He returned the smile. “How’d your visit go with Bill’s widow?”
“Typical. Disbelief, followed by shock and then anger. Although I’m not sure if the anger was directed at the perpetrator or her husband.”
“Oh? What makes you suspect it would be directed at Bill?”
“She said that he usually came home every day for lunch. Today wasn’t any different. But lately, he’d spent more and more time on the computer, and less time with her. She said that she and a real estate agent had needed to talk to him about something important — she wouldn’t give me any details — but that Bill had shown up late, then taken his lunch to his basement office and had spent the entire time on the Internet.”
“Internet?” Jeff had been to Bill’s basement office a couple of times in years past, but he didn’t recall seeing a computer setup. “Since when did Bill jump on the technology train?”
“Beats me. But a check of his files at the bait shop turned up quite a few receipts for online purchases. Also found some receipts from a pet store in Seattle. I called, talked with the manager. He knows a guy who’s really into exotic fish. Said he’ll get in touch with him, have him call me. I told him the sooner the better.
“Listen,” she concluded, “I’ll just sit in my car and fill out some reports while you make your call.”
“Thanks.”
“Be quick about it, though. I’m beat.”
Jeff assured her that he would. Leaning against the woodie’s grille, he punched in Blanche Appleby’s home number and hit Send.
“Blanche?” he said when she picked up. “It’s Jeff.”
“Who’s Colleen McI?”
“What?”
“I broke down and got caller ID.”
“You might as well go all out and get an answering machine, Blanche.”
“One step at a time.” She cleared her throat. “Colleen?”
“I’m using the sheriff’s phone.”
“I won’t even ask. Anyway, sorry I missed you earlier. I was at the hospital.”
“Hospital? Are you all right?”
“Oh, I’m fine. But, Jeffrey, there’s been an accident.”
CHAPTER SIX
POSSESSION RULES: You may not possess another person’s game fish unless it is accompanied by a statement showing the name, address, license and tag number, date, county, and area where it was taken, and the signature of the angler who harvested it.
—Washington State Department of Fish and Wildlife
Jeff leaped to his feet. “Oh, God, is Sheila —” Wait a minute, he thought, this isn’t making any sense. Sheila was the one who’d told him that Blanche wanted to talk to him. But what if something had happened since then? That had been — what — three, four hours ago?
“Sheila’s fine,” Blanche said. “If anything had happened to her, I’d have found a faster way to reach you.”
The sheriff leaned out the window of her cruiser, asked if everything was okay. Jeff nodded, waved her off, paced.
“I know, I know.” He started again. “Sheila said you needed to talk to me about the warehouse. What’s that got to do with an accident?”
“I didn’t want to worry her with what happened, so telling her that seemed a safe way to make sure you would call.” She sighed heavily. “The boys were coming back into town with a load of your antiques when a car lost control in the rain. The driver cut across the lane in front of the moving van.”
“Is everyone okay?”
“Mark is. They admitted Joe overnight for observation, but they said he should be fine in a few days.”
“The car?”
“Driver’s fine. Mark said it was a teenage girl. She brought the car to a sliding stop, then jumped out and ran across four lanes of traffic to see if the boys were all right. You won’t believe what Mark said she was wearing.”
“What’s that?”
“One of those Space Needle T-shirts someone came up with after the earthquake last February. Says, ‘Shaken but not stirred.’ ”
“I have a feeling we’re all going to want one of those.” Jeff leaned against the woodie. “How did it all start?”
“Joe swerved to keep from plowing into the car. The doors on the back of the truck popped open, and, as Mark put it, ‘furniture jumped outta the back like broncs at a rodeo.’ That threw off the balance, and the truck went over on its side. I would imagine the highway department is still cleaning up the splintered mess from the freeway.
“They hadn’t intended to go back,” Blanche continued, “but Joe’s date had canceled on him, and Mark didn’t have anything planned. So, they decided to move one more truckload, get a head start.”
“Some head start.” Jeff was quiet for a moment. “Well, at least the guys are going to be okay. Any idea which pieces were lost?”
“Mark said it was just about everything from what he thought was a music room. He remembered that a piano was in there.”
Jeff sank to the woodie’s bumper and shielded his eyes with his free hand, as if he could block the image of the ruined antiques but all that did was give him a clearer vision. The room with the piano wasn’t actually a music room, but rather a place where the occupant apparently had stored extras — anything for which she had no use or no space for in the rest of her home. Jeff fumbled for his notepad. Tilting it into the beam projected by the woodie’s headlights, he found the sheet and deciphered the code he’d used to list that room’s contents: one oak baby grand piano, excellent condition, no chipped ivories; one couch, one loveseat, both Victorian with original horsehair upholstery; six matching rosewood music stands adorned with ornately scrolled lyres; a stately rectangle George I tallboy, or chest-on-chest, with a brushing slide (Jeff remembered wondering when he saw it whether the pullout shelf to lay clothes on for brushing had given someone the idea for inventing the ironing board); a Queen Anne highboy, truly American with its flame-finialed pediment made from New England maple and pine; one Chinese screen, black and gold lacquer. His list went on and on. The loss was reeling. Sure, he’d be able to collect some insurance money, but the history of those pieces? Jeff felt as if three centuries of his small world had been reduced to a pile of kindling on I-5.
“Jeffrey? Jeffrey? Hello?”
“What?”
“Are you all right?”
“Sorry, Blanche. Just going over the inventory of that room.”
“I know. It’s hard to take. It’s not like you can just waltz into a furniture store and pick up more, is it?”
“You’ve got that right.” Jeff stood and stretched, as if the act would lift his spirits as well.
“Mark said there were some boxes of smaller items, too. He remembered, because one was marked ‘comic books’ and he has several from when he was a boy.”
“Damn.” Jeff sank back to the bumper. “They were in plastic sleeves, but the rain will have ruined them by now.” Jeff had found many collectibles in the main house that had seemed more fitting for a boy, instead of the crotchety old woman he’d met years before.
“Well, you’re in luck. Mark grabbed the box and took it with him to the hospital. He said he figured it was the least he could do, and he couldn’t stand to leave them out in the elements.”
“Remind me to give him a bonus.”
“I’d say a few of those salvaged books would make him happy.” Blanche added, “I know you’re on a tight schedule. Is there anything you need me to do?”
Jeff thought a moment, realized the need to move into action. “You know who to trust, Blanche. Of course, I’ll cover the costs if there’s another team you want to give this to, or if you want to check with the fellas tomorrow, see what approach they want to take. If Mark feels up to it, he can get a replacement for Joe.”
“Okay, boss. I’ll get on it first thing.”
Jeff chuckled. He doubted that Blanche had ever called anyone boss before. “I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon and see where we stand.”
After they’d said good night, he re
turned the sheriff’s phone and gave her a brief rundown of what had happened. After she’d offered sincere condolences, Jeff realized that both of them were beat, so he told her good night as well, then climbed back into the woodie.
Back at the cabin, he quietly unlocked the door and let himself in. All the lights were off except for a small lamp in the living room and a night-light in the bathroom. The guys had turned in, and Jeff needed to do the same. As the Judge had pointed out, five would come early.
But he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep yet, and, besides, he was still chilled from standing outside. He warmed a cup of coffee on the rangetop, added a splash of Kahlua, then took it to the living room.
His mind swam with questions. Would Mark even feel up to tackling the rest of the stuff this weekend; was Joe up to it or not? If so, what would he move it in? From the way things sounded, the truck was shot. Well, Blanche would make sure things got safely back on track.
He pictured the rooms in the two houses, literally brimming with antiques, and wondered again why the old woman had been so intent upon hoarding all that stuff. What purpose did it serve, squirreled away where no one could enjoy it, admire it, care for it, learn from it? But, Jeff chided himself, that was a question for another time. Right now, he was exhausted. Cold, too, in spite of the coffee he’d drunk as a warm-up. He shut off the lights, made his way to the room he and Sam were sharing. Sam was snoring steadily. Jeff changed into a sweat suit and climbed into the bed on the opposite side of the room.
As he fell into a fitful sleep, he couldn’t help thinking of the antiques that had been.
He also thought about Bill, killed with a weapon from his own collection, and the frail sheriff, still working at midnight in the bone-chilling damp . . .
He awoke the next morning only by the grace of God and the aroma of strong coffee.
The room was dark, except for the sliver of light along the bottom of the door. He fumbled for the alarm clock, focused on the soft glow of the numbers and hands. The pale green that illuminated the ancient clock reminded him of the jadite coffee cups, mixing bowls, and vases from the Forties that were becoming increasingly popular . . . and valuable.
Almost five o’clock. He groped for the lamp’s pull chain, got the old thing to kick in after three jerks, and crawled out of bed.
He glanced at the opposite side of the room, surprised to see that Sam wasn’t there. Jeff couldn’t believe he’d slept through his friend’s rising and getting ready for the day.
He crawled from under the warm quilts, dressed in an old pair of khakis, a white T-shirt, and a heavy plaid flannel shirt that had been washed so many times it felt like chamois against his skin, then padded in thick socks down the hallway.
A corner lamp was on in the living room, casting a soft glow. Kyle stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by more fishing paraphernalia than Jeff had seen in Cabela’s latest catalog. The kid was looking around his goods as if he didn’t know where to start. He refrained from telling Kyle that he didn’t need filament clippers, four boxes of flies, the cumbersome net. These were things he must learn on his own if he was to become a fly fisherman. He’d weed out these items as his skill increased, as his love for the sport heightened, as he learned to crave the challenge of taking a fish in as near a state of nature as he could get — on the same level as his quarry.
The glaringly lit kitchen was in full swing. It was open to the dining area like the stage of a theater. The Judge whistled as he chopped onions on a cutting board near the range top. Jeff squinted against it all and made his way toward the coffeepot.
“Good morning, Talbot,” the Judge said brightly, throwing a stick of butter into a skillet the size of a manhole cover. The butter spat and sizzled and slid across the surface. The Judge grabbed the handle and shook it as if he were making popcorn the old-fashioned way, then scooped up a double handful of onions and threw them into the butter.
Jeff gulped coffee. “Morning? I’ll take your word for it.”
“Still a night person, huh? You burn a lot of daylight that way, my friend.” The Judge opened a large package of smoked salmon, then began breaking eggs into a crockery bowl.
Jeff took his coffee to the table, where Sam was busy studying a couple of brightly colored flies wrapped in a small suede pouch. He looked up. “You’d best drink that bean juice faster or you ain’t gonna be fit for man nor fish.” He set the pouch aside and poured orange juice from a pitcher into four squat glasses.
“Yeah, yeah.” Jeff took a swig from his coffee mug, then glanced toward the living room. “Think anyone will offer to help Kyle figure out how to strap on all that crap?”
Sam drained one of the juice glasses in two gulps and set it on the table with a thud. “Beats me. I’d like to know how he’s gonna manage to stay afloat in the water. But I reckon the Judge can worry about that.”
Jeff absently scribbled the letters “FBI” on a notepad, and set about coming up with an epigram in order to get his mind percolating for the day. It was a favorite five-finger exercise that had helped keep him sane through his years with the Bureau. The first one came easy, and he penciled in the noble statement: Fishing Builds Integrity.
Sam pulled the pad toward him, wrote something, and pushed it back to Jeff.
Jeff read: “Fishing Breeds Insanity.” He looked up. “Are you crazy?”
“Put away your toys, boys. It’s about time for breakfast.” The Judge came from the kitchen, carrying a tray that held ketchup, salsa (obviously a request of Sam’s), butter, and an assortment of syrups and jellies.
“Say, Jeff,” he added, “I just remembered that you were trying to reach someone last night — that antiques woman, right? Any luck?”
Jeff had damn near forgotten the conversation with Blanche, a sure sign that he needed more coffee. The reminder brought back all his misery of the night before. “Oh, I reached her, all right. But if what she told me is any indication of how my fishing’s going to be, I’d do just as well staying here.”
“What happened?” Sam asked.
As the Judge went back to the kitchen and finished cooking breakfast, Jeff filled them in on the accident with the moving truck.
Sam, who’d taken in the story with an increasingly distressed expression, was the first to comment. “It pains me to think of all those antiques getting broke up like stove kindling.”
“That’s how it hit me, too.” Jeff drank the last of his coffee. He liked to have at least one cup in him before eating anything, and at the rate the Judge was moving in the kitchen, he figured he’d better down it fast.
“You were insured, weren’t you?” the Judge asked.
“Basically. It’s not much consolation, though, when you’re dealing with antiques. As Blanche pointed out last night, I can’t just go out and buy replacements.”
“True,” the Judge replied, “but it’ll help cut your losses.”
Jeff debated whether to try and enlighten him, then decided it wasn’t worth the energy. He looked over at Kyle, who was about to step into his waders. “I’d hold off, if I were you. It’ll be a hell of a lot easier if you rig up just before we head down to the river.”
“Thanks.” Kyle grinned nervously.
“It’s ready, boys,” the Judge announced, and the men gathered in the kitchen. Ceremoniously, the Judge bowed and handed each a platter. Jeff loved this part, in spite of his disdain for morning. The fishermen always stuffed themselves with a large breakfast to hold them through a snack-sized lunch and the wait for a decent supper.
They loaded up their plates with smoked salmon omelettes, hashed brown potatoes, red flannel hash, blueberry pancakes, buttered raisin toast, sliced cantaloupe, and broiled grapefruit halves.
The group remained quiet while they ate, save for the initial compliments to the chef. After they finished and cleaned up, the four men quietly gathered their fishing gear and reconnoitered on the front porch.
Jeff breathed deeply. It was the same every year; there was a rever
ence about it. Ritual. Tradition. He recalled a phrase from McGuane’s book of essays on fishing: the voodoo of rigging up.
At this stage, when they readied for their first trip to the river, Jeff didn’t much care whether or not he would catch a fish during the course of the day. He could rely on that
euphoric romanticism to continue as he waded into the chilly stream and studied its surface, as he chose his lure, his approach, as he watched for an energetic trout to break the surface and burst upward, tail flapping and body arcing, toward breakfast.
But for this moment, the euphoria was part of the ritual, and he knew then and there that they would share this with Kyle, they would make a voodoo of his first rigging for the harvest. The three veterans would show him the ropes, pin bright-colored flies on his hat, and make sure he was properly suited up.
As they walked single file, the Judge leading the way and briefing Kyle about the river — “always respect it, be mindful of its current, take care on its slippery rocks” Jeff found a certain reassurance in what was before him. The Judge, confident leader, followed by Kyle, the newcomer, who was struggling to stay aright in the wake of what was his Gear. The very act of walking appeared to be a challenge and the young man clattered like a tinker’s wagon.
Then there was Sam, with a rod that was missing guides and an old creel that was latched with a length of shoelace — tied on by one of his daughters after her puppy had chewed the leather flap to bits.
In spite of the differences, Jeff was secure in a sort of idealistic belief that both men, veteran and tyro, would succeed: they would Catch Fish.
And so it was that the four men arrived on the bank of the river just as dawn broke.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BAIT: Anything that attracts fish or shellfish by scent and/or flavor. This includes any device made of feathers, hair, fiber, wood, metal, glass, cork, leather, rubber, or plastic which uses scent and/ or flavoring to attract fish or wildlife.
The Weedless Widow Page 7