“Aha!” said Pepe. “The gato must have been crying to be fed, and when nobody came to feed him, he pushed over his bag of food. That is what we heard.”
“I’m glad,” I said. “Let’s get out of here before someone calls the cops and charges us with breaking and entering.”
“I am with you,” Pepe told me. “This beast will doubtless turn on us when he is through concentrating on his feast.”
“I do wonder why Boswell did not feed his cat,” I said, as I turned to go.
Pepe had tiptoed past the cat and was looking down the dim corridor. He was sniffing away, his head lifted.
“I think I know why,” he said, moving a few feet into the hall, still sniffing. “I smell muerte!”
“What?”
“Sí,” he said. “The scent of death. It is strong.”
“Oh, no.” I passed the cat and peered down the hall and saw nothing except for a lot of furniture and boxes lining the walls, leaving only a narrow path. “Are you sure?”
“My nose does not lie,” said Pepe. He wagged his head toward an open door on the right. “The scent comes from this room.”
He disappeared through the door, so I had to follow. It was obviously Boswell’s home office. Multiple bookcases lined the walls; the hardwood floor was covered with a Persian rug; and a couple of leather wing-back chairs faced a vintage oak desk at the far end the room.
Pepe had disappeared behind the desk, and that’s where we found Boswell. He was sprawled on the floor, his face a bright red, and his features contorted like a gargoyle’s.
“Oh my God!” I said. “He looks just like Bickerstaff.” He was still wearing the dark blue suit we had last seen him in. Apparently he had died sometime after he left the Carpenter mansion.
Pepe was at work, sniffing the papers surrounding the body, apparently searching for clues. I choked back my immediate desire to flee and forced myself to examine the scene carefully: the jumble of papers on Boswell’s desk, the empty glass on the carpet, and the two large file cabinets behind the desk, all their drawers open, half their files pulled out and scattered about all willy-nilly.
“It looks as though somebody was searching for something,” I said.
“Sí, it does,” Pepe responded. I examined the papers on the desk, trying to read them without touching anything. They looked like documents that had been filed in various court cases.
“What did you find?”
“It is very odd,” said Pepe, “but the papers smell like Jimmy G.”
“Our boss?”
“Yes. They smell like cigar smoke and bourbon. But there is one small detail that troubles me. The cigar is a Cohiba.”
“Jimmy G smokes cigars.”
“Yes, but he smokes White Owls. The Cohiba comes from Cuba. It is illegal in the United States.”
I stared at my dog. He always amazed me. “You mean to tell me you can distinguish one cigar from another?”
“Certainly, my dear Sullivan,” said Pepe. “Like my role model, Sherlock Holmes, I have made an extensive study of the variety of tobacco products.”
“Give me a break,” I said, dismissing his ridiculous story as I dialed Jimmy G. It would be good to get his opinion on what to do next. Besides, if he did have anything to do with Boswell’s death, I wanted to warn him before I called the police.
“Hey, doll,” he said. “What’s shakin’?”
“Boswell’s dead.”
“What?”
“Yes. We found him dead in his home office. I think he was poisoned just like Bickerstaff.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line.
“When did this happen?” he asked.
“How should I know?” I asked. “The last time we saw him was yesterday late afternoon at the Carpenter mansion. He told us to drop by his house in the morning to pick up a copy of the trust document. But when we got here, we found him dead. And it looks like someone was going through his papers.”
“Can you tell if anything is missing?” Jimmy G asked.
“How would I know that?” I asked.
There was another long silence.
“Yeah, how would you know that!” he said, with a harsh laugh.
“Is something wrong, boss?” He was acting really strange.
“Yeah, just having a few problems with the reception. Jimmy G does not like this cell phone. So did you call the police?”
“I’m just about to, but, boss, there’s one more thing.”
“Yeah?”
“Pepe says the papers smell like you.”
“Yeah, right! The dog is talking. You must be hallucinating, doll!”
I figured I might as well be direct. “Were you here?”
“Ha! Jimmy G in Port Townsend. That’s a laugh.”
“Well, where are you?”
“Where hasn’t Jimmy G been? Last night he was in Tacoma. Right now he’s at Emerald Downs.”
“Emerald Downs?”
“Got a lotta money riding on a long shot,” he said.
“OK,” I said. “I guess Pepe made a mistake. He wasn’t sure it was you because he said the cigar was a Cohiba, whatever that is.”
Jimmy G gave a weak laugh. “Crazy dog you got there,” he said. “Those are imported cigars. From Cuba. Black-market stuff. Jimmy G could never afford one.”
Chapter 18
Jimmy G was sweating by the time he arrived at the farm. It wasn’t just the temperature—which was hovering around ninety at noon—but the call from Geri telling him they had found Boswell dead in his office. An office that appeared to have been rifled. Geri even claimed her rat-dog could put Jimmy G on the scene.
Of course, he quickly convinced her that was ridiculous. Where would Jimmy G get a Cohiba? And how would the rat-dog know about that?
As soon as he stepped out of the car, a dog came running up and circled around Jimmy G in a menacing manner, barking and wagging its big, fluffy tail. Then a woman appeared, dressed in mud-spattered overalls and cowboy boots. She clomped down the road toward the car, calling to the dog, whose name was apparently Phoebe.
“Hello, Jimmy G is looking for the owner of this farm,” he said.
“That’s me,” she said, peeling a heavy leather glove off her hand and shaking his. She had a hearty grip. “Colleen Carpenter. What can I do for you?”
“Jimmy G needs to ask you a couple of questions, ma’am,” Jimmy G said.
“Well, where is this Jimmy G?” she asked, looking at the car to see if someone else was inside.
“Uh, Jimmy G stands here before you,” Jimmy G said, pointing at his tie.
“OK, Jimmy G,” said Colleen. “And what’s this about?”
“The judge hired Jimmy G to ask pertinent questions about the Carpenter trust.”
“Well, you can ask me questions, but I need to watch the still.”
“Still?” That got Jimmy G’s interest.
“Come on, I’ll show you!” she said, turning on her heel and striding off toward the barn. Jimmy G followed her, thinking he was in luck. Been a long time since he had any moonshine.
The still was located in an opening in the barn. It was made of brass and shaped like a giant onion turned on its head. A series of pipes and valves led away from the central chamber to a plastic bucket on the floor. And into the bucket was running a pale brown liquid. Jimmy G stuck his finger into the liquid, put it in his mouth, and started to swish it around. Gah! It was awful. He spit it out onto the straw-covered dirt floor.
Colleen frowned at him. “That’s lavender essential oil. You’re not supposed to drink it!”
Jimmy G nodded. “Absolutely.” He winked. “Do you ever use this apparatus to make something more potable?”
Colleen frowned at him. “We’re a lavender farm,” she said. Aha! Jimmy G noted that she had avoided his question.
“So what do you want to know? Make it snappy. I’ve already had one interruption today. A private detective from Seattle and her little dog.”
“Jimmy G knows those two,” said Jimmy G “A nice-looking gal, with dark curly hair, and a white rat-dog.”
“Yes,” Colleen gave him a sharp look. “That’s right.” She seemed impressed. “She sent her dog to snoop around, but Phoebe ran them off. Right, Phoebe?” Phoebe, who had followed them into the barn, whined softly.
“Did she get any information?”
“Are you kidding? I have nothing to say to anyone on that side.”
“Did you know that Bickerstaff is dead?” Jimmy G asked, watching her face carefully for any sign of surprise.
She wasn’t surprised. “Yeah, I just heard about it. I guess Julian will have to hire a new lawyer to prove that Mrs. C was crazy.”
That was news to Jimmy G, but he decided to go with it. “Was she?”
Colleen laughed, a short, sharp bark of a laugh. “Certainly was!”
“Aha!” Now Jimmy G was getting somewhere.
“Crazy like a fox,” Colleen went on. “She knew exactly what she was doing, from day one. She wanted a piece of land with a nice view. She found a lonely man who was heading for bankruptcy. She swooped in and rescued him with an infusion of cash.”
“What did she get out of it?” Jimmy G wanted to know.
“She liked to be seen as Lady Bountiful, I guess. Made her feel important.”
Jimmy G was confused.
“That was her MO,” Colleen said. “She was always trying to buy love.”
Jimmy G was confused. “Then why leave money to a bunch of dogs?”
Colleen smiled, a rueful smile. “In the end, those dogs were the only ones who loved her.” She thought for a moment. “Except for those parasites who hung around her for the money: her housekeeper and that lawyer of hers.”
Jimmy G flinched, remembering his late-night trip to Boswell’s house. “So you think Boswell took advantage of her?” he asked.
“Totally,” she said. “Julian says it was unprofessional for him to serve as trustee. And I have it on good authority from my brother that he is skimming off the top.”
“Was skimming off the top,” Jimmy G said.
“What do you mean ‘was’?”
“Apparently he’s dead.”
“Oh my God!” That did surprise her. All the color drained from her face. “What has he done now?”
Chapter 19
Once again, Pepe and I were being questioned about the death of a lawyer, this time in an interrogation room in the police station in Port Townsend.
“So how do you explain that?” The policewoman leaned over the table. She had introduced herself as Michelle Howard. She was a black woman in her midthirties with a broad face and high cheekbones.
“He called my boss to hire us,” I said. I didn’t think I had anything to hide.
“He heard about our success in many cases involving dogs,” said Pepe.
“That’s why we’re here, working for him.”
“Not any longer,” she said.
“Well, that’s a good point.” Did we still have a client? I wasn’t sure. I would have to check with Jimmy G.
“Your boss says he didn’t talk to Mr. Boswell. That you did.”
“That’s absurd,” I said.
“Someone is lying.”
“Tell them to check the phone records,” Pepe suggested. He watches a lot of crime TV shows and knows how the police work.
“Well, I’m sure you can check phone records,” I said.
“We did,” she said. Her eyebrows went up.
“Then you know the call was made to the Gerrard Agency,” I pointed out. “I never answer the phone there.”
“But Mr. Gerrard said,” she looked down at her notes, “that you are his secretary. Actually the term he used was girl Friday.”
“Well, yes, I am, or at least he thinks I am, but I didn’t take the initial call. I was at my house, reading a novel and sitting in the sun when he called me and told me to come down to the office because we had a case.” It seemed so long ago since that carefree morning.
“And what was the case?”
“Confidential, amiga!” said Pepe.
“I’m not sure I can talk about that,” I said. I really didn’t know what the rules were about client privilege.
“You don’t think you can talk about that? Or you refuse to talk about that?” she asked.
“If you let me call my boss, I’ll check with him,” I said.
Jimmy G answered after five rings. “What’s up, doll?”
“I’m at the police station. They want information about the case. Do we still have one?”
“Of course we do!” His voice sounded thin and far away. “In fact, it means we have more work.”
“So what do I tell them?”
“Nothing. We aren’t obligated to share any of our information with them. We keep it close to our vests. You know that. Very hush-hush.” And he hung up.
“Thanks a lot, Jimmy G,” I said, looking at my phone.
“You know, Geri, that the police can hear every word you are saying,” Pepe said.
“Just as long as they can’t hear you, I’m good,” I said, looking down at him.
Michelle never came back. Instead a middle-aged man in a tweed coat entered the room. He introduced himself as Rick Moore, head homicide detective. He had a bushy moustache, perhaps to compensate for the shiny bald patch on the top of his head.
“Would you like some coffee?” he asked. I guess he was going to be the good cop.
“Yes,” I said. “With cream, please.”
“I would like some bacon,” said Pepe.
“You just had breakfast,” I told him.
Rick looked confused. “Are you telling me or asking me?”
“Actually I was talking to my dog,” I said.
“You do a lot of that,” he said, as he left the room.
“I told you they were listening to us,” Pepe said.
“I guess they can’t hear you,” I said.
“Muy bien!” he said. “So listen very carefully. We give nothing away. We extract the information we need!”
“Sí, amigo!” I said, just as Rick returned, bearing a paper cup that he set down on the table in front of me. The coffee was watery, and flecks of instant creamer were still swirling around on the top. The detective sat down himself and opened up a folder.
“We’ve been wanting to talk to you, Miss . . .” He looked at the papers in the folder. “Miss Sullivan.”
“Here I am!” I said trying to be cheerful.
“Tell us again about how you came to be in the home of Mr. Boswell.”
I repeated the story I had told the responding officers, the story Pepe and I had cooked up while we waited for them on the front porch. I had come for an appointment, he didn’t answer the door, we went around back and noticed the door was ajar, we entered and found the body.
“And you didn’t notice anything unusual?”
“Besides the fact that he was dead?”
“About the room?”
I wasn’t sure what he was trying to get at.
“It looked messy,” I said cautiously.
“As if someone were searching for something,” Rick prompted.
“Yes, like that.”
“And you didn’t?”
“Search for anything?”
“We know better,” said Pepe.
“We know better,” I repeated.
“Interesting,” said Pepe. “Perhaps the villain who invaded Carpenter Manor had first killed Mr. Boswell but did not find what he sought there.”
“How well did you know Mr. Boswell?” the detective asked.
“Not well. We just met him yesterday.” I said. “Briefly.”
“Look,” he said, “we know from Boswell himself that you were hired to help him with the Carpenter case. We know he believes someone tried to poison the dogs.”
“And someone tried to attack them last night!” I said. “Maybe the same person who killed Boswell.”
“Oh, t
hat’s interesting,” said the detective. “Tell me more about that!”
“Tell him about how I marked the miscreant!” said Pepe.
“My dog attacked the intruder. He will have a dog bite on his wrist.”
“That little guy?” said Detective Moore, with a sneer.
“I am a fierce warrior!” said Pepe.
“He can be pretty scary when he wants to be,” I said. To prove the point, Pepe lifted his lip and delivered a tiny growl.
Detective Moore laughed.
“We reported the attack to the Sequim police,” I said, wanting to make it clear that I was willing to cooperate. “I can give you the name of the officer.” I found the card and handed it to Mr. Moore.
“All this fuss over a bunch of mangy mutts,” Moore said, shaking his head as he returned the card to me. “And now we’re looking at two homicides.”
“The dogs are neither mangy nor mutts,” Pepe pointed out.
“My suggestion to you, Miss . . .”—he looked at his papers again—“Miss Sullivan, would be to return to Seattle and tell your employer”—he looked at his papers again—“this Mr. Gerrard, that the police advised you to stay out of this. It’s a murder investigation, and we don’t need any private eyes wandering around interfering with our investigation or tampering with witnesses.”
“I will certainly consider that advice,” I said.
“We certainly will not quit!” said Pepe indignantly. “What do you think we are? Cats?”
Chapter 20
We did go back to Seattle. I had an appointment with my counselor, and I thought it might help me sort out all the different theories and thoughts that were whirling through my mind. Plus I would finally get a chance to catch up with Felix. I had called him as soon as we left the police station, and he said he would meet me at my house after his meeting with his last client. I promised him a good dinner and some other things I won’t share with you.
My counselor, Suzanna, leases space in a two-story building on the shores of Lake Union, almost directly across from my condo in Eastlake, if you could fly directly across the waters of the lake. Or row across. There is a dock right below the building, and I sometimes like to sit down there and watch the water lapping against the pilings when I have time. But not today. I was already five minutes late.
Barking Detective 04 - The Chihuahua Always Sniffs Twice Page 8
