The Weedless Widow Read online

  Maura gave Jeff a quick hug, then turned to her father with a loving but warning look.

  The warning appeared not to have registered. “See there, Jeff? Can’t even speak my mind without one or the other of my brood eavesdropping. You don’t know how lucky you are that Sheila can’t traipse along after you. Sometimes I wonder how the hell I’ve survived all these years with six women under foot.”

  “Dad.” Maura squeezed her father’s arm and looked at Jeff apologetically.

  “It’s okay, Maura,” he said. “That’s just your father’s way of apologizing for his good fortune. If I didn’t think he knew how damned lucky he is, I’d have decked him a long time ago.”

  “Damn, Jeff, she’s right. I didn’t mean anything against Sheila by it.” For a brief moment, Sam’s expression hinted at pure self-admonition. Then, without any indication of a shift in gears, he returned to a quasi-irritated state of being overrun by members of the opposite sex. “It’s just that our fishing trips are my only chance to get a break from all these women, and missing out on the last one has surely taken its toll.”

  “We’ll fix that in a few short hours,” said Jeff.

  His thoughts drifted to his own home life. Only a handful of people knew about his wife; fewer still knew that she was agoraphobic. The early stages of her illness had been present when they’d met. It hadn’t mattered to him then, and it didn’t now. In retrospect, however, he had to admit that the day-to-day challenges were different from what he’d imagined. But he was crazy in love with Sheila, and constantly surprised that so young and beautiful a woman had ever given him a second glance.

  Every relationship has something, he told himself. His wife’s terror of leaving the house was less traumatic than any number of other demons they might have had to face.

  “Jeff?” Maura touched his arm, bringing him back to the present.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you okay?”

  Jeff smiled. “I’m fine.” He nodded his head toward the table. “You’re tempting me with this, aren’t you? It’s a great match for the chairs.”

  “You’ve got a good eye, and good instincts. Someone has to market all the stuff that Dad takes on barter.”

  “I figured you were the driving force behind the success of this place.”

  Sam grimaced. “She’s plenty aware of that without you reminding her.”

  Jeff studied the table more closely. “Can you hold it for me till we get back Monday?”

  “Sure thing,” Maura said.

  Jeff checked his watch. “If I don’t get on the road to —”

  “Stop right there!” Sam clamped his hands over his daughter’s ears. “That fishin’ hole is the only secret I’ve got left from this brood of females, and I’ll be damned if you’re gonna take that from me.”

  “You’re right. A true angler doesn’t reveal the location.” He grabbed the doorknob. “Are you sure you don’t want to ride over with me? There’s plenty of room in the woodie for your gear.”

  “No can do,” Sam said. “I promised this one she could leave early today, since she’s gonna hold down the fort while I’m gone.”

  Maura smiled. “Sorry, Jeff, but I’m holding him to it. And if he doesn’t stop complaining, his brood will go to a NOW meeting instead of shopping.”

  Sam appeared to give this some serious thought. “Honestly, I don’t which would cost me more.”

  A victorious Maura disappeared through the back.

  Jeff told Sam he’d see him later at the cabin, then headed out the front door.

  The backseat of Jeff’s 1948 Chevy woodie was virtually always removed to make room for his antique finds. Today, the back was full of fishing gear, duffel bags, and lidded plastic bins of food.

  Most people Jeff’s age, it seemed, used their station wagons to haul children, beach toys, and soccer players, a noisy cargo. But Jeff’s passengers were always silent, and he wondered sometimes about what he was missing. He and Sheila had agreed not to have children. Sheila had worried that, if her condition never improved, she wouldn’t be able to attend school plays, sporting events, recitals. In the beginning, Jeff had argued with her about it, but as he watched her withdraw more and more from the world, he realized that she’d been right.

  Today, they’d parted on good terms, despite the fact that Jeff had felt guilty for leaving her. He hardly ever thought about it when he left every day for work, but to leave for a long weekend of fishing with his friends seemed selfish somehow. Sheila had assured him that she had more than enough to keep her busy.

  The cleaning crew would be in on Friday. Although Greer, the couple’s butler, was in charge, Sheila voiced her belief that as mistress of the mansion she had a certain responsibility to at least look like she was the person in charge. While Sheila relied heavily on Greer to run the household, Jeff had come to depend on the young butler’s comforting presence, which made it much easier for the picker to spend hours away from home in order to earn the money it took to keep everything running smoothly.

  Fortunately Jeff had inherited the home — although some would argue that inheriting the huge Victorian on Seattle’s Queen Anne Hill was bad fortune. Funds well beyond a typical mortgage payment were earmarked for the cleaning, maintenance, taxes, grounds upkeep, and a dozen other daily requirements of the fifteen-room monstrosity. But Jeff had grown up there and had been taught to care for the place as if it were a member of the family.

  Sheila’s weekend, as she’d laid it out to Jeff over breakfast that morning, would be busier than his own. She planned to experiment with some new recipes, make a little “shopping trip” to the personal antique store she had set up for herself on the third floor, and go antiquing at her favorite online auction houses.

  All this proved that, as usual, she seemed more adjusted to the situation than Jeff was. That was fine with him, less for him to be concerned about. He found this train of thought reassuring, and filed his concerns about leaving his wife comfortably in a mental drawer under “secured” so that he might turn his focus toward his driving.

  He headed toward the waterfront. On the way, he decided to stop by Blanche’s. He would have just enough time to get to the docks before the commuters started stacking up at the landings. Besides, he thought, he’d have plenty of time for reflection tomorrow morning on the river.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SPEAR FISHING: Attempting to take fish by impaling the fish on a shaft, arrow, or other device.

  —Washington State Department of Fish and Wildlife

  Jeff parked the woodie, choosing a spot at the empty end of the large parking lot that paralleled Blanche’s antique shop, aptly called All Things Old. He’d recently had the car’s wooden finish revarnished and was more protective of it than usual.

  It felt odd, going into Blanche’s establishment empty-handed. Usually, he had something to sell to his favorite client, even if it was nothing more than a shoebox full of vintage hatpins for Isabelle’s, the segment of Blanche’s store that she’d lovingly named after her three-greats grandmother, and which showcased vintage clothing, shoes, gloves, parasols, chatelaines, dressing table accoutrements, crocodile handbags, and hundreds of hats. The massive collection represented every era in female fashion from the French courtesans to Rosie the Riveter.

  Jeff didn’t underestimate the value such a hatpin collection would represent. He’d learned a thing or two from Blanche, and one of them was that authentic hatpins were bringing a pretty penny nowadays. There were three kinds of fakes, near as he could recall: reproductions, which as the name implied, were replicas of period pieces; marriages, in which the head and the stem were joined; and fantasies, which weren’t like anything from period. But a shoebox full of bona fide antique hatpins had the potential of fetching three or four grand in today’s retail market — depending, of course, on the size of the shoes.

  He spied Blanche’s assistant, Trudy Blessing, talking with one of the cashiers behind the immense, L-shaped counter. As Jeff approached
her, he knocked on the polished oak.

  She looked up and smiled. “Mr. Talbot, this is a surprise! Mrs. Appleby said you were leaving today for a fishing trip.”

  “Eventually.” Jeff had tried for quite a while to get the young woman to call him by his first name, but hadn’t succeeded. Finally, he’d realized that although Trudy was nearing thirty, her quiet demeanor (along with her glasses that made her look like a female Harry Potter) never would’ve allowed her to pull it off.

  Jeff cleared his throat. “Sorry to interrupt, ladies. Is Blanche in her office?”

  The women exchanged glances. Trudy said, “No, she’s out back at the loading dock. You’ll never believe what she just bought.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We’ve been sworn to secrecy. But I will give you a hint.” She produced a pith helmet from beneath the counter.

  “Whatever you say, Miss Blessing.” Jeff put on the helmet and both women laughed. He gave a proper British salute like Michael Caine in The Man Who Would Be King, then headed toward the back of the building.

  Blanche Appleby’s voice echoed in the rafters as Jeff approached the unfinished portion of the building. Blanche had been renovating the warehouse for almost ten years, ever since the death of her husband, George. She and George had owned three warehouses along Elliott Bay, and Blanche, not wanting to remain in the import/export business, had renovated the largest and turned it into an antiques mall to rival all antiques malls. She used another warehouse for storage and was currently toying with the idea of giving the Edgewater Inn a run for its money by converting the third warehouse into a posh hotel.

  Blanche was methodically calling out orders like an air-traffic controller. Curious, Jeff picked up his pace, turned the corner, and almost ran into the rough-skinned trunk of a taxidermied elephant.

  “Blanche?” Jeff shouted over the grunts and cursing of the movers, the squeaking of dolly wheels under the pachyderm’s feet (not a full-grown tusker, but rather a youngster the size of a Brahma bull), and the general pandemonium of another dozen men unloading crates from an eighteen-wheeler’s trailer. “Blanche, have you lost your mind?”

  “Jeffrey?” A tiny woman with coppery hair peeked from around the elephant’s trunk and grinned. “Isn’t he just adorable?” She patted the calf’s side as she walked toward Jeff. “I felt so sorry for the little guy that I couldn’t just turn him away.”

  “Turn him away? Blanche, it’s not a stray puppy.”

  “Where’s your sense of adventure, Jeffrey?”

  “I’m as adventurous as the next guy, but all of us combined don’t hold a candle to you.”

  “The timing was perfect. As you know, I’ve been working on this corner of the building. I predict that the safari craze is with us for a long time to come, so I bought out the inventory of a New England shop that’s going out of business because of the owner’s poor health.

  “Anyway, this section will be called Burton’s, in honor of the great adventurist, Sir Richard Burton.” She stood tall and proud, which brought her up to her full height of five feet.

  “That means you’ll have editions of the Kama Sutra in here then.”

  Her face turned as red as her hair. She slapped his arm playfully.

  “Anything in the collection that I’d be interested in?”

  “Have a look-see. There’s everything you might imagine: skin rugs — lions and tigers and bears —”

  “Oh, my.”

  Blanche continued obliviously. “There are trophy heads to display on the walls: lions, wildebeests, and giraffes, and there’s vintage stuff: leather trunks and cases, that great Campaign furniture that folds up chairs, beds, desks, tables in all sizes. Mark my word, Jeffrey, Campaign pieces are about to become very popular again, what with the state of this old world. You’ve seen how popular anything and everything patriotic has become, right?”

  Jeff nodded. There was no doubt that America as victim had profoundly stirred the patriotic emotions of everyone worthy of U.S. citizenship. Those who had allowed Jeff to go through old trunks and boxes in their garages and attics had quickly grabbed from him the Uncle Sam Wants You! posters, the military uniforms and the foot lockers that had once seen the shores of Normandy and the dust of San Juan Hill, the pennants and flags embroidered with fewer than fifty stars.

  All this, of course, had made prices skyrocket. Those things that were available in the antique shops and malls across the country were being snatched up in dizzying numbers, and the patriotism of buyers wasn’t discouraged by jacked-up prices. They simply dug deeper into their pockets and bought. And bought. And bought.

  Blanche went on. “The furniture will be next. People will want anything and everything that might allude to our country’s fights for independence. Which leads me to a question: Do you think your recently acquired loot has anything that will fit either my Burton Room, or the Americana Room?”

  Jeff grinned. He had worked out a barter plan with Blanche for the use of her warehouse; in return, she would get first pick of the treasures. “You’re calling in that marker pretty quickly, Blanche. I haven’t stored a single stick of furniture in your warehouse yet.” He retrieved a spiral-bound notepad from his jacket pocket and skimmed its contents.

  Blanche said, “That can’t all be from those two buildings, can it?”

  He showed her the cover. It read, Building One — Residence. “The only things I’ve removed are the chairs I told you about that Sam’s working on and a couple of items for Sheila’s shop. I’ve told the movers to start with the house where the old gal had lived. It’ll be easier to empty — the other is stacked to the ceiling in some rooms — and that’ll give me more time to pack up everything in the other one. I have to say, it goes against my better judgment to leave on this fishing trip.”

  “The break will do you good. You’ve been working on that inventory day and night for a week.”

  “I suppose you’re right. But leaving means I’ll have to do the same thing next week when I get back.”

  “If I can keep up with all this —” she made a grand, sweeping gesture “— then you can inventory two little houses.” She tapped on the notebook. “Now, find me some Campaign furniture.”

  “Here’s something.” He pointed to a passage written in a form of shorthand left over from his days with the Bureau. It read CW. c. tent, 6 ch., 2 dsk—1 wr. 1 slt., all m., x.

  She shook her head. “I’ll never get used to your covert note-taking, Mr. FBI. Plain English, if you please.”

  “Sorry. It means that I have a Civil War era canvas tent, rolled up next to a stack of break-down furniture — the x means legs which fold, a typical design of Campaign furniture, as you know, so it could be compacted and moved easily while on campaign six chairs, a writing desk, a slanted desk that one was probably for maps — all made of mahogany.”

  “Are they in good shape?”

  “Near as I could tell. There wasn’t enough space to get a real good look at the tent, but the rest of the stuff is in excellent condition.”

  “Good enough for me. I’ll tell Joe and Mark to load them last so they can drop them off here.” Jeff nodded. He had asked Blanche to recommend the best movers she knew, and she’d gone ahead and lined them up for him.

  “This will add a great feel to Burton’s, don’t you think?”

  “Right up his alley.” Jeff put away the notebook, then told Blanche to give Sheila a call if she needed to get in touch with him while he was gone.

  He drove on to the ferry that would take him away from the city. As the transport made its way across the choppy waters of Puget Sound, he poured a cup of coffee from his Thermos and began reading a book on American antique furniture. It was an area he wasn’t too well versed in, and he needed to brush up because of his recent acquisitions. He supposed it made sense that the two packed houses seemed insignificant to Blanche — hell, she owned the largest antiques mall in Washington — but he wouldn’t kid himself. He had his work cut out for him: finishin
g inventory, wrapping hundreds of glass items, boxing up books, and making sure everything was moved before the demolition crew showed up on the thirtieth.

  He’d tacked on a bonus, getting the woman’s nephew to throw in fixtures and fittings. The extra money and time would be worth it for the clawfoot tubs and pedestal sinks, stained glass windows that were works of art, etched brass doorknobs and hinges.

  Occasionally, he looked up at the diehards standing on deck in the steady mist. They were straining to see land, as if the act would help speed the progress of the big hauler.

  When at last it docked, Jeff carefully drove the woodie up the ramp from the belly of the boat and onto the landing. He hoped he hadn’t used poor judgment in driving the wood-paneled station wagon. But the forecasters had predicted that the rain would stop by early evening, and he’d decided to put his faith in them. Conditions should be perfect for fishing throughout the weekend.

  He headed west toward Bill’s shop. He wanted to stop there first to pick up supplies and find out whether the Judge had arrived yet. Richard L. Larrabee, prominent Seattle district court judge and owner of a large fishing cabin, had been the host of this annual fishing trip for the last dozen or so years. Although Jeff had a key to the cabin, he’d prefer that the Judge arrived first to open up the place.

  Jeff thought about the Judge’s recent announcement to run for governor and wondered whether he would still be called “the Judge” if he won. The man seemed a natural to join the state political arena. He knew the law like Josiah Wedgwood had known jasperware, and besides, his integrity had been well known for decades.

  Jeff’s thoughts turned to the young man named Kyle Meredith whom the Judge had invited for the weekend. He wondered whether this Meredith kid collected anything, whether he would take up collecting antique lures and such, just as the Judge and Gordy and he himself had. Jeff had always been surprised that Sam didn’t collect fishing paraphernalia. He had some stuff, but only because he’d never been one to let go of money for something similar to what he already had. If a lure caught fish, he used it — whether it was a glass-eyed plug from the 1940s that had come in the tackle box passed down by his father, or a two-year-old plastic number that Helen had put in his Christmas stocking.