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

by Ed Lynskey

  Petey Samson had bedded down inside the cardboard packing box Isabel had placed in the corner of her bedroom. She also kept his stainless steel water dish she refreshed every morning and evening there. She’d bought him an expensive wicker bed electrically heated, but he’d turned up his nose at it in favor of lying sprawled across the foot of her bed. This sleeping arrangement, while serving him well, left her an achy, sore grinch the next morning.

  Inspired by an idea, she rousted out a packing box, a leftover from their move and stored in Siberia. She placed the packing box in her bedroom, and Petey Sampson sniffed the packing box twice. After training his caramel brown eyes on her watching how he’d react, he occupied the packing box and flopped down inside it like emptying a basket of laundry. Within three swishes of his tail, he fell into a dog’s beauty rest.

  She realized how bored she felt sitting there. Frustrated was more accurate, she reconsidered. Here Sammi Jo needed their keen shamus skills more than ever, and all Isabel had collected was a bunch of intriguing but nevertheless lemons for clues. Even by her diminished olfactory sense, she could tell Ray Burl’s shotgun might well reek of a red herring. They’d used too much effort trying to nail down the reason why he’d bought it.

  She’d put off doing something for as long as she could. Contacting Judge Helen Redfern was always the last resort, but Isabel concluded they’d reached that critical stage. They had been pals going back through several U.S. presidents’ administrations. The younger Judge Redfern, also a widower, resided in a stylish McMansion north of Warrenton. Before there was any Judge Judy on TV, Helen Redfern had adjudicated with an iron gavel and no-time-for-fools attitude. If you broke the law twice, and you reappeared before her bench, no prayers could save you because she gave no quarter. except you headed off to a prison cell.

  Isabel squinted to check the time on the Seth Thomas (off by an hour since the sisters paid no heed to the time changes) ticking on the mantel. It didn’t feel late by her standards, but who could tell if a trial judge preferred to eat a late Sunday dinner? Isabel took the calculated risk and placed her call.

  Judge Redfern’s greeting sounded chipper and, even better, talkative. Isabel went through the obligatory litany of reporting on everyone’s health. In turn, Judge Redfern mentioned her sons, Homer and Nicky, as well as her grandkids, June and Rick, were “fit as a mountaineer’s fiddle,” and she was battling allergies.

  Isabel didn’t bring up hers. She wished to get on to why she’d telephoned.

  “No doubt you’ve heard about Ray Burl Garner,” she said.

  “Indeed I did. What on earth is going on in Quiet Anchorage? If it’s no longer safe living there, nowhere else can be either.”

  “You have to realize, Helen, we’re no longer just an oil spot on the road,” said Isabel. “The local population has exploded with the new subdivisions popping up like mushrooms after a summer rain. With the surge of larger numbers, you’d expect a rise in the violent crimes like homicide.”

  “Uh-huh.” It approximated a groan coming from Judge Redfern. “It sure doesn’t make my job any easier.”

  Isabel suspected Judge Redfern saw a lengthy, contentious murder trial looming on her already crowded docket. To point out the increased crime also kept Judge Redfern busy and employed was crass, so Isabel moved on but treaded with care. She didn’t want to discuss the specifics of the case, like if Sheriff Fox was set to arrest Sammi Jo, seeing as Judge Redfern might be appointed the presiding judge on it.

  “What do you know about cashmere?” asked Isabel. “A gentleman’s cashmere dress suit to be precise.”

  Judge Redfern understood Isabel’s wariness about just touching on the far parameters of the Ray Burl Garner homicide case. “Personally speaking, I abhor it more than a hung jury.”

  “Really. Why is that, Helen?”

  “My first cousin, Wilbur Pettigrew Mahoney, from Savannah died while he wore a cashmere dress suit. He suffered a massive coronary while he was tooting “Jesus Is Just Alright” on his trumpet at Easter Sunday church. The congregation, startled out of their wits, watched him keel over and lay there like a fish out of water. Nobody had the presence of mind to administer CPR on him. That’s why I’ve always associated cashmere with death and funerals, so I have no affinity for it.”

  “Do gentlemen wear cashmere in your hall of justice?”

  “I haven’t seen cashmere worn in a few years,” replied Judge Redfern. “If I did catch someone in it, I’d direct the bailiff to remove the offender on some pretense. Hey, why not? I’m the judge, and what I say goes.”

  During the reflective pause, Isabel watched Petey Samson prance into the living room, circle it with sniffs for a doggie treat, and then exit unrewarded. He’d return later when she wasn’t so busy. “I don’t mind telling you Alma and I are chasing our tails on this case.”

  “I assume Mr. Garner wore a cashmere dress suit when he was discovered dead. If that’s so, don’t say anything.”

  Isabel kept her lips buttoned.

  “Without going into the ins and outs, I’d pursue the cashmere shroud angle if I were you. Have you thought of your killer playing a game of cat-and-mouse with you?”

  “Not really. Food for thought. I’ve read about that being done in the psychological thrillers. Anyway, I’ll let you get on with it. Good night, Helen, and my thanks.”

  “You both take care and do say hello to Alma for me.”

  “Will do for certain.”

  ***

  Alma picked up a roll of the peppermint LifeSavers from the penny candy jar in the kitchen and prepared for bed. Her bedroom’s wallpaper followed the same tartan plaid pattern as her armchair and apron. She was a baseball fan (not so much back during the steroids era from the late 1990s to the early 2000s) from since the playing days of slugging outfielder Frank Howard. Her old mandarin red transistor AM radio with its ear jack picked up the broadcasts of the Nats’ string of defeats.

  They were on travel to the West Coast, playing the San Diego Padres with a 10 p.m. game start time. She’d be hibernating by then. She sucked on a cooling peppermint LifeSaver and snuggled under the sheet scented from the aromatic cedar lining their linen closet. The nightstand reading light blazed down on page one to the Ngaio Marsh mystery.

  Alma tingled with anticipation to dive in and let the story transport her to a different place and time in England. Then she remembered she’d been rude in not wishing Isabel a good night. She felt too pooped out to walk the length of the brick rambler. Her cell phone was at hand’s reach.

  “What are you doing?” asked Alma.

  “I just got off the phone with Helen Redfern,” replied Isabel. “She says hi.”

  “Hi, Helen. Now, was doing that a good idea?”

  “We took extra care to skirt going into the details of Ray Burl’s case. She told me something I found quite arresting.”

  “Your voice sounds animated. Lay it on me.”

  “She characterized Ray Burl’s dress suit as a ‘cashmere shroud.’ Isn’t that a colorful term?”

  “Colorful term, sure, but what did she mean, and what does it get us?”

  “She’s convinced, and she’s persuaded me, the cashmere is our best lead to follow.”

  Alma’s head began wagging. “No, I don’t see that. Our drive to Warrenton didn’t pan out a thing except to learn Mr. Rhee is a fellow Scrabble fanatic.”

  “Yeah, and I can’t wait to sink our talons into the fresh meat.” Isabel caught her competitive zeal. “I mean to invite over Mr. Rhee for a tall glass of iced tea over a friendly game.”

  “Forget about iced tea and Scrabble. What about the cashmere dress suit?”

  “Our Three Musketeers might recall seeing Ray Burl wearing it.”

  “Tomorrow let’s ask them.”

  “So ordered.”

  “What is the word on Petey Samson?”

  “He’s just woken up and is scratching in his cardboard box. I’ll snap his photo with my cell phone camera and shoot it
over to you.”

  “That’s okay, but his scratching could be bad news. Fleas and ticks?”

  “No, he’s just being the hound dog he is.”

  “Then I bet he can also catch a rabbit. Night, sis.”

  “Night, Elvis.”

  Chapter 27

  The next morning—why did Mondays always feel like the right morning to sleep in for an extra hour?—broke as another sizzler. On her end of the brick rambler, Alma awoke to find the Ngaio Marsh mystery propped facedown on her chin where it had fallen the previous night. She must’ve dozed off while reading, lulled by the clickety-sweet-clack raised by the night freight train passing through Quiet Anchorage. Stretching her arms overhead, she couldn’t think of a pleasanter way to go to sleep.

  After she sat upright in bed, she made a wish to find delicious frying bacon and percolating French Roast coffee, both of which the ball of fire Isabel was fixing for their breakfast. The coffee tempted her, but Alma substituted cold cereal in lieu of the bacon. Her fusspot GP would give a victory sign for her healthier diet choice. He’d also probably tsk-tsk at her addiction to the Godiva Chocolate Truffles. That was too bad.

  She marveled over how blessed she felt to be retired and living out her golden years here. Her subsequent thought on Ray Burl’s killer free as a buzzard tarnished the gold.

  Grumbling under her breath, she climbed out of bed and stubbed her only big toe on the nightstand leg. How could a private eye be so clumsy? She had the urge to kick it, but that would make her half-foot throb, so she just got dressed.

  August rolled on at a full broil, so she’d just think cool thoughts all day. She clomped into the kitchen where Isabel was getting the coffee on with a grand announcement.

  “Today I’m lounging at the Coronet River. Remember our old swimming hole with the tire swing on the rope? Louise was a trapeze artist on it, something that’s hard to believe now with her rheumatism. I’m lugging along an ice chest filled with Mello Yellow, Mountain Dew, and Dr. Pepper. I’ll also pack a picnic basket of paperbacks.”

  “Hurray for you,” said Isabel. “Is there any room and time left for Scrabble?”

  “Surely. If you’d like to play, bring it along, too.”

  “Petey Samson?”

  “I’d rather not. He’ll just get wet and muddy and track paw prints through the house.”

  “Be thankful he doesn’t yodel like the coyotes keeping you awake do.”

  Alma nodded.

  “A scary dream jarred me awake at one o’clock this morning. I dreamt Sheriff Fox had arrested Sammi Jo. There I lay stiff as a board for the rest of the night, worrying about her.”

  Alma bit down on her bottom lip, then asked, “Have your scary dreams of late been coming true?”

  “Not so much that I’ve noticed.”

  “Good deal. Just keep them going that way.”

  “Don’t forget we’re leaving right after breakfast to consult the three wise men about cashmere.”

  “I guess my old swimming hole idea has been preempted,” said Alma.

  “We’ll have plenty of leisure for doing it later,” said Isabel.

  ***

  Main Street appeared as deserted as Atlantic City’s boardwalk on a January morning. Alma liked seeing the recent efforts made to spiff up the walkways and shopfronts. The town council had voted for the new lines white as a lace doily painted on the repaved street. New coats of purple, red, and green color paints freshened the stores’ façades. The bench, once deemed by the town council to be an eyesore, had been removed.

  Willie, riled as a wet hornet, had led a signed petition drive to have the bench, then in Sheriff Fox’s custody, restored to its erstwhile position of prominence. Isabel and Alma had been the first signees on his petition. Isabel had argued the Three Musketeers’ presence on Main Street added a friendly nuance to their town’s image.

  After 95% of Quiet Anchorage’s townies had blessed Willie’s petition, the town council recast their vote and acquiesced.

  Now Isabel and Alma approached the bench, seeking the two occupants’ wisdom yet again.

  They told the sisters that Blue was absent due to a bout of the brown bottle flu, but he usually recovered by the afternoon.

  Alma asked their questions.

  Ossie replied at once. “Oh my yes, I attended the June wedding of Ray Burl Garner to Maureen Lionheart.”

  He delivered Isabel a poignant look, but she ignored his entreaty. She liked maintaining her single mature lady status too much to remarry.

  “It was held at the Mount Zion Baptist Church,” he continued. “Now that I focus on it, I recall Ray Burl did wear a cashmere dress suit to his nuptials.”

  “Cashmere is worn in hot as blazes June?” said Willie.

  “It’s considered all-season wear and would be cool enough,” said Isabel. “Go on with your story, Ossie.”

  “Well, I keep a sharper memory of the bride. Mo was resplendent in her long, white veil. I believe I may have cried since I’m nothing but a sentimental fool. They also didn’t hire a professional wedding photographer. Too expensive and frivolous, said Ray Burl.

  “So, Fats Browning filled in and took a few nice snapshots, but after he went to remove the roll of film for its development, he sheepishly admitted to the bride and groom he’d forgotten to load the camera. You see, Fats got dropped on his noggin while he was an ankle biter. Anyway, Mo pitched a duck fit, and I’d venture a guess Ray Burl put in some couch time on his honeymoon night.”

  “Ouch,” said Willie, grimacing. “The first time bunking on the marriage couch is the coldest one.” He tapped himself on the chest. “Trust me. I know this to be true.”

  Withholding comment, Isabel just smiled.

  “Where might Ray Burl have gotten a cashmere dress suit in those days?” asked Alma. “From here in town, or did he go to Warrenton?”

  “You’ve got me buffaloed there,” replied Willie. “I never buy the clothes in my household. Doris is in charge of Wardrobe. It gives her something constructive to do besides nag the living daylights out of me. We’re much poorer at the end of the month when the bills come due, but we’re also happier.”

  One hand in his pocket jingling his keys and coins, Ossie snickered with a confidential smirk. “I used to set it up the same way. The wife did all of our shopping from the mousetraps to flypaper strips to crew socks. I pulled that slick con for years, and the wife didn’t wise up. It left me lots more time to spend right here where I belong.” He patted the bench seat.

  Isabel doubted the veracity to his boast because the late Gloria probably gave daily thanks to the saints above to shoo Ossie out of the house during the day. “What are the chances Mo bought Ray Burl the cashmere wedding coat?” asked Isabel.

  “I have a thought on that,” said Willie. “Maybe Mo picked it up as a secondhand piece from a consignment shop in Warrenton or Culpeper. They come and go, depending on the shape of the economy.”

  “That’s a good idea for us to do tomorrow,” said Isabel.

  “I feel sorry for Sammi Jo,” said Ossie. “She’s got to be hurting. Ray Burl was a good father, and he loved her like she was his real daughter.”

  The sisters did double takes—real daughter—in tandem at Ossie.

  “You want to repeat that last part,” said Alma.

  Willie recovered from his shock. “Now you’ve gone and done it, Ossie. Repeating that vile piece of gossip isn’t worth the breath you expended to say it.”

  He shrugged a little. “I’d never repeat it front of Sammi Jo, of course. But we’re all adults here, and we know how promiscuous Mo was.”

  “She liked engaging in her fun, but I don’t believe she ever took things that far,” said Willie. “At least not as long as she was living under Ray Burl’s roof, she didn’t.”

  “Well, there you have it,” said Ossie. “Two old duffers’ varying opinions, and only the one of us can be right. You private eyes had better do your magic and separate fact from fiction.”


  “In the interim, let’s give it up for our own Blue Trent who has recovered enough to come and join us,” said Willie.

  At a turn, the sisters saw Blue hobbling along the Sunday morning sidewalk. When Ossie and Willie greeted him, he gave them a perfunctory two-finger salute off the temple. He flopped down on his initials gouged into the bench seat and croaked out his first sentence.

  “The tainted oysters my nephew Ralph brought over last night nearly laid me low at death’s door.”

  “Here I thought you had a monster hangover,” said Willie.

  “I haven’t touched a drop of the hard sauce in more years than you’ve got fingers and toes,” said Blue.

  “My apologies, Blue,” said Willie. “I misjudged you, amigo.”

  “There was no harm, so there’s no foul.” Blue peered from under his hooded eyes at Isabel and Alma. “What topic was under discussion before my intrusion for which I have to apologize?”

  “Mo Garner,” replied Alma.

  “We’re debating the truthfulness of her running around while she was married to Ray Burl,” said Ossie.

  “There’s a little more to it,” said Willie. “The rumor of who is Sammi Jo’s biological father also came up, thanks to blabbermouth Ossie.”

  Ossie looked contrite.

  “That ugly rumor is specious,” said Blue. “She’s the spitting image of Ray Burl, no room for a speck of doubt.”

  “There you go.” Willie glanced at Ossie. “What further proof in the pudding do you require, sir? Seeing is believing.”

  “You better get your cataracts removed, Ossie,” said Blue.

  “It appears I’ve been outvoted two to one, so our democracy says it’s an unfounded rumor,” said Ossie.

  “I like it much better being that way,” said Isabel.

  “Where is your woodcarving project?” Blue asked Willie. “Did you finish making it? Let’s see it, friend.”

  “I had to deep-six it,” replied Willie, glum. “The knife slipped again and almost slit off my pinkie. I better take up a new, less dangerous hobby.”