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Authors: Ed Lynskey
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thinking.”
Isabel let her gaze drift out the dirty windshield at the cloud of steam roiling from Clean Vito’s exhaust stack before they departed on Main Street.
“I caught Max flirting with this young thing early in our marriage,” she said. “The young thing flitted behind the counter at the hardware store, and afterward I sat Max down for a little heart-to-heart. It made an indelible impression on him since he never cheated on me.”
“Or at least no times that you knew about.”
Allowing for that possibility, Isabel nodded. “Were there any breakdowns in trust with your two husbands?”
Alma blew through the red traffic light at the end of Main Street. “No comment,” was her pithy response.
Chapter 11
“Whew, today is shaping up to be a scorcher.” Alma rolled up her car window.
After following suit, Isabel switched on the air conditioner. A chilled draft of air hosed into her face, and she closed the offending vent. Alma, enjoying the chilly air, adjusted the vents to aim and stream it at her.
“We neglected to do our shopping,” said Isabel.
“Jake’s murder distracted us, so I think we’re forgiven,” said Alma.
She looped them around in the commuters’ parking area on the highway and returned down Main Street. Neither sister missed the sight of Quiet Anchorage’s oldest social institution—a trio of hatless gentlemen basking in the sun lolled on the wood bench guarding Lago Azul Florist. They waved, and Alma returned the gesture. She knew Isabel didn’t approve of their loafing ways, but she thought it expedient not to tease her.
“Put us by the market. Avoid those trifling bums,” said Isabel.
“Isabel, they’re not bums or trifling. Why are you so down on them?” Alma shifted the sedan into Park. “They camp there in front of the florist minding their own business. One of them does an odd job or two once in a while.”
“Shouldn’t you be saying ‘once in a great while’?” Isabel stepped out of the sedan to lead them walking toward the market. “Don’t try to snow me. I’ve known Ossie Conger, Willie Moccasin, and Blue Trent all their lives, the bulk of which I might add they’ve squandered away gathering splinters on that same bench. Careful, don’t gaze in their direction, or we’ll waste the rest of the day gossiping with them.”
“Pot calling the kettle black,” said Alma.
The ladies made the corner and despite Isabel’s cautionary hiss, Alma acknowledged Ossie Conger’s second wave.
“Their gabbiness might be our best way to learn things on Jake,” she said.
Isabel shrugged into a resigned sigh. “Your mind is made up, so what can I say? But you’ll do the talking since I’ve come down with a sudden attack of laryngitis.”
The heat waves shimmied off Main Street, and they skirted the bubbly tar patch. The trio—all wearing streaky Bermuda shorts, baggy tie-dye t-shirts, and zoris—chorused a gravelly, “Good morning, ladies”. Authentic dog tags worn with MacArthur at Inchon dangled on thick gold-braided chains from their gaunt necks.
Ossie Conger removed the match fragment from his teeth and fingered its rough end. “Crying shame about Megan. For what it’s worth, we ran a straw poll, and our jury voted it unanimous: not guilty.”
“We don’t allow for one second that she killed Jake,” said Willie.
“Your show of support is appreciated,” said Alma.
Ossie nodded. “Now, if you asked us who did kill Jake…”
“Yes, Ossie?” asked Alma, eager. “Go on, please.”
“…we’d have to admit it baffles us. Jake was a good kid never causing any trouble. He fixed cars and that’s all. Sheriff Fox doesn’t know from a hole in the head.”
Willie cleared the phlegm from his throat. He spat down at the wood shavings scattered off his carving on a quail decoy from a block of yellow pine.
Repulsed, Isabel made her own throat noise, and Alma’s fingers squeezed Isabel’s wrist, counseling a little more
Isabel let her gaze drift out the dirty windshield at the cloud of steam roiling from Clean Vito’s exhaust stack before they departed on Main Street.
“I caught Max flirting with this young thing early in our marriage,” she said. “The young thing flitted behind the counter at the hardware store, and afterward I sat Max down for a little heart-to-heart. It made an indelible impression on him since he never cheated on me.”
“Or at least no times that you knew about.”
Allowing for that possibility, Isabel nodded. “Were there any breakdowns in trust with your two husbands?”
Alma blew through the red traffic light at the end of Main Street. “No comment,” was her pithy response.
Chapter 11
“Whew, today is shaping up to be a scorcher.” Alma rolled up her car window.
After following suit, Isabel switched on the air conditioner. A chilled draft of air hosed into her face, and she closed the offending vent. Alma, enjoying the chilly air, adjusted the vents to aim and stream it at her.
“We neglected to do our shopping,” said Isabel.
“Jake’s murder distracted us, so I think we’re forgiven,” said Alma.
She looped them around in the commuters’ parking area on the highway and returned down Main Street. Neither sister missed the sight of Quiet Anchorage’s oldest social institution—a trio of hatless gentlemen basking in the sun lolled on the wood bench guarding Lago Azul Florist. They waved, and Alma returned the gesture. She knew Isabel didn’t approve of their loafing ways, but she thought it expedient not to tease her.
“Put us by the market. Avoid those trifling bums,” said Isabel.
“Isabel, they’re not bums or trifling. Why are you so down on them?” Alma shifted the sedan into Park. “They camp there in front of the florist minding their own business. One of them does an odd job or two once in a while.”
“Shouldn’t you be saying ‘once in a great while’?” Isabel stepped out of the sedan to lead them walking toward the market. “Don’t try to snow me. I’ve known Ossie Conger, Willie Moccasin, and Blue Trent all their lives, the bulk of which I might add they’ve squandered away gathering splinters on that same bench. Careful, don’t gaze in their direction, or we’ll waste the rest of the day gossiping with them.”
“Pot calling the kettle black,” said Alma.
The ladies made the corner and despite Isabel’s cautionary hiss, Alma acknowledged Ossie Conger’s second wave.
“Their gabbiness might be our best way to learn things on Jake,” she said.
Isabel shrugged into a resigned sigh. “Your mind is made up, so what can I say? But you’ll do the talking since I’ve come down with a sudden attack of laryngitis.”
The heat waves shimmied off Main Street, and they skirted the bubbly tar patch. The trio—all wearing streaky Bermuda shorts, baggy tie-dye t-shirts, and zoris—chorused a gravelly, “Good morning, ladies”. Authentic dog tags worn with MacArthur at Inchon dangled on thick gold-braided chains from their gaunt necks.
Ossie Conger removed the match fragment from his teeth and fingered its rough end. “Crying shame about Megan. For what it’s worth, we ran a straw poll, and our jury voted it unanimous: not guilty.”
“We don’t allow for one second that she killed Jake,” said Willie.
“Your show of support is appreciated,” said Alma.
Ossie nodded. “Now, if you asked us who did kill Jake…”
“Yes, Ossie?” asked Alma, eager. “Go on, please.”
“…we’d have to admit it baffles us. Jake was a good kid never causing any trouble. He fixed cars and that’s all. Sheriff Fox doesn’t know from a hole in the head.”
Willie cleared the phlegm from his throat. He spat down at the wood shavings scattered off his carving on a quail decoy from a block of yellow pine.
Repulsed, Isabel made her own throat noise, and Alma’s fingers squeezed Isabel’s wrist, counseling a little more
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