Murder in a One-Hearse Town: Isabel & Alma Trumbo Cozy Mystery Series, #6

LICENSE STATEMENT

Copyright © 2018 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 credit: Flower Shop in Meerssen. Photo by Peter Köves. CC-BY-2.0. Author notified with thank you comment left on the flickr webpage. Link to photo is given: https://www.flickr.com/photos/peterkoeves/3864737262/

Other Books by Ed Lynskey

Alma and Isabel Trumbo Cozy Mystery Series

Quiet Anchorage

The Cashmere Shroud

The Ladybug Song

The Amber Top Hat

Sweet Betsy

Murder in a One-Hearse Town

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 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

Other Short Story Collection

Smoking on Mount Rushmore

Chapter 1

There’s been an, um, incident, Sheriff Fox said.

Oh, dear. Please don’t tell me it’s a… Isabel said, her voice trailing off.

Yes ma’am, I’m afraid so. Sheriff Fox paused at speaking on his smart phone. It’s the dreaded M-word.

Murder, Isabel said with a gasp as her pulse quickened. Here. Again.

Yes. Murder. Here. Again.

Unspeakable.

Tell me about it. Just between you and me and the hat rack, I’m thinking hard about turning in my resignation letter.

That’s a drastic step to take. Why?

All these murders exact their toll on a small town sheriff.

Aw, that’s pure horseradish, Roscoe. You should be able to take the heat in the kitchen if Alma and I can stand it.

Speaking of the devil, what is Alma doing right now?

Well… Sitting in her favorite armchair, Isabel craned her neck around to peer down the hallway to where she saw Alma squealing and clapping hands at their pet beagle Petey Sampson. With his tail wagging, he woof-woofed at her, and she woof-woofed right back at him.

Would you believe it if I told you she’s playing hide-and-go-seek with Petey Sampson? First, she found him scrunched under her bed, and he just discovered her squished up inside the foyer closet. There’s never a dull moment around here.

‘Right now isn’t the right time to be kidding around, Isabel." 

I assure you I’m serious. The worse part is she learned it from me.

It must stop because we have work to do.

We? Isabel glanced down at her blouse: no shiny, five-pointed tin badge was pinned there. Closing her eyes, she couldn’t remember seeing Alma with a pinned-on badge. Neither sister had raised her right hand with her left hand placed on the bible and taken the sheriff’s oath of office. Their car didn’t feature a loud siren or flashy roofbar lights.

"Are you saying the French oui for yes?" Isabel asked.

I’ve barely mastered speaking in English, Sheriff Fox replied.

Then you must be toting a wee mouse in your pocket.

"I refer to you Trumbo sisters and me as the we who have a new murder to solve."

You have us confused with some other sisters. Alma and I are just retirees who reside on Church Street, drink iced tea, and cultivate prized zinnias.

Don’t hand me that crock of little old ladies malarkey. You each probably sleep with a magnifying glass stuffed under your pillow in hopes the sleuth fairy will traipse by and grant you a new mystery.

So, we’ve solved a few mysteries. Doing it tuckers me out, and I’ve decided I’ve had my fill. I’m sorry to have to inform you like this, but I quit.

Sheriff Fox drew in a sharp breath as he felt his heartbeats go a little haywire. He coughed to clear away the lump of fear from his throat. Isabel and Alma were his best unofficial, unpaid deputies. He’d lost more than a few hairs over how they’d have to retire some day, but that some day couldn’t be today.

Now Isabel, you just got after me for being a quitter, he said. Your doing something this monumental deserves lots of due reflection, and we should talk about it first.

We’re far past the point of talking. The Trumbo sisters have hung up their deerstalker hats. You’ll have to carry on without us.

Then Quiet Anchorage is doomed.

Spare me the melodrama, please. We’ve shown you how to conduct a proper homicide investigation enough times that you should have it down pat.

Wait a second. Just hold the presses. Something occurs to me.

Oh?

What does Alma have to say about it? Is she as eager as you are to give up the thrill of the hunt?

Never mind what Alma has to say. I’m the eldest sister, and I have the final word.

Is that so, huh? We’ll have to see about that. Get me Alma.

I beg your pardon?

Tell Alma to quit playing hide-and-go-seek and put her on the phone. I wish to speak to her.

You’re playing with dynamite. If you tell her there’s been a murder, she’ll whip up the town into a tizzy.

Action is what’s needed, Sheriff Fox said.

What’s that I just overheard? Alma said, now standing with Petey Samson—he was panting up a storm—by Isabel’s armchair. Did you say there’s been a murder?   

Isabel grimaced a little. Did I? 

You did, and when did you plan on telling me? Alma asked.

Tonight right after you’d fallen asleep, Isabel replied.

Wisely, I know to keep an eye on you, Alma said. Put us on the speakerphone with Sheriff Fox.

With reluctance, Isabel did it.

Is that Alma I can hear? Sheriff Fox asked.

Yes, Isabel replied, eyeing Alma. Both Trumbo sisters now know foul play has been perpetrated in Quiet Anchorage. I hope you’re satisfied.

My glum day just turned a little brighter, Sheriff Fox said.

Don’t rub it in, Isabel said. Gloating doesn’t become you.

At any rate, can I count on your able assistance? Sheriff Fox asked. 

No sir, Isabel replied.

Yes sir, Alma replied a split second later.

There must be static over our connection because I only heard Alma’s positive response, Sheriff Fox said.

Grab your pocketbook and shake a leg, Isabel, Alma said.

Those of you who are younger than me should heed my sage advice, Isabel said.

Grab your pocketbook and shake a leg, Isabel, Sheriff Fox said before Alma could repeat it. We’ll meet at the murder scene where the more eyeballs scoping it out the better is my philosophy.

I suppose my philosophy of minding your elders no longer flies, Isabel said.

Not when it comes to solving a murder mystery, Alma replied. She snatched up her pocketbook along with Isabel’s and handed it to her. The game is afoot, Alma said.

Yes, Sherlock, so I’ve already heard, Isabel said.

She thought of a clever ploy to block their taking on the new mystery, and she didn’t mind stooping so low to use it.

Poor, little Petey Samson, Isabel said while petting him on the head, which he never got enough of from them. His auntie has abandoned him, and their playtime is finished after she goes dashing out the door and leaves him all alone.

Petey Samson looked up with his sad brown eyes at Alma.

He always goes with us, Alma said.

Perking up, Petey Samson wagged his tail.

Leave Cujo locked up in his steel cage, Sheriff Fox said.

Petey Samson, not Cujo, doesn’t bite, Alma said.       

He’s not welcome. Throw him a raw steak and come on, Sheriff Fox said.

Maybe you’re on the right track, Isabel, Alma said with a wink. We should quit this lady Pinkerton business, and we’ve put our final mystery to bed. We’ll play bingo on Wednesday nights at the firehouse and take advantage of Friday’s blue plate specials.

Don’t overlook including Scrabble, Isabel said. We’ll have loads of more time to enjoy playing it.

I feel the itch to scratch up a game right now, Alma said. How about you?

I’ll set up the game board, and you can pour our iced teas, Isabel said. Remember mine takes a lemon wedge, a few mint leaves, and three sugar cubes, all stirred and not shaken.

Coming right up, James, Alma said.

Nice try, but I can see through your bluff, Sheriff Fox said. You don’t have it in you to quit sleuthing cold turkey just because I won’t let you bring Cujo into my office.

You think so, huh? Alma said. Try us.

Are you serious, Isabel? Sheriff Fox asked.

I am after you insulted our beloved pooch, Isabel replied. It’s simple: no Petey Samson then no Trumbo sisters.

You leave me no choice, Sheriff Fox said. But he must remain on a leash at all times.

Whatever you say goes, Alma said. You’re in charge.

I can finally get a little respect around here, Sheriff Fox said.

Where did the murder occur? Isabel asked.

He gave up the ghost under the orchids, Sheriff Fox replied.

Come again? Isabel and Alma asked together.

The murder happened at the Azul Lagos Florist Shop, Sheriff Fox replied. Corina found his dead body lying near the floral display cooler where she keeps the orchids for the high school prom.

Who was the murder victim? Isabel asked.

His toe tag reads John Doe, Sheriff Fox replied.

Why do corpses always wear toe tags? Alma looked at Isabel.

Isabel wiggled her fingers. The tag looks nicer attached to the pinkie finger.

How about sticking a bar code label on the forehead? Alma said.

Too high tech and impersonal, Isabel replied.

Ladies, might we refocus? Sheriff Fox asked. I get the sense our concentration is drifting.

Why, certainly, Roscoe, Alma replied. We’ll shake out Mr. Doe’s real name and his killer before dinnertime.

Isabel chuckled. We might be good, but we’re not that good.

Time will tell, Alma said. We’d better get moving. 

Petey Samson woof-woofed he was all-set. He loved riding in the car’s rear seat with his head stuck out the open window, and his long, floppy ears flapping like twin kite tails in the breeze. He howled at the other dogs, and left the Main Street bystanders chuckling. Isabel just rolled her eyes while driving them. 

I hope I don’t regret doing this, Sheriff Fox said before hanging up.

Do you ever get the feeling Sheriff Fox is out of his depth? Alma asked, leading them into the foyer.

Every time he phones us, Isabel replied. That’s where we come into the picture. Do we have a full tank of gas?

We always have a full tank, Alma replied. Should we take our umbrellas?

We never take our umbrellas, Isabel replied.

Chapter 2

Quiet Anchorage, Virginia, boasted a population of 598½, including Judge Helen Redfern’s new grandson Patrice. Alma recently joked Quiet Anchorage with all its murders was becoming a one-hearse town, and her irreverence miffed Isabel. She said death and murder were nothing to make light of, especially in a dreadful pun. Ironically, Quiet Anchorage didn’t even own a hearse but relied on the funeral home services in the closest larger town of Warrenton.

The late May afternoon sun bathed Main Street in amber light, and summer’s sticky swelter didn’t hit until after Memorial Day. The slow part of the day marked when a lull descended over the shops and stores. No pedestrians were in sight as Isabel and Alma groaned and creaked their way out of the dusty blue, 4-door car.

Alma had suggested they go on foot from Church Street to the Azul Lagos Florist Shop. Isabel looked at Alma as if she’d taken leave of her senses. Petey Samson also peered up at Alma with a similar dumfounded expression.

It’s a proposal and not carved in granite, Alma said.

Walking is strictly for the folks under fifty, Isabel said. If I have a car, I’m using it before I choose to go on a hike.

Then you can kiss your girlish figure goodbye, Alma said. You’ll grow hefty as a heifer, and the gossips’ tongues will flap.

No such thing will happen if I should stack on a few pounds, Isabel said. We don’t live in a Peyton Place.

This time Alma had looked at Isabel as if she’d taken leave of her senses. 

At present, Sheriff Fox screeched up to a halt in the police cruiser. He deactivated the roofbar light swirling out its red and blue glints. Watching him strut up to them waiting by the car, Alma didn’t hesitate to voice her snarky opinion.

Roscoe, you look like five miles of bad road, Alma said.

I feel closer to ten miles, Sheriff Fox said. I haven’t been getting much shut-eye.

What troubles are keeping you up at night? Alma asked. 

Sheriff Fox glanced at the Azul Lagos Florist Shop. The string of murders bedevils me, and I sit up wide awake in my recliner, he replied. But I played a sheriff’s hunch and called the Health Department in Warrenton. They’re sending down a technician to collect a sample of the town water for lab analysis.

What’s the matter with it? Alma asked. We make iced tea every night, and we’re ticking away like Timex watches.

I suspect an evil microbe infests it, Sheriff Fox replied, serious as a church deacon. The townies drink it, and a few of them turn into Dr. Jekyll.

Alma burst out in a giggle before she suppressed it. You must be tetched in the head, Sheriff, she said.

Is it so crazy to think such a notion? Sheriff Fox asked. Can you offer me a better explanation to account for the murder trend?

You have me there, Alma replied. It’s a head-scratcher. Isabel, can you help us?

Isabel waved away the question. What? Am I a shrink or professor now?

Baring his fangs and slitting his eyes, Petey Samson snarled up at Sheriff Fox who’d edged over a millimeter too close.

Sheriff Fox sputtered for the right words while he pointed at Petey Samson.

Let’s head inside before Roscoe blows a main gasket, Alma said.   

Where is your dog leash? Sheriff Fox asked.

Don’t encroach on Petey Samson’s personal space, and you’ll get along fine, Alma replied.

He’s very territorial, Isabel said.

I pin on the sheriff’s badge, so I’m the one in charge, Sheriff Fox said.

"Petey Samson is