by Ed Lynskey
“Do you have any kids?” asked Sammi Jo.
“A chronic smoker, our boy Cecil died too young from lung cancer,” replied Isabel.
“Sorry for your big loss,” said Sammi Jo with quiet respect.
“Thanks,” said Isabel. “It’s been tough but not impossible to cope with the grief, and I’m okay.”
Saying nothing, Alma recalled how the state of Virginia hadn’t always been for lovers. Isabel and Max had had a tough row. Their interracial marriage had caused a minor uproar in Quiet Anchorage, and for years the public snubs in places like restaurants and the firemen’s carnival were too frequent. Since then over the years the social mores had done a 180 for the better.
“My two marital flings were a little different,” said Alma. “The fellows I tried on for size didn’t fit, so I turned them lose. I outlived them both, and we stayed on friendly terms. Life just didn’t bless me with any kids.”
“It could be you still haven’t met Mr. Right,” said Sammi Jo.
Cocking her head, Alma smiled with amusement in the rearview mirror at Sammi Jo. “That’s a sweet thought, honey. Hold on to it.”
“Alma, don’t give the young lady the wrong notion. No doubt she’ll land a keeper,” said Isabel.
“No harm done, ladies,” said Sammi Jo. “I’m sharp enough to recognize the real deal whenever he struts by me, and you can be certain I’ll jump his bones. Hey, watch it and don’t miss the turnoff to Jake’s place.”
“Alma has a disconcerting habit of sailing by turnoffs,” said Isabel.
“Honestly, all this worry ruins my concentration.” Alma braked them into Jake’s driveway. “Do I go on back to the shop?”
“No, stop and park at the porch,” replied Isabel. “We’ve got nothing to hide plus our past sneaking around has left me feeling like a common thief.”
“Sheriff Fox will squawk at us,” said Sammi Jo.
“At our ages, we just don’t care,” said Alma.
She keyed off the sedan’s engine, and they coasted into the backyard.
Ambling over the brown lawn, they heard katydids rasp away high in the treetops, the sweltering day’s only audio. Grasshoppers leapt away to escape the foot tread. The ladies accessed Jake’s office, formerly the sun porch, through the unlocked door. Split bamboo blinds lowered halfway shaded the long space. At a collective glance, their jaws dropped—a void gaped where the three file cabinets had once stood by the large walnut desk.
“Sheriff Fox has beaten us again,” said Isabel.
Alma shifted her purse. “Or some other hustler sure has.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to peek again in the shop,” said Isabel.
Alma paraded them from the office over the dry lawn to the auto shop’s entrance. Sammi Jo let off the latch and shoved aside the door to let in the shafts of sunlight. Shudders circuited down their backs from their feeling like unwelcome intruders. Sammi Jo’s muttered oath, “no guts, no glory,” sent them stepping into the cooler shadows to the shop. After the barn cat flying off the barber chair scared them, she picked up a canoe paddle and wielded it as a club. She got down on all fours and looked underneath the work bench but only swiped at sticky cobwebs. The vise bolted to the work bench still held the six-inch length of rebar steel, and the hacksaw lay in the steel filings.
“Why is the hacksaw placed on the bench? When shot, Jake would’ve dropped it on the floor,” said Alma.
“Maybe he first set down the hacksaw,” said Isabel.
Sammi Jo tapped the canoe paddle against the rebar steel. “What caliber handgun are we talking about here?”
“A .38,” replied Isabel.
“No, Sheriff Fox told us the handgun was a .44,” said Alma.
“Either one, I expect, kills as effectively,” said Isabel.
“Could dainty Megan even fire a monster-sized.44?” asked Sammi Jo. “I seriously doubt if I could handle one. How might our brilliant sheriff explain that oddity away?”
“He always has a ready answer for us,” said Isabel.
Her eyes mashed into sharp slits, Sammi Jo grew analytical. “If I stand in the same spot as Jake did, I can hear any traffic noise on the state road. Also with the shop door ajar as it is now, I can hear any intruder crunching over the gravel besides having my clear view out this window. So ambushing Jake by surprise would be difficult. If he’d felt threatened, he’d snatch up a hammer or the rebar as a weapon to defend himself.”
“Evidently the murderer didn’t intimidate or surprise Jake,” said Alma.
“So we can deduce Jake knew his murderer,” said Isabel.
“That’s a safe bet to make,” said Alma.
Sammi Jo pointed the canoe paddle to direct their gazes out the shop door. “If the murderer circled around the shop, he moved into Jake’s blind spot.”
“Then in that case our murderer sprints into the shop and fires at a startled Jake.” Alma looked at the work bench. “Then the murderer used up valuable time having to stop and press Megan’s prints on the .44 handgun.”
“He probably did it in a few minutes if he knew what he was doing,” said Isabel.
“It was too easy since Sheriff Fox fell for the ruse,” said Alma.
“Too bad for the murderer we didn’t get suckered into accepting it,” said Sammi Jo.
“By now the murderer probably knows we’re on his trail,” said Isabel.
“That’s a scary thought,” said Alma.
Chapter 16
Small town funerals make for a public gala, and the afternoon of Jake Robbins’s funeral was no different. Attendees lined up in double file from the Baptist Church door hours beforehand. The mid-afternoon sun beat down on the men sweating in their open collar sport’s shirts and the ladies perspiring in their dark solid summer wear.
Neighbors, classmates, shadow cousins, and every stripe of busybody wilted in queue to grab a choice spot to sit, preferably a pew with a casket view. The more prurient ones thrilled to gawk at an open coffin. Despite this outpouring of community grief, Jake’s fiancée, Megan Connors, remained stuck in her solitary prison cell. Alma and Isabel had visited her, lunch compliments of Eddy’s Deli, but she’d only nibbled at the lettuce on her tuna hoagie. She hadn’t said a word, and her conspicuous absence made Jake’s funeral all the more sensational.
“His funeral could be the firemen’s carnival,” said Alma, gauging the crowd’s gape-eyed looks at them. “Half of those here wouldn’t have given him the time of day.”
“We came as Megan’s ambassadors so be nice,” said Isabel.
“That frosts my petunia, too. Sheriff Fox has sunk to an all-time low,” said Alma.
“We’ll vote accordingly in November.”
“Who even cares we set up this funeral?”
“Let’s leave our public guessing,” said Isabel, returning smiles with the several matrons swiveling their heads to measure up the sisters.
They strolled over to Rosie McLeod and Lotus Wang loitering under a mulberry tree’s patchy shade. Oblivious to the oppressive heat, both came in somber navy blue dresses though the more sensible low pumps. Rosie’s lipstick was a pinkish hue while Lotus favored a darker wine red.
“Hello, ladies,” said Isabel, neutral but polite.
“What a beautiful day it is for a loved one’s funeral,” said Rosie.
“A ray of sunshine does brighten a gloomy day,” said Isabel.
The rural banalities dispensed with, Lotus asked, “Do you know yet who did in poor Jake?”
“We expect it’s somebody local,” replied Isabel.
“Everybody in Quiet Anchorage is a suspect,” said Alma.
Lotus’s painted lips parted. “Surely you don’t lump us into that category.”
“We’d nothing to do with Jake’s death,” said Rosie.
“The ushers are now at the doors. Shall we go inside?” said Isabel.
Alma snagged her sleeve, and they waited, letting the mêlée, including Lotus and Rosie, crash through the church entry.
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br /> “Do we sit on the front pew?” asked Alma.
“As Jake’s closest family, we’re expected to go there,” replied Isabel.
“Glory be, look at Sammi Jo.” Alma’s surprised look guided Isabel’s behind them. “She’s put on a nice dress and wears pumps, too.”
Isabel gave an approving nod. “Do we invite her to sit in our pew?”
“We do. She’s now family by proxy,” replied Alma.
So Sammi Jo sat between them on the front pew. The attendant hymns, prayers, and sniffs highlighted the service in the jam-packed church. A bearish man in a beige tropical worsted suit recited Dylan Thomas’s elegy, “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night”: Rage, rage against the dying of the light. The sniffs grew vociferous as Alma, Isabel, and Sammi Jo were permitted to file from the church first.
Their sedan folded in after the royal purple hearse to form the cortege proceeding to the cemetery on Quiet Anchorage’s north side. The funeral director had left instructions to drive with their four-way flashers on since the newer model cars used daytime running lights. The conga line of blinking headlights snaked around for six town blocks.
“You both did okay for Megan,” said Sammi Jo. “I’ve never seen a finer funeral and weren’t those gladiolas and mums breathtaking? The Three Musketeers away from their favorite bench cleaned up nicely in their dark suits. We made one big slip up though.”
“What’s that?” asked Isabel.
“If I’d murdered Jake, I’d’ve attended his funeral to make it look good. No murderer, I don’t care how cold-blooded he is, can mask a guilty smirk when inside of a church, and from our pew we couldn’t read any of the faces.”
“Then we’ll survey the faces at Jake’s gravesite,” said Isabel.
“Our murderer is hidden, but I felt his icy cold eyes on me,” said Alma.
“That was the air conditioner running, Alma. I shivered through the service, too,” said Isabel.
At the pair of brick gateposts topped by the zinc eagles, Alma tailed the royal purple hearse turning off the state road. The tires crunching over the crushed shell rolled on the lanes wending through the cemetery’s uneven turf. Miniature toys dotted the tops to children’s stone markers. Coffee tin vases clad in tinfoil held jonquils, irises, and chrysanthemums to decorate the Trumbo family plot. Two sites remained vacant. Alma glanced back twice as if for reassurance their gravestones weren’t yet in place, and Isabel smiled at her sister’s superstitions flaring up again.
Isabel frowned at seeing the potter’s field languishing down the gentle slope in the mushy swale. The deceased paupers only merited tin markers stamped in the shape of crosses except for the one cut as the Star of David. The royal purple hearse wheezed to a halt under the copse of sassafras trees where Alma also braked, and their doors hitched out.
The afternoon heat grew suffocating as Sammi Jo escorted them to Jake’s graveside. The allergy-stricken Alma stumbled once on her bulky foot, but Sammi Jo balanced her.
They came to stand beneath an olive-drab tarp pavilion where they could appraise the other goers parking their cars and approaching. Fake grass mats covered the mound of excavated soil. Six husky men who’d attended high school with Jake rested his coffin atop the chrome rack for interment, and it cast a horizontal shadow on the fake grass.
“Hello, ladies.” The speaker’s greeting used a congenial note.
“Sheriff Fox, you have got some nerve speaking to us,” said Alma.
“You elected me as your sheriff, and I’m just doing my job.”
Alma took a divergent viewpoint. “Your job is to stand in our way.”
“Yeah well, just don’t let your little, two-old lady PI firm impede my investigation.”
“Three ladies since Louise has joined us,” said Isabel with quiet pride.
“Louise Trumbo?” Sheriff Fox’s ruddy features darkened a shade. “But she hasn’t lived here for years.”
A lopsided grin showed how much Sammi Jo was enjoying the conversation, especially Sheriff Fox’s distress. “You better also lump in Phyllis Garner and me.”
“What? There are five of you now.” Sheriff Fox pivoted a half-turn to address Alma. “Why don’t you recruit the whole town to go on your scavenger hunt?”
“We’ll use however many it takes to free Megan and find Jake’s real murderer,” said Alma.
The jut to Sheriff Fox’s jaw gave his face a stubborn rigidity. “Quit this charade because my tolerance is running dangerously thin.”
“Why did you haul off Jake’s file cabinets?” asked Alma. “What did you find inside them? Where are they now? You can tell us, or our lawyer will file a motion.”
Sheriff Fox fastened his irate eyes on the sisters. “There’s only one way you’d know that detail. Jake’s residence is still my crime scene, and you trespassed. I’ll give you one more chance before throwing the book at you.”
Undeterred, Isabel continued their questions. “Have you finished charging Megan?”
“I have and Miss Connors’s arraignment is on the docket for tomorrow morning. I assume you’ll be there in force,” said Sheriff Fox.
“We sure will now that you’ve told us,” said Alma.
“Did it ever cross your minds that I got it right?” asked Sheriff Fox. “Maybe Jake and Megan bickered, and their overwrought feelings escalated. The events spiraled out of control and precipitated this tragic outcome.”
“Nice try, Sheriff Fox, but you’ll coax no plea bargains out of us. We insist on a complete exoneration to restore Megan’s good name,” said Alma.
“If your actions veer outside of the law, I’ll arrest you,” said Sheriff Fox.
“Sheriff, this is a funeral,” said Sammi Jo. “Show a little respect for the bereaved family.”
“Sammi Jo, the same deal applies to you. Make an illegal U-turn, and I’ll send you to the clink,” said Sheriff Fox.
“You sure are in a big hurry to fill your prison,” she said.
Shaking his head, Sheriff Fox gave them his back and strolled into the crowd buzzing beyond the olive-drab tarp. “You’ve heard me,” were his parting words.
Footsteps scratched over the dry leaves. “Ladies?” They turned around.
Vernon Spitzer, a rumpled dress hat and Bible in his hands, bowed his balding head in modest acknowledgement. Changed out of his white pharmacist smock into a brown suit gave him a plain look. Awkward in his politeness, he said, “I came to leave my sympathies with Jake’s folks, and that must be you. Jake and I went to high school together. Maybe it’s trite to say it, but he’ll be missed.”
“Thank you and, trite or not, yes, he will be missed,” said Isabel.
Vernon, backpedaling, went on. “Jake did a brake job on my car.”
“When was this brake job done?” asked Alma.
“He took care of me a couple of weeks ago.”
“Did you notice any strangers hanging around his shop?”
“Jake’s paraplegic tool salesman came by is all.”
“Did Jake mention any arguments with anybody?”
“We didn’t chat on personal matters. He said he hoped to expand his business.”
“Were you with him the entire time he repaired your car?”
Vernon nodded. “He was an efficient mechanic, and I was soon on my way.”
“Have you refilled my allergy meds?”
“Drop by the pharmacy, and I’ll fix you right up.” Vernon put on his rumpled dress hat. “Condolences again,” he said before shambling toward the parked cars fringing both sides of the state road.
“Jake was a popular fellow in our close-knit community,” said Isabel, surveying the milling crowd.
“It creeps me to think a murderer is among us,” said Sammi Jo.
“A faceless murderer,” said Alma.
“Hello, ladies,” said a third male voice. They shifted their attention to the bullish, freckled man in his beige tropical worsted suit. “Did my recital meet your usual high standards?”
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�Your rendition of Dylan Thomas rang pitch perfect, Bexley,” replied Isabel.
Bexley smiled, flattered by the compliment. “Somebody did notice, and it was the bereaved family. I practiced in front of the mirror like I do for my barbershop quartet.”
“You recited the poetry real pretty, but we’ve moved on,” said Sammi Jo.
He went on smiling as he asked, “When do I get paid?”
“What?” Sammi Jo’s gray eyes snapped at Bexley. “Get paid?”
He outstretched his ink-stained palm. “I did my job and now I want my money.”
Squaring around, Sammi Jo balled up her fists. “Dude, I ought to knock you on your—”
“Call us tomorrow after ten, and we’ll settle our arrears,” said Isabel before Sammi Jo could punch out his lights.
Chapter 17
Sammi Jo assumed their chauffeuring duties from Alma who wanted her hands unoccupied, sure that it’d help her to focus better particularly since they’d not seen any shady suspects at Jake’s funeral. She covered a sneeze from her allergy. Finding any signal was troublesome to Isabel, and her finger taps on the cell phone didn’t improve its range. She gave up trying to contact the sheriff’s office.
“Sammi Jo, are you sure you’ve never been in an auto accident?” asked Alma.
“Alma, you’re safe as milk,” replied Sammi Jo.
Isabel replaced her formal, dark hat with the floppy straw one. “Sammi Jo, may I have your opinion on something? Does this hat make me look dowdy or frumpy?”
She gave it an obligatory glance in the rearview mirror. “Nothing of the kind, Isabel. Your hat has a real flair.”
“Yes, I’d like to think so as well,” said Isabel.
Alma stayed mum on Isabel’s hat style though her dim opinion of it wasn’t swayed. They took the baking blacktop to town as the cemetery crowd thinning out slowed their progress. The graveside service had been an object lesson in mortality, but ladies getting along in their years such as her passengers, Sammi Jo knew, never dwelled on death. They lived in the present moment, seldom reminiscing except on their landmark birthdays: 80, 90, and, the Good Lord willing, 100 years old.
