The Weedless Widow

by Deborah Morgan

  “What?” Jeff asked.

  She indicated the motionless fish on the floor.

  All four men shrugged.

  “We’re in a fishing village, for Pete’s sake. Don’t tell me nobody knows how long it takes for a fish to die.” She shook her head, then furiously scribbled on the notepad.

  One of the paramedics pulled a pack of smokes from his jacket pocket, gave a jerk of his head to his partner, and the two of them went outside.

  After they’d left, Jeff indicated the wall. “You might want to make a note that the murder weapon is an antique. It was taken from that empty spot in the display.”

  “And how would you know that?”

  “For starters, I sold it to Bill. I’m an antiques picker. I buy —”

  “I know what a picker does, Mr. Talbot.” The sheriff jotted something in a notebook as she spoke. “He buys from the poor and sells to the rich.”

  The Judge nudged Jeff. “She’s got your number, Talbot.”

  The sheriff turned back to Jeff. “So, you know a lot about the murder weapon, Mister Picker?”

  “There are good and bad in every profession, Sheriff,” Jeff said. “Even yours.”

  “Point taken.”

  “As far as the murder weapon goes, I just know that it’s antique. Vintage, anyway. Type of thing Bill liked.”

  The sheriff started out the door. “You two come with me.”

  She went out on the porch, positioned one of the rockers opposite two others, then told the men to sit. They sat.

  “I’ll be back in a minute.” She walked around the building, and Jeff figured she was looking for more clues. She was back in less time than it took to tell it. She dropped into the chair facing them, wrote something else in her notebook, then looked up. “Give it to me from the top.”

  Jeff picked up on the fact that she sounded a little out of breath. He wondered how she kept up with the demands of her job. Of course, murder investigations ran few and far between out here.

  It didn’t take him long to give her a rundown of the afternoon’s events, and to tell her that an initial check of the scene revealed nothing much in the way of clues. Of course, he’d missed the relatively obvious fact that no cash had been taken.

  “Which one of you is driving the classic?”

  “That would be me,” Jeff said, wondering if he’d have to trot out that phrase a third time before they were through. He also wondered if the question was relevant.

  “What are you? A surfer relocated from California?”

  “No. I like the water, but not from on top of a board. Actually, the woodie’s great for hauling the loot I get from those people you think I’m putting in the poorhouse. And when I really clean somebody out, I send in a couple of muscled-up bouncer types with a big truck. Besides, the woodie generates more trust than if I were driving a beat-up old truck and wearing last week’s castoffs.”

  She watched Jeff a moment, then smiled. “Do you own a fishing cabin up here?”

  “I do.” The Judge cleared his throat. “But, what makes you think we’re here to fish?”

  The sheriff laughed. “You’re wearing flannel instead of robes, driving a Bronco instead of a Jaguar, and stopping at a bait shop instead of the county courthouse in town. I could’ve deduced that when I was twelve.”

  The Judge arched a brow. “Well done, Sheriff. Is this where I’m supposed to offer you a job with my campaign?”

  Jeff detected a flicker of something in the sheriff’s eyes as she stared at the Judge. Resentment? “Thanks just the same,” she said finally, “but I like being a hick in the sticks. I may not work too many homicides, but nothing says I can’t handle it.”

  The Judge’s expression relaxed. “I have no doubt that you can.”

  Jeff thought how frail the sheriff looked in the large wooden chair. It hadn’t crossed his mind to question the abilities of Sheriff McIvers. He offered an observation in hopes that it would get the questioning back on track. “Murder is murder, Sheriff, and the fact that this one happened in a relatively isolated fishing area doesn’t change the ripple effect. I don’t envy you your job.”

  The sheriff nodded without comment, then said to the Judge, “Where is your cabin?”

  “At the end of Gordon Road. My friends” — he nodded toward Jeff — “and I come over whenever we get the chance.”

  “Friends? I only see one.”

  Jeff said, “Two more will be arriving this evening.”

  The sheriff started writing again. “How do you know they aren’t already in the area?”

  Now, there’s a good point, Jeff thought. To the sheriff, he said, “I left one of them at his workplace in Seattle —”

  “And I did the same with the other,” said the Judge. “Matter of fact” — he checked his watch — “he had a deposition to give about forty-five minutes ago. There’s no way he’s here yet.”

  The sound of tires crunching gravel came from the direction of the parking lot. A few seconds later, two men and a young woman made their way down the path.

  “I only heard one car,” the sheriff said as she stood. “What’d you do, Gary, carpool?”

  “Sure, why not? Lester here was at the station when Roy Boy called.”

  Jeff noted that Gary’s build was enough like “Roy Boy’s” to have made them brothers. This one was several years older, but the two shared the same red face and portly build. The man referred to as Lester, thin and gray-haired with rimless glasses, carried a black metal case. Jeff figured him for the M.E.

  “Paramedics are out back. You can give them a holler when you’re ready for them.” The sheriff sent the trio inside, then spent the next few minutes getting contact information from Jeff and the Judge. Once she finished that, the sheriff announced that she’d better go break the news to Bill’s wife. “Have either of you met her?”

  “Yes, actually,” Jeff said. “We met her last year, briefly. Didn’t really visit with her, though. We’d just bought supplies and were leaving when she dropped by the shop.”

  “That’s right,” the Judge said. “Bill was happy as a clam, showing her off to us. There was no mistaking that.”

  Roy, who had walked back down the path, snickered at what he’d obviously overheard. “I bet that was the last time she was here at the shop,” he said. “She’s usually gone shopping, or with her personal trainer, Gunther, or out on the golf course, or trying to get Bill to agree to that real estate deal, or —”

  “Roy,” the sheriff’s voice sounded strained, “get back up top and keep this place secured.”

  “I came down to tell you that —”

  “Wait,” Jeff said, unable to contain his curiosity. “How would you know her schedule?” He half expected the sheriff to remind him just who was in charge of investigating this murder.

  “That’s easy,” said Roy. “My mom is Tanya’s hairdresser.”

  “Roy,” the sheriff said, “didn’t anyone ever tell you that you can’t believe a damned thing a beautician says?”

  Jeff wondered if her attitude had something to do with her own lack of hair.

  The sheriff jotted something else in her notebook, then looked at Roy. “Do what I told you and keep the area secured.” She leaned in to deliver the next line to the deputy. Still, Jeff caught the words loud and clear. “And that includes your mouth.”

  The M.E. walked out onto the porch, stripped the latex gloves from his hands, and deposited them in a zip bag. As he sealed it, he said, “Rain’s picking up, Colleen.”

  “So?”

  He dropped the sealed packet into a pocket of his lab coat. “So, uh, shouldn’t you get inside somewhere before you take sick?”

  She glared at him. “I meant, what about Bill?”

  “Don’t have to worry none about him getting sick.” When she gave him a warning stare, he turned to Jeff and the Judge. “Sorry, folks. It’s that laugh-to-keep-from-crying ploy. I’m gonna miss that ol’ coot.”

  Jeff suddenly realized that he wo
uld, too. Bill was as much a part of the scenery there as the lake and the evergreens and the fish themselves. The place would never be the same without him.

  Lester was still talking to the sheriff. “Looks like he bled out. That, combined with the cold water all over the floor kind of throws a kink in the guessing game. Offhand, though, I’d say he’s been dead three, four hours.”

  The M.E. took a deep breath, then continued. “See if you can find out whether he went home for lunch, or brought something here with him, or stopped down to Rhonda’s.”

  A picture of Rhonda’s Café came to Jeff’s mind. It was a little hole-in-the-wall down on Main Street that still had its chrome-trimmed red-and-white Formica and vinyl from the fifties. Some of the best food in Washington, though.

  The M.E. went on. “I’ll get the autopsy going, but it might speed things up if we can find out about his lunch hour. Let me know if you dig up anything.” He stepped off the porch, then turned, blinking against the rain. “Meant to ask, what’s with all the dead fish on the floor?”

  The sheriff filled him in, concluding with the question of the day.

  “Damned if I know from fish outta water, Colleen. Might ought to check with a pet shop, or at the library, or someplace like that. There’s a pretty good sized aquarium at that new Chinese restaurant down by the ferry docks.”

  “I’ll do that,” she said. “Right now, though, I’d best get over to Bill’s house and notify his next of kin.” She fished a couple of business cards from her shirt pocket and handed them to Jeff and the Judge.

  The young woman who had arrived with the two men — Jeff figured she was the detective’s partner — began unrolling police tape and started wrapping it around the porch posts. She looked like a stick figure, right down to the large, round head with squiggly hair all around, like a child would draw.

  “Save yourself some trouble,” said the sheriff, “and do that after they get the body out.”

  The young woman blushed, then set the roll on the porch floor and went inside.

  “I’m through with you two for now,” the sheriff said to Jeff and the Judge. “If you think of anything else, well, you know what to do.” She wrapped her jacket tight around her thin frame and hurried up the hill toward the parking lot.

  Bill’s house, the sheriff had said. Not their house. Jeff considered this, but then realized it was probably a common mistake. Bill had lived alone for a lot of years after his first wife died. His current wife had most likely had a hell of a time being accepted by the residents of this close-knit community.

  Jeff recalled his first impression of Tanya Rhodes. A sensuous, platinum blonde bombshell. Kaboom, for most red-blooded American men. Marilyn Monroe without the hips. Yet although he was as warm-blooded as the next guy, Jeff wasn’t turned on by that much silicone. He had to admit, though, he wasn’t blind to it, either.

  Women had many options, and all were appealing to one or another type of man. Some women still subscribed to big hair, acrylic nails, spike heels. Others sported a more streamlined, yet equally appealing natural look. Like Sheila: blonde pageboy cut, nicely shaped nails with no bright polish or extensions, the classic build of a young Katharine Hepburn.

  To each his own, but he felt compassion for Sheriff McIvers. He couldn’t completely say what it was like for one female to be intimidated by another, but he couldn’t help wonder how the scene would play out as the news of Bill’s murder was delivered to his beautiful young widow.

  Sheriff McIvers could handle it, Jeff was sure. But his heart went out to the bald woman named Colleen who dwelled inside the gaunt, uniformed body.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  All fishing gear must be kept in immediate control and may not be left unattended while fishing. Rodholders may be used; the rod must be easily removed without delay; rod may be left in holder while playing the fish. Downriggers may be used if the line releases from the downrigger while playing and landing the fish.

  —Washington State Department of Fish and Wildlife

  Jeff pulled a knob on the dashboard, and the woodie’s headlights shot beams through the veil of drizzle and illuminated the wet pavement. There should’ve been another hour of light, he thought as he made his way to the cabin, but the gloomy weather was gobbling it up like a trout greedy for the evening’s hatch.

  For the first time in living memory, Jeff had bought supplies from a store in town instead of from Bill Rhodes.

  After Sheriff McIvers had released them, Jeff and the Judge had climbed into the woodie and worked on a plan.

  They’d practically shouted over the rain, the woodie’s canvas and slat headliner magnifying the downpour, while Jeff had scratched out a grocery list of items that would make a cardiologist choke: milk, butter, bacon, eggs, sausage, cheese.

  The Judge would go on to the cabin to open up, get a fire going, and wait for the others to arrive, while Jeff backtracked into town for the supplies.

  The shopping trip had taken longer than he’d expected. He had called Sheila from a pay phone on the side of the market’s building to let her know that he’d arrived safely, and had given her a brief version of the afternoon’s events. When he concluded, he received a lecture about protecting himself.

  “I’ll be fine, hon,” he said after his wife trotted out all the typical rules. “My skills may be rusty, but there’s still enough ‘agent’ in my blood to save my skin if the need arises.”

  “Just be careful. I haven’t traveled with you for a few years, but I still remember how distracted you get when you’re on the road. Whether it’s for a fishing trip, or antiquing, or even going to the corner store, you’re always searching for something you can buy and resell, always scoping out places where people usually store stuff. Just remember to watch your back, okay?”

  “I promise.” Jeff watched while a woman with a bag of groceries on one hip and a toddler on the other struggled to open her car door. He wondered absently whether the young mother was aware that a murder had taken place near here only a few hours earlier. “Actually, though,” he said to Sheila, “no one in town acts concerned. I probably won’t even hear anything else about it, unless there’s a funeral while we’re still here. I’m telling you, honey, it’s an isolated case. Just one of those things.”

  “Right. Random act and all that. What happened, J. Edgar? Decide to forgo the ‘motive’ portion of triptych?”

  Jeff bristled. He usually didn’t mind when Sheila alluded to his days with the FBI, and he actually liked her nickname — triptych for the three constants in a non-serial murder: means, motive, and opportunity. But he hated it when she tagged him with the Bureau founder’s name. It meant that she didn’t believe he was taking things as seriously as he should. “What do you say we finish up this call before I come up with a choice nickname for you?”

  “Sorry, Jeff. I just needed a little interaction, I guess. Figured if I riled you, you’d stay on the phone longer.”

  Was she trying to make him feel guilty for being gone? That wasn’t like her. “I thought you had your weekend without me underfoot planned down to the minute. What happened?”

  “Oh, I do. I’m just restless, I suppose. Greer just left to meet Robbie at the Seattle Center to see a new production, and . . . I don’t know, the house seems emptier than usual.”

  “What about painting?”

  “I tried. It came out as gray as the weather.”

  “What about going online? You could scare up someone in your group.”

  “Tried that, too, but no one’s there.” She laughed, and he picked up on the ironic tone in it. “Can you believe that? It’s not like they’ve all gone out to dinner and a movie. We’re agoraphobic, for God’s sake. You’d think somebody would be at his damned computer.”

  Jeff sighed. “Don’t tell me they have lives, too? Sheila, honey, think about all the things you do that aren’t directly tied to the Internet: cook, read, paint, keep journals, develop recipes, research. And, when I’m there, we watch movies and, hell, you w
ere working out alone in the basement gym before I joined up. You could do that. My point is, others do all that. Maybe you’re not the only agoraphobe who leads a relatively normal life.”

  “You’re right.” She sighed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why don’t you go shopping? My treat.”

  “I suppose I could. It wouldn’t hurt to start thinking about Christmas.”

  He cringed, not from the thought of outgoing money, but from the mention of a holiday that was still over two months away. He decided it was a female thing, to shop and plan and make out menus and wrap gifts and decorate. The list went on and on. For him, it only served to rush the year’s end and eat up the weeks. Nonetheless, he delighted in what the Internet had done for his wife. Shopping was now an option, thanks to an ever-increasing list of dot-com stores.

  “Oh, shoot,” Sheila said, “I forgot to tell you. Blanche called, said she needed to talk to you about the warehouse. I’m sorry I didn’t mention it earlier.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll give her a call when we’re through.” He thought for a moment. “Hey, why don’t you invite Blanche over?”

  “I’m one ahead of you. She’s coming for dinner tomorrow night. I’m going to make my apple and squash soup.”

  “Now that’s something you could’ve sent with me.”

  “And compete for first place against Sam’s famous chili? I’m smarter than that.”

  “Well, at least make enough for leftovers, will you?” He didn’t expect an answer. Sheila knew it was one of his favorites, and now that the leaves were turning, he looked forward to her recipes for hot soups and pumpkin bread and lots of oven-roasted delicacies. His wife’s daily baking during the autumn and winter months gave the old house an added coziness. “Speaking of which, I’d better go so I can call Blanche, then get to the cabin before that chili’s gone. And you can finish planning your menu for tomorrow night.”

  “With Christmas shopping to do? Nope, the menu can wait till morning.”

  “Have fun, honey. Love you.”