The Weedless Widow

by Deborah Morgan

  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.

  CHAPTER THREE

  GEAR RULES: You may not use drugs, explosives, or poison that may kill or injure fish and wildlife.

  —Washington State Department of Fish and Wildlife

  Jeff rushed to Bill, checked his neck for a pulse. If there was one, it was so faint that he couldn’t separate it from the one pounding in his own ears.

  The Judge reached across the counter for the phone.

  “Wait,” Jeff said. “Use your cell phone. No sense muddying up the crime scene with our prints.”

  The Judge pulled back, then nodded and unclipped the phone from his belt.

  Jeff carefully rolled Bill onto his back. Right away he saw that resuscitation was out of the question. Blood plastered Bill’s shirt, and he couldn’t distinguish ripped fabric from ripped flesh.

  On the floor where he had fallen lay what looked like a miniature of the devil’s pitchfork. Instinctively, Jeff’s gaze went to the wall behind the counter, where the antique three-pronged fish spear had hung for the past five years.

  “Make it damn quick,” the Judge snapped. He punched a button to disconnect the call, then turned toward Jeff.

  Jeff saw the blood rush from the Judge’s face as his gaze fell upon the body.

  “You okay, Judge?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve never seen so much blood.”

  “I thought you’d be used to stuff like this by now. You’ve been a judge for years.”

  “Not this side of the crime circuit. Crime-scene photos aren’t the same as the real thing.” He ran to the back room. Jeff heard water running and wondered if the sight had made the man sick. After a moment, though, the Judge returned carrying an aquarium half full of water. He was red-faced and the veins stood out on either side of his neck. The tank held a jumble of sculptures and treasure chests, and its sides were heavily coated with mineral deposits, but it didn’t appear to be leaking. The Judge set down the tank, scooped up a pair of gloves from an overturned display stand, shoved his hands into them, picked up a flopping fish, and placed it in the tank. Then he stooped to pick up another fish.

  Jeff walked to where the Judge was working, nodded in the direction of the body. “Looks like it hit his heart.”

  The Judge straightened and said something about needing more water. He started toward the back, then stopped. “Hell,” he said in a hushed tone, “whoever did this might still be here.”

  “If they were, they’d have coldcocked you when you went back there the first time.”

  “I suppose I was taking a chance. It honestly never crossed my mind that we might be in danger.”

  Jeff wondered if the Judge had fallen into a false sense of immunity to the underside of the world. That could be as dangerous as a cop who felt untouchable for no reason other than the presence of his uniform and gun.

 
The fact was, Jeff realized it hadn’t crossed his mind either that someone might be lurking back there. He chastised himself for that one. He’d been away from the Bureau for a little more than six years, and although he’d worked the milder side tracking leads on thefts from museums, libraries, and auction houses — he’d still been trained, for God’s sake. He’d gone through everything from firing range qualification to cyber-crime strategies. He’d even taught some of the classes at Quantico. Was his new vocation — which consisted of tracking leads on other people’s castoffs, shooting through traffic in order to arrive at an estate sale on time, interrogating sellers over the finer points of their wares making him soft?

  He looked at the scene in front of him through different eyes, then said, “We’re probably okay. If this had been premeditated, the killer likely would’ve brought his own weapon. This looks like your classic crime of passion. He probably panicked, took off as soon as he realized what he’d done.”

  Jeff mentally replayed their movements, not only for his own curiosity but also for the report he knew they’d have to give to the officials once they arrived on the scene. “I don’t think we’ve disturbed things too much.”

  He looked around. Although this was a bait shop, Bill had obviously invested a fortune in atmosphere. The appeal of the place was in its woodsy aromas: jerky in aged barrels, coffee percolating on the potbellied stove, cured-willow creels appointed with leather, alderwood-smoked salmon. Most guys who trekked across land and water to retreat into cabins and tents threw over the daily ritual of scraping stubble from jawlines, the constant headache of commuter traffic, the perpetual stress of corporate America. Walking into Bill’s shop was like passing through The Bronze Door. It allowed one to leave everything else behind.

  Only the aquarium stocked with exotic fish might have seemed out of place to a stranger. But in Bill, Jeff recognized a kindred spirit: although he liked rugged surroundings, he also enjoyed owning things of beauty.

  The Judge cleared his throat, bringing Jeff back to the present. “How long do you reckon he’s been lying here like this?”

  “Hard to say. Not too long, I don’t think, but I could be wrong. The blood loss was fast, and some of the fish were still alive.” Jeff watched the fish in the tank. If he didn’t know better, he’d say they looked a bit startled, but basically okay. In today’s PC society, he wouldn’t be surprised if someone suggested bringing in a trauma team for the finned survivors. He shook his head before that picture took root in his brain.

  He remembered Bill’s cold skin. “Anyway, the M.E. will have a better idea of how quickly a body cools when the blood has gone from it like that.”

  Jeff looked toward the back of the building. He knew from prior visits that the back room was about a third the size of the retail portion of the shop, with shelving for extra stock and an L-shaped kitchenette in one corner. Another corner held a tiny bathroom. They needed to secure the bathroom.

  If the murderer had gone out the back door, he could have bolted in any one of three directions and become immediately hidden by the dense woods. To the west, the fourth direction, was the lake.

  “Guess we’d better take a look, huh?” Jeff started toward the stockroom. The Judge followed, and, carefully, they checked between rows of shelves, then threw the bathroom door open with a bang and peered inside. No one.

  It took less than half a minute to secure the rooms. When they were through, Jeff looked out a window over the kitchen sink. The wind was still gusting, whipping tree branches and making frothy whitecaps on the lake’s surface. “If they left by way of a boat, they had a challenge on their hands.”

  The Judge looked over Jeff’s shoulder. “I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be out there.”

  “He, or she, had a lot —”

  “She?” The Judge’s tone was heavy with skepticism.

  “Could’ve been. Although she would have to be one hell of a strong woman to thrust a spear that far into Bill’s chest. Anyway, the killer had a lot of choices for someone who didn’t plan ahead. Could’ve escaped by boat, or car, or even on foot, for that matter. Lots of remote cabins out here.”

  The back door was standing open and the screen was unlatched, but Jeff knew this was nothing to be alarmed about. Bill had always kept it unlocked during business hours for people coming in off the water.

  He opened the door, careful not to touch anything. He and the Judge went out back to check for any clues that might tell them if the killer had left that way. There were several different footprints on the dirt path that led up from the dock, but the last hour’s drizzle had played hell with their definition. No telling how many people had been in this morning, or how many of the tracks belonged to Bill himself, who had often boated over from his home on the opposite side of the lake.

  Instinctively, Jeff glanced toward the dock, scanning the area for Bill’s boat. It wasn’t there. Bill’s truck hadn’t been in the parking lot, either. Jeff wondered whether Bill’s truck or boat had been stolen, or whether Tanya, Bill’s new wife, had dropped him off. It wouldn’t have been the first time Bill had been a victim of theft. He’d had a break-in a couple of years earlier and had lost several antique lures.

  Just then the distant wail of sirens came from the south.

  Jeff and the Judge walked around the building and stepped up onto the porch as the sirens grew louder and louder. They choked off with a squawk like that of a bird grabbed by the throat, then two uniformed officers made their way down the path from the parking lot.

  “Don’t touch anything!” A portly, ruddy-faced boy waved his arms as if he were fighting flies off a pie. “You hear me down there? Don’t touch a damned thing!”

  “Simmer down, Roy,” said a woman’s voice behind him. “They either have, or they haven’t, and there’s not a blessed thing you can do about it now.” Jeff picked up a slight hint of an Irish brogue.

  Roy’s complexion reddened further — an angry shade — but he didn’t say anything else.

  As they neared the porch, the second uniform circled around the hefty kid. “I’m Sheriff Colleen McIvers. This is my deputy, Roy Manning.”

  Sheriff McIvers had a creamy complexion, green eyes, and what might have been red hair had there been any under her tightly cinched ball cap. Chemo, probably.

  A closer look revealed telltale signs that she’d lost some weight, too. The wind lifted her unzipped jacket to reveal loose-fitting slacks held up by a belt showing previous wear a good two inches looser than the current notch.

  McIvers stepped over the threshold of the bait shop. “Lord, this place looks like a slaughterhouse. What happened, Bill,” she said to the victim as if he might actually answer her, “did you go and miss a fishing prediction and get somebody’s ire up?”

  She squatted beside the body, checked the neck with her fingers.

  Jeff said, “I couldn’t find a pulse. Are you getting anything?”

  The sheriff frowned. “Have you got some kind of training?”

  “The FBI kind. In my former life.”

  “That means you don’t know crap about murder.” She took a notepad and pen from her pocket. “What’s your name?”

  Jeff introduced himself, letting the sheriff’s comment ride. True, FBI agents didn’t investigate murder except in special cases, but they damn well knew how to check for a pulse.

  “Who’s your sidekick?”

  The Judge’s face showed an unmistakable look of disbelief at the woman’s lack of professionalism. Nevertheless, he extended his hand so quickly that Jeff figured it was a new habit his friend had practiced for the campaign trail. “Richard Larrabee.”

  “You look familiar.” The sheriff shook the Judge’s hand, all the while studying his face.

  “Newspapers or television, perhaps. I recently announced my intention to run for governor.”

  The sheriff’s brows arched slightly, but she gave no response. She scribbled something else in the notebook, then turned to Roy. “Use the cruiser’s radio and
get Gary out here. Tell him to call Lester, too.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “And stay up top,” she added. “Keep the gawkers and would-be customers out of here.”

  The sheriff studied the crime scene for a few seconds. She walked around the counter, punched a cash register key with a pencil eraser, and grunted once. “Didn’t come for the money.”

  Jeff said, “Or else they got scared away before they could get to it.”

  She looked at him, but didn’t respond. She nodded toward the body. “Who turned him over?”

  “That would be me,” Jeff said. “I’d hoped I could perform CPR, but . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “You secured the back of the building?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “What all did you two touch?”

  Jeff spoke first. “I only touched the body. The back door was open. I pushed against the screen with my shoulder.”

  She looked at the Judge expectantly.

  “Ah, I opened the front door when we arrived. Anyone would’ve done that. Used my cell phone to call in — that was Jeff’s idea.” He indicated the fish tank. “Then I got this aquarium from the back, put on some gloves, and picked up the fish that were still alive.”

  Jeff heard a commotion, then two paramedics rushed in on either end of a clattering gurney and almost fell when the soles of their shoes hit the wet floor.

  “Take ‘er easy, fellas,” the sheriff said. “There’s nothing you can do here but wait for Mills to show up.”

  They conducted a perfunctory exam anyway, and the sheriff didn’t seem to mind. Everyone had a job to do.

  After they’d determined that there was no hope for Bill, the men parked their gurney out of the way and stood beside it.

  The sheriff said, “I wonder how long it takes for a fish to die.”