Ed Lynskey - Isabel and Alma Trumbo 02 - The Cashmere Shroud (18 page)

“
Since she’s worked so much overtime to straighten out the books left in a big mess, she’s taking off a few days and returning to visit Hoboken,” replied Mr. Barclay. “The cupcake out front ushering you in is a temp the Warrenton agency sent down to me.”

“The young
lady
is efficient,” said Isabel. “I’m certain she’ll fill in admirably during Karmine’s absence.”

Mr.
Barclay shrugged. “Meantime what’s on your minds?”

“Ray Burl,” replied
Alma.

“Ah,
Mr. B’s late foreman.” Mr. Barclay lost his bemused expression. “Rest assured Mr. B is going to miss him, one of his topmost employees, hands down.”

“Were you onsite when he was found dead?” asked
Alma.

“No, Mr. B had a tee time,” replied Mr. Barclay. “Naturally he rushed back here when he got the bad news from Karmine.”

“Any idea who shot him?” asked Alma, dispensing with anymore pointless preliminary chitchat.

Folding his hands to rest them on the glass-topped desk, Mr.
Barclay used the same fake smile. This time Alma thought it had a reptilian cast, putting her on her toes. “Mr. B is a little mystified,” he said. “Why are you parroting the same slate of questions Sheriff Fox has already asked him?”

Evidently Mr.
B doesn’t read the local newspaper
, thought Alma. They’d had several articles run on their senior sleuthing activities depicted as more of a lark than as a profession. They liked operating under the guise of doddering old ladies like the Snoop sisters, harmless and lightly regarded, while focused like a twin laser beam would be on the mystery.

“You know how it is for
us dotty senior ladies,” replied Alma. “We get bored with baking fudge, knitting scarves, and playing computer Solitaire all the time.”

Mr.
Barclay displayed a condescending grin. “Is that a fact? Okay, Mr. B will play along and humor you little gals. To get your question, no, he doesn’t have a clue as to who’d want to take Ray Burl’s life. Mr. B had no motive. Ray Burl was Mr. B’s right-hand man. He practically ran the business, freeing Mr. B to take up nobler pursuits like shaving a few strokes off his golf game. Who could’ve asked for a better foreman?”

“Do you own a
12-gauge shotgun?” asked Isabel.

“
Mr. B own a 12-gauge shotgun?” Mr. Barclay’s look of astonishment was genuine. “Why might you, of all people, ask Mr. B such a thing?”

Alma
found Mr. B’s habit of fending off their questions with his own questions annoying. The Mr. B junk he kept using only doubled her frustration. She was primed to straighten him out when Isabel spoke.

“
We Trumbos were raised on a small farm just west of town,” she said. “Firearms are hardly foreign or exotic objects to us.”

“
But wasn’t Ray Burl murdered with a handgun?” asked Mr. Barclay.

“Corina at Lago Azul Florist Shop told us she witnessed Ray Burl exiting the hardware store
with a shotgun,” said Isabel. “He wasn’t a hunter to speak of, nor was he a gun enthusiast. We thought maybe he purchased it for somebody else like you, for instance.”

“Not
for Mr. B. He’s a lover, not a fighter. Sorry to say it, but you’ll have to take your magnifying glass and look somewhere else.” Mr. Barclay picked up his cell phone from the glass-topped desk, a gesture indicating he’d decided their interview had concluded. “You’ll have to excuse Mr. B’s getting back to work. Ray Burl and Karmine aren’t around to see that things get done, so Mr. B has to keep them moving.”

Alma
parted her lips to insert one final question for the Sod King, but Isabel cut her off.

“
Isabel says we’ve asked all our questions,” she said, mimicking Mr. Barclay’s third person affectation.

“
And Alma concurs,” said Alma, following Isabel’s lead. “Thanks, Mr. B.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said.
“Mr. B always goes out of his way to assist our senior citizens.”

Alma
gathered her pocketbook and followed Isabel back out into the ear-jarring noise and hothouse sun.

Returning
to the state road, Alma, behind the wheel, had the first comment.

“
Did you see his fancy Rolodex? That watch must’ve run him some serious coin.”

“
His watch is a Rolex,” corrected Isabel. “Yes, he would have us to believe he’s quite well off.”

“
Did you like Mr. B?”

Isabel
shuddered. “Mr. B gives me the heebie jeebies, but we have to take him at his word that Ray Burl didn’t buy the shotgun for him.”

“
Why he wanted to purchase it becomes troublesome again,” said Alma.

“The short answer is yes
it does,” replied Isabel.

I
sabel and Alma had taken a break and browsed in the spic-and-span Uncle Jimbo’s Vault, an antique and curios boutique catering to any inquisitive tourists meandering into their town. Louise’s birthday loomed a week away, and Alma suggested they might run across an original gift Louise would enjoy.

Uncle Jim
bo was a purveyor of patent medicine bottles, telephone pole glass insulators, and old showy glassware with tiny air bubbles trapped inside it. Squinting without her reading glasses on, Isabel was studying the embossed words stamped on the flat surfaces to a pair of glass (turquoise and amethyst) bottles, she held.

Dr. Kilmer’s Swamp Root Kidney, Liver
, and Bladder Cure
(turquoise) in her right palm and the
Lydia Pinkham’s Herbal Tablets
(amethyst) in her left palm vied for her attention. Between ingesting the doses of Dr. Kilmer and Lydia, you’d probably own a panacea to enjoy life for as long as the biblical Methuselah had.

Isabel
didn’t remember either Dr. Kilmer or Lydia Pinkham mentioned by their tough as shoe leather grandmother, Mrs. Ida Matilda Trumbo. More than likely she didn’t place a high premium on the elixirs and relied on her old faithfuls: castor oil and bromide salts. Money had been tight, and she probably viewed the patent medicines as a frivolous novelty they couldn’t afford to buy.

“What
pirate treasures did you dig up there?” asked Alma.

Isabel brandished the
pair of glass bottles. “Doc Kilmer or Ms. Lydia Pinkham. Take your pick of poison.”

“
Swamp root. Yuk.”

“Have you tried it?”

“No, but I have an aversion to all swamp-related products.”

“They’re a colorful part of our town history.
The pharmacist on Main Street back in Grandma Ida’s day probably peddled the patent medicines for their alcoholic content.”

“
Well, Louise gets touchy with anything to do about her innards. Besides there might be glass breakage sustained during the shipment to her house.”

“Yo
u told me before coming in you wanted to find an original gift. Well, Dr. Kilmer and Lydia Pinkham are as original as it gets in here.”

“I referr
ed to a cute knickknack or clever tchotchke Louise might set out on the mantel or credenza. Would you display even an empty glass bottle of
Dr. Kilmer’s Swamp Root
with the family photos and ivory bookends?”

Isabel
had a bland shrug. “He’d spark conversation. There’s no denying that.”

Alma
scrunched up her nose. “Isabel, you’re just being a nincompoop about this, aren’t you?”

“
I’m not either. Ring up Sammi Jo and ask for her opinion that we both value.”

“Sammi Jo is at work, and we shan’t bother her with our
trivial disputes.”

“Then give Phyllis a
quick ring. She’s not too busy.”

Alma
started to dial on her cell phone when she froze her fingers. “Of course, kooky Phyllis will go along with you. She’ll squeal over how patent medicines are a hoot. If the drugstore still sold them, she’d be the first in line to stock up her medicine cabinet.”

Isabel smiled. “If you’re that dead
-set against Dr. Kilmer and Lydia, I’ll also pass on them.”

“Thanks.
Let’s get out before I begin feeling like I belong in here with a price tag attached to my big toe.”

“You’d
fetch a better price than Uncle Jimbo’s wares,” said Isabel. Her returning the patent medicine bottles to the shelf conjured up the image of Ray Burl surveying the shotguns set out for sale in the new annex at the hardware store.

“
Alma, since we’re backtracking, Matthiessen’s Hardware should be our next stop. I’d like to re-question Blaine and see how his previous answers measure up to those he gives us now.”

“You’
ve got Ray Burl’s shotgun on the brain,” said Alma. “We’ve ruled it out for not having anything to do with his murder.”

“It was closer to we set it aside temporarily, but we’re in town, so
just go along with me if just for grins and giggles.”

Alma
nodded, giving a resigned sigh but no grin or giggle. “We sure are getting in our daily exercise today.”

“Always a positive g
ain,” said Isabel. “I’ll have even more exercise waiting at home when Petey Samson greets us.”

“
Count me in on going, too,” said Alma. “I’m a little curious as to where you both go for so long every time you leave the house.”

“Sometimes we stop
off at the corner billiards parlor, down our shots of tequila, and hustle a few games with the regular pool sharks,” said Isabel, spoofing a tough guy’s speech.

“
Then how come I didn’t get invited?” said Alma. “I can shoot a sensational stick of eight-ball.”

“Let’s go,” said Isabel. “
Just walk softly on your gumshoes and don’t wake up Uncle Jimbo. I can hear him now snoozing behind the counter.”

***

Sammi Jo was at work in the office of the self-storage facility erected in the past year, driven by the population growth spurt with the new subdivisions. Within its corporate limits, Quiet Anchorage thrived as a bastion of small town charm, but the hydra of sprawl, ingesting even the old Trumbo farm, threatened to squash the charm. On the other hand, the young townies like Sammi Jo and Tabitha were tenacious about protecting the town charm they held dear to their hearts. Quiet Anchorage might not succumb to a dismal future and wither away like a ghost town. It was still out in the dark country far away enough from the city’s light pollution to catch the meteor showers putting on their shows.

Since her laptop with an internet hookup
was turned on, she checked her emails, but she opened nothing exciting. Then she googled Mo or Maureen Garner (née Lionheart), but no worthwhile hits came up. Mo’s vanishing act all those years ago had been complete if Google couldn’t find her. The cell phone by the laptop shrilled.

“Wilbur and his brood took off for
Cape Hatteras,” said Sammi after their exchanged greetings. “I’m stuck here to hold down the fort. Not that there’s a whole lot going on right now. August must be the slow time here like everywhere else.”

Wilbur Hathaway
, her good, ole boy of a boss, would be gone on his end of the summer vacation for over the next two weeks.

“
Shout hallelujah, kick back, and enjoy your time with no boss around,” said Tabitha. “Consider it as your own vacation.”

Sammi Jo laughed. “How’s Eddy treating you at the deli?”

“Eddy, I like. He’s fair and honest as the day is long. He pays me a decent wage. He’s also pretty flexible on my work times. What more could you want from a boss?”

“Benefits
would be nice.”

“
Always. Maybe if I can talk him into swinging me a forty-hour weekly schedule, I’ll bring up the issue of benefits.”

“
Husband material? That would solve your problem there.”

“
He’s a hottie, and I sometimes dream of crawling through his bedroom window.”

“
I’m not Dr. Ruth, but that strikes me as a full-fledged case of love, or lust, to me.”

“Before I forget it, tell Phyllis I bought her a new feather duster. I think she’ll like it
even more.”

“
Thanks. Phyllis has been laid up in bed for the past day with a bad headache from a sinus infection.”

“I hope she gets better soon.”
Tabitha felt led to segue from feather dusters to death. “Sammi Jo, dear, I’m terribly sorry again about what happened to your dad. I’m just a phone call away if I can do anything for you.”

“Thanks, Tabitha.
I’ll be sure to keep you in mind.”

“Has Sheriff Fox made any
progress?”

“I
haven’t gotten a peep from our lawman over the last couple of days, and I’d like to keep it that way, let me tell you.”

“You
can’t be serious that he thinks you had anything to do with your dad’s…”

“That’s exactly what I
mean. He always looks for the easiest way out. Believe me, I know firsthand how his brain operates.”

“Oh
snap, there goes Eddy bellowing like an angry bull moose at me to get my little fanny back up front.”

“All right, I’ll let you
go to work. Thanks for calling.”

“Talk to you real soon
,” said Tabitha. “Bye, honey.”

Sammi Jo
deactivated her cell phone. Quitting time at five o’clock felt a long hour and a half away. A suffering moan escaped her lips as she gave the column of manila folders on the nearest corner of her desk the stink eye. They went to the customers who were delinquent for three months or longer on their locker rentals. More than half of the lockers rented on month-to-month leases. Her assigned task was to sift through the pile and prioritize them, according to whom she evaluated would cough up their fees the quickest.

Yeah right
, she rued.

All
the deadbeats and freeloaders were long shots. She felt the ominous dread Wilbur would get the bright idea to instruct her next to do collections. She’d work the phone and “convince” the customers in arrears to make good on their debts. She had an ornery side, but her using it to try and squeeze blood from these turnips was expecting a lot. Too much, really. Since she liked to eat better than Ramen noodles on her dinner plate every night and to pay Eustis her rent on time, she’d swallow her dignity and do what she was told. But she didn’t have to be happy about it.