Ed Lynskey - Isabel and Alma Trumbo 01 - Quiet Anchorage (27 page)

One week later, the five ladies—Isabel, Alma, Megan, Sammi Jo, and Phyllis—gathered for an iced tea klatch in the sister’s living room where they talked and laughed. The Quiet Anchorage newspaper on the ottoman was folded over to the feature article titled, “Trumbo Sisters Detective Agency Sleuths Again!” The rousing story was an entertaining read. Cathy Johnson had written that no PI case had been as dramatic since “Sam Spade had tracked down the bejeweled dingus in San Francisco’s fog-shrouded knolls.”

The local reaction had been swift, not all of it good. One prospective client contacted their house. The abrasive lady said she’d pay plenty for “certain photos” taken of her husband’s infidelities “to nail the cheater to the barn wall”. Isabel, once her throat had cleared, apologized for how all of the PIs’ cameras were in the shop for repairs. The rude lady hung up on Isabel who felt nothing but relief. A little while later her cell phone on the end table chirped again. Excusing herself from their guests, Isabel took her cell phone, retreated into the quieter kitchen, and accepted the call.

“Mrs. Trumbo? Isabel Trumbo? Oglethorpe, here.”

“This is Isabel. Before you go on, the answer is yes, I’m delighted to say that we’ve decided to incorporate our detective firm.”

“Excellent. Do you still have the instructions and application I mailed?”

“Indeed.”

“The completed application isn’t so important for you guys, but we accept check, money order, or credit card.”

“Look for our paper check in the mail sometime early next week. Meantime I expect you saw our write up in the local newspaper.”

“I did and you must be the royal toast of Quiet Anchorage. So, I won’t be receiving any more phone calls from Mr. Spitzer.”

“Yes, Vernon’s heyday as a thief, murderer, and spy has ended.”

Mr. Oglethorpe fell silent for a beat. “Just for the record, I never liked Mr. Spitzer, and I’d no idea he was such a zealot, only a well-intentioned citizen.”

“Vernon duped many of us. He’s a young man with bizarre and dangerous ideas.”

“No acrimonious feelings then?”

“But of course not, sir. Life is too short.”

“Well good, I’m pleased to hear you say that. Since I have your ear.” Mr. Oglethorpe stopped as if to order his next thoughts. “You see, I’m coming to grips over this family dilemma. My younger brother Claude has gone missing for two years, and he owes me a great deal of money.

“I’ve made extensive inquiries to locate him, but I’ve met with meager success. He seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. Anyhow, I was thinking perhaps if your agency isn’t too swamped with work, I might retain you to help me find Claude.”

“This isn’t a good time to discuss your situation, Mr. Oglethorpe. We’re in the midst of celebrating our niece Megan’s homecoming. Tell you what, contact us tomorrow at this same number.”

“Sounds good. What time do your office hours start?”

“At our age, whenever we can crawl out of bed. Bye for now, Mr. Oglethorpe.”

“Thanks and listen for my ring. Again, my congratulations. Bye, now.”

Isabel had no sooner thumbed off the cell phone than it rang again in her hand. Wrinkling her brow, she put the cell phone to her ear and greeted her next caller. It was Cathy Johnson, the reporter from the Quiet Anchorage newspaper.

“We’ve been fielding phone calls from readers all morning,” said Cathy.

“Why for heavens sake do they bug you?” asked Isabel.

“Because Alma and you are an overnight sensation. Some enterprising soul even tipped off the big TV news channels.”

“I just wonder who did that. We hoped things might settle down now that Megan has come home. Frankly, I have half a mind to drop doing this nonsense.”

“Fat chance, I’m afraid. You’ve both caught the big wave and can’t just hop off your surfboards.”

“So it seems,” said Isabel, amused by the beach metaphor. “Alma and I haven’t discussed what’s in store for us.”

“She must have some thoughts.”

Isabel gave a small pause. “She’s a people person, but I’m more of a homebody. I’m sure in the end we’ll go ahead with it. She’ll insist and I’ll just go along with her. That’s how things usually work out in our household.”

“But I can’t see one of you as a detective without the other. You play off each other’s strengths.”

“I suppose that is true. But first we’ll drive up to New England and see the leaves change.”

“My gut says you’ll soon be at it again. I’d love to scoop your next case.”

“Okay, you’ll get the first crack. Promise.”

“Awesome and my thanks again.”

“I’ll be in touch with you shortly. We’re hosting a wingding for Megan, who’s going to be a part of our agency. I better get back and rein in Alma telling all of her tall tales.”

“Then I’ll look forward to your next call.”

Isabel stuck the intrusive cell phone inside of a kitchen drawer and buried it under a clutch of Irish linen napkins they never put out. She glanced through the kitchen window and admired the dog pen that Bradford, the guitar-playing superintendent at Phyllis’s apartment building, had erected. Isabel still preferred the name Samson, and the local pound had just the dog, a part beagle and part terrier, for her waiting at their kennel.

The old-fashioned manual typewriter on the kitchen table attracted her next glance. The first page scrolled inside its platen had “Chapter One” typed at the top center. For a moment, she brooded over how her book project wasn’t off to a rip-roaring start, and she might be a better actual private detective than the writer of private detective stories. As she returned to the living room, a solemn Megan was speaking to the hushed others.

“Aunt Louise and I have ironed it out, and I’ll move no later than next week. I’ll work for the hair salon that she uses.”

“Well, this is quite a surprise,” said Alma.

“Sorry I can’t be a part of your new agency right now,” said Megan.

“This strikes me as a snap judgment,” said Alma. “I’d better have a chat with Louise.”

“But I have to leave Quiet Anchorage,” said Megan.

“I can dig it just fine,” said Phyllis. “Megan wants to get her groove back on, and she can’t do it here in our town.”

Isabel had a seat in her armchair. “Megan, we wish you all the best and will be here if you need to call on us. Dwight with our help will handle the legal niceties on the sale of Jake’s property.”

“You’ve already done enough.” Megan gazed at each face smiling at her.

“You know what’s best for you,” said Alma, now also treading in the safe clichés relied on in the times of saying difficult goodbyes.

“I can help you pack and whatnot,” said Phyllis.

Sammi Jo raised an important point. “Megan, you’ll be back to testify at Vernon Spitzer’s trial.”

“Reluctantly, yes,” said Megan as thorny disbelief contorted her face. “What a poor, sick man he is.”

“Perfect description,” said Alma.

“He won’t be filling any prescriptions for a long time,” said Sammi Jo.

“Not unless his prisons have pharmacies,” said Alma. “Isabel and I will travel north to New England for October’s foliage, so we’ll stop by to visit your new digs.”

“Don’t forget we’ve got a detective agency to run,” said Isabel.

“Ah, so it’s still a go with you,” said Alma. “It’s fine with me to start tomorrow.”

Isabel turned to current events. “The political polls show Clarence Fishback and Sheriff Fox are running neck-and-neck.”

“One is no fitter than the other to be the sheriff, but that’s politics for you,” said Sammi Jo.

“Well, Sheriff Fox owes us for staying mum on his moving Jake’s file cabinets,” said Isabel. “Some day that chit might come in handy to redeem.”

In a bit, all their guests left, and Alma collapsed in her armchair to unwind. The blank squares in the crossword puzzle on her lap beckoned her to fill them in. Isabel in her armchair stared at the static photograph of the massive caribou migration in her
Alaskan Outdoor
magazine. Alma sighed. It being contagious, Isabel also sighed, only louder.

“Are you bored to tears like I am?” asked Alma.

“Probably,” replied Isabel.

“This sedentary lifestyle doesn’t cut it for us.” Alma tossed down the crossword puzzle on the ottoman. “What we better get is a little more pizzazz.”

Isabel flipped the magazine to land on top of the crossword puzzle. “I have a heretical idea on what to do. Let’s shake a leg.”

“Sure, but where are we off, sis?”

“To claim our sunny spots on the Main Street bench. Ossie, Willie, and Blue Trent are our resident oil wells, so we’ll go pump them for leads and drum up some new detective business.”

“Finding any new work might be a ways down the pike.”

“Then during the slow times we can hit them up for a game or two of Scrabble.”

Alma snatched up her large, black purse. “Do we invite Sammi Jo?”

“No, she’s busy getting ready for her date tonight.”

Alma looked amused. “Sammi Jo has a date tonight?”

“Why not? She’s a pretty, warm-blooded girl. Reynolds Kyle from the drag strip is taking her to see the funny cars run at Budds Creek. I didn’t know race cars can be humorous, but that’s what she told me.”

“Good for her. By the way, did you catch my bit on Sam Spade in our newspaper article?”

“Yes, it caught me flatfooted, but turnabout is fair play. Tomorrow I’ve arranged a little surprise for you.”

Alma grabbing the doorknob cast a wondering glance at Isabel. “What sort of a little surprise?”

“I won’t know until Mr. Oglethorpe phones to discuss our possible next case. Now don’t go off and leave our Scrabble board.”

“I haven’t forgotten.” Alma smiled at Isabel. “In fact, I already put it in the car since I had a sneaky intuition that we’d be going to see the benchwarmers.”

Isabel laughed. “I can see your mind is as sharp as it ever was.”

The End