“No,” Yolanda said with a shrug of her shoulders. “Everyone who got left out of her trust is angry at her and would be happy to testify for Mr. Bickerstaff.”
“About that,” said Boswell, “there is something I need to tell you.”
“What is it?” Yolanda poured herself another cup of tea from the teapot.
“Bernie’s dead.”
“What? How?” Yolanda looked rattled. “But the letter . . .”
“He must have sent it yesterday. He died sometime today. The police think he was poisoned.”
“Oh no!” Yolanda shrieked. “No, no, no, no, no!”
Her niece came running back in. “What did you do now?” she asked Barrett, as she cradled her aunt’s head in her arms. Yolanda rocked back and forth, sobbing. She seemed to have completely fallen apart.
“I just told her that Bickerstaff was dead,” Boswell said. He had gotten up and was hovering around Yolanda, as if he wanted to comfort her but was afraid to touch her. “Murdered, actually.”
“Who killed him?” asked Clara.
“We don’t know,” Boswell said. “The police think I might have been the target.”
“Who’s next?” Yolanda asked. “First, the dogs. Then you, Barrett. What if they come after us?” She was shaking. “I don’t feel safe.”
“That’s why I hired these two,” said Boswell, waving his hand at me and Pepe.
“Them?” That was Clara. Her tone was scornful or amazed. Maybe both.
“Yes, they’re private investigators,” said Boswell.
“Really?” Clara perked up. “Like on TV?”
“Yes, we are as good as Shawn Spencer and Burton Guster,” said Pepe, who was a big fan of the TV show Psych.
“I’m not sure that’s a good comparison,” I said. “And besides, which one are you?”
“Let me put it this way,” said Pepe. “I am not the sidekick.”
“What do you mean?” asked Clara, clearly confused.
“Yes, they need to interview you,” Boswell said to Yolanda, shaking his head. “I will leave you in their capable hands. I must return to Port Townsend. I’ve already talked to the police once, but they want me to provide them with some papers I was not able to find. Do you mind if I take this with me?”
“Please, take it away! I don’t want to see it!” said Yolanda. When Boswell got up to leave, she got up, too.
“Do not worry, Yolanda,” he said. “I will clear this up.” He took her hand and gave the back of it a kiss.
“Please check in with me in the morning,” he said, turning to me and Pepe. “I can give you a copy of the trust document and a list of people to interview. Until the police release the crime scene, I’ll be working out of my home office.” He handed me a card with an address scribbled across the back.
“I was planning to head back to Seattle tonight,” I said.
“Surely you have some questions for Yolanda,” Boswell said.
“Yes, you should be our guests,” said Yolanda. “We can talk after dinner. And I will feel so much safer with you on the premises.” She turned to Clara. “Go tell Caroline to set two extra places for dinner.”
After Boswell left, Yolanda took us on a tour of the house. Mrs. Carpenter had obviously been a fan of English décor. The house was full of sturdy oak pieces, four-poster beds, heavy velvet curtains, and lots of English bric-a-brac. The tour ended in the kitchen, which was a bit more modern, and the domain of Caroline, the cook, who, as Yolanda explained, did not “live in.” She drove in from town every day to prepare breakfast, lunch, and dinner, for humans and dogs, but left as soon as dinner was served.
Caroline had prepared a feast of vegetarian lasagna, a salad of tossed greens (which she said came straight from the garden), and zucchini muffins, all of which were laid out on the island in the kitchen. There was a choice of fresh lemonade (I couldn’t handle that, remembering Bickerstaff’s contorted visage), locally pressed cider, or red wine. I chose the wine, a blend of Washington reds, which went well with the lasagna.
The dogs had their own meal of fresh raw meat that had been mixed with vegetables and rice. They padded into the dining room, and the cook set out their dishes along the wall, in order, according to their age. Pepe was given a small plate at the end of the line. He gobbled down his dinner, then prowled along the line to see if any of the other dogs’ dishes held leftovers.
The humans sat at one end of a long oak table that had places for twelve guests. A large silver candelabra occupied the center. On one end of the room, a china closet with glass doors displayed stacks of gold-rimmed porcelain. The wallpaper was a William Morris design: a greenish background with pink and yellow flowers. Paintings of cocker spaniels hung on the walls.
“How long have you known Mrs. Carpenter?” I asked Yolanda, after taking a few bites of my lasagna.
She was just toying with her food. “I’ve been with her for thirty years.”
“Since my aunt first came to the United States,” Clara observed. She was attacking her meal with gusto.
“That’s right. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Mrs. Carpenter. There was a civil war going on in my country, but I couldn’t leave without a sponsor. She sponsored me. It was so generous of her.”
“You mean so cunning,” Clara said. “She just wanted a slave.”
Yolanda rebuked her with a glance. “Hush, I was not a slave!”
“Then why did you never leave?” Clara asked.
“Mrs. Carpenter was very good to me,” Yolanda said.
“She was not! She was rude and demanding and disrespectful!” Clara said.
“You never saw the good side of her,” Yolanda remarked mildly. “Besides, the kids needed me. Especially after their father died.”
“The Carpenter kids?” I was confused.
“Oh, no! I’m talking about the Valentine kids. They were only teenagers when their father died. I helped raise them until they went off to college. Then Lucille moved to Sequim and met Mr. Carpenter. He had his own set of kids. Lucille needed me more than ever. And the kids did, too!”
Clara rolled her eyes.
“You don’t think much of that?”
“You’d have to know the kids.”
“I brought Clara up to help me three years ago, when Lucille got sick,” Yolanda said.
“What did she die of?”
“Meanness,” said Clara.
Yolanda glared at her. “Congestive heart failure. Her poor heart broke when all the kids refused to speak to her. First her own, then Mr. C’s, whom she helped raise.”
“Why did they hate her so much?”
“Because she killed their father,” said Clara.
Chapter 12
“What?” I almost dropped my wineglass. “Mrs. Carpenter killed her husband?”
“Oh no!” said Yolanda, giving her niece a sharp look. “That’s not true!”
“Then what?”
“He tripped over one of her yappy little dogs and fell down the stairs and broke his neck,” said Clara. She said it with great satisfaction.
Pepe jumped into my lap. “Who killed who?” he asked me.
“Shhh!” I told him. “Just listen.”
“I was trying to,” he said. “But licking all those plates clean took precedence.”
“Spoiled, isn’t he?” said Clara, referring to Pepe. All the other dogs had stayed on the floor.
“Sorry,” I told Clara. “I think he’s still a little hungry.”
“I’m sure Caroline gave him the correct portion for a dog his size. Lucille was very strict about the dogs’ meals,” Yolanda explained. “She didn’t want them getting fat.”
“I do not have to worry about that,” said Pepe, “since I burn off my energy through investigating.”
“So,” I said, trying to get us back on track, “one of Mrs. Carpenter’s dogs was responsible for her husband’s death? She must have felt terrible about it.”
“Oh, she did,” said Yolanda. “Lucille fel
t just awful.”
“Sure she did,” said Clara, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “She felt so bad that she rushed her precious dog off to the vet while her husband’s body lay at the bottom of the stairs.”
“Clara!” said Yolanda. “You weren’t here! You don’t know what happened.”
“Well, it’s true,” said Clara. “You’ve told me the story enough times. Mr. Carpenter fell on top of Henry, and Mrs. C was worried that the dog was hurt.” She turned to us. “Turns out Henry had a sprained shoulder. Nothing compared to her husband’s broken neck.”
“Please don’t think too badly of Lucille,” Yolanda told me. “She was a realist, that’s all. Her husband was obviously dead, and her dog was injured. What else could she do?”
“Yes, what else could she do?” asked Clara.
I was wondering the same thing—what would I do if Felix tripped over Pepe and Pepe was hurt?—when Pepe said, “There is an uneaten piece of lasagna on your plate, Geri. May I have it, por favor?”
“It’ll give you a tummy ache,” I told him.
“Just because tomato sauce gave me pains in my stomach uno time, does not mean it will do so again,” he said, putting one paw on the tablecloth and pulling it and the plate toward him.
“Oh, all right.” I took my plate and put it on the floor for him. Yolanda gave me a disapproving look. Pepe slurped it down quickly as the other dogs gathered around him.
We finished our meal with a rich and fragrant lavender ice cream for dessert. Yolanda told me it came from the lavender farm next door, which was run by Colleen Carpenter. It was one of her specialties—homemade lavender-infused ice cream, always a popular item during the upcoming lavender festival.
“How did Colleen end up with the farm?” I asked, as I polished off the last creamy bite of my ice cream.
“She was the only one of the kids interested in going into the family business,” Yolanda said.
“Mr. Carpenter was a lavender farmer?” I asked.
“Not until he met Lucille. Before that he ran a dairy farm, but the business was failing. It was her idea to switch over to growing lavender.”
“It seems like that worked out well,” I commented.
“Actually, Colleen told me that if she doesn’t make enough during this year’s lavender festival, she’s going to have to declare bankruptcy,” said Clara.
“What are you doing over there?” said Yolanda. “I told you to stay away from them! They’re not our friends.”
“Whatever!” Clara got up from the table and left the room.
“Why do you disapprove of her going over there?” I asked.
“For all I know,” said Yolanda, getting up herself, “Colleen is the one who tried to poison the dogs. She never liked them, and if they died, it would solve all her financial problems.” She began gathering up the plates.
“I thought the money went to the local humane society if the dogs died,” I said.
“Oh, does it?” said Yolanda. “I’ve never really looked at the trust document. I let Barrett handle all the legal and financial issues.”
I got up to help her, and the dogs, who had been lounging around the room, all got up too. We crowded into the kitchen, where Clara was putting her dirty dishes into the dishwasher. The dogs swirled around us, barking and whining and yipping.
Clara opened the back door, and the canine multitude poured out into the yard. The spaniels ran up and down the yard, bumping into and tumbling over each other. They looked like a bunch of clowns.
A long chain-link fence separated the yard of Carpenter Manor from the back of the neighboring property. Bamboo that had been planted along its length screened our view of the farm outbuildings, although I could glimpse a reddish-brown barn and the roof of a farmhouse.
The scent of fresh lavender was everywhere, especially as the light breeze was blowing our way across the rolling fields of lavender that stretched out for a hundred yards or so behind the backyard. That wonderful scent and the sky, which was turning a gorgeous shade of orange-red around the setting sun, made the pastoral surroundings seem almost magical.
“So, tell me about the day someone tried to poison the dogs,” I said when we were all back inside. Clara had gone off to study. According to her aunt, she was taking classes at the local community college. Caroline had gone home. Yolanda and I sat with the dogs in the living room. I pulled out my notebook.
“It was an ordinary day,” said Yolanda. “The dog walker came to take them out for their morning walk.”
“And who is the dog walker?”
“A high school student from town.”
“Do the dogs get walked every day?”
“Yes, she comes around seven in the morning and takes them out in groups. She’s always done by eight.”
“She noticed them getting sick?”
“No, she found the cookies scattered along the side of the driveway. She didn’t think any of the dogs had managed to eat any, but she wasn’t sure. And it wasn’t just the chocolate she was worried about. She thought maybe the cookies were poisoned.”
“Why would she think that?”
“We had received several threatening phone calls, someone calling to say the dogs were doomed.”
“Did you report them to the police?”
“Yes, but they didn’t seem very sympathetic. Most people in town are on the side of the kids.”
“What did you do?”
“I called Barry, and he said to take them to the vet. I don’t drive, so the dog walker took them.”
“And what did the vet say?”
“Hugh said there wasn’t enough chocolate in the cookies to harm any of the dogs. But he kept Henry overnight for observation, just because of Henry’s age. Poor Henry.” She dabbed at her eyes with her knuckles.
“Do you know if the vet ever tested the cookies?” I asked.
Yolanda shook her head. “I have heard nothing.”
I made a note. We would have to return to talk to Hugh the Handsome.
“So who could have left the cookies there?” I asked. “Is it possible someone just dropped a bag of cookies?”
Yolanda gave me a chiding look, like the one she had given Clara. “People don’t just walk by out here in the country,” she said. “But anyone in a car could have stopped on the road and thrown the cookies out of the window.”
“Again, making it seem deliberate,” I said.
“Of course, it was deliberate!” Yolanda declared.
An hour later, Pepe and I were in bed, in the room that had once belonged to Colleen Carpenter. It was a sparsely furnished room: just a single bed and a maple chest of drawers. A warm breeze blew through the lace curtains around the window that I’d opened slightly for ventilation. The sheets were soft and warm and smelled like lavender.
At home, Albert the Cat has claimed the bedroom as his territory, so Pepe rarely sleeps with me. Instead, he sleeps in the living room on the couch in front of the TV. He dozes off while watching his favorite shows, which is where he gets his ridiculous ideas about human nature and forensic science. But here there was no TV. No yellow glow from streetlights. No swish of traffic. No rumble of airplanes overhead. Just darkness and quiet.
As I turned off the small lamp on the bedside table, Pepe snuggled up close to me, warm and cozy as the bed itself. I patted his soft head and reflected on the silence, so very relaxing.
Until Pepe’s stomach began to rumble.
He denied it, of course. “Those were just frogs you heard, Geri. Listen! There they go again, a whole chorus of them just outside our window.”
Chapter 13
Jimmy G proceeded slowly up the flagstone walk that led to Boswell’s front door. He still wasn’t sure what was going on, and who he was working for, and what he was looking for. So how the hell was he supposed to question the guy?
Boswell’s house sat high on a hill above Port Townsend. It was three stories tall and had a turret with a conical roof like a witch’s hat. The front door wa
s one of those old-fashioned oak jobs with an oval, etched-glass window. Seemed to be original, as old as the house. And the doorbell sure was—mounted on the door itself, it was a small, square box, made of dark metal, with a twister-type gizmo that you wound up like a watch. So Jimmy G did just that. When he let it go, the thing set off a loud mechanical bell that rang half a dozen times or so.
No one answered, which was fine by Jimmy G. He could report to his mysterious new boss that Boswell was not home and be done with it. He turned to go, but just then the door opened. Standing on the other side was a short, balding man with a round red face.
“Mr. Boswell, I presume,” said Jimmy G.
Boswell frowned. “Yes, and you are?”
Jimmy G had a momentary flash of brilliance. “Jimmy G of the Gerrard Agency,” he said, holding out his hand. “Here to check on my operatives.”
Boswell shook his hand, but stared oddly at his chest for a moment.
Must be the tie, Jimmy G thought. He was wearing his favorite—extrawide, a combination of bright red, green, blue, and orange swirls so loud it could be heard over the cries of the crowd when a long shot came in at the racetrack. It was always a good icebreaker.
Finally meeting his gaze again, Boswell said, “Your operatives are at Carpenter Manor, talking to the caretaker and her niece.”
“Ah, good,” said Jimmy G. “Better to talk about them when they’re not here. Jimmy G is conducting an evaluation, you know, assessing their performance.” Boswell was still frowning. “Mind if Jimmy G comes in?”
“I guess,” said Boswell. “But we must be quick. I’m rather busy.”
“This will only take a minute,” said Jimmy G.
“Well, come into my study.” Boswell led Jimmy G down a hallway that was crowded with furniture and through a door at the end of the hall.
“Forgive the mess,” he said, waving his hand at a desk that was heaped with papers. A very large and tall violet-colored cat with a fluffy, fanlike tail sat on the corner of the desk and directed a baleful look at Jimmy G. “I’ve just realized there are some irregularities in the trust document.”
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