The Weedless Widow

by Deborah Morgan

  “You, too, Talbot. Cha-ching.” She rang off.

  He laughed. She could shop all she wanted, as long as he didn’t return home to find a trimmed tree in the parlor.

  After his conversation with Sheila, Jeff had checked his watch, then had punched in the phone number to All Things Old. He’d hung up on the recording of Trudy’s voice that gave the antique mall’s hours and had tried Blanche’s home number instead. No answer. No automated anything, either, as Blanche strove constantly to maintain simplicity. Jeff had decided he’d try her later from the Judge’s cell phone.

  He had spent most of the drive back to the cabin thinking about Bill. Now, he turned his thoughts toward the weekend. Blanche was right, he needed the break to recharge. He grew anxious to join the others and kick back.

  He scratched at the stubble on his face. Like anyone serious about snagging game, he’d stopped shaving the morning prior. He’d also skipped applying cologne and had dug out a bar of unscented lye soap that he kept on hand for the express purpose of getting ready for a fishing trip. Some didn’t believe that human scent was a warning to fish, just as it was to deer. Others answered that assumption by telling the doubtful Thomas to stick his hand in the water of his favorite trout stream and then see if he didn’t plod home with an empty creel. Jeff wasn’t paranoid, but he admitted to a little of the Judge’s superstitions regarding his old Bronco. Jeff didn’t want to take chances by tempting fate, either.

  Sheila had grown used to his stubble, his smell without colognes and scented soaps, his sort of pre-fish philosophies before the infrequent fishing trips. Last night had been no different from every night with her before a long weekend of angling, and Jeff grinned now as the image of the previous evening came to mind. In short, she’d lured him by coming to bed wearing nothing but his beat-up old fishing hat and a smile.

  After a moment spent savoring that memory, he thought again about how different Sheila was from Tanya Rhodes. While the Rhodes woman was an hourglass with ample sand at the top, Sheila was a Lalique vase, tall and slender, subtly yet gracefully curved, classic, valuable. Both women were blonde, but where Tanya’s hair was obviously bottle-platinum, Sheila’s was sandy, natural.

  He leaned forward, peered up through the woodie’s windshield. He hoped the forecasters were right. He would fish in the rain, but he much preferred to cast his line amid bright shafts of sunlight.

  Richard Larrabee’s cabin was at the end of Gordon Road, named for the old man who’d sold the place to the Judge two decades earlier. Actually, it wasn’t a Road with a capital R at all, but a private lane that meandered through a pine forest and opened up on a clearing with a magnificent log structure that looked out over one of the best trout streams in Washington.

  Jeff caught flickers of the cabin’s lights through the boughs of the evergreens. Smoke from the chimney hung low in the evening’s damp weather, and Jeff practically felt the warmth of the logs that he knew waited, banked and glowing, in the massive stone fireplace.

  Nothing about the cabin would have changed since last year, he could count on that. Most of the furnishings were simply marking time in order to reach the century milestone so they could cross over that threshold from vintage to antique. It was a hodgepodge assemblage of pieces from the Twenties, Thirties, and Forties — all those things that had been discarded after World War II and replaced with chrome and plastic. Although the purist who stuck to a single style would have cringed, the motley pieces gathered in the Judge’s cabin actually worked. They provided a certain comfort, like a well-worn sweater at the end of a damp autumn day in the Northwest.

  Oversized chairs and couches looked like a traveling troupe’s carpetbags — faded, soft, sagging in all the right places. Jeff sighed. He could sink into the cushions of one of those chairs right now and never come out. Just give him an ancient copy of Field and Stream from the stack left behind by the previous owners and a mug of coffee laced with something to warm his bones.

  Throughout the cabin were mismatched bureaus, dressers, tables, sideboards — all with marred surfaces, missing knobs, or mirrors in need of re-silvering. The beds two in each of the two large bedrooms ranged from unadorned wood to the elaborate wrought iron and brass concoctions that one might have found in a Twenties bordello.

  The kitchen was U-shaped and large enough for three or four people to work in without getting in one another’s way. From the design of the place, Jeff figured it had been built by two couples — probably in-laws — who would have come out from the city on weekends to fish, play bridge, and generally enjoy the state’s natural resources.

  Surprisingly to Jeff, the Judge seemed quite comfortable at the cabin, although it was a far cry from his elaborate waterfront home in the city’s Magnolia neighborhood. There, the Judge insisted on perfection. Out here, though, as he’d often said, he didn’t want to worry that he’d be out too much if the place was ever broken into.

  At the Judge’s request, Jeff had located smaller items that either weren’t antiques or weren’t yet valuable antiques — things he came across in people’s attics, garages, barns, and at yard sales while out picking. He’d made a decent profit providing the Judge with old framed photos of fishers and hunters with their harvests, vintage wooden skis, snowshoes with frayed webbing, creels with missing lids, ugly lamps, wobbly smoking stands, and humidors minus their barometers.

  The place had two bathrooms, the only rooms that still hinted at the prior presence of any females. They were identical, each with a clawfoot tub whose exterior was painted a delicate pink to match the pink tile on the walls and floors. Extra lighting around the mirrors spoke volumes about an era when no proper lady stepped out without her lipstick applied just so.

  To put a masculine spin on the pink bathrooms, Gordy had donated a few vintage fishing posters and advertisements he’d found two decades before at a flea market near Dowagiac, Michigan. Most, Jeff estimated, were from the Forties and Fifties and were of Varga girls in swimsuits and short-shorts. But the favorite among the men was a rare layout advertising the Heddon Company’s Tad Polly lure. In the ad stood a topless beauty. “Wait till you see my Tad Polly!” she suggested. “It floats — It dives — It dances!”

  Yes, indeed. The Judge’s cabin was no place for a lady.

  Jeff pulled in next to Sam’s old pickup out front. On the other side, next to the Judge’s Bronco, was a foreign job the size of a bumper car. It was so small, in fact, that Jeff wondered how a driver had actually shoehorned himself into it. And, hell, forget about getting any kind of fishing gear into the thing.

  He grabbed the grocery bags and made a dash through the rain for the front porch. Sam swung open the door and stepped out to help with the packages. But, as he did so, a cricket chirped, and Sam was off in search of it like a ten-year-old. Jeff didn’t mind, knowing how lucky Sam was when using insects as bait.

  He stepped inside and met an onslaught of friends and food. The guys were in good spirits, their laughter and camaraderie immediately infectious, and the aromas of Sam’s Call-Your-Local-Fire-Station-Chili and jalapeño cornbread made Jeff’s stomach growl. The Judge could complain all he wanted about Sam’s spicy cuisine, but Jeff had missed Sam’s traditional first-night supper last time around.

  This year, it was Gordy who’d be missed, and Jeff wondered how the old reprobate was holding up. The older man had canceled by saying only that duty called, then had added that if it continued to cut into his fishing trips, he would take early retirement and fish any time he damn well wanted to.

  Gordy’s kitchen skills wouldn’t be missed, though. Other than frying up a tasty fillet, the man couldn’t cook worth a damn. His Departure Stew two years earlier had been an unappetizing concoction of everything remaining in the fridge, and had actually driven the Judge to order pizzas from town.

  There wasn’t much opportunity for frying fish nowadays, since the sport had gone mostly toward catch-and-release. The group hoped every year for a mess large enough to provide one decent suppe
r, but since hatchery fish were basically the only ones by law that could be harvested anyway, and since the art of fly-fishing was attempted by more and more people, the odds of success had changed.

  Jeff’s luck had never been that great anyway, and it was usually Gordy or Sam who made sure that one night wasn’t spent eating Vienna sausages and crackers.

  Other than that, there were certain, predetermined guidelines for the meals during this annual fish-fest. The Judge, who was by nature a morning person, was the breakfast cook; Sam Carver was always in charge of the arrival-day supper and always used recipes passed down by his “Lone Star granny;” Jeff brought along desserts, breads, and home-canned comforts that Sheila delighted in preparing; and, if the group had luck with them while out on the water, they would team up in the kitchen for a big fish fry with all the trimmings — hush puppies, cole slaw, corn on the cob.

  Everything that the foursome planned to consume over the weekend was measured in man-words like pounds, slabs, sacks, hunks: ten pounds of onions, three slabs of bacon, two five-pound hunks of hard cheese, three pounds of coffee, a twenty-pound sack of potatoes.

  Jeff shed his jacket and poured a cup of coffee.

  “I hope you remembered to buy antacid,” the Judge said.

  “C’mon, now,” said Sam, who had returned to his post in the kitchen. “All this sweet-talk where my cooking’s concerned is getting to me right here.” He slapped his own butt.

  The Judge just shook his head and turned away. When he did, Sam upended a bottle of orange-red liquid over the bubbling stockpot. Jeff recognized it as a twin to the bottle Sam had put in a gift basket for Sheila last Christmas. If he recalled correctly, its label said something like Off-the-Charts Habañero Hot Sauce.

  “I’ll need a stomach transplant when he’s through with me.” The Judge sighed, then switched gears. “Jeff, I’d like you to meet Kyle Meredith. Kyle, Jeff Talbot.”

  Jeff shook the young man’s hand. “I take it you’re the one driving the matchbox car out front.”

  “The red one? Yeah. How come?”

  “I’d like to know how you managed to get more than a toothbrush in there with you.”

  “Hell,” Sam said, “the boy done brought two high-dollar rod-and-reel combos, three tackle boxes, a suitcase and a garment bag, two sets of waders — one for backup and —”

  “And nothing,” Jeff said. “There’s no way he got all that into that car.”

  “And —” Sam leaned on the word, “one of the tackle boxes is full of old lures that he wants to get rid of.”

  Jeff was halfway out the door on his way to unload the rest of his supplies before Sam’s words registered. He stopped, stepped back inside. “Old lures? When can I see them?”

  The Judge came forward. “We, Talbot. I want a crack at them, too.”

  “What’s kept you from going through them already?”

  “Carver here reminded me that I’m a judge. ‘Fair in all things, upstanding citizen,’ you know the spiel.”

  “You’re forgetting the votes, Judge. Or, should I say, governor?” Sam held up seven fingers. “And that doesn’t even include my no-account son-in-laws. I’ll tell you what, it adds up.”

  “How did you know about the lures, Sam?” asked Jeff.

  “Kyle was here when I pulled in. We unloaded everything and waited on the porch for one of you guys with a key to get here. That’s when he asked if I wanted any of ‘this old stuff,’ as he put it.”

  “It is old stuff,” Kyle said. “Belonged to my grandfather. Dad gave it to me when I told him I was going to take up fishing.” He shrugged. “I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d already bought new.”

  “Did he ever,” Sam said as a timer beeped. He stuck his hand in an oven mitt shaped like a fish, then pulled an iron skillet from the oven. The cornbread’s peppers made Jeff’s eyes water. “Purtiest stuff I’ve seen in a long time,” Sam went on. “It’ll be interesting to see what he catches tomorrow. ‘Course, I told him I’m not a collector, but you two could probably get in a regular bidding war over the stuff.”

  “I don’t want any money for them. I just thought somebody might like having them.”

  “Hell, this guy does have a heart,” Jeff said. “Are you sure he’s a lawyer?”

  “Oh, he’s a lawyer, all right,” the Judge said, “but he’s new at it. Give him some time.”

  Jeff rubbed his hands. “Where’s the stuff?”

  “Nothin’ doin’.” Sam ladled chili into large stoneware bowls. “Y’all can mess with that after we eat.”

  Jeff started to protest, then remembered that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. “I’ll just grab my gear out of the car, since I’m already wet.”

  He made a quick dash between the cabin and the woodie. When he returned, the three men were seated at the round pine table.

  Jeff poured another cup of coffee, then joined them. Sam handed him a basket of steaming cornbread.

  “I have an idea.” The Judge rubbed knuckles along his jawline, creating a sound like sandpaper on silk. Jeff figured the man’s stubble was as scratchy as his own. The Judge said, “Why don’t we let Kyle use them as betting money during the poker game?”

  “Well now,” said Sam, “that would make things right interesting. But you boys keep forgetting that I don’t want the damn things.”

  “Oh, hell, Sam. You never win anyway.”

  The Judge, who’d been scanning the table as if he’d lost his keys, hopped up and went to the pantry where he dug around until he unearthed a bottle of red wine.

  Jeff gulped coffee. “Tell you what, Sam. If you win any of them, you can bet them in the next hand. Then, if you happen to have any left when it’s time to go home, we’ll figure out something. What do you say?”

  Sam hemmed and hawed, but finally agreed.

  “What about it, Kyle?” asked the Judge. “Does that work for you?”

  “Doesn’t matter to me, as long as I don’t have to haul them back home.”

  “Okay,” Jeff added, “as long as we can figure some way to put a monetary value on them beforehand.”

  “Why should we?” the Judge asked. “I say it’ll make things more interesting, sort of up the ante, if you will. When it’s time to bid, Kyle can reach down in that tackle box carefully, of course,” he added with a smile, “and pull out a lure. Then, whoever winds up with them will have made a good deal, and Kyle will go home with his cash still in his pocket.”

  He looked at Jeff. “After that, you and I can decide whether we want to make any deals, separate from the card games.”

  “I don’t want Kyle to feel cheated.”

  The Judge blew on a spoonful of chili. “Kyle had law school handed to him on a platinum platter. Believe me, he doesn’t need the money.”

  Kyle just shrugged his shoulders, then dove into Sam’s chili as if he hadn’t eaten in a month.

  The only sounds heard for the next few moments were the thuds of beer bottles and coffee mugs on the table’s pine boards and the clunk and clatter of tablespoons against crockery bowls (Sam maintained that nobody could properly eat chili with a flimsy little teaspoon). Even the Judge drank his wine from a stein instead of stemware, befitting the rustic setting.

  At length, Sam looked up. His expression was serious. “We haven’t talked about what y’all found today.” He looked at Jeff. “The Judge filled us in about Bill while you were gone to the store.”

  “Not much to talk about, really,” said Jeff. “At least, not until we find out some more details. Hell of a note, though, isn’t it?”

  “No doubt about that,” said the Judge. “It would’ve made more sense if the cash register had been empty, or if there’d been some other evidence of theft.”

  Kyle finished off his beer. “Still could’ve been theft. Trick is to find out what was stolen. Or, your friend could’ve been mixed up in something, or with someone. The wrong someone, you know?”

  “Nah,” Sam said. “I mean, we didn’t really know B
ill, like seeing him every day, or taking the wives out on Saturday night, that sort of thing. But you know how you just know somebody? I can’t see Bill Rhodes mixed up in anything shady.”

  “I have to agree,” Jeff said.

  “So do I,” added the Judge. “But Kyle could be right. What if Bill was involved in something — even something as simple as, say, an extramarital affair?”

  Sam grunted. “You call an affair simple? You ain’t met my wife, have you?” Jeff was aware that the Judge had known Sam and Helen for years. “If she even thought I was having an affair,” Sam continued, “she’d kill me dead without even asking for an explanation.”

  Kyle laughed, then turned serious. “You mentioned earlier that the victim had a gorgeous young wife. Why would he need to have an affair?”

  No one offered an explanation.

  Kyle continued. “What about, this? Maybe the new young wife simply got tired of good ol’ Bill and decided to hurry things along. How old did you say he was?”

  “Now you’re sounding like a lawyer.” Jeff got up and put another pot of coffee on to brew. He grabbed a stack of saucers from the cabinet, then unpacked an oatmeal pie that Sheila had sent along. “To answer your question, I’d say Bill was close to fifty. Is that about what you’d figure, Judge?”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “And the new Mrs. Rhodes. What would you say? Thirty-one, thirty-two?”

  Sam whistled.

  The Judge leaned forward. “Do you think she’s that old? I would’ve guessed twenty-five.” He fell back in his chair. “Oh, what the hell do I know? The older I get, the younger they get. Especially with the miracles of modern technology.”

  “You’re right about that.” Jeff dished up generous portions of the pie and passed them out as if he were dealing cards. “All that nip, tuck, add, subtract, color, and buff presents such a natural image, doesn’t it?”

  “Yep,” said Sam with no small amount of irony. “You’ll never convince me that there’s a woman alive who really wants to be cloned. Not a damned one of them is happy with how she looks as it is — take my word, I’ve got six of ‘em. Can you imagine how any one of them would react if that were times two?”