by Ed Lynskey
The ear-piercing din of the fire whistle from below saved them. The young men and ladies leapt up from the tables, knocking over the chairs in their stampede for the exits. Alma towed Isabel behind the coffee urn to avoid getting trampled in the rush. The volunteer firefighters clambered down the stairwell and once on the ground floor pelted into the bays. Donning their coats and hats, they hitched aboard their perches on the fire pumper trucks.
The thunder to the diesel engines cranking below echoed through the loft’s joists and walls. Every object near Alma and Isabel—the windowpanes, tables, chairs, and even dried lima beans substituted for bingo chips—vibrated in place. Then the fire pumper trucks rumbled, charging out of their bays, and the multiple sirens wailed out into the night.
“It sure makes the heart pound and the blood race,” said Isabel.
Alma located their ideal spot to sit for bingo. “Phyllis can update us on the state of Megan’s apartment.”
Isabel gave a chuckle. “It’s sparkling clean, I hope.”
Phyllis, her ensemble for the night sequined purple, smiled up at the sisters. “You picked up my gamma ray signals, I see.”
“Your gamma rays are emitting crisp and clear signals,” said Isabel, her face kept deadpan.
“Willie told me gamma rays communication was developed at Area 51,” said Phyllis.
“He should be well-versed in that esoteric stuff,” said Alma.
“Any progress to report on Megan’s apartment?” asked Isabel.
“You can both take a chill pill. Her apartment looks immaculate and pristine.” Phyllis patted the two seat bottoms flanking her. “Park it ladies since bingo is set to commence. Beware: the competition is cutthroat. But stick with me, and I’ll show you how to mop up in here.”
“We sure came to win,” said Alma.
“I can also guarantee Megan will soon see light at the end of her tunnel,” said Phyllis.
Wiggling his pink almost Mr. Spock ears, Fats Browning seated at a table on the raised stage turned the brass wire cage rattling the numbers balls inside it. The first numbers ball ricocheted out the side slot. He bellowed out from reading the number.
“B-32, ladies and gents. Welcome all and may Lady Luck shine on you. B-32 kicks off tonight’s games.”
“Quick, help me play these cards,” said Phyllis. “I overheard on the police scanner that just now is a milking parlor fire in Lakota, and so the firefighters won’t be back for a couple of hours.”
“I-12,” said Fats Browning from the head table. “Ladies and gents, I-12. Somebody will win early, and it might well be you.”
Alma and Isabel took the empty chairs on either side of Phyllis. Before giving more news, she placed her next dried lima beans to mark several bingo cards. “I ran my Hoover over every square inch of Megan’s carpet, waxed her kitchen floor to a mirror shine, and even polished up her silverware.”
“N-8,” said Fats Browning.
“You’re a sweetheart. Has anybody else been by Megan’s?” asked Isabel.
Fats Browning making a croaky sound cleared his throat, then announced, “O-17. I repeat, O-17.”
“Not so much.” This time Phyllis centered her dried lima beans on four card spaces. Alma and Isabel had yet to play their first dried lima bean chip. Leaning to each side, Phyllis scanned their cards to play the right numbers. “Stay alert and keep up with Fats. Tonight’s grand prize is a brand new lady’s and man’s wristwatch donated by Vernon from the drugstore.”
“That’s very generous. Maybe I’ve been wrong about him,” said Alma.
“When is Megan coming home?” asked Phyllis.
“We’re keeping our fingers crossed for tomorrow morning,” replied Isabel.
“Hey, if I win the lady’s wristwatch, I’ll give it to you for her,” said Phyllis.
“That’s sweet. I’m sure she’ll be most appreciative,” said Isabel.
Fats Browning boomed like a radio announcer. “G-2. That’s G-2, people.”
Phyllis squealed, stirring her sparkly, purple arms above her. “Bingo! Fats, I said bingo.”
Fats cocked a cynical eye at their table. “Hold the phone, we may have a winner. March your card on up here, Phyllis dear. We’ll just check out your claim.”
As she gained her feet, Alma nudged her in the side. “You’d better watch Fats. His eyesight has a slippery way of going out of focus.”
A nod indicated Phyllis was wise to his faulty vision. Envious eyes followed her toting the winning card to the head table. Then Fats grunted with each dried lima bean he removed and verified that he’d called out all of the numbers. With little relish, he awarded her the lady’s wristwatch, and she accepted it with dignity. Halfway back to her seat, however, she barked out a gleeful yelp and gave a fist pump. The bingo crowd chuckled and clapped for her. After taking a sassy bow, she flumped down in her chair and set her prize on the tabletop.
“Do you think Megan will enjoy it?” asked Phyllis.
“I’m sure she’ll love it.” Isabel picked up the lady’s gold-band wristwatch in its plastic display case. “This is a handsome timepiece, and she needs something to pep her up.”
Chapter 30
Isabel saw through a cracked eyelid that her Venetian blind was down. Thursday morning’s pinkish sunlight rubbed at the slats and edges as a vague worry flickered in her mind. She next felt a jolt of fear when she recognized its origin. Their niece Megan was still a jailbird a few streets away from their house. She pounced on the cell phone.
Alma answered in mid-chirp with her usual eloquent “hallo.”
“We’d better shake a leg to get Megan freed this morning.”
“Good morning to you, too, but I’ve already shaken a leg. In fact, I’m sitting at the kitchen table sipping my second cup of coffee. My day’s crossword puzzle is almost finished, but I’m stuck on a four-letter word beginning with the letter ‘k’ for a New Zealand bird.”
“Try inserting kiwi, k-i-w-i. You didn’t think to roust me?”
“K-i-w-i is a nifty fit, thank you. Yes, I looked in on you a little earlier, but I couldn’t bring myself to wake you.”
“Today we’ll be sure to look closer at Sheriff Fox.”
“Having to investigate our sheriff feels weird.”
“Does your weird feeling prevent you from doing it?”
“Not in the least.”
“Good. Have you called Sammi Jo?”
“I rang but she doesn’t answer her cell phone, so I left her a recorded message.”
“Dwight?”
“It’s the same deal with him.”
Within the hour, both ladies, their sunglasses on, rode in the sedan, and it was Isabel’s idea they first stop at Megan’s apartment building. Cars packed its lot with the vans, motorboats, and RVs. The metallic banging was a garbage truck emptying the overflowing dumpsters. The sisters spotted no pesky deputy cruisers, so they pushed on, hoping to catch Sammi Jo at her apartment.
Isabel said she needed baby powder to soothe her heat rash, a new ailment that she attributed to her sudden exposures to the iceberg air conditioning and then stifling tropical heat outdoors. Alma’s screeching brakes frightened off a half-dozen fantail pigeons scavenging for grimy food scraps by the newspaper vending box.
“I hope Vernon keeps early hours,” said Isabel.
“The lights are ablaze inside,” said Alma.
The ladies entering the medicinal smells removed their sunglasses, and the copper cowbell on the drugstore door clanged. Alma peering down at the doorjamb noticed the fittings and hardware to a new burglar alarm. She felt the overhead fans swirl a draft of musty air and saw the white-smocked Vernon waving a mop over the green linoleum tiles under the counter stools. He made an annoyed expression as Isabel branched off at a likely aisle to find her baby powder. Never bashful, Alma headed over to him where a comic book sat out on the countertop by the soda fountains.
“Top of the morning, Alma,” he said.
“Hallo, Vernon. How is busi
ness?”
Mopping, he talked to the floor tiles. “Steady, I’d say.”
“I see that you’re installing a new burglar alarm.”
“It’s been in the works, but Jake’s tragedy shows how Quiet Anchorage is not quite the safe haven as its name implies. I’ve got little confidence that our sheriff can protect us from a murderer.”
“We might look into having one installed at the house. You’ll have to give me your salesperson’s name and phone number.”
“Gladly, Alma, but when I’m not so busy like I am right now.”
“We’re on our way to court. Megan is posting bail today.”
He ceased mopping. “That’s swell. I don’t like Sheriff Fox, and he better not count on my vote in November.”
“Who do you see as Jake’s possible murderer?”
“Did I also say Sheriff Fox is absolutely ruthless to win his reelection?”
“I see. So he’d go to any extent to assure a victory.”
“I’d say you’re right on the beam.”
“Hey, I hear taking the flights today is a real hassle. Do you like to use Dulles or BWI airport for your travel out of town?”
“Dulles airport,” he replied as he resumed mopping. “I always fly out of Dulles. Now, can I assist you with something specific?”
“No, Isabel knows what she wants.” Alma set her large, black purse on the countertop, taking closer look at the comic book. Dragon-monsters assailing ladies clad in skimpy togas didn’t look very comedic to her. “We might fly up to Vermont or New Hampshire to see the October foliage. Despite all the airport security, do you like flying okay?”
“Okay enough. But then I’m your pharmacist, not your travel agent. May I suggest you see one about your concerns on using the airlines?” He swished the mop over the floor tiles under the final counter stool.
“I’m just shooting the breeze, Vernon.”
His mopping halted as he checked his wristwatch. “I’m rushing to open in three minutes, so do you mind if I get on with my preparations?”
By now Isabel had selected her baby powder and joined them. “Vernon, ring me up, and we’ll be out of your hair.”
“Is Sammi Jo in her apartment?” asked Alma as they walked to the cash register.
“How should I know?” he asked. “Why don’t you go upstairs and knock on her door?”
The corner to Alma’s mouth gave an irate tic. “Those were nice wristwatches you donated for a bingo prize.”
He propped his elbows on the Bible by the cash register. “What bingo prize are you talking about?”
“You gave the two wristwatches to Fats Browning and don’t remember doing it?” said Isabel.
“My new clerk, the one who you suggested that I hire, must’ve given Fats the wristwatches I had under the counter by mistake.” Vernon worked the cash register. “I’ll just deduct the charitable contribution so it’s no biggie.”
“Megan will come home with us today,” said Isabel, paying for her baby powder.
“So Alma told me.” He smiled under the trim mustache. “Good for you and her.”
“You make it a nice day, Vernon,” said Isabel.
Alma first out the drugstore door and down the steps articulated their same thought. “Vernon is an odd bird, isn’t he? I saw his comic book on the countertop.”
Isabel laughed. “Apparently the humor didn’t rub off on him. He was a big grouch this morning.”
“I don’t wonder since it wasn’t a funny comic book. He says Sheriff Fox could well be responsible for Jake’s murder.”
“Can Vernon make his assertion stand up against Sheriff Fox?”
“No better than we can.”
“That’s a pity but we’ll stay on Sheriff Fox until we know.”
The ladies filed down the alleyway to the drugstore’s rear where a flight of exterior steps led them up to the apartments. They went inside the hallway and rapped on Sammi Jo’s apartment door. No response sent them back down to the sedan, and they left for Sheriff Fox’s house.
Their sedan glided through Quiet Anchorage’s serene morning streets, and Isabel’s forehead leaned against the window glass. She gazed out at the passing revue, and she liked what she observed. Crêpe myrtles, their blossoms maroon and white, in the tidy yards nodded on the cat’s-paw breezes. The most reassuring aspect was no “For Sale” signs staked on any lawns. If Quiet Anchorage was a place that time had forgotten, she approved of the slight. Their small town didn’t wither away on the vine, threatening to die or get swallowed whole by the suburban sprawl.
Young people such as Sammi Jo and Megan didn’t move away to seek better paying jobs and raise their families. At the same time, seniors stayed to live out their days. This social fabric stitched from the young and old alike gave Quiet Anchorage its resilience, stability—and the greatest of all—hope. Only Jake Robbins’s recent murder had marred the peaceful atmosphere, she lamented as they rumbled over the railroad tracks. She reached Dwight on her cell phone.
“Sheriff Fox told us that he was giving you Megan’s police report.”
“I’ve reviewed it and nothing new comes to light,” said Dwight.
“Does it include his sneaky arrest?”
“Of course not. You saved me a call. Keep in mind this morning we return to court at ten o’clock. Hopefully she can post bail.”
“Nothing would give us any greater pleasure,” said Isabel before their hang up.
On their first flyby of Sheriff Fox’s house, Isabel told Alma. “His Plymouth isn’t parked out for sale.”
“If he found the space to move it into the garage, did the file cabinets return to the station house?” asked Alma.
Isabel nodded under her floppy straw hat. “Park us in his driveway, and we’ll have the answer.”
Not adept at executing U-turns, Alma tooled around the block, equally as effective. They wheeled under the copse of sycamore trees and at Sheriff Fox’s driveway entrance, Alma signaled the blinker to turn into it.
They parked to wait in the denser shade and through the rolled down windows took in the katydids’ raspy arias song in the treetops. A male cardinal, scarlet and vibrant, alit on a Pyracantha sticker bush to chortle at them. A freight whistle from somewhere down the railroad line whelped out louder. The duller, dun-colored female cardinal flitted up to join her mate. Still the patient ladies sat and kept watch on Sheriff Fox’s house and yard for any signs of activity.
“From all appearances, Sheriff Fox has left for work,” said Isabel.
Alma nodded.
Rapping knuckles clanged on the sedan’s metal roof, and their whiplash glances up saw the grinning Sammi Jo.
“Sorry to startle you but here I am,” she said.
“How did you know where to find us?” asked Alma.
“I ordered breakfast at Eddy’s Deli, and then Vernon at the drugstore said you’d come by. The process of elimination sent me here.”
“Breakfast out? Don’t you watch your expenses?” asked Alma.
“Why do I have to pinch my pennies? We’re pros now, right?” Sammi Jo quit grinning with a sharper look at them. “Didn’t we decide I’d start to draw a paycheck?”
Alma groaned. “Isabel, you better talk to Mr. Oglethorpe. We can no longer afford our amateur sleuth status, and Sammi Jo is right in that she has to eat. We better turn a profit soon, too, because our pensions and Social Security will keep us afloat for only so long.”
“Megan has our first priority,” said Isabel.
“Her court time is this morning, and we can’t get into Sheriff Fox’s garage to check on the file cabinets,” said Alma.
“Leave that problem to me.” Sammi Jo walked to the garage, stooped in the knees, and wrested up the unlocked door with the flicks of her wrists. Alma and Isabel scooted off their seats and followed Sammi Jo into the garage bay. The dim space reeked of decayed burlap, bug spray, and gasoline.
“The last time in here, I saw the file cabinets right there,” said Sammi Jo, po
inting to the vacant spot.
The file cabinets first missing from Jake Robbins’s office were missing yet again from Sheriff Fox’s garage.
Isabel stopped just short of the bare spot. “By going to all this trouble, Sheriff Fox has to be hiding something important from us.”
“The gangster Plymouth is also missing,” said Alma.
“Oh, this morning I saw Bexley driving it around,” said Sammi Jo. “The word I get is that Sheriff Fox gave it to him.”
“Sheriff Fox appeased Bexley after pulling that empty file cabinet stunt on him,” said Alma.
“How was last night’s bingo?” asked Sammi Jo.
“Your Aunt Phyllis won the first game, and Fats gave her a lovely lady’s wristwatch for a prize. She’s decided to give it to Megan,” said Alma.
“Phyllis is a sweet lady, and we adore her,” said Isabel.
“The wristwatch will make a cool gift for Megan,” said Sammi Jo.
“Sheriff Fox also showed up to hustle a few votes,” said Isabel in a disgusted voice.
“S-h-h-h, listen, you all,” said Sammi Jo.
A car engine’s drone on the street sent them fleeing out of the garage, its bay door left up. Alma bumbled on her bulky foot, and Sammi Jo helped her gimp to the sedan while Isabel sank down into its upholstery. Once seated, Alma turned the key in its ignition, and the sedan moved in a circle as if they’d intended to use Sheriff Fox’s driveway as a turnaround space.
After maneuvering to the sunny street, they saw the car had pulled to the curb. A six-footer, slender Asian man emerged from the driver seat. The lemons and limes topped the brown paper bag he carried in one arm. As Alma sped up to go by him, the man ogled them, and Sammi Jo gave a congenial salute, but he didn’t return a wave, just stared.
“That was a close call,” said Sammi Jo.
“We did fine,” said Isabel.
As the sedan bumped over the railroad crossing for the straight shot down Main Street, Alma had a thought. “Could Clarence beat Sheriff Fox in the political race?”
“I wouldn’t bet more than two nickels on it,” said Sammi Jo. “People don’t cozy up to Clarence, and well-liked is what wins you elected office.”
