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51
ST. LUMIS
POLICE STATION
TUESDAY NIGHT
When Pippa stepped into the warmth of the St. Lumis police station, she saw Deputy Davie Hauck bundled in a heavy coat, handmade fingerless mittens on his hands, hunched over, talking on his cell. Davie looked up, punched off his cell, and waved. “Hello, Chief, Agent ma’am. I got a call from Mrs. Gilly about a varmint, probably a possum, raising a ruckus in her she-shed. She locked it in.” Davie lumbered to his feet. “I guess I gotta go see what’s what.” He walked toward the door, still hunched over in his coat.
Wilde said, humor in his voice, “Looking at Davie, you’d think the station was the North Pole.” He pointed to another older man, his brown uniform starched cardboard stiff, expertly twirling a pencil between his fingers. “Clem? This is Special Agent Cinelli, FBI. Clem’s my dispatcher. He’s very proud of his full name, right, Clem?”
Clem beamed at her. He was older, slight, with about ten pounds of thick white hair on his head. “That’s right. My mom calls it alliteration. I’m Clement Collin Clark, ma’am—C cubed.” He grinned, showing very white buck teeth. “So, Chief, it’s all over town this lovely lady is your new girlfriend. Davie said she was a looker, and she was in some kind of trouble. But I don’t see why she can’t take care of herself, seeing she’s a federale.” Clem paused and eyed Pippa. “You sure don’t look like an FBI agent.”
Pippa arched a brow at him. “I don’t? Oh my, that’s not good. I guess I’ll have to try harder. Any suggestions, Clem?”
“Don’t mean anything by it, Agent Cinelli. You can’t help it if you’re pretty. I’m happy to help if I can, otherwise I’d have to be dealing with the little ghostbusters who threw tennis balls at the Harmons’ house Halloween night when they weren’t home to give out candy. Broke a window and the neighbors reported it. Chief, please give me something I can do for you instead.”
“As a matter of fact, Clem, we do need your help. I’d like you to take a walk around town, talk to people, see if you hear about anyone new in town. Agent Cinelli and I will be in my office.”
Wilde’s office was long and narrow with windows across the back looking out at a scraggly tree and two bushes Pippa didn’t recognize, a parking lot off to the left. A nice oak credenza sat behind an ancient military-looking desk, probably from World War II. There were wire baskets, a pile of papers, and a brand-new computer on top of the desk, nothing else. Two chairs sat in front of the desk. Wilde motioned her to a chair, sat down, and booted up his Mac.
While he waited, Wilde said, “By the way, I know Grizzlie. If he was guilty of dropping a gum wrapper on the sidewalk, he’d come to me and confess. Grizzlie didn’t look at your tablet.”
“I can see Mrs. Trumbo snooping,” Pippa said. “Not a big deal, simple curiosity about her guests, maybe telling herself she was protecting the others. But then who did she tell? Did she consider an FBI agent staying at her B&B only an interesting bit of gossip? Or did she have another reason for searching my room? Do you think someone paid her to keep an eye out for a stranger who could be FBI?” Pippa shook her head. “But who would pay her?”
“All good questions.”
Pippa looked down at her tablet. “Before we start dumpster-diving, let me tell you what I already know. Major Trumbo was career army, retired, honorably discharged. He and Mrs. Filly were married for fifteen years, no children. After he divorced Mrs. Filly, he married Mrs. Trumbo, also divorced. The major did consulting work on government contracts with the army. He died of a heart attack, was cremated, and sits, as you saw, in a beautiful gold urn on the mantel in Mrs. Trumbo’s living room.
“Mrs. Trumbo’s son by her first husband—Ronald Pomfrey’s his name—is a textile artist. He moved back to Baltimore after staying here in St. Lumis with his mom and the major for a couple of years. That’s all we’ve got.”
There was a knock on Wilde’s door. A dazzling young woman with long, dark brown hair in a French braid thicker than Pippa’s danced in, no other way to put it. She looked insanely happy. “I wanted to meet the FBI agent, Chief.” She stuck out her hand to Pippa, who obligingly shook it. “I’m Deputy Lorraine Carr, but everybody calls me Mouse.”
Pippa nodded and smiled. “I’m Agent Cinelli.”
“It’s a total pleasure. Chief, is there anything special you want me to do?”
“Do what you do best, Mouse, but keep your eyes open. Let me know if you see anything unusual.”
“You got it.”
After Mouse danced out, Pippa asked, “And just what does Mouse do best?”
“Parking meter patrol. No one ever gets pissed when Mouse gives them a parking ticket. It’s like she waves fairy dust on them and they smile even though she’s taken twenty bucks out of their pockets. So do you want to call Savich?”
“No, he and MAX have enough on their plates. Actually, I’m pretty good at this myself. How about you?”
He smiled, and they settled in to work.
After a bit, Pippa raised her face. “Wilde?”
He looked up. “Yeah?”
“I think I might have something. Here’s Major Trumbo’s obituary in the St. Lumis Herald.” She read: “?‘Major Corinthian Ellis Trumbo died unexpectedly of a heart attack while vacationing in the Poconos with his family.’ It lists his age, sixty-two, and briefly mentions his military service and that he had no surviving children. No mention of Mrs. Filly. I guess Mrs. Trumbo wrote the obit.” She typed a moment, then looked up. “And here’s another obituary in a veterans’ magazine. A bit more here. Yes, it says Major Trumbo was vacationing at his stepson’s cabin with his wife, stepson, and one of Ronald’s female friends, in the Poconos, near Cold Bluff. Sounds like a girlfriend to me. Just a second.” Pippa called up the Poconos on her tablet map. “Here we go. Cold Bluff is a tiny hamlet, maybe half an hour from Bushkill, which is very small, too. The obit goes on to say the heart attack was sudden, with no medical warnings. He was cremated, and a memorial service was held at his home in St. Lumis, Maryland.”
Wilde held up his hand and punched in a number on his cell. “Davie? Do you remember a memorial service for Major Trumbo here in St. Lumis? Really? Okay, I see. No, no problem.” He looked up. “Davie says there was no memorial service held here for Major Trumbo. I wonder where the major was cremated.”
“Hang on. Okay, no funeral homes in Bushkill; it’s too small. Here we go, the closest funeral home is in Stroudsburg. Give me your cell, Wilde.” He listened to her talk a clerk at the funeral home into checking her records. When she hung up, she shook her head. “He wasn’t cremated in Stroudsburg. Of course, there are other funeral homes in the wider area, but you know what’s smacking me in the face?”
