by Ed Lynskey
“Well, I suppose I could redress Ray Burl in it,” said Alma. “I have to wonder how tricky it is to switch the clothes on a dead man. Obviously, he’s not in any position to cooperate with you. It’d be awkward and cumbersome like trying to undress and dress a department store mannequin.”
The mental image Isabel formed was a ludicrous one of stretching and fumbling with arms and legs. She focused on the suit itself. “Where might have Ray Burl bought the suit? No Quiet Anchorage merchant would sell cashmere. Did he order it from a sales catalog? From off the internet, say, on eBay or through Craigslist?”
“If it was me, I’d go to Warrenton,” said Sammi Jo. “Peebles, perhaps.”
“I believe cashmere might be a little more pricey than anything at that apparel outlet,” said Isabel. “Alma, haven’t we ridden by a men’s tailor shop? My mind’s eye remembers seeing one located on Main Street.”
Her sister didn’t have to give it a second thought. “Norman Rhee’s is wedged between the Cheshire Cat Bookshop and Svoboda’s Photography Shop.”
“Mr. Rhee could fit a gentleman for a tailored dress suit,” said Isabel. “He may not be real cheap, but he’s convenient and efficient.”
Sammi Jo wheeled around, walking fast to leave the Cape Cod.
Isabel hopped up from the bed.
Alma from the side of her mouth murmured to Isabel. “Sammi Jo has made up her mind on where our search goes next.”
“I’m worried about her.” Isabel turned off the light switch.
Voicing her apprehension was unlike the customarily placid Isabel, and Alma felt the fright leave a cold spot knotted in her chest. She offered no response before Isabel continued.
“All this scratching at her emotional wounds can’t be helping her to mend.”
“She said she won’t rest until her father’s killer is behind bars,” said Alma.
At the opened front door, Sammi Jo turned and called back to them lingering in Ray Burl’s old bedroom. “Isabel and Alma, quit your whispering and fretting back there. I’m holding up, so don’t be afraid I’m set to fly to pieces at any second.”
“We’ll make out because Sammi Jo is tough as…” Alma trailing off couldn’t quite put her finger on the appropriate comparison.
Isabel rescued her characterization. “Steel magnolia. She’s tough as a steel magnolia.”
“There you go,” said Alma, smiling. “That’s Sammi Jo on the button.”
Chapter 25
“I’ll sit still for sleeping through, er, I mean cuddling with you to watch a classic chick flick,” said Reynolds. “Which one is it to be? Pretty Woman? When Harry Met Sally? Dirty Dancing? The Bridges of Madison County? See, I’ve bought all your faves on brand new DVDs. Or I could be talked into enduring Beaches again, but that particular one will require a cold six-pack of PBR to go with the barbecued Doritos.”
“First off, they’re not called ‘chick flicks,’ Reynolds,” said Sammi Jo of her guilty pleasure. “Hearing that condescending term sticks in my craw.”
Cell phones linked them. Isabel was driving Alma and Sammi Jo to Warrenton. The afternoon swelter spurred Isabel to run the air conditioner at its next-to-highest setting. Meantime Alma pulled a cardigan sweater over her shoulders and buttoned its top button at the neck. Sitting in the rear seat, Sammi Jo felt comfortable.
“What might you call them?” asked Reynolds. “Is touchy-feely cinema okay by you? Fill me in, and the next time, I’ll use the correct PC term.”
“Skip that and listen. There’s no way I can get with you tonight. I’m in the middle of doing something important with Isabel and Alma.”
“Something that’s more important than us? How could that be, honey?”
He sounded petulant and whiny, irritating Sammi Jo. She wanted to reach through their connection and shake a little common sense into him. “It’s about my father’s murder, and my pressing need to get a few answers about it. Sheriff Fox’s answer is to march me off to prison, but that ain’t going to happen as long as I draw mortal breath.”
“Amazing. How might you know what Sheriff Fox is thinking?”
“I lost my crystal ball and tarot cards, but I do know he loves to take the path of least resistance. Megan Connors. Need I say anymore to you?”
“He doesn’t suspect you’re Ray Burl’s killer, and your hanging out so much with those old dingbats is making you paranoid.”
“Old dingbats? Is that what you just said? Reynolds Kyle, you might get away with calling me spiteful names, but don’t you dare insult my friends. Ever. Hear me? I’m not having it from you.”
Isabel flitted her eyes to graze the rearview mirror. Sammi Jo wasn’t smiling or sounding happy. She was ticked. Reynolds had better shape up and fly right.
“Apologies,” he said. “Just saying. It’s my opinion you’re exaggerating how the sheriff has it out for you just based on your intuition. He doesn’t seem to be making rapid progress, true enough, but we don’t know what he’s uncovered in his investigation, so give him a fair chance.”
“Reynolds, my cow died, so I don’t need your bull. Answer me this. Where is Sheriff Fox? Is he out with his posse of deputy sheriffs beating the bushes? Not at all. He’s where he always is on Sunday afternoon: at your drag race track with a KFC drumstick in one fist and a digital camera in his other, while cheering at the top of his lungs.”
“I can see him from where I’m standing. But come on, you can’t begrudge the chief lawman for enjoying his Sunday R&R, especially after I’ve charged him for the full price of admission and hate to give refunds.”
“Why should I cut Roscoe Fox any slack, particularly when I’m out here with Isabel and Alma playing Charlies Angels?”
“Hey, I gotta go, honey. A fistfight has broken out behind the concessions stand. This is bad stuff for my family-friendly image.”
“Just signal to our chief lawman, and he’ll rush in and break it up. That’s what the taxpayers elected and pay him to do. Be talking to you soon.” Sammi Jo stashed away her cell phone. Men.
“Did I hear you mention Sheriff Fox?” asked Alma.
“I did. Guess where he is? At the drag race track with Reynolds. A fracas broke out, and he’s off to grab our sheriff to rush in and reestablish law and order. Good luck with doing that.”
“Roscoe is at the drag race track,” said Isabel. “Knowing that might come in handy later.”
“Meantime step on it and catch Mr. Rhee before he closes up shop for the day,” said Alma.
“I’m surprised he advertises holding Sunday hours,” said Isabel. “Only the pharmacy is open today in town.”
“Walmart and the other big box stores give the local merchants plenty of competition,” said Alma. “Don’t get me started on my big box store rant either.”
“I’m also not their champion, but they’re not so shabby,” said Sammi Jo. “I’ve shopped there, and I’ve had pretty good luck with their products.”
“You don’t say,” said Alma. “On your recommendation, I might tag along with Isabel or you the next time you go. My new caulking gun has gone astray.”
***
If a traveler approached the town of Warrenton from the south, he’d arrive at a Y-fork in the highway. The east road was the new bypass skirting the commercial strip, which grew up along the older west bypass. But if he was Alma, Isabel, and Sammi Jo, he’d avoid taking either bypass and use the exit ramp. That road passed by the roadside Osage oranges, the drycleaner’s parking lot where the Farmer’s Market operated, and curved into downtown Main Street. The parking meters had been removed years ago.
The ladies found the Cheshire Cat Bookshop and Svoboda’s Photography Shop closed as they hailed Mr. Rhee standing outside his tailor shop. It was the hue of lemon meringue pie.
He leaned over, the door key in his grasp. The brown and beige pork pie hat with its tiny red feather on his thin head and his beige seersucker dress jacket lent him a jaunty flair. He saw their approach from the corner of his eye and fi
nished securing the door. He returned Alma’s wave and “hello” without the trace of an accent.
Their alacrity wasn’t for a social occasion, and the ladies probably weren’t interested in men’s tailoring. He didn’t scowl despite his growing displeasure. They bore a familiar look but, closer up, he was less certain of it.
“Mr. Rhee, one moment, please,” said Alma who introduced them.
None of their names meant diddly to him.
“Are you ladies making a pick up?” he asked. “I can reopen my shop.”
“We’d like to discuss one of your possible customers,” said Alma.
“I see. Is he a relation of yours?” asked Mr. Rhee.
“Ray Burl Garner was my father,” replied Sammi Jo.
Mr. Rhee, peering down at his shoe tops, was shaking his head. “Garner, Garner…no, he doesn’t ring any bell. Sorry.”
The ladies surrounded Mr. Rhee as his thirst grew for that frosty can of root beer he’d left on the top shelf in his townhouse’s refrigerator. The afternoon heat had neared a sauna bath’s intensity.
“Ray Burl wasn’t a regular customer,” said Sammi Jo.
“Evidently not,” said Mr. Rhee.
“Might we speak inside where it’s more private and before we roast like chestnuts on the open hearth?” asked Alma.
“Do you see this taking that long?” asked Mr. Rhee. “I already told you I don’t know the fellow.”
Isabel had few qualms over fibbing if it expedited things. “Mr. Rhee, my elderly sister Alma gets these dizzy spells if she’s out in this heat for too long. Unless you want to deal with the embarrassing furor of an old lady passed out at your shop’s doorstep, our moseying inside is advisable.”
Elderly sister? Alma frowned at Isabel.
The unenthusiastic Mr. Rhee took her point. He reversed his ministrations at the lock, dropping his door ring with a sailor’s curse under his breath. He glanced at Isabel, and she smiled her prim smile. He sweated over whether they had some batty scheme cooked up to clean out the cash register. They’d only make off with five dollars and change. It’d been a slow Sunday.
The younger lady—Sammi Jo?—flashed the quick eyes like the stick up artist he’d encountered, the last straw that goaded him to move his shop. He couldn’t imagine where she carried a concealed weapon in the peach-colored blouse and short shorts she wore—barely. Perhaps she’d taped a straight razor to the sole of one of her sandals.
His hasty over-the-shoulder glance confirmed she looked tough like a roller derby queen. Was she snickering at his fumbling efforts? He listened sharper, but only a cat-paw’s breeze reached his ears. He nudged up the pork pie hat to let the breeze cool his perspiring scalp. That cold root beer was never further away from his parched lips.
“Mr. Rhee, would you like one of us to take a crack at it?” asked Alma.
“I haven’t eaten since a prune Danish and coffee this morning,” he said. “I’m a little swim-headed is all. Once inside, I’ll perk right up.”
“Sammi Jo will be glad to pitch in,” said Isabel.
“No!” Mr. Rhee’s head swiveled around to them. “I can manage it, no fuss.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Rhee,” said Isabel. “We’ll be patient.”
“I’m feeling some vertigo,” said Alma, putting her wrist at her forehead.
“Oh-oh,” said Sammi Jo. “You better hurry, Mr. Rhee.”
At last, he tripped the lock’s tumblers and stepped back for them to file into his tailor shop.
They clustered by the brushed copper cash register at the counter’s end. A red tailor’s chalk the shape of an oversized guitar pick and measuring tape lay on the countertop. He left on his pork pie hat.
The chill from the running air conditioner bracketed in the transom raised the goose bumps on the ladies’ exposed flesh. Alma could see the white crystallized patches of freezer burn forming on them if they overstayed their time in here. The stale nicotine of smokers pervaded the tailor shop making it a veritable man-cave.
Mr. Rhee toed the shop door closed and turned to them. “What’s this about your father Ray Burl whom I’ve never met?” he asked.
“Last week—it was on Thursday—he was found murdered at his workplace,” replied Sammi Jo.
Mr. Rhee winced at the announcement. “I’m sorry for—”
She heeled up her palm. “Thanks but just hang tight. Let me first tell you the rest of my story.”
He relented. “Go on then.”
“My father died wearing a cashmere dress suit. We’ve narrowed down the local places he could’ve bought it as new to your shop.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Does it match today’s apparel fashions?”
“No idea since I only saw it the once after he died.”
“Did you snap a photo of it?”
“Huh? My father as a corpse? I hardly think so. Why do you need a picture?”
Mr. Rhee picked up the tailor’s chalk, tossed it a few inches into the air, and snagged it in his palm. “It would help us to date the suit. Perhaps it’s his wedding coat, and he kept it in garment storage over all this time.”
“His suit might be an older one then,” said Sammi Jo. “He wasn’t big on current dress fashions.”
“Men seldom are,” said Mr. Rhee. “Their wives keep them fashionably dressed. Thank goodness for me, too.”
Isabel brought up her concerns. “Cashmere is rather pricey, is it not? It also requires dry cleaning. Neither of those luxury expenses would be in a young bridegroom’s limited budget.”
“Perhaps an older friend or family member passed it on to him as gently used.”
“Perhaps.” Isabel mulled it over.
Alma elevated her hand. “Do you mind cutting back the A/C?”
Mr. Rhee blinked at her. “Are you cold?”
She presented her bare arm. “Can’t you see all the goose bumps on me?”
He shrugged under his beige seersucker dress jacket and flipped off the air conditioner unit.
“Thanks,” said Alma.
Isabel went on. “If Ray Burl did get the wedding coat as a hand-me-down, would he have come here for any alterations he required?”
“Probably not by me because I just moved to Warrenton last year.”
“Where did you hang your pork pie hat before, Mr. Rhee?” asked Isabel.
“Annandale, inside the Capital Beltway, has a sizeable Korean population. But as an older man and a widower to boot, I sought a slower lifestyle. So I bought and opened my tailor shop here.”
“I was in the grocery store industry,” said Isabel. “How is business going for you?”
“You know how it is. Things can always be a little better,” he replied. “But I remain the eternal optimist.”
“How much do we owe you for your time?” Alma undid the clasp on her pocketbook.
Mr. Rhee, acting more relaxed now, smiled and wagged his head. “No charge for my newest friends. Besides, I didn’t really do anything for you.”
“You took our questions, and we’re grateful for your assistance,” said Isabel.
“You are more than welcome,” said Mr. Rhee. “Feel free to return anytime you’re in the neighborhood. I’d love to chat again.”
“We’ll do that,” said Alma, leaving. She enacted a Columbo half-turn spin, only without the chewed on cigar held between her fingers, and posed her final question. “By the way, Mr. Rhee, are you a Scrabble aficionado?”
Isabel arched her eyebrows. “Alma! What a cheeky thing to ask him.”
Mr. Rhee chuckled. “No, it’s perfectly fine, Isabel. I don’t mind it.”
“In that case,” she said. “How about it? Do you like to play Scrabble?”
The competitive spark gleamed in his eye sizing up the gray pair of easy marks. “I’m a little rusty,” he said, downplaying his skill.
“We can help you brush up your game,” said Alma also seeing an easy mark in him.
Chapter 26
Once they returned home, Alma trie
d to entice Sammi Jo into staying “to play a little Scrabble.” The younger woman politely declined. She’d been trapped by Alma’s Scrabble invitations in the recent past and knew the sisters cast aside all passage of time. They even deadened their cell phones. No interruptions other than a catastrophic asteroid strike obliterating the Earth would be tolerated.
That night while playing Scrabble, Sammi Jo had yawned her way until midnight, her tired eyes drooping half-asleep. But such wasn’t the case for Isabel and Alma. They only refilled their tall glasses of iced tea, powdered their noses, and drew out their first seven letters to begin the next game. They also fussed over tallying up the score after each play of their letter tiles.
“You’d better re-add those two numbers, Alma,” Isabel would say.
Alma squinted at the figures she’d written down on the tablet of paper. She tapped the pencil’s eraser on the tablet. “H’m. I forgot to carry the one there, didn’t I?”
“On my score total, you forgot to carry the one, yes.”
“Honest mistake. Since I’m doing a subpar job, would you like to keep score instead of me?”
“No, you’re the mathematician of the Trumbo manor.”
“Apparently I’m not a very satisfactory one by your estimate.”
“I’m just the check and balance here, Alma.”
“I feel so special to be watched over like a chicken hawk.”
Isabel pointed out the fix. “You could swallow your vanity and wear your bifocals.”
“Maybe I just will at that.”
Sammi Jo suppressed her smile over their mock squabbles. Isabel and Alma also spelled out the words, long and short, Sammi Jo had never heard used. All the same, she admired their passion, which she hoped to possess just a small portion of when, and if, she made it to their golden ages.
***
After Isabel returned with Petey Samson, made friskier after his walk, Alma stopped in Siberia to select a bedtime paperback. She craved a Ngaio Marsh or Dorothy L. Sayers mystery. Meanwhile Isabel, vegging out in her armchair, heard the carpet shouting out for Mr. Hoover kept in the closet. As the co-lady of the manor, she decreed it, along with the outstanding yard work, as tomorrow’s problems. Also, she felt certain it had to be Alma’s turn to trot around the vacuum cleaner. Perhaps they should look to invest in a robotic vacuum cleaner. Robovacs, they were called.
