Ed Lynskey - Isabel and Alma Trumbo 01 - Quiet Anchorage by Ed Lynskey Page B

two marital flings were a little different,” said Alma. “The fellows I tried on for size didn’t fit, so I turned them lose. I outlived them both, and we stayed on friendly terms. Life just didn’t bless me with any kids.”
    “It could be you still haven’t met Mr. Right,” said Sammi Jo.
    Cocking her head, Alma smiled with amusement in the rearview mirror at Sammi Jo. “That’s a sweet thought, honey. Hold on to it.”
    “Alma, don’t give the young lady the wrong notion. No doubt she’ll land a keeper,” said Isabel.
    “No harm done, ladies,” said Sammi Jo. “I’m sharp enough to recognize the real deal whenever he struts by me, and you can be certain I’ll jump his bones. Hey, watch it and don’t miss the turnoff to Jake’s place.”
    “Alma has a disconcerting habit of sailing by turnoffs,” said Isabel.
    “Honestly, all this worry ruins my concentration.” Alma braked them into Jake’s driveway. “Do I go on back to the shop?”
    “No, stop and park at the porch,” replied Isabel. “We’ve got nothing to hide plus our past sneaking around has left me feeling like a common thief.”
    “Sheriff Fox will squawk at us,” said Sammi Jo.
    “At our ages, we just don’t care,” said Alma.
    She keyed off the sedan’s engine, and they coasted into the backyard.
    Ambling over the brown lawn, they heard katydids rasp away high in the treetops, the sweltering day’s only audio. Grasshoppers leapt away to escape the foot tread. The ladies accessed Jake’s office, formerly the sun porch, through the unlocked door. Split bamboo blinds lowered halfway shaded the long space. At a collective glance, their jaws dropped—a void gaped where the three file cabinets had once stood by the large walnut desk.
    “Sheriff Fox has beaten us again,” said Isabel.
    Alma shifted her purse. “Or some other hustler sure has.”
    “It wouldn’t hurt to peek again in the shop,” said Isabel.
    Alma paraded them from the office over the dry lawn to the auto shop’s entrance. Sammi Jo let off the latch and shoved aside the door to let in the shafts of sunlight. Shudders circuited down their backs from their feeling like unwelcome intruders. Sammi Jo’s muttered oath, “no guts, no glory,” sent them stepping into the cooler shadows to the shop. After the barn cat flying off the barber chair scared them, she picked up a canoe paddle and wielded it as a club. She got down on all fours and looked underneath the work bench but only swiped at sticky cobwebs. The vise bolted to the work bench still held the six-inch length of rebar steel, and the hacksaw lay in the steel filings.
    “Why is the hacksaw placed on the bench? When shot, Jake would’ve dropped it on the floor,” said Alma.
    “Maybe he first set down the hacksaw,” said Isabel.
    Sammi Jo tapped the canoe paddle against the rebar steel. “What caliber handgun are we talking about here?”
    “A .38,” replied Isabel.
    “No, Sheriff Fox told us the handgun was a .44,” said Alma.
    “Either one, I expect, kills as effectively,” said Isabel.
    “Could dainty Megan even fire a monster-sized.44?” asked Sammi Jo. “I seriously doubt if I could handle one. How might our brilliant sheriff explain that oddity away?”
    “He always has a ready answer for us,” said Isabel.
    Her eyes mashed into sharp slits, Sammi Jo grew analytical. “If I stand in the same spot as Jake did, I can hear any traffic noise on the state road. Also with the shop door ajar as it is now, I can hear any intruder crunching over the gravel besides having my clear view out this window. So ambushing Jake by surprise would be difficult. If he’d felt threatened, he’d snatch up a hammer or the rebar as a weapon to defend himself.”
    “Evidently the murderer didn’t intimidate or surprise Jake,” said Alma.
    “So we can deduce Jake knew his murderer,” said Isabel.
    “That’s a safe bet to make,” said Alma.
    Sammi Jo pointed the canoe paddle to direct their gazes