by Ed Lynskey
“Can you picture the future if I get hitched to Ossie?” asked Isabel.
“You will be setting a third place at the table,” said Alma, displaying her good-humored grin.
“You better run another head count,” said Isabel.
“What are you driving at, Isabel?”
“You’ll have to vacate the brick rambler. Two sisters living with one gentleman under the same roof would not look good and proper.”
Alma’s levity evaporated on the spot. “Ouch,” she said.
“Be ready because the pain only gets worse,” said Isabel. “Naturally Petey Samson would stay with Ossie and me.”
Her eyes enlarging, Alma groaned. “That’s not fair because he is half my dog, too.”
“Plus which, don’t overlook our trove of mysteries,” said Isabel, referencing the large room with the filled bookshelves they called their personal library. “They’d be too numerous for you to pack in boxes, haul away, and shelve in your new scaled-down place.”
Alma groaned louder. “Having none of my vintage mysteries to read would be too much to bear.”
“Then if I were you, I’d change my tune and make sure Ossie and I don’t get cozy with each other.”
Alma nodded, fearful of facing the ghastly scenario Isabel had laid out. “On second thought, Ossie would never measure up to your beloved Max. Besides, we have no idea if Ossie would disapprove of our snooping activities and try to squelch them.”
“Of course not since we aren’t mind readers,” said Isabel. “So cool it with playing Cupid with Ossie and me.”
“I’m hanging up my bow and arrows,” said Alma. “I know what let’s do. Make up a pretense to remove your shoe and show your crusty, yellow bunions to Ossie. That ugly sight would nip any romance in the bud.”
“Maybe I better save that as a last resort,” said Isabel. “Otherwise the Three Musketeers will feel led to show off their scars and warts.”
Alma made a face. “That is a sight I do not ever need to see.”
“Frankly, a comet falling from the heavens will strike us dead before Ossie and I tie the knot,” said Isabel.
“You also don’t have an appropriate dress or shoes for getting married,” said Alma. “Your shopping for the right ones would take you weeks.”
“Then it’s settled,” said Isabel.
Strolling between Isabel and Alma, Phyllis spoke. “Ossie is a nice enough gentleman, but I cherish my independence too much to give it up for the yoke of marriage.”
“You aren’t just whistling ‘Dixie,’” said Alma.
“Hush before the gentlemen overhear us,” said Isabel.
“Willie and Blue are napping on the bench,” said Alma.
“But Ossie is waking them up,” said Isabel.
Isabel, Alma, and Phyllis halted in front of the flower shop. This cool morning found the trio of men dressed in matching bright orange Aloha shirts. Their dog tags on bead chains and cell phones on strap lanyards dangled around their necks. At their advanced ages, they felt blessed to lay claim to having all of their original teeth, hips, and knees. They sat on bleacher seat cushions padding the wooden bench. While they didn’t outright lie, they also never let the facts get in the way of their telling a lively story.
Their discarded jackets lay piled up on the far end of the wooden bench. During the winter months, Sheriff Fox had forbidden them from firing up a burn barrel for warmth, so they moved the wooden bench to inside the flower shop and gawped out its plate glass storefront.
Corina, the proprietress, was Willie’s good-hearted grandniece who tolerated the three old codgers. Willie helped out behind the counter during the busy seasons while Blue and Ossie played her door greeters. If either of them saw a lady customer without a smile, they gave the lady customer a pink carnation.
The gray charmer Ossie was the first to hail the ladies. “What’s the good word, Isabel?” he asked.
Knowing Ossie wooing Isabel might throw a monkey wrench into the sisters’ sleuthing fun Alma was brusque. “We are fine, thank you very much, Mr. Conger.”
Isabel tried to smooth over Alma’s scrappy response. “How are you doing today, gentlemen?”
“Upright and burning oxygen,” replied Willie. “Therefore it counts as a good day.”
“Aren’t you cold sitting outdoors in your shirtsleeves?” asked Isabel.
“Nary a single goose bump,” replied Willie. “We fought in the big war, and a brisk day like this one invigorates the old warriors’ blood to course through our veins.”
Phyllis who’d slept through her U.S. History class was confused. “Which big war do you mean, Willie?”
“I’ll have you know I did my military service in the South Pacific,” replied Willie. “Meantime Ossie and Blue soldiered over there in Western Europe.”
“Did you fib about your ages to the draft board?” asked Phyllis.
“Many of us did, and the recruiters weren’t picky,” replied Willie. “They needed warm bodies to fill the ranks, so they took us right on.”
“What marvelous tales we GI Joes brought back with us,” said Blue filled with nostalgia. “I can recall this petite, raven-haired mademoiselle I met on the outskirts of liberated Paris. She was super nice, and I gave her gifts of chocolates and nylons. We slipped back to her one-room flat and—”
“Blue, excuse me for butting in, but the ladies didn’t stop to hear us tell our war stories,” said Ossie. “What might be on your minds, Isabel?”
Isabel wasted no time getting to the point. “Ladybug Miles is what.”
Ossie had a short nod. “I suspected as much when I saw you coming this way.”
“Ladybug was a stand-up gal,” said Blue. “We chatted with her every now and then. She always had a quick smile and a kind word ready for us.”
“She won’t anymore,” said Phyllis, her voice quavering with emotion.
“We are truly sorry for your loss, Phyllis,” said Blue. “I know of a few other victims who drowned in the Coronet River. The undertow and sticky quicksand make its seemingly placid waters treacherous. It isn’t a place to treat lightly if a swimmer dives into the river.”
“Ladybug wasn’t a drowning victim but the victim of foul play,” said Phyllis. “Her alleged drowning covered up her murder. We’ve got yet another one on our hands.”
Surprised murmurs droned along the bench. The men’s scowls, jutted chins, and corded throat muscles showed how upset they were. Murder was the lurid talk of the town, but lately there had been too much lurid talk going on.
“Who discovered Ladybug’s dead body afloat in the river?” asked Isabel.
“Old Man Winslow while going catfishing ran into the shock of his life,” replied Ossie. “He’s left for St. Pete with his wife and Pekinese, and the wuss said there is a likely chance they won’t return next spring.”
Blue shared his view on why he thought murder had struck their town again. “Poor Ladybug died at the hands of an interloper,” he said.
“Sorry but I don’t quite follow you,” said Ossie. “Be so kind as to enlighten us on what you think an interloper is.”
“An interloper is the outsider who isn’t a Quiet Anchorage native,” replied Blue. “They moved here from somewhere else with their uncouth ways, strange accents, and different moral values.”
Willie nodded. “Everywhere I look now I see another teardown, and a cookie-cutter McMansion replaces a nice house. Or a new subdivision or strip mall has sprouted up where a family farm was sold off in pieces to a commercial developer. The scuttlebutt says a big box store is in the pipeline, and you just know a theme park can’t be coming along too far behind it.”
“It boggles the mind,” said Blue. “Just yesterday morning Jumpy Blixt over at the IGA was telling me how Slim Orszulak’s home place has attracted a buyer. Oh what a joy, I thought because a fleet of dump trucks, earthmovers, and bulldozers are en route to erect a new strip mall. Why do we need another one? I get so angry I could eat nails.”
&n
bsp; “The idiom you want to use is spit, not eat, nails,” said Willie.
“How might you spit nails without first putting them into your mouth?” asked Blue.
“I’m correcting your idiom, not trying to explain it,” replied Willie.
“I’m sorry as all get-out I’m not as erudite as you are,” said Blue.
“Consider me better read than you since I constantly strive to improve my mind,” said Willie.
“Willie, might we stop singing your praises and get back on the ladies’ concerns?” asked Ossie.
“Far be it from me to stand in the way of discussing a grave matter like murder,” said Willie.
“Thank you for the pun and for yielding the floor,” said Ossie. He looked up at the ladies. “Anybody who has seen the Coronet River lately knows it doesn’t contain enough water for a meadowlark to take a bath in it. How anybody could think a swimmer drowned there baffles me.”
“The Coronet’s main channel runs deeper and swifter than you may realize,” said Willie. “Maybe that’s the part where Ladybug drowned in.”
“A reliable source has told us she was discovered where there is less than a foot of water,” said Isabel.
Blue squinted with shrewd appraisal at Isabel. “Could your reliable source be none other than Sheriff Fox?”
Isabel shrugged, fearful her slip of the tongue had revealed the secret and broken their promise to him.
The gallant Ossie came to her rescue. “It’s not important whether or not the ladies are helping Sheriff Fox. It also will not go any further than spoken here if he did ask them. Are we straight on that, gents?”
“My lips are sealed,” replied Willie.
“Loose lips still sink ships,” replied Blue.
“We’ve not heard anything about Ladybug,” said Willie. “Give us a day, and I expect we’ll know a little more. The sensational rumors will be breezing through the streets of our hamlet like a springtime zephyr.”
“Cue the trumpets,” said Blue. “The erudite Willie used another five-dollar word—zephyr.”
“Please hold your applause,” said Willie. “Wasn’t there also a doo-wop band from Brooklyn named the Zephyrs? I saw it recently on Jeopardy under the always tough Pop Music category.”
“Willie and Blue, zip it and let’s agree to chip in and help our friends,” said Ossie.
“There was never any question about it,” said Blue.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” said Isabel. “We knew we could depend on you to step up.”
“We’re happier than a hog is in sunshine and mud to do it,” said Willie.
“Local intelligence gathering is our specialty,” said Ossie. “We do it better than anybody, including the two ladies across the street at Clean Vito’s.”
“It’s not a competition, Ossie,” said Isabel knowing he meant Rosie McLeod and Lotus Wang over at the launderette.
“Just saying,” said Ossie. “If you want the fastest, truest results, come and see the experts first and save a little time. We are also a whole lot nicer to deal with than Lotus when she gets on her high horse.”
“Amen to that, brother,” said Blue.
“We’ll be sure to heed your wise advice,” said Alma.
Chapter 6
They were at the spot where Sheriff Fox had retrieved Ladybug’s waterlogged dead body. Sammi Jo had caught up with Isabel, Alma, and Phyllis. When Sammi Jo heard how Sheriff Fox had asked for their assistance, she was shaking her head.
“I do not believe it,” she said. “If his lips are moving, he is lying to you.”
“Roscoe can be a pill at times,” said Isabel.
“He’s got a trick up his sleeve to pin Ladybug’s murder on somebody,” said Sammi Jo. “We all know he’s had lots of practice at doing that.”
Isabel appreciated Sammi Jo’s wariness. “Granted he’s cagey, but he’s not creative or clever enough to fool us if we keep a sharp eye peeled on him.”
Before Sammi Jo could further object, Alma held up her palm, making a halt gesture. “Let the record show everybody here knows to be careful since Sheriff Fox’s tongue has more forks than are set out on the tables at Eddy’s Deli.”
“Our four pairs of eyes should be able to see if Sheriff Fox and his deputies are up to no good,” said Phyllis.
“Make that seven pairs with the Three Musketeers helping us,” said Alma.
Isabel inspected the terrain surrounding them. Here the riverbank’s gentle slope was clear of the American sycamores, tulip poplars, and black walnuts that liked to grow along its moist banks. Autumn’s painterly reds, oranges, and yellows had started to tinge the leaves. The macadam state road curved into a gradual bend a softball toss away from them.
They grouped by the sisters’ dusty blue sedan, large-sized for easier access in and out of it, parked in the sandy clearing. Three rings of stones marked where the old campfires had burned, and the swimmers had used the discarded willow sticks sharpened on their ends for roasting frankfurters.
The river’s woodsy odor reminded Sammi Jo of wet peat moss or pine mulch. The air’s chill reminded her it was already October, and a shiver tracked through her. She recognized it also came from her unsettling fear of the killer who might be hiding behind a tree and spying on them. To think somebody murdered Ladybug here a short while ago was inconceivable.
“The water isn’t all that shallow,” said Isabel at the river’s edge. “Sheriff Fox’s twelve inches fall a little on the short side. I’m inclined to believe he just eyeballed it from standing on the bank and never waded out into the water.”
Sammi Jo led Alma and Phyllis over to Isabel’s vantage point. The clear water permitted them to see down to the sandy bottom.
“It could be her physical exertions while swimming triggered a fatal heart attack,” said Alma. “The lack of the autopsy results leaves us with having to make too many wild guesses.”
“Her completed autopsy could be weeks away,” said Isabel. “I know it’s frustrating, but we shouldn’t rely on gaining any useful information from it.”
Rubbing the back of her neck, Phyllis gazed over the river to the opposite shore. A pair of goldfinches (the female had the duller plumage) flitted about and tweezed the milk white silk from the dried up flowers in the patch of old bull thistles.
She used a flat intonation. “Sorry, Ladybug, but it’s looking more like you’ll be another cold statistic in the unsolved murders column.”
“We’ve just gotten started so take heart,” said Isabel, giving the dejected Phyllis a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
“There’s no question about it,” said Alma. “At least give us a fair chance to see this case through to the end before you throw in the towel.”
Sammi Jo stooped beside the water’s edge. She dipped her fingers into it, removed them, and flicked off the drops. “The water temperature feels comfortable enough to go for a swim, not that I want to take the plunge today.”
“Did Ladybug use the Quiet Anchorage swimming pool?” asked Isabel.
“She was a dues-paying club member,” replied Phyllis.
“Since the swimming pool closed after Labor Day, she had nowhere else to swim except in the river,” said Alma. “Did she prefer to go alone?”
“She did even if she knew it wasn’t a safe thing to do,” replied Phyllis. “I offered to go with her anytime, but she never phoned me before she went.”
“Do you have a spare key to her townhouse?” asked Isabel.
“She never had a door key cut for me,” replied Phyllis. “Sheriff Fox probably has an extra key he can lend us.”
“Stopping by his office and borrowing the key from him will be a strange experience,” said Alma. “For once we get his cooperation when we’re usually at loggerheads with him.”
“Sammi Jo, I can see you are frowning,” said Isabel. “Is something else the matter?”
Turning, Sammi Jo with a case of shaky nerves looked around them. “This was a popular swimming hole for me and my high school fr
iends. We often came here and enjoyed our fun. On summer afternoons, we floated downriver on old tractor inner tubes, or at night, we built a roaring bonfire to dance around it. However, right now it feels very different. I am getting a new creepy vibe from being here, and I don’t like it.”
“Quiet Anchorage has undergone a sea change over the past five years,” said Isabel.
“Too many folks from elsewhere have moved here,” said Phyllis. “They’re destroying our way of life, but I’m not sure how we can stem the tide. Everybody has the right to put down roots where they want to live.”
“But they don’t have the right to take another person’s life,” said Alma.
“Do you believe like Blue does that a newcomer is responsible for Ladybug’s murder?” asked Isabel.
“We should consider it as a possibility,” replied Alma. “Murder was by and large unheard of until the population shot up like it has. The most criminal activity we experienced was the time Willie littered the sidewalk with his woodcarving shavings, and Sheriff Fox had the nerve to fine him twenty-five dollars for it.”
“The next morning Sheriff Fox discovered the four tires on his cruiser were flat as griddles,” said Sammi Jo. “You know the old saying about don’t get mad, get even.”
“Old Willie can be a bobcat if you dare to cross him,” said Phyllis.
“Unless you ladies want to see more, the goose bumps covering my forearms are saying now is a good time for us to leave,” said Alma.
“I thought you’d never get around to saying it,” said Sammi Jo who’d already headed back for the parked sedan.
Before following her friends, Isabel took a deliberate scan of the swimming hole. While she didn’t put much stock in folks’ psychic ability, she felt as if they’d missed observing something important concealed here. She made a self-bet they would be returning before it was all finished.
Chapter 7
The courtyard of townhouses sat where the old McDougall beef cattle farm had once thrived. The townhouses showed wood exteriors painted with the bright colors of shamrock green, jonquil yellow, and mimosa pink. Isabel preferred the stately brick façade of their rambler on Church Street, but Alma liked seeing the fresh exterior paint the townhouse owners applied every other spring. The late Ladybug Miles had resided in the yellow end unit.
