by Ed Lynskey
“Heads up thinking,” said Isabel. “Give Nita a quick buzz. Just say you’d like to chat with her about your mother. Don’t give Nita a specific reason unless she asks for one. If she does, just tell her you’re looking into your mother’s history, and you’re curious if Nita might have some high school stories to share with you.”
“Pitch it to sound nostalgic,” said Alma. “What lady can resist telling others about her glory days? She’ll embellish it, naturally, but we can work around that.”
“Did your glory days come in high school, Alma?” asked Sammi Jo.
Alma was taken aback by Sammi Jo’s direct question. “I wasn’t a goody two-shoes, but I wasn’t a royal stinkpot either.”
Isabel sputtered, attempting to restrain her devilish snicker.
Alma wasn’t amused. “Are you making fun of me?”
“Oh Alma, be truthful and fess up. You were a regular hellion, always cutting up and getting into trouble.”
Sammi Jo was smiling. “This is rich stuff, and I’m digging it. Just give me your craziest story before I call Nita. I’d love to hear it.”
“I’m afraid Isabel is joshing with you,” said Alma. “We had plenty of chores—I hilled enough rows of potatoes to construct the second Great Wall—to finish before sundown with no lax time to be cutting up.”
“Was it all work and no play on the farm, Isabel?” asked Sammi Jo.
Isabel gazed down at her outspread fingers. Yellowish calluses from the manual labor still toughened her palms. Her left index finger’s knuckle had healed with a slight crook in it. She’d broken it while Alma and she were using the woodstove axe to split open a disused tube of toothpaste to extract its sweet-tasting leftovers. The axe had slipped, or it had a cruel mind of its own to bite into Isabel’s finger. They set the bone and bandaged the injury in the farm kitchen because town physician was a useless lush.
“I’ll put it this way: there was never for the lack of anything to do,” she said. “We should go on and chat with Nita.”
“Make your call, Sammi Jo.” Alma glanced over at the library entrance. “Wait, you better postpone that call. A pesky fly just got caught in the ointment.”
Isabel’s turn and look indentified Alma’s pesky fly. “Oh for the love of Mike, where did he come from?”
The ‘he’ was Sheriff Fox. He approached already shaking his finger at them. He wore his stern sheriff’s mask. No doubt he’d espied their sedan parked outside.
Sammi Jo was glad Alma had reshelved the high school yearbook. Her doing that eliminated those set of questions from Sheriff Fox. Instant anger sharpened Sammi Jo’s tongue, but she decided to let her elders handle the irate peace officer since they had a lot of experience in that area.
“Hello there, Sheriff Fox,” said Isabel, sweet and prim.
“Don’t you hello me.” He gave his shaking finger a rest. “I’ve been keeping my eagle eye on you two—no, I’ll now make that three—nosey ladies, and I don’t like what I’ve seen.”
“What observations of us have you twisted in knots?” asked Isabel.
“You’ve been roving up and down Main Street carrying on your sleuthing shenanigans. Evidently my warning didn’t make enough of an impression on you.”
Isabel was relieved their visit to Mr. Barclay at the turf farm hadn’t reached the sheriff’s ear.
“Did your deputy sheriff also illegally record our private conversations?” asked Sammi Jo.
“Careful there, young lady,” said Sheriff Fox. “Don’t get sassy. I’ve got half a mind to arrest you here.”
“Sammi Jo is correct,” said Alma. “You can’t shut us up like inside of a…”
“Jail cell,” said Sheriff Fox to finish her simile. He was gloating. “Then I throw away its key.”
“A nunnery is what I had in mind,” said Alma. “Nevertheless my assertion still stands.”
“I better not catch you interfering with my homicide investigation.” Sheriff Fox put his demonstrative finger back into action. “One more infraction will be all she wrote.”
Isabel saw no gain in prolonging their discussion. “Will that be all, Roscoe?”
“No,” he replied. “Why do I find you at the library?”
“Genealogical research,” replied Alma. “One of our Trumbo ancestors may’ve been George Washington’s spy at Valley Forge, and we couldn’t dismiss or confirm it online, so here we be.”
“The nosey gene from GW’s spy must run in the blood, and you sisters inherited it,” said Sheriff Fox.
“Will that be all, Roscoe?” repeated Isabel.
“For the moment, yeah,” he replied. “But remember what I just said.” He patted the double handcuffs attached to his duty belt. “Otherwise you’ll be wearing my bracelets.”
Sammi Jo wanted to retort how tacky his tastes were in jewelry, but he’d wheeled around and was striding back out the way he’d come into the library.
“We dodged that bullet,” said Alma, wiping the perspiration from her brow. “Barely.”
Chapter 21
The lady gumshoes voted unanimously that it’d be more sensible to ride in the air-conditioned sedan rather than hoof it down the scorching sidewalk to Nita Redfern’s place. She’d told Sammi Jo she was flying solo while Nicky was out of town for a couple of days on business travel. Salespeople lived out of a suitcase, or they didn’t close out too many sales.
Sammi Jo summarized how she’d love to hear any choice stories Nita could repeat about her old pal, Mo Lionheart. Nita let out a hearty laugh over the memories rushing back, saying she had a hundred stories, all of them outrageous, brash, and hilarious as Mo was. Where did Sammi Jo want Nita to begin? Sammi Jo said she be thinking about that while they were en route and thanked Nita.
Isabel parked them under the sketchy shade to a streetside mimosa tree. She loved their shrimp-pink blooms and spicy fragrance used in candles and body oils, but Alma called the mimosa’s seed droppings a nuisance.
Nita’s compact ranch house, a three-bedroomer, came wrapped in a soft beige- almost ivory-colored vinyl. The most cantankerous lady to please, Alma took an instant liking to Nita’s hydrangeas’ blue flowers that changed to pink with their aging, a pair of ceramic birdbaths, and an American flag on display. Nita’s kempt lawn had been mowed even more recently than the sisters’ grass.
“This is the old Stonesiffer place,” said Isabel. “Alice Stonesiffer was a grade school teacher and a holy terror the kids knew better than to misbehave around. I like the house’s location in town.”
“You asked our realtor to make an offer on it before we moved,” said Alma.
“Do you remember our realtor baked sticky cinnamon buns before we entered the brick rambler to make it smell delicious?” asked Isabel.
“It must’ve worked like a charm because we bought it,” said Alma.
“You also polished off three buns,” said Isabel.
“It was four buns if you insist on keeping a tally,” said Alma.
“Was it? I must’ve lost count,” said Isabel.
“Hey aunties, Nita opened the door,” said Sammi Jo. “Let’s not keep her waiting, or she might change her mind and close it on us.”
***
“Your mother was unflappable, Sammi Jo.” Nita rocked forward on the sofa, placing her hands under her thighs. Staying rooted to her native town, she’d probably better preserved her youthful looks than Mo had dealing with life-on-the-road’s hard knocks. “Every graduating class must have their girl gone crazy, and Mo represented ours. She was also a smooth talker who could charm her way out of any tight jam.”
Sammi Jo slouched a bit and shifted her weight to the other side in the armchair nearest to Nita. Hearing her mother called a “girl gone crazy” didn’t thrill Sammi Jo. Nita, 40+ pounds over her recommended weight, had little room for talking about other people’s flaws. Sammi Jo had a tart comeback bristling on the tip of her tongue to lay on Nita when Isabel was quick to intercede.
“We don’t necessarily w
ant or need to hear of Mo’s legendary exploits. Since Ray Burl was shot and killed, Sheriff Fox has been chomping at the bit to wrap up his homicide investigation. Has he dropped by here?”
Nita’s head wagged. “I haven’t laid eyes on Roscoe since before Ray Burl died, and I couldn’t tell him anything pertinent.” She lost her exuberant air, a sober emotion contorting her face. “I’m very sorry about your dad, Sammi Jo. I’m sure it must be a blow to you.”
“It has been tough to cope with this week,” said Sammi Jo, weary-sounding. “It’s important his killer pays his dues for his crime.”
“As well it should be,” said Nita. “You’re entitled to gain the closure. So, you’re detectives of a sort, and I gather your questions are tailored for tracking down Ray Burl’s killer. Am I correct in making my assumptions?”
“Our best case scenario is to prove to Sheriff Fox who should be arrested for Dad’s murder,” replied Sammi Jo.
“Fire away then,” said Nita with a smile. “I’d love to help you in any way I can.”
“We saw you next to Mo in your high school yearbook’s photos,” said Isabel. “Were you both close?”
“We grew virtually inseparable back in school,” said Nita. “We often were mistaken for sisters although we’d only a nodding resemblance. We participated in the same clubs and socialized in the same cliques. She played our ringleader, and I had my hijinks tagging along with Mo.”
“Did you share your innermost secrets?” asked Isabel.
“A few of them, I suppose,” said Nita.
“Did you keep in touch with Mo after she got married?” asked Sammi Jo. “I was a little squirt, but I don’t entertain any memories of seeing you around the Cape Cod.”
“That’s because Mo and I didn’t hook up by then.” Nita was no longer smiling. “Within three months of her wedding, I married Nicky after our whirlwind romance. He and I joined our church, and we had the kids, Rick and June, and doing that changed the dynamics. Mo persisted in pursuing the brilliant lights and honky-tonk music. Not to sound snooty, Sammi Jo, but your mother never understood what it meant to put away her childish things as Paul instructs us to do in Corinthians.”
“No offense taken, Nita, but Mo was my mother, and I can’t change that fact no matter how immature or flighty she may’ve acted,” said Sammi Jo.
Nita mashed her eyes tight with a husky sigh. “Mo, Mo, Mo. God only knows how much I’ve wondered about your fate.” Nita flashed open her eyes, a startling cobalt blue. “Please don’t get me wrong because Mo wasn’t evil. But turbulence always seemed to follow in her wake.”
“How did you learn of her abrupt departure?” asked Sammi Jo.
Nita cocked her head at them. “Like everybody else did. The dramatic yarn of her Greyhound exit made the rounds faster than a prairie fire sweeps.”
“Did anybody catch a glimpse of her hanging out at the bus depot?” asked Sammi Jo.
“She left Quiet Anchorage without fanfare,” replied Nita. “Very unlike her, I have to say. Maybe she used a cheap disguise like a wig, beret, or sunshades. Doing something like that would mesh with her theatrical side.”
“Was she reckless or impulsive by nature?” asked Sammi Jo.
Closing her eyes once more, Nita weighed Sammi Jo’s descriptors with care. A moment dragged by as the memories of youth bobbed to the surface of Nita’s deliberations. The cobalt blues beamed on them again.
“Maybe she was at that,” said Nita. “Can you reflect back to the summer you turned sixteen? The world became your oyster. Life was jolly good fun, especially if you didn’t have a job, and you could stay out as late as you dared, and you could sleep in as late as you pleased. Ah, those were the good, old school girl days.
“That’s why the inner voice urged you to be in the moment and soak it up because your endless summer carried an expiration date. The problem with Mo was she never heard that inner voice having its say. Or if she did, she chose to ignore it. She aimed to chase her endless summer and keep it going. Do you see now why I say what I do about her?”
Sammi Jo had grasped the verbose Nita’s meaning by her third sentence. Mo was a party girl. Yeah, Sammi Jo had gone through the same wild phase but a year ahead of Mo’s timeframe. By the next summer at sixteen, Sammi Jo had taken on working three menial jobs some girls would never roll up their sleeves and do, but she knew the dirt washed off her hands fine.
The pay was a pittance, the labor bone-tiring. But a paying job was a paying job, so she reached down for some extra grit and kept on trucking. That was the Ray Burl in her coming out. She returned to the present, depressing since they’d really gained nothing useful on Mo from their seeing Nita.
Isabel was never one to concede defeat. “Did you ever hear any whispers of Mo’s hanky-panky?” she asked.
Nita minced her words as if she wanted to spare hurting Sammi Jo’s emotions. “Let’s just say Mo always hit it off with the gentlemen she met.”
“Did she sleep around?” asked Sammi Jo, point-blank.
“On that, I’m not qualified to give an answer. I wasn’t around Mo after our graduation. We no longer shared our secrets, not that I had any like that. Through it all, Ray Burl struck me as the oblivious, tolerant husband.”
“Tolerant maybe, but oblivious, not even close,” said Sammi Jo, defensive. “He knew which end was up about her.”
“Did he really know?” Nita’s frosty glare fastened to the younger lady. “I overheard them once arguing on an aisle at the IGA. Mo told Ray Burl she’d kill him if they didn’t move away from the Cape Cod. He muttered what sounded like to me that was the only way he was ever going to leave there.”
“She was probably just angry over something at him and venting,” said Sammi Jo.
“You asked for my frank impressions, so I gave them to you,” said Nita.
Isabel defused the tensing situation. “Is your church still looking for a new pastor?”
Nita smiled. “We’ve narrowed our shortlist down to the top three, one being a lady.”
“I’ll be praying for you to pick the right one,” said Isabel.
“Thanks,” said Nita. “Your prayers are appreciated.”
The three investigators could think of no further questions. Nita asked if they’d like a cold beverage, anything but alcoholic since the only spirits in the Redfern’s house came from above.
Before Alma could say a tall glass of iced tea would hit the right spot, gung ho Isabel indicated they should be going. Nita said she understood their urgency, and she’d be praying for their swift resolution, and they drove off from her ranch house, Alma still thirsty.
Chapter 22
Late every Sunday morning, a rally of muscle cars with their drivers’ sweethearts’ names painted on the rear fins squealed down Main Street. The drivers heading for Reynolds’ drag race track fancied themselves as TV’s Luke and Bo Duke gunning their General Lee back in the 1980s.
Reynolds dropped away the security chain from his front brick gate posts, each with a brass eagle mounted atop it. Ray Burl once wisecracked to Sammi Jo how the pair of eagles resembled vultures.
Avid spectators arrived early as possible to wait in line and buy their tickets. They streamed through the gate to reach the bleachers where they staked out their vantage points.
Reynolds didn’t have to sweat if the racket his race cars raised was a nuisance because many local residents came to cheer on their favorite drivers and muscle cars. This Sunday found the sisters out in the midst of the hoopla. Since Reynolds was busy putting on his extravaganza, Sammi Jo holed up with the sisters inside the cool relief at Eddy’s Deli. The mercury had climbed to the low nineties, and ordering hot cups of coffee or espresso was out of the question.
Instead, they each ordered their old summer standby beverage: a tall glass of iced tea. Isabel and Sammi Jo took theirs with lemon slice, but Alma liked a lime slice with a fresh mint sprig. Tabitha said Eddy was fresh out of mint sprigs, so Alma lowered her expectations and settled for the
run-of-the-mill lime slice.
Isabel had glimpsed Sheriff Fox’s cruiser through the window, its red-blue roof bar glittering like the town square Christmas tree as it zipped by on the street. When she pointed him out to Alma and Sammi Jo, he’d already vanished from their window vantage point.
“Where is Roscoe off to in a big hurry?” asked Isabel.
“There must be a sale on doughnuts at the Wawa, or he’s setting up a Sunday speed trap for the muscle car drivers,” said Sammi Jo.
“Good zinger,” said Alma. “You make a first-rate cynical shamus.”
“My zinger moments are what I live for,” said Sammi Jo.
“I don’t much care where’s he going as long as he stays out of our hair,” said Alma.
“Sometimes Roscoe is a roadblock more than an asset to uncover the truth,” said Isabel.
Tabitha sauntered up behind Alma, and Isabel smiled at the waitress.
“Will you not mention to Sheriff Fox we came here in case he should visit the deli?” asked Isabel. “We’re trying to keep a low profile around him.”
“Up to his dirty tricks again, is he?” said Tabitha. “How he managed to be re-elected sheriff I’ll never understand.”
“Simple. He was the only candidate after Clarence Fishback dropped out of the race,” said Sammi Jo. “Even if Roscoe Fox had run opposed, his shirttail kin would’ve voted him into office.”
“That’d do it, all right. Can I get you gals anything else? I’m chafing to go on my break for a smoke. Eddy is supposed to cover for me, but he’s too engrossed by fiddling with his new boy toy of a cell phone.”
“We’ll be fine,” replied Isabel. “Just a minute before you go. Has Ray Burl been a steady customer at the deli?”
Tabitha smiled. “You bet, and he’s a big tipper.” Her smiled went south as she remembered Ray Burl was no more, and his surviving daughter sat at the booth as her customer. “Was, I mean, of course. I’m sorry as I can be for your loss, Sammi Jo.”
She nodded as she rotated the glass of iced tea on the tabletop. “Thanks, Tabitha. It’s still a shock to me, but I’m bearing up from it.”
