Ed Lynskey - Isabel and Alma Trumbo 01 - Quiet Anchorage

by Ed Lynskey

  “This is most strange,” said Alma. “Mrs. Brittle for the longest time oversaw the collection of the missionary fund, and a penny never went unaccounted for. Then last Sunday, two hundred dollars and change vanished.”

  Pastor Cecil put on his salesman’s smile. “Perhaps Mrs. Brittle was a wee bit strapped for cash and too ashamed to admit it. If true, something can be mediated, but we need the funds recovered as quickly as possible.”

  Isabel’s hand went up. “Mrs. Brittle should be innocent until she’s proven guilty.”

  Pastor Cecil stopped smiling. “But until the money is accounted for, she remains under a dark cloud of suspicion. Do you see my sticky wicket? Please, see what you can do for us.”

  Isabel led Alma out of the church and drove back to their brick rambler. Neither sister sitting in their respective armchair spoke. As Young Thor rumbled by in his truck, Isabel snapped her fingers and giggled at her spontaneous antic. “Doesn’t Mrs. Brittle have a nephew?”

  “Harry Carson lives in Philadelphia and can do no wrong in her eyes,” replied Alma.

  “We can spring for the long distance call to reach Harry.”

  Alma dialed the number that Directory Assistance gave her, and a man answering in the cultured baritone of a banker said, yes, he was the Harry Carson with an aunt residing in Quiet Anchorage, Virginia. Alma asked him their questions and repeated, “I see” a half-dozen times. She promised to keep him apprised of further developments, and they hung up.

  “Well…?” said Isabel.

  “Mr. Carson shared Ruth’s tragic secret with me: she’s becoming, uh, forgetful. The clinic in town prescribes her medication for it.”

  “Very sad, but it might be our big break.”

  Alma grabbed her purse and followed Isabel already out on the front porch. “How is it our big break?”

  “We’ll only know from our chat with Mrs. Brittle.”

  They got in the sedan and drove the whole two blocks to park at the unassuming, green A-frame, and Isabel saw the corner to the garden plot out back. Zinnias, marigolds, and impatiens bloomed inside a ring they passed. Isabel thumbed the door chimes button until Mrs. Brittle, a slim, youthful-looking lady in denim jeans, let them come inside. She smiled, grateful to entertain midday company even if the visit was under duress. Her interior with its maple and wicker furniture paralleled the neat order she kept outdoors in her yard.

  “I know the missionary fund is why you’ve come.” Mrs. Brittle fussed with a rubber band, probably a memory aid for taking her meds, encircling her slender wrist. “You’re more than welcome to search my home. I like to have died when Pastor Cecil told me, and I’ve racked my brain. All I do know is that I’m no crook.”

  Alma nodded, squeezing Mrs. Brittle’s forearm. “We’re here only on your side, Ruth.”

  “Sometimes the most obvious is overlooked,” said Isabel. “Ruth, your purse might be such a place.”

  Cooperative, she brought out her purse and shook out its contents on the coffee table, but aside from the thirteen cents in a dime and three pennies, they found no money.

  With a sigh, Alma sat back. “Well, scratch the most obvious.”

  “Reflect back with me, Ruth,” said Isabel. “First you collected the money in the basket, right?”

  “The same way as I do every Sunday.”

  “Where did you take the basket?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Try to picture how the basket appears in your mind. What do you see first?”

  “It’s just a plain wicker basket.”

  “Wicker?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, do you own a wicker basket?”

  “I use mine to haul the turnip tops out to my compost pile.”

  “Well…the turnip tops are crisp and green.”

  Alma’s face brightened. “So are banknotes. Where is your compost pile, Ruth?”

  “My compost pile, where?” She snapped the rubber band on her slender wrist and smiled. “Okay there, the memory comes back. Follow me.”

  They smelled the mowed grass while crossing the back lawn. Fresh grass clippings and turnip tops capped the compost piled inside the chicken wire enclosure. Alma retrieved a wood stake for the tomatoes, scraped away the compost’s top layer, and exposed the curly end to a five-dollar bill before a ten-dollar bill also poked up.

  Isabel smiled at Mrs. Brittle. “An honest mistake, you brought the money home after the church service. Later you threw out the banknotes with a batch of your turnip tops in your wicker basket.”

  Alma turned, her hand outthrust. “Pay up. You owe me a dollar.”

  “We better call this one a tie.”

  “How peculiar all of our bets end up as a tie.”

  The seamed worry in Mrs. Brittle’s face melted away. “Stay for some lunch, won’t you? My day companion will drop by in a few minutes, and we can offer you cucumbers on light bread.”

  “We should call your nephew Harry and tell him everything is okay,” Isabel had said.

  Chuckling to herself, she finished remembering how they’d not only recovered the missionary fund accidentally dumped in the compost pile, but also spared Ruth Brittle from major embarrassment. But her case also had an ominous backlash. Shortly afterward, Alma had begun thinking she’d forgotten small stuff, then bigger things, and it touched off her mounting dread of developing Alzheimer’s. Isabel did her best to reassure her younger sister that she was doing fine and to quit all the worry.

  Chapter 20

  Early the next morning—Wednesday already—Isabel snapped awake. She’d swooned so fast in and out of sleep that no dreams had materialized.

  Eyes mashed shut, she lingered in bed and mapped out their day’s itinerary. First they’d concentrate on Clarence Fishback. If the town’s grapevine didn’t hum with the latest on him, they’d tap more creative sources.

  She greeted Alma in her housecoat pulled up to the kitchen table. Mason jars, a future task to can the basket of pears they’d picked at a local orchard, were lined near her elbow.

  Alma poured them each a glass of cranberry juice, but Isabel disliked its tartness. Alma said a dietician had told her cranberry juice flushed your system and kept you on the beam. Every meal now included a food that either staved off a disease or cured an ailment. Isabel had had her fill of the healthy and ate whatever foods tasted delicious to her.

  “Did you find the right book title?” asked Isabel.

  “I’m afraid a night’s rest didn’t jog my memory,” replied Alma.

  “It might yet occur to us.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Relax. Your memory stays as sharp as mine does.”

  “Sometimes I feel a glimmer of a thought hovering in my mental fog and by the next instant—poof!—all I can see are the rising wisps of gray smoke.”

  “Everybody’s brain works that way. Something diverts us, and the thought flies right out of our head.”

  “My senior moments are more frequent. Stuff slips my mind any number of times in a single day, and I’m getting ulcers over it.”

  “Right now you’re just oversensitive to it.”

  “Once Megan returns home, I’ll ask the clinic to recommend a specialist to me.”

  “You’d better write it down somewhere.”

  “Oh, I won’t forget something so important.”

  Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Isabel filled the coffee pot with water she drew from the sink faucet. She drained out enough water to brew them four cups. “How do we pry into Clarence’s background?”

  “Political candidates, sheriffs included, register with the Election Board.”

  Isabel fetched the coffee can from the refrigerator and spooned the French Roast grounds into the coffee pot’s white paper filter. “We can ask if Clarence has signed up to campaign for sheriff and also clear any doubt if he and Sheriff Fox are political rivals.”

  “Sheriff Fox must be seething,” said Alma. “He figures he’s a shoo-in to win
the race until with no warning an upstart, in his own department no less, dares to challenge him. Furious to trounce his opponent, he solves the most lurid murder case to hit us in ages.”

  Shock arched Isabel’s eyebrow. “You believe Sheriff Fox murdered Jake, or had him murdered, and then implicated Megan for it in order to look heroic in the voters’ eyes?”

  “Is it so far-fetched? Sheriff Fox will garner maximum public approval by doing it.”

  “Sure, but this morning Clarence is our primary concern.”

  Alma nodded. “I’ve been thinking. Gloria Ewer, the guidance counselor, should have access to his school records.”

  Isabel found the white pages and circled the phone number listed for “G. Ewer.” She didn’t realize until her third jangle it was seven am, but they never troubled with clockwatching except at pill times.

  “Hello,” said an educated voice enlivening the connection.

  “Gloria, Isabel Trumbo here. How are you, dear?”

  “Isabel, don’t say you’ve got more dire news.”

  “No, but can I beg a personal favor?”

  “Just name it.”

  “A former student of yours, Clarence Fishback, interests us.”

  “Oh him. That boy was a handful. Why your interest?”

  “We’re looking into the death of Jake Robbins. Clarence and he were friends, but we heard they had a dispute, possibly over car parts or something to do with their drag racing activities.”

  “Clarence was addicted to fast cars.”

  “Does anything else on him stick out in your memory?”

  “He loved any excuse to play hooky.”

  “What boy doesn’t? Was he a good student?”

  “So-so, I’d say. He was laconic but not shy. He always seemed busy sizing up people to con them. A spiteful thing to say, but that’s my lasting impression of the boy.”

  When Alma touched a shoulder, Isabel looked over.

  “Ask Gloria if he was a troublemaker.”

  “Gloria, did he ever wind up in the principal’s office?”

  “He once smuggled a handgun to show off. That ill-advised stunt cost him a few days.”

  “Where did he find it?”

  “I don’t recall if we ever knew but probably from his father.”

  “Thanks a bunch, Gloria.”

  “I’m always delighted to pitch in.”

  Isabel set down the cell phone and pouring herself a cup of coffee said, “Clarence sneaked a handgun into school. What incites a kid to do that?”

  “He likes his firearms, but then so does every guy in town,” said Alma.

  “After you get ready, we’ll go see Megan.”

  Waiting for Alma, Isabel ventured into the living room. For the lack of anything better to do, she decided on something mindless like watching morning television. Her eyes settled on the end table, but she found no TV remote. She poked in every likely spot but no luck. She groped between the crack of Alma’s armchair cushions and latched to the missing Z letter tile to their Scrabble board. After returning the Z letter tile with its brethren in the Band Aid box, Isabel thought of another possibility. Sure enough, the TV remote lay under a Social Security check inside of Alma’s purse.

  “Honestly, she’s so bossy about what we watch now she carries the TV remote in her pocketbook.” Isabel aimed the TV remote and turned in the TV set.

  Expecting the Seven-Thirty Morning News, she encountered the implacable blue screen of death. She flipped it off and riffled through her Alaskan Outdoor magazine until Alma hurried into the living room.

  “Vernon is supposed to refill my allergy pills,” she said after a sniff.

  “I’ve been after you for weeks to do it.”

  “But my allergy has now reached the crisis point.”

  “So I’ve noticed.”

  Alma drove them down Church to Main Street where they parked by a newspaper vending box and climbed the drugstore steps to the door. The aroma of lemony furniture polish pervaded the interior. Isabel saw the copper cowbell usually clanking had detached from the door handle, but she said nothing. They passed the gumball machine and a hand-printed sign advertising a 50% off sale on alarm clocks. They continued on a path worn in the plank floor by the generations of Quiet Anchorage sick. The pharmacy counter was deserted, and Alma tapped the stem to ding the miniature bell.

  In his white smock, Vernon wiping his hands on a paper towel moseyed out from behind the pebbled glass panel. Apologetic, he pleaded inventorying a new pharmaceuticals shipment in the back room before Alma asked him if he’d refilled her allergy prescription.

  He mopped the damp paper towel to cool his perspiring forehead. “I’m about caught up, and your prescription is my first task. I’ll have it for you no later than three o’clock and sorry for the inconvenience.”

  Frowning her displeasure, Alma waved him off. “Maybe hiring an assistant might ease your workload. They don’t cost much, plus it gives a deserving, responsible young person a part-time job.”

  “I certainly appreciate the suggestion.”

  “Where all does a pharmacist travel?” asked Isabel.

  “Boring conventions.” He swiped any imaginary dust off the Bible he kept by the cash register. “Our license renewal requires us to complete thirty hours of CEUs annually to dispense the latest and greatest nostrums to keep our clients healthy.”

  “You’ll have my mine ready by three,” said Alma, her sniff punctuating her desperate need.

  “Right, right.” His nods confirmed it.

  The sisters left for the sheriff’s station house with the bright morning sun splashing on its tan bricks. The deputy cruisers, washed and waxed, sat in a phalanx waiting for their drivers to go on patrol.

  “Megan’s breakfast should’ve come,” said Isabel.

  “If it isn’t tasty, I hope it’s at least nutritious,” said Alma.

  They grappled out of the sedan with their customary early morning groans and hiked to the double glass doors. Inside the cooler hallway, they let their eyes adjust to the institutional gloom. They probed further, and at Sheriff Fox’s office found his door locked. No clerks sat at the receptionist’s kiosk, and no deputies manned the duty desk.

  “Nobody is holding down the fort,” said Alma.

  “They’re at the morning roll call,” said Isabel.

  “If we came as desperadoes, this would be the ideal instant to pull off a prison break.”

  “Right now I’m feeling pretty desperate.”

  Just then, Bexley, the freckled poetry reader at Jake’s funeral, appeared in the hallway. He nodded, and Alma revealed their mission as Isabel paid him with a tip for his oratory services.

  Tucking the wad into his billfold, he said, “You can visit Megan but under one condition.”

  “Out with it then, Bexley,” said Alma.

  “You never tell Sheriff Fox I let you, or my head goes on a spear.”

  “Deal,” said Isabel.

  Sniffing harder, Alma trailed a step behind Bexley and Isabel where the disinfectant scent reminded her of ghoulish hospital wards. Bexley walked fielding Isabel’s questions.

  “I went straight from high school to here. This year is my twelfth, and I’ll retire in eight more. Then it’s off to my cabin to go inner tube rafting and bass fishing for the rest of my born days.”

  “You’ll cruise on Easy Street. Meantime do you like Sheriff Fox for a boss?”

  “About as much as I do eating spinach.”

  Isabel nodded. “He’s a real slave driver, eh?”

  “I can’t tell you my honest feelings. Let’s just say I liked it here fine before he arrived, and nowadays I just punch a time clock and go home.”

  “The last time we saw Megan in here.” Isabel laid a hand on the doorknob to Interview Room Two.

  “Go on in, and I’ll bring her down to you.” Bexley snickered. “Suddenly working here is a gas again.”

  “Except Sheriff Fox is liable to show any second,” said Alma.

>   Alma’s warning put the bounce in Bexley’s gait. His crêpe-soled shoes squeaked on the hallway tiles, and she tugged on the door. They sidled inside and planted on a wood bench where their noses puckered. A deputy had feasted on Limburger cheese and onion sandwiches for breakfast.

  “What do they serve the prisoners?”

  Before Isabel replied, the door moved, and Megan cringed before them, and for a horrifying moment, they just gaped at her. Overnight she’d grown chalk pale, apparently dropped fifteen pounds, and aged by the same number of years. She took mincing steps, and Isabel flew up from the wood bench and wrapped her arms around in a hug. Alma hovered near while Megan swooned faint, and they assisted her to sit on the wood bench.

  Meanwhile Alma buttonholed Bexley at the door. “You guys spirited off the file cabinets inside of Jake Robbins’s office.”

  “Yep, I brought them here on a flatbed truck. Sheriff Fox told me to deliver them to his house since extra space is cramped here.”

  “Clarence Fishback said he got the file cabinets,” lied Alma.

  “He doesn’t know his butt from a biscuit,” said Bexley with heat.

  “Does he get under your skin?” asked Alma.

  “His cop style gets almost too good results.” Bexley gave her a disdainful look.

  Her eyes widening, Alma faked her shock. “You mean he does dishonest stuff like manufactures evidence to make his case?”

  Bexley turned cagey. “Your words, Alma, not mine. I can’t accuse him of such wrongdoing without ironclad proof.”

  “Is there any truth to the rumblings that he’s going to be the next Roscoe?”

  “It’s no secret Clarence would sell his grandmother into slavery to pin on the sheriff’s badge.” Bexley’s glance included his wristwatch. “I better get busy. Holler when you want out but keep it brief. Most mornings Sheriff Fox rolls up at eight.” With a cheerful wave, Bexley left them in Interview Room Two.

  Isabel was saying, “Megan, keep your chin up.”