Ed Lynskey - Isabel and Alma Trumbo 01 - Quiet Anchorage (11 page)

“Evidently the murderer didn’t intimidate or surprise Jake,” said Alma.

“So we can deduce Jake knew his murderer,” said Isabel.

“That’s a safe bet to make,” said Alma.

Sammi Jo pointed the canoe paddle to direct their gazes out the shop door. “If the murderer circled around the shop, he moved into Jake’s blind spot.”

“Then in that case our murderer sprints into the shop and fires at a startled Jake.” Alma looked at the work bench. “Then the murderer used up valuable time having to stop and press Megan’s prints on the .44 handgun.”

“He probably did it in a few minutes if he knew what he was doing,” said Isabel.

“It was too easy since Sheriff Fox fell for the ruse,” said Alma.

“Too bad for the murderer we didn’t get suckered into accepting it,” said Sammi Jo.

“By now the murderer probably knows we’re on his trail,” said Isabel.

“That’s a scary thought,” said Alma.

Small town funerals make for a public gala, and the afternoon of Jake Robbins’s funeral was no different. Attendees lined up in double file from the Baptist Church door hours beforehand. The mid-afternoon sun beat down on the men sweating in their open collar sport’s shirts and the ladies perspiring in their dark solid summer wear.

Neighbors, classmates, shadow cousins, and every stripe of busybody wilted in queue to grab a choice spot to sit, preferably a pew with a casket view. The more prurient ones thrilled to gawk at an open coffin. Despite this outpouring of community grief, Jake’s fiancée, Megan Connors, remained stuck in her solitary prison cell. Alma and Isabel had visited her, lunch compliments of Eddy’s Deli, but she’d only nibbled at the lettuce on her tuna hoagie. She hadn’t said a word, and her conspicuous absence made Jake’s funeral all the more sensational.

“His funeral could be the firemen’s carnival,” said Alma, gauging the crowd’s gape-eyed looks at them. “Half of those here wouldn’t have given him the time of day.”

“We came as Megan’s ambassadors so be nice,” said Isabel.

“That frosts my petunia, too. Sheriff Fox has sunk to an all-time low,” said Alma.

“We’ll vote accordingly in November.”

“Who even cares we set up this funeral?”

“Let’s leave our public guessing,” said Isabel, returning smiles with the several matrons swiveling their heads to measure up the sisters.

They strolled over to Rosie McLeod and Lotus Wang loitering under a mulberry tree’s patchy shade. Oblivious to the oppressive heat, both came in somber navy blue dresses though the more sensible low pumps. Rosie’s lipstick was a pinkish hue while Lotus favored a darker wine red.

“Hello, ladies,” said Isabel, neutral but polite.

“What a beautiful day it is for a loved one’s funeral,” said Rosie.

“A ray of sunshine does brighten a gloomy day,” said Isabel.

The rural banalities dispensed with, Lotus asked, “Do you know yet who did in poor Jake?”

“We expect it’s somebody local,” replied Isabel.

“Everybody in Quiet Anchorage is a suspect,” said Alma.

Lotus’s painted lips parted. “Surely you don’t lump us into that category.”

“We’d nothing to do with Jake’s death,” said Rosie.

“The ushers are now at the doors. Shall we go inside?” said Isabel.

Alma snagged her sleeve, and they waited, letting the mêlée, including Lotus and Rosie, crash through the church entry.

“Do we sit on the front pew?” asked Alma.

“As Jake’s closest family, we’re expected to go there,” replied Isabel.

“Glory be, look at Sammi Jo.” Alma’s surprised look guided Isabel’s behind them. “She’s put on a nice dress and wears pumps, too.”

Isabel gave an approving nod. “Do we invite her to sit in our pew?”

“We do. She’s now family by proxy,” replied Alma.

So Sammi Jo sat between them on the front pew. The attendant hymns, prayers, and sniffs highlighted the service in the jam-packed church. A bearish man in a beige tropical worsted suit recited Dylan Thomas’s elegy, “
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night”: Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
The sniffs grew vociferous as Alma, Isabel, and Sammi Jo were permitted to file from the church first.

Their sedan folded in after the royal purple hearse to form the cortege proceeding to the cemetery on Quiet Anchorage’s north side. The funeral director had left instructions to drive with their four-way flashers on since the newer model cars used daytime running lights. The conga line of blinking headlights snaked around for six town blocks.

“You both did okay for Megan,” said Sammi Jo. “I’ve never seen a finer funeral and weren’t those gladiolas and mums breathtaking? The Three Musketeers away from their favorite bench cleaned up nicely in their dark suits. We made one big slip up though.”

“What’s that?” asked Isabel.

“If I’d murdered Jake, I’d’ve attended his funeral to make it look good. No murderer, I don’t care how cold-blooded he is, can mask a guilty smirk when inside of a church, and from our pew we couldn’t read any of the faces.”

“Then we’ll survey the faces at Jake’s gravesite,” said Isabel.

“Our murderer is hidden, but I felt his icy cold eyes on me,” said Alma.

“That was the air conditioner running, Alma. I shivered through the service, too,” said Isabel.

At the pair of brick gateposts topped by the zinc eagles, Alma tailed the royal purple hearse turning off the state road. The tires crunching over the crushed shell rolled on the lanes wending through the cemetery’s uneven turf. Miniature toys dotted the tops to children’s stone markers. Coffee tin vases clad in tinfoil held jonquils, irises, and chrysanthemums to decorate the Trumbo family plot. Two sites remained vacant. Alma glanced back twice as if for reassurance their gravestones weren’t yet in place, and Isabel smiled at her sister’s superstitions flaring up again.

Isabel frowned at seeing the potter’s field languishing down the gentle slope in the mushy swale. The deceased paupers only merited tin markers stamped in the shape of crosses except for the one cut as the Star of David. The royal purple hearse wheezed to a halt under the copse of sassafras trees where Alma also braked, and their doors hitched out.

The afternoon heat grew suffocating as Sammi Jo escorted them to Jake’s graveside. The allergy-stricken Alma stumbled once on her bulky foot, but Sammi Jo balanced her.

They came to stand beneath an olive-drab tarp pavilion where they could appraise the other goers parking their cars and approaching. Fake grass mats covered the mound of excavated soil. Six husky men who’d attended high school with Jake rested his coffin atop the chrome rack for interment, and it cast a horizontal shadow on the fake grass.

“Hello, ladies.” The speaker’s greeting used a congenial note.

“Sheriff Fox, you have got some nerve speaking to us,” said Alma.

“You elected me as your sheriff, and I’m just doing my job.”

Alma took a divergent viewpoint. “Your job is to stand in our way.”

“Yeah well, just don’t let your little, two-old lady PI firm impede my investigation.”

“Three ladies since Louise has joined us,” said Isabel with quiet pride.

“Louise Trumbo?” Sheriff Fox’s ruddy features darkened a shade. “But she hasn’t lived here for years.”

A lopsided grin showed how much Sammi Jo was enjoying the conversation, especially Sheriff Fox’s distress. “You better also lump in Phyllis Garner and me.”

“What? There are five of you now.” Sheriff Fox pivoted a half-turn to address Alma. “Why don’t you recruit the whole town to go on your scavenger hunt?”

“We’ll use however many it takes to free Megan and find Jake’s real murderer,” said Alma.

The jut to Sheriff Fox’s jaw gave his face a stubborn rigidity. “Quit this charade because my tolerance is running dangerously thin.”

“Why did you haul off Jake’s file cabinets?” asked Alma. “What did you find inside them? Where are they now? You can tell us, or our lawyer will file a motion.”

Sheriff Fox fastened his irate eyes on the sisters. “There’s only one way you’d know that detail. Jake’s residence is still my crime scene, and you trespassed. I’ll give you one more chance before throwing the book at you.”

Undeterred, Isabel continued their questions. “Have you finished charging Megan?”

“I have and Miss Connors’s arraignment is on the docket for tomorrow morning. I assume you’ll be there in force,” said Sheriff Fox.

“We sure will now that you’ve told us,” said Alma.

“Did it ever cross your minds that I got it right?” asked Sheriff Fox. “Maybe Jake and Megan bickered, and their overwrought feelings escalated. The events spiraled out of control and precipitated this tragic outcome.”

“Nice try, Sheriff Fox, but you’ll coax no plea bargains out of us. We insist on a complete exoneration to restore Megan’s good name,” said Alma.

“If your actions veer outside of the law, I’ll arrest you,” said Sheriff Fox.

“Sheriff, this is a funeral,” said Sammi Jo. “Show a little respect for the bereaved family.”

“Sammi Jo, the same deal applies to you. Make an illegal U-turn, and I’ll send you to the clink,” said Sheriff Fox.

“You sure are in a big hurry to fill your prison,” she said.

Shaking his head, Sheriff Fox gave them his back and strolled into the crowd buzzing beyond the olive-drab tarp. “You’ve heard me,” were his parting words.

Footsteps scratched over the dry leaves. “Ladies?” They turned around.

Vernon Spitzer, a rumpled dress hat and Bible in his hands, bowed his balding head in modest acknowledgement. Changed out of his white pharmacist smock into a brown suit gave him a plain look. Awkward in his politeness, he said, “I came to leave my sympathies with Jake’s folks, and that must be you. Jake and I went to high school together. Maybe it’s trite to say it, but he’ll be missed.”

“Thank you and, trite or not, yes, he will be missed,” said Isabel.

Vernon, backpedaling, went on. “Jake did a brake job on my car.”

“When was this brake job done?” asked Alma.

“He took care of me a couple of weeks ago.”

“Did you notice any strangers hanging around his shop?”

“Jake’s paraplegic tool salesman came by is all.”

“Did Jake mention any arguments with anybody?”

“We didn’t chat on personal matters. He said he hoped to expand his business.”

“Were you with him the entire time he repaired your car?”

Vernon nodded. “He was an efficient mechanic, and I was soon on my way.”

“Have you refilled my allergy meds?”

“Drop by the pharmacy, and I’ll fix you right up.” Vernon put on his rumpled dress hat. “Condolences again,” he said before shambling toward the parked cars fringing both sides of the state road.

“Jake was a popular fellow in our close-knit community,” said Isabel, surveying the milling crowd.

“It creeps me to think a murderer is among us,” said Sammi Jo.

“A faceless murderer,” said Alma.

“Hello, ladies,” said a third male voice. They shifted their attention to the bullish, freckled man in his beige tropical worsted suit. “Did my recital meet your usual high standards?”

“Your rendition of Dylan Thomas rang pitch perfect, Bexley,” replied Isabel.

Bexley smiled, flattered by the compliment. “Somebody did notice, and it was the bereaved family. I practiced in front of the mirror like I do for my barbershop quartet.”

“You recited the poetry real pretty, but we’ve moved on,” said Sammi Jo.

He went on smiling as he asked, “When do I get paid?”

“What?” Sammi Jo’s gray eyes snapped at Bexley. “Get paid?”

He outstretched his ink-stained palm. “I did my job and now I want my money.”

Squaring around, Sammi Jo balled up her fists. “Dude, I ought to knock you on your—”

“Call us tomorrow after ten, and we’ll settle our arrears,” said Isabel before Sammi Jo could punch out his lights.