Death Is a Cabaret

by Deborah Morgan

  Blanche said, “That can’t all be from those two buildings, can it?”

  He showed her the cover. It read, Building One — Residence. “The only things I’ve removed are the chairs I told you about that Sam’s working on and a couple of items for Sheila’s shop. I’ve told the movers to start with the house where the old gal had lived. It’ll be easier to empty — the other is stacked to the ceiling in some rooms — and that’ll give me more time to pack up everything in the other one. I have to say, it goes against my better judgment to leave on this fishing trip.”

  “The break will do you good. You’ve been working on that inventory day and night for a week.”

  “I suppose you’re right. But leaving means I’ll have to do the same thing next week when I get back.”

  “If I can keep up with all this —” she made a grand, sweeping gesture “— then you can inventory two little houses.” She tapped on the notebook. “Now, find me some Campaign furniture.”

  “Here’s something.” He pointed to a passage written in a form of shorthand left over from his days with the Bureau. It read CW. c. tent, 6 ch., 2 dsk 1 wr. 1 slt., all m., x.

  She shook her head. “I’ll never get used to your covert note-taking, Mr. FBI. Plain English, if you please.”

  “Sorry. It means that I have a Civil War era canvas tent, rolled up next to a stack of break-down furniture — the x means legs which fold, a typical design of Campaign furniture, as you know, so it could be compacted and moved easily while on campaign six chairs, a writing desk, a slanted desk that one was probably for maps — all made of mahogany.”

  “Are they in good shape?”

  “Near as I could tell. There wasn’t enough space to get a real good look at the tent, but the rest of the stuff is in excellent condition.”

  “Good enough for me. I’ll tell Joe and Mark to load them last so they can drop them off here.” Jeff nodded. He had asked Blanche to recommend the best movers she knew, and she’d gone ahead and lined them up for him.

  “This will add a great feel to Burton’s, don’t you think?”

  “Right up his alley.” Jeff put away the notebook, then told Blanche to give Sheila a call if she needed to get in touch with him while he was gone.

  He drove on to the ferry that would take him away from the city. As the transport made its way across the choppy waters of Puget Sound, he poured a cup of coffee from his Thermos and began reading a book on American antique furniture. It was an area he wasn’t too well versed in, and he needed to brush up because of his recent acquisitions. He supposed it made sense that the two packed houses seemed insignificant to Blanche — hell, she owned the largest antiques mall in Washington — but he wouldn’t kid himself. He had his work cut out for him: finishing inventory, wrapping hundreds of glass items, boxing up books, and making sure everything was moved before the demolition crew showed up on the thirtieth.

  He’d tacked on a bonus, getting the woman’s nephew to throw in fixtures and fittings. The extra money and time would be worth it for the clawfoot tubs and pedestal sinks, stained glass windows that were works of art, etched brass doorknobs and hinges.

  Occasionally, he looked up at the diehards standing on deck in the steady mist. They were straining to see land, as if the act would help speed the progress of the big hauler.

  When at last it docked, Jeff carefully drove the woodie up the ramp from the belly of the boat and onto the landing. He hoped he hadn’t used poor judgment in driving the wood-paneled station wagon. But the forecasters had predicted that the rain would stop by early evening, and he’d decided to put his faith in them. Conditions should be perfect for fishing throughout the weekend.

  He headed west toward Bill’s shop. He wanted to stop there first to pick up supplies and find out whether the Judge had arrived yet. Richard L. Larrabee, prominent Seattle district court judge and owner of a large fishing cabin, had been the host of this annual fishing trip for the last dozen or so years. Although Jeff had a key to the cabin, he’d prefer that the Judge arrived first to open up the place.

  Jeff thought about the Judge’s recent announcement to run for governor and wondered whether he would still be called “the Judge” if he won. The man seemed a natural to join the state political arena. He knew the law like Josiah Wedgwood had known jasperware, and besides, his integrity had been well known for decades.

  Jeff’s thoughts turned to the young man named Kyle Meredith whom the Judge had invited for the weekend. He wondered whether this Meredith kid collected anything, whether he would take up collecting antique lures and such, just as the Judge and Gordy and he himself had. Jeff had always been surprised that Sam didn’t collect fishing paraphernalia. He had some stuff, but only because he’d never been one to let go of money for something similar to what he already had. If a lure caught fish, he used it — whether it was a glass-eyed plug from the 1940s that had come in the tackle box passed down by his father, or a two-year-old plastic number that Helen had put in his Christmas stocking.

  Collections are borne of interest, whether it’s an interest generated by a favorite hobby or sport, or by an intriguing object that catches one’s eye. Quite often the interest is generated by one’s own name — like the woman he’d once met named Virginia Rose, after Homer Laughlin’s dish designs of the same name. That woman had more pieces of china than she could count during a leap year. Jeff estimated the collection to be worth in excess of seven grand.

  Jeff thought again about Kyle Meredith. He wouldn’t have voiced his concerns out loud, but privately he questioned whether an attempt to replace Gordy was necessary. He suspected that Bill would join in the nightly poker games, bride or no bride. And he was a little surprised that the Judge would give a newcomer directions to his secret fishing hideaway. Hell, maybe he planned to blindfold the guy and escort him in under the cloak of darkness. Jeff would’ve laughed, but in all honesty he wouldn’t have been a bit surprised if the Judge did just that.

  If a true fisherman knows anything, he knows this: Fishing is serious business.

  Jeff turned off the main road and started down the winding gravel lane. Ancient evergreens lined the path that led to the lakefront property where The Northwest Territory Bait and Tackle Shop stood. The building was partway down the slope that led to the dock, beyond which was a huge expanse of water.

  Jeff wasn’t the diehard fisherman that his buddies were, but the sight of it all calmed him, instilled a certain level of peace that he’d never found anywhere else. The picture before him seemed to promise that time would stand still, trophy fish would leap into creels, and poker hands to make even the most skilled of Vegas dealers nervous would be dealt. The sparkling-water beer commercials were right about what called to a man.

  Up top was a large gravel parking area, where Jeff spotted the Judge’s old Bronco.

  The brake lights glowed red like a traffic light against the drab green of the beat-up vehicle, then went dark. He could have replaced the Bronco several times over, but he maintained that his fishing luck would go south if he changed anything more than the sparkplugs and oil. The Judge climbed from inside and turned at the sound of Jeff’s approaching car. The tall, slender man waved, then leaned against the wind coming off the lake while Jeff brought the woodie to a stop.

  The Judge had white hair — it had been that way since his twenties — and Jeff suspected he used it to his advantage to reflect that seasoned look of a politician. But the older man now fought to maintain a healthy, youthful look by staying tanned and in shape.

  Jeff hopped out of the woodie, grabbing a jacket from the front seat. The two men exchanged a warm handshake, then started down the hill toward the shop.

  “Is that a Caribbean tan, or a canned one?” Jeff asked.

  The Judge laughed and slapped him on the back. “You think I never go fishing but what you’re invited? This is pure Washington sunshine.”

  “I’m surprised you’ve had time to enjoy what little sunshine we’ve had.”

  “
I figured I’d better squeeze in some fishing now, before the court docket and the campaign totally take over my life.”

  “I hope this wind dies down.” Jeff shoved his arms into the jacket. “Could play hell with the morning’s catches.”

  “That’s for sure, and I’d hate to think we came up on Thursday for no reason.”

  “I know what you mean.” Jeff was glad he made his own hours. “Nothing like catching a good mess of fish on Friday morning, while the working class is stuck in the I-5 corridor.”

  “Actually, I’m working on some solutions to Seattle’s traffic problem.”

  “Are these solutions about helping your fellow man, or are you just looking for a way to get the city’s votes?”

  “Why not both?” The Judge smiled.

  “Good point.”

  Gusts of wind targeted the primitive rockers on the porch of the bait shop, setting them in motion and causing them to creak eerily.

  “If this keeps up, all we’ll catch on the river is pneumonia,” the Judge said with a shiver. “And, I’ll be damned if I’m going to subsist on Carver’s chili all weekend, just because the fishing weather is lousy. Maybe I’d better buy some extra venison chops from Bill while we’re here.”

  “We should be fine. The forecasters predict this will give up the ghost by midnight.”

  “That’s a sure sign we’re in for trouble.”

  The Judge chuckled, then turned the conversation back to the traffic problem while the two walked down the hill. Jeff was so caught up in this information that he uncharacteristically opened the bait shop door and walked in without first scanning the room.

  “Good God.” The Judge grabbed Jeff’s arm.

  Jeff stopped, took in the sight before him.

  The shop looked liked the Atlantic after a shark’s feeding frenzy. The aquarium had been overturned, shattered. Several fish were scattered across the floor, some flapping and jerking pitifully, while others, motionless, stared blankly.

  The tank’s water had mingled with red liquid and had worked its way across the wooden floor, blanketing the boards with a pinkish tinge. In the center of the room, surrounded by an astonishing amount of blood, lay Bill Rhodes.

  THE WEEDLESS WIDOW and the remaining titles in the Antique Lover’s Mystery Series will be published in 2013 by Crossroad Press.

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