Ed Lynskey - Isabel and Alma Trumbo 03 - The Ladybug Song

by Ed Lynskey

  “Maybe there is something to the formal training the police dogs receive,” said Phyllis.

  “Try bribing him with a pork chop,” said Alma, poking fun at Isabel.

  “Sorry but I’m fresh out of pork chops,” said Isabel. “Do you carry any in your pocketbook?”

  “I just have Altoids, pepper spray, and dental floss,” said Alma. “Phyllis, what’s in your pocketbook?”

  “Werther’s Originals and a piece of salt water taffy are in mine,” replied Phyllis. “You are more than welcome to try either one.”

  “None of those will make for a tempting dog bribe,” said Alma.

  Isabel placed her hands on her hips while her face took on an exasperated look. “I am flabbergasted. Why is it taking us so much prompting to motivate him? Any other time he can’t wait until we have started our walk, and he’s off like a Roman candle, pulling at the leash to break free of us.”

  “What is he after there?” asked Phyllis. “Did a different hound dog here earlier bury a soup bone?”

  Alma restrained her scoff of dismay. The Trumbo Sisters Detective Agency limited their staff members to two-legged detectives, and the four-legged ones, like Petey Samson, shouldn’t waste their time to apply. She was always ready to test out new ideas, but this one had flopped big time. If any leads to solve Ladybug’s murder existed at the swimming hole, Petey Samson wasn’t the right dog to find them. He was just a frolicking bundle of fur and claws.

  The sun had scudded behind a dark gray cloud, and the north breeze stiffened as a reminder of how close winter lurked just around the corner. Alma pulled her jacket tight about her. She thought of a mug of hot chicken noodle soup, a well-thumbed whodunit, and a slow, quiet afternoon all to herself. She thought murder should only appear in print between the book covers of the latest whodunit she was reading for the pleasure of it. The real life murder mysteries like Ladybug’s were getting tougher and taking longer to solve.

  “I don’t understand this problem,” said Isabel. “It’s out of character for Petey Samson to be playing a gopher.”

  “I can tell you what the matter is,” said Alma. “He’s just acting like the part-beagle he is, and they can’t resist digging if given the chance.”

  “Do our flowerbeds have any doggie holes?” asked Isabel.

  “Not a one,” replied Alma. “But what does that prove? He likes to dig here because the loose sand makes it easier for him to claw it out.”

  Isabel turned to Phyllis. “What do you think, Phyllis? Is Petey Samson following his natural beagle instincts to dig, or is there something else going on here?”

  “I’m inclined to believe it’s more the latter,” replied Phyllis. “Do you have a shovel in your trunk?”

  “We keep the shovels hung in the tool shed where they belong,” replied Alma. “If I had known we were off on a treasure hunt, I would have brought one.”

  “Something lies under the sand,” said Isabel. “I have to find out what it is, and where there is a will there is a way.”

  Phyllis lifted her hands; her fingers outspread and bent at the knuckles like a grubbing hoe. “I don’t mind getting a little grime under my fingernails. When did you girls last build sand castles?”

  “The day after T-Rex quit roaming the face of the Earth,” replied Isabel. “But I’m game to try it out. How about you, Alma? Shall we dig together?”

  “I’d feel left out standing here twiddling my thumbs while you ladies played in the sand,” replied Alma. “Is there anything in the sedan to use for digging?”

  “You’ll find the ice scraper in the glove compartment,” replied Isabel.

  “I guess it’s better than nothing,” said Alma.

  “Petey Samson has gotten us started,” replied Isabel. “We’ll be finished with this task lickety-split.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Alma before she couldn’t locate the ice scraper.

  Chapter 15

  Alma heard her joints popping, hissing, and cracking while getting down on her hands and knees. She knew her rising back upright would repeat the ominous noises. Later on, she would claim first dibs on the heating pad, and she wondered if Eustis stocked any Doan’s Pills or Bengay at the drugstore. She’d heard of one dubious folk remedy for an achy back instructing the sufferer to lie prone on the grass and roll over clockwise at the first night call of the screech owl. Alma didn’t believe it. Screech owls had no curative powers.

  The ladies huddled around Petey Samson still intent on enlarging the cavity. The sand had a moist, fecund odor. Isabel felt Alma’s eyes on her and wrinkled up her nose at her younger sister.

  “Quit taking yourself so doggone seriously,” said Isabel. “You enjoy grubbing in the dirt to plant crocus and daffodil bulbs. Pretend that’s what you’re doing here.”

  At her command, Petey Samson retreated.

  “If a local busybody drives by and spots us, we’ll be the butt of the townies’ jokes,” said Alma.

  “There is no pleasing you today,” said Isabel. “You must have gotten up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

  “What the townies say about me doesn’t amount to a row of thimbles in a windstorm,” said Phyllis, the town’s kooky bag lady. “I just dare to be different, and I wave my freak flag high and proud.”

  “What is the freak flag reference you used?” asked Isabel.

  “It’s a 1960s hippies’ term meaning do your own thing,” replied Phyllis.

  “Ouch,” said Alma. “Oh, tartar sauce, I just broke off my nail and it hurts.”

  “Impossible since you chew your nails down to the nubs,” said Isabel. “Nice try though, piker. You keep on scooping out that river sand. Many hands make light work as Gwendolyn liked to remind us.”

  Alma wasn’t done. “My nose itches, and I can’t scratch it with my hands covered by the gritty sand.”

  “Funny how your nose picks now of all the times to act up,” said Isabel.

  “Use your sleeve as a substitute nose scratcher,” said Phyllis. “We bag ladies do that when our hands are filled with salvaged treasures.”

  Alma followed Phyllis’s tip and achieved satisfactory results. She smiled her thanks at Phyllis.

  “Is your itch better now?” asked Isabel, her cupped hand penetrating an extra deep layer of sand to remove it.

  “Everybody will keep on digging so you can relax,” replied Alma. She glanced at Petey Samson. He lounged over there, yawning between his slobbery pants, and his tail wagged as it always did. The scene was all wrong, Alma thought. He was the one who should be still burrowing in the hole and not them.

  “Bowwow, you lazybones,” said Alma. “Thanks to you I’m ruining my frosty pink nail polish. The next time we come, you’ll stay home.”

  “Quit scolding Petey Samson,” said Isabel. “He’s our good luck charm.”

  “His charms must’ve expired on us,” said Alma. “We’re hitting nothing but more sand.”

  “His unerring nose flagged this spot,” said Isabel. “I trust following his keen sense of smell more than your crusty view of the world.”

  “My poor hands can’t go on working like a human backhoe,” said Phyllis, holding up her sand-crusted fingers. “Just look at the claws. This wretched sand runs clear down to China. Something has got to give one way or the other.”

  Alma also paused. “Phyllis also speaks for me. How much deeper should we dig, Isabel?”

  “Digging a few more inches should be thorough enough,” replied Isabel. “Petey Samson had a reason for picking this place, and I refuse to accept he’d steer us wrong.”

  “For once, just admit he blew it,” said Alma. “He sent us on a wild goose chase.”

  “Honk-honk,” said Isabel. Laughing, she also took a break and straightened up. She wiped the back of her bent wrist across her sweaty forehead. In her excitement, she didn’t realize she had expended so much energy. She gave Petey Samson a one-eyed squint. She feared he was merely their pet, a playful but run-of-the-mill dog and not the ace K-9 search
dog she built him up to be.

  Petey Samson arose, stretched his hind legs, and trotted over to the sand pit. She gave him an ear scratch. He inched his deliberate way to the bottom of the hole. Isabel’s eyebrows arched as she regarded him with renewed interest. He tracked his nose back and forth like a prospector operating the handheld tube to a Geiger counter in quest of the radioactive vein of uranium ore.

  He tested every square inch of sand they’d just laid bare to the October sun. He didn’t rush things, acting as if he had all day. A smile tugged at the Isabel’s mouth. She was a second away from putting on a victorious smile. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Alma also didn’t miss watching a move he made.

  Petey Samson gave the ladies an over-the-shoulder glance. He realized no doggie treat was forthcoming, even from Isabel who was usually the soft mark to hit up. He scratched his front claws to re-attack the sand. His latest goofball antic annoyed Alma. He didn’t know when it was time to quit. She sent a hankering look behind them at the Coronet River.

  Her plan was to wash off the gritty sand clinging to her fingers. After the riverside cleaning, they’d putter on home. They’d quench their thirsts by sipping tall glasses of iced tea. They’d share a few chuckles over how foolhardy they had been to press Petey Samson into service as a bloodhound. It would be a funny tale to tell repeatedly.

  “Hey, you all,” said Alma. “What say we wind up things and go wash—?”

  “Hold on, Petey Samson has made contact with something,” said Isabel, allowed to horn in on Alma because it was that urgent.

  “Maybe he found our lost marbles,” said Alma.

  “See the patch of mango yellow?” Phyllis extended her finger at Petey Samson busy tossing back the pawfuls of sand. “What is it?”

  “No mango yellow object I know of belongs buried in the river sand,” said Isabel giving Alma a wry glance.

  Alma felt a spark of excitement leap up in her chest.

  “It looks rectangular and larger than a picnic basket,” said Phyllis. “Can it be a suitcase?”

  “It can be and it most likely is,” replied Isabel.

  “Huh, a mango yellow suitcase. Well now, that takes the cake, doesn’t it?” Alma was the first lady who climbed down into the hole. “Isabel, call away Petey Samson, and I’ll finish removing the sand from around the suitcase.”

  “I’m confused. You just told us you were finished with digging,” said Isabel being coy. “Now I hear this coming from you. Which is it?”

  “I was just venting my frustration,” said Alma.

  Isabel gave the right command, and Petey Samson pulled back. He’d proven his canine nose wasn’t defective or erroneous. The scent he’d registered on Ladybug’s headscarf also existed beneath the sand. Just as inquisitive as the lady sleuths, he’d never rest until he identified the scent’s origin.

  Groaning like pressing down an old coil spring mattress, Alma crouched down and cupping her hand, she brushed away enough sand to expose the suitcase’s plastic handle. “It looks almost brand new,” she said.

  “Maybe an airline passenger’s baggage got lost and ended up here,” said Phyllis.

  “Then the poor traveler doesn’t have any clean socks to put on,” said Isabel.

  The suitcase rested in a flat position. Alma notched out the sand from around its four sides enough to get a good grip on the handle and give it an upward tug. She clenched her teeth and thought it had to be as heavy as one of the three giant rusty anchors set out in front of the fire department station. She dragged up the suitcase and left it on the sand by Isabel and Phyllis, their eyes shining with curiosity.

  Phyllis smiled. “What is inside it? Show me before I fling a duck fit.”

  Isabel didn’t need to possess Superman’s X-ray vision to peer through and identify what the suitcase held. She’d read crime novels by the bushelful, and she’d learned what contents caused mysterious suitcases like this mango yellow one to weigh so heavy.

  “Wouldn’t you know it’s locked up tight?” said Phyllis, fiddling with the brass latches that refused to spring open.

  “We’ve dug too far and broken too many nails to give up now,” said Alma. “I suggest using a hooligan bar to jimmy open the locks.” She set her eyes on Isabel.

  “Don’t look at me,” said Isabel. “I’m plumb out of hooligan bars, not that I’d know one if I saw it much less held it in my hands.”

  “Alma is after something long and sturdy to get at the suitcase’s latches,” said Phyllis.

  “What are you trying to accomplish with that?” asked Alma, nodding at Isabel.

  She’d removed the 3X magnifying glass from her pocketbook. “I need to take a closer look at these stubborn latches.”

  “Where is Sammi Jo when you need her and her lock picks?” asked Alma.

  “I can see nothing helpful so give her a ring at work,” said Isabel returning the 3X magnifying glass to her pocketbook. “I’d rather wait for her to come over than to leave or rebury the suitcase. Besides the suspense to see what’s inside it is growing unbearable.”

  “For me, too,” said Phyllis. “I bet it holds a jackpot of costume jewelry perfect for accessorizing my bag lady outfits.”

  “I bet it doesn’t,” said Isabel.

  It took Alma two attempts to make contact with Sammi Jo who chuckled after Alma described their latest quandary.

  “Leave it to you gals to run into the strangest problems,” said Sammi Jo. “All right, stay calm, and I’ll talk you through the different steps.”

  “Different steps as in more than one?” said Alma. “That already sounds too complicated. Your nimble fingers stand the best chance. Can you get over here within the next hour?”

  “I’m snowed under after all the time I’ve missed at work, Alma, but I have confidence in you. I’ll go slowly, and you can ask me any questions. First, do any of you have a paper clip or bobby pin?”

  “Do either of you have a paper clip or bobby pin?” Alma asked Isabel and Phyllis.

  Isabel shook her head no and Phyllis gave a helpless shrug.

  “Everybody says they don’t have either,” said Alma. “Plan B?”

  “The simplest thing is to do is to keep jiggling and tugging at the suitcase clasps,” said Sammi Jo. “Sometimes they get stuck, especially if the suitcase like this one has been surrounded by wet sand, and the sand grains have wormed their way down to jam the locks’ working mechanisms.”

  Alma passed on Sammi Jo’s instructions to Phyllis who took off her shoe and used its stout heel to beat on the clasps as if she was taking out a cockroach crawling over her pillowcase.

  “How is it coming along there?” asked Sammi Jo.

  “So far it’s not all that well,” replied Alma. “Remember the TV commercial with the gorilla mauling the suitcase left inside his cage?”

  “It must have been aired before my time, but I can probably view it on YouTube,” said Sammi Jo. “What happened since I’m too busy to check it out?”

  “The suitcase never came apart while he took out his gorilla temper tantrums on it,” replied Alma. “We might have the same luggage brand on our hands.”

  “The manufacturers just build them too well,” said Sammi Jo.

  “The bad news is Phyllis broke off the heel of her shoe,” said Alma. “The good news is we’ve got five more shoes.”

  Sammi Jo wasn’t encouraged. “There has got to be a less destructive way.”

  “We’re down to using Ali Baba’s open sesame command,” said Alma.

  “I command you to open sesame,” said Phyllis, yanking on the clasp with a two-handed jerk. “Hey, what do you know? I just freed the clasp.”

  “Guess what happened?” Alma said to Sammi Jo. “The open sesame command just worked for us. That Ali Baba sure knew his stuff.”

  “After all that work, surely your efforts are rewarded,” said Sammi Jo. “What does the suitcase contain?”

  After she pushed back in her eyeballs that had bulged out of their socke
ts, Alma replied in a dry rasp. “Money.”

  Isabel and Phyllis were left speechless, and Petey Samson at sensing their intensity woofed-woofed. Isabel had suspected money filled the suitcase, but the sight of so many greenbacks stunned her.

  “Awesome,” said Sammi Jo. “How much is there?”

  “Gobs of green are rubberbanded in bundles of one hundred-dollar banknotes.”

  “Ka-ching! Can I quit my day job?” asked Sammi Jo.

  “To be on the safe side, you better hold off on turning in your resignation letter just yet,” said Alma.

  “Which of the dead presidents is on a C note?” asked Sammi Jo.

  “Ben Franklin is but he isn’t a dead president,” replied Alma.

  “I like Old Ben just the same.” Sammi Jo paused to savor the moment. “I better get back to work. Don’t forget I helped you to get open the suitcase. Good luck.”

  “Thanks. Bye, Sammi Jo.”

  Her eyes the size of pizza pans, Alma put up her cell phone. “That’s a whole lot of purchasing power right there,” she said.

  “Do a four-way split with Sammi Jo in on it,” said Phyllis, her eyes bright as quicksilver. “There is enough money here to share with everybody.”

  “What?” asked Isabel who’d also recovered the use of her voice.

  “It’s simple as the finders keepers rule,” said Phyllis.

  “You can’t be serious,” said Isabel. “The money doesn’t belong to us, and we can’t just keep it.”

  “I don’t see any reason why not,” said Phyllis. “Treasure hunters do it all the time. They get their pictures run in the newspaper, brandishing their discovered riches and wearing their millionaire grins. I don’t see how we’re much different than they are.”

  “What if our found money was stolen from a bank or armored truck?” asked Isabel. “Or suppose our banknotes are counterfeit and useless as a broken mousetrap?”

  Phyllis shrugged with impatience. “Who would know the difference? I won’t tell if you don’t.”

  “We’ll know the difference,” replied Isabel. “That’s good enough reason for me to turn over the money to Sheriff Fox. Alma, I need your input, please.”