Ed Lynskey - Isabel and Alma Trumbo 02 - The Cashmere Shroud (15 page)

R
ay Burl fit Isabel’s notion of a carpenter (he’d pick up side jobs in trade for a meal, Sammi Jo once joked) in that he was neat and orderly. Everything was kept in its designated place. Isabel half-expected to see he’d installed a pegboard in the kitchen to keep his cooking utensils in quick reach. However, it was a normal-looking kitchen with a gas range and humming refrigerator. If any greasy food odors lingered, she couldn’t detect them. There were no pet accoutrements visible, she also noted.

Brick red,
tight-knit carpeting paved Ray Burl’s modest hermit abode. Two small, well-furnished bedrooms occupied the other half, the smallest of which Sammi Jo had used as a girl. Isabel observed the practical single bed, not a canopy bed gussied up in girly pink frills and valentine-shaped pillows. They schlepped upstairs, and their search there ascertained it was only a common junk repository.

“Not
a Buckingham Palace or the Taj Mahal,” said Sammi Jo, back downstairs. “I find it smaller whenever I come back.”

“It’s
a lovely, quaint home,” said Isabel. “Every bit as cute as the Cape Cods on Martha’s Vineyard.”

“
Never more snug as a bug in a rug,” said Alma.

“Ray Burl never saw much point in moving up to bigger and better if the
Cape Cod served his needs, and it always did.”

“
There aren’t a lot of hidey holes to stash his shotgun,” said Alma, looking around them.

“Assuming it
was Ray Burl’s shotgun,” said Isabel.

“
I can’t get his cashmere dress suit out of my thoughts,” said Alma.

Sammi Jo
twisted her lips into a knot. “It must’ve been a suit he bought somewhere recently because I don’t have a recall of seeing it before he died.”

“
Why does a hardworking fellow need a dress suit?” asked Alma.

“
That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question.” Isabel gave Sammi Jo an inquiring glance. “Did Ray Burl wear the cashmere dress suit for going to church?”

A
wan smile touched at Sammi Jo’s lips. “He wasn’t a God-fearing man. I doubt if his shadow had darkened a church’s doorway twice since he marched down the aisle in his wedding coat.”

“
Scratch that as a possible reason,” said Isabel. “Where else might require a man to go in a suit?”

“Was he a member
in good standing with the Lions Club, Kiwanis, or Odd Fellows?” asked Alma.

“He’d been called a
n odd fellow once or twice,” replied Sammi Jo. “Beyond that, no, he wasn’t the civic-minded or outgoing type either.”

The perplexed Isabel wrinkled her face. “Why does a gentleman
don a cashmere dress suit on a Thursday evening, lock his door, and then later turn up as a corpse found lying in the parking lot where he works?”

“The answer
has to lie in here someplace,” said Alma.

“We could
stay longer and look in the harder to reach places like behind the fridge and under the gas range,” said Sammi Jo. “Knowing my father like I do, he’d think twice before keeping a valuable item in his digs. A safe deposit box is my best guess, and we can’t go peek inside there.”

“
A pair of keys would go to its lock,” said Alma. “Any object that small would fit into a crevice or under a section of loose wall panel.”

“
We don’t have enough time to search in here that thoroughly,” said Isabel. “Where are Ray Burl’s carpentry tools?”

“He
usually carried them in the tool chest riding in the back of his truck,” replied Sammi Jo. “Sheriff Fox impounded it at the crime scene.”

“Was anything
of value glommed from his truck?” asked Isabel.

“How would any of us know
that without seeing the police report?” asked Alma. “Sheriff Fox wouldn’t share it with us if his life depended on it.”

Sammi Jo
escorted them into the master bedroom where she snapped on the overhead light. Ray Burl slept in a single bed that looked military in origin with its steel tubular frame. Isabel concluded he’d downscaled from the full-sized bed after Mo had bailed. He’d left no dirty crew socks or bib overalls littering the carpet.

His
only three pairs of shoes, the scuffed up one used for his job, waited in a row in front of the chest-high bureau. It displayed an attractive wood grain of a mellow reddish shade, and Sammi Jo said he’d built it from the honey locust trees they’d passed under while they walked to the Cape Cod.

“Ray Burl was a
genuine craftsman,” said Isabel.

“Carpentry and cabinetmaking were his first loves
and passions,” said Sammi Jo. “Neither vocation offered him full-time work to make enough money to live on even as frugally as he did.”

“Did he
get a lot of customers for his carpentry projects?” asked Isabel. “Like any out-of-towners who’d learned of his talents through word of mouth?”

“I don’t know how many side orders he took in, but he
was nearly always wearing his tool belt when I was at the house. I remember breathing in the sweet smell of green sawdust when I stepped through the threshold.”

“
Then Ray Burl may’ve known his killer who was a customer,” said Isabel. “That possibility enlarges the pool of suspects beyond those folks just living in Quiet Anchorage.”

“He never wrote anything down
like the customer names, and ran it on a cash-only basis.”

Isabel had a seat on the bed. “I’ll
make believe I’m his killer. After I bump off my victim, I wish to cover my tracks and throw off the investigating sheriff. What elaborate lengths do I go to accomplish that? Think of the cashmere dress suit, in particular.”

“
Well, I suppose I could redress Ray Burl in it,” said Alma. “I have to wonder how tricky it is to switch the clothes on a dead man. Obviously, he’s not in any position to cooperate with you. It’d be awkward and cumbersome like trying to undress and dress a department store mannequin.”

The mental
image Isabel formed was a ludicrous one of stretching and fumbling with arms and legs. She focused on the suit itself. “Where might have Ray Burl bought the suit? No Quiet Anchorage merchant would sell cashmere. Did he order it from a sales catalog? From off the internet, say, on eBay or through Craigslist?”

“If it was me, I’d
go to Warrenton,” said Sammi Jo. “Peebles, perhaps.”

“
I believe cashmere might be a little more pricey than anything at that apparel outlet,” said Isabel. “Alma, haven’t we ridden by a men’s tailor shop? My mind’s eye remembers seeing one located on Main Street.”

Her sister
didn’t have to give it a second thought. “Norman Rhee’s is wedged between the Cheshire Cat Bookshop and Svoboda’s Photography Shop.”

“Mr. Rhee
could fit a gentleman for a tailored dress suit,” said Isabel. “He may not be real cheap, but he’s convenient and efficient.”

Sammi Jo wheeled around
, walking fast to leave the Cape Cod.

Isabel hopped up from the bed.

Alma from the side of her mouth murmured to Isabel. “Sammi Jo has made up her mind on where our search goes next.”

“I’m worried about her
.” Isabel turned off the light switch.

Voicing her apprehension was unlike the customarily placid Isabel, and
Alma felt the fright leave a cold spot knotted in her chest. She offered no response before Isabel continued.

“All this scratching at
her emotional wounds can’t be helping her to mend.”

“She
said she won’t rest until her father’s killer is behind bars,” said Alma.

A
t the opened front door, Sammi Jo turned and called back to them lingering in Ray Burl’s old bedroom. “Isabel and Alma, quit your whispering and fretting back there. I’m holding up, so don’t be afraid I’m set to fly to pieces at any second.”

“
We’ll make out because Sammi Jo is tough as…” Alma trailing off couldn’t quite put her finger on the appropriate comparison.

Isabel rescued her characterization. “Steel magnolia. She’s tough as a steel magnolia.”

“There you go,” said Alma, smiling. “That’s Sammi Jo on the button.”

“
I
’ll sit still for sleeping through, er, I mean cuddling with you to watch a classic chick flick,” said Reynolds. “Which one is it to be?
Pretty Woman
?
When
Harry Met Sally
?
Dirty Dancing
?
The Bridges of Madison County?
See, I’ve bought all your faves on brand new DVDs. Or I could be talked into enduring
Beaches
again, but that particular one will require a cold six-pack of PBR to go with the barbecued Doritos.”

“First off, they’re not
called ‘chick flicks,’ Reynolds,” said Sammi Jo of her guilty pleasure. “Hearing that condescending term sticks in my craw.”

C
ell phones linked them. Isabel was driving Alma and Sammi Jo to Warrenton. The afternoon swelter spurred Isabel to run the air conditioner at its next-to-highest setting. Meantime Alma pulled a cardigan sweater over her shoulders and buttoned its top button at the neck. Sitting in the rear seat, Sammi Jo felt comfortable.

“
What might you call them?” asked Reynolds. “Is
touchy-feely cinema
okay by you? Fill me in, and the next time, I’ll use the correct PC term.”

“
Skip that and listen. There’s no way I can get with you tonight. I’m in the middle of doing something important with Isabel and Alma.”

“
Something that’s more important than us? How could that be, honey?”

He sounded petulant and whiny
, irritating Sammi Jo. She wanted to reach through their connection and shake a little common sense into him. “It’s about my father’s murder, and my pressing need to get a few answers about it. Sheriff Fox’s answer is to march me off to prison, but that ain’t going to happen as long as I draw mortal breath.”

“
Amazing. How might you know what Sheriff Fox is thinking?”

“
I lost my crystal ball and tarot cards, but I do know he loves to take the path of least resistance. Megan Connors. Need I say anymore to you?”

“He doesn’t suspect you’re
Ray Burl’s killer, and your hanging out so much with those old dingbats is making you paranoid.”

“
Old dingbats? Is that what you just said? Reynolds Kyle, you might get away with calling me spiteful names, but don’t you dare insult my friends. Ever. Hear me? I’m not having it from you.”

Isabel flitted her eyes to
graze the rearview mirror. Sammi Jo wasn’t smiling or sounding happy. She was ticked. Reynolds had better shape up and fly right.

“
Apologies,” he said. “Just saying. It’s my opinion you’re exaggerating how the sheriff has it out for you just based on your intuition. He doesn’t seem to be making rapid progress, true enough, but we don’t know what he’s uncovered in his investigation, so give him a fair chance.”

“Reynolds,
my cow died, so I don’t need your bull. Answer me this. Where is Sheriff Fox? Is he out with his posse of deputy sheriffs beating the bushes? Not at all. He’s where he always is on Sunday afternoon: at your drag race track with a KFC drumstick in one fist and a digital camera in his other, while cheering at the top of his lungs.”

“
I can see him from where I’m standing. But come on, you can’t begrudge the chief lawman for enjoying his Sunday R&R, especially after I’ve charged him for the full price of admission and hate to give refunds.”

“Why
should I cut Roscoe Fox any slack, particularly when I’m out here with Isabel and Alma playing
Charlies Angels
?”

“
Hey, I gotta go, honey. A fistfight has broken out behind the concessions stand. This is bad stuff for my family-friendly image.”

“
Just signal to our chief lawman, and he’ll rush in and break it up. That’s what the taxpayers elected and pay him to do. Be talking to you soon.” Sammi Jo stashed away her cell phone.
Men
.

“Did I hear you mention Sheriff Fox?” asked
Alma.

“
I did. Guess where he is? At the drag race track with Reynolds. A fracas broke out, and he’s off to grab our sheriff to rush in and reestablish law and order. Good luck with doing that.”

“
Roscoe is at the drag race track,” said Isabel. “Knowing that might come in handy later.”

“
Meantime step on it and catch Mr. Rhee before he closes up shop for the day,” said Alma.

“I’m surprised he
advertises holding Sunday hours,” said Isabel. “Only the pharmacy is open today in town.”

“Walmart and the
other big box stores give the local merchants plenty of competition,” said Alma. “Don’t get me started on my big box store rant either.”

“
I’m also not their champion, but they’re not so shabby,” said Sammi Jo. “I’ve shopped there, and I’ve had pretty good luck with their products.”

“
You don’t say,” said Alma. “On your recommendation, I might tag along with Isabel or you the next time you go. My new caulking gun has gone astray.”

***

If a traveler approached the town of Warrenton from the south, he’d arrive at a Y-fork in the highway. The east road was the new bypass skirting the commercial strip, which grew up along the older west bypass. But if he was Alma, Isabel, and Sammi Jo, he’d avoid taking either bypass and use the exit ramp. That road passed by the roadside Osage oranges, the drycleaner’s parking lot where the Farmer’s Market operated, and curved into downtown Main Street. The parking meters had been removed years ago.

T
he ladies found the Cheshire Cat Bookshop and Svoboda’s Photography Shop closed as they hailed Mr. Rhee standing outside his tailor shop. It was the hue of lemon meringue pie.

He leaned over,
the door key in his grasp. The brown and beige pork pie hat with its tiny red feather on his thin head and his beige seersucker dress jacket lent him a jaunty flair. He saw their approach from the corner of his eye and finished securing the door. He returned Alma’s wave and “hello” without the trace of an accent.

Their alacrity wasn’t for a social occasion, and the ladies probably weren’t
interested in men’s tailoring. He didn’t scowl despite his growing displeasure. They bore a familiar look but, closer up, he was less certain of it.

“Mr. Rhee, one moment, please,” said Alma who introduced them.
 

None of their names
meant diddly to him.

“Are you
ladies making a pick up?” he asked. “I can reopen my shop.”

“We’d like to
discuss one of your possible customers,” said Alma.

“I see. Is he a relation of yours?” asked Mr. Rhee.

“Ray Burl Garner was my father,” replied Sammi Jo.

Mr. Rhee,
peering down at his shoe tops, was shaking his head. “Garner, Garner…no, he doesn’t ring any bell. Sorry.”

The ladies
surrounded Mr. Rhee as his thirst grew for that frosty can of root beer he’d left on the top shelf in his townhouse’s refrigerator. The afternoon heat had neared a sauna bath’s intensity.

“
Ray Burl wasn’t a regular customer,” said Sammi Jo.

“Evidently not,” said Mr. Rhee.

“Might we speak inside where it’s more private and before we roast like chestnuts on the open hearth?” asked Alma.

“Do you see this taking that long?” asked Mr. Rhee.
“I already told you I don’t know the fellow.”

Isabel
had few qualms over fibbing if it expedited things. “Mr. Rhee, my elderly sister Alma gets these dizzy spells if she’s out in this heat for too long. Unless you want to deal with the embarrassing furor of an old lady passed out at your shop’s doorstep, our moseying inside is advisable.”

Elderly sister?
Alma frowned at Isabel.

The
unenthusiastic Mr. Rhee took her point. He reversed his ministrations at the lock, dropping his door ring with a sailor’s curse under his breath. He glanced at Isabel, and she smiled her prim smile. He sweated over whether they had some batty scheme cooked up to clean out the cash register. They’d only make off with five dollars and change. It’d been a slow Sunday.

The younger lady—Sammi Jo?—flashed the
quick eyes like the stick up artist he’d encountered, the last straw that goaded him to move his shop. He couldn’t imagine where she carried a concealed weapon in the peach-colored blouse and short shorts she wore—barely. Perhaps she’d taped a straight razor to the sole of one of her sandals.

His hasty
over-the-shoulder glance confirmed she looked tough like a roller derby queen. Was she snickering at his fumbling efforts? He listened sharper, but only a cat-paw’s breeze reached his ears. He nudged up the pork pie hat to let the breeze cool his perspiring scalp. That cold root beer was never further away from his parched lips.

“Mr. Rhee, would you like one of us to take a crack at
it?” asked Alma.

“I haven’t eaten since
a prune Danish and coffee this morning,” he said. “I’m a little swim-headed is all. Once inside, I’ll perk right up.”

“Sammi Jo will be
glad to pitch in,” said Isabel.

“No!” Mr. Rhee’s head swiveled around to them. “I can manage it, no fuss.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Rhee,” said Isabel. “We’ll be patient.”

“I’m feeling
some vertigo,” said Alma, putting her wrist at her forehead.

“Oh-oh,” said Sammi Jo. “You better hurry, Mr. Rhee.”

At last, he tripped the lock’s tumblers and stepped back for them to file into his tailor shop.

They
clustered by the brushed copper cash register at the counter’s end. A red tailor’s chalk the shape of an oversized guitar pick and measuring tape lay on the countertop. He left on his pork pie hat.

The chill
from the running air conditioner bracketed in the transom raised the goose bumps on the ladies’ exposed flesh. Alma could see the white crystallized patches of freezer burn forming on them if they overstayed their time in here. The stale nicotine of smokers pervaded the tailor shop making it a veritable man-cave.

Mr. Rhee toed the shop door closed and
turned to them. “What’s this about your father Ray Burl whom I’ve never met?” he asked.

“Last week—it was on Thursday—he was found murdered at his workplace,” replied Sammi Jo.

Mr. Rhee winced at the announcement. “I’m sorry for—”

She heeled up her palm. “
Thanks but just hang tight. Let me first tell you the rest of my story.”

He
relented. “Go on then.”

“My father died wearing a
cashmere dress suit. We’ve narrowed down the local places he could’ve bought it as new to your shop.”

“Maybe, maybe not.
Does it match today’s apparel fashions?”

“
No idea since I only saw it the once after he died.”

“Did you
snap a photo of it?”

“
Huh? My father as a corpse? I hardly think so. Why do you need a picture?”

Mr. Rhee picked up the tailor’s chalk, tossed it a few inches into the air, and snagged
it in his palm. “It would help us to date the suit. Perhaps it’s his wedding coat, and he kept it in garment storage over all this time.”

“His
suit might be an older one then,” said Sammi Jo. “He wasn’t big on current dress fashions.”

“Men seldom are,” said Mr. Rhee. “Their wives keep them fashionably dressed. Thank goodness for me
, too.”

Isabel
brought up her concerns. “Cashmere is rather pricey, is it not? It also requires dry cleaning. Neither of those luxury expenses would be in a young bridegroom’s limited budget.”

“Perhaps an older friend or family member
passed it on to him as gently used.”

“Perhaps.” Isabel mulled it over.

Alma elevated her hand. “Do you mind cutting back the A/C?”

Mr. Rhee blinked at her. “Are you cold?”

She presented her bare arm. “Can’t you see all the goose bumps on me?”

He shrugged
under his beige seersucker dress jacket and flipped off the air conditioner unit.

“Thanks,” said
Alma.

Isabel went on.
“If Ray Burl did get the wedding coat as a hand-me-down, would he have come here for any alterations he required?”

“
Probably not by me because I just moved to Warrenton last year.”

“Where did you
hang your pork pie hat before, Mr. Rhee?” asked Isabel.

“
Annandale, inside the Capital Beltway, has a sizeable Korean population. But as an older man and a widower to boot, I sought a slower lifestyle. So I bought and opened my tailor shop here.”

“I was in the grocery store industry,” said Isabel. “How
is business going for you?”