The Weedless Widow

by Deborah Morgan

  “You got quiet on me, Talbot,” prompted the sheriff.

  He couldn’t tell the sheriff what he’d been thinking about, so he introduced a subject that was sure to distract her. “I was wondering what that collection is that you’re so secretive about.”

  “Don’t go there.”

  “Why not? If you think you’re going to shock me, you’re wrong. I’m a picker, remember? You wouldn’t believe some of the things I keep an eye out for, or the people who want them.”

  Her expression was thoughtful. Finally, she said, “Okay, but you have to promise you won’t laugh.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Okay, I collect Barbie dolls.”

  Jeff was impressed. “If anyone laughs about that, then he doesn’t know what Barbie is selling for these days.”

  “That’s for sure. It’s a good thing I only have myself to take care of. I have an image to maintain around here, though, so I don’t let people know. If they aren’t collectors, then they think you’re nuts.”

  “I heard recently that the first Barbie can bring five figures. Do you spring for the rarer ones?”

  “Don’t have to. I had an uncle who predicted that they were going to be valuable. He started buying when the Number One Barbie came on the market in 1959.” She paused, looked at him quizzically.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I expected you to laugh when I mentioned my uncle.”

  “No, Ma’am. Gender has nothing to do with it. There are probably a lot of women right now who wish they had listened to him.”

  “That’s for sure. He bought it all — dolls, outfits, Dream Houses, pink Corvettes, carrying cases — everything that had been manufactured. It’s harder now to keep up with, and anyone who gets into collecting Barbie had better be prepared. Some of the dolls are limited edition and can only be purchased through the official club. Plus, you’ve got exclusive editions from companies like Avon — I told my Avon lady that I buy them for a niece in Iowa.”

  “Do you really have a niece in Iowa?”

  “Hell, no. But my Avon lady doesn’t have to know that. Anyway, when my uncle died, he left the entire collection to me. I’d planned to sell it off, even hauled it to a Barbie convention. I was hooked before you could say ‘Halt! Police!’ “ She shook her head. “Nowadays, I plan my vacations around those conventions.”

  “Are you a completist?”

  “I used to be, until I needed money to pay medical bills. It wasn’t easy, selling off pieces. But what good would a doll collection be if I weren’t around to enjoy it? So, I sold a Bob Mackie, a Vera Wang, and a —”

  “The Vera Wang? Are you telling me that the top designers work for Barbie?”

  “Yep. See what I mean? Barbie’s big, Talbot.”

  As the song wound down, Jeff thought about Colleen McIvers, Vanessa Valentine, and Barbie — three independent, middle-aged women. Priceless.

  Before they walked off the dance floor, the sheriff slipped him some folded papers. “I made a copy of Bill’s inventory — the stolen items. Might come in handy when you’re going through those boxes.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Thank you for the dance.” She lowered her voice. “If either of Bill’s women spills her guts, you be sure and let me know about it, you hear?”

  “I always cooperate fully with the law . . . even when they don’t charm me with the two-step.”

  “Your wife’s a lucky lady, Talbot.”

  “Two-way street, Sheriff.” He bowed, started back to his booth.

  He was walking past the bar, heading back to the corner where his buddies were waiting, when someone touched his arm. It was Val.

  “Miss Valentine. Val. Why don’t you join us for a drink?”

  “Thanks, but I’m not staying. I just wanted to thank you again for your kindness last night.”

  “I should be thanking you for giving me a look at all those antiques.” He smiled. “It’s always encouraging to meet a fellow collector.”

  “Don’t forget to call me if you come across any pretty perfume bottles in the treasure you just acquired.”

  “I won’t forget.” He was more likely to forget where he lived before he’d lose track of who collected what. “Val, I’m really sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” she said, obviously touched by his sincerity. “We really did love each other, you know? Most people will never understand that.”

  He perched on the empty barstool next to her. “Did Bill have any enemies? Anyone who would have any reason to kill him?”

  “I’ve been going crazy trying to figure that one out. But I can’t think of any one person. You know something, though? I keep going back to how he acted over the Internet. Do you think he saw something? Did you know that part of his collection was stolen a few years ago?”

  “That’s what I heard.” Jeff refrained from telling her that he’d wondered the same thing, that he was in fact going to check Bill’s computer files for that very clue.

  “If you need me to do anything from this end, just call. I’d like to help.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “So, Colleen is using your antiques knowledge? Is that the only tie you have to this, or are you an undercover cop?”

  “I guess it’s no secret. I’m a former FBI agent. I used to track down stolen art, that sort of thing. Makes me a natural for this one, I suppose.”

  “What made you leave law enforcement? And don’t tell me the antiques are more valuable.”

  “Not more valuable, just less scarce than the stolen stuff. I get my hands on a lot more of them now.” He glanced at the booth, where his three buddies were putting on their jackets. “I’d better say good night. Although we drove up in my car, those three would leave me to walk.”

  “If they do, I’ll give you a ride home.”

  “Thanks, but I’d never hear the end of that one.”

  Jeff awoke Sunday morning, anxious to return home. Typically, the men would go out on the water one last time, then eat lunch, clean up the cabin, and part ways.

  Today, Jeff decided to skip the fishing. This proved, once and for all, that he wasn’t a True Angler. He knew it, even before the others pointed it out.

  After he’d told his fishing buddies goodbye, he tackled the job of loading the woodie for the trip home. The added cargo that was Bill’s lures presented a logistical challenge and, with no small amount of effort and finesse, Jeff finally got everything packed into the station wagon.

  After that, he swept the cabin’s pine floors, took out the garbage, wiped down the counters, and made a final check for anything he might have left behind. He knew that the others would do the same, and he felt a twinge of loneliness when he realized that the feeling of closure came in shutting down the cabin together. He hoped he hadn’t made a mistake by deciding to leave early.

  He drove down the path, frequently glancing in his rearview mirror to see if any of the guys had started back up from the river. But this proved fruitless, and he pulled onto the highway and headed toward the Rhodes home.

  The maid answered the door. “Mrs. Rhodes said you’d be back today. She’s napping right now, but told me to wake her when you arrived.”

  “It’s not necessary to disturb her. I’ll just be a few minutes.”

  “Mister, I need this job. If she told me —”

  “How about a compromise? Allow me to get the computer work out of the way, then you can wake her when I’m ready to leave.”

  She thought a moment. “Are you working on anything that might help find Mr. Rhodes’s killer?”

  “Could turn out that way.”

  “I respected Mr. Rhodes.” She glanced over her shoulder. “I’ll give you thirty minutes.”

  “I’ll only need ten.”

  Jeff punched a button and waited anxiously for the computer to boot up. Its chirping and whirring reverberated in the cold silence of the basement, and he prayed that the sounds wouldn’t carry upstairs and set off some sort of al
arm in Tanya’s subconscious. Something like “man on board,” or “red-blooded male in the building.” He wondered how long it had taken Bill to grow tired of the relationship. He also wondered why the man had stayed married to her. Jeff suspected that it might be a lot cheaper than the alternative, and he thanked his own lucky stars that he would never have to go through that sort of misery. Rather than growing apart, he and Sheila were always discovering new and intriguing things about each other, things that both were interested in, things that fed the spark.

  He withdrew a sheet of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and spread it on the desk. He hoped he could decipher his notes and apply Sheila’s instructions successfully.

  He double-clicked the E-mail icon, and a screen popped up with the option to connect. He was in luck. Bill had checked “save password.” Without that, he’d have been screwed. He hit Enter and waited.

  When the screen appeared, several new messages were delivered to the Inbox. He minimized the screen without looking at them, and opened the Internet program.

  Once that screen appeared, he clicked “Favorites” on the menu, and Bill’s online list dropped down. Several folders appeared, followed by a subject list of websites. Jeff scrolled through the names, looking for anything that might be helpful. He passed on those with titles like “Fishing Guides,”“Washington Waters,”“Bait Shops,” and homed in on the ones that appeared to be more promising.

  A check into a folder titled “ID” listed around two dozen websites that featured antique fishing memorabilia; one with the name “Promote Fish” had links to pages offering promotional material. Another, titled “Buy Fish” listed sites from which aquarium fish could be purchased.

  From there it got complicated. The deeper he dug, the more cryptic the names became until he wondered if Bill had at one time been a Navajo code talker for the military.

  Jeff began to approach the task more systematically, opening folders, then opening folders within folders, eventually ignoring the strings of numbers and letters that served as folder names, checking the intricate infrastructure for something, anything, that might tell him what he was looking for.

  And that’s when he found himself in familiar territory. He clicked on a URL and was taken to an eBay auction page that depicted a Heddon Dowagiac lure in its original box. At the top of the page, in red letters, it read: This sale has ended.

  He went back to the list and clicked on another. Same thing, an eBay page stating that the sale had ended.

  He wondered why Bill had saved all these Web pages. Was he the seller? The buyer? Did he suspect that the lures were reproductions? Did he suspect that the lures were the ones that had been stolen from him?

  Jeff doubted it. If they had been, Bill would have called the sheriff, and the sheriff would have told Jeff. More to the point, Internet fraud was a federal offense. The FBI, or the postal service, or both would now be on the case.

  Jeff considered going through all the pages right then to cross-check the data. But a glance into the first couple of folders revealed dozens of pages. Just opening them for the purposes of forwarding would be a time-eater. No, he would work on the details after he got home.

  He moved quickly, forwarding dozens of links to Sheila’s E-mail address so that he could get done and get out.

  When that chore was complete, he went back to the computer’s E-mail program and skimmed through the column of folders on the left side of the screen until he found one with a name that stirred his curiosity. He quickly checked one of the messages, found Bill’s E-mail address, and made a note of it.

  Then he remembered that Sheila had some sort of nickname she used when bidding on eBay listings, and he surmised that Bill had one, too. He opened a couple of E-mails until he found one that notified the recipient of an auction win. He clicked a link that was included in the letter, and the Internet screen opened, revealing an eBay page for an antique lure.

  On a whim, he checked the stolen item list that the sheriff had given him earlier. The information on the Web page seemed to match that on the inventory sheet.

  He opened another E-mail, tried the same thing with another link. Ditto. But when he read over that letter again to see if it held any further information, he discovered that it had been delivered to a different nickname. He jotted this down, as well.

  He repeated this process several more times, and each time he came up with yet another nickname.

  A red flag went up in his brain.

  It made sense that online buyers and sellers would want some anonymity. But why did Bill have several?

  It didn’t add up. If these are Bill’s stolen lures, Jeff thought, then why has he been paying hefty sums to get them back?

  He scrolled back up the list to the stack of icons, searched for the top of the heap, and stared at the folder’s name. It was a two-word title: MINE AGAIN.

  PART TWO

  THE LURE

  “I am, out of the ladies’ company like a fish out of the water.”

  —Thomas Shadwell

  A True Widow, 1679

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SNAGGING: Attempting to take fish with a hook and line in such a way that the fish does not voluntarily take the hook(s) in its mouth.

  —Washington State Department of Fish and Wildlife

  The drive home was tedious, but Jeff was happy that he’d gotten out of the Rhodes home before Tanya had awakened from her nap.

  He pulled into the carriage house, grabbed his duffel bag from the back seat, and went inside, thankful that he wouldn’t have to worry about unloading the fishing gear or putting away the foodstuffs. Greer would automatically see to that.

  Sheila ran down the service stairs and into his arms. Jeff wasn’t sure how she knew it was him entering the house and not Greer, but she had a particular sense about the goings-on in the big old place.

  “Hey, stranger,” she said, “you look good in a rugged sort of way.”

  He stroked the sparse beard. “What do you think? Should I keep it?”

  She stood back, studied him intently. “I’m not sure which way I like better. Before you stopped shaving last week, you looked adorable — like Kevin Kline in In and Out. Now, here you are, all rough and sexy like he was in French Kiss.” She lowered her voice. “I have a beret upstairs . . .”

  Jeff muttered the few French phrases he knew. Maybe he wasn’t the sexy character in the movie, but his moves were enough to keep the mood going and lead to an amorous encounter.

  Afterward, they visited until it turned dark outside, and filled each other in on their weekends.

  At length he said, “I’m starving, but I’m beat, too. Is there —”

  “You don’t need to say another word. I’ll bring dinner up here, and we can lie in bed, watch a movie or two, then turn in.”

  He pulled her close. “There’s only one drawback.”

  “What might that be?” She kissed his ear.

  “You’ll be gone for an hour.”

  “Not true. I didn’t know when you’d be home, so I planned accordingly.” She hopped up and threw a cozy fleece robe over her slender body. “Back in a jiff.”

  After she left, he went to the vanity area of his lavatory where he kept a coffee station set up — a true sign if ever there was one of his java fanaticism. He put on a pot to brew, then went to Sheila’s office and made a quick check of her E-mail to make sure he’d forwarded the webpages properly from Bill’s computer.

  He was relieved to find that he’d done the job right. Following every link to its original website was going to be a challenging and time-consuming task. Add to that the job of figuring out what, if anything, it had to do with Bill’s murder, and it moved to a new level altogether. He was debating signing in and getting a start on the job, but he knew that he’d get too caught up in it. It wasn’t called a web for nothing. Besides, Sheila would be back up any minute. He closed the program and headed back to the bedroom, promising himself he’d get up early the next day and work on the lin
ks.

  He’d just put You’ve Got Mail in the VCR when Sheila walked in with an enormous picnic basket and a red checkered tablecloth. She spread the cloth on the bed, then unpacked fried chicken, potato salad, sliced tomatoes, a relish tray, fluffy angel biscuits, and apple pie. Jeff poured two cups of coffee and joined his wife.

  They watched a second movie — Runaway Bride — laughed till they cried, ate almost the entire pie, and fell asleep so completely and comfortably entwined that only the jaws of life could have separated them.

  The next morning, Greer discreetly slipped into their room with a carafe of strong coffee and a large basket of pastries.

  And who said butlers weren’t needed in the twenty-first century?

  Jeff hadn’t left instructions for Greer to serve breakfast at a particular time, though, so his day began an hour later than he’d intended for it to. Typical Monday morning irritations followed closely on the coattails of the late start: He cut himself shaving, spilled coffee on his sweater, and had to inch the woodie through traffic because of a detour that looped him around the Space Needle.

  When he finally arrived at the warehouse, he walked to the back to examine the items that had been damaged in Thursday night’s truck accident. He picked up a corner of a rolled-up moving quilt and the broken pieces inside rattled like bones in a gunny sack.

  An image of Bill revisited his mind for the hundredth time, but the reality of murder simply wouldn’t register now that Jeff was back in his real world. It was as if he’d experienced one of those fragmented nightmares in which people died and were resurrected only to laugh at you later when you told them over the phone or over a beer that they were killed in your dreams the previous night, and that it was so real you had to see them to make sure they were okay.

  He poured coffee from his Thermos and, using a folded sheet of paper from his pad as a coaster on a Chippendale side table, he sank into a leather chair worn soft as butter and began crunching numbers.