Ed Lynskey - Isabel and Alma Trumbo 03 - The Ladybug Song (7 page)

Chapter 13

“Did
Ladybug have any enemies?” asked Sammi Jo.

“She
wanted to spend her retirement years living here,” replied Phyllis. “I doubt if
she would’ve moved back if she had any known enemies.”

Sammi Jo
took the last sip of her piping hot apple flavored tea.

“More hot
tea?” asked Phyllis.

“Thanks
but no,” replied Sammi Jo.

“Then I’ll
also pass on seconds,” said Phyllis.

Isabel
and Alma had let off Sammi Jo at Phyllis’s townhouse after the lady sleuths cased
Ladybug’s townhouse. Sammi Jo and Phyllis sat in her comfortable living room.

Phyllis
didn’t go in for the bold upholstery Isabel (lime green velveteen) and Alma (tartan plaid) used on their favorite armchairs but preferred the softer pastel colors
of beige and yellow. She was also a big fan of potpourri. Sammi Jo liked the pleasant
way it smelled, but concocting it in the small simmer pot of heated water was too
much of a hassle for her to bother with the potpourri.

“What
impressions did Ladybug’s ex Curt make on you?” asked Sammi Jo.

“Having
never met the fellow, I only knew him through her conversation,” replied
Phyllis. “Like all married couples, they relished their good times and weathered
their bad times. She never said anything really negative or objectionable about
him.”

“Was their
divorce was a friendly one?”

“Ladybug
made it clear how they remained friends afterward, and they frequently talked to
each other. She said he could still make her laugh during their phone
conversations, and she liked to laugh. They didn’t see each other socially, and
she didn’t have out their wedding pictures on display, but I gathered she was
still fond of him.”

“Was Curt
depressed or upset enough about their divorce to take his own life?”

“Well, I
imagine getting through a divorce isn’t easy. Look at how seldom Alma mentions her divorces.”

“I’ve
never heard Alma mention either of her exes by name, and I doubt if she felt
any need to keep up with them.”

“Was either
or both of them unfaithful to her?”

Sammi Jo
shrugged. “I don’t like to speculate since she’s our friend. It wouldn’t
surprise me a lot if she discovered some hanky-panky was going on behind her back.”

“Some
men aren’t even worth a dang.”

“On the
other hand, Isabel and Max enjoyed a long and loving marriage.”

Phyllis
nodded. “Yes, indeed, they did. I remember after he died she told me she had their
wedding rings soldered together and glued them to the corner of their framed
wedding picture.”

“She has
a sentimental streak she doesn’t often let show,” said Sammi Jo.

“She is
a lovely person as is Alma,” said Phyllis. “Both are nosy but in a good way.”

“Is your
wireless router I installed working?” asked Sammi Jo. “I want to do some online
research.”

“I never
use my old laptop computer anymore,” replied Phyllis. “After my online genealogical
research discovered a horse thief in our family tree, I lost heart and put aside
the project. Who wants to learn about the black sheep in their ancestry?”

“Are you
sure you followed the right trunk and roots to our family tree? Garner is a
fairly common name.”

“I know
who we are, and I just used the online tools. I can’t believe one of our Garner
forebears had the gall to steal another man’s horse. If a Garner needed to go
somewhere, he either walked or hitchhiked to get there, but he didn’t ride off
on another man’s horse.”

“Did men
put out their thumbs and hitchhike back in the horse and buggy days?”

“I don’t
see why not.”

Sammi Jo
used the WiFi for gaining internet access. The old laptop powered up, but it
created a worrisome gurgling noise like the bath water circling the drain. She
expected to see a column of smoke curling up like from bread slices caught in
the hot toaster.

“I
forgot to tell you it has been doing that,” said Phyllis.

“The noise
doesn’t sound too promising,” said Sammi Jo.

“It’s
just being cranky like I get at times,” said Phyllis.

Sammi Jo
first decided to google the recent San Francisco obituaries. Her search words
of “Curt Miles” failed to key on any useful hits. Undeterred, she dug further back
in time by delving into a public obituary database maintained by a large
newspaper. Like their surname Garner, Sammi Jo found Miles was also a common
one. Nonetheless, her searches didn’t peg any Curt Miles who had headed off to
the Golden Gate Bridge one fateful morning and never returned to his hotel room.

Sammi Jo
figured if the authorities hadn’t recovered Curt’s dead body from the bay that they
still classified him as a missing person. The eyewitness Hallsworth wasn’t
enough corroboration to declare Curt “legally” dead. She prowled around some more
in cyberspace, searching for any news item about Curt Miles, Missing Person. Her
attempts yielded no results.

She read
on one website devoted to the Golden Gate Bridge suicides how the Marin County officials reviewed the security camera footage for any frames capturing the bridge
jumpers in action before splash down. The California Highway Patrol initiated
the follow up investigation while the Coast Guard in their vessels patrolled
the choppy bay waters to recover the floating corpse. The high and low tides often
dragged the dead body out to the open sea where it disappeared forever.

The laptop’s
gurgling noise had grown shriller, and the live screen all of the sudden shrank
into a blue dot before the laptop blipped off for good. It wouldn’t reboot for
Sammi Jo after her several attempts.

“It looks
like it is a goner,” said Sammi Jo.

“It was limping
along on its last legs anyway,” said Phyllis.

“Is it
worth it to us to get it repaired in Warrenton?”

“The
gurgly noise sounded like its death rattle, so I wouldn’t pay to have it fixed.
What good stuff did you dig out?”

Sammi Jo
sat back and relayed what little information she’d found on the Golden Gate Bridge suicides but nothing on Curt Miles.

“I tried
to persuade Ladybug to fly out and retrace Curt’s path,” said Phyllis. “I
thought she’d feel better if she did something, but she was a homebody and put
me off.”

“If she
cared enough about him, she would have caught the next plane to the West Coast,”
said Sammi Jo.

“Or she figured
making the trip was a fool’s errand. What could she turn up new on Curt the authorities
hadn’t already gotten?”

“Was she
depressed over the news of Curt’s suicide? Did she act as if she’d snap out of it?”

“When we
talked at Eddy’s Deli, I asked her the same thing, and she swore she would feel
better once the shock of it wore off.”

“Did you
believe her?”

“I had
no reason to think she wouldn’t do what she told me. Getting the bad news about
Curt’s suicide just bummed her out like it would anybody.”

Sammi Jo
closed the lid to the broken laptop. “Ladybug’s name has always intrigued me
because Mom taught me ‘The Ladybug Song.’ I have one memory of us sitting together
under the shady honey locusts at the Cape Cod where she sang its lyrics. It was
during the summer after I finished the third grade. Her singing voice was clear
as a struck church bell.”

“Mo was
a talented performer. She wore her little black dress and used to stand up and sing
at the mike accompanied by the local string bands.”

Sammi Jo
looked at her aunt. “Did you listen to her sing at the barn parties, Aunt
Phyllis?”

“I was also
young and liked to chase my share of the bright lights and snappy music. Or
that was my cover story when I was actually there to keep a watchful eye on Mo
while your dad Ray Burl stayed at home and raised you.”

“Your eye
must’ve blinked the morning she skipped town.”

“That was
the one barn party I missed while I was laid up in bed after my emergency
appendectomy. After Mo took off for who knows where, I felt bad about falling
down on my promise, but Ray Burl told me not to worry and forget about it. He said
Mo had a flighty nature, and nobody could have done anything to stop her. I’ve
racked my brain trying to fathom what she was thinking in her pretty but empty head
when she left Quiet Anchorage on the Greyhound.”

“She’d
had a bellyful of living in the boondocks with a bunch of hicks,” said Sammi
Jo. “Those were her words and not mine.”

“Her living
hand-to-mouth like she did after leaving couldn’t have been much better.”

“I agree
with you, but we laid Mo to rest some time ago in the town cemetery,” said
Sammi Jo. “So let’s keep her there, shall we?”

“My only
hope is she sings her songs in a better, happier place,” said Phyllis not
expressing her belief the late dancehall nightingale Mo Garner would never find
much joy no matter where she finally came to roost.

Chapter 14

Welcoming
Petey Samson home again delighted the sisters. He’d suffered no ill effects
from undergoing his minor surgery (for a fluid-filled ear), and unless Alma’s memory was going fuzzy, she thought he acted more rambunctious than he did before
going to Dr. Ruffian’s office.

Isabel
in her unbridled joy didn’t seem to notice his surplus of energy and devilment.
In her eyes, he could do no wrong. Just yesterday, she’d suggested they might consider
getting rid of the TV set and buy Petey Samson his own armchair so they could all
sit together like a family. They could put his armchair in the freed up space
the TV set had occupied.

Alma
vetoed Isabel’s proposal. Alma had been watching the soaps
after Isabel left for her afternoon nap, and Alma was a big fan of their tearjerker
plots. She kept a box of extra absorbent tissues within hand’s reach. Isabel
murmured their eventful lives already amounted to a soap opera that she would
call “Quiet Anchorage.” Who needed to watch the ones on TV? She also suspected Alma was dozing off while she sat watching the soap operas.

***

“Petey
Samson must have bloodhound or Saint Bernard in his mutt ancestry,” said
Isabel.

They worked
in the shady yard raking up the leaves next to the flowerbed filled with hostas,
petunias, and marigolds. The days were still long enough here in mid-October for
the trees to retain most of their foliage. Nevertheless the sisters wanted to stay
ahead or at least keep up with the leaf raking. In the autumns past, the falling
leaves overtook their energies, covering the lawn and piling up to their knees.
Alma urged Isabel to make the frantic phone call to Camilo and his ace
employees to bring in their leaf blowers and lawn vacuum to dispose of the
leaves in a jiff. The sisters might have to use him again.

Swiping her
bamboo broom rake over the lawn, Alma swept up the leaves to add to her growing
pile.
If Petey Samson has any bloodhound or Saint Bernard in his mutt ancestry,
I’ll be a monkey’s aunt
, she thought. She was getting pooped out, her
leaden arms feeling as if they’d drop off her like Mr. Potato Head’s arms. Her look
overhead saw the thousands of leaves still attached to the tree branches and yet
to fall earthward. She sighed at seeing a couple of the leaves swirling downward
past her nose.

“If there
is any bloodhound or St. Bernard in Petey Samson, it came many generations
ago,” she said.

“Not so many
generations ago,” said Isabel. “Don’t forget how much he strains on the leash
while you or I are walking him.”

“He just wants
to chase after the blue jays or the toy poodle Mimi living on the next street corner.”

“You just
don’t understand Petey Samson like I do, Alma. He is following the scents that his
olfactory receptors have picked up.”

Alma
leaned on the broom rake while Isabel went on working at a
steady clip. Nothing tired her out while she raved about Petey Samson’s virtues.
It was too much to take. Why didn’t she dress him up in a little fringed cape—only
silk or velvet would do—with the fluorescent orange letter T for Top Dog emblazoned
on the cape? Alma didn’t make a joke about it, or Isabel would be getting in
touch with Mr. Rhee, the men’s tailor they’d trounced while playing Scrabble. Alma vowed to never walk on Main Street accompanied by Petey Sampson with his “T” cape aflutter
in the breeze, and the townies gawking and pointing at them.

“Here is
a question for you,” said Alma. “What is our vigilant bloodhound doing right at
the moment?”

Frowning
a bit, Isabel pursed her lips. “He’s romping up and down the hallway barking,” she
replied.

“He’s
always doing that,” said Alma. “Does his undisciplined behavior sound like a sharp-nosed
bloodhound that can zero in on and follow a scent trail?”

“He lacks
the proper incentive to put his nose to effective use.”

“I beg
your pardon.”

“Give
Petey Samson the chance and he’ll focus, concentrating his mind to accomplish
whatever mission we ask him to undertake.” Isabel pointed at Alma’s broom rake.
“Are you substituting your rake for a leaning post? You’ve been standing there frozen
like an ice sculpture for several minutes.”

“My arms
were tired.” She cranked up again, taking swats at the leaves scattered over
the lawn. “If Petey Samson is the hotshot bloodhound, why don’t we take him to go
snoop around where Sheriff Fox pulled Ladybug from the river?”

With a
smile, Isabel ceased raking leaves and removed her work gloves. “How is it we are
able to read each other’s mind at times like now?”

“I can
only think it must stem from our shared DNA.”

“It’s
more sophisticated than our common gene pool,” said Isabel. “I have a sneaky notion
we’re also smarter than your average senior sleuth.”

Alma
also smiled. “Let’s postpone doing our yard work, snap a
leash on Petey Samson, and make a beeline for the swimming hole.” She tossed
away her broom rake with disdain, and Isabel was only happy to follow suit.

The
sleuths were back in action, and life didn’t get any peachier for them. If
worse came to worst, they’d call on Camilo to put them on his schedule to come and
make short work of the leaf removal chore.

***

After
Phyllis produced Ladybug’s polyester headscarf that she’d forgotten and left at
Phyllis’s townhouse, Isabel and Alma were set. Phyllis was eager to participate
in their latest investigation, so the three ladies left with the well-rested Petey
Samson in tow. He’d acted a little petulant and mopey when Isabel had poked her
forefinger at him to wake up from his nap taken on her bed after his tearing
around the house so much.

He
placed his front paw over his eyes, wishing her to go away and leave him be,
but she wasn’t having any of that from the slacker. They had important work to do,
and she’d volunteered him whether he liked it or not. When he realized they
were leaving in the sedan, he perked right up and wagged his tail.

He got a charge
out of riding in the sedan’s rear seat with the window open, and his head stuck
outside it. His beagle ears fluttered like a pair of little, furry mud flaps as
he barked at the townies. Ossie on the wooden bench snickered behind his hand put
over his mouth when he saw Isabel and Alma cruising by with their mutt. 

“Have
you ever tried to put Petey Samson on the scent?” asked Phyllis, a tad of doubt
creeping into her voice.

They stood
clustered around the sitting, panting, and scratching Petey Samson. The sunshine
beamed down with enough warmth to make a cardigan jacket or a buttoned up sweater
an adequate wrap. They’d parked the sedan on the hard packed sand at the
swimming hole to avoid getting the tires stuck in the looser sand.

“Bear in
mind this is Petey Samson’s debut undertaking,” replied Alma. “We are as up in
the air as you must be over whether he’ll be a success.”

“Speak
for yourself, Alma,” said Isabel. “I have unshakeable faith in his keen sense
of smell.”

“Enough
with the dramatic buildup,” said Alma. “Isabel, tell him the curtain has gone
up, and it’s show time.”

“Yes, release
the hounds!” said Phyllis. “Or I should say the hound.”

“Petey
Samson,” said Isabel, snapping her fingers at him. “Go search, you hound dog. Find
it.”

After loping
around them with his snuffling nose pressed close to the ground, he slowed his
pace until he keyed on a likely spot. He halted, tilted his eyes at the ladies,
and then scratched with his front claws to scallop out a shallow hole.

“Glory
be, our pooch has gone barking mad,” said Alma. “He thinks he’s a cat using the
litter box.”

“Let him
get another noseful of Ladybug’s headscarf,” said Isabel. “That’s how I’ve
watched the K-9 cops do it on TV, and they always find their target.”

“Isabel,
the police dogs have been trained on how to conduct searches,” said Alma. “Petey Samson is a raw, unschooled rookie.”

“Oh, give
me the blasted headscarf,” said Isabel, taking it from Alma. “Our dog’s I.Q. is
off the charts, so he doesn’t need any of that silly dog training stuff.”

She grabbed
and tugged on the leash attached to Petey Samson’s collar to divert him from
digging in the hole. He lifted his sand-crusted snoot, cocked his head sideways,
and gave her a questioning look with his caramel brown eyes before he sneezed
off the worst of the sand grains.

“Gesundheit,
Petey Samson,” said Phyllis.

“He’s just
a mess,” said Alma.

Isabel
leaned over and proffered Ladybug’s bunched up headscarf at him. When Petey
Samson ignored the headscarf, Isabel shook it. She reached out, trying to hold
it a few inches away from his nose. He wagged his tail harder, thinking she had
invented a new game to play with him.

“Wouldn’t
you know we picked a dud for a hound dog,” said Alma. “We’d do better by asking
Loretta Sutphin to bring over her hazel wood divining rod to find any clues.”

“Petey
Samson seems to have lost interest,” said Phyllis.

“He’s just
a little rusty and needs more time get warmed up,” said Isabel.

Again, Petey
Samson sneezed before he backpedaled away from Isabel. Eyeing the hole he’d
excavated, he decided resuming that was more interesting than trying to decipher
what his mistress wanted from him. He flung back the new sand he scooped from the
deepening hole and enlarged the pile he’d created.

“Maybe
there is something to the formal training the police dogs receive,” said
Phyllis.

“Try
bribing him with a pork chop,” said Alma, poking fun at Isabel.

“Sorry
but I’m fresh out of pork chops,” said Isabel. “Do you carry any in your
pocketbook?”

“I just have
Altoids, pepper spray, and dental floss,” said Alma. “Phyllis, what’s in your
pocketbook?”

“Werther’s
Originals and a piece of salt water taffy are in mine,” replied Phyllis. “You
are more than welcome to try either one.”

“None of
those will make for a tempting dog bribe,” said Alma.

Isabel
placed her hands on her hips while her face took on an exasperated look. “I am
flabbergasted. Why is it taking us so much prompting to motivate him? Any other
time he can’t wait until we have started our walk, and he’s off like a Roman
candle, pulling at the leash to break free of us.”

“What is
he after there?” asked Phyllis. “Did a different hound dog here earlier bury a
soup bone?”

Alma restrained her scoff of dismay. The Trumbo Sisters Detective Agency limited their
staff members to two-legged detectives, and the four-legged ones, like Petey
Samson, shouldn’t waste their time to apply. She was always ready to test out
new ideas, but this one had flopped big time. If any leads to solve Ladybug’s
murder existed at the swimming hole, Petey Samson wasn’t the right dog to find them.
He was just a frolicking bundle of fur and claws.

The sun
had scudded behind a dark gray cloud, and the north breeze stiffened as a reminder
of how close winter lurked just around the corner. Alma pulled her jacket tight
about her. She thought of a mug of hot chicken noodle soup, a well-thumbed whodunit,
and a slow, quiet afternoon all to herself. She thought murder should only
appear in print between the book covers of the latest whodunit she was reading
for the pleasure of it. The real life murder mysteries like Ladybug’s were getting
tougher and taking longer to solve.

“I don’t
understand this problem,” said Isabel. “It’s out of character for Petey Samson to
be playing a gopher.”

“I can tell
you what the matter is,” said Alma. “He’s just acting like the part-beagle he
is, and they can’t resist digging if given the chance.”

“Do our flowerbeds
have any doggie holes?” asked Isabel.

“Not a one,”
replied Alma. “But what does that prove? He likes to dig here because the loose
sand makes it easier for him to claw it out.”

Isabel
turned to Phyllis. “What do you think, Phyllis? Is Petey Samson following his natural
beagle instincts to dig, or is there something else going on here?”

“I’m
inclined to believe it’s more the latter,” replied Phyllis. “Do you have a
shovel in your trunk?”

“We keep
the shovels hung in the tool shed where they belong,” replied Alma. “If I had
known we were off on a treasure hunt, I would have brought one.”

“Something
lies under the sand,” said Isabel. “I have to find out what it is, and where there
is a will there is a way.”

Phyllis lifted
her hands; her fingers outspread and bent at the knuckles like a grubbing hoe.
“I don’t mind getting a little grime under my fingernails. When did you girls last
build sand castles?”

“The day
after T-Rex quit roaming the face of the Earth,” replied Isabel. “But I’m game to
try it out. How about you, Alma? Shall we dig together?”

“I’d
feel left out standing here twiddling my thumbs while you ladies played in the
sand,” replied Alma. “Is there anything in the sedan to use for digging?”