by Ed Lynskey
“There’s always Scrabble to fall back on,” said Ossie. “That is if we can ever get our regular partners back to the game board.” He sent an accusatory squint to Isabel and Alma.
“Scrabble will have to continue simmering on the back burner,” said Isabel. “There’s still an unsolved murder hanging out.”
“Are you making any headway on it?” asked Ossie.
“Until we reach the conclusion, that’s a difficult measure to gauge,” replied Alma.
“However the glass is always half-full for us,” said Isabel.
Chapter 28
“I don’t know if it’s any big deal or not,” said Nita, Mo’s old best friend, over the phone to Isabel back at home. “But since we talked yesterday, I got to thinking about Mo, and I remembered she mailed to me a postcard a couple years ago, it must’ve been.”
“Really now.” Isabel’s pulse thumped harder. “Did you squirrel away the postcard?”
“Unfortunately, I don’t think I did,” replied Nita. “I’ve turned my house upside-down searching for it, but I struck out. Who saves a postcard, even if it was from an old high school pal?”
“Postcards are worth little more than just saying hello and wish you were here.” Isabel’s pulse lost its optimistic uptick. “Do you have a memory of the picture, contents, postmark, or anything about it?”
“The picture side showed a gorgeous marmalade orange sunset, or maybe it was a sunrise,” replied Nita. “Sent from just where, I’m drawing a blank on. Its short message—her precise words escape me, too—was written in her penmanship, which I recognized straight off. She uses a regal flourish to her letters, especially her capitals, that complements her flamboyant personality.”
Isabel could be direct and to the point if the need arose as it did now. “Do you put any stock in the rumor claiming Sammi Jo resulted from Mo’s hanky-panky?”
Nita sputtered, her indignation that strong. “That’s utter tripe. Small-minded gossips—ours are among the worst offenders—start spreading those nasty untruths and fan the flames until the whispers and innuendos grow unbearable.”
“We’re inclined to believe much the same,” said Isabel.
“It could be that’s why Mo left us,” said Nita. “She couldn’t any longer take her good name getting dragged through the mud. Rosie and Lotus enthroned at Clean Vito’s are the gabbiest of the bunch, too. I don’t go there anymore just to avoid meeting them. Lesser reasons have goaded the folks to leave our Peyton Place.”
Isabel deliberated over a long beat. “Mo strikes me as a lady who didn’t give a toss about what the townies said or thought about her.”
“You might be right on that score,” said Nita. “At any rate, we know she was still alive and well as of two years ago.”
Of course, anybody can forge a postcard and mail it, thought Isabel. She didn’t respond to Nita, and she took it as a cue their conversation had run its course. They said their farewells.
***
Alma cackled at a favorite TV sitcom rerun of George and Elaine bantering with Kramer and Jerry at the New York City coffee shop, but Isabel decided fitting in a nap would better suit her. Yawning, she slipped off to her bedroom and by the time she arrived there, she was no longer feeling nearly as drowsy.
She moseyed down the hallway, passed by Alma’s bedroom, and headed to Siberia housing their personal library. Indulging her yen to dive into a new book wasn’t her purpose for this visit. Rather, she hoped the library, imbued with the spirits of so many triumphant fictional sleuths, including the male ops Mr. Moto and Charlie Chan, would inspire her to unravel their real life murder mystery. Their sense of direction on it struck her as a confused one, akin to an old sea captain relying on his erratic celestial navigation.
She chuckled at her whimsy before she flopped down in an armchair, and stretched out her legs. Just as Sammi Jo had co-opted the spot under the town’s railroad bridge as her cloister to sit and ruminate on pressing matters, the library provided Isabel a similar bower. She wished she’d brought along her Alaskan Outdoor from the living room to browse. Well, she had plenty of stuff to read in here if she liked.
Noticing the gaps to the missing books across the shelves, she held out the hope Megan would fall in love with devouring mysteries. Isabel thought of phoning Megan at her job but didn’t want to cause any trouble for her with her boss, and no call was placed.
Despite the sisters’ view of Sheriff Fox’s shortcomings, he was nevertheless their local police. Moreover, he’d warned them to stay out of his way as he steamrolled over Sammi Jo before jugging her. Over my dead body, fumed Isabel not feeling so whimsical as before. Her knee began to jiggle up and down.
Mo Garner rolled to the fore. Isabel thought Mo’s temper, quick and hot as Mount Vesuvius, could ignite a killer’s crime of passion. Isabel pictured the nervy Mo pacing at the Greyhound bus depot that morning in May. She’d emptied out the Garners’ joint checking account the day before, Sammi Jo had said. Mo paid for a ticket stub and perhaps swiped a Redbook or Cosmo from the waiting area for reading later while in transit.
The brakes on the Greyhound bus hissed to a halt in front of her, the lone passenger, and its accordion-like door creaked open. Isabel was curious about what thoughts had tracked through Mo’s fervid head as she ascended the steps, leaving town with just the party girl clothes on her back and her pocketbook in hand. She had no suitcase to stow in the luggage compartment in the bottom of the Greyhound. Had she left Quiet Anchorage feeling any morning sickness?
Did Mo also bundle off enough rancor to let it fester over the years until it welled up like a geyser, and she could no longer keep a safety cap on it? Had she snuck back to Quiet Anchorage like a thief in the night, ambushed Ray Burl, and slipped away again?
Isabel had learned the frugal Ray Burl liked to save his money. Rosie at Clean Vito’s had said she once saw Mo shoplift. Once a crook always a crook could be the reason why she returned, this time to steal Ray Burl’s pile of money. Had she grabbed it and left town? The nettlesome matter of his cashmere dress suit arose. Up until now, Isabel had admired a distinguished gentleman attired in cashmere, but now she held a lower regard for it.
All the funeral home director had to do was sew up or patch the bullet hole left in Ray Burl’s cashmere dress suit, and he was good to go into the coffin. The gallows humor wasn’t funny. She returned to their futile trip to Warrenton. Although Mr. Rhee had been of little assistance, she decided they should get together very soon for a game of Scrabble.
He’d been so cocky and full of himself.
She gloated since he’d never gone up against the pair of gray Trumbo sharks. He was in for a drubbing. Alma and she knew how to spell a few obscure words using the high scoring “Q” letter tile without the usual subsequent “U” letter tile. Sammi Jo had googled it and printed out the list of words, starting with the two-letter QI that had something to do with a force in Chinese philosophy. The smug but amiable Mr. Rhee would never think to do something that crafty.
A knuckle tapped at the door. “Isabel, are you in there?” asked Alma from the other side.
“Indeed,” she replied. “Come in, if you like.”
Alma also brought in her quizzical expression. “I thought you’d gone off and taken a nap, but I didn’t find you lying down in your bedroom.”
“On my way going there, I had a change of heart,” said Isabel.
“Sleep is very overrated, I agree,” said Alma. “Is this your calm eye in the storm like Sammi Jo’s sandy nook is under the railroad bridge?”
“Alas, my secret has been exposed,” replied Isabel.
“Then we’ll have to share it because I already called dibs on it,” said Alma.
Isabel smiled. “That’s doable.”
“Are you hard at work deciphering who killed Ray Burl?”
Isabel decided not to bring up her latest, but as of yet premature, theory about Mo having returned to Quiet Anchorage and done in Ray Burl. “He’s been at the center
of my attention, but I’m not much closer to putting it all together.”
“Which clue of the two main ones we’ve uncovered do you find the most compelling?”
“Do you mean Ray Burl’s shotgun or cashmere dress suit?”
“I do.”
“I’d say his cashmere dress suit is the more promising,” said Isabel. “The shotgun he purchased is out of character for him, but I’m certain a logical reason will eventually surface to account for it like he bought it for somebody else.”
Alma sighed. “I was afraid you were going to say that since I also feel the same way.”
“What mischief is Petey Samson up to?”
“He’s asleep, barely curled up on your armchair since he’s so tubby.”
“He’s a guileful one.” Isabel smiled. “He snookers me into taking him outdoors when he doesn’t really need to go. He enjoys the sunshine, fresh air, and exercise, but I’ve wised up to his canine tricks.”
“What did we do before he came into our household?” asked Alma.
“He certainly keeps our lives more complicated,” said Isabel.
***
Quiet Anchorage’s columnar water tower reminded Isabel of an oversized barn silo. The chlorinated water drawn from their tap tasted a far cry from the quality of the sparkling branch water they drank on the farm. A recent brouhaha had kicked up over what color to paint the water tower that was rusting away. Such mundane details kept the town council feeling useful. Half of the council advocated chartreuse while the opposing half championed adding more pizzazz by using a magenta paint color.
The spat seemed petty to the sisters until Alma revealed how she liked magenta, and Isabel felt the opposite, being partial to the chartreuse. Petey Samson didn’t give a woof either way as long as his meals got served on time, and his treats were forthcoming. In the end, the town council, lo and behold, uncovered a budgetary shortfall, so they tabled the decision for next year. Alma had been lobbying any townie she bumped into for supporting the chartreuse option. Isabel stayed mum.
Right now Isabel’s suggestion had them returning to Barclay’s Turf Farm and hoping to catch Mr. Barclay in his office this time. After accelerating out of town, they passed Mrs. Edwards’ tidy place where they used to stop and buy their farm fresh eggs. The sisters enjoyed seeing a field of the turf farm’s fresh tilled dirt, but neither missed the backbreaking chores required of running a farm.
Alma parked in the most convenient spot by the turf farm’s office building. Next to them sat a sleek, shiny midnight blue Aston Martin speedster. No doubt it was Mr. Barclay’s pride and joy since the rear vanity plates trumpeted, “SOD KING.” Unlike their previous visit, this one caught the turf farm teeming with its normal daily activity.
Shirtless, bronze-skinned laborers, one jockeying around the forklift, loaded the pallets of sod onto the flatbed trucks. They’d tied bright yellow and blue bandanas and doo-rags on their heads. “Andale! Andale! Hurry!” yelled the tallest one carrying the electronic tablet like the bosses make a big deal to do. “Ahora! Ahora! Now!” The revved up diesel truck engines rumbled to rattle the windows and belched out the black plumes of exhaust. Even the sisters’ jaded noses could detect their noxious fumes.
Once behind the closed office door, they were grateful to find the busy parking lot’s din fell to a muted thrum because the acoustic panels soundproofed the interior. They noticed the calendar—it hadn’t been flipped over since June—dangled at an angle on the knotty cedar wall paneling. A petite blonde in a short denim skirt looking to be near Sammi Jo’s age was punching in numbers on an adding machine. She hopped up from behind the desk with a perfunctory greeting and escorted them into the inner sanctum of Ambrose Barclay, CEO.
Seeing them, he broke into a smile fake as a Saturday morning cartoon character. The skylight in the slanted ceiling illuminated him lounging with his overpolished boots propped up on the glass-topped desk. Only a cell phone cluttered it. He wore a poplin suit and flashed an expensive timepiece on his wrist.
Rolex, recognized Isabel.
The wall panels were gold birch while the plush gold carpet ran a shade darker. The pair of armchairs the sisters occupied at his inviting hand gesture felt stiff from nonuse.
As they got settled in their seats, Isabel could detect the soft undertones to classical music. She didn’t recognize the piece since she never put on classical music. This slow, lackluster instrumental, however, could stand a dash of Charlie Parker and his up-tempo sax to enliven it. Mr. Barclay sat upright in the executive chair.
“Good day, ladies.” He used the unctuous delivery of an auctioneer taking buyers’ bids at an estate sale. His sun tan bore a long weekend’s burnish. “What brings you back to Mr. B’s empire? Karmine told him about your first visit.”
“Speaking of Karmine, where is she today?” Isabel found Mr. Barclay addressing himself in the third person more than a bit jarring if not pompous.
“Since she’s worked so much overtime to straighten out the books left in a big mess, she’s taking off a few days and returning to visit Hoboken,” replied Mr. Barclay. “The cupcake out front ushering you in is a temp the Warrenton agency sent down to me.”
“The young lady is efficient,” said Isabel. “I’m certain she’ll fill in admirably during Karmine’s absence.”
Mr. Barclay shrugged. “Meantime what’s on your minds?”
“Ray Burl,” replied Alma.
“Ah, Mr. B’s late foreman.” Mr. Barclay lost his bemused expression. “Rest assured Mr. B is going to miss him, one of his topmost employees, hands down.”
“Were you onsite when he was found dead?” asked Alma.
“No, Mr. B had a tee time,” replied Mr. Barclay. “Naturally he rushed back here when he got the bad news from Karmine.”
“Any idea who shot him?” asked Alma, dispensing with anymore pointless preliminary chitchat.
Folding his hands to rest them on the glass-topped desk, Mr. Barclay used the same fake smile. This time Alma thought it had a reptilian cast, putting her on her toes. “Mr. B is a little mystified,” he said. “Why are you parroting the same slate of questions Sheriff Fox has already asked him?”
Evidently Mr. B doesn’t read the local newspaper, thought Alma. They’d had several articles run on their senior sleuthing activities depicted as more of a lark than as a profession. They liked operating under the guise of doddering old ladies like the Snoop sisters, harmless and lightly regarded, while focused like a twin laser beam would be on the mystery.
“You know how it is for us dotty senior ladies,” replied Alma. “We get bored with baking fudge, knitting scarves, and playing computer Solitaire all the time.”
Mr. Barclay displayed a condescending grin. “Is that a fact? Okay, Mr. B will play along and humor you little gals. To get your question, no, he doesn’t have a clue as to who’d want to take Ray Burl’s life. Mr. B had no motive. Ray Burl was Mr. B’s right-hand man. He practically ran the business, freeing Mr. B to take up nobler pursuits like shaving a few strokes off his golf game. Who could’ve asked for a better foreman?”
“Do you own a 12-gauge shotgun?” asked Isabel.
“Mr. B own a 12-gauge shotgun?” Mr. Barclay’s look of astonishment was genuine. “Why might you, of all people, ask Mr. B such a thing?”
Alma found Mr. B’s habit of fending off their questions with his own questions annoying. The Mr. B junk he kept using only doubled her frustration. She was primed to straighten him out when Isabel spoke.
“We Trumbos were raised on a small farm just west of town,” she said. “Firearms are hardly foreign or exotic objects to us.”
“But wasn’t Ray Burl murdered with a handgun?” asked Mr. Barclay.
“Corina at Lago Azul Florist Shop told us she witnessed Ray Burl exiting the hardware store with a shotgun,” said Isabel. “He wasn’t a hunter to speak of, nor was he a gun enthusiast. We thought maybe he purchased it for somebody else like you, for instance.”
“Not for M
r. B. He’s a lover, not a fighter. Sorry to say it, but you’ll have to take your magnifying glass and look somewhere else.” Mr. Barclay picked up his cell phone from the glass-topped desk, a gesture indicating he’d decided their interview had concluded. “You’ll have to excuse Mr. B’s getting back to work. Ray Burl and Karmine aren’t around to see that things get done, so Mr. B has to keep them moving.”
Alma parted her lips to insert one final question for the Sod King, but Isabel cut her off.
“Isabel says we’ve asked all our questions,” she said, mimicking Mr. Barclay’s third person affectation.
“And Alma concurs,” said Alma, following Isabel’s lead. “Thanks, Mr. B.”
“Don’t mention it,” he said. “Mr. B always goes out of his way to assist our senior citizens.”
Alma gathered her pocketbook and followed Isabel back out into the ear-jarring noise and hothouse sun.
Returning to the state road, Alma, behind the wheel, had the first comment.
“Did you see his fancy Rolodex? That watch must’ve run him some serious coin.”
“His watch is a Rolex,” corrected Isabel. “Yes, he would have us to believe he’s quite well off.”
“Did you like Mr. B?”
Isabel shuddered. “Mr. B gives me the heebie jeebies, but we have to take him at his word that Ray Burl didn’t buy the shotgun for him.”
“Why he wanted to purchase it becomes troublesome again,” said Alma.
“The short answer is yes it does,” replied Isabel.
Chapter 29
Isabel and Alma had taken a break and browsed in the spic-and-span Uncle Jimbo’s Vault, an antique and curios boutique catering to any inquisitive tourists meandering into their town. Louise’s birthday loomed a week away, and Alma suggested they might run across an original gift Louise would enjoy.
Uncle Jimbo was a purveyor of patent medicine bottles, telephone pole glass insulators, and old showy glassware with tiny air bubbles trapped inside it. Squinting without her reading glasses on, Isabel was studying the embossed words stamped on the flat surfaces to a pair of glass (turquoise and amethyst) bottles, she held.
