Ed Lynskey - Isabel and Alma Trumbo 02 - The Cashmere Shroud (17 page)

“
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, a
nybody 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.

S
he 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.

N
oticing 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.