Ed Lynskey - Isabel and Alma Trumbo 02 - The Cashmere Shroud

by Ed Lynskey

  Sammi Jo nodded, appreciating the encouraging gesture.

  Chapter 6

  Unlike Isabel, Alma didn’t need a hearing aid. She had her share of the aches and pains all mature ladies endure, but she never feared going deaf. Departing on foot from Eddy’s Deli, she keyed on the dog-day cicadas chirring from the lofty branches of every other oak and maple tree in the yards and those along Main Street.

  Alma maintained her pace in the single file walking between Isabel and Phyllis on the sidewalk. Sammi Jo had left them and returned to her apartment one floor above the drugstore. She’d powder her nose and catch up to them later. Alma was grateful she’d listened to the weather lady’s forecast and worn a short-sleeved blouse. The sunny morning was growing hot as sitting under a beauty salon’s hair dryer.

  “Do you like hearing them go on, too?” asked Phyllis.

  “Are you back to being the ditzy Phyllis?” asked Alma. “I’m not certain which one I’m speaking to now.”

  Phyllis laughed. “I’ll never again deceive you and Isabel in our private moments. Otherwise it’ll be game on with me as the ditzy Phyllis.”

  “How did you know I was just thinking about the cicadas raising such a fuss?”

  “The noisy cicadas are this morning’s biggest excitement. How could you be thinking of anything but them?”

  Alma couldn’t dispute Phyllis’ assertion.

  The wooden bench reserved in front of the Lago Azul Florist Shop had no takers, but three would be schlepping along any minute now. Meantime Phyllis shared a joke she’d made up on the fly with Isabel and Alma.

  “Knock, knock, Alma.”

  She sighed but was a good sport about it. “Who’s there?”

  “Sherlock.”

  “Sherlock who?”

  “Sher-lock to crack this murder case.”

  Smiling while Phyllis snickered, Isabel funneled them into the florist shop. The air conditioning adjusted to an igloo setting offered the ladies a respite from the morning swelter. Isabel wished she had brought her sweater while Phyllis removed her floppy straw hat.

  “It’s colder than a morgue’s cooler in here,” she said.

  Alma was leery to ask Phyllis, always full of surprises, if she’d had any personal brushes with morgue coolers. Instead Alma admired the red and yellow summer poinsettias in the terracotta pots arrayed along the counter. The showy flowers gleamed with the vivid colors that could steal away an admirer’s breath at first sight.

  “Good morning, ladies.” The speaker behind the counter was as square as she was tall, and her sorbet-colored sundress looked elegant as it did flattering. She finished smoothing out the wrinkles in it.

  “Hot one again today,” said Isabel.

  “It’s hotter than jalapeño peppers at a weenie roast,” said Corina. “And that’s as hot as it ever gets in these parts. Phyllis, we’re terribly sorry for your loss. Nobody worked harder or longer than Ray Burl did. He was an inspiration to us all.”

  “Thank you for your kindness.” Phyllis suspected Corina was a little too eager to find out if his funeral held within a few days would bring a spike in her flower retail business. “I’m sure he’ll be missed by many folks, you included.”

  “No question about it,” said Corina, nodding. “How might I help you good ladies?”

  “We’re back at doing our private eye thingy,” said Alma. “Sheriff Fox doesn’t give it his seal of approval, but this is still a free nation the last time I read the one-dollar bill in my wallet.”

  “I saw ace reporter Cathy Johnson’s newspaper article about you,” said Corina. “How exhilarating it must be.”

  “Murder comes nothing close to be exhilarating,” said Alma. “You draw a fair amount of traffic in your flower shop, and we know how the townies love to yammer about something as juicy as a murder. Have you heard anything interesting?”

  One hand cupped under her elbow, and the other hand tapping a finger on her lip, Corina struck a pose of contemplation. “Just the usual speculations but nothing in particular.” She looked at them. “Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

  Phyllis dropped out of her daffy guise. “Ray Burl had been a single man from way back. Did he ever hit on you or your daughters?”

  Corina fluttered her curly eyelashes. “If only I could’ve been so lucky. As for my daughters, no, he was too long in the tooth for them to be interested even if he had made any overtures to them.”

  Wanna bet a dozen of your long-stemmed American Beauties on that? thought Alma, irritated by Corina’s flippancy. The glass front refrigeration locker where Corina kept her flower arrangements to preserve their freshness switched on, purring with a purposeful hum.

  “Did Ray Burl ever come into your shop?” asked Phyllis.

  Corina shrugged. “Men seldom mosey by unless they want flowers for an anniversary, birthday, or to smooth over a rough patch with their significant other.”

  “You already told us you kept an eye on him,” said Phyllis. “Where did you see him?”

  “Look, it’s not like I kept a detailed journal or diary on the man’s whereabouts.” Corina sounded increasingly aggravated.

  The more diplomatic Isabel interceded. “We’re not trying to tweak you, but it’s crunch time, and we have to work fast.” She lifted a hand to the glass panes at the shop’s display window. “The hardware store sits opposite of you. Did you happen to observe Ray Burl entering or leaving it? Perhaps he’d bought an item and carried it. That’s the sort of details we’re after here.”

  Corina was mollified to a degree. She mashed her curly eyelids shut and quirked her lips for the drama in it. Alma had been ready to leave three minutes ago.

  Even with her bare arms covered with goose bumps, Isabel appeared less edgy. She gaped at Corina, hoping to obtain their first solid lead.

  Corina spoke in a hesitant voice. “Where did Ray Burl work?”

  “He’s an old timer at Barclay’s Turf Farm,” replied Alma, snappish.

  Isabel scrunched up her eyebrows, a mild rebuke she sent Alma to lay off a little.

  “Why is your question pertinent?” asked Isabel.

  Corina lifted up her curly eyelashes. Her electric blue eyes crackled with new excitement. “Because it has jostled my old memories of Ray Burl.”

  “Did he buy a lawn or garden tool at the hardware store?” asked Isabel.

  Alma teetered on the verge of making an impatient tsk-tsk noise, but she knew Isabel usually had a good reason behind pursuing her inquiries. Waiting might yield something.

  “Going back to last winter is when I’m thinking of,” said Corina. “I remember certain as the nose is on my face seeing Ray Burl leave the hardware store brandishing a firearm.”

  Alma flitted her eyes to Corina. This just might be interesting to hear, she thought.

  “Was it a pistol?” asked Isabel.

  “You could write what I know about guns on a bubblegum wrapper, but…” Corina stretched her hands as far as they’d spread. “…his firearm was a great deal longer than a pistol is.”

  “Was it either a rifle or shotgun?” asked Isabel.

  “Does the shotgun use the pipe with the bigger hole inside it?”

  Isabel nodded that was correct.

  “Then I guess it had to be a shotgun he took out,” said Corina.

  Phyllis tilted her eyebrows, but she was astute enough not to tip off her surprise to Corina. Ray Burl had never been a violent man nor cared one whit for hunting game like the guys Phyllis had known liked to do. He didn’t let his scraggly beard grow until he’d bagged his first buck of hunting season. He didn’t take hours of target practice sighting in his high power rifle’s scope and sharpening his aim. He didn’t fawn over or caress his prized firearms displayed on a walnut rack or stacked upright inside a mahogany cabinet. Killing wasn’t part of his psychological makeup.

  Ray Burl had just the one fixation. He was an industrious worker. He didn’t slack off for either Christmas Day or Thanksgiving Day, but instead
he stayed busy sawing, screwing, and gluing, say, on an in-progress china cabinet. The townies’ running joke went he craved the nonstop labor in order to keep him from going crazy as a betsy bug. Perhaps there was a kernel of truth to the joke.

  “If we’re finished, I need to get back to my flowers,” said Corina. “Phyllis, I’ll be glad to discuss any needs you may have for Ray Burl’s funeral if you brought along cash or credit cards.”

  Phyllis shifted to the counter. “You gals can take off if you like. I’m getting with Corina about ordering the flowers.”

  “Do know which ones you want to pick?” asked Isabel.

  “Ray Burl was partial to irises, snapdragons, and lilies-of-the-valley,” replied Phyllis. “We attended Fats Browning’s daddy’s funeral, and Ray Burl mentioned them to me.”

  “Those flowers will look extra nice,” said Isabel.

  “They’re my favorites, too,” said Alma.

  Chapter 7

  Quiet Anchorage’s pharmacist, Vernon Spitzer, had been Sammi Jo’s previous landlord, but he’d taken a long cruise and sold the pharmacy to Eustis Blake. Whereas Vernon was an obstreperous man who had little use for indulging in such niceties as customer relations, Eustis was affable as your closest cousin. If you collected every clichéd trait of the nerdy pharmacist down to the marshmallow white smock, wing tip Florsheims, and balding egghead, you’d have an on-target description of him.

  He kept the pea green tiled floors well mopped. He routinely fussed over straightening up the women’s accessories—bright chic scarves made in the U.S.A., Godiva Chocolate Truffles, and wind up alarm clocks—displayed on the shelves sure to snag their eye. Isabel and Alma had been after him to sell Scrabble along with Bingo game boxes. He’d acquiesced and now did so.

  The four ceiling fans with their polished tung wood blades swirled nonstop and Sammi Jo found them charming as those used to cool Rick’s Café with Sam tickling the ivories. Eustis would open the drugstore five minutes early, and he didn’t mind staying open late within reason if he knew a customer wanted to pick up a prescription. From the git-go, Sammi Jo had liked him as a vast upgrade over Vernon.

  She’d held her breath, fearing Eustis would jack up her apartment’s rent, but he almost acted apathetic as to whether or not he received it from her. The town grapevine buzzed he was from La Jolla or Malibu Beach, and she was at a loss to fathom why he’d trade California’s sunny, temperate climate for here. Quiet Anchorage sat in the Piedmont of the Blue Ridge Mountains where the winters by mid-January could turn almost as brutal as a Klondike winter. Perhaps he took a new pleasure in experiencing the changes to the four distinct seasons. At any rate, the townies welcomed him with open arms.

  Neatening the racked Japanese manga comic books, striking for their saucer-eyed characters, he stopped and returned Sammi Jo’s wave. He’d already expressed his condolences to her.

  She headed to the rear where the interior staircase ascended to the six apartments, hers the last one on the right. Her neighbors were single moms with irregular work schedules and seldom at home. She gave Eustis one of her sweet smiles as she passed him.

  “Hey there, sir,” she said. “What do you know good?”

  “It’s Saturday, my busiest time of the week,” replied Eustis. “Is that good enough to make your list?”

  “Taking care of business always tops my list,” she said.

  “Speaking of which, Reynolds Kyle poked by earlier. You weren’t in, so he told me to let you know he’d be returning later this morning.”

  Reynolds Kyle was Sammi Jo’s latest boyfriend. He made a comfortable living by owning the popular drag race track operating a couple miles away in the old Tandy peach orchards. Someday the relentless suburban sprawl would most likely wipe the drag race track off the map.

  “Thanks for the warning,” she said. “I have a good idea of what he wants from me.”

  Under his groomed appearance, Eustis had an earthy side since he was also a red-blooded male with a pulse. “I’m not touching that one, Sammi Jo Garner. Whatever happens upstairs behind closed doors stays upstairs behind closed doors.”

  Halting on a dime, Sammi Jo widened her eyes, pretending to be taken aback. She hooked her thumbs in the small pockets to her shorts. “I was referring to Reynolds’ paying me back the twenty dollars he borrowed from me last Wednesday. What do you mean?”

  Blushing to show beet red clear up to his ear tips, Eustis fell for her bit of teasing. “Nothing, Sammi Jo. I was just passing along Reynolds’ message is all.”

  “Kidding,” said Sammi Jo, cracking an insouciant grin. “Lighten up a little, dude.”

  “Okay, you got me good there,” said Eustis with relief.

  “If Reynolds pops up again, just point him upstairs,” she said. “Meantime I’ll be sorting my dirty laundry.”

  “Uh-huh.” This time Eustis quit while he was still ahead.

  ***

  “Ray Burl was a good man, Sammi Jo. Everybody respected him. And that’s saying something about his tons of character, too. He and I didn’t always see eye-to-eye on things, but I always held a high regard for him.”

  Reynolds fidgeted, sitting in the straight-back chair as she pawed through her mountain of laundry, separating the reds, whites, and blues into their respective piles. She’d let her laundry slide for too long and needed to get back on a regular schedule, but she’d rather watch the moss grow on a rock or listen to a morning traffic report than do her wash. Lugging her loads to Clean Vito’s on the far end of Main Street was just the first hurdle.

  “Do you have to be doing that right now?” asked Reynolds. “We’re trying to hold a conversation here.”

  “Unless you have the extra energy to get it done, yeah, I do,” she replied.

  She’d removed the laundry from inside the rattan hamper, her most recent acquisition from the new big box store built on the old Thorne farm. Unlike Alma, whose shadow would “absolutely, positively” never darken its doorway, Sammi Jo often did her shopping there.

  She knew why Reynolds was squirming like a worm: to light up a cigarette. She’d banned their use in her apartment. The smoke set off her smoke detectors to wail away like a scalded cat, and she didn’t feel like going to the trouble to pop out their 9-volt batteries so he could satisfy his nicotine fit. His cigarettes were becoming a big turnoff in their relationship anyway. She might have to lower the boom on him soon. Like today.

  “God only knows Daddy could be a stubborn cuss to get along with at times,” she said. “He never mastered the smooth people skills like a preacher or undertaker uses. Handling sod for a living didn’t force him to upgrade them.”

  Reynolds flared his onyx black eyes at her. The soul patch was a recent touch of masculine vanity he’d added, and she hadn’t made up her mind yet if she liked it. He was a lean six-footer who as a young buck had raced stock cars until an epiphany struck him. He realized how owning the drag race track eliminated his finding the grease forever caked under his fingernails. He liked to brag to anybody who’d listen he was an up and coming entrepreneur in the blockbuster NASCAR industry.

  They’d connected during Jake’s homicide case when Sammi Jo, Alma, and Isabel had driven out to his drag race track for Sammi Jo to question him. They’d hit it off, and one movie date (he’d paid her the poetic if not overblown compliment she had the “statuesque beauty of a young J Lo”) led to another even hotter rendezvous. By now, they felt as if they had a good thing going, and both had their reasons to keep it that way.

  “Though a gent of few words, Ray Burl was the crew foreman,” said Reynolds. “That is to say he knew how to bark out his orders to keep them hustling to complete a day’s work.”

  Sammi Jo decided a break was in order, and she had a seat in the other straight-back chair next to Reynolds. She gave the three piles of laundry a ruthful glance. She crossed her legs, drew in a breath, and let it out. “Daddy never yelled at his men that I ever heard about. He always kept his head down and worked like there was n
o tomorrow. He led by his follow-me example.”

  “Is that what he told you?” asked Reynolds.

  “Not in so many words but I believe I know my father a little better than you do, Reynolds Kyle. He was an honest, clean-living Christian man. So, stick that in your pipe and smoke it.”

  Reynolds used his lopsided smile, the one that melted her heart, to defuse her frosty tone. “Don’t tee off on me, since I’m on your side.”

  “Then don’t be sitting in my apartment dissing my late father, especially when he’s not here to defend himself.”

  “My saying he was a no-nonsense boss isn’t meant as taking a swipe at him, but it’s a fair take on how he ran the show at the turf farm.”

  “Did you ever get into a quarrel with him?” she asked. “You mentioned you didn’t always see ‘eye-to-eye on things.’”

  “We never got into a spat. That was my general comment on how our thinking sometimes differed. I’ll give you a for instance. I know through a third party he called drag racing a redneck sport. But since it’s my livelihood, I took umbrage over his wisecrack.”

  “But you never heard that redneck statement come straight from his lips, did you? You depended on your third party’s integrity to get his quote correct. Was she as pretty as I am?”

  “How can you be so all-fired sure the third party was a she?”

  “I seriously doubt if you ever carry on a meaningful conversation with anybody but whoever is your current girlfriend.”

  Reynolds flopped back in the chair, his flattened hands put up at her. “Whoa right there. I don’t like where this conversation is headed. Can we drop it?”

  “Not quite yet. I asked Isabel and Alma to look into Daddy’s murder, and they were kind enough to agree to do it. I trust them, and they’ve got a bloodhound nose for sniffing out the truth. They’re interested in knowing if Daddy had any rows within the past month. You know, who didn’t like him, and who his enemies and detractors were.”