He paused and smiled. “Bill and I fished every river and pond and stream within walking distance of this very spot while we were growing up, and it’s always prompted warm memories when I’ve made visits albeit infrequent — back to this part of our great country.
“I left here with far too much exuberance, and worked many sixty-hour weeks in pursuit of what I thought was the good life. I now realize that Bill was the wise one, the one who did what he loved and held fast to nature’s soul.”
The man clutched his fist to his mouth for a moment, then cleared his throat and opened a slim, bright-colored volume, which had been secured under his arm.
“I’ll share with you a poem that captures Bill’s devotion and reverence for the outdoors, and for the life he chose. It’s what I believe he might have said had he been given to the written word.
“So, please, think of Bill as I read ‘Romancing the River,’ by Laurie Wagner Buyer.
Until I have felt underfoot her every curve and bend
and heard the sound of her rippled voice
changing from chute to riff to pool where willows
drape reflections of her thousand faces,
how can I say I know her?
Until I have whispered to her in wonder, stretched
out open on her soft and grassy sides or reached shyly
into the unknown clefts of her undercut banks
and delved the old mysteries of her wild running,
how can I say I want her?
Until I have met and mastered the minds
of other worshippers — occult osprey, reclusive brown,
flash fire of leaping rainbow and hidden heron who
rises from the water phoenix-like, a cloud of mystic smoke —
how can I say I accept her?
Until I have walked alongside her in every waking hour,
dawn through dusk, and longer still, night into day,
and seen her dark flanks caressed by sun, silvered with
starlight and drank mesmerized from her secret springs,
how can I say I understand her?
Until I have held the haunting silence of her winter
heart in my shaking hands, counted the quick pulsed
flood of spring awakening, yearned for the ripe beauty
of her summer dress and coveted her autumn glory,
how can I say I possess her?
An hour or two is never enough. Even offering
one day diminishes the devotion she so deserves.
Until I plunge into giving everything, vulnerable,
as naked and unashamed as her own soul,
how can I say I love her?”
When he’d finished reading, Jim Rhodes passed the book to the pastor, then took off his suit coat and handed that to him as well. While everyone waited silently, he climbed into the waiting boat, rowed to the center of the lake, and scattered Bill’s ashes onto the water’s calm surface.
Jeff brushed at a tear with his knuckle, but he couldn’t be sure whether it was a result of the touching scene before him, or the fact that, try as he might, he couldn’t recall his last conversation with the man who was now and forever gone.
It seemed hours before anyone moved, and those who did, did so hesitantly. Then, people funneled into a single row toward Mrs. Rhodes, and Jeff’s foursome followed suit.
Tanya wasn’t dressed in typical widow’s weeds but rather wore a tight-fitting black suit of a fabric that reminded Jeff of the shiny sharkskin suits from the Fifties. He noticed that occasionally her calf muscles gave way for an instant, at which time her spiked, black patent heels sank into the ground.
Jeff overheard the widow’s comments to different people as they filed through to pay their respects. Statements such as, “This was Bill’s idea, you know,” and, “I do apologize for having to drag everyone out here like this,” and, to some, “Come to the house after, okay?”
Jeff placed her in a category of people who resented being put in a position that they thought was orchestrated for the sole purpose of bringing embarrassment to them.
He stayed back, allowed his three companions to fall into line in front of him. The sun disappeared suddenly, and the wind picked up, blowing a chill from across the water. He was glad it had held through most of the service.
Tanya’s irate voice got his — and everyone else’s — attention. “It’s bad enough that you would show your face here today, but couldn’t you have at least had the decency to wear black?”
Jeff leaned over in time to see Vanessa Valentine draw herself up. Even from this distance, he detected her struggle for composure. Her suit was fashioned of fuchsia linen, with a peplum jacket that accentuated her tiny waist.
“That shows how much you know. Bill despised black at funerals.” Val raised her chin. “Besides, this was his favorite outfit on me . . . in public, that is.”
Val turned and walked away, maintaining her composure as she climbed the hill toward the parking lot.
Jeff’s three friends turned in tandem and raised their brows. When it came their turn to greet the widow, they did so solemnly, yet quickly. Then they walked to where the sheriff stood alone by the dock, and Jeff wondered offhandedly whether they would try to confirm his fish story.
He was the last of the mourners in line, and Tanya took his hand in both of hers. “You will come by the house this evening, won’t you, Mr. Talbot?”
“Actually, I should leave that time for you and your family. But, if I may, I’ll stop by tomorrow before I head back to Seattle. Say, one o’clock?”
“That’s even better,” she said. “We’ll have more time alone.”
Something in Jeff told him to go along with her for now. The woman aroused nothing more in him than his curiosity, and he hoped that if he befriended her, he might learn more about the scene that had just happened between her and Val. He forced a smile. “I’ll look forward to it, then.”
As he started walking away, a man he hadn’t noticed before approached Tanya. This new man’s attempt at keeping his voice down only added to the sense of urgency. “You really should get the ball rolling, Tanya, before that brother of his gives you any trouble.”
Jeff’s investigative instincts kicked in. He stalled, feigned dropping something in order to hear the woman’s response.
“You worry too much, Mike.” Her voice took on a hard edge. “Bill may have gotten the ‘burial’ he wanted — if you can call it that — but I made sure everything else was in my control.”
“Just don’t let anyone strong-arm you. Remember, you’re totally within your legal rights to go ahead as planned.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“Just keep your senses intact, okay?”
Jeff glanced over his shoulder. The man was taking quick strides up the hill toward the parking lot. Tanya had turned and headed toward a small group that included Jim Rhodes.
Jeff caught up with his cohorts.
“What did you think of that little outburst?” the Judge asked. “It seems that my date for tonight was dallying with the deceased.”
“You’re kidding,” said the sheriff. “You’ve got a date with Val?”
“Not really, Sheriff. Just a little fishing cabin humor.”
“That — the catfight I mean — isn’t all that’s fishy,” Jeff said. He nodded toward the hill. “Sheriff, who’s the skinny, bald guy making a beeline for the parking lot?”
She turned to get a look. “That’s Michael Pratt, hotshot real estate agent. Why?”
“I just overheard him talking to the new widow. They’ve got something on the front burner, I can guarantee you that.”
“I’m not surprised. Did I tell you he’s the one who dropped Bill off at work Friday after lunch? I’d best pay him a little visit.”
She started to walk away, then turned. “See you fellas later at Coop’s?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Jeff said.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Washington Stat
e Law requires return of your catch record . . . even if nothing is caught.
—Washington State Department of Fish and Wildlife
Jeff pulled into the parking lot at Coop’s Tavern and, in spite of the downpour that had started when they’d left the bait shop, parked in a space even farther away than the night before.
“Damn, Talbot.” Sam crawled out of the backseat and gave the door a push. “She’d be hard enough to find if we spent all night drinking Shirley Temples. We don’t have a popsicle’s chance in Tijuana of locating her after a few hours of drinking each other under the table. And it’s raining, to boot. The least you could’ve done was let us off at the door.”
The Judge pulled his mackinaw tighter. “I don’t know, Sam. The brisk walk back out here will likely sober us up come ten or eleven o’clock.”
“Ten o’clock?” Kyle said. Jeff could see the whites of the young man’s wide eyes. Then Kyle grinned. “I guess it’s true what they say. I’ll have to see if the jukebox has ‘Too Old to Cut the Mustard’ on it. I’ll play it in your honor, Your Honor.”
“You’ll be singing a different tune,” Jeff said, “after the Honorable Judge Richard Larrabee rousts you out again at four-thirty tomorrow morning.” Jeff swung open the door to the bar, and the four filed into a motley mix of everything from plaid flannel to sequins.
They headed for an empty booth, surprised that it was empty until a drop of water splashed into a waiting puddle in the table’s center. Sam grabbed an abandoned rag off a corner of the bar and primly placed it down the length of pine as if it were a fancy table runner.
The waitress came by and took their orders, leaving behind a wooden bowl filled with party mix. Jeff grabbed a handful, then leaned back and looked around.
There were several knots of people in the place. He spotted many that he’d just seen at Bill’s memorial service, gathered in groups throughout the bar, nodding and smiling in that poignant way that told him they were reminiscing over the deceased, and toasting his memory with the first of many glasses. Underneath most of the expressions lay the unmistakable gratitude that it hadn’t been them who’d had a run-in with a murderer. The more they drank, Jeff knew, the more boisterous the place would get, the more fantastical the fish stories. It was the best send-off they could give to a man like Bill Rhodes.
The waitress returned with their drinks. “Where’s your girlfriend?” she said with a sly glance in Jeff’s direction.
“I thought you might be able to tell me.”
“Haven’t seen her today. Which isn’t like her, I might add.”
Jeff shrugged, and the barmaid did the same.
After she walked away, Kyle said, “Do you think Miss Valentine’s okay?”
“Sure,” Sam said. “She’s probably just laying low after that little run-in with the wife, you know what I’m sayin’?”
“Thing is,” Jeff said, “that run-in probably added her to the sheriff’s suspect list. And, if I were the sheriff, I’d add Tanya Rhodes and that real estate agent to it, as well.
“We may not see the sheriff, either,” he continued, “depending on how many alibis she’s been able to track down. Have you ever seen a town more like Peyton Place than this one?”
“Not in a hell of a long time,” the Judge said. “Give me the big city any day.”
“Hell, Judge, if you feel that way, you might as well head over to that other Washington.”
“No, thanks.”
“Hey,” Kyle said, “there comes the sheriff now. Judge, here’s your chance. You could always take her on a date if Miss Valentine doesn’t show.”
The Judge looked doubtful. “She’s not really my type. Then, there’s the conflict-of-interest issue to consider. And —”
“There’s my fishing buddy!” The sheriff pointed at Jeff, then waved her hand as if she were directing traffic at a four-way. “Get out here and help me celebrate my first catch. I haven’t been on a dance floor in a hundred years.”
“And,” the Judge continued with an obvious rewriting of his interrupted speech, “Talbot, here, seems to have already gotten that vote.”
As Jeff’s three friends looked at one another and snickered, Jeff caught a lightning-quick flash of something else in Colleen McIver’s gaze.
“I thought you’d never ask, Miz McIvers.” He pushed his way out of the booth amid jabs and innuendos, then said, “You fellas see if you can behave yourselves.”
Although Jeff was a good dancer, he’d never actually tackled the country western steps that were so popular at Coop’s. The tavern had to be the only place within a thousand miles of Seattle that played that kind of music. The sheriff was a natural, though, and led him into a two-step rhythm to some twangy lyrics he wasn’t familiar with. He concentrated on getting the dance steps down before he tried to carry on a conversation.
“You know, Sheriff —” he watched his feet as he spoke — “one of the biggest things I miss about working in law enforcement is that unspoken knowledge, that connection, that our particular level of officers has. I realize I’m no longer an officer, but some things always stay with you. It’s interesting, isn’t it? Those who are on the courtroom level never seem to catch our signals.”
“Yep, comes in handy, don’t you think?”
“Very. Now, what have you got?”
“A pretty fair list of suspects, as you know, with more alibis than George W. has cowboy hats. That, in and of itself, isn’t surprising. But, the thing that is? They’re checking out, one right after the other.”
“What does your detective say about it?”
“Same thing. I’ve done the initial contacts, he’s done follow-up. Everything that’s looked promising has hit the wall like a crash-test dummy. Matter of fact, you can skip questioning Kyle Meredith. His deposition was rescheduled right after the Judge left the courthouse. He went to his apartment to load his car — landlord supports his story.”
“That took some strategy. His car’s no bigger than your pocket.”
“Regardless, I’ve confirmed travel times. He wasn’t here,” she said. “That brings us to Mike Pratt, the real estate agent. He’d gone into Seattle on Thursday, right after he’d dropped Bill off at the bait shop. That raised a flag, let me tell you. But a check into his routine confirmed that he’s made the same trip the third Thursday of every month for two years.”
“That could be a cover, though. Perfect time to pull something, right before you’re headed out of town.”
“I thought of that. But he gave me another alibi, too. Said he saw a beat-up old pickup with wildlife decals all over it pulling in as he was leaving.”
“Wildlife decals? Sounds like a too-many martini lunch, if you ask me.”
“Nope. That’s one of those things you don’t see in fiction, because fiction’s supposed to make sense.
“Retha Dobbs,” she went on. “That’s the woman who drives the pickup he saw. She’s about the nearest thing to a hermit we have around here. Loves hunting and fishing, keeps that old International pickup held together with twine and threats, and it runs like a Timex. She’d shop at Bill’s for things like milk, eggs, toilet paper, even though it was more expensive just so she wouldn’t have to deal with the people in town.
“I found her a half hour ago, cleaning her rifle for deer season. She’d talked to Bill around one-thirty Thursday afternoon. Said Mike was pulling out when she got there, and that it was a good thing. She was tired of him harassing her to sell her lakefront property.”
The next tune started. Jeff was getting the hang of this two-step business and didn’t have to look at his feet anymore. “Have you heard back from that Raven character yet?”
“No, come to think of it. I’ll give him a call.”
Jeff thought back to the scene at the funeral. “Maybe there’s something to Tanya Rhodes’s insinuation regarding Val.”
“Yeah, well, jealousy cuts both ways.”
“Listen,” he said, “I’ve got to go back out to Tanya’s to
morrow, and, much as I dread putting up with her flirting, I could play along and try to find out why an old affair was still bothering her.”
“It’s no secret that Bill and Val had something going.”
“Yeah, but why would Tanya have brought that up? I mean, it looks like she was the winner. Why would she care about Bill’s past affairs?”
The sheriff shook her head. “You really are naive, aren’t you?”
Jeff was surprised. “I thought —”
“All you guys think that if you’ve got a bombshell at home, then everything’s picture perfect. Didn’t you learn anything from Frank Gifford?
“Sure, Bill and Val were an item. For quite a while, actually. It was known from the get-go, however, that he didn’t look at Val as marriage material. When he got blindsided by the nubile Tanya Price — she came for a price, all right — he dropped Val like a stone. He wised up pretty quickly, though, realized that his arm candy wasn’t much for real conversation. Val got over being mad at him, and they drifted back into the same relationship they’d had before.”
Jeff thought about this new information as the song faded. To his thinking, this actually made Val less of a suspect. If she’d recovered from her initial distress of being dumped and had resumed her relationship with Bill, then she probably believed she was the victorious one.
From what he’d seen the night before, Val was quite content in her own surroundings. Maybe, he surmised, she was one of those women who liked a monogamous relationship, but didn’t want to give up her day-to-day independence.
The band began playing a slow country tune and Jeff put an arm around the sheriff’s thin waist. Her frail body reminded him of his Aunt Primrose. Auntie Pim had loved to waltz, and he’d always made time for her when she’d put on the early vinyls of such populars as “The Tennessee Waltz” and her favorite, “The Rock and Roll Waltz.” He could predict by the whiff of camphor and menthol that preceded his aged aunt into a room that she had applied a fresh layer of linament to her arthritic joints just so she could outlast a waltz or two.
The Weedless Widow Page 12