The Weedless Widow

by Deborah Morgan

  The Judge leaned against the rocks of the fireplace. “Don’t forget who you called when you needed help tonight. Your old buddy, Judge Larrabee.

  “Sure,” he went on, “the cops told you they would look for her. Do you want to know why? I told them, ‘Humor him, guys. He’s an old friend who’s not home all that much, if you get my drift.’ Not a lie, is it Jeff?”

  Jeff’s heart pounded against his chest wall as he fought to maintain control.

  “Bill’s widow was a hell of a lot easier to deal with than your wife. She didn’t ask for proof, or question my involvement in the case. She didn’t even stay in the basement with me after she pointed out the computer. But Sheila? Too smart. Watched me like a hawk. Asked too many questions.

  “Of course,” he continued, “you know by now that I don’t have to worry about the files on your computer.” He stabbed his finger as if he were striking a keyboard. “Gone. All of them.

  “You’re my only remaining worry. Or, rather, you were. Now that you know I can get to Sheila anytime I want, you’ll go along with my plan.”

  “Do you have any idea what your plan has done to my wife?”

  The Judge looked surprised. “Do you have any idea what I’ve gone through to get my campaign off the ground? You don’t know what something like this costs. When I first invested in Internet sales, I didn’t know we’d be selling stolen property.” He waved his hands. Jeff kept his eyes on the gun. “I know, I know,” the Judge said. “I should’ve asked questions. But, c’mon. Nobody asks questions that they don’t want the answers to. In less than eight weeks, I had more than enough to run my campaign! I sure as hell wasn’t going to ask questions at that point.

  “No one would’ve gotten hurt if Bill hadn’t been so damned stubborn. I tried to reason with him, offered to replace the lures if he’d just look the other way. He wouldn’t listen. I offered money — lots of money. He didn’t want it. Next thing I knew, he was lunging at me. I . . . I’m not sure what happened after that. I remember thinking that one minute he was about to accept my offer, and the next minute, he was on the floor.”

  The Judge seemed to be in a fog. After a moment, he emerged clear-eyed. “Hell, he thought his lures were worth so damn much. Their value wasn’t a patch on what I had invested in that company. How could he put their value above something as noble as leadership and the promise of a better life?

  “Oh, well. That’s behind us now. I feel bad about it, but I’m not going to let it get in the way of my goals. I didn’t go there to kill him, but I couldn’t let his attitude change the course of everything.”

  “It did, though, didn’t it, Judge?” The sheriff’s voice echoed from down the hall.

  The Judge wheeled.

  Colleen McIvers stood in the hallway, a thirty-eight aimed at Larrabee’s chest.

  Jeff smiled in spite of himself. The Judge had been so intent upon protecting himself, so keen on justifying his actions, that he hadn’t thought to do one simple thing: remove Jeff’s key from the front door. Apparently, the sheriff had slipped the key from the hole and used it to come in through the back.

  “Talbot.” The Judge backed up enough to put both Jeff and the sheriff in his line of vision. “Tell her how this is going down, or you and your wife will never sleep with your eyes closed again.”

  “Did you see her, Sheriff? Is she okay?”

  “She’s been sedated, but she’s going to be fine. That nurse, though . . .”

  “What did you do?” the Judge asked.

  “I gave her a dose of her own medicine.”

  The sheriff didn’t crack a smile.

  It was all Jeff could do to keep from running to the back of the house. For the moment, though, he needed to see things through here, try to help keep the Judge calm. If the man panicked and started shooting, everybody would lose.

  “You’re all out of options, Judge,” the sheriff said. “Nothing left to gamble with.”

  “You’re not going to shoot me, Sheriff.”

  His voice had taken on a condescending tone. “Why don’t you just go on back to the station? Tell her, Jeff. This is between you and me.” The Judge’s arm faltered, the gun wavered slightly.

  Jeff glanced at the sheriff. He’d never seen a steadier aim. If the Judge had any brains at all, he wouldn’t underestimate this woman. She was in her element, unlike Sheila. The Judge had used Sheila’s weakness to control her, but if he thought that the sheriff had a weakness, he was going to be surprised.

  “Put the gun down, Judge.”

  “I can’t do that, Sheriff.”

  “Don’t force my hand.”

  “Do you honestly think you can shoot me? You don’t have it in you.”

  Jeff intervened, tried another tact. “Let me call Kyle for you, Judge. Just talk to him, okay?”

  “I told you. This has to stay between you and me.”

  The sheriff said, “It’s already way beyond that, Judge. Now put down the gun.”

  “That’s something that I’m not willing to do.”

  “I’m telling you for the last time. You either get on with it, or you get it over with. It’s your call.”

  Jeff had been in that place where the sheriff now stood, had realized that the situation was going south, had wondered whether he would be the one to pull the trigger or the one to fall. Cornered animals felt trapped, and that feeling blinded them beyond all reason.

  A cornered person usually panicked, lost his focus, let his eyes dart, watching, guessing, second-guessing. Jeff saw only the profiles of both the Judge and the sheriff as they faced each other, but it was enough to tell him who was the professional.

  Keep your eye on the ball and not on the game. Gordy had said it to him a thousand times, drilled it into his memory for life. Earlier he had consciously reminded himself of it. Now, he could see that someone along the way had made sure the sheriff knew it, too.

  The silence in the room pounded against his eardrums, built to a deafening ring. His gaze darted between the two people before him and in the second of time that followed, he saw a slight flicker of the Judge’s eye, a twitch of a muscle in his arm, the expression on his face change from surprise to panic to wild defiance.

  He saw the sheriff, face unchanged, eyes locked on Larrabee, and he watched her squeeze the trigger an instant before the Judge did the same. The Judge fell, and his shot went wild. The bullet struck a window. Glass shattered and rained onto the porch.

  The ringing magnified. Smoke stung Jeff’s eyes as he fought to take in the scene.

  Sheriff McIvers kept the gun sighted in on the Judge, now lying still on the floor. She blinked rapidly against the smoke. To Jeff, she said, “Go get your wife.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  HOW TO RELEASE FISH: When you need to release a fish there are some special precautions you can take to give it a good chance of surviving . . . If you’ve removed the fish from the water, get it back in as soon as possible.

  —Washington State Department of Fish and Wildlife

  Sheila was lying on the bed, struggling against a fog of sedation. She wore a T-shirt that read: FISHERMEN ARE BORN HONEST BUT THEY GET OVER IT.

  Jeff saw an ironic joke in the statement and would have commented on it had the glazed eyes staring at him given any indication that his wife was behind them.

  He located the sweater set and slacks that Greer had described earlier for the police. He carefully removed the sweat-soaked T-shirt and dressed his wife in her own clothes, believing that every effort toward normalcy was one step closer to having his wife back.

  He held her, spoke softly to her as the medicinal fog lifted.

  The approaching sirens seemed vague and distant. After a few moments, Sheriff McIvers came to the bedroom. “Do you want her taken to the hospital?”

  “No, thanks. The quicker I get her home to her own surroundings, the better off she’ll be. I’ll have Greer call Sheila’s regular doctor, have him come to the house.”

  The sheriff nodded.
“Why don’t you move her to one of the other rooms for now, while we get Sleeping Beauty wheeled out?”

  He nodded. “Are you okay, Sheriff?”

  “I’m never okay when I have to kill somebody. But when they panic? It’s all in the body language, you know.”

  “I know.” He cradled his wife in his arms, started toward the door, then stopped and turned back. “Thanks, Sheriff.”

  She looked surprised. “You would’ve done the same for me.”

  They were driving up Queen Anne Avenue with only a few blocks left to travel when the sedative lost its hold and Sheila realized she wasn’t home.

  Wide-eyed, she gripped the armrest with one hand and Jeff’s hand with the other and pushed with her feet against the floorboard, as if she could bury herself in the confines of the car.

  She gulped air repeatedly, then began hyperventilating as Jeff brought the woodie to a stop in their driveway.

  He rooted around in the car and found a paper bag that still held doughnuts he’d purchased at the market earlier in the day. He dumped them out, then forced his wife to breathe into the bag.

  As her breathing returned to normal — or as near as it could, for someone who was frightened nearly out of her mind — Jeff was grateful for the dark. He couldn’t imagine her reaction had she been able to see clearly the openness that surrounded her.

  It took him an hour to get Sheila from the car to the house. Apparently, something inside her had accepted the car’s interior as her new surroundings — a sort of coping mechanism, he presumed, that had kicked in as a way of preventing a complete breakdown.

  He pointed out to her that every light in the house was on, asked her to trust him to get her inside safely. He ended up prying her fingers loose from the dash, speaking to her as he would a child, promising her she would never be left alone again. He wrapped her in a blanket and carried her inside.

  The house was empty, except for Greer. Jeff had called ahead, told Greer and Gordy that Sheila had been located, warned them what to expect. He was told that several friends were at the house, having drifted in from the streets and their search: Blanche and Trudy, Sam and Helen Carver and three of their five daughters, all of whom had brought significant others.

  Greer had sounded animated over the phone, his obvious relief and excitement almost getting the better of his strict training. He assured Jeff that he would inform everyone of Mrs. Talbot’s safety, then would clear the house of people so that Sheila wouldn’t have the added trauma of a house full of well-meaning, but anxious guests.

  Now, the butler reached out and touched Sheila’s arm, as if to reassure himself that it was really her. The simple gesture caused tears to well up in Jeff’s eyes. He turned and started toward the stairs.

  While they waited for the doctor to arrive, Jeff managed to get Sheila into the relative comfort of her own bed.

  He fought the urge to ask his wife what had happened, what she had experienced, what she remembered. He could ask later. Or not at all. Although what had happened wasn’t their fault, it would have its repercussions. There would be psychiatrists, therapists, counselors, medication — so many things that they had both tried to keep at bay.

  Perhaps, he thought, the drugs had helped in some bizarre way. Since she had been kept sedated through most of her ordeal, there might be fewer memories to deal with in the future. But the reality of that might not be fully known for months.

  He took a deep breath. They would face it, though, just as they had faced everything else: together.

  She stirred next to him, and he searched her face. An odd mix of confusion and distress registered in her gaze.

  He debated his best approach. With as normal a voice as he could muster, he said, “I played dress-up with your bonnet earlier tonight.” He watched her eyes, thought he saw something behind the bewildered gaze. Recognition? A tiny flicker of acknowledgment, perhaps? Curiosity? He reached carefully for that thread. “Greer found me. Can you imagine how hard it was for him to keep from laughing?”

  She reached out to him then, and he held her close, buried his face in her hair, breathed steadily. They would be okay. They had each other.

  It was enough.

  RECOMMENDATIONS

  FROM JEFFREY TALBOT

  Dear Reader,

  First and foremost, Sheila’s going to be fine. Since I write this letter to you only a couple of weeks after getting her safely back home, I can’t say what the next few months will hold. But, with much patience and care from doctors, friends, Greer, and myself, you can rest assured that everything possible is being done.

  Many of you wrote to tell me how much you enjoyed the bibliography and webliography I compiled after our last adventure together, so I’m happy to provide you with some new volumes to consider.

  Although Sheila’s spending less time on the Internet, I’ve checked her computer for both recently visited and bookmarked sites. I quickly discovered why it’s called a Web — I got so caught up in following strand after strand that led to so many sites on antiques, I was afraid of becoming an antique myself before I could check out all of them! But it was interesting, and I’ve learned nothing if not that the world of antiques is one of constant discovery.

  Also, I looked up several sites that have to do with the collectibles showcased in the story you just read. I’ve listed those in Sheila’s webliography, as well.

  A few points: 1) Prices of antiques and collectibles will fluctuate for many reasons, including the region where the item is found, the condition it’s in, and its current availability on the market; 2) my recommendations are only a scratch on the surface of what’s out there, meant simply to whet your appetite and give you a starting place; and 3) people move to new Web addresses just as they move to new street addresses. If you don’t locate one of the sites listed, use Jeeves, butler of the Internet (www.askjeeves.com). He’s a friend of Greer’s.

  Speaking of whom, Greer just returned.

  Since he’ll be here with Sheila, I need to make a quick trip down to Blanche’s warehouse and sort through some of my inventory. I have a feeling there’s more to the old woman’s loot than meets the eye. . . .

  Till next time,

  Jeff Talbot

  As I’m compiling this list, fishing collectibles are huge. Here are a few books on the subject:

  Old Fishing Lures & Tackle (5th Edition), by Carl F. Luckey (Krause Publications, 1999). Loads of black and white photos, plus a segment of color plates. This book shows photos and provides info on many of the lures found both in Bill Rhodes’s collection and in the “poker-chip” tackle boxes brought along on the fishing trip by Kyle Meredith. A great reference book.

  Classic Fishing Lures and Tackle: An Entertaining History of Collectible Fishing Gear, by Eric L. Sorenson (Howard Lambert, photographer). This is more than just a lure book, it captures the nostalgic appeal and art of the sport. It’s well written and enhanced with excellent photography.

  Fishing Lure Collectibles: An Identification and Value Guide to the Most Collectible Antique Fishing Lures, by Dudley Murphy and Rick Edmisten (Collector Books, 2000). Featuring over 1,000 color reproductions as well as descriptions and values of lures, this one’s worth a look-see.

  The Longest Silence: A Life in Fishing, by Thomas McGuane (Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., 1999). The cover copy of this book’s handsome jacket says it best: “Infused with a deep experience of wildlife and the outdoors, dedicated to conservation, reverent and hilarious by turns or at once . . . sets the heart pounding for a glimpse of moving water, and demonstrates what a life dedicated to sport reveals about life.” A brilliant work.

  If you read Death Is a Cabaret, you learned that Gordy Easthope is a diehard fan of Ernest Hemingway. Not surprising then is Gordy’s contribution: Hemingway on Fishing, edited and with an introduction by Nick Lyons; foreword by Jack Hemingway (The Lyons Press, 2000). This work is the first to collect all of Hemingway’s writings about fishing into one volume.

  And, of course, the novella I
shared with Kyle Meredith: A River Runs Through It, by Norman Maclean (University of Chicago, 1976; Pocket Books, 1992). Check out the movie, too. Great casting (I’m talking about the actors, but isn’t it interesting how many words we use that have to do with fishing?), including Washington’s own Tom Skerritt. Both well done.

  The slim volume from which Bill Rhodes’s brother read the poem “Romancing the River,” is titled Red Colt Canyon, by Laurie Wagner Buyer (Music Mountain Press, 1999). I purchased a copy for Sheila, and, before giving it to her, found myself reading the raw and exquisite verses that capture a heedless land and the people who glean an existence from that land.

  Vanessa Valentine possesses many books about collecting perfume bottles. The two she suggested I keep on hand are: The Art of Perfume, by Christie Mayer Lefkowith (Thames and Hudson, first paperback edition, 1998) and Miller’s Perfume Bottles: A Collector’s Guide, by Madeleine Marsh, with special consultants Linda Bee and Lynda Brine (Octopus Publishing Group Ltd., 1999).

  After a chapter covering the formative years of the perfume industry (pre-1900), The Art of Perfume offers a decade-by-decade history of the first sixty years of the twentieth century. The visually appealing book — full of color plates — also includes an A–Z of Perfume, which is a sort of encyclopedic guide to perfumers and fashion designers. Personally, I enjoyed the history, which told how events and politics of eras past dictated the designs.

  Miller’s provides a wealth of information in a compact form: where to buy, what to read, collecting tips, and great “Fact File” sidebars.

  For valentine enthusiasts, Vanessa suggests two works by Katherine Kreider: Valentines with Values (Schiffer Publishing, Ltd., March 1997) and One Hundred Years of Valentines (also from Schiffer, February 1999).