The Weedless Widow
THE WEEDLESS WIDOW
Book Two of the Antique Lover’s Mystery Series
By Deborah Morgan
Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press
Copyright 2013 / Deborah Morgan
LICENSE NOTES
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Meet the Author
Deborah Morgan made $33.33 a word for the first words she sold, and says, "it's gone downhill from there." Actually, it was award money for winning a "Name Our Business" contest in her hometown of Grove, Oklahoma. That was back in the '80s, the place was a lumberyard/home store, and the handle she gave it was "Grand Country Homeworks." (At the time, Oklahoma was called the State of Many Countries, and the northeast corner was dubbed Grand Country.)
She's won awards in both fiction and nonfiction — most recent is the 2013 Stirrup Award from Western Writers of America for best article in Roundup Magazine, 2012. Morgan has often served as a speaker and panel moderator at writers' conventions and seminars, and is an active member of Western Writers of America.
The fifth book in her antique-lover's mystery series featuring antiques picker (and former FBI agent) Jeff Talbot was published in April 2006. Every novel in the series made the Independent Mystery Booksellers Association list, with the third — The Marriage Casket — taking the #1 slot. In 2013, Crossroad Press contracted to publish all five of the Jeff Talbot novels in e-book format.
She grew up on a ranch just outside Grove, was the Grove Roundup Club's Rodeo Queen when she was fifteen years old — and she still likes to wear boots and jeans.
She's a descendant of The Dalton brothers, which may or may not explain her bent for things western. A touch of western often finds its way into her mystery writing. For instance, even though her tough-gal detective Mary Shelley lives in Detroit, she drives a pickup truck and wears cowboy boots whenever she can get away with it. In addition, a couple of fellow Western Writers of America members have found their way into the Jeff Talbot antique-lover's mysteries, and Sheila Talbot's sister, Karen Gray, decorated a retro camper in western antiques and cowgirl chic to use for her home as an itinerant photographer.
Morgan picked up her basic knowledge of criminal investigation while she was Chief Dispatcher for a city police department in northeastern Oklahoma, and as permit clerk and dispatcher for the Oklahoma Highway Patrol. While with OHP, she could fire twelve rounds in under fifteen seconds using a handgun, and scored 93% target-shooting with a rifle from a cruiser (had to exit cruiser and use door as shield while firing through open window).
Before moving to Michigan in 1993 to "join typewriters" with Loren D. Estleman, she was managing editor of a biweekly newspaper in southeast Kansas. She's also been managing editor of two national treasure hunting magazines. In addition to those editorial duties, she wrote columns, articles, and profiles of higher-ups in the business. She was editor and art director of the Private Eye Writers of America newsletter for three years.
She and Loren live on 120 acres in Michigan, in a home that reflects their shared love for antiques. Each room is a different character, much like those in the couple's writing, and one of Morgan's favorite pastimes is browsing hardware stores. Her tools don't have pink handles.
Morgan enjoys photographing other authors and many of those photos have appeared nationally in magazines, newspapers, and on book jackets.
An accomplished poker player, Morgan's been known to match skills with such luminaries as Sara Paretsky, Lawrence Block, and Parnell Hall at the Bouchercon World Mystery Convention.
Morgan has a son, a daughter, a grandson, and a granddaughter — all in Missouri. She spends as much time there as possible, near her Oklahoma roots in the foothills of the Ozark Mountains. Most of her family (parents, siblings, etc.) still reside there.
Book List
The Antique Lover’s Mystery Series
Death Is a Cabaret
The Weedless Widow
The Marriage Casket
Four on the Floor
The Majolica Murders
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THE WEEDLESS WIDOW
To Loren
Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will some new pleasures prove
Of golden sands, and crystal brooks,
With silken lines, and silver hooks.
— John Donne
“The Bait”
And to my mother, Betty Morgan, for a lifetime of unconditional love and support, and for the childhood fishing trips.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author extends earnest thanks to the following people who contributed expertise and support during the writing of this book, and takes responsibility for any mistaken interpretation of the answers and guidelines so generously provided:
to my son, Kevin Williams, for introducing me to exotic fish and raising questions about those in this book, and to Donna Hatch, part owner of University Aquarium and Pet Shop, Ann Arbor, Michigan, for willingly providing answers to those questions;
to Kym Williams, B.S.B.A. and D.A.U.G.H.T.E.R., for marketing consultations, astute suggestions for the manuscript, and the B&B vacation amidst an astounding collection of antique dishes;
to my grandson, Dylan Ray Brown, for teaching me to look at things with eyes of wonder;
to John Lee and the National Woodie Club for their enthusiasm and their willingness to accept Jeff Talbot as the first fictional member of their organization;
to Vicky Loyd, co-director of the Northfield Township Library, Whitmore Lake, Michigan, again, for tracking down reference books and sources of elusive quotes; and to Ron Loyd (the other half of the Loyd co-directorship), for going above and beyond the call of duty when I most needed it;
to writers Noreen Ayres and Robbie Robbins for generously opening their Seattle home and for introducing me to some of their favorite Washington sights;
to Laurie Wagner Buyer, one of the finest poets of her generation, for her friendship, generosity, and inspiration;
to writer Randall Platt for answering all questions asked, no matter how insignificant they might have seemed, and to Randi’s “good buddy and fishing freak,” Greg Stacy, for providing much valuable information on Washington fishing. Although Jeff Talbot found a different fishing hole from the one sanctioned by Greg, I’m nonetheless indebted to him for the suggestions and the literature;
to Ted Zgrzemski, woodie owner and restorer, and fellow Michiganian, for lending his knowledge and expertise so that I might better portray Jeff’s ‘48 Chevy;
and to my husband, Loren D. Estleman, for keeping me grounded and for teaching me how to soar.
PART ONE
THE CAST
“An excellent angler, and now with God.”
— Izaak Walton
The Compleat Angler,
1653-1655
CHAPTER ONE
Fishing can be an important connection between generations, as well as a way to practice good stewardship.
—Washington State Department of Fish and Wildlife
Her legs were long and curved and dark as bronze, with smooth knees and slend
er ankles supported by tiny, delicate feet.
Jeff Talbot gazed at her and sighed. She looked better than she had in years and, although the cost had been high, it had been worth it.
She had seven sisters in varying stages of disrepair, but the one standing before him now was the first to have received a facelift.
The eight matching Chippendale-style chairs were fashioned of mahogany, with cabriole legs and bow-shaped crest rails.
The chairs weren’t actually period pieces from the latter half of the 1700s, but rather Victorian Revival antiques, so Jeff’s path didn’t lead him to the nearest Antiques Roadshow taping or to any of the top auction houses of New York. Instead, he took them to a man who was a veritable magician with antique furniture. That man had coaxed to the surface the original integrity of the first chair, and he would easily do the same with the others. It didn’t matter that the chairs were 100 years younger than the style from which they’d been copied. Jeff predicted that they would be more valuable than last year’s Pontiac.
His discovery of the eight side chairs had been a right-place-right-time circumstance. But his acquisition of them had come years later.
He’d happened upon a pack rat of a woman — ancient, even back then coming out of a neglected, abandoned-looking house. Jeff approached her, explained that he was an antiques picker, and inquired whether she had any old items she’d like to get rid of. She’d told Jeff that she lived next door and used this extra house for storage. She’d gone on to explain that she had neither the need nor the desire to sell anything. When Jeff had glanced in the direction she’d indicated as her residence, he’d seen a house in roughly the same condition as the abandoned one. Although he had finally gotten the old woman to accept his business card, he hadn’t expected anything to come of it.
The phone call he’d received, announcing her death and asking if he might still be interested in “all this junk,” had come from a benefacting grand nephew (the sole survivor, it turned out) who couldn’t wait to be rid of the contents so he could have the structures razed and a prefab erected in time for the holidays as a surprise for his wife and kids.
Jeff had moved swiftly, scanning the contents of the two houses and offering a price for the lot. The new owner’s eyes lit up like Christmas bulbs, and Jeff scratched out a check.
He’d felt as if he’d unearthed a stash of presents, each with a gift tag that read, “Happy Holidays, to Jeff.” It was the best deal the picker had made to date.
He’d taken the chairs to Sam immediately upon discovering the distinctive marks that told him who’d originally crafted them.
Now, Jeff turned his attention back to the chair that stood before him. “Sam,” he said to the craftsman who’d renovated the piece of furniture, “you’ve outdone yourself. She’s as beautiful as she must’ve been when your great-great grandfather made her nearly a hundred and fifty years ago.”
Sam Carver beamed, his teeth blindingly white next to his dark skin. Like many middle-aged black men, Sam had a quality of perpetual youth. In fact, he was five years older than Jeff’s thirty-eight. Sam was lean, with arm muscles strung tight from years of carving and sanding and buffing the fine woods of the world. He was a fourth-generation woodcarver and restorer. After the Emancipation Proclamation, Sam’s ancestors had chosen to use their vocation as a last name, rather than their former master’s surname.
Sam’s talent as a restorer had earned him accolades from customers on both sides of the Atlantic. The foundation for those skills had been handed down from eldest son to eldest son along with the tools of the trade.
Those antique tools commanded a higher insurance premium than the building in which Sam worked. By Jeff’s estimation, the hand tools alone — planes, clamps, and vises with elaborately etched brass fittings, rosewood handled chisels and carving tools with warm patinas created over decades by the firm grips of craftsmen — would cost more to replace than a blue-collar worker might earn in a year.
Over the years, Jeff had been aware of his friend’s desire for a son, the fitting offspring to carry on the family business. And he’d seen Sam’s concern increase as each and every one of the wood carver’s five offspring had come swaddled in pink. Fortunately though, Sam’s middle girl, Maura, had taken to wood carving like a duck to a decoy. She’d practically grown up in Sam’s shop and had officially joined the business when she was sixteen. That was ten years prior — and in the past decade, the Carver business had tripled.
Jeff nodded appreciatively. Yes, he thought, Sam’s forebears would be proud.
Sam rubbed his hands on a once-white rag, which now showed various shades of furniture stain, then stroked the chair’s curved back as if she were a lover. “The old gal just needed the touch of a good man, Jeff.”
“Don’t let Helen hear you talk like that. She’ll suspect you’ve got some young thing on the side.”
Sam laughed. “My woman knows she’s the only two-legged female I can handle. She’s got nothing to worry about.”
Jeff turned serious. “We’re lucky, you know. At least our wives appreciate what we do for a living. Some women don’t care whether the competition has two legs or four. Or none, for that matter. If they’re not the center of attention, then they’re jealous.”
“Got someone in particular in mind?” Jeff raised a brow.
“That obvious, huh?”
“Only because I’ve heard that tone before.”
Jeff leaned against the bead-board counter. “I’ve been thinking about Bill Rhodes. You missed our last fishing trip, so you haven’t met his young bride.” They’d be seeing Bill later that afternoon when they stopped at his bait shop for fishing supplies.
“Bride? Hell, I’d about forgotten that he had one, let alone a young one. Robbed the cradle, did he?”
“Looks that way. Which wouldn’t matter, if they seemed like a match. But this one acts like she’d scream bloody murder if a live fish got within fifty feet of her.”
Sam raised his brows. “Yeah, well I bet she doesn’t bat an eyelash when she sees the bank deposits. That place is a gold mine.”
Jeff nodded. Bill’s store, the Northwest Territory Bait and Tackle Shop, was a big success, thanks in no small part to Bill’s uncanny knack for predicting where the best catches could be made. It didn’t matter whether you were fishing for cutthroat, chinook, Dolly Varden, steelhead, coho, whatever your game, Bill Rhodes had your game plan.
In addition, Bill had the state rules for his region memorized. With trout, it was easy and it rolled off Bill’s tongue like a tape recording: “Catch-and-release except up to two hatchery steelhead may be retained.” Then, he would add, “That’s year-round, of course.” Rules for salmon were trickier, but he had those committed to memory as well, right down to that tiny window of time during which you could actually keep a chinook.
Sam swiped at a speck of dust on one of the chair’s arms. “Reckon she’ll try to keep Bill from playing poker? I’ve been counting on winning a new rod and reel from him this trip.”
Jeff noted a touch of Sam’s native Southern drawl in his speech. It only happened when the transplanted Texan had had a few beers or was comfortable with the company. Jeff considered it a compliment, and enjoyed hearing an accent in his homogenized Washington. It was a fascinating combination of good-ole-boy and ebonics. “What do you need a new rod and reel for? Your Bamboo Bomber catches more than a dozen of those new combos would.” Jeff and Sam had nicknamed the bamboo rod, which had been a present from Sam’s mom to mark his thirteenth birthday, then gave it every possible chance to live up to the moniker during Sam’s stays with Washington relatives.
“Now, that depends,” said Sam. “You can’t figure Gordy’s replacement into that. That kid might have the corner on beginner’s luck.”
Gordy’s replacement, Jeff thought. Nobody could replace Gordon Easthope, especially someone half his age. Besides being one of the FBI’s top agents, Gordy was, by Jeff’s estimation, the best fisherman this side of the wha
ler Jonah. Gordy had been Jeff’s mentor, best friend, father figure, you name it, since their early days together with the Bureau. Contrary to workplace statistics, the two had remained tight after Jeff’s sudden departure from government work a half-dozen years before.
“The Judge thinks this kid will be a natural, if he can take his enthusiasm down a notch or two.”
“This kid,” as Sam kept calling him, was Kyle Meredith, a young attorney who’d been pestering Judge Richard Larrabee to include him in his monthly poker games. According to the Judge, Kyle had recently become hooked on fishing (so to speak) after watching A River Runs Through It, and the Judge decided to include him when Gordy had to cancel at the last minute. This, the Judge had said, would give Jeff and Sam the opportunity to get to know the young attorney and see what they thought about including him in the regular poker games.
“So, what do you think?” Sam prompted. “Will Bill be in the games?”
“Hard to say. He showed up last time, but watched the clock like a kid out on a school night.”
“You see there?” Sam said. “Much as I love Helen, I’d never take her with us. A man just can’t be himself on a fishing trip if there’s women around.”
Jeff investigated a mahogany table showcased near the chair Sam had restored. They were a remarkable match. “Hell, Sam, you’d better not let some women’s libber hear you.”
“Too late.”
Jeff looked up at the new speaker. Maura Carver walked in through a back door. She’d succeeded in sounding upset, but her smile gave her away. Her bronze skin and delicate features put Jeff in mind of the newly refinished chair.