Ed Lynskey - Isabel and Alma Trumbo 03 - The Ladybug Song (8 page)

“You’ll
find the ice scraper in the glove compartment,” replied Isabel.

“I guess
it’s better than nothing,” said Alma.

“Petey
Samson has gotten us started,” replied Isabel. “We’ll be finished with this task
lickety-split.”

“Uh-huh,”
said Alma before she couldn’t locate the ice scraper.

Chapter 15

Alma heard her joints popping, hissing, and cracking while getting down on her hands and
knees. She knew her rising back upright would repeat the ominous noises. Later on,
she would claim first dibs on the heating pad, and she wondered if Eustis stocked
any Doan’s Pills or Bengay at the drugstore. She’d heard of one dubious folk
remedy for an achy back instructing the sufferer to lie prone on the grass and
roll over clockwise at the first night call of the screech owl. Alma didn’t believe it. Screech owls had no curative powers.

The
ladies huddled around Petey Samson still intent on enlarging the cavity. The
sand had a moist, fecund odor. Isabel felt Alma’s eyes on her and wrinkled up her
nose at her younger sister.

“Quit
taking yourself so doggone seriously,” said Isabel. “You enjoy grubbing in the
dirt to plant crocus and daffodil bulbs. Pretend that’s what you’re doing here.”

At her
command, Petey Samson retreated.

“If a local
busybody drives by and spots us, we’ll be the butt of the townies’ jokes,” said
Alma.

“There
is no pleasing you today,” said Isabel. “You must have gotten up on the wrong side
of the bed this morning.”

“What
the townies say about me doesn’t amount to a row of thimbles in a windstorm,” said
Phyllis, the town’s kooky bag lady. “I just dare to be different, and I wave my
freak flag high and proud.”

“What is
the freak flag reference you used?” asked Isabel.

“It’s a 1960s
hippies’ term meaning do your own thing,” replied Phyllis.

“Ouch,”
said Alma. “Oh, tartar sauce, I just broke off my nail and it hurts.”

“Impossible
since you chew your nails down to the nubs,” said Isabel. “Nice try though, piker.
You keep on scooping out that river sand. Many hands make light work as
Gwendolyn liked to remind us.”

Alma wasn’t done. “My nose itches, and I can’t scratch it with my hands covered by the gritty
sand.”

“Funny
how your nose picks now of all the times to act up,” said Isabel.

“Use
your sleeve as a substitute nose scratcher,” said Phyllis. “We bag ladies do
that when our hands are filled with salvaged treasures.”

Alma followed Phyllis’s tip and achieved satisfactory results. She smiled her thanks at
Phyllis.

“Is your
itch better now?” asked Isabel, her cupped hand penetrating an extra deep layer
of sand to remove it.

“Everybody
will keep on digging so you can relax,” replied Alma. She glanced at Petey
Samson. He lounged over there, yawning between his slobbery pants, and his tail
wagged as it always did. The scene was all wrong, Alma thought. He was the one who
should be still burrowing in the hole and not them.

“
Bowwow
,
you lazybones,” said Alma. “Thanks to you I’m ruining my frosty pink nail
polish. The next time we come, you’ll stay home.”

“Quit scolding
Petey Samson,” said Isabel. “He’s our good luck charm.”

“His
charms must’ve expired on us,” said Alma. “We’re hitting nothing but more sand.”

“His unerring
nose flagged this spot,” said Isabel. “I trust following his keen sense of
smell more than your crusty view of the world.”

“My poor
hands can’t go on working like a human backhoe,” said Phyllis, holding up her
sand-crusted fingers. “Just look at the claws. This wretched sand runs clear
down to China. Something has got to give one way or the other.”

Alma also paused. “Phyllis also speaks for me. How much deeper should we dig, Isabel?”

“Digging
a few more inches should be thorough enough,” replied Isabel. “Petey Samson had
a reason for picking this place, and I refuse to accept he’d steer us wrong.”

“For
once, just admit he blew it,” said Alma. “He sent us on a wild goose chase.”

“
Honk-honk
,”
said Isabel. Laughing, she also took a break and straightened up. She wiped the
back of her bent wrist across her sweaty forehead. In her excitement, she
didn’t realize she had expended so much energy. She gave Petey Samson a
one-eyed squint. She feared he was merely their pet, a playful but run-of-the-mill
dog and not the ace K-9 search dog she built him up to be.

Petey
Samson arose, stretched his hind legs, and trotted over to the sand pit. She
gave him an ear scratch. He inched his deliberate way to the bottom of the hole.
Isabel’s eyebrows arched as she regarded him with renewed interest. He tracked
his nose back and forth like a prospector operating the handheld tube to a Geiger
counter in quest of the radioactive vein of uranium ore.

He tested
every square inch of sand they’d just laid bare to the October sun. He didn’t
rush things, acting as if he had all day. A smile tugged at the Isabel’s mouth.
She was a second away from putting on a victorious smile. From the corner of
her eye, she noticed Alma also didn’t miss watching a move he made.

Petey
Samson gave the ladies an over-the-shoulder glance. He realized no doggie treat
was forthcoming, even from Isabel who was usually the soft mark to hit up. He scratched
his front claws to re-attack the sand. His latest goofball antic annoyed Alma. He didn’t know when it was time to quit. She sent a hankering look behind them at the
Coronet River.

Her plan was
to wash off the gritty sand clinging to her fingers. After the riverside
cleaning, they’d putter on home. They’d quench their thirsts by sipping tall
glasses of iced tea. They’d share a few chuckles over how foolhardy they had been
to press Petey Samson into service as a bloodhound. It would be a funny tale to
tell repeatedly.

“Hey, you
all,” said Alma. “What say we wind up things and go wash—?”

“Hold on,
Petey Samson has made contact with something,” said Isabel, allowed to horn in
on Alma because it was that urgent.

“Maybe he
found our lost marbles,” said Alma.

“See the
patch of mango yellow?” Phyllis extended her finger at Petey Samson busy tossing
back the pawfuls of sand. “What is it?”

“No mango
yellow object I know of belongs buried in the river sand,” said Isabel giving Alma a wry glance.

Alma
felt a spark of excitement leap up in her chest.

“It looks
rectangular and larger than a picnic basket,” said Phyllis. “Can it be a
suitcase?”

“It can
be and it most likely is,” replied Isabel.

“Huh, a mango
yellow suitcase. Well now, that takes the cake, doesn’t it?” Alma was the first
lady who climbed down into the hole. “Isabel, call away Petey Samson, and I’ll finish
removing the sand from around the suitcase.”

“I’m
confused. You just told us you were finished with digging,” said Isabel being
coy. “Now I hear this coming from you. Which is it?”

“I was just
venting my frustration,” said Alma.

Isabel
gave the right command, and Petey Samson pulled back. He’d proven his canine nose
wasn’t defective or erroneous. The scent he’d registered on Ladybug’s headscarf
also existed beneath the sand. Just as inquisitive as the lady sleuths, he’d never
rest until he identified the scent’s origin.

Groaning
like pressing down an old coil spring mattress, Alma crouched down and cupping
her hand, she brushed away enough sand to expose the suitcase’s plastic handle.
“It looks almost brand new,” she said.

“Maybe an
airline passenger’s baggage got lost and ended up here,” said Phyllis.

“Then the
poor traveler doesn’t have any clean socks to put on,” said Isabel.

The
suitcase rested in a flat position. Alma notched out the sand from around its four
sides enough to get a good grip on the handle and give it an upward tug. She clenched
her teeth and thought it had to be as heavy as one of the three giant rusty anchors
set out in front of the fire department station. She dragged up the suitcase and
left it on the sand by Isabel and Phyllis, their eyes shining with curiosity.

Phyllis
smiled. “What is inside it? Show me before I fling a duck fit.”

Isabel
didn’t need to possess Superman’s X-ray vision to peer through and identify what
the suitcase held. She’d read crime novels by the bushelful, and she’d learned what
contents caused mysterious suitcases like this mango yellow one to weigh so heavy.

“Wouldn’t
you know it’s locked up tight?” said Phyllis, fiddling with the brass latches
that refused to spring open.

“We’ve dug
too far and broken too many nails to give up now,” said Alma. “I suggest using
a hooligan bar to jimmy open the locks.” She set her eyes on Isabel.

“Don’t
look at me,” said Isabel. “I’m plumb out of hooligan bars, not that I’d know one
if I saw it much less held it in my hands.”

“Alma is after something long and sturdy to get at the suitcase’s latches,” said Phyllis.

“What are
you trying to accomplish with that?” asked Alma, nodding at Isabel.

She’d removed
the 3X magnifying glass from her pocketbook. “I need to take a closer look at
these stubborn latches.”

“Where is
Sammi Jo when you need her and her lock picks?” asked Alma.

“I can see
nothing helpful so give her a ring at work,” said Isabel returning the 3X
magnifying glass to her pocketbook. “I’d rather wait for her to come over than to
leave or rebury the suitcase. Besides the suspense to see what’s inside it is growing
unbearable.”

“For me,
too,” said Phyllis. “I bet it holds a jackpot of costume jewelry perfect for accessorizing
my bag lady outfits.”

“I bet it
doesn’t,” said Isabel.

It took Alma two attempts to make contact with Sammi Jo who chuckled after Alma described their latest
quandary.

“Leave it
to you gals to run into the strangest problems,” said Sammi Jo. “All right, stay
calm, and I’ll talk you through the different steps.”

“Different
steps as in more than one?” said Alma. “That already sounds too complicated. Your
nimble fingers stand the best chance. Can you get over here within the next
hour?”

“I’m
snowed under after all the time I’ve missed at work, Alma, but I have confidence
in you. I’ll go slowly, and you can ask me any questions. First, do any of you have
a paper clip or bobby pin?”

“Do
either of you have a paper clip or bobby pin?” Alma asked Isabel and Phyllis.

Isabel
shook her head no and Phyllis gave a helpless shrug.

“Everybody
says they don’t have either,” said Alma. “Plan B?”

“The
simplest thing is to do is to keep jiggling and tugging at the suitcase clasps,”
said Sammi Jo. “Sometimes they get stuck, especially if the suitcase like this
one has been surrounded by wet sand, and the sand grains have wormed their way
down to jam the locks’ working mechanisms.”

Alma
passed on Sammi Jo’s instructions to Phyllis who took off
her shoe and used its stout heel to beat on the clasps as if she was taking out
a cockroach crawling over her pillowcase.

“How is
it coming along there?” asked Sammi Jo.

“So far it’s
not all that well,” replied Alma. “Remember the TV commercial with the gorilla mauling
the suitcase left inside his cage?”

“It must
have been aired before my time, but I can probably view it on YouTube,” said
Sammi Jo. “What happened since I’m too busy to check it out?”

“The
suitcase never came apart while he took out his gorilla temper tantrums on it,”
replied Alma. “We might have the same luggage brand on our hands.”

“The
manufacturers just build them too well,” said Sammi Jo.

“The bad
news is Phyllis broke off the heel of her shoe,” said Alma. “The good news is
we’ve got five more shoes.”

Sammi Jo wasn’t
encouraged. “There has got to be a less destructive way.”

“We’re down
to using Ali Baba’s open sesame command,” said Alma.

“I
command you to open sesame,” said Phyllis, yanking on the clasp with a two-handed
jerk. “Hey, what do you know? I just freed the clasp.”

“Guess
what happened?” Alma said to Sammi Jo. “The open sesame command just worked for
us. That Ali Baba sure knew his stuff.”

“After
all that work, surely your efforts are rewarded,” said Sammi Jo. “What does the
suitcase contain?”

After she
pushed back in her eyeballs that had bulged out of their sockets, Alma replied in a dry rasp. “Money.”

Isabel
and Phyllis were left speechless, and Petey Samson at sensing their intensity
woofed-woofed
.
Isabel had suspected money filled the suitcase, but the sight of so many
greenbacks stunned her.

“Awesome,”
said Sammi Jo. “How much is there?”

“Gobs of green
are rubberbanded in bundles of one hundred-dollar banknotes.”

“
Ka-ching
!
Can I quit my day job?” asked Sammi Jo.

“To be on
the safe side, you better hold off on turning in your resignation letter just
yet,” said Alma.

“Which of
the dead presidents is on a C note?” asked Sammi Jo.