Barking Detective 04 - The Chihuahua Always Sniffs Twice

by Waverly Curtis

  A sandy bluff, about fifty feet tall, ran parallel to the only road into town from the ferry dock. It was topped with huge Victorian mansions. Most were wooden structures that were beautifully preserved; they still displayed the original fish-scale siding and gingerbread embellishments. They were painted in bright colors with complementary trim work: purple and orange, olive green and maroon. These, and many others, had been built by the town’s movers and shakers just before the turn of the century, when it was thought that Port Townsend, not Seattle, would become the main shipping terminal for northwest Washington.

  “This city is muy old, is it not?” said Pepe as we drove into the downtown proper, only six blocks or so from the ferry dock. The ancient brick buildings were similar to those in Seattle’s Pioneer Square.

  “Yes,” I said, thinking that it was like Pioneer Square in another respect—crawling with tourists on a sunny summer day. All the old buildings, most three or four stories tall, had restaurants and shops catering to the tourist trade on the ground floor. It was hard to believe that the majority of these old, red-brick buildings had originally been saloons and cathouses way back when.

  “Gato houses!” said Pepe in horror. “Which ones? Stay away from them!”

  “Not that kind of gato,” I told him, having forgotten about my fearless dog’s only other fear—that of cats. “Not real cats, Pepe,” I said. “Cathouse is just slang for a whorehouse.”

  “Oh, that is not so scary,” said Pepe. “I spent many happy hours in a whorehouse in Tijuana. Those women have hearts of gold.”

  “Really?” I said. Pepe is always full of colorful stories, most of which I don’t believe.

  “Yes, when I worked for the DEA, the agents would leave me there between assignments, and the women would dress me up and feed me treats.”

  About halfway into town, I spotted the address I’d been looking for. It was a narrow, two-story building on the water side of the street. We found parking half a block away and walked back, Pepe trotting by my side, and both of us enjoying the salty breeze that tempered the heat of the sun.

  The double doors were open and led into a small foyer with a white tile floor, dark oak trim, a twelve-foot ceiling, and the same exposed, red-brick walls in the interior as on the building’s exterior. A big ceiling fan whirred overhead, providing a little ventilation. A brass plaque by the wide stairwell leading upstairs read, BOSWELL & BICKERSTAFF, ATTORNEYS-AT-LAW—2ND FLOOR.

  “I think I will like this attorney,” said Pepe as we climbed the stairs.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because he cares enough for perros to represent them.”

  At the top of the stairs was an oak door with an old-fashioned, smoked-glass window in it. BOSWELL & BICKERSTAFF was stenciled in gold on the glass. I knocked on the door, but no one answered, so I turned the knob and walked in.

  We were in a small waiting room, with two chairs and a table. A neat fan of magazines was splayed on the table: Smithsonian, House and Garden, and Sunset. There were two doors leading off the room. One bore the name BARRETT BOSWELL, the other BERNARD BICKERSTAFF.

  Boswell’s door was slightly ajar.

  “Hello,” I called, pushing it most of the way open and giving it another knock. Still no answer. I opened it all the way and took a step inside. It was a luxurious office, with a fine Persian carpet on the floor and a stunning view of the water. I could see the ferry, like a floating white wedding cake, heading back out across the dark blue waters of Puget Sound.

  But there was no sign of Mr. Boswell.

  “Geri!” said Pepe. He had trotted around the desk. “Geri! There is something you should know—”

  “What?” I asked, coming around the desk. And then, “Oh my God!”

  A man lay sprawled on the carpet between the desk and the back wall. He was wearing a gray suit. His face was bright red and all contorted like some medieval gargoyle. His eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling. And his hands were curled like claws.

  “Not this again,” said Pepe. “Why do we keep meeting muerte people on our cases?”

  “Good lord!” came a man’s voice from behind us.

  I turned and saw a middle-aged man, slightly balding, clutching a briefcase in one hand. He was peering over the desk at the body on the floor.

  Then he turned to me. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Geri Sullivan,” I said. “I was supposed to meet Mr. Boswell, but found him dead.”

  “I’m Boswell,” said the man. “That’s Bernie Bickerstaff.”

  Chapter 4

  Boswell set down his briefcase and approached the body. An odd expression flickered over his face—perhaps disgust or revulsion. He knelt down and placed his fingers against Bickerstaff’s neck.

  “Definitely dead,” he said. Having ascertained this to be true, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911.

  “I want to report a death,” he said. “I came into my office—Two Water Street, Suite 201—and found my colleague dead.” There was a pause. Then he said, “Yes, we will be here.”

  Then he clicked off the phone and looked at me.

  “Who are you?” he asked again.

  “Geri Sullivan,” I said, holding out my hand. “I had an appointment at three-thirty with Mr. Boswell—I mean you.” I waved my hand at Pepe. “And this is my dog.”

  “And partner,” said Pepe.

  “And my partner, Pepe,” I said.

  “Ah, yes,” said Boswell studying him intently. “So this is the famous dog. Frankly, I expected him to be a bit bigger.”

  Pepe was actually large for a Chihuahua at seven pounds. And all of that muscle, as Pepe would have said.

  “But fully capable of solving any crime,” said Pepe, “including this one.”

  “He’s been invaluable to me,” I said, and it was true. Together Pepe and I had solved multiple murders, starred on Dancing with Dogs, and broken up a dog-napping ring.

  “Very well,” said Boswell. He did not seem very concerned about the death of his colleague. “Perhaps we can meet in Bernie’s office while we wait for the police.”

  I followed Boswell back into the waiting room. The door that read BERNARD BICKERSTAFF was locked. Boswell rattled it impatiently. Then he pulled out a ring of keys, fitting each one into the lock and rejecting it when it failed to produce the desired results.

  “Geri, he is possibly contaminating a crime scene,” Pepe pointed out.

  “That’s right,” I said, grateful that no one else can hear my dog since it makes me look so much smarter. “It’s just as well,” I said to Boswell, “because the police will want to go over his office for clues.”

  “Yes! And what was he doing in my office?” Boswell asked, marching back into it. He went over to the bank of file cabinets against the wall.

  “Do you normally lock your office?” I asked, following him back in.

  “Yes, but Bernie has a key. We both have keys to each other’s offices.” He was thumbing through the files, tsking as he went. “If he poked his nose into the Carpenter case, I will be most vexed.” He turned his attention to a folder that lay open on his desk.

  “Is that the case you were having us investigate?” I asked.

  “Yes, and Bernie had no business availing himself of this information,” said Boswell, snapping up the folder.

  “Geri!” said Pepe.

  “Yes, I know, it’s evidence,” I said.

  “It is also my livelihood,” said Boswell. “Eighty percent of my current income comes from this trust. I’m not going to let the police interfere with that. At least I have the satisfaction of knowing that whatever Bernie may have learned did not leave this room.”

  “I’m confused,” I said. “Weren’t you partners?” I was thinking of the signs downstairs.

  “Oh, no,” said Boswell. “We simply share an office and an answering service. We are actually on opposite sides in this litigation.”

  Pepe was sniffing the dead body.

  “Do you smell anyt
hing, Pepe?” I asked.

  Pepe didn’t answer, seemed oblivious to my question, and just continued to sniff the corpse from head to toe and side to side. I’d seen him this way before, totally engaged in an olfactory pursuit, as only a dog can be, and figured he was onto some kind of clue.

  I stepped closer to the body and repeated my question, “Do you smell anything, Pepe?”

  “Sí, I smell lemonade, and a faint floral odor. I know what it is. It is lavender. Sí, lavender.”

  “Lavender?” I asked. “And lemonade?”

  “Lavender lemonade,” said Boswell. “My favorite summer beverage.” He pointed to a large glass pitcher on a silver tray near the window and an empty glass on the edge of the desk.

  Boswell reached for it, but I rushed over and stopped him before he could put his hands on it.

  “There might be fingerprints on it,” I pointed out.

  “Of course there are,” he said. “Bernie was sitting in my office, snooping around my case, and swiping my lemonade. His fingerprints will be all over it.”

  “Yes, but it’s evidence.”

  He looked at the corpse and frowned. Then he turned to me. “What do you mean evidence?”

  “In the murder investigation,” I said.

  “Murder?” Boswell looked positively frightened. “What makes you think Bernie was murdered?”

  I was embarrassed to admit that I automatically assumed all deaths were homicides. Call it the fate of the hardened PI.

  “What do you think happened to him?” I asked.

  “Well, I assume he died of a heart attack or a stroke. He’s been taking medication for high blood pressure. Probably popped a blood vessel when he saw how much I’m getting paid by Lucille’s trust.”

  There was a clatter of feet in the hall outside, and two uniformed policemen came into the room. They quickly called for backup and the E.M.T.s, then moved us into separate rooms. Luckily, the police never think to separate me and Pepe, so we did have a chance to get our story straight. And our story was that we had an appointment with Boswell at 3:30 PM and had entered his office to find the body sprawled on the floor.

  “What was your business with Mr. Boswell?” the lead detective asked me.

  “We’re private eyes. Out of Seattle. We’re working a case.”

  “We?” He looked around.

  “Down here, senor,” said Pepe. “I may be small, but I am mighty.”

  “My dog helps me,” I said. “Especially on this case. It involves dogs.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Carpenter,” said the detective. “Very disturbing, that.”

  “So you know about somebody trying to poison her dogs?”

  “No.” He frowned. “I know about her leaving five million dollars to four cocker spaniels. Ridiculous. Dogs don’t live long enough to spend five million dollars.”

  “I could easily spend that,” said Pepe. “Fresh, organic food, prepared by a private chef.” Pepe has discriminating tastes. After all, he was once the pampered pet of movie star Caprice Kennedy. “Trips around the world to visit sites of historic interest to dogs.”

  “What sites?” I asked Pepe.

  “Do you know, Geri,” said Pepe, “there is actually a statue of a dog in a Tokyo subway?”

  “Yes. The dog named Hachiko,” I said. That was a tragic story: about how the Akita waited patiently for his master every night at the train station where he had last seen his master. “So sad.”

  “It is sad,” said the policeman. “People around here are pretty riled up about it. They’ll be even more angry when they find out Bernie’s dead.”

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  “Because Bernie was hired by the kids to get back the money Mrs. Carpenter left to the dogs. Most people in town are on their side. Nice kids. Nice family. Been here for decades. Mrs. Carpenter was an outsider. She brought a bunch of money with her, it’s true. Helped Mr. Carpenter save his farm. But then she alienated everyone with her high-and-mighty ways and that pack of yapping dogs that went everywhere with her.”

  I looked at Pepe, figuring he’d have something to say about that, but he just shrugged his shoulders. “It is true. Some dogs yap.”

  Another policeman poked his head into the room.

  “The ME’s here,” he said. “Got some bad news.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Looks like Bernie might have been poisoned.”

  Chapter 5

  When we next saw our client, his composure was shaken. His face was a pasty white, and his hands were shaking.

  “They think the poison was meant for me,” he said. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Ah! I thought so!” said Pepe.

  “What makes you think he was poisoned?” I asked Pepe.

  But Boswell misunderstood. “I thought he had a heart attack!”

  “Elementary,” said Pepe. “You noted the horrible grimace on Senor Bickerstaff’s face? And the clawlike clutch of his hands in muerte?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “The same thing happened to Ramon on Paraíso Perdido. He was poisoned by his wife, who had learned he was having an affair with her sister. He suffered terrible contractions of all his muscles as he writhed in agony on the floor. He looked much like Mr. Bickerstaff as he expired.” Pepe was so excited he was dancing around the room.

  “Settle down,” I told him.

  “Yes. You’re right,” said Boswell, taking a deep breath. “I do need to settle down. Let’s adjourn to the bar downstairs.”

  “Are you done talking to the police?” I asked. I was surprised. Usually when I got dragged in for questioning, which was happening all too often since I had started working for Jimmy G, I would be stuck at the station for hours.

  “No, they want me to come down to the station, but I need a little nip before I head over there.”

  We headed to the restaurant downstairs, which was packed with tourists. We ended up in the bar section in back, which was nice and bright since it had an outside deck that seemed as large as the bar itself. I thought we’d go out there, but Boswell bellied up to the bar, pulled out one of the green faux-leather stools for me, then took a seat beside me. Most of the seats at the bar were empty, perhaps because they faced away from the water and the view.

  The bartender, a thirtyish guy with a chubby, ruddy face, came right over to us.

  “Hey, Barry,” he said. “What’s happening upstairs?”

  “Bickerstaff’s dead,” said Boswell, shuddering.

  “You’re kidding?”

  “No, looks like he was poisoned. They think it was meant for me.”

  “Damn. That sucks.” The bartender shook his head. “The usual?”

  Boswell nodded.

  “And you, ma’am?” the bartender turned to me.

  I don’t usually drink while working, but this situation seemed to require some attitude adjustment. “I’ll take a glass of your house white,” I said.

  “And I will have a bowl of water,” said Pepe. “No chaser.”

  “Plus a bowl of water,” I said. “For my dog.”

  I couldn’t put Pepe on the floor. He was sure to wander off and someone would trip on him, so I set him up on the bar. He wandered down a ways, sniffing as he went, looking for food, no doubt.

  “My boss gave me only the bare details about the case,” I said to Boswell as we waited for our drinks. “Can you tell me more about why you hired us?”

  “As the executor of Mrs. Carpenter’s estate, it’s my job to make sure the dogs are well cared for. And, obviously, if somebody is trying to kill them, I’m not doing my job. So I need you to find out who is trying to kill the dogs.”

  The drinks arrived. Boswell’s came in a tall glass full of ice. It looked like lemonade, which shocked me, as that is the last thing I would drink considering the circumstances.

  Boswell took a long gulp, then set down the glass and turned to me.

  “How do you know someone is trying to kill the dogs?” I asked.

  Pe
pe inspected his bowl of water, then sniffed and turned away from it.

  “What’s wrong? Do you think it’s poisoned?” I asked.

  “Well, someone tried to poison them,” Boswell said.

  “Ask him what kind of poison,” Pepe said.

  “What kind of poison?”

  “I understand it was chocolate,” said Boswell.

  “Chocolate is very bad for perros,” Pepe told me.

  “So what happened?” I asked.

  Boswell took another long gulp of his lemonade. “Hugh will know. You can talk to him about it.”

  “Who’s Hugh?” I asked.

  “Mrs. Carpenter’s vet. He’s the one who cares for the dogs.”

  “And does he think it was deliberate?”

  “Again, you’ll have to talk to him,” said Boswell. “All I know is my job is to keep those dogs alive.” He took another sip and looked at me. “I’m the trustee.”

  “Wouldn’t the job of trustee usually go to a relative?” I asked.

  “Not always,” said Boswell. “Some people, in an effort to be sure their trust is handled in an objective manner, select a professional, like a lawyer or a banker. In this case, Mrs. Carpenter knew there would be trouble brewing. Lots of bad blood between the kids. So she left each of them a small bequest in her will and put the rest in a trust for the dogs.”

  “How small a bequest?”

  “One hundred dollars each,” Boswell said.

  “And the entire estate is worth?”

  “Several million. Five point seven to be exact.”

  “Ouch!” I said. “That must have hurt her children.”

  “But pleased the perros,” said Pepe. “And for some people, perros are more precious than kids.” He looked at me wistfully. “Like for you, Geri!”

  It was a sore point between us. Pepe dislikes kids. I think I might want to have kids someday. Pepe is worried that he will be pushed aside in my affections if that ever happens.

  “Stepchildren,” said Mr. Boswell. “There’s no love lost there. Although she did have children by a previous marriage. They had already inherited from their father’s estate, but they were expecting more when their mother died. So they were insulted, too.”