Ed Lynskey - Isabel and Alma Trumbo 02 - The Cashmere Shroud (7 page)

S
ammi Jo had fallen into a blue funk over her father’s savage death. She’d been as close as a daughter could get to a taciturn, all work-little play father. His leathery face bore the patina of a rich mahogany suntan and windburn gained from his tending the commercial sod. Before he got into the turf racket, he’d worked at a succession of outdoor jobs, and he’d viewed himself as a blessed man.

The photo album
bore a persimmony orange cover, and Sammi Jo had bought it with her allowance money at the Family Dollar Store. She didn’t feel schmaltzy over her girlhood days. But she was practical enough to keep a record should her inquisitive whimsy ever strike her to revisit them as it did now. She stowed the photo album under her sofa where she stooped. Annoyed, she used her thumbnail to scrape off the faded price sticker from the photo album’s right-hand corner. Her lemon yellow smiley decals remained untouched.

S
he flipped over the front cover. Inside it, she’d printed in block letters with a black Magic Marker, “YOU’VE STOLEN THE PROPERTY OF MS. SAMMI JO GARNER!” Luckily, she’d grown up when Kodachrome was still used, and no digitized pixels had corrupted the visual world. Sporadic snapshots documented her maturing years. Coffee and chocolate stains discolored a few images while Mo had printed the dates in the top white borders to the other snapshots. A frisky cat named Tyger had chewed on a few snapshots’ corners. Sammi Jo had Scotch taped two snapshots to repair their rips.

S
tudying the snapshots struck an emotional chord to resonate through her. She didn’t attempt to curb or harness the churn of emotions, but rather she rolled with it.

“All aboard
the Memory Lane Express,” she said, poking fun at her nostalgic mood. “I haven’t had a reason to board it in too long.”

Almost reflexive
ly, she began singing the lyrics to a children’s nursery rhyme Mo had taught Sammi Jo one afternoon while they were at the Cape Cod. They’d been eating strawberry Moon pies with Mountain Dews under the shade of the honey locusts in full bloom. Despite her wild streak, Mo had spent her all-too-rare tender moments with her daughter between watching the soap operas and game shows. The song that Mo had learned from a favorite aunt ran:

Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home,

Fly away home.

Your house is on fire, and your children are gone,

All except one,

And her name is Ann,

Her name i
s Ann,

And she hid under the frying pan.

Sammi Jo’s
mother was Maureen Lionheart, or simply Mo. She was born a free bird that no cage designed was able to hold. Sammi Jo reflected on Mo’s footloose ways. The partygoer hard-cores stopped and collected her (she always wore the same little black dress) at the end of the Garners’ driveway. If it was boogie down night at the Lions Club building, be sure to pick up Mo. If a honky-tonk located within an hour’s drive hired a live bar band to crank out country and western hit tunes, be sure to pick up Mo. If a festive neighbor threw a wingding with forty-ouncers chilled on wash tubs of shaved ice, be sure to pick up Mo. Nobody danced faster or longer than she did because she brought the hottest get-down fever.

Sammi Jo
sized up the snapshot of her mother’s struck pose in the little black dress with a hipshot casualness, devil-may-care eyes, and an imp’s smile. Sammi Jo kept a few memories of Mo who’d the last time gone alone to the beer keg party thrown at a hay barn in May. Perhaps the band had driven up from a small town like Stuart’s Draft, which the steel pedal guitarist told her between his guzzles of beer. Perhaps they laughed. Perhaps she dug his style and wanted to hit the road. At any rate, she didn’t return home to the Cape Cod with the salmon-pink streaks painting the eastern sky to sunup.

Sammi Jo had been six
and started reading Dick and Jane with Puff and Spot at the elementary school. Ray Burl fixed their breakfast—sunny-side-up eggs, scrapple well-fried, and rye toast with raspberry jam—and didn’t say a word about it then, or ever after that fateful morning.

He
hadn’t shrugged, winced, or shed a single tear. It was as if Mo had been a short-term visitor in their household and overstayed her welcome. She’d split with no advance notice. Her exit didn’t render her
persona non grata
so much as she was seen as a passing fad, here today and gone tomorrow.

Ray Burl
continued to wear his wedding band, even after he signed the official divorce papers that had arrived by certified mail. He got rid of her things, the hospital ladies’ auxiliary accepting them, no questions asked. He also never dated another lady as far as Sammi Jo knew. He wasn’t bitter, just seemingly indifferent.

S
he resolved to become everything unstable Mo wasn’t although Sammi Jo was the spitting image of Mo (“only with a curvier figure and more soulful eyes,” the nude Sammi Jo reassured her reflection in the full-length mirror). Lingering on the photos of the errant Mo, Sammi Jo divined a sense that Ray Burl had lived as a lonely, lost solitary man. His nose-to-the-grindstone diligence shown on the job supplied him with his most effective coping mechanism.

Staying busy, he didn’t lament
the wife he’d loved, and the mother to his child who’d turned her back on them both. On the other hand, he compensated for her absence because Sammi Jo had been rich in love—a billionaire!—as she matured into a young lady. She felt it and embraced it, a warm, nurturing grace flowing through her.

A
reticent man, Ray Burl had conveyed his feelings in subtle ways she savored as endearing and would never forget. She riffled through the photo album’s clear acetate sleeves until she came to the section of his pictures. Burning tears seeped into her eye corners. She plucked a tissue from its cardboard box and wiped away the moistness. Her sentimental crying felt silly, but it also felt more cathartic, so why pen it up?

Ray Burl
had the most expressive pair of eyebrows. He possessed the knack to arch them at a stern or bemused tilt while she was yakking away, say, on a problem she was dealing with at school. He wasn’t put off by those lengthy silences that made their conversations lag. It was as if he waited on her to go on, posing two or three solutions, then picking the most pragmatic one to implement.

He
’d approve of it with the slightest eyebrow’s rise. If she didn’t pay close enough attention, she’d miss seeing it. She replayed an instance when she’d broken up with a high school boy whom she thought she loved to bits. Wedding bells chimed and pealed, sweet and clear, in the near future, at least to her ears they did.

Ray Burl and she
had sat at the Cape Cod’s dinner table, their simple meal she’d fixed of country ham, mashed spuds, and red-eye gravy finished. It was their time for sharing stuff.

“Mickey said we didn’t click
, so he dumped me,” she said. “Have you ever heard tell of such a spiteful thing?”

“He’s
no good. Forget about him. Move on.” Ray Burl’s eyebrows knitted together into an emphatic dash.

“His
mother didn’t raise him right. I mean you just don’t throw away something special like we had going on between us.”

“He’s
no good. Forget about him. Move on.”

“But I
’ve got him figured out. He’s fixed his wolf eyes on Kathy Buck. Her family inherited a pile of money. He wants to buy a fiery red Tans-Am so bad he’s busting. Sweet, little Kathy will peel open her fat wallet for him.”

“He’s
no good. Forget about him. Move on.”

O
n her indignant roll, Sammi Jo still hadn’t registered Ray Burl’s refrain of advice. She parted her lips to speak again when he rapped his bony knuckles on the tabletop. Startled by his behavior, she looked at him. His eyes clear as a mountain brook, hard as a zinc Mason jar lid fastened to her.

“I
said this Mickey is no good. Which part of that didn’t you understand? So, forget about him and move on. He did you a huge favor.”

“Okay, Daddy.”
She’d nodded once. Hearing it articulated made perfect sense to her. What other choice did she have? Mickey said he was no longer intrigued by what she had to peddle. The new merchandise—Kathy Buck—in his U.S. Government class dazzled him with a brighter sheen. He was free to go sample her 38-24-36 hourglass wares. Sammi Jo only hoped Kathy one day sooner than later wised up to Mickey’s slippery loyalty and gave him the boot.

“
Are we all straight now?” asked Ray Burl.

“I’ll do as you say. There will be other
boys. I hope.”

“
A few good ones are out there. Just wait. Look sharp. Grab the best one. You’ll know when it happens.”

That
amounted to the extent of their deepest talk. Maybe Ray Burl had said all he deemed necessary to enlighten her. She’d been plenty curious, but she never asked him about the rosy circumstances surrounding how Mo and he had fallen in love.

Had they first
slow danced to Hall & Oates’ “Sara Smile” or Willie Nelson’s “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain” where each partner pressed against the other felt the love spark leap between their galloping hearts? Later on, at the right time, how did he propose to her? Did she afterward squeal with delight, jumping up and down?

Ray Burl
was agile on his feet while Mo was a vivacious spirit. It was a winning combination leading them to soon tie the knot. Sammi Jo preferred to believe they’d been gay as a pair of larks. Somewhere in the middle of that conjugal bliss, she’d been conceived. The cheaper-than-an-OBGYN midwife, an ancient Filipino named Betty Sue Kuk, had facilitated Sammi Jo’s wailing entry into the world. Had Mo left her swaddled in Betty Sue’s care and taken off for the honky-tonk with the loudest foot-stomping music?

Sammi Jo’s
sight drifted down the clear acetate sleeve to a Kodachrome print. Brandishing a horseshoe before his face, Ray Burl had been captured in a candid pose. He’d closed one eye to aim his horseshoe, or he’d winked into the camera lens. She would pay a bundle for his curly hair the brown color of apple cider. He took his simple man’s leisure in nothing more complex than clanging pitched horseshoes at the metal stakes to score a leaner (2 points) or a ringer (3 points).

She
also remembered him instructing her on the north-south orientation of planting the metal stakes kept the sunrays out of the contestants’ faces. He couldn’t quit once he got underway with playing horseshoes any more than Isabel and Alma could with Scrabble. Sammi Jo had learned from experience not to get sucked in, or she’d never get away from their brick rambler.

They were
absolute dears, but enough already with the Scrabble. Getting back to Ray Burl, she felt her pulse grow a bit fainter. She realized the paralyzing numbness locking up her emotions would, in due time, break away, and she’d grieve the proper way over his loss. She’d cry out her eyeballs, and then some. If he were still around, he’d advise her in his cryptic manner:.

“Hey
there, girl, don’t waste your tears over something so final as my death.”

She wasn’t
as sure how he might comment on her taking such an avid interest in nabbing his killer. He’d known she played an instrumental role in solving Jake Robbins’ murder and freeing Megan from prison. Sammi Jo wasn’t doing it to please Ray Burl but to secure her peace of mind. Until his craven slayer faced justice, Quiet Anchorage could feel neither safe or snug as her hometown should.

Her trip completed, s
he was set to hop off the Memory Lane Express. Closing the photo album with a soft but decisive snap marked her disembarking. She knelt. The photo album went back under the sofa for safekeeping. If the need or whim for consulting the photo album cropped up again, she’d know from where to resurrect the snapshots.

“
What do you suppose ever became of Mo?” asked Sammi Jo, sitting alone on the sofa. “I wonder if she thought again of Ray Burl. Or me. I wonder if they had a big quarrel before she took off. I wonder if she rode the Greyhound through a string of kudzu towns with their honky-tonks and gin mills. Or did she opt to melt into some large city’s anonymous crowd? I wonder about all that stuff and wonder if I’ll ever really know any of it.”

“
C
laude showed up again after vanishing for so long.” The male’s nasal voice laughed with clear relief. “He’d gone abroad to loaf in Western Europe, Luxemburg to be specific. He likes to refer to it as his doing spadework for a debut novel he’s been intending to pen for the past twenty-six years. I call it loafing because that’s all it ever amounts to, you see.”

“Did Claude pay back the
debt he owes you?” asked Alma.

She was on her cell phone speaking to Mr. Oglethorpe
—she pictured him as Dickens’ Bob Cratchit—at his downtown Richmond skyscraper office. Mr. Oglethorpe was the Virginia state official tasked with issuing the private investigator licenses, and the sisters had spoken to him a number of times over the status of their license.

As far as she knew, they
remained in good standing with Mr. Oglethorpe’s office. If they weren’t, she’d every confidence he’d set them straight by telling them to send him another check. Credit cards paid online were also acceptable.

“Claude
settled his debt, including interest. I’d’ve dropped my false teeth, if I wore false teeth. He assured me his crisp as spinach C-notes weren’t stolen from a casino or counterfeited phonies. Nevertheless I had them checked out by a friend who’s an expert. It’s not that I don’t trust Claude, but it always pays to be careful as far as money is concerned. Thankfully his money was the correct legal tender.”

“
Is all copacetic again in the Oglethorpe clan?”

“We’ve reconciled our differences, yes. There’s no cause now for you and Isabel to be
troubled about taking on my case to find Claude as I had requested. That’s why I called you.”

“
Stupendous,” said Alma. “You’re at work on a Saturday, too. How diligent. Are you striving to score brownie points with your supervisor?” Alma had worked for the federal government for longer than she cared to admit. She knew a thing or two on how the greased wheels of bureaucracy turned.

“
Alma, I’m shocked. What a crass thing to say. I’m merely an industrious public servant doing the people’s business on a Saturday, if it’s warranted, as it is on this one.”

Yep, he’s brown-nosing
,
recognized Alma. “Knock yourself out, Mr. Oglethorpe. You’re a brilliant inspiration to your co-workers.”

He laughed.
“Well, I do what I can, Alma. By the way, I meant to ask if you and Isabel have anything private eye-wise cooking at the minute.”

Alma
was on her instant guard. The last thing they needed was interference from Richmond as they had put up with during their cracking Jake’s murder mystery. She turned cagey, feeding Mr. Oglethorpe a pat cliché summing up their activities.

“
We always keep an iron in the fire so our investigative skills don’t grow stale for the times we need to use them.”

“
That’s a symphony to my ears. At first I was afraid you were going to tell me you were up to your eyeballs in another homicide case. But I know you’d never do that again since you know it’s a big no-no for PIs such as yourselves.”

You t
hink so, huh?
Alma just laughed, hoping it didn’t sound too guilty and give them away.

“
Your private eye license is up-to-date. I checked on its status before I rang you.”

W
hile he laughed, she debated whether to go ahead and fill him in on Ray Burl’s murder. She opted not to do it. Mr. Oglethorpe could read all about it online if he was nosey enough to stay abreast of current events in Quiet Anchorage.

The
fly in the ointment was she and Isabel hadn’t completed training Mr. Oglethorpe on the ways senior sleuths, such as themselves, did things. If a murder case reared its ugly head, then of course they couldn’t just sweep it under the carpet and ignore it. Their ingrained snooping wouldn’t let them. There was nothing at all unladylike about maturer ladies assisting the local authorities to resolve homicide cases. Miss Marple and Jessica Fletcher had made a bountiful living out of doing it for many decades.

Alma
had their novels in her library to prove it if Mr. Oglethorpe expressed any doubts over the claim. The fact both female sleuths were fictional didn’t crack any ice with Alma. She contended they could be just as well be true to life, and her analogy held up fine.

She let Mr. Oglethorpe prattle on for a
half-minute about how sticky on top of roasting the weather had turned in Richmond, all the time speculating if he planned on paying the office elves to finish his day’s work. After he wound down, she inserted a hasty but congenial farewell. She had pressing matters to square away.

“Silly man,” she said while bustling down the hallway past her bedroom
entry to reach the door on the brick rambler’s wing. “He needs to get a rambunctious dog like Petey Samson to complicate his life.”

Alma
poked in the door to open on an airy chamber she and Isabel left unheated during the winter months to trim the natural gas heating bills. The interior temperature plummeted to the low point where they liked to refer to the cold room as Siberia.

Siberia
housed their extensive mystery and crime fiction library. The only firearms, trench coats, and fedoras they kept around the house existed on the printed pages. She marveled at the wall shelves laden with the used paperbacks and hardcovers, contemplating what a glorious pair of pack rats they’d become. “A room without books is like a body without a soul,” according to Cicero. If the Roman philosopher’s adage was true, then they had lots of soul.

Neither sister could bear to part with a book once it’d been read
from cover to cover. They never could predict when they’d get the itch to reread it. No liberal application of calamine lotion would relieve the itch, only holding the dog-eared paperback in your palms for poring over again. Alma entertained a notion they’d be breaking down and buying the newfangled e-readers soon, but for now, the printed page was the only way to go for them. Then Isabel had suggested they hold a yard sale to clear out some of Siberia’s overflow. They’d donate the proceeds to their favorite charity.

“What did you just say?”
asked Alma, bug-eyed with disbelief.

“
We should organize a garage sale and unload some of our clutter,” replied Isabel, cringing a bit. She knew she’d really stepped in it this time with Alma. “We’ll let somebody else enjoy the books as much as we have.”

She felt her face turning
frosty as a Popsicle. “I’d rather cut off my other foot, so I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear your sacrilegious statement.”

“What
happens when you and I are no longer here to be their caretakers?”

“
Simple enough. We’ll bequeath them to Megan.”

Scratching her
collarbone, Isabel looked skeptical. “Have you spoken to our niece about this? She is getting our honking big family bible, but her also taking our entire library of mysteries and crime fiction might overwhelm her.”

“
I realize she doesn’t have the same voracious appetite to read like ours, but that will alter once she immerses herself in our trove of books.”

“Pigs will
fly like eagles first. Megan will haul our books out of Siberia. She’ll put them out on yard sale tables set up along Church Street on parade night. Either that or she’ll order our paperbacks to be pulped and made into birdcage liners.”

“Pulp
ed. Birdcage liners.” Alma gasped behind her shaky hand put to her mouth. “You’re just pulling my leg.”

“Unless you
know how to fly the U-Haul crammed full with them up to the Pearly Gates and Saint Peter, yes, I mean our books.”

Alma
posed a solution. “Leave them to Sammi Jo. She’s already a real life detective.”

“Doing it and reading
about it are two different matters, and I see her as being far more the former. Let’s table the issue, and return to it when we’ve had enough time to analyze it more properly.”

“So ordered,”
Alma had said.

S
he now dragged her fingertip along the shelved rows of paperbacks organized in alphabetical order by their authors’ last names. She saw the usual suspects, past and present authors. She might ask Phyllis to borrow her feather duster and hit the dusty shelves. Then Alma knitted her brows at spotting the gaps in the collection as if a thief had plucked out a paperback here and there so the casual observer wouldn’t notice their absence. Slick, but Alma wasn’t a casual observer. A stir of suspicion inside brought on Alma’s frown. Isabel wasn’t lowdown enough to winnow out their library without a word spoken to Alma.

“
There has to be a logical explanation,” she said.

Right
at the moment, Isabel was out walking Petey Samson. She’d told Alma he was wearing her to a nub, and they might have to hire a professional dog walker. Alma pointed out they lived in Quiet Anchorage, and locating a professional dog walker might pose a bit of a challenge. But Isabel wasn’t daunted from tackling it.

Alma
’s detective thoughts kept circling back to Ray Burl’s shotgun. It was out of character for him, and that inconsistency puzzled her. Since he’d been reticent, he would have never admitted to Sammi Jo if a dangerous enemy had threatened him. Alma considered if he owed somebody a lot of money. She identified no pawn shops or loan sharks (she couldn’t remember if were they called
shysters
or
shylocks
from filling in her crossword puzzles) operating anywhere close-by. She wondered if he bought his cashmere dress suit on Main Street. Their town only supported the basic shops. Not all that long ago, a ladies consignment boutique had opened next to the Lago Azul Florist Shop on Main Street.

Unfortunately,
the boutique couldn’t woo in enough customers and profits to stay afloat. Isabel, who’d visited it, said the snooty proprietor peering down her aristocratic beak had also marked up her commodities. The expensive clothes could only be lifted by their hangers off the racks. The clothes’ styles catered to the yacht or country club crowd, and Quiet Anchorage had no yachts or country clubs.

K
nuckles rapping on the front door brought Alma bustling from Siberia out to the living room. On the porch, Isabel looking frazzled as Petey Samson who woofed greeted Alma.

“I forgot my key
.” Isabel stepped into the living room. “Petey Samson pulled at me to circle the block again, but he’s got to learn a lady of my age poops out fast.”

Alma
closed the door to the late afternoon inferno. “He’s a bundle of energy and a handful to manage.”

“We love him
just the same.” Isabel undid the leash from his collar. He’d full range of their brick rambler and snoozed anywhere he pleased except in Siberia. No dummy at keeping their affections, he visited both bedrooms during the night to slobber, snooze, and grunt.

Already cramped for bed
space, Alma bemoaned how he was getting pudgier from his voracious appetite. She’d draw the line if Isabel began setting a third plate and linen napkin at their dinner table. Dogs ate on the floor, even the spoiled dogs.

“
Did you remove any of the books from Siberia?” asked Alma.

“
Mea culpa
. I mailed them to Megan, hoping she’ll love reading them as much as we have.”

“I thought so. Wh
o all did you mail to her?”

“
I selected the grand ladies: Helen McCloy, Dolores Hitchens, Margaret Millar, and Dorothy Uhnak.”

Alma
nodded once. “You done good. They’ll whet Megan’s appetite for reading if there are any lady authors who can accomplish it.”

“
Exactly how I feel.”

“It’s also your roundabout way to arouse her interest enough to accept our library once
we kick the bucket.”

Isabel shrugged. “Hey, the beat goes on.”

“Are you going to take your afternoon siesta?”

“I’m
washing up after trotting Petey Sampson around in this heat then do some reading. You might be evaluating what our next move will be.”

“Nothing
pops to mind, and there are only so many places you can go snoop in our postage stamp of a town.”

“Then unmasking the killer shouldn’t be
this difficult,” said Isabel. “There are only so many candidates who can be our main suspect.”

“Are you assuming Ray Burl knew his killer?” asked
Alma.

“For the time being, yes,
I am,” replied Isabel.