Ed Lynskey - Isabel and Alma Trumbo 02 - The Cashmere Shroud (11 page)

C
lean Vito’s Launderette located on Main Street sat further down from the IGA and the bench where the Three Musketeers held court. On Memorial Day a year ago, the three-alarm blaze had erupted at two o’clock in the morning, and the launderette roared up in a column of flames, sparks, and smoke. The VFD, responding to the fire station whistle going off, had battled the inferno for the remainder of the night, but sooty daybreak revealed how they’d been vanquished. Clean Vito’s was left as a smoldering char heap.

“
Excess lint built up and trapped in the dryer vent was sparked and caused the fire,” Alma had conjectured in private to Isabel.

Arson was never suspected.
Quiet Anchorage felt as if it had lost a large part of its soul. Such a profound reaction couldn’t be avoided. The townies regarded every small business on Main Street as a sacred institution since the majority had been in the same family tracing back for several generations.

Vito Salvador had
insured his launderette against fire, and he sprang into action after the insurance settlement money came through to erect the new, improved Clean Vito’s. Isabel and Alma hadn’t visited it since its opening earlier in the summer. They did their own laundry with the old but indestructible Norge washer and dryer at the brick rambler. Alma wouldn’t hear of their putting up and using a washline to demean the appearance of their yard.

Rosie
McCleod and Lotus Wang haunted Clean Vito’s, and if a townie wished to kibbutz with either or both ladies, the townie knew where to always find them.

A
decade younger than the sisters, Rosie gangly as a giraffe and Lotus rotund as a hippo could be retired from their careers. Nobody was sure if they’d ever seen them engaged in anything that could pass for a career, or if they’d ever held any gainful employment. Alma was of the mind Rosie or Lotus had inherited a large pot of family loot, making them independently wealthy and unencumbered to be the ladies of leisure.

What
leisure pleased them was spending their days at Clean Vito’s, chatting up any patron schlepping in with their laundry. Either lady was eager to pitch in and assist with the heavy lifting in exchange for hearing any juicy morsels of hearsay.

Alma
saw nothing wrong with their indulgence since they weren’t harming themselves or anybody else. Isabel reserved expressing her dim view on how they were lazy as house cats only because she realized their value as a source of information.

Isabel park
ed next to the handicapped space occupied by a shopping cart and kid’s skateboard. She and Alma gawked out the windshield at the new Clean Vito’s Launderette. Vito had opted for a Classical flair highlighted by the pair of white Corinthian columns to flank the front entrance. Dusty rose-hued exterior stucco covered the walls, and mistletoe-green patio carpet paved the walkway and apron. Singing a wistful Hank Williams tune, Norah Jones crooned from the PA speakers mounted in the overhang sheltering the apron and front entrance.

“Vito went a little
over-the-top rebuilding his launderette,” said Isabel. “His new one is a gaudy attention-getter. I had no idea. Did you know this was here?”

“
We seldom venture this far down on Main Street and need to get out more to see the new sights,” said Alma.

“
Is it supposed to resemble the cross between an ancient Roman and Greek temple?”

“Beats me, Isabel. If I didn’t know
Vito was in the laundry business, I might suspect he’s operating a bordello in a Texas border town.”

“
Alma, play nice. We’re headed inside, and I don’t want that picture lingering in my mind.”

“Especially
just after our hearing the preacher’s sermon on the wages of sinful lust.” Alma tilted her ear with her hand cupped behind it. “Vito does have good tastes in his music.”

“
Norah is blessed with a gorgeous voice. By the way, this morning I went to use the bathroom scales, and they seemed to have gone astray. Did you hide them again?”

“
The next run we make to Warrenton, we should stop at Walmart for new bathroom scales. Ours are defective.”

“Picked up five more pounds, did you?”

Alma shrugged. Isabel was out first, but Alma led their stride into the byzantine launderette.

I
t resembled an ant colony. All the washers swished away while all the dryers tumbled with a whirring drone. Despite the dearth of vehicles in the lot, every customer who lived within walking distance must have picked the late Sunday morning to do their weekly loads. The working folks, some holding down two or three jobs, scheduled their domestic chores for when they could insert a free hour. Sammi Jo would schlep in her laundry baskets later.

“
Thank our lucky stars we don’t have to fight this jungle to do our wash,” said Isabel as they stood at the entrance surveying the activity.

Three ladies sitting in molded plastic chairs twiddled with their cell phones instead of thumbs while they waited for their wash
cycles to complete. One teenaged girl was stuffing her tangles of jeans and tank tops into a front-load machine. At the end of the nearest row, a thirtysomething man sporting young Elvis sideburns grinned over reading the Sunday comics. The refreshingly clean scents of laundry detergent was a powerful enough smell to please the sisters.

“That reminds me there’s a load of towels
I left in the dryer,” said Alma.

“I folded them up
to put away in the linen closet,” said Isabel.

“
Thanks. Vito must be pocketing a mint,” said Alma. “He’ll be able to open a chain of launderettes.”

“What are you talking about?” said Isabel. “He’s got one
up and running in Warrenton on South Main. He’s a business tycoon.”

“And we’re private detectives, so where
might our two favorite stoolies hang out?” asked Alma. She gave the bustling scene another visual sweep. “Don’t tell me they didn’t make it in this morning.”

“
Heaven forbid that should ever happen,” said Isabel. “The doorway over there might go to a lounge, ideal for our stoolies to accost the patrons.”

Isabel’s
guess was spot on. Rosie and Lotus occupied a pair of the molded plastic chairs placed before the bank of soda pop and vending snack machines. Both ladies clutched their cell phones like most ladies do their purses. Information was power, and they were the power brokers. Their tongues wagged like Petey Sampson’s tail when he wolfed down a doggie treat.

“
Would you look at who’s coming there, Lotus. Our very own Jessica Fletcher times two have arrived.”

Lotus
nodded with an amiable smile. “The game must be afoot, Rosie, because they’re also wearing their Miss Marple faces, always the dead giveaway.”

“Speaking of the dead, might their consternation stem from the recently departed
Ray Burl Garner.”

“Indeed, Rosie.
The most foul play has roused them out from their Scrabble game board to go hunt down his evildoer.”

“If was a betting lady, I’d wager they
seek our assistance.”

“I happen to know you
are
a betting lady, Lotus, so name your wager.”

“No bet, I’m afraid. Besides we never charge our
dear friends but do it because we’re thrilled to pitch in whenever we can.”

Lotus was the first one to
acknowledge Isabel and Alma who waited for them to wind down from their witty banter. “Let’s cut to the chase,” said Lotus. “What might you like to know about Ray Burl?”

“He
remains something of a riddle wrapped in a mystery,” said Isabel. “Our speculations center on who may’ve killed him. We’re picking your brains for any news about any recent interlopers moving to Quiet Anchorage.”

“
They flock here by the legions with their SUVs and motor boats,” replied Lotus. “We’re not able to keep tabs on them all, so we limit our attention to lavish on the First Families of Quiet Anchorage.”

“Like you
Trumbo sisters, for instance,” said Rosie.

“Do
either of you happen to remember Ray Burl’s ex?” asked Alma.

Lotus nodded
but without a smile. “Maureen Lionheart rings a bell from a good ways back.”

“What’s the skinny on her?” asked
Alma.

“
Mo was a real piece of work,” said Rosie. “I once saw her shoplift a Slinky toy sold over at the drugstore, but I didn’t say a peep only because I didn’t want it to go on her permanent record. Adults bend over backwards cutting the kids so many breaks. She’d be middle-aged by now, and time is cruel to some of us ladies. We cover our mirrors, shun passing before any reflective glass, and save up for the Botox injections to fill in our frown lines and crow’s feet.”

“
Speak for yourselves,” said Alma. “Time hasn’t robbed us of our looks. Right, Isabel?”

She
said nothing with a straight face.

“Nobody has
gotten a follow up report on Mo although I wonder about her every then and now,” said Rosie. “A gypsy’s itchy feet sent her clambering aboard the Greyhound that morning after the barn party. She kissed off Quiet Anchorage, skedaddled, and vanished into the mist.”

“What
became of her parents and relatives?” asked Alma. “Are any of the Lionhearts still living around the area?”

“All of them are either
planted in the town cemetery or have moved away,” replied Lotus. “She has an aunt residing on the Upper Peninsula in Michigan. I don’t recall her name offhand but give me a day or so, and I’ll think of it.”

“
That wraps up our all on Mo Lionheart,” said Rosie.

“Thanks for taking our questions,” said
the disappointed Alma. “We’ll be getting along now.”

“If we hear anything
worth repeating, we’ll give you a quick holler,” said Rosie.

“That
would be swell,” said Alma. “Thanks again for your time.”

“
Always a pleasure to speak with you,” said Lotus. “Be sure to keep us in the loop, too, on anything of interest you may hear or learn on Mo or Ray Burl. We’d love to hear all about it.”

Rosie’s smile coincided with her emphatic nod.

“Yeah, I just bet you will,” said Alma, barely filtering the sarcasm from her voice.

I
sabel dealt with the same dismay as Alma did when their consulting Rosie and Lotus didn’t pan out any leads in tracking down Ray Burl’s killer. The large influx of new residents, the bulk of them residing in the subdivisions and the one or two gated communities ringing Quiet Anchorage, made it impractical to look at them all. The gated communities mystified Alma. She envisioned next their medieval use of moats with alligators as well as heavy-duty drawbridges to crime-proof their enclaves. But no moats or drawbridges prevented the Trumbo sisters from getting whatever dope they needed.

The
brassy flush of sunshine engulfed Main Street, and the heat waves shimmied up from the pitch black pavement. They strolled two-abreast along the sidewalk. Isabel wished she’d worn her floppy straw hat to shade her nose from where her doctor had removed a precancerous skin patch. Alma and she stuck to the shade cast by the green and white striped awnings.

“
Sammi Jo should be up and at ’em,” said Alma. “What’s say we get her and eat Sunday lunch at Eddy’s Deli, my treat? A cold chocolate malt and bear claw tempt my sweet tooth this morning.”

Isabel was more aware. “
I’d love to go, but she might frown on us for infringing on her Sunday morning.”

“I hardly think it’s an indecent hour to pay
her a visit, Isabel.”

“Suppose she entertained overnight company
, and they’ve slept in? Our presence might create an awkward situation for them and us.”

The light bulb flared
on in Alma’s gray matter. “Reynolds is the overnight guest.” She chuckled. “Sorry it took me a while to catch on. It’s been decades since I last had my Reynolds to—”

“I
see where you’re headed, so please spare me the tawdry details.” Isabel tipped her head forward to introduce her alternate suggestion. “Our time might be better rewarded by seeing our male brain trust.”

Alma
knew without glancing across Main Street that Isabel had in mind the Three Musketeers, and Alma wasn’t cheered by the prospect. “We’ve already tried them and left with nothing like we just got from Rosie and Lotus.”

“The gentlemen
said they didn’t have anything but Ossie’s outlandish hit man idea
right
then
. But now they’ve had the time to think. Who knows what new developments they may have? All we have to do is ask them. That costs us nothing except the time and effort to cross the street.”

“Even
the thought of doing that taxes me out,” said Alma.

She
had no choice but to follow as Isabel cut to the right and approached the gentlemen arrayed on their customary perch. They wore their sunshades and dog tags from seeing live combat in the big one. Willie the woodcarver sat cutting the wood shavings from the partial sculpture. At least he didn’t use the knife to clean out the grime from under his toenails. He’d also be sure to sweep up the wood shavings later, or Corina would take away their bench. He gave the sisters the squinty eye before he elbowed his cohorts dozing in the sunshine. They had company, and it was time to look alive.

After
removing the broken match from his mouth, Blue grinned with an animated wave. “Salutations, Isabel and Alma,” he said.

“Where is your Scrabble board?” asked Ossie
, now wide awake. “Is it the collapsible or inflatable one you carry in your pocketbook?”

Before Isabel could resp
ond, Willie made a snap decision. “Round up the card table with the beach umbrella and steal a pair of chairs inside from Corina. See if she’s got a pitcher of iced tea chilling in the kitchen fridge and get the tall glasses from the cupboard.”

“
I didn’t bring a Scrabble board,” replied Isabel.

“Not a
n obstacle,” said Willie. “I’ll slip home and grab mine out of the old pie chest.”

Blue rubbed his hands together
like a gleeful kid might do at the Ben & Jerry’s ice cream counter. “Nothing beats Scrabble unless it’s cane pole fishing on the Coronet River.”

“I’d
say Scrabble trumps cane pole fishing any day of the week.” Willie elevated from the bench. “Just hang loose, and I’ll be back in two shakes of a monkey’s tail.”

“
Be sure you don’t bring your trick dice,” said Blue. “I told you to throw them away, but I know you haven’t.”

“Blue,
relax since dice are used in craps,” said Ossie, one hand in his pocket jingling his keys and coins.

Isabel knew the grating habit would flip her wig if she ever became the next Mrs. Conger.

“That’s why you keep losing at Scrabble,” said Ossie.

“Actually it’s because I
balk at wearing my bifocals,” said Blue. “The letters and numbers on the tiles look blurry like the objects do when I drive.”

“
Keep your seat, Willie,” said Alma. “Talking is the extent of our visit this morning.”

Carving knife in hand,
the sulky Willie resumed his perch. “God created Sunday mornings to relax from your daily tasks, and Scrabble falls under the leisure category.”

“
Ray Burl’s murder weighs more on our mind,” said Isabel. “You’re our eyes and ears on Main Street where you soak up the details along with the plentiful sunshine.”

Willie continued whittling on the
soap bar-sized chunk of wood. His voice turned devious. “Praise and flattery are swell to hear, Isabel, but this time it’s going to cost you a little more.”

“Friends shouldn’t charge
their friends money for doing them favors,” said Alma, irritated.

“You didn’t let me finish
what I had to say,” said Willie. “The clink to cold cash is also nice, but it doesn’t interest us.”

“Go on then,” said
Alma, suspicious. “What is your price? Name it.”

“I
calculate our valuable dope is worth three games of Scrabble,” said Willie, leveling his shrewd eyes on the sisters. “That’s our best and final offer. Take it or leave it. Makes no difference to us.”

Ossie and Blue nodded
in their unanimous support of Willie’s proposal.

Isabel was smiling. “You’re undercharging your
fee since you could’ve squeezed us for at least four games.”

Ossie stomped his shoe on the
concrete. “Willie, you sure do stink for being the horse trader you like to brag you are.”

Blue looked disappointed as if the town pranksters had
swiped their bench.

“
Give us what you have,” said Alma. “Then we’ll decide how much it’s worth to us.”

“That shotgun, the one Corina claims she saw
Ray Burl walk out of the hardware store carrying,” said Willie. “We’ve gotten an update on it.”

Alma
fidgeted with impatience. “And…”

“
And the shotgun wasn’t for him,” replied Willie.

“Who then was it for?” asked
Alma.

“We haven’t
learned that part,” said Ossie, horning in. “Before you ask it, no, I won’t reveal our source. We have to guard our reputations for discretion. But you can rest assured our dope is rock-solid.”

Isabel nodded. “Of course,
like it always is. I suspect Blaine is the one who told you what he’s now remembered about Ray Burl and the shotgun.”

Ossie nodded.

“Ray Burl said the shotgun wasn’t for him, but he didn’t say who it was for,” said Isabel. “Was the shotgun a new or used model?”

“
Blaine only sells new firearms,” replied Willie.

“Then I
believe Ray Burl was purchasing the shotgun for somebody at the turf farm,” said Isabel.

“
Sounds reasonable,” said Ossie, stroking his chin.

“
Getting back to our original topic: Scrabble,” said Willie. “I realize there’s been a summerlong drought, but are you ladies receptive to taking a rain check?”

“Yes, Willie, once
Ray Burl’s murder case has been put to bed, we’ll restart our games. That’s a pledge from Alma and me to you because we miss playing it as much as you gentlemen evidently seem to have.”

“
Hurray, the confetti and streamers will cascade down from the rafters again,” said Ossie.

“
I’ll add my hearty amen to that,” said Blue.

“Willie, my curiosity
has gotten the better of me,” said Alma. “What are you fashioning from that block of pine?”

He brandished his in-progress art
like a jeweled scepter. “So far, it’s a vague shape I can only envision in my imagination.”

“I thought you told us
yesterday it was going to be a ’57 Thunderbird, the best sports coupé you owned,” said Ossie.

“
Uh-uh. I said ’57 Chevy Bel Air,” said Willie. “I wouldn’t be caught dead inside a Ford.”

“You know what I mean,” said Ossie.

“The ’57 Chevy Bel Air was my original aim until I slipped with the knife and lopped off the trunk part,” said Willie. “Better than it being my thumb. Anyhow, I didn’t have a Plan B in mind, so now I’m just winging it like the story of my life.”