by Ed Lynskey
Since the news of Ladybug’s death, Phyllis had suspended carrying on her bag lady routine. If the townies expected her to dust off their mailboxes and silly stuff like that, she had a surprise in store for them. Her best friend’s murder had sapped her good humor. Her all centered on seeing that Ladybug’s killer got his or her just deserts. Little else mattered to Phyllis.
Ladybug had spiffed up her miniscule yard with a few nice touches. The avocado green sundial stood near the concrete walkway, and a black deacon’s bench sat perpendicular to the front porch. The deacon’s bench seemed out of place with her “No Loitering” sign staked in the ground near the bottom porch step.
Isabel admired the complementary colors of the bronze, yellow, and crimson chrysanthemum blooms. Since girlhood, she’d liked the herbaceous odor given off by the flowers that didn’t make her sneeze as it did some folks. The chrysanthemums reminded her of how they hadn’t done their annual clean up, held anywhere between May and October, at the Trumbo family cemetery plot. They raked up the fallen leaves, planted grass seed, and scrubbed off the granite tombstones. The row of statuesque red cedars shaded Woodrow and Gwendolyn’s tombstones. The cemetery, only a five-minute drive from town, lay close enough to sharpen Isabel’s guilt. Doing the ritual made her feel closer to her dead family, and she’d see to it in due course.
The empty places left in the plot were for Alma and Louise’s interment while Isabel’s final resting place lay between her husband Max and her son Cecil’s graves. Max had led a long and happy life, while Cecil, pals with Joe Camel, had died much too early. Cecil had tried to quit smoking several times, but breaking a nicotine addiction isn’t an easy thing to do.
Sammi Jo guided their procession over the concrete walkway to Ladybug’s front porch. Isabel and Alma took spots sitting on the deacon’s bench as if they were resting for a spell. Phyllis rapped her knuckles on the townhouse door. They waited and got no response. Her follow-up knocks also went unheeded.
“Shall I use my voodoo magic on the door lock?” asked Sammi Jo.
“By all means, please do,” replied Isabel.
“Just make it fast voodoo magic,” said Alma. “Somebody is going to see us doing this and get suspicious enough to ask questions.”
Sammi Jo stooped over and fiddled at the brass lock, using a few intricate steel tools designed to trip its tumblers. Since her lock picking was less than legal, the ladies decided to pretend they had dropped by, and Ladybug was slow in answering their repeated knocks. They also pretended they hadn’t yet heard of her death. Isabel and Alma had been too busy playing Scrabble, Sammi Jo working at the self-storage rental facility, and Phyllis playing the town bag lady. It wasn’t the best cover story, but it would have to suffice. Sammi Jo continued to work on the lock while Phyllis rapped on the door and partially shielded her from view.
Alma, sounding tense, murmured under her breath. “What is taking you so long, Sammi Jo?” Alma hopped up, spun the sign around to hide its “No Soliciting” message, and plopped back down with Isabel on the deacon’s bench.
“That’s much better,” she said to Isabel.
Sammi Jo continued probing with the steel tools, her eyes squinting and her tongue sticking out as she concentrated on her task.
“Alma, take a breath and relax,” said Isabel. “Sammi Jo is doing her lock-picking best.”
“If Phyllis keeps rapping on Ladybug’s door, her neighbors will think she has a crazed woodpecker attacking her townhouse,” said Alma.
“I know woodpeckers can be mighty persistent birds,” said Isabel.
“I’m not an experienced pro.” The metallic scratches to Sammi Jo’s struggle with the lock mechanism intensified. “Using the right key makes this operation go a lot simpler and faster,” she said.
“Our doing this was Sheriff Fox’s bright idea,” said Isabel. “If we get nabbed by one of his deputies, he’ll have to fess up, our secret agreement with him be hanged.”
“Even after I heard it straight from the horse’s mouth, I still don’t trust him any further than I can throw him,” said Sammi Jo.
“That goes double for me,” said Alma.
“Let’s put aside our differences and give him a fair chance,” said Isabel. “We agreed to do whatever good we can, so we’re on the hook for it.”
“The lock pick kit he lent me is a certified dud,” said Sammi Jo. “He claimed he confiscated it from a cat burglar they arrested.”
“Perhaps the cat burglar wasn’t an experienced one,” said Alma.
“You mean the cat burglar was apprenticed to a professional thief,” said Isabel.
“Why not?” replied Alma. “Everybody has to start somewhere.”
“That does it for me, and I give up.” Sammi Jo stepped back from the door and repocketed the lock pick kit. “I’ll tell Sheriff Fox to look a little harder to find wherever he misplaced Ladybug’s door key.”
“A downstairs window might be unlatched or raised,” said Alma. “Stroll around the townhouse and test out each reachable window.”
Alma’s exuberance tickled Isabel. “How might that work? You or I will wriggle like a salamander through the small space. That makes for great slapstick comedy even if we did it without breaking anything vital.”
“Did I say we should be the ones to do it?” asked Alma. “Sammi Jo is an athletic young lady who is capable of wriggling through a raised window.”
Sammi Jo wasn’t okay with Alma nominating her. “Doors are faster to enter homes than windows are. I suggest we put off our searching Ladybug’s townhouse until later after we get the door key.” Sammi Jo wondered if she’d forgotten or skipped a step in her lock picking attempt. “Is there something else constructive we can be doing?”
“I’ve got an idea if you want to hear it,” said Phyllis.
“Everybody’s ideas are welcome,” said Isabel. She glanced at Alma. “Especially since the last idea I heard was so far-fetched. Imagine the Trumbo sisters wriggling like a salamander through a raised window.”
Alma didn’t say anything snarky. One time she had no door key to their locked brick rambler, and she’d squirmed her way through the opened bathroom window to gain access. It wasn’t her most graceful entrance. She’d sustained a few bruises in tumbling into the bathtub, but her idea worked.
“We should go learn what Rosie and Lotus know,” said Phyllis. “They would’ve heard any rumors on Ladybug’s death that have circulated around town.”
“Very little gets by them,” said Sammi Jo.
“They are just who we need to see next,” said Isabel.
Isabel and Alma arose from the deacon’s bench and headed for the parked sedan in the lot.
“It’s on to the launderette,” Sammi Jo told Phyllis. “I should have brought my duffel bag of dirty clothes.”
“Me, too,” said Phyllis. “My favorite bag lady clothes are in the hamper. I may never get around to washing them again.”
***
Clean Vito’s was unlike any other small town’s self-service launderette. The owner Vito Salvador didn’t tolerate dingy or drab surroundings, and he adhered to the philosophy that a laundry outing should be a special event. Who dreamed that doing their baskets of wash could be a pleasurable experience? His launderette took on the pretensions of an ancient Roman temple. Its most garish architectural feature was the gleaming white pair of Corinthian columns flanking the entrance the four lady sleuths used.
They heard pop singer Norah Jones croon a Hank Williams, Sr. oldie but goodie over the in-ceiling speakers. The laundry scents filled Sammi Jo’s nose. The clean detergent smell conjured up her imagery of wet percale sheets pinned to the washline to dry on a breezy, sunny June afternoon.
The lady sleuths nodded back to the patrons, but they failed to locate Rosie and Lotus. The pair of molded plastic chairs in the break room where they sat was empty. Vito had taped a “RESERVED” sign to the back of each chair. They accosted the thirsty or hungry patrons schlepping into the break room to buy a
soda or snack.
Sammi Jo preferred to remain thirsty or hungry when she did her weekly laundry rather than run the risk of Rosie and Lotus detaining her in the break room. They could talk Sammi Jo’s ears off, so she brought a book to read while she waited. She knew Lotus was headstrong, and she could be very opinionated at times.
Why Vito tolerated them puzzled Sammi Jo, but he didn’t seem to mind, and his patrons had grown to regard Rosie and Lotus as a part of the launderette’s milieu. If a patron wished to use Clean Vito’s, they could expect to bump into Rosie and Lotus hanging out there except today they weren’t around, so Alma made inquiries.
“Haven’t you gals heard the big news?” Vito talked around the unlit cigar poking from his mouth. “Rosie slipped on a soap bar in her bathtub, upset the apple cart, and broke her shinbone in two places.”
The slim, short man with the swarthy Mediterranean features was on his knees while he took the sodas from a carrying tray to replenish the low stock in the soft drink machine with its front face swung open.
“That’s awful,” said Isabel.
“I hope Rosie is doing okay,” said Alma.
Vito shrugged under his ginger brown sweater. “She is doing as well as can be expected from somebody with their leg in a cast. Why are you after them if I may ask?”
“We just want to chat with them,” replied Alma.
Vito smiled. “Their chatting makes my patrons happy, and happy patrons are also great repeat business patrons.”
However, you’re also still the only game in town, thought Alma but she asked, “Where might we find your two mascots who are missing in action today?”
“You might try your luck at Rosie’s house,” replied Vito. “She was decked out on her sofa as of the last hour when she phoned me for an update on the latest news here.”
“That sounds like the old Rosie we know so well,” said Alma. “She must not be too incapacitated by her injury.”
“She’ll be returning to Clean Vito’s soon,” said Phyllis.
“I’d be willing to stake my new launderette on it,” said Vito. “Nothing as piddly as a broken shinbone will keep Rosie down for the long count.”
“We’ll drop in and wish her a speedy recovery,” said Isabel.
“Sure, just don’t break a leg while you’re doing it,” said Vito, grinning over his joke. “Sodas, ladies?” he asked when he didn’t get any smiles from them. “It’s my treat. I can offer you a diet cola, ginger ale, and root beer in the can. What’s your favorite?”
“You got any cold ginger ale?” asked Alma.
“Not yet but give the new cans an hour, and they’ll be plenty cold to drink,” replied Vito.
“We’ll be certain to check back then,” said Alma. “Thanks, too.”
“It’s never a problem,” said Vito smiling. “I’m always honored to do our own private eyes a service. Who knows? Someday I also may have a need to call on you for a favor in return.”
Alma didn’t bring up Ladybug’s death or ask Vito if he’d heard anything interesting about it. He’d be receiving the tragic news soon enough. In addition, they didn’t have the time to answer a bunch of questions so he could then turn around and ring up Rosie and spill the beans prior to their arrival.
The lady sleuths left the smiling Vito, proud as a Roman emperor, to lord over his empire of humming washers and tumbling dryers. Norah Jones was now crooning a vintage Hoagy Carmichael song on the in-ceiling speakers when they climbed back into the sedan and scooted off down Main Street.
Chapter 8
Phyllis Garner and Ladybug Miles had last gotten together for an early lunch to beat the hordes crowding Eddy’s Deli, a favorite local eatery with expansive windows letting in lots of sunlight, perhaps a week earlier. The exact day was lost to memory since Phyllis found it tedious to keep track of the days. She lived with no set schedule, so why did she bother with keeping a calendar or watching a clock?
She did recall she had ordered Eddy’s BLT. It came with extra crispy bacon and mayonnaise on toasted rye bread, the yummiest lunch menu item besides Eddy’s chili con carne with grated cheddar cheese. The old-fashioned root beer was her beverage of choice. She’d toned down her bag lady get up for the luncheon. After their meals came, the ladies had some serious catching up to do, and the agitated Ladybug started out.
“This economic depression the news media goes on about has gotten me down in the dumps,” she said.
Phyllis tried to reassure her friend. “Things have bottomed out and will turn around and get better. You just wait and see if I’m not right about it.”
“I have never trusted the banks, and if they fail, our money will be gone forever, and that pill is too bitter to swallow at my ripe old age.”
“The federal government insures our bank deposits. All the personal financial experts advise us not to panic and to hang tough.”
“I’d like to believe it is true, but Uncle Sam isn’t doing so great financially.” Ladybug also related her tragic news. “Did I tell you my ex died?”
Phyllis looked at Ladybug who reminded Phyllis of the Mona Lisa except with pin curls and a thinner face. “Which ex was that?” asked Phyllis. “Was he Number One, Two, or Three?”
“Curt Miles was Number Three. He was my last ex before I wised up and decided to give the institution of matrimony the final boot.”
“Good for you. Did Curt and you remain friendly after your divorce?”
“Curt and I stayed on the best terms I kept with any of my exes. Refresh my memory. Did you ever meet him?
“I never had the pleasure. He came during your Chicago period, and I sadly didn’t make it out to the Windy City to visit you, my loss it would now seem.”
“You didn’t have much of a chance to visit us. Curt and I barely got past our one-year anniversary before we broke up. You may have heard of the couples who get their quickie Las Vegas divorces. Well, that’s how we handled ours, too.”
“I assume there wasn’t another lady in the picture if you both stayed in touch,” said Phyllis, pondering why Ladybug would still have feelings for him. Didn’t a couple getting a divorce mean severing their emotional ties?
“To my knowledge, he was a faithful partner until the end.”
“What happened to make your marriage end so quickly?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose we grew bored with each other’s company. On the other hand, maybe I was growing too homesick for Quiet Anchorage since Curt said he never wanted to live anywhere but in his native Chicago. Are you wondering how Curt died?”
“I’m curious but not enough to ask you it if it’s too painful to say.”
“Curt was a jumper.” Ladybug gave Phyllis a look as bleak as ten miles of bad road. “Isn’t that a horrid way to choose to die?”
Phyllis nodded. “Did Curt jump off a skyscraper or a bridge?”
“He picked the latter, and he did it in grandiose style. He bought a one-way airline ticket to San Francisco.”
“Ah right, now I’m with you. The iconic Golden Gate Bridge is like a suicide magnet drawing the jumpers,” said Phyllis, shaking her head. “That’s very tragic to hear. You have my sympathy, for what it’s worth.”
Ladybug nodded. “It means a lot to me. The authorities have put up free suicide phones on the south and north approaches of the bridge.” She teared up and used her index finger to swipe away the first drops welling up in her eye corners. “Curt must not have felt led to use the phone to call anybody.”
“Most folks now probably use their cell phones,” said Phyllis, finding a new tissue in her pocketbook to give Ladybug.
“Thanks,” said Ladybug, accepting the tissue. She wiped her eyes dry with it.
“How did you find out about his suicide?”
“Curt told me during our last phone conversation he was headed on a trip to San Francisco, and he’d call me from there. When he never did, I got worried and contacted the police who after some earnest convincing on my part checked up on him and then g
ave me the bad news.”
“Did Curt tell you why he was going to San Francisco?”
“He liked to travel but only as a tourist in the Lower Forty-Eight because his home was always in Chicago.”
“How did you stay in touch with him?”
“Every once in a while, he’d phone me. We made each other laugh even if it was long distance. I can only suppose the last time he was on the bridge the good humor was all gone from him.”
“If he was that determined, nobody could have stopped him or talked him out of it. Did he leave a last note offering any explanation? Many of the suicide victims do that.”
“Then I guess Curt bucked the trend because all the police found in his hotel room were his two packed suitcases.”
“I’m sorry for your grief. Is there anything I can do for you, Ladybug?”
“Thanks but I’ll be all right now that I’ve had the chance to talk about it. Sorry I dumped on lucky you like this. I invited you to our luncheon that was supposed to be a fun get-together, and I’ve gone and ruined it. I should have kept quiet about the stupid thing Curt did.”
“Oh, for crying out loud, stop it. I’m glad you confided in me. How long have you been upset like this?”
“Just for a couple of days, and I know I’ll snap out of it sooner than later.”
“I don’t mind lending you a sympathetic ear. That’s what best friends do for each other. What are you doing to keep yourself occupied since we last talked?”
Ladybug smiled for the first time since they’d sat down at the window booth. “I’ve gone on the local circuit of craft fairs, but the craftspeople all seem to sell the same type of merchandise.”
“Yeah, I run across a lot of the same craftsy stuff that has been tossed out as rubbish,” said Phyllis as the bag lady. “Much of it I turn my nose up at taking since who needs the duplicates.”
