by Ed Lynskey
He pondered how much static he’d draw from the sisters if he effected Sammi Jo’s arrest here. They’d goose their shyster—Dwight Holden could be a pain, too—to get to work before they stirred up half the townies to wield their torches and pitchforks and swarm after Sheriff Fox. The sisters would also get an assist from the trio of geezers collecting splinters along with any loose talk on the wooden bench. He’d give a week’s salary to arrest them for loitering and put a crimp in the sisters’ meddling ways.
If only the sheriff’s office wasn’t an elected position, or he’d formulated a Plan B for his next job, he could do a lot of things differently than he did.
Plus Isabel and Alma were old compadres with Judge Helen Redfern. He shivered. Nobody with any sense dared to cross her. He’d take his time and not arrest Sammi Jo prematurely as he’d done with Megan. Sammi Jo wouldn’t beat the murder rap after he got finished putting together an airtight case against her. He’d also outsmart the Trumbo sisters, something he relished doing very much.
He smiled. You just wait, he thought.
The freight train completed spanning the steel truss bridge. The caboose, red as Sheriff Fox’s face often turned, became a dot, and the engine’s racket dimmed.
“What have you deciphered so far, Sheriff?” asked Sammi Jo. “I reckon I have a right to know since the murder victim was my father.”
“Rest assured I’m giving his case my topmost priority,” replied Sheriff Fox. “But as you would expect, I can’t divulge any developments to an ongoing police investigation.”
He knows about as much as we do—barely a thing, thought Alma.
“Have you contacted Tulip’s Funeral Home and started that end of things?” he asked.
Isabel disposed of that question. “That’s in the works for the next day or so. Nothing can be done until you’ve released the body after the autopsy. When has it been scheduled?”
Sheriff Fox swatted a palm at a lightning bug’s spark flittering under his chin. Every inch of his skin itched and prickled to get out of the buggy cauldron and into the velour-cushioned, air-conditioned luxury of his cruiser. “This soon after the homicide, we’ve arranged no set time for the autopsy, but I’ll be sure to keep you in the loop.”
“I should only hope so,” said Alma.
Before Sheriff Fox could censure Alma’s sarcasm, Isabel pointed out the more immediate dilemma confronting them. “It’s getting almost too dark to negotiate our way along the riverside path. We should be going and take up any more talk at the house over tall glasses of iced tea.”
“PBR?” asked Sheriff Fox, already panting.
“It’s our parlor, Sheriff, not a beer joint or sports bar,” replied Alma.
“Just asking,” said Sheriff Fox. “It never hurts, you know.”
Alma fluttered her eyes at Isabel who contained her smile.
“Guess I’ll be heading on home then, ladies,” said Sheriff Fox.
“Better watch your step while returning,” said Sammi Jo. “Lots of things can trip you up along the way.”
“For your information, I didn’t trip,” said Sheriff Fox. “I knelt down on one knee to inspect a critter’s track left in the sand.”
“Uh-huh.” She shepherded them off walking in single file over the rising and dipping riverside path back to the highway bridge.
On this trip Sheriff Fox made it with no further mishaps.
Chapter 5
Saturday morning touched down on the burnt orange brick rambler with the dusty blue sedan parked in the short graveled driveway. The place on Church Street was known to the townies as the Trumbo Sisters’ Residence. It was bought and paid for, always a leg up for seniors. So was their sedan, which they liked to take turns at driving whenever going places together.
The early morning temperature already flirted with ninety degrees, while a heavy dew had settled on all, including Old Glory smartly displayed on their concrete front stoop. Since 9/11, they flew the stars-and-stripes every summer day it didn’t rain.
A gently curved walkway of even-spaced flagstone steppers in the crushed granite chips bed tracked by a pair of kidney-shaped flowerbeds. Fuchsia, impatiens, and marigolds burst out in their blooms. Alma had pushed for adding a turquoise gazing globe, but Isabel enforced her anti-tacky rule, so the gazing globe remained on Alma’s wish list.
The smell of fresh cut grass indicated Camilo and his lawn crew had been at work mowing the previous afternoon. The sisters, however, weren’t nearly as on top of the other yard chores. The ceramic birdbath needed topping off, and its clay pedestal showed a jagged crack running down the middle. Alma kept meaning to patch the crack with a smooth bead of caulk. She sometimes went a little nutso with the caulking gun, so Isabel had stashed it under her bed amid the dust bunnies and shoeboxes.
Each sister slept in her own bedroom, one located on each end of the brick rambler. Both ladies also owned cell phones they kept handy stuffed under their pillows. Since neither sister was an early riser, morning often found them grumpy, an off-putting trait Sammi Jo had pointed out to them, to little avail.
They were a pair of old gray mares set in their ways, not about to change for the sake of cordiality, although Isabel had made an effort to act nicer before ten a.m. At the moment, Alma had awakened, and she deplored thinking it, but her falling back asleep was about as probable as her scoring the Virginia Lotto jackpot.
She hopped on her cell phone and buzzed Isabel’s number. She was also still in bed, and Alma wasn’t too worried if Isabel was asleep since she was an insomniac who refused to take any sleep aids other than the Godiva Chocolate Truffles.
Isabel caught Alma’s ring and greeted her with a raspy “hello.”
“Do you hear Petey Samson scratching at the front door?” asked Alma. “I believe he’s pinching to take his first romp of the day around the block.”
“At the time we took in Petey Samson from the SPCA animal shelter, I distinctly remember he was going to be your pet, too. But lately it seems I’m the only one who gets tasked with taking him for his walk. Why is that?”
Alma laughed. “Being as you are the older sister, I figured you’d benefit more from getting the exercise.”
“My health is holding its own quite nicely, thanks, so I want to share the beneficial exercise. Our taking different turns, starting with yours this morning, is the healthy way to handle this. What do you say to that idea?”
“Okay, I’ll take over half of the walking duties. But Petey Samson can hold out for a little while longer. Let’s snap on our thinking caps and brainstorm Ray Burl’s murder.”
Isabel paused, trying to visualize whether a “thinking cap” resembled more of an Easter bonnet or Chiquita Banana’s fruit hat, but she couldn’t decide. Nevertheless she had a sense of how trifling it was to chat over the cell phones instead of in the same room. She remained lounging on the pillow she’d plumped up and leaned against the headboard.
“I’ll give you my scariest suspicion,” she said. “Sheriff Fox has set his beady eyes on Sammi Jo as his leading suspect. Did you notice how intently he watched her last night?”
“I never miss where his beady eyes are looking,” replied Alma before a sigh. “I’d hoped it was just me, but now that you also bring it up, I have to believe it. This will be shades of Megan all over again if we’re not careful on how we proceed.”
“At least we knew Jake, who was Megan’s fiancé. Ray Burl is a largely unknown quantity that we have to put under our magnifying glass. We’d only nod and smile hello back to him on the poultry aisle at the IGA.”
“Ray Burl struck me as a nice enough guy.”
“I’ll give you what my intuition is telling me. This murder case is going to be a bigger can of worms for us than Megan’s case ever was.”
“We’ll have to depend on the help of our friends.”
“Who do we trust as a friend when any Quiet Anchorage townie, except Sammi Jo, might be the guilty culprit with the blood on their hands?”
Alma wasn’t discouraged. “Phyllis Garner and the Three Musketeers make four. Plus there is Louise, even if she’s not living here.”
Louise, their younger sister, didn’t get out to visit them much anymore because her crippling rheumatoid arthritis made long distance travel difficult. She had the same Scrabble bug that afflicted Isabel and Alma.
Thinking of the colorful Phyllis, Isabel laughed out. “Phyllis is a pistol, and Louise might remember something useful about Ray Burl. All is not lost.”
“I can hear Petey Samson now clawing down the front door. I’ll slip into my housecoat, clip the leash to his collar, and parade him around the block.”
“Don’t forget to take along the baggie and plastic scoop.”
Alma was a bit mystified. “What’s that?”
Again, Isabel laughed. “You’re in for a real education about dog ownership.”
“Okay, now I understand.” Alma was none too happy about it.
***
The local consensus held that Phyllis Garner represented Quiet Anchorage’s adorable eccentric whose bizarre wardrobe, gushy speech, and daffy behavior were part of the town’s social mosaic. She made it her life’s mission to keep every townie’s mailbox dusted off, which performed by traipsing around the neighborhood and swishing the black ostrich feather duster she toted in her oversized sack purse. She accepted no gratuities.
The townies had watched this and her other far-out antics for so long, they’d lost finding any levity in them and quit laughing. They patted her on the shoulder and shuffled her along on her merry way.
Isabel and Alma had thought of Phyllis the same way until one day when she confided in them at her niece Sammi Jo’s urging. Phyllis was nutty as a fruitcake, all right, but it was a big put on because under the goofiness she had an agile mind. She made her admission while the four ladies had convened around a window booth at Eddy’s Deli, their go-to eatery for comfort foods at one end of Main Street.
Alma removed the paper napkins from the chrome dispenser and distributed them. Phyllis had worn a frothy yellow polka-dot dress with a festive floppy straw hat and pocketbook. She started out true to her jester’s persona by telling them a joke.
“How many detectives does it take to change a light bulb?” she asked.
Isabel and Alma had no guesses and admitted as much.
“None at all.” Phyllis winked with her crooked grin. “They always work in the dark.”
The punch line provoked the three ladies, even Sammi Jo who’d already heard Phyllis tell it, to smile.
Then Phyllis dropped her customary singsong girlish tenor and turned solemn as a church deacon. “You see, I’m not who I pretend to be. I’ve just been having my fun and games by acting ditzy. I really don’t care if the townies’ mailboxes are dirty or not.”
“What in the world possesses you to do such an outlandish thing?” asked Isabel.
“It adds spice to my life in this dull as a mud puddle town,” replied Phyllis.
The astonished Isabel was at a loss for words.
The mischievous Alma was nodding. “I bet pretending to be a lulu is more fun than a shopping spree at Macy’s the day after Christmas. I’d be tempted to do it, too, except everybody would catch on. What’s more, our town can only handle the one screwball lady, or I should say seemingly screwball lady.”
Sammi Jo got to the crux of why she’d called their luncheon. “If I was a betting lady, I’d place a wager on some time down the road we can use Phyllis in her brilliant disguise to pry around and pick up some useful tidbits of intelligence.”
Isabel giggled behind her hand at how the preposterous suggestion tickled her funny bone. “Zany like a fox, Phyllis comes and goes with her radar eavesdropping on unguarded conversations. I love it.”
Phyllis flashed the okay sign, linking her thumb and forefinger to create a small circle. “There’s one catch. You have to swear on your hearts you’ll never compromise my cover. Or else I won’t be effective to you, and I’ll no longer get to enjoy my hijinks.”
“We’ll safeguard your masquerade,” said Alma. “You’ll become the secret weapon our detective agency keeps in reserve.”
Sammi Jo beamed with pride over her cunning aunt putting one over on the townies.
“Now that that’s been ironed out, who is springing for our luncheon?” asked Phyllis. “Keep in mind I’m just a ragamuffin bag lady who’s collecting aluminum cans to sell for cash and pinching her pennies.”
“What catches your fancy?” asked Isabel.
“Pheasant under glass,” replied Phyllis. “Escargot and grits heaped on the side.”
“You must’ve switched back to the old screwball Phyllis,” said Isabel. “Recheck the menu, dear. How does the corn beef reuben and a root beer sound to you instead?”
“Rings like a winner,” replied Phyllis.
***
Today the same foursome conspired at the same window booth at Eddy’s Deli for brunch. Despite the tantalizing aroma of fried chicken, all the ladies but Isabel selected coffee and blueberry muffins. Isabel preferred a carafe of hot green tea and a sticky cinnamon bun.
“Do you need any dusting performed?” Phyllis nodded down at the feather duster she’d brought in her oversized sack purse. “Pro bono, of course.”
Their favorite server Tabitha smiled. “Thanks, but no. Maybe the next time you come you can dust off Eddy’s bald spot. Until then, I do like your feather duster. Is it a new one?”
“Yes ma’am and Wilma Smith peddles them in her bodega. Just ask her for the cut-rate special from Phyllis.”
“Wilma’s bodega is on the road to Reynolds Kyle’s drag race track.”
“Right.”
After Tabitha beelined to the kitchen to fill their orders, a pale-faced Sammi Jo, gazed about the deli and ensured they dined alone.
“Quiet Anchorage doesn’t feel so friendly to me since Daddy left us. Walking along Main Street gives me the heebie jeebies as if I can detect the killer’s feral eyes fixed on my every move. I shiver from the fright, and that’s not like me.”
“Is it your intuition you’re his next victim?” The set of worry lines furrowed Isabel’s forehead.
“The thought of it turns me numb inside,” replied Sammi Jo.
Phyllis put her arm around her niece’s shoulders. “Buck up, kiddo. You’ve got three solid friends to lean on here. While I go about in my disguise, I’ll keep a sharp ear and eye out for any useful lead to slip to Isabel and Alma.”
“Thanks, Aunt Phyllis. That reminder warms my heart. It’s just that I don’t understand why anybody would have any reason to kill Daddy.”
“Just be prepared because the true motive sometimes never comes to light,” said Alma.
“Even so, we’ll keep digging as hard as we can,” said Isabel.
“Ray Burl was a difficult man to understand and know but not to love,” said Phyllis.
Putting on a brave smile, Sammi Jo patted Phyllis on the hand. “Daddy was always there to give me a pep talk when I was down in the dumps.”
“Why did he keep such long hours working at Barclay’s Turf Farm?” asked Isabel. “Was he deep in debt to the bank or to somebody else and trying to earn the money to get out from under them?”
Phyllis took a stab at answering Isabel’s question. “Ray Burl always believed in the virtue of hard work and viewed it as his true salvation. That sounds corny to hear said, but that’s what he believed in from an early age.”
“Where did his money go?” asked Isabel. “He must’ve pulled down a respectable amount with the overtime he was logging in. He sure didn’t put his cash into the small Cape Cod where he lived.”
“He traded being a wage earner for drawing a salary when he took over as the foreman,” said Sammi Jo.
“Maybe he wasn’t making that much then,” said Isabel.
“His working twice as hard would prove he was the right guy to be promoted to foreman,” said Alma.
“We can accept he was a natural worka
holic who strove to accomplish his best,” said Isabel. “Sammi Jo, had he mentioned a last will to you?”
She waggled her head. “That would be the last topic our banal chats would ever cover. He never took the long view into account or was much of a forward thinker. Since Mo took off on us, he was getting by one day at a time. How about it, Aunt Phyllis? Did he let you in on his final wishes?”
“Ray Burl had no desire to admit his mortality or to consider who’d get his earthly possessions if he should die. I’m no Perry Mason or Ben Matlock, but I assume whatever he owned of value will go directly to you since you’re his closest next-of-kin.”
“I’d just as soon trade it all to bring him back if I could,” said Sammi Jo. “All the legal mumbo jumbo will have to wait because my first priority is to nail whoever did this to him.”
“Was his demeanor any different of late?” Alma tried to get a read on his recent mindframe. “Did he act more anxious or uptight? Did he seem abnormally absent-minded or distracted? Was he less forthcoming or short-tempered than usual?”
“Daddy just acted like he always did,” replied Sammi Jo. “I didn’t notice anything remarkably different or changed about him. How about you, Aunt Phyllis? Did you pick up on anything?”
“You saw and talked to him more often than I did, but nothing stands out that’s not par for the course. Maybe he looked a little tireder, but that was due to his heavier work schedule.”
“You must’ve seen his turf farm crew doing their backbreaking field work,” said Sammi Jo. “They earn every nickel they make there.”
Phyllis nodded.
Isabel smiled at seeing Tabitha stride out of the kitchen hoisting a tray on one hand with their orders. “Excellent, now we can chow down. Cancel all further talk of murders and killers, please.”
“Never cheery mealtime topics,” said Sammi Jo.
Tabitha usually served the beverages from the right side while the side dishes came from the left, but while at their booth, she just set down the cups and plates while standing at the booth’s end. She was careful. Before she left, she patted Sammi Jo twice on the shoulder and smiled.
