Free Double Whammy by Carl Hiaasen

book?”
    â€œJust a feature story,” Ott said. “Bobby’s friends say he was quite a fisherman.”
    â€œYou saw the coffin,” Clarisse said. “And you saw his friends.” She clapped her hands twice loudly. “Hey! Watch the ottoman, Pablo, unless you want to buy me a new one!”
    The man named Pablo mumbled something obscene.
    Clarisse turned back to Ott. “Do you fish?”
    He shook his head.
    â€œThank God there’s at least one of you,” 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 “18” in his notebook. One of the movers unfolded a big cardboard box and began wrapping and packing the trophies.
    â€œNo!” Clarisse said. “Those go in the dumpster.”
    The mover shrugged.
    Ott followed the widow to the garage. “This junk in here,” she was saying, “I’ve got to sell.”
    Bobby Clinch’s fishing gear. Cane poles, spinning rods, flipping rods, bait-casting rods, popping rods, fly rods. Ott Pickney counted them up and wrote “22” in his notebook. Each of the outfits seemed to be in immaculate condition.
    â€œThese are worth a lot of money,” Ott said to Clarisse.
    â€œMaybe I should take out an ad in your newspaper.”
    â€œYes, good idea.” 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.
    â€œTwenty-two fishing rods,” he began.
    â€œThree pairs of hip waders,” Clarisse said, rummaging through her husband’s bass trove.
    â€œTwo landing nets,” Ott noted.
    â€œFour vests,” she said, “one with Velcro pockets.”
    â€œIs that an electric hook sharpener?”
    â€œBrand new,” Clarisse said. “Make sure you put down that it’s brand new.”
    â€œGot it.”
    â€œAnd I don’t know what to do about this.” From under a workbench she dragged what appeared to be a plastic suitcase with the word “PLANO” stamped on the top. “I can’t even lift the dam thing,” she said. “I’m afraid to look inside.”
    â€œWhat is it?” Ott asked.
    â€œThe mother lode,” Clarisse said. “Bobby’s tacklebox.”
    Ott hoisted it by the handle, then set it down on the kitchen counter. It must have weighed fifty pounds.
    â€œHe has junk in there from when he was ten years old. Lures and stuff.” Clarisse’s 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: “That 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.”
    Ott Pickney carefully fitted the bronze scale back in its pouch. He returned the pouch to Bobby Clinch’s 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, “This