“So they would be the obvious suspects,” said Pepe.
“What happens if the dogs die?” I asked.
“When the dogs die,” said Boswell, “the remainder passes to the local humane society.”
“Not to her children?”
“No. That’s the way Lucille wanted it. I wrote the original trust document,” said Boswell, “so I do know what I’m talking about.”
“Can I see a copy of the trust document?” I asked.
“Certainly,” said Boswell. “There’s a copy in my office.” He frowned. “Unless Bickerstaff got his hands on it.” He frowned again. “But I guess he didn’t get a chance to remove anything he found.” He waved the bartender over to us. “Can I have the bill?”
“I’ll just put it on your tab,” said the bartender. “Don’t worry about it.”
As we got up to go out the door, we were stopped at the front door by two policemen in dark uniforms and shiny badges.
“Barrett Boswell?” said one of them, stepping forward, his hand on his belt, right above a pair of handcuffs.
Boswell nodded, a bit annoyed. He tried to brush past them.
The younger of the two put out a hand and blocked his passage. “We need you to come with us, sir.”
“First I need to get some papers from my office for this young lady,” said Boswell, pointing his finger at me.
“The office is off-limits,” the policeman said. “No one’s getting in there until we’re done analyzing the crime scene.”
“But that’s ridiculous,” said Boswell. He didn’t seem to grasp the seriousness of the situation. The other policeman held out the handcuffs. Everyone in the restaurant had stopped eating and was watching the drama.
“I think you should go with them,” I said, stepping forward. “I can wait.”
“Yes, you should come with us,” the policeman repeated to Boswell. Then he turned to me. “It will be a long wait. We’ve got a lot of questions.”
“I’ll have to get you the documents later,” Boswell told me. He didn’t seem fazed by all the attention. Customers were backed up into the lobby, trying to see what was happening in the restaurant. “Meanwhile you should go talk to Hugh. He can tell you more about the attempt to poison the dogs.”
“Where do I find this Hugh?”
“At his veterinary clinic. It’s just outside of Sequim. I’ll give you the address.” Boswell pulled a small notepad from his pocket and scribbled something on it before handing it to me. It was an address.
I looked at it.
“Is there a problem?” Boswell asked.
“Well, I’ve got a date in Seattle tonight, and—”
“Partner,” Pepe interrupted, “this is an opportunity to learn more about the situation. We can interrogate this vet.” He said the last word contemptuously. Pepe did not have a high opinion of vets.
Pepe had a good point. It would be better to question the vet without Boswell present. “Sure, I’ll do whatever it takes,” I said.
“Good,” said Boswell. “I’ll be in contact later.”
“Come on,” said the policeman. “I’ve got a date myself tonight, and wouldn’t mind being able to keep it.”
At least somebody would have a date tonight, I thought, as we left.
Chapter 6
Jimmy G sat at the bar of the Windjammer and stared at his empty glass. The damn client had stood him up. At least that’s how it appeared. It was true Jimmy G had arrived late, after stopping to have a beer with his buddy in Bremerton, but he had called Bickerstaff and left a message on his phone, telling him about the delay.
It took a while, but Jimmy G finally flagged down the bartender and indicated that he wanted another drink. The restaurant was packed and the outdoor deck was full. The bartender was busy filling orders for the waitresses.
“Sorry, sir,” said the bartender, when he finally came over with the glass of bourbon. “It’s been a really crazy evening. Lots of excitement in the building today.”
Jimmy G rolled his eyes. He meant to indicate that he was not the slightest bit interested in small-town gossip, but apparently it had the opposite effect.
“The police came in here and made an arrest in a murder investigation,” said the bartender. “A very prominent citizen, too,” he added.
Jimmy G tipped up his glass and took a swig.
“The murder happened just this afternoon,” the bartender went on.
That was disturbing. After all, Jimmy G had operatives in town. He was responsible for their safety.
“Who got murdered?” he asked.
“Lawyer name of Bickerstaff,” said the bartender.
Jimmy G almost dropped his glass. Fortunately he did not. He polished off the drink and tapped the rim of the empty glass. He noticed the bartender hesitated. His name tag said his name was Flynn. Jimmy G slid a twenty across the counter toward him.
“Bernie Bickerstaff?” Jimmy G asked, as Flynn pocketed the twenty and poured him another shot.
Flynn nodded. “You know him?”
Jimmy G shrugged. “Mere acquaintance,” he said. He wondered about the ethics of this situation. Could he keep the retainer even though he hadn’t done any work for the guy?
At least it solved another ethical dilemma. He really didn’t feel good about keeping Geri and Pepe in the dark about the true nature of the case. With Bickerstaff dead, any work they did for Boswell would be legitimate.
“So you said they caught the guy who killed him?” Jimmy G asked.
The bartender nodded. “Another lawyer. Shared offices with Bickerstaff. A guy named Boswell.”
This time Jimmy G did drop his glass. Flynn was right there to mop it up and pour him another shot.
Jimmy G knocked it back. What was going on? Had Geri and Pepe been with Boswell when he committed the murder? He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. He hated the newfangled thing, but Geri had insisted on it. In this case it would come in handy.
The phone began ringing as he fumbled to unlock it.
“What’s up, doll?” he said, thinking it was Geri.
But the female voice on the other end was not familiar. “Am I speaking to James Gerrard?” she asked.
“Who wants to know?” Jimmy G asked.
“This is Detective Michelle Howard of the Homicide Division of the Port Townsend Police Department,” she said. “We need to talk to you.”
Chapter 7
The veterinary clinic was halfway between Port Townsend and Sequim, which meant we were getting farther away from Seattle and my date with Felix. It was a long, low, modern building, all concrete, glass, and steel, with a cantilevered roof and large, smoked-glass windows. The front was landscaped with box hedges and feathery white pampas grass. Set among the landscaping was a curved-steel sign engraved with the words WILLIAMS VETERINARY HOSPITAL.
I had called Felix to let him know I probably wouldn’t be back in Seattle in time for our dinner. He didn’t answer his phone, so I left a voice mail. Meanwhile, Pepe added his scent to what was surely a medley of doggie scents on one of the concrete posts holding up the sign. I looked around the car for his leash, but it seemed he’d hidden it again. Pepe hates the leash. He always fights me when I try to put it on him, but he also likes to pick fights with any large dog he sees. I guess you could call it “small-dog complex.”
“Are you coming in with me?” I asked him when he was through with his business. “Or do you prefer to wait in the car?”
“Of course I am coming in with you,” Pepe said huffily. “I know this is not our vet—nobody here will prod and poke and foist sundry other indignities on me.”
“Whatever you say. But if there are any dogs in there, particularly big dogs,” I told him, picking him up as we headed into the clinic, “I don’t want you making a scene.”
Luckily the waiting room was empty. It was bright and airy, with a stained concrete floor and a desk made of poured green glass, topped with a slab of polished stainless steel. It was furnished w
ith two chrome-accented, black-leather benches and matching chairs that looked as if they’d come from a Scandinavian design store.
There was a bell on the desk. I went over and gave it a ring. After a few moments, a woman came out through a stainless-steel double door behind the desk.
She was quite good-looking, in a Barbie doll sort of way. She wore a pink smock, her blond hair was frosted and piled up on top of her head, and she had long, bubblegum-pink nails that looked like claws. The plastic name tag pinned to her smock said her name was Bonnie.
“Hello,” she said in a high, squeaky voice. “Do you have an appointment?”
“We’re here to talk to the vet,” I said. “Mr. Boswell sent us.”
“Oh,” she said. “I’ll get Hugh. He’s in back.” She turned and went out through the double door.
A few minutes later, the door opened and a man emerged. He was so good-looking, he took my breath away. He was about my age—somewhere in his midthirties. He was dressed casually, in blue jeans and a white doctor’s coat, open over an ice-blue shirt. He had a square jaw and sandy-blond hair, a bit long, that kept falling forward over his startlingly blue eyes.
“Geri, restrain yourself,” Pepe told me.
“What are you talking about?” I asked him.
“Do not be offended, Geri,” he said. “I recognize the symptoms of heat.”
I swear, there’s nothing as disconcerting as having your dog be so knowledgeable about your love life. I felt myself blush—I mean, really blush.
“Hello,” the vet said, as he extended his hand, “I’m Doctor Hugh Williams.”
I took his hand—it was as warm as the flush on my cheeks. “Yes,” I managed to say, noting his grip was firm but very gentle. “I’m Geri—Geri Sullivan.”
I thought about withdrawing my hand, but Doctor Hugh was giving me little electric tingles. (Either that or I had a pinched nerve, which I very much doubted.)
“You seem flushed,” Hugh told me. “Are you hot?”
“Sí!” Pepe told him. “She is muy caliente.”
“No, I’m fine,” I said.
He let go of my hand and turned his attention to Pepe, who was still snuggled in my arms. “Cute little Chihuahua. What’s her name?”
Pepe bristled at the suggestion that he was a female dog. “I am Pepe el Macho,” he declared.
“Pepe,” I said. “He’s my partner,” I added.
“Ah! Of course,” said the vet. “You’re the private detectives. It was wise of Barry to hire you to protect Mrs. Carpenter’s dogs.”
“I’d like to ask you some questions about them if I could.”
“Yes, of course. My pleasure,” Hugh said.
He led us into his office, which was as modern and composed as the rest of the building. A burnished teak desk dominated the room. Bookcases lined one wall, while his diplomas were mounted on the other. The outside wall was all glass and looked out over the bay, glimpsed through a scrim of evergreen trees. Hugh motioned us to sit on a couch covered in buttery black leather and seated himself in a matching swivel chair behind the desk.
“I don’t think I’ve ever met a private detective,” he said. “Let alone such an attractive one, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
I didn’t mind one bit, but just said, “Thanks. It’s nice of you to take the time to talk to us.”
“Get to the point, Geri,” Pepe told me. “That is why we are here.”
I pulled out my notebook. “Could you tell me more about what happened with the dogs?” I asked.
“Sure,” said Hugh. “It didn’t amount to much. Someone scattered some chocolate-chip cookies in the yard. Yolanda knew chocolate was poisonous for dogs, so she wanted me to check them out.”
“And the dogs were OK?”
Hugh nodded. “There wasn’t enough chocolate in those cookies to kill a dog. They’d have to eat dozens to suffer any truly serious effects.”
“So if someone wanted to poison the dogs,” I said, “they really didn’t do a very good job.”
“That’s correct,” said Hugh. “Henry was the only dog we were concerned about. Just because he’s older. We decided to keep him overnight for observation.”
“And how is he doing?”
“He’s fine. Ready to go home.”
“Ask him about Mrs. Carpenter,” Pepe reminded me.
“What can you tell me about Mrs. Carpenter?” I asked Hugh.
Hugh pointed to a framed photograph on the wall surrounded by his diplomas. It showed an older woman with white hair, styled in the pageboy that was popular among movie stars in the forties. She was draped in white furs, dripping with diamonds, and surrounded by four cocker spaniels.
“That’s Lucille Carpenter right there,” he said. “A magnificent woman. She was very particular, too. She expected the highest quality of care for her animals.”
“Well, she seems to have found it with you,” I said. “You’ve got a very modern clinic here.”
“Thanks to Lucille,” he said. “This was just a dumpy little small-town clinic before I met her. She tore it down and hired an architect to design this building. She really knew how to get things done. Smart as a whip; learned a lot from her husband—he was a general contractor.”
“Oh,” I said. “I thought he was a farmer.”
“You must mean Chuck Carpenter. He was her second husband. I’m talking about her first husband, Fred. He built several large shopping malls in Seattle.”
“I see,” I said.
“After he died, she moved here to Sequim. Said she wanted a little more sun in her life.”
“I heard there are three hundred days of sunshine in Sequim,” I said.
“You heard right,” said Hugh. “That’s why we are able to grow lavender here.
And speaking of lavender, are you staying for the lavender festival? It’s this weekend.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” I said. “Tell me about it.”
“There are booths in town selling lavender products, and more booths at the fairgrounds serving lavender-themed food and products, and musical groups playing all day long. Then there are buses that take people around to tour the various lavender farms.”
“Sounds fascinating,” I said.
“If you’re interested, I could arrange a special, private dinner with a focus on lavender,” Hugh said. “I know quite a few restaurant owners.” He paused. “If you decide to stay around.”
“I think we’ll be back in Seattle by the weekend,” I said, “but I appreciate the invitation.”
“Well, if you change your mind, just give me a call,” he said, standing up. He scribbled a number on the back of one of his professional cards. When he handed it to me, he pressed it into my palm. I swear I blushed again.
His attractive receptionist appeared in the doorway. “Hugh,” she said in a high-pitched scolding tone. “Jean just called to remind you to bring the financials to the meeting.”
“Oh!” He glanced down at his appointment book. “You’re right. Why don’t you print them up for me?”
After she left, Hugh explained, “I’m the treasurer for the local humane society. We’re trying to develop a no-kill shelter here. Far too many dogs, and other pets, are needlessly killed every year. We’ve got a major investor who is going to give us a large sum of money if we can raise enough money to match his grant.”
“That sounds like an amazing cause,” I said.
“But, unfortunately, going to the meeting means I can’t take Henry back home, as I intended. Would you be willing to take him up to the Carpenter mansion for me?”
When you get a request like that from a handsome vet with a heart of gold, it’s hard to resist. I looked at Pepe.
“A good chance to do more investigating, partner,” he said.
“Sure,” I said.
“And be sure to tell Yolanda that I’ve scheduled Henry for dental surgery on Tuesday. I think he has a few teeth that need to come out.”
Pepe shuddered.
Hugh looked at him. “Has your little dog had his teeth checked recently?”
I shook my head. Pepe started shivering.
“It’s one of my favorite exams to conduct,” said Hugh with hearty good humor, his own perfectly white, perfectly straight teeth gleaming. “It can make such a difference in terms of how comfortable they feel.”
Pepe turned and ran out of the room.
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.
Chapter 8
“So, how do you explain that?” the detective asked Jimmy G. She leaned down, her face only inches from Jimmy G’s nose.
He took his time, looked around the small room. Some sort of weird foam padding on the walls. A big mirror he knew was a one-way window. Jimmy G was no stranger to police stations. He knew how to handle an interrogation.
“Can’t explain it,” he said. No way he was going to give her what she wanted. Detectives and police—they were natural enemies, like cats and dogs.
“According to the preliminary tests, he died less than ten minutes after he called you and about three hours before you left a message on his phone,” the detective said.
Jimmy G lifted his eyebrows. He felt like he was winning this round. She was giving away more information than she was getting.
“So I’m going to ask you again,” she said. “What was the subject of your conversation?”
“Confidential,” said Jimmy G.
“You realize this is a murder investigation?”
“I thought you had a suspect in custody,” he replied.
She frowned, then shook her head. “Boswell? No, he was the intended victim.” She must have realized she had made a mistake. She squinted her eyes. “How do you know about that?”
“Small town,” Jimmy G said. He held out his hands in an attempt to look hapless, which was easy, as Jimmy G usually was hapless. “Heard about it at the bar.”
She shook that off by dismissing it with her hand. She tried a new tack. “If you were working for Mr. Bickerstaff, you are no longer obligated by client privilege. Just think about that.”
Jimmy G did think about it. How would the police react if they knew Jimmy G was working both sides? Maybe they knew already.
Barking Detective 04 - The Chihuahua Always Sniffs Twice Page 3
