The Weedless Widow

by Deborah Morgan

  “Maybe he was still working on it, you know, an ongoing project. Or —”

  “But the boxes were sealed when Tanya Rhodes gave them to me.”

  Jeff raised a brow. “That doesn’t make sense. Why would he seal them up if he wasn’t through recording everything? Unless he simply miscalculated how much he could fit into one box.”

  “Then why wouldn’t he just fix the list and print out a new one? Isn’t that what’s supposed to be so damned appealing about computers?”

  Jeff smiled. “That’s what they say.” He looked for markings on the second box, which was sealed. “I see that you haven’t cracked this one open yet.”

  “Nope. I thought it would be a good idea to have an antiques expert on hand. CYA, they always say. It means cover your —”

  “I know what it means, Sheriff. I’m not that squeaky clean.” Jeff’s attention went back to the carton. “Did you have any trouble getting these from Mrs. Rhodes?”

  “No, actually. Especially when I mentioned that you were here for your annual fishing trip. You must’ve made quite an impression on Bill’s little bride last year. She jumped at the idea of having you find a buyer for Bill’s collection.

  “So,” the sheriff continued, “I told her I’d be happy to help her out by showing you these, then you could decide whether you wanted to represent the sale of Bill’s collection.”

  “How accommodating of you. What were you really thinking?”

  “I’m being honest. I thought you might want first crack at it.” She paused. “I also thought it might come in handy that you used to investigate antique thefts for the FBI.”

  Jeff studied the sheriff. “You think the lures — either the ones at his house, or those stolen a few years back, or both — have something to do with Bill’s murder, don’t you?”

  “I have to think everything does, until it proves otherwise. It might seem like a strange approach to you, but I haven’t investigated a whole lot of murders. I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

  “Or dead.”

  “Something like that.” The sheriff looked at him and cocked a brow. “How would you like to pay a visit to the widow Rhodes? She also jumped at the idea of my bringing you over for a look-see at the rest of the stuff. I guess she figures she has a better chance convincing you to oversee the sale than I do.”

  “I’m in. When can we go?”

  “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from fighting death, it’s that you don’t procrastinate.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHUMMING: Scattering feed or other materials to attract fish to a location.

  —Washington State Department of Fish and Wildlife

  Getting to Bill’s house took about ten minutes by way of the county road that wound around the lake. To cut across by boat, as Bill often did, would have shaved it down to two.

  Jeff usually didn’t like riding with someone else behind the wheel, but Sheriff McIvers proved to be a hell of a driver, quickly spotting a doe that darted into the road. After she effortlessly maneuvered around the scrambling, wide-eyed creature, Jeff relaxed.

  “So, Sheriff, how is it you know about pickers? Are you into antiques? A collector?”

  “I had an uncle who was a picker of sorts.” She looked Jeff up and down, and added, “Although not like you, by any stretch of the imagination.”

  “What do you collect?”

  “Who said I did?”

  He picked up on her defensiveness. “I’d be surprised if you didn’t collect something. Most people do, even if they don’t recognize it as such.”

  “Okay. I have a little collection, but it’s not really an antique collection.”

  “Yeah? What is it?”

  She ignored the question. “We’re here.”

  He decided not to press the subject. As the sheriff drove down the driveway, Jeff thought about the last time he’d been in Bill’s house. What had it been? Three, four years? He recalled how comfortable Bill’s place was, with its rustic lodge decor, warm Mission oak furniture, soft Pendleton wool throws, and blazing fire in the massive rock fireplace. Everything needed to chase away the damp Northwest autumns was there, behind the large wooden door with its antique iron fittings that Jeff could now make out in the light of the headlamps.

  As Jeff and the sheriff climbed up the limestone path surrounded by a thick carpet of pine needles, he thought about Bill’s pride in capturing the mood and feel of his late wife’s lumberjack ancestors.

  So absorbed was he in the lingering image of the warm interior that, when the door swung open to reveal the changes obviously incorporated by the new Mrs. Rhodes, his breath caught and he was overtaken by a coughing fit.

  “Mr. Talbot!” The woman who had opened the door reached out a manicured hand. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Tanya Rhodes stood in the open doorway, the bright light from within outlining her curves through an ice blue chiffon dressing gown with matching blue collar and trim that resembled a feather boa. Jeff gazed past the young, voluptuous blonde who stood before him and stared, bewildered, at the stark white walls, cold glass, and chrome that dominated the house.

  “Mr. Talbot, are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine.” Jeff scrambled for an explanation. “I half expected Bill to open the door. The realization that he’s gone just hit me.”

  Tanya Rhodes took his arm and pulled him inside. “It’s quite shocking, isn’t it?”

  He caught a whiff of gin. “Yes, it certainly is.” He realized that the young widow had no idea they were talking about two different things. He recovered a bit and added, “I can’t imagine how difficult it must be for you.”

  “Oh, you have no idea.” She looped her arm through his and squeezed his bicep. He consciously refrained from pulling away, and tried to convince himself that the grieving widow’s behavior was a result of nerves and shock. Still, he looked over his other shoulder in order to assure himself that the sheriff was still on board. The look he received told him unmistakably that he was on his own as far as the blonde vixen was concerned.

  Tanya led him across the white marble floor, her heels tapping a staccato click, click atop its polished surface.

  “Here, let me take your jacket.” She pulled at his coat.

  “I’m fine, really. We won’t keep you very long.” He cleared his throat. “Sheriff McIvers tells me you’d like to sell Bill’s antiques.”

  “Yes, how sweet of her to fetch you over here so soon.” Tanya flashed a quick, shallow smile at the sheriff. “I really have no use for all that old stuff, you see, and friends tell me that the faster I get rid of Bill’s things, the easier it will be to move past his . . . well, you know.”

  “That could be true,” Jeff said, “but I don’t want you to feel rushed.”

  “It’s all right, really.” She picked up a bell from the sofa table and rang it lightly. Presently, a white-haired maid appeared, the delicate white apron of her uniform noticeably in contrast with her thick black tights and heavy black sweater. “May I offer you something to drink?” asked their hostess.

  “On duty,” said the sheriff. “Thanks just the same.”

  Tanya gave her a look. “Suit yourself. You’re not on duty, Mr. Talbot.” She smiled warmly. “What’ll it be?”

  “Nothing for me. Thanks.”

  She shrugged then, turned to her maid. “I’ll have the usual.”

  Jeff detected an ever-so-slight arch of the maid’s brow before she nodded to her employer and walked to a bar setup on a chrome-trimmed credenza of light blue enamel.

  “Tanya, I have to advise against your usual.”

  This new voice came from a man who stepped into the living room from a long corridor. He placed a small leather case on the floor, then took a coat from a hall tree. “That sedative I prescribed yesterday is powerful.”

  “Not even one little drink, Doctor?”

  The man shook his head, and Jeff surmised that he’d dealt with the woman before. “Not smart,
but maybe you can get your friend here to carry you to bed. You put a drink on top of those pills, and I’m quite certain you won’t be able to walk there.”

  Tanya squeezed Jeff’s bicep again. “He’s up to it, I’m sure.” She smiled suggestively.

  Jeff pulled free, stepped closer to the sheriff.

  The doctor turned to Jeff and lowered his voice. “She must have been drinking before I got here. She’ll be a real mess if she doesn’t choose one or the other soon.”

  After the doctor let himself out, the sheriff said, “Mrs. Rhodes, if you’d like, Mr. Talbot here can take the other boxes of fishing gear with him. He’ll be returning to Seattle in a few days, and —”

  “No need to explain. The sooner I get rid of that old fishing junk, the better. Follow me.”

  Jeff and the sheriff followed Tanya through the kitchen, which had been remodeled to match the living room, and through a door that led to a carpeted staircase.

  Once in the basement, they walked through a large, open area with equipment that would have given any Bally fitness center a run for its money. Beyond the gym, Tanya opened a door and flipped on a switch. The large room was Jeff’s first indication that he was, indeed, in Bill Rhodes’s home.

  The office was paneled in warm wood tones, and a good portion of the Mission oak furniture Jeff remembered had been crowded into this room. The walls were lined with old advertising signs, as well as shadow boxes and display cases full of lures and reels.

  The only thing in the room that hinted of modernism was the putty colored computer. It stood cold and silent on an oak library table.

  “All of Bill’s stuff is there.” She indicated several boxes stacked against the far wall.

  “Did he tape them up?” the sheriff asked.

  “I suppose so. At any rate, they were sealed when I first saw them.”

  “Mrs. Rhodes,” Jeff said, “a box that the sheriff showed me earlier didn’t have a complete inventory list. Do you mind if I take a look at Bill’s computer files, see if he kept a folder with updates? It’ll help me get the best price for you on his collection.”

  “Be my guest. Matter of fact, if you don’t find everything you need tonight, you can come back any old time for a visit.” She shot a look at the sheriff and added, “You won’t even need a police escort.”

  “Mrs. Rhodes?” The maid’s voice interrupted from the top of the stairs. “Your lawyer just called, said there’s nothing you can do about Mr. Rhodes’s final wish.”

  Tanya’s reaction — whether to the news, or to the maid’s lack of discretion, Jeff

  couldn’t be sure — was one of apparent anger. Her face reddened, her eyes narrowed, and her glamorous façade fell away like cracked plaster. The widow excused herself abruptly and went upstairs.

  “I wonder what that was about,” Jeff said after Tanya was out of earshot.

  “About the funeral would be my guess. Bill left instructions that he is to be cremated and his ashes spread over the lake.” McIvers grinned. “As you’ve no doubt guessed, Mrs. Rhodes despises everything to do with fishing. She’s furious that there won’t be a conventional service.”

  “Have the other arrangements been made? Time, place?”

  “Two o’clock tomorrow, at the bait shop’s dock.”

  “We’ll be there. Most of us, anyway. I can’t speak for Kyle, since he didn’t know Bill.” Jeff pressed a button to boot up the computer. “By the way, sheriff, you’re not giving me much help here tonight.”

  “I told you I don’t know anything about computers.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it.”

  The sheriff’s green eyes sparked. “Well, despite the fact that the dear widow is mixing sedatives and alcohol, you probably don’t have to worry about your virtue being compromised. From what I hear, she’s all sizzle and no steak.”

  “What?”

  “You know the type. Flirts like there’s no tomorrow, then turns cold as a fish when it comes down to it. You’d think, though, she’d have enough respect for Bill’s memory to act a little more decent so soon after his murder.” The sheriff pulled up a chair beside Jeff. “That’s all hearsay, though. That, and what I’ve seen when my path has crossed theirs around town.”

  “What about the things your deputy was saying yesterday?”

  “He has a real problem with talking out of school. Thing is, all that stuff about Tanya that comes out of the beauty shop is true.”

  “The bit about Gunther the personal trainer appears to be,” Jeff said, with a nod toward the workout equipment in the next room. He scrolled through the computer’s list of folders. “She’s got a lot of curves, though, for someone who has a reputation of working out. Plus, she doesn’t strike me as the type who would pump iron and chance breaking a nail.”

  The sheriff shrugged, then leaned forward and studied the computer screen. “How do you know what you’re looking for in there?”

  “Well, this stuff looks more organized than my wife’s computer, which is saying quite a bit. See this?” He double-clicked a folder titled “Go Fish” and an infrastructure of a dozen more folders appeared. He opened a couple, then said, “Each of these has pages of notes and documentation about his collections.” He shuffled through drawers of the library table until he found an unopened box of disks. “I’ll copy the files onto these, then work on matching them to the contents of the boxes after I get back home. That way,” he added, “I don’t have to sit here and fight off the distraught widow.”

  “Didn’t look to me like you were doing much fighting.”

  “Better watch out, Sheriff. Someone might mistake you for being a female.”

  The hurt look on the sheriff’s face told Jeff that she’d misunderstood.

  He tried to explain. “I wasn’t implying that you’re not a woman. I’m sorry if it came out wrong. But to me, the word ‘female’ connotates rivalry, jealousy. You know, hell-bent on scratching each other’s eyes out.”

  She nodded. Her expression relaxed somewhat. “How long will it take to make copies?”

  “Only a minute or so. Then I’ll haul these boxes up to the car, and we’ll see if we can get out of here before Tanya Rhodes abducts me.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  HARVEST RULES: You may not harvest any part of another person’s daily limit, except as provided for under disability license.

  —Washington State Department of Fish and Wildlife

  Coop’s Tavern looked like a forty-unit storage building outlined in an odd combination of neon and Christmas bulbs. Jeff parked the woodie well beyond the empty rows in order to separate and, hopefully, protect it from the pickup and shotgun crowd.

  After he’d transferred the boxes from the cruiser to the woodie, he’d told the sheriff good night and said he’d see her at Bill’s funeral.

  He was suddenly anxious to catch up with his friends, see if he could get back into the normal routine of the fishing weekend.

  He spotted Kyle and the Judge in a booth at the back of the room and began working his way around the perimeter of the dance floor. Several couples were crowded onto the glossy parquet, dancing to Dwight Yoakam.

  “Hey!” Sam yelled.

  He turned in time to see Sam abandon a young woman in mid-step, and caught the glare that should have been directed at her defecting dance partner. Jeff shrugged apologetically.

  “It’s about damn time you got here. What took you so long?”

  Jeff glanced at his watch. Actually, he was surprised that he’d managed to squeeze so many events into a span of only three hours.

  He ordered a beer at the bar, then followed Sam to the booth where the other two men waited. Jeff gave them a thumbnail sketch of his evening, starting with the strange encounter with Raven and ending with the behavior of Bill’s widow and the boxes containing his collection.

  When he was through, the Judge said, “See? I should’ve pressed for host privileges last night and confiscated all of Kyle’s lures.”

/>   “Patience, Judge. These will be for sale soon enough.”

  “Sure. After you’ve gotten first pick.”

  “Must be why I’m called a picker. Truth is, I doubt I’ll find much in there that I want. Several of them probably passed through my hands on their way to Bill. How about I give you first shot at them?”

  “That’s more like it.”

  Sinatra began singing “My Funny Valentine,” and a collective groan came from the crowd.

  “Damn it, Val.” The bartender yelled, as if he were correcting a child for the umpteenth time. “Am I gonna have to take that off the jukebox and hide it from you?”

  “Go screw yourself, Max Cooper.” The woman sitting at the bar started to take a drink, studied the half inch of amber liquid in the bottom of her glass, then added, “but not before you get me another one of these.”

  The Judge, who’d swiveled to get a look at the woman, turned back and clasped a hand around his glass of Scotch. “I’ve seen that gal put away her share of drinks over the years, but as I recall, she’s usually a fun drunk — you know, flirty, dancing with anyone she can drag onto the dance floor.”

  Jeff frowned. “You know her?”

  “God, no. Know of her, though. Hell of a dancer. You remember — wait, you left a day early last year. Sam, you remember, don’t you?”

  “I missed last year, remember?” Sam’s tone echoed his still-harbored irritation at missing out on that trip.

  The Judge stared blankly for a moment, then shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs. “Hell, I am getting old. The years are running together. Anyway, Val, aka Vanessa Valentine, pulled Gordy onto the dance floor and snuggled up against him like bark on a tree.”

  Jeff’s brows shot up. “You’re kidding, right?” He thought he knew everything there was to know about his friend, but he’d never seen Gordon Easthope dance. Old-fashioned Gordy, who still called kissing “sparking,” and who believed in properly courting a lady. Jeff stole another look at the woman and wondered just how far Gordy’s virtue had been compromised.