—Washington State Department of Fish and Wildlife
Jeff’s gaze absently followed the fly as it floated toward him, then on past. He’d had no luck, not a single bite, all morning. As much as he’d fought it, his mind wandered, and, true to the scales of balance that represented his astrological sign, his thoughts were split between two: the problem of storing the antiques, and the mystery of Bill’s murder.
His legs were numb with cold, and the muscles in his shoulders were tense. Yet in contrast, the warm rays of the sun, combined with the big breakfast he’d consumed, had lulled him into lethargy.
He glanced across the stream at Sam, who was stooped over, examining a catch. Its iridescence glittered pink and silver in Sam’s dark brown hands. Sam appeared to be checking for the adipose fin — the presence of one meant that by state law the fish must be returned to its habitat. He obviously found none, because he untied the shoelace on his worn creel and placed the rainbowed beauty inside as if he were depositing a role of hundreds into a vault.
Unless Jeff had miscalculated, that made the score Sam - 4 (with two keepers), Jeff - 0. He wondered absently how the Judge and Kyle were faring. They’d decided to head up around the bend. Jeff grinned as he recalled the picture of the young man, laden with tackle boxes, waders, nets, and creel, struggling to keep up with the Judge’s long-legged strides. Kyle should catch a doozy, Jeff thought. Beginner’s luck was not a force to sneer at. That was, if all of Kyle’s fancy new equipment hadn’t jinxed him.
A noise startled Jeff from his thoughts. He turned just in time to catch a glimpse of an elk crashing through the woods, dodging trees and leaping over obstacles. He strained, intently watching the elk’s progress until it disappeared from view. Mesmerized, he didn’t make the connection that something probably had spooked the beast.
“Talbot,” a voice said softly.
Jeff jumped, slipped, and damn near lost his footing altogether on the rocks.
Sheriff McIvers stood on the edge of the bank, leaning toward him.
“A scream would’ve been less jarring, Sheriff.”
“Didn’t want to scare the fish,” she said, maintaining a quiet tone. “Not that it would’ve mattered.” She nodded toward the current. “I don’t know much about your kind of fishing, but I do know you’re not supposed to drown your flies.”
Jeff’s mouth opened slightly, and his gaze followed the line from the tip of his rod to a point far behind him downstream. He turned and reeled it in, the glint of the wet filament winking in the bright sunlight.
“I came out here to talk to you about the fish.”
“They aren’t biting for me today.” He grinned and added, “Even when I do it right.”
“Not these fish. The ones at Bill’s. Those in the aquarium.”
“Oh? What about them?”
“Well, I found three different species of fish on the floor, two more in the tank you guys set up. At least I think so. Could be double that, though, if they’re like so many other living things that God blessed with fancy-colored males and hard-working but dull females. Anyway, I called the number for that pet store in Seattle that Bill had receipts from, spoke with a fella who hooked me up with a guy who’s an expert on exotic fish, birds, snakes. Calls himself Raven. He’s —”
“Calls himself what?”
“You heard right. Raven. I said, ‘Like the bird?’ thinking he’d come up with it because of his work. Know what he said? Said, ‘Nah, like Poe. Edgar Allan?’ I guess he wanted it to sound darker than just the bird.”
“Then why doesn’t he call himself . . .” Jeff paused. “Well, the fish names I know wouldn’t make very good nicknames: Trout. Salmon. How about Dolly Varden?” Jeff winked at the sheriff. “There’s an image for you next time you talk to the guy.”
“Thanks a lot. He’s coming out here after he gets off work tonight. Told me to bag the dead ones and put them in the fridge. I’d already thought that far. He says he can identify all of them. It might not give a lead on Bill’s time of death, but it can’t hurt.”
“Why did you want to tell me all this?”
“I thought you might want to meet this character, since I need you to come by the bait shop anyway.”
“Me? Why? I already told you everything I know.” Jeff’s powers of concentration were bad enough, in light of Bill’s death and the accident with the antiques. He didn’t need to be drawn into a murder investigation, too.
“It’s not about the case. I’d like for you to take a look at some old fishing stuff from Bill’s collection. Might be able to get you the job of selling it, if you’re interested.”
Now, that’s more like it, Jeff thought. What was today? Friday. That meant a fish fry tonight — if anyone was doing better than he was — followed by a trip down the road to Coop’s Tavern for a few drinks and an update on the local gossip. He supposed he could drive separately. “Sure, I’ll be there.”
“Around seven, then?”
He nodded, and the sheriff headed back through the woods.
Jeff made an earnest attempt at fishing after the sheriff left, but didn’t land anything. He waded to shore, struggling against the current. After eating a lunch of bologna and cheddar with crackers, he stretched out on a grassy patch to catch a nap. He suspected that his run of bad luck would continue into the afternoon, and he knew that tonight would be even later than last night had been. He felt a little guilty as he drifted off, relying on the others to furnish supper. But not guilty enough to keep him awake.
Sam rousted Jeff around dusk and teased him mercilessly as they made their way back to the cabin.
“The way my luck was going, I figured I’d put my time to a better — and much needed — use.” He lifted the lid on Sam’s creel. “What are you complaining about? Looks like you caught some granddaddies.”
“Won’t do much good, if last night is any indication. Lord, did you see how that Kyle eats?”
Jeff grinned. “Have a heart, Sam. He’s still growing.”
Kyle and the Judge were already at the cabin, cleaning a mess of trout. Beginner’s luck had lived up to its promise, and Kyle’s enthusiasm was contagious. Even though Jeff preferred salmon, he wasn’t about to let on. A first fishing trip was a sacred thing.
After Sam had cleaned his catch, the four men went inside. They worked together in the large kitchen, mixing up batters and setting pots and skillets of oil to heat on all the rangetop’s burners.
Timing was everything, and they succeeded in putting their feast on the table hot, crisp, and in tandem: fillets, hush puppies, French fries. Jeff opened containers of cole slaw and broccoli salad he’d purchased at the grocery deli, and the four men gorged themselves on the feast. They finished off with a pot of coffee and Sheila’s Better Than Sex Cake.
When they were ready to leave for Coop’s Tavern, Jeff told the others about the sheriff’s request and said he’d catch up after meeting with her.
He arrived at the bait shop early, found Sheriff McIvers sitting in a rocker on the front porch. The rocking chair made her appear even more vulnerable than she had when Jeff had first seen her. Secretly, he was glad that he’d be here when this Raven guy showed up. He wondered if this had crossed the sheriff’s mind and prompted her to invite him along.
He’d no sooner said hello when the low rumble of a beefed-up engine came from down the driveway. The sheriff stood, and both she and Jeff watched as an older Chevy Suburban pulled in and parked horizontally, giving them a full view of its glossy black profile. The windows were so black that Jeff suspected they had been painted and not merely tinted. The vehicle sat dangerously close to the ground, and he wondered how its driver had gotten it out there without poking a hole in the oil pan.
“Good God,” said the sheriff as her other guest made his way down the path. “The things they’ll do nowadays to get attention.”
“I, uh . . . is this normal?” Jeff didn’t like to think he’d been leading a sheltered life since leaving the Bureau, but his
inner reaction to the sight before him revealed just how out-of-touch he really was.
Raven — and he was more raven than man — was six-foot-five and had hunched shoulders that gave the impression of a winged creature. His hair was unnaturally black, long and slicked back with some sort of pomade or wax that gave it the iridescent shimmer of feathers in moonlight. Black bead eyes were diminished by a large hooked nose, and his skin was as pale as Dracula’s.
He wore a black oversized slicker that nearly dragged the ground, above black boots made heavy by chromed hardware, and around his neck was a dog collar with silver spikes and a long chrome chain that dangled as if the young man had just broken loose.
Jeff turned to the sheriff. “In case I forget to tell you, I had a great time tonight.”
“Uh-huh. Pretty Woman, right?”
“Hey!” Jeff exclaimed a little too exuberantly. “You’re the first person, other than my wife, who gets it.”
“My idea of a date is me on the couch with Richard Gere and a bowl of popcorn.”
“My wife’s housebound,” Jeff announced, surprising himself. He hadn’t intended to reveal anything about Sheila, and in the course of twenty-four hours, he’d told two strangers about her.
“Sorry. Makes me realize I don’t have that much to complain about, huh?”
“Everybody’s got something.”
She took off her cap for an instant, started to replace it, then, with another look at the approaching apparition, she rolled the cap and stuffed it into her back pocket.
Jeff figured she was attempting her own little shock effect.
It worked, evident by the brief yet unmistakably startled expression that fluttered across Raven’s face.
He made an obvious nod to the sheriff’s head, said simply and with a sincere tone, “Cool.”
“Thanks. Cost me a bundle.”
Slowly, the realization of what she meant seemed to hit. The young man looked away for a moment, then met her gaze again, back in character. “I could put together a list of herbs that might help, if you’re interested.”
“Can’t hurt, right?”
Raven smiled, told her he’d fax it to her when he returned to the pet shop.
Jeff felt as if he’d slipped into a scene from a science fiction film.
The sheriff made introductions, then led the two men inside where she retrieved the baggies of fish from the refrigerator.
Raven began spitting out statistics like ticker tape. “Hatchet fish.” He tapped two baggies containing fish with reddish brown markings. “They’re what I think of when I hear, ‘a fish out of water.’ They die pretty fast.
“These pacus would’ve been next to go. Nickname: vegetarian piranha. They’ll last maybe five minutes out of the water. Ten, tops.”
“Vegetarian piranha?” Jeff studied the silver and black fish that looked as if a steam roller had gone over them. “Sounds like an oxymoron.”
“It does, doesn’t it? They’re related to piranhas, they look like piranhas, but they’re herbivores instead of carnivores — that’s how they got their nickname. I’ve seen them suicide leap from their tank, then flop around so vigorously that they break their backs.” Raven looked up. “Owning them is like taking care of a baby.”
He walked to the makeshift aquarium and pointed out a species of brightly colored fish. “These beauties are koi. Some call them Japanese goldfish.”
“They’re not like any goldfish I ever had,” said the sheriff.
Jeff studied the vibrant white fish with orange splashes. He said, “I’d be happy if I could catch salmon that size.”
“They grow to fit the size of their environment. They’re the ultimate exotic, in my opinion. They live, like, forever, too.”
The sheriff said, “Forever, as in . . . ?”
“A hundred years.”
“Impressive,” Jeff said. “But how long does it take them to die? Out of water, not from old age.”
“They’re a heartier fish, but if you need it in exact minutes, I’ll have to do some research and give you a call.”
“Just don’t kill one, okay?” The sheriff threw in.
“You’re kidding, right? They cost thousands. People don’t seem to care, though. They like koi because they’re so colorful. They can even be seen in a dirty tank.”
“That’s where the plecos come in.”
Raven pointed out the other species in the tank.
“Plecos?” Jeff followed.
“Plecostomus. The pet store crowd calls them plecos, consumers usually call them sucker fish because they suck out the algae and keep the tank clean. Get ‘em mad, and they have a cool mohawk. When they’re calm, though, you can’t even tell it’s there. They pretty much hang out on the bottom or work their way up the sides, sucking like little vacuum cleaners.” Raven’s lips moved as if he were a fish underwater.
The sheriff leaned in close to the glass. “So, the plecos survive longer out of the water?”
“Yes, Ma’am. The other day, a friend of mine removed his fish from their tank so he could clean it. An hour later, he was putting the castles back in the tank, when a pleco darted out of one. So, yeah, they’ll last a while.”
The sheriff said, “It’s beyond me how you can put all these different fish in one tank.”
Raven shrugged a shoulder. “Some people won’t put koi with other fish. Others say there’s an order to things when you put together a controlled community, just like there is in the wild. They also do better if they grow up together. Plus, the bigger the tank, the more you can get away with — you just have to know what you’re doing.
“Think of it like a corporation,” he continued. “If the piranhas are the biggest, they’ll come in and stake out the corner offices. Next in size will take what they perceive to be the next best cubicles, and so on and so forth, until each species has claimed its own territory.”
“Well,” said the sheriff, “they were in a large tank, till it got destroyed.”
Jeff gazed at the surviving fish through the side of the tank. “So, you’re saying that if these bad boys were still alive when we arrived on the scene, then the murder could’ve happened at least an hour before we got here?”
“You got it.” Raven looked around. “Wow. A murder right here in this room. Need me to put a spell on it or anything?”
“Uh, no thanks.” The sheriff took the young man by the arm gently and guided him toward the front door. “This was an isolated case, I’m sure.”
“Okay,” he replied doubtfully. “But if you change your mind . . .” He handed her a black business card with silver metallic lettering, then vanished.
Jeff peeked at the card. It read:
Raven
Tarot Readings, Exorcisms, Exotic Aquatics
Summon via: 555-Black
He shook his head. “You’ve gotta love freedom of expression.”
The sheriff studied the card. “I suppose listing ‘herbal remedies’ would’ve ruined the mystique.” She closed the door, then gathered the baggies of fish and returned them to the refrigerator. That chore done, she motioned for Jeff to follow her to the back room.
Two large cartons, identical except that one was sealed and the other wasn’t, stood side by side on Bill’s chipped enamel kitchen table. “Collection” had been written on the end of each with a thick black marker. The sheriff showcased them as if she were one of Bob Barker’s Beauties.
Jeff opened the flaps of the unsealed carton, set aside a manila folder that rested on top of the contents, and glanced inside. A layer of small boxes, all in pristine condition, were fitted inside like Lincoln Logs. Carefully, Jeff removed them.
Below the first was another layer of the little boxes. He surmised that the large corrugated container held another six or seven levels. He could tell as he removed each that it likely held what its packaging advertised: an antique lure. The patent dates ranged from the early 1800s to the 1950s. Pinpointing their ages would require a lot of work. Jeff let out a low
whistle as he stacked the tiny boxes on the tabletop.
“I knew Bill had quite a collection,” Jeff said as he examined the contents of the small boxes, “but these are really cream of the crop. The contents of this single carton
should bring several thousand —” He stopped. The coincidence of all the lures Kyle had brought yesterday was a little unsettling. Jeff wondered if Kyle knew more than he was letting on.
“Did you sell any of these to him?”
“Maybe. He bought quite a few fishing collectibles from me over the years, but how many more cartons are at the house?”
“Another dozen or so, I’d guess. I didn’t open the rest, so I can’t say for sure what’s in them.”
“I wonder why he’d have them stored like this. I mean, you can tell from his shop that he liked to display his collection.”
“Maybe his wife boxed them up. She said she couldn’t get this junk out of her house fast enough.”
“She gave these to you?”
“Yep. And, like I said, there’s lots more where these came from.”
“But why? I mean, why would she give them to you? Did you confiscate them?”
“Jeez, Talbot, is that how you questioned suspects when you were an agent? No wonder you had to find another line of work.”
“I didn’t have to leave. I just have a hard time understanding people who think that fishing antiques aren’t worth anything.”
“On the contrary. She’s counting on them being worth something. She just doesn’t appreciate why they should be.”
Jeff remembered the manila folder. He opened it, skimmed the neatly typed printout inside. “His documentation is certainly detailed, although it looks like he was as bad as I am.” Jeff pointed out the coded columns. “Had his own brand of shorthand.”
“I noticed that, too.” The sheriff studied the columns. “I went through this one, compared it to the inventory you’re holding. Some of the items listed aren’t in the box.”
The Weedless Widow Page 8