by Ed Lynskey
There was more awesome porchside diversions for the sisters. They often played popular card games like Hearts and Old Maid or board games like Monopoly and Mahjong. Scrabble came later after it’d been trademarked in 1948 and licensed to the Selchow & Righter Company. Isabel knew the manufacturer’s information printed inside the box lid since they still played using the same old game board.
Over the night insects’ loopy jazz, Isabel could discern the nearby Coronet River gurgling over its sandbars and rocks with its bright musical notes. The distinct whistle to the steam engine express wafted up to her from further afield. Her exhilarated heart thumped. She couldn’t recall its exact arrival time at the Quiet Anchorage depot, but you could set your watch by it.
Lightning bugs glinted like a host of flickering candles raised at a Christmas church service. She could never bring herself to capture the lightening bugs and cruelly trap them inside a Mason jar. The times she relished the best were to sit rocking and whistling back to the skittish whippoorwills trilling from beneath the close-by pine barrens and ironwood thickets.
On the other livelier nights she enjoyed the alto saxophone riffs blown by Charlie Parker. They came from his bebop 78s the sisters played on an old crank Victor-Victrola phonograph with its steel needle. She lounged in the bentwood rocker, tapping her toe along with Bird’s sax she’d heard blown dozens of times.
He never missed a bar he made up as he improvised his solo breaks. Louise once said the upbeat hens laid more eggs while listening to Charlie. She wasn’t kidding. Years later, Isabel’s husband Max, also a fan, said he’d once seen Bird play live along with the trumpeter Dizzy Gillespie and pianist Bud Powell up in The Big Apple.
After the show, the enthralled Max had even met and shaken hands with Charlie Parker—“his palm was soft as a baby’s butt,” Max had said—in the jazz players’ green room, which was really painted crimson red. Hearing that coup floored the saucer-eyed Isabel, but she’d already set her mind to wed Max at her first glance taken of him. The boy didn’t stand a chance.
Charlie Parker’s 78s were scarce as hens’ teeth now, said the collectors of old records. Isabel had no clue of what became of their Charlie Parker 78s. The rural families often used old cisterns, ravines, and marshes for their rubbish dumping grounds. Isabel had forgotten where their dumps were made, if she ever knew the locations. Subdivisions now rested on top of them. She hoped their Charlie Parker 78s met a kinder fate than getting trashed as refuse.
Was it any big mystery after Isabel’s retirement and Max’s death why she elected to sell her residence, pull up stakes, and return to her native small town? As she viewed it, the good things in life ran in cycles. It wasn’t until you closed the loop that you could recognize it. Her return to Quiet Anchorage had accomplished that.
Also retired, Alma had seen the advantages to hitch on with Isabel. Now if they could only persuade Louise to move back to Quiet Anchorage, they’d be together as a family from their native small town. On the other hand, their niece Megan would probably never return to Quiet Anchorage after being run through the wringer over Jake’s murder.
The horror of a second murder, this time Sammi Jo’s dad Ray Bur, didn’t shake Isabel’s resolve to stay put. Tenacious as a tick in her private eye role, she’d find a way to solve it.
Chapter 10
Double-timing it across Main Street, Sammi Jo overtook Isabel and Alma after she saw them filing into Matthiessen’s Hardware Store. Blaine, the proprietor, was nowhere in sight when Sammi Jo hailed the murmuring sisters who’d stopped at the display shelf of emergency battery-operated LED lanterns. She told them Phyllis had left the flower shop to do some dusting on her way home.
Isabel and Alma also smiled.
Alma picked up one lantern and inspected it. Every bad thunderstorm assailing Quiet Anchorage knocked out their electric power, and she was fed up with relying on flashlights and candles.
Isabel flipped up the price tag attached by a string to the lantern’s handle. The wrinkles appeared in her forehead as she experienced the sticker shock.
Votive candles and D cell batteries for the flashlights fell more within their fixed incomes budget. Alma pointed out how the LED lantern’s illumination was more brilliant, and if they bought a pair of them, Isabel would have one handy to use whenever Petey Samson scratched at the front door at night. Alma asked for Sammi Jo’s opinion.
“If you expect Blaine to be willing to take our questions, he’ll want you to buy something expensive,” she replied. “Like the two lanterns.”
“Did you know Ray Burl bought a shotgun here last winter?” asked Alma. “Corina from across the street said she saw him exiting from here with one.”
Sammi Jo was left dumbfounded. “I had no idea. He never mentioned it to me if he did. I’ve got to wonder about that because he’d no liking to hunt or shoot.”
“Maybe it was for his personal protection if he felt threatened or vulnerable,” said Alma.
“Like I said before, as far as I know, he didn’t have any enemies,” said Sammi Jo. “Wouldn’t a handgun be a better self-defense weapon?”
“He could use a sharp hacksaw and crop off the shotgun’s steel barrel,” said Isabel. “The unsavory elements are apt to do that in the hardboiled mysteries we like to read on occasion.”
Alma nodded once. “The sawed off shotgun also instills boatloads of fear in any character staring straight down into one’s bore dark as the black hole of Calcutta.”
“I can imagine how it does,” said Sammi Jo, never a fan of firearms. “Pick up three lanterns, one also for me. I’m down to using a penlight’s wimpy beam to fumble my way around my dark apartment after the current flickers off.”
“Three brand new lanterns are coming right up,” said Alma.
She removed the lanterns off the display shelf, and with Sammi Jo’s assistance, carried them to the back of the store to set on the waist-high counter.
The cash register occupied the corner, but there was no sign of Blaine. The odors they smelled were a hardware store’s smorgasbord of paint thinner, plant fertilizer, and motor oil.
Sammi Jo jabbed her fingertip on an identified black button that produced a rusty buzz in the backroom.
They waited.
Nothing.
Sammi Jo glanced at Isabel.
“Just lean on the button, dear, until it wakes up Blaine,” she said. “He installed it because he’s prone to take catnaps during the slow times.”
“Owning the store has its privileges,” said Sammi Jo.
“For Blaine, he comes by it honestly,” said Alma. “His grandfather and father took the same lackadaisical bent.”
“He better dial it up a notch, or Home Depot will run him out of business,” said Sammi Jo. “It happens all the time.”
“Evidently he doesn’t keep abreast of the business trends,” said Isabel. “Shush. I can hear him prowling around.”
Sammi Jo let up her finger pressure engaging the button, and the obnoxious buzzer fell quiet. She gave Isabel a thumbs up as Blaine, half-dazed and tousled, entered from a doorway at the far end behind the counter. He’d stacked on ten pounds to his short frame since the last time Sammi Jo had seen him. He lumbered sloth-like down the counter until he faced them with a solicitous smile.
“I’ve been going over my inventory list,” he lied. “But I can always use a break from doing my paperwork. May I be of assistance to you, ladies?”
The nearest lady to the counter, Sammi Jo handled the transactions for the lanterns and information gathering.
“Ring us up these three items,” said Sammi Jo, nudging the lanterns at Blaine. “Before you ask, yes, we’d like them bagged. Paper, not plastic, too.”
Elated to be tossing some money in his till, Blaine punched up the purchases on the cash register despite the bar codes included on their price stickers. “Such a calamity about your dad, Sammi Jo. He will be truly missed I can tell you without reservation.”
“Yeah, I know the turf far
m keeps a big account with your store,” said Sammi Jo. “But thanks for your condolences just the same.”
“He bought more stuff here than just for the turf farm,” said Blaine. “Matter of fact, he paid for a Mossberg pump 12-gauge shotgun earlier this year.”
Sammi Jo capitalized on Blaine’s broaching the very topic she wanted to discuss with him. “Where are your firearms for sale?”
“I keep them locked up over in the new annex.” Blaine hiked his thumb up over his shoulder.
“A 12-gauge packs a lot of firepower,” said Sammi Jo. “Did he tell you why he needed to buy so much?”
Blaine had a noncommittal smile. “We talked, but I don’t remember that coming up. Guys hunt big game like turkeys, deer, and bears.”
“Did he also buy a hunting license?” Sammi Jo paid Blaine the amount the cash register had rung up.
“Well, let me see about that now…” Pursing his lips, Blaine froze while he was counting out Sammi Jo’s correct change. “…uh, I guess I’m drawing a blank on that.”
“No doubt you are,” said Sammi Jo. “Daddy had no use for killing living things, even for the so-called sport of it.”
“Hey, don’t go knocking legal hunting,” said Blaine. “Hunters—gals and guys, alike—are among my finest customers.”
“So they are,” said Sammi Jo. “My point is Daddy wasn’t picking up the shotgun for bagging an eight-point buck, black bear, or trophy gobbler.”
“I see what you mean. What reason did he have for buying the Mossberg?”
Sammi Jo leveled her penetrating eyes on Blaine. “That’s what I was hoping you’d be able to give me a hint about.”
Blaine finished counting the change into her palm and bagged up each lantern. “I can’t help you beyond what I’ve told you. Your dad was a laconic sort. More than fifty words for him was a speech.”
“He didn’t go on at length to get across his message,” said Sammi Jo. “But you knew where you stood with him after you heard what he had to say.”
Blaine bobbed his head. “True enough, that.”
Isabel asked her question. “Did Ray Burl bring up his job?”
His eyes gleaming, the animated Blaine nodded. “Now I get it. You ladies are getting back to running your private eye club.”
“Business firm, not a club,” said Sammi Jo. “Since we’ve been written up in the newspaper, that’s general knowledge.”
Blaine leaned his forearms on top of the cash register. “You’re angling to beat Sheriff Fox to the punch to get Ray Burl’s murderer. That would be a feather in your cap, lots of publicity followed by loads of new cha-ching, something I also love hearing.”
“Blaine, we’re not trying to drum up business at my late Daddy’s expense,” said Sammi Jo.
“No, of course, you’re not.” Blaine backpedaled. “But to answer Isabel’s question, he never said how it was going over at Old Man Barclay’s place. Ray Burl gave me a list of what supplies he wanted, and I filled his order.”
“How did he pass the time while you did that?” asked Alma.
“He leaned against the counter where you’re standing and watched me. I tried to chat him up like in a game I’d play with him, but he just grunted and shrugged me off.”
“Did he add any bullets to his order?” asked Isabel.
“Bullets?” Blaine scratched his stubbly jaw. “For his shotgun?”
“Isabel asks did he buy any ammo,” said Sammi Jo. “Shells for loading the Mossberg.”
“I get you. He bought #00-buckshot. Ten rounds come in each box. Expensive loads, too. The-top-of-the-line I sell my customers. The copper-plated hard alloy pellets give the shooters a smoother discharge.”
Blaine’s shotgun smarts failed to wow Sammi Jo since she wasn’t interested in buying one. “But the cheapies blow a hole in the victim’s chest just as big as the expensive shells will do. Am I right about that, Blaine?”
Isabel and Alma exchanged eye twinkles. Their Sammi Jo demonstrated again how she was a tough and smart cookie.
“That would be irrefutable fact,” said Blaine.
“Then we’re all set by just ascertaining that much,” said Sammi Jo. “But thanks for your in-depth expertise.”
“I’m happy to give it any time you need it.” Blaine tilted his head at her. His expression changed to a quizzical one. “I hear tell you’re dating the debonair Reynolds Kyle. Is there any truth to it?”
“You hear all types of things, Blaine. Are you asking if I care to comment on the gossip you picked up?”
“I just wondered about it is why I ask.”
“All I can say is you’ll have to go on wondering because I’ve got no comment.” Sammi Jo, toting the sacked lanterns, led Isabel and Alma out of the hardware store. Once they returned to the baking sidewalk out of earshot, Sammi Jo made the most important observation.
“Why does a peace loving man like Ray Burl who shied away from firearms get a hankering to buy one of the most lethal calibers sold on the market?”
“That question might be what a Golden Age private investigator would call a conundrum,” replied Isabel.
“I think conundrums stink,” said Alma, scowling. “They keep me awake more than Petey Samson does with his yodeling like Slim Whitman at the moon.”
“You must be dreaming,” said Isabel. “I know for a fact Petey Samson does not yodel.”
“Who is it I wake up to hearing raise a squall on your end of the brick rambler? Is it you? I sure hope not.”
“Alma, a pack of coyotes might be the noisemakers,” said Sammi Jo. “They’ve taken up residence in our slice of heaven.”
“Coyotes. Here in Quiet Anchorage. What’s next for us? Eddy’s Deli turns into a dancehall saloon, tumbleweeds skip across the lawns, and the men strut around bowlegged?”
Leaving Isabel and Alma, Sammi Jo returned to her apartment, taking her new lantern, while the two sisters with theirs went back to the brick rambler. As they braked in the driveway, Alma asked Isabel a question.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking of how this conundrum might be over our heads?”
Isabel switched off the ignition key. “I was mentally listing the words beginning with the letter zee that can be made up in Scrabble. There’s zoo, zebra, and zig.”
“Zounds, I wish you’d give this more of your attention since two heads are better than one.”
“It’s a temporary distraction I’m using to clear my mind.”
“Let’s recap then. What do you see as Ray Burl’s possible motives to have purchased the shotgun from Blaine?”
Isabel wasn’t alarmed as Alma. “Maybe no connection exists between his doing so last winter and his getting killed now. Maybe one of his men at the turf farm gave him the money and asked him to buy it when he came to town.”
“That sounds plausible enough.” Alma gazed across the front lawn. “We should let the grass get tall with this drought on, or we’ll have a patch of brown crinkling like a Brillo pad underfoot.”
“Camilo and his crew need the work,” said Isabel. “I feel sorry for them toiling out under the blistering hot sun to earn a paycheck.”
“They do an honest job, and I like them,” said Alma. “I hope they’re still in business to use again next summer.”
“We can water our lawn with sprinklers like the McKinleys and Lopezes do,” said Isabel.
“Let’s keep that idea stashed in our back pocket,” said Alma.
Chapter 11
Sammi Jo had fallen into a blue funk over her father’s savage death. She’d been as close as a daughter could get to a taciturn, all work-little play father. His leathery face bore the patina of a rich mahogany suntan and windburn gained from his tending the commercial sod. Before he got into the turf racket, he’d worked at a succession of outdoor jobs, and he’d viewed himself as a blessed man.
The photo album bore a persimmony orange cover, and Sammi Jo had bought it with her allowance money at the Family Dollar Store. She didn’t feel schmaltzy
over her girlhood days. But she was practical enough to keep a record should her inquisitive whimsy ever strike her to revisit them as it did now. She stowed the photo album under her sofa where she stooped. Annoyed, she used her thumbnail to scrape off the faded price sticker from the photo album’s right-hand corner. Her lemon yellow smiley decals remained untouched.
She flipped over the front cover. Inside it, she’d printed in block letters with a black Magic Marker, “YOU’VE STOLEN THE PROPERTY OF MS. SAMMI JO GARNER!” Luckily, she’d grown up when Kodachrome was still used, and no digitized pixels had corrupted the visual world. Sporadic snapshots documented her maturing years. Coffee and chocolate stains discolored a few images while Mo had printed the dates in the top white borders to the other snapshots. A frisky cat named Tyger had chewed on a few snapshots’ corners. Sammi Jo had Scotch taped two snapshots to repair their rips.
Studying the snapshots struck an emotional chord to resonate through her. She didn’t attempt to curb or harness the churn of emotions, but rather she rolled with it.
“All aboard the Memory Lane Express,” she said, poking fun at her nostalgic mood. “I haven’t had a reason to board it in too long.”
Almost reflexively, she began singing the lyrics to a children’s nursery rhyme Mo had taught Sammi Jo one afternoon while they were at the Cape Cod. They’d been eating strawberry Moon pies with Mountain Dews under the shade of the honey locusts in full bloom. Despite her wild streak, Mo had spent her all-too-rare tender moments with her daughter between watching the soap operas and game shows. The song that Mo had learned from a favorite aunt ran:
Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home,
Fly away home.
Your house is on fire, and your children are gone,
All except one,
And her name is Ann,
Her name is Ann,
And she hid under the frying pan.
Sammi Jo’s mother was Maureen Lionheart, or simply Mo. She was born a free bird that no cage designed was able to hold. Sammi Jo reflected on Mo’s footloose ways. The partygoer hard-cores stopped and collected her (she always wore the same little black dress) at the end of the Garners’ driveway. If it was boogie down night at the Lions Club building, be sure to pick up Mo. If a honky-tonk located within an hour’s drive hired a live bar band to crank out country and western hit tunes, be sure to pick up Mo. If a festive neighbor threw a wingding with forty-ouncers chilled on wash tubs of shaved ice, be sure to pick up Mo. Nobody danced faster or longer than she did because she brought the hottest get-down fever.
