Ed Lynskey - Isabel and Alma Trumbo 01 - Quiet Anchorage (8 page)

“Whew, today is shaping up to be a scorcher.” Alma rolled up her car window.

After following suit, Isabel switched on the air conditioner. A chilled draft of air hosed into her face, and she closed the offending vent. Alma, enjoying the chilly air, adjusted the vents to aim and stream it at her.

“We neglected to do our shopping,” said Isabel.

“Jake’s murder distracted us, so I think we’re forgiven,” said Alma.

She looped them around in the commuters’ parking area on the highway and returned down Main Street. Neither sister missed the sight of Quiet Anchorage’s oldest social institution—a trio of hatless gentlemen basking in the sun lolled on the wood bench guarding Lago Azul Florist. They waved, and Alma returned the gesture. She knew Isabel didn’t approve of their loafing ways, but she thought it expedient not to tease her.

“Put us by the market. Avoid those trifling bums,” said Isabel.

“Isabel, they’re not bums or trifling. Why are you so down on them?” Alma shifted the sedan into Park. “They camp there in front of the florist minding their own business. One of them does an odd job or two once in a while.”

“Shouldn’t you be saying ‘once in a great while’?” Isabel stepped out of the sedan to lead them walking toward the market. “Don’t try to snow me. I’ve known Ossie Conger, Willie Moccasin, and Blue Trent all their lives, the bulk of which I might add they’ve squandered away gathering splinters on that same bench. Careful, don’t gaze in their direction, or we’ll waste the rest of the day gossiping with them.”

“Pot calling the kettle black,” said Alma.

The ladies made the corner and despite Isabel’s cautionary hiss, Alma acknowledged Ossie Conger’s second wave.

“Their gabbiness might be our best way to learn things on Jake,” she said.

Isabel shrugged into a resigned sigh. “Your mind is made up, so what can I say? But you’ll do the talking since I’ve come down with a sudden attack of laryngitis.”

The heat waves shimmied off Main Street, and they skirted the bubbly tar patch. The trio—all wearing streaky Bermuda shorts, baggy tie-dye t-shirts, and zoris—chorused a gravelly, “Good morning, ladies”. Authentic dog tags worn with MacArthur at Inchon dangled on thick gold-braided chains from their gaunt necks.

Ossie Conger removed the match fragment from his teeth and fingered its rough end. “Crying shame about Megan. For what it’s worth, we ran a straw poll, and our jury voted it unanimous: not guilty.”

“We don’t allow for one second that she killed Jake,” said Willie.

“Your show of support is appreciated,” said Alma.

Ossie nodded. “Now, if you asked us who did kill Jake…”

“Yes, Ossie?” asked Alma, eager. “Go on, please.”

“…we’d have to admit it baffles us. Jake was a good kid never causing any trouble. He fixed cars and that’s all. Sheriff Fox doesn’t know from a hole in the head.”

Willie cleared the phlegm from his throat. He spat down at the wood shavings scattered off his carving on a quail decoy from a block of yellow pine.

Repulsed, Isabel made her own throat noise, and Alma’s fingers squeezed Isabel’s wrist, counseling a little more patience.

“I’ll give you my pet theory if you care to hear it,” said Willie.

“Well, there’s no time for your harebrained ideas,” said Ossie.

“No time in the universe,” said Blue Trent, nodding.

“On the contrary, all we’ve got is time.” Hope enlivened Alma’s speech. “What’s your pet theory, Willie?”

“Oh, boy.” Ossie flicked away his broken match fragment to land in the wood shavings. “You’ve gone and done it now.”

Blue Trent also spat.

The hairy back to Willie’s wrist swiped across his mouth. He rested the quail decoy on the bench, chunked the tip to his knife blade into its wood, and scraped his palms together.

“The Robbins’ property lies in what some of us refer to as a ‘hot sector’. Over the years it has dazzled us.”

“Can you be more specific?” asked Alma.

“Man, I wish you’d never gone to Roswell,” said Ossie.

“Those Star Trek books have unhinged your mind,” said Blue Trent.

Willie ignored his two friends. “In the still of the night, bizarre objects do acrobatics over those piney woods. I’ve watched them. Ossie, you can quit grinning. Intergalactic aliens—yes, you heard me right, I said aliens—have grown more brazen. Their starships now swoop down in broad daylight.”

Blue Trent made a disgusted scoff, and Willie glowering at him finished his story.

“Aliens docked their starship near the Robbins’ house, a few hopped off, and they did in Jake. Aliens from a warrior galaxy, I’ve read, are just out-and-out ornery.”

A rising laugh sputtered from Isabel’s lips. Turning, she suppressed her giggles behind a hand clapped over her mouth as Alma’s face lost its bright-eyed optimism.

“Thanks for your interesting story,” she managed to say.

Blue Trent leaned in from the sunny end of the bench. “Willie, you’ve sat here and whittled away all of your brains.”

Willie palmed his quail decoy and carving knife. “Laugh if you like but I was a skeptic, too, until I read Colonel Corso’s book on how he collected the alien artifacts at Roswell. In fact, did you know scientists invented the computer chips from the aliens’ silicon wafers they recovered at the Roswell crash site?”

“That’s enough hooey out of you, Willie,” said Ossie.

Willie gave the sisters a wink.

“Well, thank you gentlemen, and we’ll be off to do our errands,” said Isabel.

Alma fussed as they went by the melted tar patch to the grocery store. “Quit acting so glib, Isabel. Next time you can suggest a better idea.”

“Laughing at spontaneous humor isn’t acting glib. I’d no idea Willie was so funny and strange. Imagine, UFOs and aliens here in our neck of the woods. Those old coots crack me up. We must talk to them more often.”

“Willie was just pulling our leg. He’s crazy like a fox, you know.” Alma stared off until a new insight clarified itself. “When we ducked into Jake’s shop, did you see an office or desk?”

“No, just the barber chair the mangy barn cat snoozes on,” replied Isabel as they entered the grocery store’s air-conditioned chill. “Why your question?”

Before Alma could respond, a man’s greeting boomed out. “Alma! Isabel! Haul it on back here.”

Jumpy’s nod beckoned them as he wiped his hands on a blood-streaked apron. A burly man, he wore a gold earring and chin whiskers.

Alma and Isabel neared the meat counter’s humming refrigeration where the sausage links and chicken gizzards were set out for display behind the frosty glass panels. Alma turned up her runny nose at the suety aroma. With a poorer sense of smell, Isabel leaned into the meat counter.

Jumpy continued speaking. “It’s a shock on Megan. Has she grabbed a lawyer? Is it Dwight? If it was me, I’d go out of town because he’s too light hitting. No, I’d hire a barracuda lawyer with razor teeth to rip apart red meat and shake out the gouts of blood. That’s the surest way to get her free.”

“Call off your barracuda lawyer, Jumpy. Megan is in good hands,” said Isabel. “Did Jake do any recent work on your truck?”

Jumpy’s chest puffed out. “He knocked out a brake job for me, and why not? His prices aren’t outrageous, and he always stands—or rather stood—behind his repairs.”

“Did you see any strangers at his shop?” asked Isabel.

“No ma’am, it was just us. He told me of his plans to grow his business. He hoped to restore old car models and start a vintage car museum.”

“Megan probably had other ideas,” said Alma.

Jumpy made an annoyed face.

“Did he use an office?” asked Isabel.

“An office?” Jumpy paused, thinking. “Sure, his big walnut desk sits inside the rear sun porch. I recall seeing the file cabinets there, too. Yep, he was big on organization, and you’d never see any mess.”

“Megan is like that,” said Alma. “He must’ve picked up his neatness from her.”

Jumpy sucked between his teeth. “Yeah well, Jake was a regular wizard with a torque wrench. How swift is she at carburetor repairs?”

“She’s smart enough to do anything she sits her mind to,” said Alma, sounding bellicose. “When we saw Jake’s place, it was a big mess—”

Isabel horned in to defuse the brewing argument. “Jumpy, do you offer fish specials today?”

“No ma’am, but come back on Thursday. My fish guy busted a truck axle outside of Tappahannock. He needs a Jake-type to repair it for him.” Jumpy glanced at Alma.

“Since when have you liked fish?” Alma asked Isabel.

“Since Jumpy sells it fresh on Thursday when we’ll want to return,” replied Isabel, giving Alma a meaningful glance.

“Then I’ll see you on Thursday, Jumpy,” said Alma, catching on to cool it.

Jumpy lifted the butcher knife, and it landed with a chilling thud on the wood chopping block.
Whack-whack-whack.
Alma and Isabel picked up their gait to make a speedy trip through the aisles of the store. They gathered a few items in a shopping basket and paid at the checkout lane up front.

After a quick jaunt home to unload their purchases, Alma drove them down Main Street out to the highway where she made a right turn. At the corner, they passed the only clinic in Quiet Anchorage, a single-story brick building built several years earlier. A lone sign-carrying pro-lifer picketed, walking back and forth in front of the door. Both sisters received their medical care, including for Alma’s allergy, at the clinic as did most of the town residents. In fact, Alma couldn’t imagine what they’d do if the clinic were ever forced to close, and they had to drive all of seven miles to Warrenton to consult a doctor.

“Does the clinic also host the morgue?” asked Alma.

“No, Jake will be autopsied by the medical examiner in Warrenton,” replied Isabel.

“I don’t mind Quiet Anchorage not having its own morgue.”

“Yes, a morgue adds little to a town’s quaint charm. Shall we go see Dwight, not that he has anything to do with a morgue?” said Isabel.

“Don’t you grasp how your nuisance snooping jeopardizes our prospects for winning Megan an acquittal?” The exasperated Dwight Holden’s cufflinks clicked on his desktop as he leaned forward to drive his point home.

“Talked to Sheriff Fox lately, have you?” said Alma.

“As a matter of fact, Alma, I did. He’s livid. He ordered me to keep my client’s aunts on a short leash, and I gave him my pledge that I would my best.”

Isabel pursed her lips. “We don’t like hearing you talked to him. Remember who’s paying your fee, and it isn’t him.”

“He contacted me, and I couldn’t very well hang up on him,” said Dwight. “Now I must recommend that you quit doing stuff without first consulting me.”

“Your two cents are noted,” said Alma.

“But now you’ll do as you please against my counsel.”

“We’re not baking pralines while Sheriff Fox fabricates his bogus case to bury Megan.”

“What have you been up to so far today?”

“We drove over to Jake’s place.”

“You went over there?” Dwight stood up and opened the window behind his desk. “You can’t just do that or Sheriff Fox will charge you with obstructing justice.”

“That’s silly.”

“By coming here, you must have something in mind for me to do.”

“I’m glad you asked. First, a list of the townspeople who own .38 handguns would be nice,” replied Isabel.

“No, Isabel, a .44 handgun was used to kill Jake,” said Alma.

 
“I doubt if such a list can be obtained from any database, so what else?” asked Dwight.

“Goose Sheriff Fox to give you a carbon of Megan’s police report,” replied Isabel.

Dwight nodded. “You know, the prosecution has a formidable case to hurl at us. Have you considered a plan of action if her outcome is guilty?”

Alma’s hot, blue eyes seared him. “Your client is innocent until a jury convicts her and don’t you forget it.”

“It was just a thought,” he said.

Isabel weighed in. “If Megan is found guilty, then the appeals process cranks up, only we can’t afford to reach that stage. Alma and I don’t enjoy the luxury of years, so we’ll go for broke now, and that means our taking calculated risks.”

He gulped a little. “Just don’t calculate your risks too large and upset Sheriff Fox.”

“Dwight, quit acting like his flunky. Isabel is right. You work for us,” said Alma.

They left Dwight’s office, and Isabel’s cell phone chirped. Alma alternated her eyes from driving over the blacktop to her pensive sister who carried on a terse conversation and signed off.

“Who was your caller?” asked Alma.

“Our favorite girl reporter,” replied Isabel. “Her editor caught wind of Jake’s murder and Megan’s arrest. Bad news travels fast, I suppose. Anyway, she asked if we’re on Megan’s case.”

“What did you say?”

“You just heard me say we’re checking into a few leads. She said she’d love to do a follow up story, how it’d make for an ‘awesome feature’. We don’t have the time for such nonsense, and I told her to buzz off, but I couched it in nicer language.”

Alma didn’t agree. “Readers love to root for underdogs like us. Suppose we talked to our reporter, and her story ran? Imagine how advantageous it’d be if most of Quiet Anchorage rallied behind us.”

“I’m never keen to work in the limelight.”

“How can we shun free publicity if it can help out Megan?”

“We do need all the support we can drum up.” Isabel pointed out the windshield. “Don’t miss our turn again.”

Alma hit the brakes, and the sedan vaulted off the state road, hitting the loose gravel to slew into Jake’s driveway. Isabel’s hands flew up to brace herself against the dashboard as the rear tires fishtailed around. Alma’s white-knuckled grip held the steering wheel as they swept broadside. Her deft maneuver stabilized the sedan’s tires, and somehow they didn’t spin out. The sedan’s locked tires skating to a halt scraped up the furls of dust.

“Are you a daredevil now?” asked Isabel, shaken.

“Sorry, I got distracted there, but we’re here in one piece,” said Alma.

Isabel nodded at the house. “Do you carry a set of lock picks?”

“Of course not, but maybe Jake left his door open.”

But they found Jake’s door was locked.

Remembering what Megan had once told her, Alma kicked over a fake rock and found the spare key inside its hollow compartment. She used the key, and they entered the sun porch Jake had converted into his office. The stifling space looked disheveled with manila folders spilled over the carpet. They saw the large walnut desk and the three green metal file cabinets Jumpy had pointed out. The length of angle iron that was fitted into the brackets welded to each cabinet and held with a combination padlock secured the drawers shut.

“Might the desk be unlocked?” said Alma.

It was. She drew out each desk drawer, and Isabel sorted through its contents, but nothing constructive turned up. They found outdated racecar magazines soiled by greasy prints.

Isabel removed her floppy straw hat and used it as a fan. Alma leaned over to peek behind the file cabinets and plucked out a yardstick advertising the “State Bank of Quiet Anchorage”. Giving a small shrug, she returned the yardstick.

“Jumpy commented on the neatness, but we see this mess. A curious sort might ask why,” said Isabel.

“Maybe the murderer ransacked the office,” said Alma.

“What was he after?” Isabel rested a hand on a file cabinet. “Why didn’t he rustle up the shop tools and break open the padlocks? Did Megan coming along scare him off?”

“She told us she didn’t see or hear anybody.” Alma picked up the white pages directory under the telephone. “For now, we’ll call back our favorite reporter.”

“We look so grubby.” Isabel brushed a smudge of dust off her blouse sleeve. “Use my cell phone, not the desk phone.”

Nodding, Alma adjusted her cuff. “We’ve got no official PI agency name to give the press.”

“We’ll be Isabel and Alma, Incorporated, or shorten it to I & A, Inc.”

“That sounds too cute. The Trumbo Sisters Investigation Firm is more elegant.”

“Except elegance isn’t really us.”

“How about if we go with the Trumbo Sisters Detective Agency?”

Smiling, Isabel nodded. “Yeah, now that has the best ring to it.”