she belongs, and you took her away from.”

“Judge Redfern is keenly aware this is a homicide and will rule accordingly.”

“Why haven’t we seen a copy of Megan’s police report?” asked Alma.

“I’m going to turn over all of my stuff to Dwight.”

Alma and Isabel urged each other through the fire station’s doorway where they climbed the stairs. The festive gales of laugher poured down from the bingo loft as they ascended.

“Every time we cross swords with Sheriff Fox, my blood pressure spikes by twenty points,” said Alma.

“Your heart is too ornery to quit on you,” said Isabel. A furtive glance up and down the stairs assured her of their privacy. “Scoring a victory in this race sent him out hustling votes tonight. Have you ever seen him so psyched as we just saw him?”

“Are you ready to see if he planned Jake Robbins’s murder to feather his political nest?”

“Yes, we should put our top cop under the microscope.”

“Do you think like me now that Clarence had nothing to do with killing Jake?”

Isabel gazed up the stairwell to the door they wanted to use. “I wouldn’t rule out Clarence just yet, and the idea of Sheriff Fox as behind Jake’s murder isn’t so bizarre. Worse horrors have rocked small towns. Sheriff Fox knows how to transfer prints and stage a crime scene. Why he hasn’t done anything to oppose our playing private detectives except to give us his blowhard warnings?”

“Because we haven’t poked into
his
affairs?”

“Bingo.”

“Speaking of which, I can smell popcorn, pretzels, and frankfurters. We must be at the right gala.”

They entered the bingo loft, an expansive, low-ceilinged room also used for banquets put on by the Lions, Kiwanis, and Jaycees. Fluorescent lamps donated by the refurbished town bank beamed down on the cafeteria tables arranged end-to-end in long rows. Alma abhorred the loft’s kitschy décor: the baize curtains were Zulu blue, the tablecloths tangerine orange, and the walls knotty cedar panels. The new faces mingling with the townspeople had to be the transplanted McMansionites living on the fringes of Quiet Anchorage.