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

by Ed Lynskey

  “I didn’t bring a Scrabble board,” replied Isabel.

  “Not an obstacle,” said Willie. “I’ll slip home and grab mine out of the old pie chest.”

  Blue rubbed his hands together like a gleeful kid might do at the Ben & Jerry’s ice cream counter. “Nothing beats Scrabble unless it’s cane pole fishing on the Coronet River.”

  “I’d say Scrabble trumps cane pole fishing any day of the week.” Willie elevated from the bench. “Just hang loose, and I’ll be back in two shakes of a monkey’s tail.”

  “Be sure you don’t bring your trick dice,” said Blue. “I told you to throw them away, but I know you haven’t.”

  “Blue, relax since dice are used in craps,” said Ossie, one hand in his pocket jingling his keys and coins.

  Isabel knew the grating habit would flip her wig if she ever became the next Mrs. Conger.

  “That’s why you keep losing at Scrabble,” said Ossie.

  “Actually it’s because I balk at wearing my bifocals,” said Blue. “The letters and numbers on the tiles look blurry like the objects do when I drive.”

  “Keep your seat, Willie,” said Alma. “Talking is the extent of our visit this morning.”

  Carving knife in hand, the sulky Willie resumed his perch. “God created Sunday mornings to relax from your daily tasks, and Scrabble falls under the leisure category.”

  “Ray Burl’s murder weighs more on our mind,” said Isabel. “You’re our eyes and ears on Main Street where you soak up the details along with the plentiful sunshine.”

  Willie continued whittling on the soap bar-sized chunk of wood. His voice turned devious. “Praise and flattery are swell to hear, Isabel, but this time it’s going to cost you a little more.”

  “Friends shouldn’t charge their friends money for doing them favors,” said Alma, irritated.

  “You didn’t let me finish what I had to say,” said Willie. “The clink to cold cash is also nice, but it doesn’t interest us.”

  “Go on then,” said Alma, suspicious. “What is your price? Name it.”

  “I calculate our valuable dope is worth three games of Scrabble,” said Willie, leveling his shrewd eyes on the sisters. “That’s our best and final offer. Take it or leave it. Makes no difference to us.”

  Ossie and Blue nodded in their unanimous support of Willie’s proposal.

  Isabel was smiling. “You’re undercharging your fee since you could’ve squeezed us for at least four games.”

  Ossie stomped his shoe on the concrete. “Willie, you sure do stink for being the horse trader you like to brag you are.”

  Blue looked disappointed as if the town pranksters had swiped their bench.

  “Give us what you have,” said Alma. “Then we’ll decide how much it’s worth to us.”

  “That shotgun, the one Corina claims she saw Ray Burl walk out of the hardware store carrying,” said Willie. “We’ve gotten an update on it.”

  Alma fidgeted with impatience. “And…”

  “And the shotgun wasn’t for him,” replied Willie.

  “Who then was it for?” asked Alma.

  “We haven’t learned that part,” said Ossie, horning in. “Before you ask it, no, I won’t reveal our source. We have to guard our reputations for discretion. But you can rest assured our dope is rock-solid.”

  Isabel nodded. “Of course, like it always is. I suspect Blaine is the one who told you what he’s now remembered about Ray Burl and the shotgun.”

  Ossie nodded.

  “Ray Burl said the shotgun wasn’t for him, but he didn’t say who it was for,” said Isabel. “Was the shotgun a new or used model?”

  “Blaine only sells new firearms,” replied Willie.

  “Then I believe Ray Burl was purchasing the shotgun for somebody at the turf farm,” said Isabel.

  “Sounds reasonable,” said Ossie, stroking his chin.

  “Getting back to our original topic: Scrabble,” said Willie. “I realize there’s been a summerlong drought, but are you ladies receptive to taking a rain check?”

  “Yes, Willie, once Ray Burl’s murder case has been put to bed, we’ll restart our games. That’s a pledge from Alma and me to you because we miss playing it as much as you gentlemen evidently seem to have.”

  “Hurray, the confetti and streamers will cascade down from the rafters again,” said Ossie.

  “I’ll add my hearty amen to that,” said Blue.

  “Willie, my curiosity has gotten the better of me,” said Alma. “What are you fashioning from that block of pine?”

  He brandished his in-progress art like a jeweled scepter. “So far, it’s a vague shape I can only envision in my imagination.”

  “I thought you told us yesterday it was going to be a ’57 Thunderbird, the best sports coupé you owned,” said Ossie.

  “Uh-uh. I said ’57 Chevy Bel Air,” said Willie. “I wouldn’t be caught dead inside a Ford.”

  “You know what I mean,” said Ossie.

  “The ’57 Chevy Bel Air was my original aim until I slipped with the knife and lopped off the trunk part,” said Willie. “Better than it being my thumb. Anyhow, I didn’t have a Plan B in mind, so now I’m just winging it like the story of my life.”

  Chapter 20

  A few minutes past Sunday noon put Isabel and Alma in the shady inset doorway to the IGA. Its doors opened at noon, but Jumpy Blixt, its proprietor, wasn’t the most punctual merchant. He moved at his own pace, often a terrapin slow one. That he was able to turn a profit was a bit of a head scratcher. Isabel remembered they were running low on doggie treats (small wonder) and needed to pick up some packets. Alma was fussing inside her pocketbook.

  “What are you after now?” asked Isabel.

  “I’ve misplaced my keys again,” replied Alma. “Can you believe it? I must be losing what few are left of my marbles.”

  “You dropped your keys on your armchair,” said Isabel. “I saw them as we filed out the door and put them in my pocketbook. Here, you can take them back.”

  Alma tucked her keys inside her pocketbook. “Thanks. Can we trace who Ray Burl purchased the shotgun for?”

  Isabel shrugged. “We can return to the turf farm tomorrow when the crews are working and ask around if anybody wanted Ray Burl to buy it for them.” She nodded at the glass door. “Jumpy is coming.”

  Alma checked her wristwatch. “Only six-and-a-half minutes late. His punctuality is improving.”

  Jumpy was a burly man who used a well-trimmed goatee to camouflage a weak chin. In a previous century, he would play the village blacksmith who could pound a mean horseshoe into shape from a length of red-hot steel removed from the forge. His age fell within half their ages. Sammi Jo had worked for Jumpy over one summer while in high school, and she said he’d never tried anything fresh with her. Isabel and Alma who’d dealt with their own rascals during their careers knew what she meant.

  He motioned with his hand for them to occupy the nippy indoors with the air conditioner running at full blast. They did as he asked, and he closed the door behind them.

  “It’s hotter than a field of burning tree stumps,” he said.

  “Nothing to do but grin and bear it,” said Alma.

  “Did I hear correctly you ladies were fishing for snapping turtles to make for soup?” he said. “Do you add parsley or oregano for its seasoning?”

  “Snapping turtle soup.” Alma made a yukky face. “Where did you hear such a fanciful tale?”

  “Willie blabs everything. He claims you along with Sammi Jo were fishing underneath the steel truss bridge on the Coronet.”

  “She goes there seeking a quiet nook to do her thinking,” said Isabel. “She invited us along, but we didn’t bring any fishing tackle or bait any hooks.”

  Jumpy crossed his arms and frowned, not following them. “You want to run that by me again. What’s the point if you’re not going there to fish or skinny dip?”

  “Those are guy things, but she was doing a gal thing,” said Isabel.
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  No more clearer, Jumpy decided to let it ride. “She’s been dragged backwards through a knothole over her dad’s murder is all I know. It’s a crying shame, too.”

  “Who do you think killed Ray Burl?” asked Alma, blunt as usual.

  “My idle speculation sees a ticked off customer pulling the trigger,” replied Jumpy.

  “When did you last speak to or see him?” asked Alma.

  Jumpy closed one eye with his hand placed under his goateed chin. “No specific date leaps to mind. He wasn’t a regular customer like you are, so he must’ve driven elsewhere to buy his groceries. Imagine that. An uptight lady marched in yesterday, and she had the unmitigated gall to inform me she drives to the Warrenton Safeway to buy her fresh radishes and mangoes. I almost broke my guitar string and wanted to tell her to take a hike, but she’d turned on her heel and left.”

  “There’s no pleasing everybody,” said Alma.

  “Don’t you use the same produce distributor?” asked Isabel, drawing from her professional background in grocery retail.

  “The radishes and mangoes come off the same refrigerated truck,” replied Jumpy. “It’s just that I have a more discerning eye in making my selections.”

  “Concerning Ray Burl, do you have reason to believe he drove to Warrenton?” asked Isabel.

  “Either he was buying groceries, or he was banking all that dough he had to be raking in at Old Man Barclay’s place.”

  “Is that the perception of Ray Burl?” asked Isabel. “That he was tight as bark on a tree and loaded with money?”

  “Not Ray Burl, just his boss Mr. Barclay,” replied Jumpy. “But what else did Ray Burl spend his money on since he lived like a hermit in the Cape Cod?”

  “Maybe he just wasn’t a conspicuous spender,” said Isabel. “Did he have any friends? Did you see him pal around with any of the guys?”

  “He was more of a lone wolf,” replied Jumpy. “He was like that back in school, too. Still waters run deep, and all that stuff.”

  “Did he date the other young ladies besides Maureen Lionheart?” asked Isabel.

  Jumpy turned and gave the meat counter a long gaze. He needed to get ready for the after-church Sunday crowds flocking in to do their weekly grocery shopping. While the wives on the produce aisle picked out the peaches and plums in season, the husbands would quiz him for inside tips on how to cook their steaks on their gas grills.

  “Who else did Ray Burl date?” said Jumpy, thinking. ”Nobody that I can recall offhand. Mo was easy on the eyes, and I tried my luck with her.” He laughed. “But it was a no since she didn’t go in for the country boy likes of me. Besides I danced like a walrus, and she did like to shake her bootie out on the dance floor.”

  “No big loss from what we’ve heard about her,” said Alma.

  “I have got no regrets on not getting hitched to her, but she’s Sammi Jo’s mom, so I can’t say anything derogatory about Mo. It would hurt Sammi Jo’s feelings, and I count her as my friend to ever want to do that.”

  “For the sake of our discussion, not to go any further than between us, what are your impressions of Mo?” asked Isabel “Why did she leave Quiet Anchorage so abruptly like she did?”

  Jumpy shook his head in the negative. “I can’t add anything to what you must’ve already heard from the others.”

  “Fair enough,” said Isabel. “Which aisle are your doggie treats on?”

  “3-A, where they’ve always been,” replied Jumpy.

  Not caring for his impatient tone, Alma moved to leave the IGA, but Isabel, never one to be ruffled, headed for aisle 3-A, and Alma tailed after her. Once they were out of earshot of Jumpy, Isabel stopped Alma in front of the spices section. Isabel’s eyes had a bright sheen to them.

  “Did you notice how evasive Jumpy turned when we brought up Mo?”

  Alma found it unexciting. “He doesn’t like to spread malicious gossip about her because she is Sammi Jo’s mom.”

  “Alma, are we talking about the same Jumpy Blixt? Does that jibe with his normal behavior? He’s usually gabbing about everybody and everything under the sun.”

  “I suppose he could still carry a torch for Mo, and he felt jealous over Ray Burl getting the girl and not him.”

  Isabel nodded. “Jealousy is a powerful motive for a crime of passion like murder.”

  Shooing away with her hand, Alma wasn’t interested. “That took place so long ago. You’re grabbing at straws because nothing else is working for us. Jumpy is no more a killer than we are.”

  “You’re probably right on Jumpy, but Mo keeps coming up? Let’s delve more into her past. She had to have had girlfriends she confided in who still live here. Any ideas on how we can locate them without pestering more people with our old biddy questions?”

  “I’ve got one possibility,” replied Alma. “Our public library might keep the high school’s old yearbooks. Browse through them and see if Mo poses in the group photos beside anybody. Our luck depends on how far back the yearbooks go, and we can check with the library when it opens a bit later.”

  “A stroke of brilliance,” said Isabel.

  “Why, thank you, sis,” said Alma. “It runs in the family, you know.”

  ***

  “Folks dressed sort of quaint when Daddy went to high school.” Sammi Jo was now back with Isabel and Alma. They conversed in low tones. “Look at how young he is.” Sammi Jo chuckled. “He was much thinner with the long hair of a rocker, too. I almost don’t recognize him.”

  She pointed although Isabel and Alma standing on each side of her seated at the library table had also spotted Ray Burl. The yearbook photo captured him with his loose-jointed slouch among a small knot of male students. Their practical joker to the right had put up his veed fingers at the back of Ray Burl’s head to imitate a pair of devil horns. A closer look identified the practical joker as a young Roscoe Fox, the future sheriff of Quiet Anchorage. His once having a sense of humor surprised Alma.

  The electric wood lathe shown in the background indicated they’d been photographed in the high school shop. Mr. Eisner, The Industrial Arts teacher with an eye-patch and crooked grin, stood on the group’s right end. “Quiet Anchorage H.S. Woodworking Club,” read the caption under the photograph.

  “I can see where Daddy acquired his carpentry skills,” said Sammi Jo.

  “He was a handsome young man,” said Isabel.

  “Quite the catch, he was, yes, I agree,” said Alma. “Love his curly hair.”

  Sammi Jo peered up at them by looking over each shoulder. “I’m convinced he and Mom had to have been happy and in love with each other at least during the early days. Why else would they have gotten married right after high school? I’d never jump straight into a marriage like they did.”

  Something fell with stunning clarity into Isabel’s mind. Sammi Jo’s innocent enough question had triggered it. Why indeed? thought Isabel. Did Ray Burl and Mo hold a shotgun wedding? Young couples felt that obligation more back then.

  Having seized on the same notion as Isabel had, Alma steered their conversation to the more immediate goal. “See if Mo appears in any pictures of the extracurricular activities. She’ll either be sitting with or standing next to her same friend.”

  “Mom was everybody’s friend,” said Sammi Jo. “She always had to be the center of attention.” Sammi Jo burst out in a laugh and used her hand to cover her mouth since they were in the main reading room. Luckily, the librarian was nowhere in sight to admonish them. “Do you think they ate dinner before they said grace?” she asked, dishing Isabel and Alma a wink. “I was on the way to make my grand splash in the world.”

  Isabel exchanged quick glances with Alma.

  “No wait, I just did the math, and I was born fifteen months after their wedding anniversary,” said Sammi Jo. “Shoot, I hoped I could add some cred to my reputation as a rebel.”

  Alma who’d picked up the yearbook was riffling through its pages, searching for any group photos that included Mo. Alma’s gray eye
brows knitted into a dash. Sammi Jo and Isabel, both watchful and silent, willed Alma to strike paydirt, and she didn’t leave them disappointed.

  “When did Mo find the time to sleep during her senior year?” asked Alma. “She participated in the Choir, Pep Club, Drama Club, French Club, and National Honor Society. The last activity tells us she had to be smart.”

  The stoic Sammi Jo shrugged.

  “Is she posed beside the same young lady or man in any of the photographs?” asked Isabel.

  “Nita Browning appears beside Mo in the Drama Club, French Club, and National Honor Society,” replied Alma.

  “She’s Fats Browning’s oldest daughter,” said Isabel. “An attractive lady, then and now.”

  “The same Fats Browning who is our Bingo announcer?” asked Sammi Jo. “Every Wednesday night he starts off the games in that sonorous voice of his booming over the mike, ‘Okay, folks, eyes down!’ Aunt Phyllis goes, wins an armful of tacky prizes, and cleans them out.”

  “One and the same.” Alma, shut the yearbook and returned it to its proper place on the bookshelf. “Nita is now a Redfern. She married Judge Redfern’s youngest boy. I have the dickens with remembering people’s names. What is it, Isabel?”

  “Homer Redfern.”

  “No-no, that’s not so either. Homer is the eldest son. The youngest boy has the curly red hair and works as a salesperson.”

  “Then he’s got to be Nicky,” said Isabel. “Helen only had the two boys.”

  “Yes, Nita married Nicky Redfern. They didn’t have any children. Or did they? Do I have the correct lineage, Isabel?”

  “They’re empty nesters to the best of my knowledge. Do they still live in the cute gingerbread brown cottage? It has the yellow shutters behind the electrical substation on the road out to the turf farm.”

  “Not anymore. Helen told me they moved because they had health concerns over their proximity to the electrical substation.” Alma looked at Sammi Jo. “I know Nita is just down the street from us, and Sunday afternoon means the chances are good we’ll catch her at home.”

  “Should we call ahead?” Sammi Jo picked up her cell phone. “She might be entertaining guests.”