All four men laughed, then dug in to the pie. After several groans of praise were offered up, Sam was the first to put the compliment into words. “How in the hell do you keep from weighing three hundred pounds? If Helen could cook like this . . .” He paused a moment, then shook his head and went back to eating. It took a lot to render Sam at a loss for words.
“Well put, Sam,” the Judge said. “Worth wading through your four-alarm concoctions to get to.” To Jeff, he said, “What else did that gourmet chef of yours bake?”
Jeff smiled. Sometimes he suspected that his fishing buddies invited him along just so they could have a little taste of his personal heaven.
Before Jeff could respond, Kyle held out his plate for a second helping. “Your wife’s a chef? Which restaurant?”
Jeff hesitated, then took the plate. He hadn’t given any prior thought as to whether the Judge would apprise Kyle of his home situation. While he dished up another piece of pie for the young man, he contemplated his answer. How much should he reveal? He and Sheila had an agreement of confidentiality. They kept the particulars of her illness close to the vest — so much so, in fact, that only a handful of friends even knew Jeff was married.
Well, Jeff had to assume that the newcomer was trustworthy. Why else would the Judge include him in the close-knit group? He contemplated for another moment, then came up with a solution.
He placed the saucer in front of Kyle, slid his wallet from his hip pocket, and pulled out a ten dollar bill. “Mr. Meredith,” he said, “is this enough to ensure attorney-client privilege?”
“Well, sure, but —”
Jeff held up a hand. “That’s all I need to know.” He handed the money to Kyle, along with a thumbnail sketch of Sheila’s illness, of her obsession with maintaining a low profile, of her unfulfilled desire to become one of the country’s top chefs.
He concluded on an upbeat note. “She’s a whiz with the Internet, as you can imagine. It’s brought everything to her: friends who don’t have to know about her illness, as well as other friends who are also plagued with it. Then, there are the online department stores, specialty food shops, bookstores, clothing stores. Even though we have a butler, Sheila —”
“A butler?” Kyle, who had been leaning forward, taking in Jeff’s story, fell against the back of his chair. “As in ‘Fetch my slippers, Jeeves’? Or, ‘Draw my bath, Jeeves’? Hell.” He slapped the ten spot down on the table. “I should’ve asked for more money.”
“Like I have any. Most of what I make goes toward retaining Greer and the upkeep of the house I inherited. And don’t forget online shopping.”
“Greer. He, or she?”
“He.”
“An old man?”
“No. Matter of fact, he’s Sheila’s age. They’re both in their late twenties.”
Kyle’s brows shot up. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No, why?”
“Where do I start? Let’s see, how about as a lawyer?” Kyle stood and cleared his throat. “Do you deny, Mr. Talbot, the similarity of your own marital status to that of the deceased and his young wife?”
“No, counselor, I suppose I don’t.” Jeff grinned. He glanced at the Judge and Sam and saw that they were enjoying the exchange as much as he was. This was almost as entertaining as an auction house full of shills.
“Has it not crossed your mind that you possess a particularly naive outlook on your intriguing home life? Are you telling me that you trust this ‘young’ butler with your ‘young’ wife?”
“No reason not to, counselor.”
Kyle Meredith paced the floor, then stopped, placed his palms flat on the table and leaned over Jeff. To the Judge, he said, “Your Honor, this is a clear case of insanity.”
“Mr. Meredith?” Jeff waited long enough to make sure he had the young attorney’s attention. “Believe me, it’s not a problem.”
Jeff arched his brows as if to say, Do you get my drift?
Finally, the implication sank in.
“Oh.” Kyle’s face tinged red and he sat back down.
“Case dismissed.” The Judge rapped the table with a knuckle.
Jeff said, “I’m glad I retained your services, Kyle. You’re not half bad. To tell you the truth, though, I would’ve hired Greer anyway, and not because of laws against discrimination. He came to us with impeccable references, he’s the most devoted employee I’ve ever known, and his presence in the house gives me total peace of mind about Sheila when I’m working, or —” he spread his hands to encompass the group, the cabin — “taking a break to enjoy the company of friends.”
“I never thought about it before, but I suppose it’s the same as when anyone’s housebound.” Kyle looked concerned.
“You said it’s a big house. Is she able to move around?”
“Sure.” Jeff frowned. “Why?”
“A friend in college had an agoraphobic sister. He said she didn’t leave her bedroom for months.”
“Sheila’s very well adjusted to it, thank God.”
Yet despite his answer, an alarm of sorts went off in Jeff’s brain. What if Sheila got worse and worse until, eventually, she was confined to one room? He couldn’t imagine it, frankly. For starters, which room would she choose? She loved to cook, but she couldn’t very well start sleeping in the kitchen. She enjoyed sitting in the library with him while they were both reading, she thrived on time spent at the computer or in the northernmost room of the house where she painted or . . . he shook his head. No, there was no feasible way she could do all she loved to do if it got that bad. Surely she’d see that coming, do something to prevent becoming such a prisoner in her own home.
Jeff stood, started clearing the table. The others followed suit, and the foursome made quick work of the cleanup, moving like one machine working toward a common goal. Sam washed dishes while Jeff wiped down the table. He tossed a hand towel to Kyle, who took the cue and dried.
When they were through, the Judge headed toward the dilapidated Hoosier cabinet. The finish of the tall, free-standing work center was well worn, its flour sifter was missing, and its enamel worktop had been chipped by generations of farm wives kneading, mixing, and preparing bread and pies for baking. Its drawer screeched when the Judge opened it to retrieve a deck of cards. He broke the cellophane seal.
“Counselor,” he said with a sly grin, “isn’t it about time you showed us that tackle box?”
CHAPTER FIVE
TROLLING: Fishing from a vessel while in forward gear making progress under power.
—Washington State Department of Fish and Wildlife
“I’ll bet a dollar.” Sam lifted four quarters from a precarious stack and dropped them into the pot.
The Judge sighed. “You’re not going to win the hand anyway, Sam. Why don’t you bet that frog you’ve got caught on your sleeve?”
Sam lifted both arms and found the barbed culprit. “Hell, I keep forgetting about these.” He removed the hook from his flannel shirt and exchanged the little lure for a dollar bill.
Nothing happened for seven seconds.
“Your bet, Kyle.” Jeff’s patience over the past few hours had worn thin. Trying to incorporate the young man’s tackle box of lures into the hands had slowed things considerably. After ten minutes into this portion of the evening, Jeff had decided that poker games and collecting didn’t mix. In addition, he hated to play cards with someone whose temperament and pace ran more toward a long-distance chess match.
“I’ll see your bet and raise you another dollar.” Kyle’s luck that night had been worse than Sam’s, and in front of him the tabletop was almost bare. He reached for the tackle box.
“Uh-oh,” he said. “Looks like I’m down to some old boxes.”
Jeff sat up. “Boxes? Do they have anything in them?” Anyone who collected knew that an item was worth a lot more if it came with its original packaging. A twenty-five dollar lure could easily become a seventy-five dollar item. He realized that he may have appeared too anxious, and
a glance at the Judge confirmed his suspicions.
The Judge grinned. “Forgot you were playing poker, eh, Talbot?”
He ignored the comment, regained control of his emotions. “I’ll play what I’m dealt, same as always.”
“You’d better hope it’s good, if you want to beat these babies.” He tapped the cards that lay facedown in front of him. “Especially if those boxes have anything in them.”
Jeff turned to Kyle. “How many do you have in there?”
Kyle stood and tilted the tackle box. The smaller boxes inside tumbled to the table like bricks from a wheelbarrow.
Jeff guessed there were fifteen or twenty of them. Most were cardboard, but a few were made of tin. The tin ones would be older and would in most cases command a much higher price.
The Judge whistled.
Jeff started opening the boxes. Each one contained a lure, each like new. Jeff read the names: The Creek Chub Wiggler, The Redfin Minnow, Minnie the Swimmer, Bubble Bug, Tiny Tease. There was one that read, simply, “Victory,” in a font that suggested patriotism by incorporating stars into its bunting-like design; the Helga-Devil looked like graduated beads borrowed from a plastic necklace and had a red top like a hat. It had three barbed treble hooks — one like delicate feet, the other two protruding from the body like arms. Jeff wondered who Helga might have been. He figured the cheapest lure would bring around twenty or thirty dollars, the most valuable, five to six hundred.
There were a couple of point-of-purchase displays for Busy Bait, each inner card holding half a dozen small lures. An Al Foss Pocket Kit was unearthed, and Jeff suspected that it alone would fetch a couple hundred dollars if it was intact. He carefully pried open the lid. The contents looked as if they’d never been removed. There were a couple of Shakespeare boxes, too, as valuable as their names were unimaginative — Sure Lure, Revolution, Rhodes Wooden Minnow. They’d be worth — what? —four hundred, easy, Jeff thought. He reached for a box marked Dowagiac something, but before he could focus on it, the Judge stopped him.
“Would you look at this? A Tad Polly! Have a heart, fellas. I’ve got to put this in the bathroom with our TP poster girl.”
Kyle nodded. “Consider it a gift for inviting me out here.”
“If I’m not mistaken,” Jeff said, “that’s worth more than the bottle of Royal Lochnagar that Gordy blessed you with last year.”
The gift of single malt Scotch was one of a case Gordy had purchased at auction in Chicago. Story was that the cases had been exhumed from the watery grave of a ship’s skeleton at the bottom of one of the Great Lakes.
“Don’t mind if I do.” The Judge grabbed an old-fashioned from the cupboard and filled it with ice. Pouring the amber liquid, he said, “Bottled heather, as smooth as lamb’s wool.”
“Can we get back to the damned game?” Sam drummed his fingers on the table.
“Relax,” Jeff said. “You’ll have ample time to lose.” To Kyle: “You’ve got quite a little fortune here. We can’t in good conscience use these in a nickel-ante poker game.”
“If you have any better ideas, I’m open to suggestions,” the Judge said.
Jeff knew that anyone with an interest in collecting lures had to apply the same patience a fisherman applies while waiting for a strike. The task of identifying acquisitions was time-eating at best. Most lures of the early and mid-twentieth century were produced in series, and each series might have a half-dozen or more color schemes in both wood and spook — or transparent — baits.
He thought of the example he often used for beginners. The Creek Chub 700 Series from that company’s 1941 catalog, for instance, was the Famous Pikie Minnow design, with three treble hooks, two on the belly and one at the tail. It could be purchased in several different colors — the hundred slot being the body style, and a change in the ten or one slot being the particular color, i.e., No. 702 was the Pikie Minnow in white with a red head.
Names given to lures ran the gamut from frighteningly masculine — like Torpedo, King Cuda, or Mr. Death — to decidedly coquettish: The Charmer, The Enticer, The Hooker.
There were premonition names like Lucky 13 and Voo-Doo, and names that gave the illusion of either danger (Convict, Dillinger) or dandies (Dapper Dan, Gentleman Jim). Place names were popular, too: the Bayou Boogie, the Florida Flapper, the Colorado Spinner, the Arkansas Trench-Back Popper.
Most of the collectors Jeff was aware of concentrated solely on a sub-category: lures from one company, or lures made only by a Florida company or the ones produced solely in Michigan.
“Guys, it’s after eleven,” Sam said, interrupting Jeff’s mental odyssey. “Somebody do something.”
“I’ll make this easy.” Kyle closed the boxes, piled them in front of him, and with eyes closed separated them into two piles. He opened his eyes and pushed one pile toward the Judge, the other to Jeff.
“A true Solomon if ever there was one,” Jeff pronounced.
“What do you say we have a nightcap, then hit the hay,” the Judge said. “Five o’clock comes mighty early, even out here.”
Sam grabbed a couple of longnecks from the fridge and twisted off the caps, then handed one to Kyle. The Judge poured brandy into a snifter while Jeff poured another cup of coffee, leaving enough room to top it off with Kahlua.
After they’d all taken up residence around the fireplace, Jeff said, “Kyle, the Judge told us how you got interested in fishing. Have you read the story, too, or just seen the movie?”
“You’re kidding. There’s a book, too?”
This, just when Jeff had started to like the young man. He smiled, then disappeared into the bedroom where he’d stowed his gear. He returned with a copy of A River Runs Through It and handed it to the young man. “It’s by Norman Maclean, not Hollywood.”
“Ease up on the boy, Talbot,” said Sam. “The Judge brought him to us in time to give him a proper education.”
“Gentlemen.” The Judge leaned back and went through the ritual of lighting a cigar. “I expect we’ll learn whether or not that’s true by how many fish he brings in for tomorrow night’s dinner.” He threw a challenging yet good-natured look at Kyle.
Kyle quickly finished off his beer, then stood. “I think I’ll take this to bed and start reading.”
Sam was still fiddling with his pipe scraping the bowl, tamping in fresh tobacco, sawing a chenille cleaner through the stem’s channel. He smoked only on these fishing trips. When Jeff had asked him why he even bothered, he’d gotten an answer that made perfect sense.
“I need something to do with my hands,” Sam had said, “when I’m not busy at the shop. Plus, it helps me remember what’s in my collection.”
Sam had begun his pipe collection by accident. Someone had brought a magnificent sideboard to him for renovation, and Sam had discovered a felt-lined drawer with fitted slots holding a dozen pipes. He’d called the owner — “a sweet little old lady . . . till she opened her mouth,” who had exclaimed that it was a nasty habit and she’d always despised her husband for taking it up. She’d told Sam he could throw them in the trash. After working for her, Sam decided that her husband probably had smoked purely out of spite.
Jeff did a little research, declared them to be antiques worth more than the sideboard in which they’d been stored, and advised Sam to hang on to them.
Since then, Jeff had kept an eye out for old and unusual pipes and had helped increase Sam’s collection to more than a hundred.
“Damn it.” Jeff suddenly remembered his earlier conversation with Sheila. He glanced at his watch. “I was supposed to call Blanche. Couldn’t reach her when I was in town.”
The Judge motioned toward the Hoosier cabinet. “Use my cell phone, if you can get the damned thing to work out here. Might have to take it out on the porch.”
“Thanks.” Jeff grabbed the phone, then took it and his coffee outside.
The rain had stopped, and the wind had died down, but it had gotten quite a bit cooler during the time he’d been inside.
The hour was late, but he knew Blanche would be up. Sometimes he wondered whether she slept at all.
He punched her home number and waited. Nothing. No ring, no busy signal. He studied the display, decided that the phone wasn’t getting a proper signal, or whatever it was that a cell phone needed.
He stepped back inside, put the phone away, and set down his empty cup. “No signal. I’m going to run down to Bill’s” he paused, then continued, “down to the pay phone. Don’t wait up.” He grabbed his jacket and headed out the door.
As Jeff pulled down the drive to the bait shop, he saw a makeshift roadblock composed of a couple of sawhorses with yellow caution tape wrapped around them. He hoped the law hadn’t gone completely nuts and sealed off the phone booth as well.
Headlights shone from the other side of the sawhorses, then he made out the bubbles on top of the cruiser.
“I thought that was your fancy car.” Sheriff McIver’s voice. She walked up and grabbed one end of a sawhorse.
Jeff jogged toward her. “Let me do that.” She wouldn’t let go, but he hoisted it in the center and was able to carry the lion’s share of the weight.
“I came down here to use the phone,” Jeff said after they’d cleared the path. “Any chance your assistant stayed away from it with the tape?”
“Here, use this.” The sheriff unclipped a cell phone from her belt. “I can’t give you much privacy, but it’ll be easier than convincing my deputy down there not to shoot you. Either that, or you’ll have to drive into town.”
Jeff took the compact-shaped box. “I tried the Judge’s up at the cabin, but couldn’t get a signal. What makes you think this’ll work any better?”
“Has a little booster chip or some such technology planted in it. Damn thing’s probably what gave me cancer.”
Jeff had started to put the thing to his ear.
He paused. “Do you really think so?”
“Who knows? They could probably print the things that don’t cause cancer on the inside flap of a matchbook.” She smiled then, and Jeff caught a glimpse of a twinkle in her green eyes.
The Weedless Widow Page 6