by Ed Lynskey
“You better watch your back at all times. I’d trust a used car salesman before him. Who’s Megan’s attorney?”
“Dwight Holden.”
“He’s book smart but not real street smart. Why did you pick him?”
“Because he’s local and available.”
“You’re taking a gamble by using him,” said Louise, somber. “If the jury votes thumbs down, Megan will live in a bad place long after we’re dead and gone.”
“We know what’s at stake, Louise. Just leave on your thinking cap since we can’t seem to buy a clue.”
“Are you still doing this private eye stuff?”
“Of course. We just saw the newspaper reporter again, and the next article coming out should get us some good PR for Megan.”
“Then add my name to your masthead. Arthritis or not, I’ll be your agent-at-large, if there’s such a position.”
“If not, you’re our agent-at-large now,” said Isabel, and they disconnected on that bright note.
Alma glanced up from counting the letter spaces in her crossword puzzle. “Louise is now affiliated with us. I hope I’m there to see Sheriff Fox go ballistic when he hears about it.”
“You’re on the right track,” said Isabel. “We’ll try and keep him off-balance. If we can’t suss out the right answer and enough proof to make it stick, our efforts to free Megan are wasted. Who’s on our suspects list?”
“Number One?” asked Alma, her pencil ready to scribble on a tablet of paper.
“Louise proposed a jealous ex-girlfriend.”
Alma scrawled “jealous ex-girlfriend”. When no more possible suspects came to mind, she was pessimistic. “We have a tough nut to crack.”
Isabel’s frustration turned sardonic. “Did Willie’s miniature, pop-eyed aliens teleport down to earth and zap Jake with a ray gun?”
Striking the tablet with the pencil eraser, Alma gazed out the picture window. The sunny street appeared tranquil, and her catching the electric orange flash to a Baltimore oriole flitting into a blue spruce sparked a thought.
“Willie might be unwittingly on to something. Assume instead of aliens that a random traveler or an anonymous stranger came into Jake’s shop. Remember it’s not so far off the highway. For some reason, they squabbled, tempers flared, and this traveler turned the .44 handgun and fired at Jake. Then the traveler chucked it under the work bench and lit out on the highway with impunity.”
“How did he stamp Megan’s prints on the handgun?”
“Oh. Right. Well, I didn’t say my theory was airtight.”
“My stomach is growling.” Isabel’s glance took in the clean kitchen. “Should we go grab a bite of late lunch? I’m in no mood to warm up soup or wash any dishes afterward.”
“Sure, Eddy’s Deli is open. How is Louise?”
“It’s the same old story of beating down her arthritis.”
“You know it’s funny that Sheriff Fox hasn’t mentioned Jake’s will to us.”
“Well, I’m not doing his job for him by bringing it up.”
* * * *
A bit later, their sedan clattered over the iron-truss bridge spanning the Coronet River. Isabel tipped her glance below to glimpse a pair of tanned, sinewy canoeists gliding through the river’s main channel. Next, hauling by the Co-op, Alma breathed in the fermented odor of the shelled corn stored in the grain silos. A little further, the rusty anchors stood sentry at the brick fire station. A summer day’s languor overtook them by the time Alma steered a right off Franklin to Main Street. That’s where they spotted her walking.
The barefoot girl wore cut-off blue jeans below a blaze orange halter, and she sipped from a soda bottle. She sauntered immune to the lava-hot sidewalk in front of Lago Azul Florist, its wood bench unoccupied. The three gentlemen had retreated into the florist’s lobby during the day’s hottest part. Isabel said she hoped the August heat didn’t roast the poor girl alive, and Alma remarked on how much of her bare skin lay exposed to the August sun.
Isabel continued to look. “Who is that girl, Alma?”
“That’s Sammi Jo. She rents an apartment from Vernon above the drugstore.”
“Ah, that’s our scandalous Sammi Jo.”
On the next block, no SUVs or “farm use” pickups lodged in the patrons’ reserved spaces at Eddy’s Deli, and they parked. Isabel flipped down the sun visor to use the clip-on mirror. She cocked the floppy straw hat to tilt just so on her head. Her primping drove Alma to distraction. Why fuss over vain appearances at this late stage? She stayed silent as they braved the August heat, and Isabel clucked her tongue.
Catching the signal, Alma followed Isabel’s gaze.
The self-assured Sammi Jo was crossing the intersection without regard to any oncoming traffic. She chucked the empty soda bottle into the culvert and fished out a crumpled pack of cigarettes from a hip pocket. She strolled up to Isabel, the cigarette drooping from her insouciant smile.
“Got a match or lighter?” Sammi Jo used an upcountry drawl.
“I most certainly do not.” Isabel squared up to her full height. “Smoking poisons your lungs.”
The taller Sammi Jo had a saucy comeback. “You gotta die of something.”
“You’re Phyllis Garner’s niece, Sammi Jo,” said Alma.
“Right you are, and aren’t you Alma and Isabel, Megan Connor’s aunts?”
Alma nodded. “Pay Isabel no heed. The truth is she bucked the habit herself when the Surgeon General’s warnings first appeared on the cigarette cartons.”
“I’m okay with it, and I understand why you’re uptight.” As if a concession, Sammi Jo flicked the unlit cigarette to strike the culvert. “Our sheriff—and I use that term very loosely—did Megan dirty, and everybody I’ve talked to is peeved over it.”
Isabel, starting to like the personable girl also sympathetic to Megan’s plight, followed Alma’s friendly lead. “We stopped for a bite of lunch. Why not join us, Sammi Jo?”
Nodding, she smiled at Isabel. Sandy hair and a honey tan made her a pretty
young lady if a little rough-cut at the edges. “My idea just might give you a leg up to spring Megan.”
“Talking goes with eating,” said Alma.
Eddy’s Deli felt like an empty cavern, and they ordered egg salad and tomatoes on rye bread served with iced tea. Huddled in a window booth, they centered their conversation on Megan.
“Let us in on your idea.” Raised eyebrows shortened Alma’s forehead.
Sammi Jo sprinkled salt and pepper on her egg salad sandwich, and the diminutive bite didn’t fill her mouth. “You know Deputy Clarence Fishback?” she asked between careful chews.
“Not personally, no,” replied Alma. “We recognize him to nod hello to on the street. He’s sort of cock of the walk, isn’t he?”
“Ain’t he?” said Sammi Jo. “Clarence and I were once an item. We danced between the sheets, and afterward the macho guys always like to brag. Well, Clarence let slip this juicy tidbit, and then he tried to take it back.”
Alma leaned in closer, and Isabel set down her glass of iced tea.
“Don’t keep us waiting in suspense,” said Alma.
“Clarence is out to snake Sheriff Fox’s job,” said Sammi Jo.
Isabel’s sliced tomatoes tasted too green. “How do you see Clarence’s political ambitions helping to get Megan off?”
Sammi Jo squinted her gray eyes at each sister. “The way I see it is Sheriff Fox and Clarence will compete to see who can make the bigger splash with the voters. The timing of Jake’s murder plays right into their hands, and they’ll exploit it to show who’s tougher on crime.”
“We’ve been afraid of that happening.” Isabel sampled her iced tea. “We’re caught in the middle of a political dogfight.”
“I bet you didn’t know Jake and Clarence were once drag strip fanatics and once buddies,” said Sammi Jo.
“We’d no inkling,” said Isabel.
“I noticed you said ‘once were’ talking about Jake and
Clarence,” said Alma. “Did bad blood come between them?”
“Boy did it ever. Their fight came over buying car parts.” Sammi Jo wet her lips with the iced tea. “One claimed the other gypped him. I don’t remember the play-by-play, but Clarence acted like the baby, so he must’ve felt Jake cheated him.”
“Do you think Clarence killed Jake over money?” asked Isabel, incredulous.
“S-h-h-h!” Alma put a finger to her lips. “Keep your voice down, Isabel.”
Isabel’s glance encompassed the vacant tables and booths. “Why? Nobody else is in here.”
“All walls have ears, don’t they? You were saying, Sammi Jo…”
Sammi Jo dipped a bare shoulder in a resigned shrug. “Just how some men foam at the mouth over cars. If it was a tossup between NASCAR to watch on the idiot box or me standing there stark naked, no contest. NASCAR won every time. Pathetic, isn’t it?”
“I’ll say it is, but what’s your idea?” asked Alma.
“Let’s assume Clarence went to Jake’s shop spoiling to settle the old debt,” replied Sammi Jo. “He could easily goad Jake. I know from personal experience Clarence has the knack to grate on people.”
“If Clarence pulled the trigger, how did Megan’s prints end up on the .44 handgun?” asked Alma.
Isabel finished the final bite of her egg salad sandwich. “It’s doable,” she said, wiping her fingers on a napkin. “I recall reading in a mystery of the method Clarence could’ve used to transfer her prints by using nothing more than a piece of Scotch tape.”
Nodding, Alma dabbed a napkin at the corners to her lips. “So, Clarence creates a sensational murder. People clamor for action. Then he steps in to find the key clue and frames Megan. Folks talk him up as the hero of the hour. When November rolls up, he trounces Sheriff Fox at the polls, and we say hello to Sheriff Clarence Fishback. What a slick trick.”
“Who first discovered the .44 handgun, Sheriff Fox, Clarence, or another deputy?” asked Isabel.
“Dwight might wheedle that answer out of Sheriff Fox before we get to read Megan’s police report,” replied Alma. “Right now we can’t get past the padlocks on Jake’s file cabinets.”
“I’ve been in his office and seen them.” Sammi Jo smiled, her teeth stark white against her tan face. “An acetylene torch will slice off those wimpy padlocks.”
“How is it you’ve been in Jake’s office?” asked Isabel, suspicious.
Sammi Jo’s smile didn’t waver. “I went over with my dad for his car repairs. I never saw him for any other reason if that’s what you mean.”
“Of course you didn’t,” said Alma.
“Do you keep an acetylene torch handy?” asked Isabel.
Sammi Jo smiled with new mischief. “Pick up one at Ace Hardware, and I’ll show you how its done.”
“Then I say off with the padlocks,” said Alma.
Nervous, Isabel rattled the ice cubes in her glass. “We’ll get caught like the Watergate burglars.”
“Who’s Watergate?” asked Sammi Jo.
The older ladies laughed, and Alma winked at Sammi Jo. They paid, left Eddy’s Deli, and Isabel posed a suggestion. Shrugging, Sammi Jo went over to the culvert, retrieved her soda bottle, and trashed it. Alma gave her a second wink and as they left in the sedan, Isabel recounted the Watergate annuls to a skeptical Sammi Jo.
Chapter 15
Tempers at the Trumbo Sisters Detective Agency had frayed. Isabel and Alma disagreed on what they should tell Dwight. Sammi Jo sat on the ottoman flipping through the pages to Isabel’s Alaskan Outdoor magazine. A CMT diva in torn jeans, a spangly top, and a cowboy hat sang on their TV, her volume muted. Sammi Jo stood ready to act but for now the fussing continued. Knowing the futility of playing the peacemaker, she stayed out of it.
“Dwight won’t sit on his thumbs and let us do illegal stuff,” Alma was saying. “It stands to reason he won’t like us breaking into Jake’s office much less into the file cabinets.”
Isabel feared her argument had lost its starch. “If we tell Dwight, he won’t be caught flat-footed by our phone call from the prison.”
“Who said boo about prison? Sammi Jo can zip us in and out of Jake’s office in no time, can’t you, Sammi Jo?”
She stopped studying the picture of a massive caribou migration. “I’d say five seconds to cut each padlock, tops. Do you own flashlights?”
“Look in our mud room on the shelves next to the washer,” replied Isabel. “Sorry it’s so dark, but the light bulb blew out on us.”
“Heck, this is your lucky day. Light bulb changes are my specialty,” said Sammi Jo.
“Alma, show her to our mud room and the new light bulbs.”
“I will but don’t you dare touch the phone and call Dwight.” Alma led Sammi Jo into the kitchen where she asked point blank, “Why your interest in our problems, Sammi Jo?”
Sammi Jo gave a dry laugh. “Payback, Alma. That’s it. Clarence and I didn’t part on the best terms after he made me look like a jackass, so he’ll now get his comeuppance.”
“Been there, done that.” Alma dragged the kitchen stool into the mud room. “I’d never admit it front of Isabel, but we can get into some trouble by returning to Jake’s place.”
Sammi Jo hiked up on the stool and unscrewed the dud light bulb while Alma steadied her by the hips. “‘No guts, no glory’ is my motto. Are they combination or key padlocks?”
“Combination.”
Sammi Jo took the new light bulb from Alma and screwed it into the empty socket. “If he’s like me, Jake jotted down the combination numbers on a sticky note. Poke around searching a little bit, and we may not even need to fire up an acetylene torch.”
“What time do you have?”
After climbing down from the kitchen stool, Sammi Jo looked at her wristwatch. “Quarter to three.”
“There’s no chance to visit Megan in fifteen minutes.”
“Megan might be irked but look at this way. If you’re not keeping her company, you’re out taking care of her business, and she’ll come home that much sooner. Remind her, and she’ll understand, I’m sure.”
“I hope so.” Alma flipped on the light switch. “Viola! Success!”
Sammi Jo nodded. “Waiting until night to hit Jake’s place might make it safer for us.”
“Isabel believes that Jake’s will leaves his place to Megan. With her permission, technically we’re not trespassing.”
“I doubt if that technicality will sway Sheriff Fox.”
“My mind is made up. We’ll go right on and search the file cabinets.”
When Sammi Jo and Alma returned to the living room, Isabel was adjusting her floppy straw hat at the foyer mirror. “I overheard you both conspiring in the kitchen. Let’s go.”
The sedan wheezed on gas fumes. Three streets down at the corner, Alma slowed into a turn. Their rolling tires tripped the gas station’s bell cable, but Alma braked at the self-serve island. A gangly boy in a wife-beater and baggy cargo shorts with the top to his boxer briefs exposed scuttled out from behind a tool chest. He carried a skateboard and drew up to Alma squeezing the gas pump nozzle.
“Yo, Mrs. Trumbo.”
“Hello, Erskine.”
“Sorry about your allergy.”
“Thanks, Erskine.” Alma changed topics. “Erskine, did you know Jake Robbins?”
Erskine spun a small wheel on the skateboard. “Jake was an awesome mechanic, even on the foreign jobbers.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“A little. Jake ate and slept drag racing. Clarence Fishback and he teamed where Clarence raced it and Jake fixed it. When I watched, they never won many bragging rights but like my skateboarding, it was something fun to do.”
“I heard they wrangled over buying car parts.” The gas pump shut off, making a dull clank. “Have you any idea what touched it off?”
“Clarence said Jake padded the costs, then hit him with the fat bill. Jake saw it different. Their partnership ended, and they sold
their Camaro to that rich dude Slade Roberts in Mechanicsville.”
“Did Jake start the fight?”
Nervous, Erskine scraped the ruff of his neck. “I heard it was the other way around, but you’d have to deal a couple aces short to go up against Jake.
“Did Clarence come out on the short end?”
“Waking up with a shiner, Clarence hated Jake’s guts. But I’m not sure if Clarence had enough venom in him to kill Jake. Isn’t your niece behind bars for doing it?”
Alma tucked back a silver strand of her wind-tossed hair. “Erskine, nobody is guilty, even in Sheriff Fox’s jail, until a jury of their peers in a court of law convicts them. Megan is a well-behaved girl and innocent of Jake’s murder.”
“I’m only repeating what I heard.”
“That’s what’s known as common gossip.”
“Uh-huh. You filled your tank, so pay me and off you go.”
Alma remounted the gas pump nozzle, screwed in her gas cap, and settled with Erskine. Once arranged under the steering wheel, she heard Isabel’s question.
“Did Erskine say anything worthwhile?”
“Nothing we don’t already know. He did say Quiet Anchorage is abuzz over Megan,” replied Alma.
“Next thing they’ll open a betting pot over if Megan is found guilty or not,” said Sammi Jo in disgust.
“It’ll never come to that point,” said Isabel.
Alma engaged the ignition key and let the engine idle. “Boy, that really steams me. What gives Erskine, or anybody else, in this town the right to trash Megan?”
“Alma, it’s smarter to let it ride.” Sammi Jo used a soothing murmur. “People will believe, and say, whatever they want. Our sole aim is to get a murderer, so don’t fly off in an anger tangent.”
“Sammi Jo is right,” said Isabel.
“You can relax. I’m back on track now,” said Alma.
As the sedan eased into the sun-scorched street, Sammi Jo saw out the rear window Erskine had skateboarded over to refill the snack and soda machines.
“Sorry I was born nosy, but were you ever married Isabel?” asked Sammi Jo.
“Yes, I’m a widow. When my husband Max passed away ten years ago, I dismissed any prospect to remarry since one man to cook and clean for in this lifetime was ample penance. Naturally I grieved over his death, and not a day goes by that I don’t have a good memory about us. But finally being on my own after forty-six years of wedded bliss felt liberating, and I even shamelessly reverted to my maiden name.”
