Ed Lynskey - Isabel and Alma Trumbo 01 - Quiet Anchorage by Ed Lynskey Page A
Authors: Ed Lynskey
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the gas pump nozzle.
“Yo, Mrs. Trumbo.”
“Hello, Erskine.”
“Sorry about your allergy.”
“Thanks, Erskine.” Alma changed topics. “Erskine, did you know Jake Robbins?”
Erskine spun a small wheel on the skateboard. “Jake was an awesome mechanic, even on the foreign jobbers.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“A little. Jake ate and slept drag racing. Clarence Fishback and he teamed where Clarence raced it and Jake fixed it. When I watched, they never won many bragging rights but like my skateboarding, it was something fun to do.”
“I heard they wrangled over buying car parts.” The gas pump shut off, making a dull clank. “Have you any idea what touched it off?”
“Clarence said Jake padded the costs, then hit him with the fat bill. Jake saw it different. Their partnership ended, and they sold their Camaro to that rich dude Slade Roberts in Mechanicsville.”
“Did Jake start the fight?”
Nervous, Erskine scraped the ruff of his neck. “I heard it was the other way around, but you’d have to deal a couple aces short to go up against Jake.
“Did Clarence come out on the short end?”
“Waking up with a shiner, Clarence hated Jake’s guts. But I’m not sure if Clarence had enough venom in him to kill Jake. Isn’t your niece behind bars for doing it?”
Alma tucked back a silver strand of her wind-tossed hair. “Erskine, nobody is guilty, even in Sheriff Fox’s jail, until a jury of their peers in a court of law convicts them. Megan is a well-behaved girl and innocent of Jake’s murder.”
“I’m only repeating what I heard.”
“That’s what’s known as common gossip.”
“Uh-huh. You filled your tank, so pay me and off you go.”
Alma remounted the gas pump nozzle, screwed in her gas cap, and settled with Erskine. Once arranged under the steering wheel, she heard Isabel’s question.
“Did Erskine say anything worthwhile?”
“Nothing we don’t already know. He did say Quiet Anchorage is abuzz over Megan,” replied Alma.
“Next thing they’ll open a betting pot over if Megan is found guilty or not,” said Sammi Jo in disgust.
“It’ll never come to that point,” said Isabel.
Alma engaged the ignition key and let the engine idle. “Boy, that really steams me. What gives Erskine, or anybody else, in this town the right to trash Megan?”
“Alma, it’s smarter to let it ride.” Sammi Jo used a soothing murmur. “People will believe, and say, whatever they want. Our sole aim is to get a murderer, so don’t fly off in an anger tangent.”
“Sammi Jo is right,” said Isabel.
“You can relax. I’m back on track now,” said Alma.
As the sedan eased into the sun-scorched street, Sammi Jo saw out the rear window Erskine had skateboarded over to refill the snack and soda machines.
“Sorry I was born nosy, but were you ever married Isabel?” asked Sammi Jo.
“Yes, I’m a widow. When my husband Max passed away ten years ago, I dismissed any prospect to remarry since one man to cook and clean for in this lifetime was ample penance. Naturally I grieved over his death, and not a day goes by that I don’t have a good memory about us. But finally being on my own after forty-six years of wedded bliss felt liberating, and I even shamelessly reverted to my maiden name.”
“Do you have any kids?” asked Sammi Jo.
“A chronic smoker, our boy Cecil died too young from lung cancer,” replied Isabel.
“Sorry for your big loss,” said Sammi Jo with quiet respect.
“Thanks,” said Isabel. “It’s been tough but not impossible to cope with the grief, and I’m okay.”
Saying nothing, Alma recalled how the state of Virginia hadn’t always been for lovers. Isabel and Max had had a tough row. Their interracial marriage had caused a minor uproar in Quiet Anchorage, and for years the public snubs in places like restaurants and the firemen’s carnival were too frequent. Since then over the years the social mores had done a 180 for the better.
“My
“Yo, Mrs. Trumbo.”
“Hello, Erskine.”
“Sorry about your allergy.”
“Thanks, Erskine.” Alma changed topics. “Erskine, did you know Jake Robbins?”
Erskine spun a small wheel on the skateboard. “Jake was an awesome mechanic, even on the foreign jobbers.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“A little. Jake ate and slept drag racing. Clarence Fishback and he teamed where Clarence raced it and Jake fixed it. When I watched, they never won many bragging rights but like my skateboarding, it was something fun to do.”
“I heard they wrangled over buying car parts.” The gas pump shut off, making a dull clank. “Have you any idea what touched it off?”
“Clarence said Jake padded the costs, then hit him with the fat bill. Jake saw it different. Their partnership ended, and they sold their Camaro to that rich dude Slade Roberts in Mechanicsville.”
“Did Jake start the fight?”
Nervous, Erskine scraped the ruff of his neck. “I heard it was the other way around, but you’d have to deal a couple aces short to go up against Jake.
“Did Clarence come out on the short end?”
“Waking up with a shiner, Clarence hated Jake’s guts. But I’m not sure if Clarence had enough venom in him to kill Jake. Isn’t your niece behind bars for doing it?”
Alma tucked back a silver strand of her wind-tossed hair. “Erskine, nobody is guilty, even in Sheriff Fox’s jail, until a jury of their peers in a court of law convicts them. Megan is a well-behaved girl and innocent of Jake’s murder.”
“I’m only repeating what I heard.”
“That’s what’s known as common gossip.”
“Uh-huh. You filled your tank, so pay me and off you go.”
Alma remounted the gas pump nozzle, screwed in her gas cap, and settled with Erskine. Once arranged under the steering wheel, she heard Isabel’s question.
“Did Erskine say anything worthwhile?”
“Nothing we don’t already know. He did say Quiet Anchorage is abuzz over Megan,” replied Alma.
“Next thing they’ll open a betting pot over if Megan is found guilty or not,” said Sammi Jo in disgust.
“It’ll never come to that point,” said Isabel.
Alma engaged the ignition key and let the engine idle. “Boy, that really steams me. What gives Erskine, or anybody else, in this town the right to trash Megan?”
“Alma, it’s smarter to let it ride.” Sammi Jo used a soothing murmur. “People will believe, and say, whatever they want. Our sole aim is to get a murderer, so don’t fly off in an anger tangent.”
“Sammi Jo is right,” said Isabel.
“You can relax. I’m back on track now,” said Alma.
As the sedan eased into the sun-scorched street, Sammi Jo saw out the rear window Erskine had skateboarded over to refill the snack and soda machines.
“Sorry I was born nosy, but were you ever married Isabel?” asked Sammi Jo.
“Yes, I’m a widow. When my husband Max passed away ten years ago, I dismissed any prospect to remarry since one man to cook and clean for in this lifetime was ample penance. Naturally I grieved over his death, and not a day goes by that I don’t have a good memory about us. But finally being on my own after forty-six years of wedded bliss felt liberating, and I even shamelessly reverted to my maiden name.”
“Do you have any kids?” asked Sammi Jo.
“A chronic smoker, our boy Cecil died too young from lung cancer,” replied Isabel.
“Sorry for your big loss,” said Sammi Jo with quiet respect.
“Thanks,” said Isabel. “It’s been tough but not impossible to cope with the grief, and I’m okay.”
Saying nothing, Alma recalled how the state of Virginia hadn’t always been for lovers. Isabel and Max had had a tough row. Their interracial marriage had caused a minor uproar in Quiet Anchorage, and for years the public snubs in places like restaurants and the firemen’s carnival were too frequent. Since then over the years the social mores had done a 180 for the better.
“My
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