Baited (3 page)

“The lawyer disclosed the new terms of JC’s will to you?” I frowned. “Isn’t that illegal?”

“Of course. But he knows which side his bread is buttered on.”

That description fit a boatload of lawyers, but a greasy one in particular floated to the top in my mind. “Charles LaChance?”
 

Cindy Jo nodded, unperturbed by my guess.
 

“Why would JC change his will?”

“Because he was a bastard. After he became flush with cash, he took great joy in telling me he didn’t need my money. The real kicker?” Her razor sharp laugh sliced the stale air like her deadly fingernails. “I’m the one who encouraged him to get a fucking hobby. I bought him his first goddamn rod and reel.”

Ouch.

“The one thing he had that was worth anything was that ridiculously expensive fishing boat. And he willed it to his fishing buddy, Rich Barber.”

The hair on the back of my neck stood up. “Why?”

“Good question. Maybe you should ask Rich.”

Oh, I planned to. “Have you told this to the police?”

“Hell, yes. Guess they questioned Rich after I told them about the new development, but they had no reason to hold him, so they let him go.”
 

The lighter in her hand clicked open and shut in a hypnotizing rhythm. “Rich doesn’t have a pot to piss in. So, tell me, in your expert opinion. Isn’t inheriting a fifty-thousand dollar boat an incentive to make someone disappear?”

Absolutely. Rich Barber had seemed so oddly sincere.

Or was Cindy Jo leading me astray? Another possibility skated through my mind: Were she and Rich in it together?

Before I could comment, the door opened and a pack of furry creatures streaked past my ankles. I picked a hairball off my linen trousers and dropped it onto the shag carpet.

Cindy Jo’s face cracked into an enormous grin. She scooped the beribboned beasts onto her lap. “Oh, don’t you all look sweet.” The animals began jumping up and licking her face in earnest.
 

When she puckered her lips to accept the enthusiastic doggie kisses, I turned away. Eww. I’d almost rather witness old people doing the nasty than watch this disgusting display of canine affection.
 

Mandy stood in the doorway, holding out a tiny, apricot colored ball of fluff. “You forgot one,” she cooed, rubbing the fuzzy thing under her double chin. “Isn’t she just precious? Melanie said she cowered after the bubble bath, but sat regal as a princess for the comb-out and blow dry.” Mandy smiled at me and whispered conspiratorially, “She had her first salon appointment today.”

“Nice,” I mumbled, clueless as to how to respond.

“You ready to do their nails?”

“Yeah. Bring that new fuchsia.” Cindy Jo tousled a furry ear. “It’s a perfect match for these darling bows.”

I leapt up to follow Mandy out the door. My preliminary report to Rich had more questions than answers, and he hadn’t paid me nearly enough to watch dogs get a pedicure. Or was it a pet-i-cure? A paw-di-cure? I bit my lip to keep from chortling at my inappropriate sense of humor.

“That’s my precious, precious girl,” Cindy Jo baby-talked, kissing the top of the dog’s head. Her gaze met mine and she proudly gathered her pets to her bosom. “These are my babies. Eeny”—she patted a black head, then pointed to the gray one—“Meeny”—she scratched the ivory chin—“Miny—”
 

“Suppose that one is Moe,” I quipped.

Her mouth flattened into a grim line, her eyes turning as hard as a pumice stone. “No. Moe passed on unexpectedly a few months ago.” She focused her attention to the whimpering dog. “This angel was sent to fill that empty space in my heart.”

“What is her name?” I asked, trying to make up for stepping in a verbal pile of doggie doo-doo.

“Mignon.”

Not such an odd name, considering the fuzz ball was a French poodle, but I was hoping she’d been christened Curly…And people told me watching too much TV would cause my mental muscles to atrophy.

“I won’t keep you. I’ll check in again, but if you hear from JC, will you let us know?”

Her lips curved into a disbelieving smirk—as if she knew that wasn’t a possibility. “Of course.”

****

Curious about fishing regulations and bow fishing practices in particular, I stopped at the Game, Fish and Parks office to pick up a fishing guide. Usually government handbooks are dry reading, but this information fascinated me.
 

Who knew there were so many kinds of funky fish in our small state? Northern pike, bourbot, three species of catfish, not to mention the scale-less and creepy, but highly sought after prehistoric paddlefish found only in the Missouri River and its tributaries.

Apparently the Black Hills boasts some of the best trout fishing in the country. Although trout aren’t indigenous to the area, streams are stocked with three varieties: rainbow, brown and brook. In the last few years, record breaking walleye had been pulled from the waters of Angostura by amateur anglers. And we were a mere three hour drive from the Missouri River, rumored to contain catfish and pike the size of sharks, if one believed the fish tales passed down as legend.
 

So why had JC chosen bass fishing? There were few trophy-sized small-mouth bass to be had around here, especially in areas where GF&P mandated a catch and release policy. Tournaments used the combined weight of five fish to determine winners. JC seemed like the macho type who’d prefer something marlin-sized to hang on his wall.

 
With more questions than answers, I needed a fresh perspective on this situation. Since it was getting late in the day, I checked with the answering service to see if I had any new messages. Nothing. It’d been a boring couple of weeks in the PI biz, so I decided to head home and tackle the case again the following day.

Chapter Two ~
casting the line

 
I placed a “Gone Fishing” sign on the office door the next morning and made the hour-long drive south on Highway 79 to Hot Springs. The vast sky spread across the landscape in a brilliant, cloudless blue, the perfect foil for the rolling fields of gold and the dark green pine trees dotting the rocky hills. Not even the red dirt devils blowing over my clean car dimmed my mood. I was out of the office for a change and it felt good.
 

Angostura Reservoir had been created in the 1940s by trapping the Cheyenne River in a small, sleepy canyon. The man-made lake is surrounded by soft sand beaches, rock and dirt cliffs, and a mix of deciduous and pine trees. The water is warm, considering the elevation, and very clean, fluctuating between murky in the shallow spots and a dazzling silver-aqua where it drops off to seventy-five feet. Once the water trickles back over the dam, the river resumes its natural course.

I’d been camping at the lake at least once a summer during my high school years. The majority of my time had been spent lying on the beach, working on my tan and drinking cheap beer. And if Kevin and I were lucky enough to hook up with people who had a boat, we hadn’t spent time messing with poles, lines, bait and the like. We’d cruise around, trying our luck at cliff diving in the restricted area by the dam, and hope like hell the rangers didn’t catch us with a cooler full of Coors Light. Nothing more humiliating than having to empty the cooler and pour every drop of beer on the sand because we were underage.

I remembered there were four separate areas to launch and dock boats. Today, the sailboat beach didn’t interest me any more than the main dock where Jet Skis, pontoons and other recreational water vehicles were rented at the floating convenience store. Serious fisherman docked at the less fashionable section down from the dam, or on the north side of the lake. Since Rich had mentioned a bait shop, I tried my luck on the north side first.

My flip-flops smacked the blacktop as I walked beneath the shade of big cottonwood trees, bypassing fly-laden garbage cans along the side of the road. The docks were deserted. I counted about thirty boat slips, and noted the location of the red tarp before beginning to look for Rich’s boat.

I found it easily, humble machine that it was: wood and aluminum, flat bottomed with a small platform surrounded by three, sad-looking spotlights. I eased onboard, surprised at the stability and unlocked the tiny, homemade compartment below the decking that housed equipment—fishing poles, tackle boxes and, most importantly, the bow, the cabling system, the reel, the chains and the arrows needed for bow fishing.

My fingers stroked the arrow’s smooth shaft. I was accustomed to graphite arrows with target or broadhead tips. These arrows were buoyant aluminum, with pre-drilled holes for the cabling system to loop through, attached to a swivel, and then crimped in two places. With my fingertip I followed where the line was tied onto the other end of the swivel, so the tension was not on the line but on the cable, allowing the line to move along the arrow without friction. Pretty cool concept. Especially the reel. Swimming after arrows that had missed their target didn’t sound like much fun, and this piece of ingenuity fixed that problem.

The nocks were similar; however, the metal arrow tips were different. Innocuous in the closed position, but once they penetrated the prey, two deadly barbs straightened, preventing the catch from sliding off the arrow. Once the fish had been landed, the arrow tip is turned, releasing the barb back to its straight position to remove the catch from the arrow without resistance. I wouldn’t want to pull the arrow back through fish skin, guts and bone.
 

Killing was messy and for most sportsmen, part of the fun. Not for me. It’d been a few years since I’d made an animal kill. These days I used my bow as a stress reliever, practicing with target tips to keep my hand/eye coordination up to snuff.

As eager as I was to test my skill, first I had to check out JC’s boat. I stripped down to my bikini, grabbed a tackle box as cover and sauntered over to slip number twenty-seven. The bait shop had a
Closed
sign, but I never assumed anything.

I unsnapped the tarp and just about threw up from the stench of rotten meat. Jesus. Had he left dead fish or bait decaying someplace? Despite the gag-inducing odors, I scoured the boat from stem to stern, coming up empty-handed on clues as to where JC might’ve gone or finding Rich’s knife.
 

As I rolled the tarp back into place, a gruff voice demanded, “What in tarnation do you think you’re doin’?”

I stood up straight and faced the troll eyeing my butt. He reeked of dead fish and something dank, earthy and foul. Thrusting out my meager chest—most men don’t care about breast size when faced with a string bikini top. They only care that cleavage actually spills out. I tossed my hair while producing a smile that rivaled the devil’s. “I’m looking for my boyfriend’s fillet knife.”

He wheezed disbelief, wiping away a string of spittle with his grubby hand. “Nice try. But I happen to know the man that owns this here boat ain’t got a girlfriend, and you sure as shootin’ ain’t his scrawny-ass bitch of a wife. She’s been down here all the time this last month.”

“Really? I suppose she must be missing him, because he up and disappeared on her. Did she say anything to you about that?”

He snorted. “She’s crazy, siccing them yapping damn dogs of hers on me if I show my face anywhere near her. But that still don’t tell me why
you’re
tryin’ to convince me that he’s your boyfriend?”

My best spur-of-the-moment plan involved batting my eyelashes and letting loose an embarrassed giggle. “Oh, JC isn’t my boyfriend, Rich Barber is my boyfriend. See, I came down here to work on my tan,” I spun around, wiggling my backside. “I figured as long as I was down here I could look for the knife JC borrowed before he took off. Poor Rich has been missing it and I wanted to surprise him by bringing it back tonight.”

“Then why did I have to chase your boyfriend away from this here boat just last week?”

Seemed Rich had forgotten to relay that little factoid to me.

“Well?” He crossed his arms over his beer belly and sneered instead of leered.
 

I opened my mouth but he beat me to the punch.

“Uh-huh. Don’t care what your story is, this here boat is private property, now move it before I call the Ranger.”

Didn’t need to tell me twice.
 

I replaced the tarp, picked up my tackle box and jiggled back to Rich’s boat, knowing the perv was watching my every move. The motor caught on the third try. Once I putted out of the ‘no wake zone’ I opened the throttle. Or tried to, but Rich’s boat lacked horsepower. No wonder he had boat envy.
 

The question was: Would he kill for it?
 

I spent the next three hours wrestling lines, reels and the nearly indecipherable cable connections.
 

Rich’s bow was lightweight and shorter than mine. With the extra equipment attached it seemed heavier and infinitely more awkward. Reeling in the spent arrow was time-consuming and cumbersome. I imagined with the drag ratio of the water—if one actually hit a moving target—it wouldn’t take long to build some impressive biceps. I was happier practicing shooting at a bale of hay in my backyard while swigging a beer. I was even happier yet to dock the boat, store the equipment, hop in my car and go home.