Deadlock (FBI Thriller #24)(80)
“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?”
He clasped his large hands in front of him on the desktop and raised an eyebrow.
“If Mrs. Trumbo and her son and his unidentified girlfriend didn’t take the major to the local hospital, there wouldn’t be a physician’s report, no death certificate, no autopsy, even though it was an unattended death. There were evidently no questions because no one knew to ask any. He was cremated. Mrs. Trumbo came back to St. Lumis and bought the B&B and put an obituary in the St. Lumis Herald. Ronald went back to Baltimore. And that leaves the question: Did Major Trumbo really fall over dead with a heart attack? Or did something else happen, something Mrs. Trumbo doesn’t want anyone to know? And what happened to Ronald’s girlfriend? Hang on a second.” Pippa found Mrs. Trumbo’s Facebook page without difficulty and scrolled through her public photo gallery. “Wilde? Here’s a photo of Ronald Pomfrey and his mother. Given the date, the major was already dead.”
Wilde looked down at the photo on Pippa’s tablet of a slight young man with a big smile, carrying several books.
Pippa said, “He’s handsome as sin even with his hair beginning to recede. I don’t see any of Mrs. Trumbo in him, so I guess his dad was a looker. Here’s another photo of him with his art.” Ronald Pomfrey was standing next to a loom covered with a kaleidoscope of colored yarns forming a vivid picture of a dozen different fruits all tumbled together, so real you felt you could pluck out a plum or a pear and munch. His long, narrow hand rested possessively on the loom. “He studied at the Maryland Institute College of Art, a private art and design college in Baltimore.”
Wilde waited, then cocked his head to one side. “And?”
Pippa grinned. “Drum roll… I’ve studied Savich’s file on Marsia Gay. She also studied at the MICA, for one year. She’s an artist, modern sculpture in metals.”