book?â
âJust a feature story,â Ott said. âBobbyâs friends say he was quite a fisherman.â
âYou saw the coffin,â Clarisse said. âAnd you saw his friends.â She clapped her hands twice loudly. âHey! Watch the ottoman, Pablo, unless you want to buy me a new one!â
The man named Pablo mumbled something obscene.
Clarisse turned back to Ott. âDo you fish?â
He shook his head.
âThank God thereâs at least one of you,â she said.
Her eyes flickered to a bookcase in the living room. Ott noticed that there were no books on the shelves, only trophies. Each of the trophies was crowned with a cheap gold-painted replica of a jumping fish. Bass, Ott assumed. He counted up the trophies and wrote the number â18â in his notebook. One of the movers unfolded a big cardboard box and began wrapping and packing the trophies.
âNo!â Clarisse said. âThose go in the dumpster.â
The mover shrugged.
Ott followed the widow to the garage. âThis junk in here,â she was saying, âIâve got to sell.â
Bobby Clinchâs fishing gear. Cane poles, spinning rods, flipping rods, bait-casting rods, popping rods, fly rods. Ott Pickney counted them up and wrote â22â in his notebook. Each of the outfits seemed to be in immaculate condition.
âThese are worth a lot of money,â Ott said to Clarisse.
âMaybe I should take out an ad in your newspaper.â
âYes, good idea.â All Harney Sentinel reporters were trained in the paperwork of classified advertising, just in case the moment arose. Ott got a pad of order forms out of the glove box in the truck.
âTwenty-two fishing rods,â he began.
âThree pairs of hip waders,â Clarisse said, rummaging through her husbandâs bass trove.
âTwo landing nets,â Ott noted.
âFour vests,â she said, âone with Velcro pockets.â
âIs that an electric hook sharpener?â
âBrand new,â Clarisse said. âMake sure you put down that itâs brand new.â
âGot it.â
âAnd I donât know what to do about this.â From under a workbench she dragged what appeared to be a plastic suitcase with the word âPLANOâ stamped on the top. âI canât even lift the dam thing,â she said. âIâm afraid to look inside.â
âWhat is it?â Ott asked.
âThe mother lode,â Clarisse said. âBobbyâs tacklebox.â
Ott hoisted it by the handle, then set it down on the kitchen counter. It must have weighed fifty pounds.
âHe has junk in there from when he was ten years old. Lures and stuff.â Clarisseâs voice sounded small; she was blinking her eyes as if she were about to cry, or at least fighting the urge.
Ott unfastened the clasps on the tacklebox and opened the lid. He had never seen such an eclectic collection of gadgets: rainbow-colored worms and frogs and plastic minnows and even tiny rubber snakes, all bristling with diamond-sharpened hooks. The lures were neatly organized on eight folding trays. Knives, pliers, stainless-steel hook removers, sinkers, swivels, and spools of leader material filled the bottom of the box.
In a violet velvet pouch was a small bronze scale used for weighing bass. The numerals on the scale optimistically went up to twenty-five pounds, although no largemouth bass that size had ever been caught.
Of the scale, Clarisse remarked: âThat stupid thing cost forty bucks. Bobby said it was tournament-certified, whatever that means. All the guys had the same model, he said, so nobody could cheat on the weight.â
Ott Pickney carefully fitted the bronze scale back in its pouch. He returned the pouch to Bobby Clinchâs tacklebox and closed the latches.
Clarisse sat down on the concrete steps in the garage and stared sadly at the bushel of orphaned fishing poles. She said, âThis
1802-1870 Alexandre Dumas