Jimmy G studied her for a moment. Aside from being more than good-looking, Jillian was obviously shook up. And who wouldn’t be after seeing some joe get shot?
“Sorry,” he told her. “We PIs are always asking questions—it’s just part of our nature. Why don’t we start again?”
“I’m ready to start again,” she told him, holding up her empty glass.
Jimmy G liked a dame who could belt them down. He signaled the bartender for another round.
Jillian caught a glimpse of the .45 in Jimmy G’s shoulder holster when he raised his arm to get the bartender’s attention. She gave a wry smile and said, “You’re packing, aren’t you?”
Jimmy G opened his jacket further so she could better see his pistol. “Sure,” he told her. “Wouldn’t be without it.”
“You’re dangerous.” She said it like she liked it. Jimmy G liked that she liked it.
“Sometimes,” he said.
“Well, Mr. Dangerous,” she said, “I’ve got a question for you.”
“Shoot,” said Jimmy G in his best Sam Spade/ Philip Marlowe voice.
“You’re the second PI who’s asked me questions today. What’s up with that?”
Jimmy G thought that honesty was the best policy. So he lied.
“Yeah, I’ve heard about her. A young woman with a little white rat-dog. She’s working for the other side.”
Jillian was impressed. Her eyes got wide. “What do you mean?” she asked as the fresh drinks arrived.
“She’s working on behalf of the dogs,” Jimmy G said. “Boswell hired her. But Jimmy G’s on your side, kiddo.” He raised his glass in a toast to her.
“My side?” Jillian asked.
“Natch,” he told her. “Jimmy G’s working for your brother, the judge, to prove that your mom was nuts when she willed all that dough to the dogs instead of her own children.”
Jillian smiled—this time a genuinely warm smile. “That’s awesome!” she said. “We need all the help we can get.”
“Stick with Jimmy G, kid, you’ll go far.” He raised his glass again, saying, “Bottoms up!” and took a healthy slug of his bourbon.
Jillian followed suit. She studied him again—seemed to like what she saw.
“I don’t think anybody’s ever called me ‘kid’ or ‘kiddo,’ let alone ‘doll.’ I kind of like it.”
“Just normal PI-speak,” he told her, feeling much complimented.
Jillian moved closer to him—close enough that her hip was touching his.
“I like the way you dress, too,” she said. “The fedora, the suspenders. You don’t follow the crowd. You’ve got your own style.”
“Don’t forget ‘dangerous,’” he told her.
“I won’t,” she said, moving even closer.
Jimmy G liked a dame who’d come on to him.
“Where are you staying tonight?” Jillian asked.
“Don’t know exactly. Jimmy G figured he’d get a motel room.”
“There won’t be any rooms in town with the lavender festival starting tomorrow,” she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve already got a room reserved. Why don’t you stay with me?”
She was undressing Jimmy G with her eyes. He tried undressing her with his eyes, but it didn’t work. He figured he’d just have to see Jillian in the flesh.
“You bet,” Jimmy G told her. “Let’s blow this joint!”
Chapter 31
Yolanda looked stunned. “No!” she said. “No, that cannot be true.” Her face was white. “What happened to him?”
“It’s too soon to tell. But the police think he might have been murdered.”
“Poisoned!” intoned Pepe in a solemn voice.
“I don’t believe you!” said Yolanda. “How do you know this?”
“Pepe and I went to his home this morning to get a copy of the trust document. When we got there, we found him dead.”
“And they think he was murdered?” She was horrified.
“Possibly poisoned, like Bickerstaff,” I said.
“Why would anyone poison him?” Yolanda wanted to know.
“It is possible,” Pepe suggested, “that Bickerstaff died accidentally when he drank the lemonade meant for Boswell. Then someone finished off the job.”
“Why would anyone kill Boswell?” I asked. “Would it change the terms of the trust?”
“No, there should be an alternate trustee,” Clara said.
“I really need to see a copy of the trust document!” I said.
“Didn’t Mr. Boswell give you one?” Clara asked.
“It seems to be missing,” I said. “And I think it’s connected with Boswell’s murder. Also, someone broke into Hugh’s veterinary clinic and stole the trust document the same night someone broke in here.”
“But no one broke into Boswell’s house,” pointed out Pepe.
“But they didn’t get the trust document when they were here,” said Yolanda.
“How would you know?” asked Clara. “The office is a mess.”
“Because I keep it under my mattress,” said Yolanda, looking a bit embarrassed.
“What?” Clara was shocked.
“Yes, I figured it was safer there than anywhere else in the house. And apparently that is so, as according to these two, I have the only existing copy of the trust document.”
“It sounded like maybe Kevin Carpenter had a copy of it,” I said. “At least he was talking about some important document when we were at the B&B.”
“Why would he have a copy of the trust document?” Clara asked.
“Aren’t they included in it?” I asked.
Yolanda shook her head. “Boswell advised me not to share my copy with any of the kids. He said since they were not parties of the trust, they were not entitled to copies, and if they ask me for a copy, I should send them to him.”
I don’t think she realized she was still speaking about Boswell as if he were alive.
Yolanda got up. “I’ll get my copy and we can look at it together.” All of her hysteria was gone. She seemed calm and capable.
Clara looked after her in amazement. “I really thought she would fall apart,” she said, “after hearing about Boswell.”
“They seemed very close,” I observed.
Clara nodded. “I think he had a little crush on my aunt, but then again, I’m not so sure about his tastes. There were rumors in Port Townsend that he liked boys.”
“Boys?” I asked, alarmed.
“I mean young men,” Clara added hastily. “Much younger than him. Like maybe thirty years younger. He hung out at the—” She stopped abruptly as her aunt entered the room.
Yolanda was carrying a typed twenty-page document full of legalese. We flipped through it. One thing was clear: the beneficiaries of the trust were the dogs, and those who cared for them: Yolanda, Clara, and Hugh. Another thing was clear: Yolanda was the alternate trustee if anything should happen to Boswell.
“Did you know this?” I asked her.
She nodded. “Boswell told me I would never have to worry about it,” she said, with tears in her eyes.
“Do you mind if I take it with me so I can read it more carefully?” I asked.
Yolanda reluctantly agreed.
“I promise to bring it back tomorrow,” I said.
There was a knock on the door. It was one of the police officers. “We’ve finished our investigation,” he said. “We’re heading back to town.”
“Did you find and arrest the villain who shot at the dogs?” Yolanda asked in a stern voice. She was standing tall and straight. She seemed like a different person.
“No, ma’am, we did not, but we did find the shotgun that was used. We’re going to take it back to the station and dust it for fingerprints.”
“I know whose fingerprints will be on it!” said Pepe indignantly. “I think we need to question the woman who likes to shoot at dogs.”
Chapter 32
Clara went with us to Colleen’s farm, showing us a place behind the back g
arden where a gate had been installed in the fence. Apparently she used this passageway frequently. Once on Colleen’s property, we strolled through a kitchen garden and past several greenhouses and a metal utility shed that was locked with a rusty padlock. They hadn’t cleaned up much. We saw the usual clutter of farm equipment: a propane tank, hoses and buckets, shovels and watering cans, stacks of dark-green plastic plant trays.
But on the other side of the big red barn and the old wooden farmhouse, we got a completely different picture. The whole place was abuzz with activity. The long driveway was full of pickups and small vans. The lawn area in front of the house was edged with temporary booths constructed of piping and white canvas, leaving an open rectangle of grass in the center. A guy was wrestling a huge, oil-barrel-style BBQ into place in the back of one booth. In other booths, people were setting up tables and display cases. Two men on ladders were hanging a banner that read LAVENDER DISTILLATION over the open door of the barn.
“Where are all the visitors going to park?” I asked. What with the lavender fields running right to the edge of the drive and all of the booths on the lawn, there wasn’t room for more than eight or nine cars.
“Oh, Colleen’s on the bus tour,” Clara said. When she saw my puzzled look, she added, “People get on the buses at the fairgrounds and then get dropped off at the six farms that are part of the official tour. When they want to leave, they just jump on a bus and go on to the next farm. The buses make a big loop and end up back at the fairgrounds.”
“That sounds like a great system,” I said.
“Yeah,” Clara shrugged. “Some of the smaller farms are open to the public and you can drive to them. But in that case, you have to reserve a lot of space for cars. And being on the bus tour is more prestigious.”
“They are busy beavers,” said Pepe, surveying the scene.
“I want you to be on your best behavior,” I told him. “Don’t chase the chickens again—remember what happened the last time.”
“Geri,” he said, “I will keep my instincts in check. I certainly do not want that loca woman with the shotgun after me again.”
“Speaking of Colleen,” I said, “I wonder where she is.” I looked around. There were probably forty or fifty people on the premises, including people walking in from the lavender fields carrying bunches of lavender. But I didn’t see Colleen anywhere.
“Let me ask in the house,” said Clara, heading toward the open door of the two-story blue farmhouse. I wasn’t sure I should follow her. After all, my last encounter with Colleen had involved a shotgun.
As I stood there in the middle of the driveway, a young man with a clipboard approached me. He was wearing a purple T-shirt that read LOST LAKES LAVENDER FARM.
“I’m Doug,” he said. “Are you here for a shift?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“I’m just looking for Colleen,” I said.
“I am looking for the beautiful Phoebe,” said Pepe, his nose to the ground, sniffing the area near the entrance to the barn. “She was here not long ago.” He trotted into the dark recesses of the barn.
“She went to the hospital to check on Jay,” Doug said.
“The guy who got shot,” I said. “Do you know how it happened?”
“Some maniac was trying to shoot at the dogs next door.”
“Did anyone see who did it?”
“Not that I know of.”
Pepe said, “Ask him if he saw any suspicious hombres around the farm.”
“Were there any strangers—anybody suspicious here today?” I asked.
The guy laughed at that. “You’ve got to be kidding! Everyone is new, except for Jay and the other apprentices.” He showed me his list. “You’ve got your choice of tasks. Cutting lavender in the fields, setting up booths, baking shortbread cookies, bottling lavender oil, making lavender wands, squeezing lemons for lavender lemonade . . .”
“No thanks,” I said, shuddering, thinking of Bickerstaff’s death by lemonade.
Clara came out of the farmhouse and headed over to us.
“Where was Colleen during all of this?” I asked Doug.
“She was supervising. It’s hard to say where she was at any particular time.”
“Was she in the barn at any time?” I asked.
Doug looked at his list. “It was closed until after the shooting. Colleen was doing the last distillation.”
“So she was in the barn!” I said.
“What are you implying?” Clara asked.
“Well, isn’t it obvious? Colleen was in the barn right before the shooting, and it was her gun that was used.”
“Colleen would never shoot at the dogs!” Clara declared indignantly.
“Thanks for standing up for me, chica!” said Colleen. She had come up behind us as we were talking, and now gave Clara a big hug. She was wearing a blue bandanna over two tightly woven braids that brushed her shoulders, and her face was streaked with both tears and dirt.
“Is Jay OK?” Clara asked, returning the hug.
Colleen nodded. “He’s fine. They just wanted to pick out the buckshot in a sterile environment. Nothing vital got hit.” She winked at Clara.
Clara blushed.
Colleen turned her cold blue eyes on us. “What are you two doing here?”
“We came to find out who was shooting at the dogs,” I said.
“The police think I did it!” she declared. “Have you ever heard anything so absurd?” She faced us all, her eyes flashing. No one said a word, except Pepe.
“It is not absurd at all. It is totally logical,” he said.
Just then Phoebe came running over, and jumped up and put her forepaws on Colleen’s denim-clad knees. The sight of his new crush seemed to stun Pepe into silence. He stood there with his pink tongue hanging out a little.
“And to make things worse!” Colleen pulled a crumpled piece of colored paper out of the pocket of her jeans. She slapped it on her hand. “I picked up this brochure while I was in town. They completely left Lost Lakes off the bus tour! What are we going to do?” She burst into tears.
“How could that happen?” Clara asked. “You’ve been on the tour for years.”
“It must have been Julian!” said Colleen, swiping at her tears with her fists. “He told me there would be repercussions if I didn’t cooperate with him. Well, he has no idea who he’s messing with!” She dropped the brochure and ground it into the dirt beneath the heel of her dusty cowboy boot.
“Does that mean we should stop working?” Doug asked.
“Absolutely not!” said Colleen. “If Julian thinks he can threaten me, he doesn’t know who he’s messing with. We’re definitely going to be on the bus tour.” She stormed off toward the farmhouse.
Phoebe lifted her lovely neck and gave a howl, then trotted off after Colleen.
“Who’s she talking about?” I asked Clara.
“Julian. Judge Julian. The oldest of Lucille’s kids. He’s the one who hired Bickerstaff to break the trust.”
“She says she will bite him where it hurts the most,” said Pepe. It took me a moment to realize he was translating for Phoebe.
Chapter 33
“You should have left me at the farm,” said Pepe, “if all you were going to do was run off on a date.”
“It’s not a date,” I said for the third time, while checking in the mirror to see if my efforts at brushing had tamed my curls, which had gone wild after the dunking. “I’m going to question Hugh about the trust.”
I had been looking over the document once I got back to the room. It seemed pretty clear. The use of the property and a generous allowance were set aside for whoever lived in the house and cared for the dogs. Yolanda and Clara were both named as the recipients of this benefit. Hugh also received an allowance for being on call to provide medical services for the dogs, plus he was to be reimbursed for the cost of any medical procedures or services he performed. There were two witnesses to the trust: one was Bernie Bickerstaff, and the other was L
ionel Talent. That seemed odd to me. Why would Bickerstaff witness a document that opposed his clients? And how did Boswell know Lionel Talent?
I had tried to call Jimmy G to tell him I had a copy of the trust, but he wasn’t answering his phone.
“I could have protected the dogs and had a little chat with Phoebe,” said Pepe, who was curled up on top of the pillows on the bed in the Rose Room.
“She didn’t seem interested in talking to you,” I pointed out.
“Playing hard to get,” he said. “It is part of the dance of seduction. You might do well to remember it on your date tonight.”
“It’s not a date,” I repeated, checking my watch. It was five minutes to ten, and I was supposed to meet Hugh at ten. I hoped the restaurant was nearby. “Now be good!”
“I will be investigating,” said Pepe in a frosty tone, turning to his iPad, which was lying on the bed.
Kevin was in the lobby. I told him I was meeting someone at Chez Pierre, and he told me it was just two blocks down the hill and two blocks toward the water.
Chez Pierre occupied an old house on the waterfront in which several rooms had been redone to serve as dining areas. When I entered, a few diners lingered over coffee and dessert. They watched with curiosity as the maître d’ whisked me into a secluded alcove, near the kitchen, just big enough for a small table for two in front of a window that looked out over the water. A candle flickered on the table. Out on the water, lights danced on choppy waves as they rocked boats at anchor.
Hugh was already seated at the table, looking over a menu. He was no longer in his pale-blue clinical coat but in a slate-blue silk shirt that brought out the blue in his eyes. He certainly knew how to complement his fair coloring and his piercing eyes.
He stood up and held out my chair for me, his eyes telling me how much he liked what I was wearing, as did the hand that he trailed down my bare arm. I had changed into one of my favorite dresses: a black-and-white printed cotton with a V-neck, which gave me the chance to show a little bit of cleavage, and a full skirt, which made my waist look slim.
“You dress up very nicely,” he said.
I nodded my appreciation, suddenly shy.
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