Ed Lynskey - Isabel and Alma Trumbo 01 - Quiet Anchorage (18 page)

“It’s high time we caught a lucky break,” she said.

On further thought, Sammi Jo searched for and found her cell phone. It lay buried at the bottom of her purse rather than left on her nightstand after all. She placed her call. Isabel grabbed it, listened to the good news, and replied.

“Wait and I’ll put on Alma. Just be careful is all I ask.”

“I won’t take any big risks,” said Sammi Jo.

Alma hurried out to the courtroom’s anteroom and came on with a soft “hallo”. She let Sammi Jo tell of finding the jackpot hidden in Sheriff Fox’s garage. “Court is in recess, and Megan’s case hasn’t come up. Are the file cabinets empty?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s hope they’re not. Getting them back to the station house comes next.”

Sammi Jo offered a solution. “Is Sheriff Fox there with you?”

“He’s sitting in front of us.”

“Daddy can borrow the turf farm’s truck, and I’ll use it to haul the file cabinets.”

“Your plan is masterpiece,” said Alma before their hang up.

She returned to the court just gaveled into session and spoke to Isabel. “Sammi Jo is taking care of business.”

Isabel’s lips grew tight. “I only hope you two know what you’re doing. It feels bizarre stealing from the town sheriff in order to keep him honest.”

Alma did some encouraging. “See your niece up there wearing blaze orange? Tell me she wasn’t railroaded, and then prove to me Sheriff Fox isn’t crooked as a barrel of fishhooks. Those file cabinets belong at the station house, not in his garage. We’re righting a wrong.”

“Dwight hasn’t said boo. Why is he so quiet?”

“This is the wrong time to take a siesta.” Alma frowned at him. “How can we light a blowtorch under him?”

“We also didn’t iron a dress for Megan.”

“Time is too short for doing such frills.”

The gavel rapped. Judge Redfern, an angular lady with cider brown hair straight as a hatpin and large, dark eyes, stared down from her bench.

“Ladies, I forbid talking in my courtroom unless it’s court business,” she said.

Isabel buttoned up, but Alma shifted on her seat. Expecting the worst, Isabel closed her eyes, making a wish to vanish from the courtroom, but the redoubtable Alma got to her feet and spoke her mind.

“Your Honor, we—Mrs. Isabel Trumbo and I—stand here on the defendant’s behalf. Megan’s attorney hasn’t presented our side, and we request he be afforded an equal opportunity to speak.”

Judge Redfern almost smiled. “Alma, this is a bond hearing, not a criminal trial. Didn’t your niece’s counsel make the distinction plain to you?”

Sheriff Fox pivoted in his chair, frowning with an adversarial look. “You’re out of line, Alma. Shut up and sit down, or I’ll slap the cuffs on you.”

Judge Redfern fastened her icy glare on him. “Sheriff, you don’t issue edicts here. I do. Now you shut up, or I’ll slap the cuffs on
you
.” She again addressed Alma. “By the same token, I don’t brook outbursts either.”

Alma held her ground. “Let Mr. Holden speak for our side, and we’ll pipe down as you like. Dwight, sing out and let’s be heard.”

She resumed her seat and felt an elbow jab. Isabel didn’t roll her eyes, but Alma could imagine her doing it.

“Counselor,” Judge Redfern said to Dwight. “Speak fast because my docket is overburdened, and I’m a breath from snapping my cap. Do I make myself clear?”

“Never more so, Your Honor,” said Dwight, standing up at the defendant’s table. “As you know, Megan Connor is a Quiet Anchorage native. She has no criminal record, is employed as a hairdresser, and poses no flight risk. We request her bail be set at a reasonable amount.”

“Your request is noted,” said Judge Redfern. The portly, clean-shaven Commonwealth Attorney Carl Goldenstein made a throat noise to speak, but she put up a firm hand. “I’ve already heard enough from your side of the aisle, sir.”

Sensing an opening, Alma lodged a request. “Your Honor, as Megan’s two aunts, we stand ready to have her released into our custody. You should take our offer into your deliberations.”

Judge Redfern’s stern face softened a degree. “Tell me this, Alma. Can you keep a close eye on your niece, and do I have your solemn oaths she won’t fly the coop?”

This time Isabel responded. “Absolutely.”

“Very well. Murder is a serious matter, and I’ll want to take due time to render my decision. I’ll hand down my bail ruling by the close of court business on Thursday. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough,” said Alma, somewhat disappointed.

Sheriff Fox gave an exasperated groan earning a reproachful stare from the bench.

“One additional matter, Your Honor.”

“Yes, Alma?”

“We request a short, private talk with our niece.”

“Permission granted.”

This time a livid Sheriff Fox bolted up from his chair. “This is irregular—”

“Roscoe, stick a sock in it. My migraine is back.” Judge Redfern’s pained glance attracted the bailiff’s solicitous eye. “Is there a bottle of aspirin in chambers?”

“As you always wish it, Your Honor,” replied the bailiff.

“It’s always a godsend.” Judge Redfern ranged up and gathered her robes to step through her chamber door.

“Megan and Dwight, over here.” Alma gave them an urgent wave. “Let’s huddle up for a quick word.”

They convened in a niche just beside the jury box. Dwight’s hands trembled as his white knuckles gripped the worn handle to his black attaché case, and the anxiety made his posture rigid.

“I’ll probably get a letter of professional misconduct from the state bar association over your courtroom outburst,” he told Alma.

“What did you expect from us? You just sat there like a toad in a mud puddle,” she said.

“I was saving my best ammo to fire it at the trial.”

“Dwight, we discussed this, and our goal is to never reach trial. Have you received Megan’s police report from Sheriff Fox?”

“He’s been a little less than forthcoming.”

Before Alma responded, Isabel asked, “How have you been bearing up, Megan?”

“I’m making out,” she replied.

“What have you learned inside The Big House?” asked Alma.

“It’s mind-boggling the amount of gossip you pick up,” replied Megan. “Clarence Fishback, I discovered, is tossing his hat into the ring for sheriff, and Sheriff Fox is in a royal stew over it.”

“Everyone knows it,” said Alma. “Who do the deputies support?”

“It’s difficult to say,” replied Megan. “They’ll probably throw their support to the one looking the most like the winner. If you bet on the wrong horse, you’re suddenly out of a job.”

“Jake’s murder must keep the grapevine astir,” said Isabel.

“Not so much as you would think,” said Megan.

Dwight tapped on his attaché case for their attention. “Don’t gaze over all at once, but the bailiff is shooting us daggers. They want Megan back in their custody, so might we wrap this up?”

“Let him wait. Go on with what you were saying,” Alma told Megan.

She fiddled with the frayed collar to the orange prison suit. “Jake’s murder is yesterday’s news. Their biggest buzz is the upcoming furor between Deputy Fishback and Sheriff Fox. On something else, I saw Bexley and Sheriff Fox acting friendly in the hallway.”

“So, the two-faced Bexley cozies up to Sheriff Fox,” said Alma. “From here on, we won’t confide in Bexley. Could you make out their words?”

“They mumbled too much,” replied Megan.

Isabel’s eyes grew large. “Oh no, Bexley is who tipped us off the file cabinets are in Sheriff Fox’s garage. Sammi Jo has to be walking into a trap.”

Megan reacted first. “Quick—go warn her.”

Nodding their rapid good-byes, Alma and Isabel left the group, taking their brisk strides to the exit. Judge Redfern enthroned again behind her bench nodded with a friendly wink at them. Goldenstein, the yawning Commonwealth Attorney, happened to observe her gesture. His tilted chair fell back and landed on the carpet. He first studied the backs to Alma and Isabel disappearing through the door and then Judge Redfern. She squared a sheaf of papers in her hands and tapped the bottom edge to neaten the corners. Despite her nonchalance, he didn’t like what he’d just witnessed.

“Roscoe, we’ve got a slight problem.”

A headshake was Sheriff Fox’s disagreement. “No, Carl, we’ve got two big problems, and we just saw them tear out of here.”

“All right, what are we up against exactly?”

“Pit bulls,” replied Sheriff Fox, but then a sly smile imprinted his face. “Except I arranged a trap to get these pit bulls, and they’re off to stumble straight into it. In a few minutes Bexley will call me to report a trespasser.”

“But will your trap be effective?”

“Oh, they won’t suspect a thing until it’s too late,” replied Sheriff Fox, smiling wider.

“There can’t be any screw ups,” said Goldenstein. “This is a big case, and scoring a quick conviction is crucial. The elections are a few months away.”

Sheriff Fox now grunted. “Tell me something I didn’t already know.”

Sammi Jo heard the trouble before she saw it. She’d just lifted Sheriff Fox’s garage door and ducked inside the dim bay when a clumsy footfall outside scuffed over the gravel, and she froze in her tracks. After detecting a second and third step, she darted out of the bay where the sunshine in her poker face betrayed no emotion. The burly, freckled man shambled around the garage corner.

“Ha, I caught you red-handed, Sammi Jo.”

His accusation left her to laugh. “You caught me red-handed at doing what?”

Arms swinging at his sides, Bexley approached her, his doughy face growing smugger. “You’re a trespasser on Sheriff Fox’s property.”

She kept her poise. “You’re plain nuts.”

The smirk on Bexley’s face wilted a little. “When I turned the corner, I caught you inside the garage. The law says you’re trespassing on private property unless you’ve permission, and I know you don’t.”

By now she read through his subterfuge: she’d been set up. “This is a pathetic trap with the file cabinets used as the bait. You leaked the news to Alma they’re here. Then Sheriff Fox paid you to hide and nab whoever showed up for them. Too bad you were catnapping back there in the sun.”

“Never mind what I was doing. This is about what you were doing. If you’re so innocent, why were you ogling the file cabinets?”

“I strolled by on the sidewalk, saw the For Sale sign on this car, and came over to check it. The garage door was up so naturally I spotted the file cabinets.”

“What about the Plymouth?” His finger jabbed to behind them. “Are you going to be its proud, new owner?”

Her nose wrinkled. “I wouldn’t be caught dead riding in that hoopty.” She recalled Alma saying the file cabinets had probably been ransacked. “Those file cabinets only hold air, Bexley, and you stand guard over a lot of nothing. Dumb, right?”

He sounded defensive. “The sheriff gave me some overtime plus a bonus to watch them. He said you’d right along.” He was smirking again. “Sure enough, I nailed you pilfering stuff.”

“How can that be? There’s nothing in the file cabinets to steal,” she said.

Goaded by her haughty tone, he fished out a wad of paper from his hip pocket to smooth out. “Sheriff Fox gave me these combination numbers. Go ahead and open up the padlocks and prove you’re the dumbbell here.”

Figuring he didn’t excel at undoing combination padlocks, she took the scrap of paper from him. She wasn’t all-fired sure about playing Alma’s hunch on the file cabinets being empty. Sammi Jo’s heart became a hammer striking against her chest as the dial on the first combination padlock in her fingers didn’t turn. She gave up on it. The second padlock was also too rusty, and she skipped trying to unlimber it. The third padlock’s tumblers spun, and a clink let her break it free. She removed the vertical steel bar from its cabinet fittings and tipped out the top drawer.

“Just like I said: nothing,” she said, feeling a wave of relief.

“Huh?” Bexley huffed inside the garage bay and stopped short of her. His glance took in the top drawer, and he then went down the file cabinet, rolling out the lower drawers for inspection. Each drawer contained the same emptiness as the top one did.

“How could this be? I inventoried all the stuff at the station house.”

“What did you find?”

“Bunch of accordion folders, auto manuals, and whatnot.”

“Where is your inventory list?”

“Sheriff Fox took it.”

“Obviously he’s moved the files. Are the other file cabinets also bare?”

“It’s easy enough to check.” Bexley took down a can of Liquid Wrench on the shelves over the work bench. A squirt into each padlock eased twirling its dial. She spun the right combination to open the padlocks and a peek inside all the drawers confirmed their zero contents.

She re-secured the cabinets and floated a suggestion. “Bexley, if I were you, I’d stay quiet on this matter. I know I’ll never mention it, but you were played for a sucker, and Sheriff Fox is rolling on his office floor laughing at you.”

“It sounds like to me you’re trying to wiggle off the hook.” Bexley followed her from the gloomy garage bay into the bright daylight.

She gave a mild shrug, grasped the garage handle, and lowered the door. “If Sheriff Fox doesn’t want people in his driveway, tell him to take down his For Sale sign. As for you, hey, keep on guarding a lot of nothing here for all I give a fig.”

“After seeing this, I’m out of here,” said Bexley.

He lumbered off down the sidewalk, heading for the railroad crossing. She felt a little sorry for him until she glimpsed from the corner of her eye a navy blue sedan. At a full on look, she felt a surge of joy inside of her.

The familiar sedan veered over, slowing to stop at the curbstone. As the window rolled down, she saw Alma and Isabel wore their out-of-vogue sunglasses over their stern looks. Something heavy plunged inside her. Their news had to be ugly, but then Isabel smiled.

“Did your morning go eventful as ours?” she asked.

Sammi Jo leaning her forearms on the car windowsill briefed them on Bexley and the file cabinet’s drawers full of only air.

Alma’s face showed her testy resentment. “Sheriff Fox has resorted to setting simple-minded traps to catch us.”

“That’s good if we’re making him extra nervous,” said Isabel.

“I also hope he’s the one sweating bullets for a change,” said Sammi Jo.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, Alma said, “Sheriff Fox is charging up like a hero. You better hop inside and be quick about it.”

As Fox glided up in his cruiser to his driveway entrance, the three ladies in the sedan were disappearing at the end of the short street. There was no sign of Bexley, and his clever trap had fizzled without producing any good results. He scowled into his rearview mirror at the sedan’s taillights, tempted to flip them half of the Boy Scout salute.

“Those two old pit bulls don’t know when it’s time to quit,” he growled instead.