Heirloom: Isabel & Alma Trumbo Cozy Mystery Series, #8

LICENSE STATEMENT

Copyright © 2017 by Ed Lynskey and ECL Press. All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author.

This e-Book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-Book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Front cover attribution/credit: Marbury/ShutterStock.com, 2017.

Other Books by Ed Lynskey

Isabel and Alma Trumbo Cozy Mystery Series

Quiet Anchorage

The Cashmere Shroud

The Ladybug Song

The Amber Top Hat

Sweet Betsy

Murder in a One-Hearse Town

Vi’s Ring

Heirloom

Piper and Bill Robins Cozy Mystery Series

The Corpse Wore Gingham

Fur the Win

Hope Jones Cozy Mystery Series (as Lyn Key)

Nozy Cat 1

Nozy Cat 2

Private Investigator Frank Johnson Mystery Series

Pelham Fell Here

The Dirt-Brown Derby

The Blue Cheer

Troglodytes

The Zinc Zoo

After the Big Noise

Other Novels

Lake Charles

The Quetzal Motel

Ask the Dice

Blood Diamonds

Topaz Moon

Short Story Collection

Smoking on Mount Rushmore

Chapter 1

Doing a double take, Isabel spotted it first.

What just flew by the doorway? she asked Alma also seated in her favorite armchair.

I was busy marking my soaps, Alma replied, holding a bright pink highlighter and the newspaper TV listings. What did you see?

Isabel set down the mystery she’d been reading. Something was airborne.

Bah, it’s just your imagination.

I know what I saw, Alma.

Sure, you did, Isabel.

Don’t sit there and patronize me.

Then it flapped into view.

Isabel vaulted up, pointing her finger. There you go, she said. See it now?

Alma also sprang to her feet. The bat probably got in through the chimney or attic.

The pear-sized brown bat winged its way around the living room, following close to the walls.

Quick, catch it! Isabel said, moving behind her favorite armchair.

Alma glanced over. How? Throw my lariat to rope it?

You’ve got two hands.

This time Alma pointed. What, are your two hands broken?

The bat made the corner turn and flew straight at them like a thrown pie. Isabel ducked as it fluttered by her head.

Don’t let it fly into the kitchen, Isabel said.

I’ll be more worried if it flies into the belfry. Alma chuckled.

Alma, can the jokes and focus.

Oh, lighten up and live a little.

Just then, Petey Samson waddled into the living room. The beagle, looking up, spotted the bat and his tail wagged. He leaped up once and gave chase, romping and barking.

Woof-woof.

The bat isn’t your new playmate, and we can’t keep it in a canary cage, Isabel said.

Woof-woof.

Let Petey Samson have his fun, Alma said. He’s never seen a bat before now.

Woof-woof.

Petey Samson hopped up on the ottoman for a better vantage point.

I’m not living with a bat, Isabel said.

Jeez, don’t pitch a hissy fit, Alma said.

This time around, the bat crashed into the picture window and plopped to the floor.

Aw, the poor thing is a knocked out cold, Alma said.

Then call up Bats Be Gone, or whoever they are, Isabel said.

Petey Samson refused to approach and sniff at it.

Hang tight. I’ve got a can’t-miss idea, Alma said.

Then hurry and don’t be lollygagging, Isabel said.

After returning from the kitchen, Alma used a stiff piece of cardboard to sweep the unconscious bat up from the floor into an empty coffee can. She turned to the door.

Don’t set it free out front, Isabel said. What will the neighbors think?

Alma chuckled again. They’ll be green with envy, she said.

Isabel’s smart phone struck up a snappy jazz tune as its ringtone.

Answer that call while I liberate our bat, Alma said.

Just don’t let it get out in here, Isabel said.

Woof-woof.

Sorry, Petey Samson, Alma said. Isabel is the party pooper, not me.

They heard the frantic bat swatting its wings against the sides of the coffee can.

I’ll be back in a jiff, Alma said as she left the living room. His tail still wagging, Petey Samson followed her.

Alma returned a few minutes later and gave Isabel a thumbs-up. Mission accomplished, Alma said. Who called?

Sheriff Fox wants us to come, Isabel replied. There’s been another murder.

Where is he? Alma asked.

He’s waiting at Uncle Jimbo’s antique shop.

Is Uncle Jimbo the poor victim?

I’ll let Sheriff Fox tell us the rest.

Alma looked down at Petey Sampson. He dragged the dog leash in his mouth, dropped it beside her shoes, and sat down. He looked up at her with his soulful brown eyes. Alma glanced at Isabel.

How does he know we’re set to start on a new murder mystery? Alma asked. Does he understand our lingo?

Isabel smiled. He just responded to our excited voices. Are you ready to leave?

I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. Sheriff Fox will squawk at us for bringing Petey Samson.

As long as he stays out of Petey Samson’s personal space, they’ll get along.

How much personal space does Petey Samson need?

The last time I checked, it was up to fifty feet.

Alma laughed. We’ll keep Petey Samson on the leash, she said.

I’d rather keep Sheriff Fox on one, Isabel said.

***

The June morning was Chamber of Commerce weather. The sky never looked any bluer, and the sun never shone any brighter. Living in the small town of Quiet Anchorage was frosting on the cake. However, murder had struck again which appalled Isabel and Alma as much as it did any townie. They stepped up to dust off their sleuthing skills and put them to good use again.

Did you bring your reading glasses? Sheriff Roscoe Fox asked.

He stood a shade under six feet and of late wore his Smokey Bear uniform hat to cover his bald pate. His addiction to pecan-topped sticky buns, sponge cake, and other sweet delicacies contributed to his expanding waistline.

They’re in my pocketbook, Isabel replied. Would you like to borrow them?

I have something I’d like you to check over. Sheriff Fox pulled out a folded up sheet of paper from his hip pocket. Can you proofread my resignation letter to Mayor Grant? I’m a terrible speller, and I don’t know a split infinitive from a knothole.

Are you quitting again as the town sheriff? Isabel asked.

Sheriff Fox nodded. This time I’ve vowed to go through with it. This latest murder is one too many, and I’m not letting my hair turn any grayer than it already is.

What hair, Roscoe? You’re going bald as a peeled coconut, Isabel said.

Nevertheless, I’ve made up my mind, Sheriff Fox said. I’m bailing out while I’ve still got a fringe of hair to comb over.

Very well then, I’ll look at your resignation letter, Isabel said. I hope it’s not a long one.

Sheriff Fox handed it to her. I wrote it and polished my prose right after our last murder, he said.

I’ll be the judge of that. Isabel took his resignation letter and, without reading a single word, she proceeded to tear it up into pieces. She let the pieces flutter to the pavement.

Isabel! What did you just do? Sheriff Fox looked aghast at her. That was my only copy.

Good! Her eyes blazing, Isabel looked at him. What’s come over you? Did you figure you could quit and stick Alma and me with solving this murder alone? She was shaking her finger at him. You knuckle down and conduct yourself as a proper small town sheriff. Do I make myself plainly understood?

Sheriff Fox nodded and glanced at Alma. It goes without asking you’re in lock step with Isabel’s thinking, he said.

You should know that by now, Alma said. Now stop this silliness and give us the particulars on the murder.

Sheriff Fox took one last forlorn look at his shredded up resignation letter blowing away.

Uncle Jimbo came in as he does every morning to open his antique shop, Sheriff Fox said. He went to the sales counter to prepare for the workday.

We know he takes a snort from the brown jug he keeps under the sales counter, Isabel said.

We’ll omit any reference to his liquid fortification or brown jug in the crime report, Sheriff Fox said. Neither are relevant to the murder.

So, he’s also got you hooked, Isabel said. I should’ve known. Are Alma and I the only townies left who don’t take any sips from his brown jug?

Um, speak for yourself, Alma said.

Isabel frowned at Alma. You’re full of surprises today, Isabel said.

A sip a day keeps the doctor away, Alma said.

Uncle Jimbo chanced a glance out his back window, and his jaw dropped, Sheriff Fox said. He spilled a glug from the brown jug down his shirtfront before he recovered his wits.

Such a waste, Alma said.

Did Uncle Jimbo recognize the dead body? Isabel asked.

Angelo Conte is the murder victim, Sheriff Fox replied. Blunt force trauma is the cause of death.

Leave the gory details to the news media, Alma said. Where’s your CSI team?

They came, processed the crime scene, and left, Sheriff Fox replied. I’ve got the video and photos if they’re useful to you.

Keep them tucked in your hip pocket, Alma said. Isabel and I can recreate everything that happened at the crime scene by taking a single look at it.

Stop spinning your foolish exaggerations about us, Isabel said, walking to the antique shop’s entrance. Let’s join Uncle Jimbo who’s been cooling his heels for too long.

Straining on the leash, Petey Samson was the first one parading through the door Isabel opened to begin their latest sleuthing adventure.

Chapter 2

The colorful characters that inhabit America’s small towns help to define them. One such Quiet Anchorage resident was Uncle Jimbo (nobody knew his surname). He stood as a tall, rangy man with curly dark hair, an aquiline nose, and bushy eyebrows. Pleated khakis were his favorite daywear. A jack-of-all-trades, he’d chosen to focus his energies on the one trade of selling his antiques.

Uncle Jimbo was hardly an ambitious, diligent shopkeeper and did just enough work to squeak by. No townie had ever said a bad word about him. He’d a droll sense of humor under his long, graying beard, and his coppery eyes with their hawk-like intensity missed nothing. He’d assisted Isabel and Alma on their previous murder mysteries, and they considered him one of their townie friends.

Like the other merchants, Uncle Jimbo liked to crank up the air conditioner. After stepping inside the refrigerated shop, Isabel wished she hadn’t left her sweater on the rear car seat. Then she forgot about the chill. The rainbow array of glassware lining the shelves dazzled her eyes taking it all in on her second slower look.

The beauty of the black amethyst glass stunned her until she noticed he devoted a section to carnival glass pieces, including water pitchers, flower vases, and relish dishes. Her heart beat faster as she resisted the impulse to rush over to grab and hug the carnival glass. Alma was also gawking at it.

Don’t go ape over the carnival glass, Alma said. We’re here on a new murder mystery. Keep whispering the reminder to yourself.

Buzzkill, Isabel said with an annoyed sniff.

Uncle Jimbo chuckled. It’s perfectly natural to gape in awe at the vintage glassware. Heck, I work with it daily, and I catch myself doing the same thing, especially when the sunlight shining through the windows shows off the vivid colors.

All I see on the shelves are old bottles and jars, Sheriff Fox said.

Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder, Uncle Jimbo said.

There’s nothing wrong with my eyes, Sheriff Fox said.

"I haven’t seen so many bright colors since The Partridge Family bus went on tour," Alma said.

Fifty percent of my vintage glassware is local in origin, Uncle Jimbo said. I pay the Escobar twins to scout for it up in the hills, woods, and hollows.

Judging by your top-notch stock, they must be industrious, smart lads, Isabel said.

We’ve got a responsibility to shepherd along the next generation to appreciate the good old stuff, Uncle Jimbo said. However, you’re not here about vintage glassware. My lurid tale of discovering Angelo Conte’s dead body interests you.

Isabel sighed like she was tired after a hot morning spent doing housework. I wish we visited you under happier circumstances, she said. We’ll miss Angelo.

He did a lot of good deeds, Uncle Jimbo said.

If my ticker had ever stopped ticking, I would’ve wanted Angelo as the paramedic treating me, Alma said.

Give us your version of events, Sheriff Fox said.

Uncle Jimbo narrowed his eyes on Sheriff Fox. I’ll get around to it, he said. Give me a second, will you? Uncle Jimbo looked out the small window behind the sales counter for a long moment. I saw Angelo sprawled flat out as a surfboard on the ground. At first, I thought he was taking a nap. Then I looked a little closer and noticed his bloody head. Uncle Jimbo stroked his long beard. Angelo wasn’t asleep. Somebody had knocked the tar out of him and left him for dead.

Is that when you phoned my office? Sheriff Fox asked.

Uncle Jimbo reached under the sales counter, lifted out a brown jug, and set it on the countertop. Believe it or not, I wasn’t raised in a stable, and I learned a few manners, he said, popping out the cork. Is anybody up for taking a neighborly sip?

I thought you’d never get around to asking, Alma replied, extending her hands to clutch the brown jug’s neck. I don’t mind if I do wet my whistle.

Isabel made a disapproving ahem noise. Smart sleuths don’t sip from brown jugs while they’re on the case, she said.

Buzzkill, Alma said this time with an annoyed sniff.

Uncle Jimbo looked over. You’re on police duty, so I know you don’t want any until quitting time, he said.

Sheriff Fox looked like he was ready to burst out in tears before he regained his composure. Show us where you first laid eyes on Angelo, he said.

If you’d like to go I will, but there’s nothing to see, Uncle Jimbo said. The CSI folks from Warrenton went over it.

Well, if the CSI team says it’s clean, we can be sure it’s clean as a hound’s tooth, Sheriff Fox said.

Did Angelo look as if he’d struggled with his killer? Isabel