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

by Ed Lynskey

  Isabel sent her gaze out the side window. “The wooden bench looks forlorn when it’s vacant.”

  “Willie, Ossie, and Blue have gone home,” said Alma. “That’s what the normal folks in villages like ours do at night. If we did phone them, what might we tell them?”

  “Don’t let anything slip about tonight’s investigation, or they’ll gang up and have us certified crazy as two betsy bugs. We’ll be shipped off wearing straitjackets inside a rubber-paneled van to spend the rest of our days at the state-run nuthouse.”

  Alma surveyed Isabel in the rearview mirror. “They’re probably not far from the bull’s-eye truth there.” Alma noticed Sammi Jo darting out from the stairway entrance while fixing the last buttons to her clean blouse. She didn’t rub her eyes or nose as if she’d gone through another crying spell while alone in her apartment. That was a good sign. “Take heart from our own third musketeer who is back with us.”

  “Hit the road before Roscoe flies up and slaps his pairs of bracelets on us,” said Isabel.

  Alma cranked the ignition key, and the sedan’s engine turned over to purr under the hood. She waited as Sammi Jo sprinted to the sedan and climbed into the passenger side. The younger woman slammed the door shut with a confident force.

  “Reynolds is on his fast horse, a V-8 Mustang,” she said. “He’ll escort us while searching the turf farm’s office and buildings.”

  “Is he coming prepared to deal with armed and dangerous?” asked Isabel.

  “Very prepared,” replied Sammi Jo.

  Chapter 36

  When Alma was a small farm girl, she’d played with a hard plastic Kewpie doll. Its skin hue was a fleshy bisque, and it flashed a pair of jeweled blue eyes. She had a vague recollection of somebody, perhaps her father Woodrow or a cousin in town, acquiring the Kewpie doll as a prize from a carnival game of darts tossed to pop the balloons. She loved the Kewpie doll to pieces and hauled it everywhere with her. It was her security blanket to clutch and hold tight.

  Tonight she could use that Kewpie doll with its comforting reassurance. A tough guy accompanying them to the turf farm would be good, too. Take the dark-haired, tall, and lean Robert Ryan, for instance. Isabel also had had a major crush on the late film star, not that Isabel and Alma had compared notes. It was just they both sat riveted to their seats when they watched his motion pictures. Alma shook his memory from her thoughts. She saw the pair of bats still performed their acrobatics under the street lights.

  “Your Aunt Phyllis called me while you were in the car,” said Isabel.

  “How is she doing?” asked Sammi Jo.

  “She sounded fine.”

  “Then why did she call you?”

  “She informed us Fats Browning picked up a rumor.”

  “About Mo?”

  “Yes. She’s been living in a nearby subdivision.”

  Alma interjected her two cents. “Hiding is more likely.”

  “Evidently,” said Isabel. “There is more.”

  “Mo had a roommate,” said Alma.

  “Why?” asked Sammi Jo.

  Neither sister hazarded a guess although they knew it was probably for nefarious purposes. Again, the ladies clattered over the railroad crossing. The trains didn’t zip through Quiet Anchorage with the same frequency or urgency as once upon a time. Alma was old enough to have seen the last run of the steam engines wheeling to their final halt in March 1960. Where were they now? Had any steam engines survived as museum pieces? Everything felt ephemeral, never seeming to last for very long, even in the sleepy hamlets such as theirs. She pined for the steam engines so hard she kept on driving and sailed right by their turn.

  Isabel was alerter. “Uh, Alma, you missed taking our left.”

  “I realize that, Isabel. At the next appropriate place, I’ll turn around and go back and rectify it. Am I forgiven?”

  “Always but where is your mind at tonight?”

  “I was mulling over Kewpie dolls, Robert Ryan, and steam engines, if you must know. They are a darn sight pleasanter to dwell on than a pair of gruesome murders.”

  “Well, I can’t do all of our thinking for us while you’re daydreaming,” said Isabel, annoyed. “We need your undivided concentration for another hour. Can we count on that from you?”

  “You’ve got it, so let’s move on, shall we?” said Alma.

  “All right, you both, cool it,” said Sammi Jo. “Let’s not be so cranky with each other. We’re all feeling a little stressed out, and it’s been a long, trying night. By the way, who is this Robert Ryan you just mentioned?”

  “I’ll fill you in later all about him,” said Isabel.

  “Be ready for a doggie treat, too,” said Alma. “Think Brad Pitt only with more soulful eyes. Can I get an amen on that, Isabel?”

  “A big amen even. He gave your heart palpitations, and your stomach butterflies while you watched him act in the classic films.”

  “Awesome,” said Sammi Jo.

  When the realtor’s “Home For Sale” sign rose up in their headlights’ beams, Alma executed a nifty turnaround like a real pro in the graveled driveway and retraced their way to the narrow lane where they branched off the state road and made for the turf farm’s office.

  Clipping along in the dark, she gritted her teeth as they jounced in and out of every chuckhole gouged by the heavy eighteen-wheel trucks laden with the pallets of commercial sod.

  This time they didn’t phone ahead, but the melodic strains to Charlie Parker’s solo break blown on his alto sax from “Night in Tunisia” graced their ears.

  “Dear Lord, there goes my ring tone.” Isabel checked her cell phone’s caller ID. “What has put Dwight in such a dither to be calling me this late after his office hours?”

  “One big thing pops into my head,” said Sammi Jo. “Are you taking his call?”

  Isabel chuckled. “No, but I might call him later from the station house.”

  “Don’t be making light of that stuff,” said Alma. “Or you’ll hex us to land there. Keep your fingers crossed on both hands for our luck to hold a little while longer.”

  Centering on the black cat back in town already jinxing them, if indeed there was a jinx to be guarded against, Isabel withheld making any reference to it.

  At last, the lane ended, voiding to the turf farm’s illuminated parking lot with the brick office and three varisized sheet metal outbuildings. Alma had possessed the awareness to flip off their headlights before rounding the lane’s final bend. She could do little, however, to muffle their low engine noise and keep their approach any stealthier than it was. She steered the sedan to nose it into the same parking spot Isabel and Alma had used on their previous two visits.

  “Reynolds hasn’t arrived yet,” said Sammi Jo. “I guess his fast horse isn’t so fast. We can’t afford to wait around for the slowpoke.”

  “The engine noise has already given us away,” said Alma.

  “Probably not so much,” said Isabel. “The office is soundproofed.”

  Her 360 didn’t key on any parked vehicles, including Mr. Barclay’s Aston Martin, just the three flatbed trucks, one flatbed loaded with a cargo of palletized sod bound for market.

  She had a new appreciation for the catchphrase “adrenaline rush.” Hers ignited her pulse like a gas stove’s pilot light to fire her jets of blood through her veins. She feared her old ticker would quit ticking away before she finished cleaning up this mucky state of affairs.

  “Are you leaving your clunky pocketbook in the sedan?” Alma asked Isabel.

  “Yes, and just bring along your cell phone,” replied Isabel.

  “Seeing another bright window leaves me frowning,” said Alma. “Somebody is either in or has been in the office.”

  “I believe we’ve reached our quota of dead bodies for tonight,” said Isabel.

  Famous last words, thought Alma. Her reserves were running low, and she felt as if she was growing punchy. She threw off her mantle of fatigue, at least for the next few minutes while t
hey poked around inside the office.

  Isabel wished it was a dark office with unlit portals for windows. She wished nobody except they were present at the turf farm. She wished she was curled up in bed with an entertaining novel, but it shouldn’t even be a cozy murder mystery. She was finished with reading even about fictional murders until her frayed nerves had an ample opportunity to mend.

  “It’s rock-and-roll time, ladies.” Sammi Jo, the youngest was the first to spring out of the sedan. She saw the tangerine orange quarter-moon hadn’t moved by much above them.

  Less enthusiastic but nonetheless game, Alma followed her lead. Without the reassuring weight of her pocketbook carried by its double strap on her forearm, she felt incomplete. She could be standing up at the church lectern to read from scripture but without the aid of her bible opened before her.

  Isabel used a stage whisper. “If the door is locked, somebody went off and forgot the light was turned on. If the door is unlocked, we might greet the mystery intruder inside the office.”

  “If it’s a multiple choice, I pick the former over the latter,” said Alma.

  “That only lengthens our already long night,” said Isabel.

  “That’s just swell by me because I’m not a bit sleepy,” said Alma.

  “Could the mystery intruder be Mo’s roommate?” asked Sammi Jo.

  “Most of the signs are tracking that way,” replied Isabel.

  Just then, the mournful lick of the whippoorwill’s yelps wafted over the humid night air from the nearby shadowy treeline. Isabel knew it was one of the rare bird species with short, bristly whiskers from having stalked them on the farm. She felt a resounding emotional pang to be back on the Trumbo family farm where only natural human deaths came, and never mortals slaying mortals. Her knees had turned weak, but she still held up and slogged on.

  Sammi Jo guided them to the office door where she was careful as a beekeeper at the hives as she rotated the doorknob.

  She froze, placing her ear as close as an inch away from the door to listen in, but she detected no alien sounds made from inside the office.

  She pushed the door inward and away from them, the clearing slot affording them a sightline into the bright front room. Again, they noticed the calendar hanging askew on the wall. A pair of hardback chairs along with the desk rounded out the furnishings. The one thing not encountered as they grouped at the closed door was any sight of the mystery intruder.

  They knew the outspill of light through the next entry gave to Mr. Barclay’s inner sanctum.

  Sammi Jo sent Alma, then Isabel, meaningful glances, and they swerved their eyes to the bright outspill. Then a rustling noise came as if the mystery intruder was making haste.

  Sammi Jo was the first to skulk wary as a cat stalking its prey through the bright outspill and into Mr. Barclay’s inner sanctum. She noticed how she’d stuffed her breath in anticipation.

  This time they hit the jackpot.

  The mystery intruder kneeling beside Mr. Barclay’s glass-topped desk had put his, or her, back to them. A square section of the plush gold carpet had been removed from the office floor and set aside, creating a dark square hole.

  The mystery intruder was intent on reaching a hand deep into the opened floor safe and scooping out its riches. The unzipped currency bag the other hand clutched was stuffed half-full of banknotes.

  The plush gold carpet also muffled Isabel and Alma’s tread venturing up to stop within a pace behind Sammi Jo. Trading nods, they also recognized the mystery intruder from the rear.

  Her voice flinty, Sammi Jo gave their greeting. “Do you need any help with counting up the stolen loot?”

  Barking out in shock, the thief stood and twisted around, her eyes broadening. Her looks by this late hour’s light had turned from plain and mousy to a femme fatale’s brittle and savage mask. Her denim jeans and red sneakers were how she dressed as a thief and killer. The vigilant Sammi Jo was interested in one thing about Karmine Meriwether: she lacked her pocketbook.

  Two of them, no doubt the smaller one belonging to Mo, lay on Mr. Barclay’s glass-topped desk. Sammi Jo moved fast, scooping them up by their loopy straps in a single swoop. The second black Aigner handbag was the pocketbook Karmine had carried during their first visit here.

  Just like when Sammi Jo had picked it up after Karmine dropped it back then, the handbag this time felt heavy as if it contained a loaded handgun. She was certain of what she had. While she regretted they’d missed the first clue, she would ensure it no longer dispensed its destructive power. The killing spree had ended.

  The second before Karmine broke out of her stance, Sammi Jo had taken a glimpse of Karmine clutching the currency bag along with a second handgun. It had to be the spare one Mr. Barclay kept planted inside his floor safe. She was pointing the handgun, aiming it straight at her three unwelcome lady guests.

  Staring down the dark, business end of a handgun ticked off Sammi Jo who’d had enough hassles for one night. Flying into a demon’s fury, she lunged, her slicing fist striking Karmine’s wrist.

  Yelping, her grasp of the handgun and currency bag loosened, and both sailed through the air and struck the plush gold carpet with thuds.

  Alma had the presence of mind to fetch the handgun that she gave to Isabel to hold and train on Karmine.

  But the thief sprang ahead, charging at Sammi Jo.

  Sammi Jo didn’t yield an inch of ground, and Karmine ran into solid muscle like she was hitting a brick wall.

  Wrapping her arms around the smaller, slighter lady, Sammi Jo pinioned Karmine in a bear hug.

  Karmine kicked her feet, screaming to be turned loose, and Sammi Jo liked the idea. So, she gave Karmine a fling, and the thief also landed on the plush gold carpet.

  She climbed up from her sprawl to stand. Like a rabid animal, her eyes glared at Sammi Jo, who laughed.

  “Nice try, Karmine,” said Sammi Jo. “I can’t say I blame you for making a break for it, especially in light of all the trouble you’re in tonight.”

  As Mr. Barclay’s office manager, Karmine turned imperious, asserting her authority in her job’s domain. “How did you get inside here? This is private property, and you’re trespassing.”

  “In your rush, you got sloppy and left the door unlocked,” replied Sammi Jo. “We invited ourselves into the office.”

  “I order you to leave,” said Karmine.

  “Soon but not quite yet,” said Sammi Jo.

  “If you don’t, I’ll fetch the sheriff on you,” said Karmine.

  “That’s also in the works,” said Sammi Jo. “For the time being, we’ll chitchat. Did you feel us closing in on you? Is that why you’re in a hectic dash cleaning out the floor safe like at a fire sale?”

  “I have nothing to say to any of you. Get out. Before I—”

  A righteous smile tugged at Sammi Jo’s lips. “Before you what exactly?” She brandished the handbag. “Your second mistake was not keeping your purse close by. Your heavy-as-lead handgun is in here, and I’m holding it. Be smart. You’ve got no bullets left and have run out of angles to play. The killing has stopped, and you’ve met your Waterloo.”

  The tousled Karmine darted her eyes to each side of her captor. She could be peeling out in her fast car that she’d parked behind the office. She could be making good on her getaway.

  “Why are you acting so hostile?” she said, trying for a more rational tenor and pulling a different ploy on them. “Let’s everybody take a breath and relax. I’m just working late when you sneaked up behind me. Of course I reacted like I did to protect myself.” She stooped down and grabbed up the currency bag she’d dropped.

  Sammi Jo was hardly duped. “Is your working late why you’re carrying the valuables you’ve taken from Mr. Barclay’s floor safe in your currency bag?”

  “I routinely handle all the money,” replied Karmine, her last grasp to keep her cover story intact.

  “Can the bull,” said Sammi Jo. “You killed my father Ray Burl and then you wen
t after my mother. She was Maureen you left shot dead at the Cape Cod.”

  Karmine laughed as unsettling and baleful as it was unconvincing. “You’re crazy because I did neither such heinous thing.”

  Sammi Jo’s tight smile showed off her dimples. “The jig is up, Karmine. I’ve got your murder weapon with your prints all over it. Ballistics will prove you fired it to leave the death slugs in my parents. Whatever big payoff plans you hatched with Mo just went south fast. We’ve stopped you cold in your tracks.”

  Karmine’s face blanched to an unnatural gray as she stared daggers at Sammi Jo. “And here I came so close. Just a few more piddly minutes and I’d’ve been gone from your crummy town.”

  Sammi Jo zeroed in on what she foremost wanted Karmine to clarify. “Why?”

  “Mr. Barclay is loaded, and I saw the ripe opportunity for my plucking.”

  “That’s it, the root of evil: money. It figures. Was Ray Burl in on it? Did you collude with him to rip off your boss? You must’ve concocted the scheme and approached Ray Burl because I know my father was never a crook.”

  “He was a man. He yearned for the same good things I did out of life.” Karmine sounded close to petulant over how her bid for the good things in life had fallen short.

  “I hate to break the newsflash to you, Karmine, but nothing is good about scamming somebody or, even worse, murdering them. Why did you kill my mother Mo? Out of greed?”

  Karmine said nothing.

  Isabel stepped up to stand at Sammi Jo’s side. “Sheriff Fox can sort out all the ins and outs. Alma has called him at his house. We can wait until he gets those answers and passes them along to us.”

  “What’s the hurry, Isabel?” asked Sammi Jo. “There’s time now, and Karmine over there wants to unburden the rest of her soul to us.”

  “I demand to see a lawyer,” said Karmine. “I have nothing further to say to you tonight.”

  Sammi Jo gave Isabel a slight tilt of her head. “Sheriff Fox will take it from here then. We’ve gone as far as we can go. We’ll be here when he and Reynolds finally make the scene.” Sammi Jo pointed her finger at Karmine. “You can put down the currency bag. You won’t be taking it where you’re going next. I’m pretty sure the Commonwealth provides your room and board for free.”