B.B. Cantwell - Portland Bookmobile 02 - Corpse of Discovery

by B. B. Cantwell

  “That could be a turn for the wurst!” he blurted out loud, quickly chagrined that too little sleep and too much coffee had brought out his inner 12-year-old.

  Reminding himself that Hester and Pim were in danger, Darrow punched the accelerator to the floor again and pulled the magenta bus up next to the speeding Wiener Wagen just as the two ungainly vehicles crested the bridge’s 20-story-high arch.

  Looking over, Darrow waved his arm to signal Gerbils to pull over.

  Darrow could see the wild-eyed sausage king look sideways, like a glance from a nervous racehorse. A glimpse of red hair beyond the bald head told him Hester was there.

  Whether from a pummeling wind gust or an intentional swerve, suddenly the Wiener Wagen locked mirrors with the bookmobile and bits of brightly colored fiberglass went flying. Screeching like 500 fingernails on 500 chalkboards filled Darrow’s ears as the sides of the two speeding vehicles ground together.

  Heart pounding, Nate hit the brakes and swerved the bookmobile back into the right lane as the Wiener Wagen bolted ahead.

  “You’re not going to do anybody any favors if we all end up going off the bridge,” Darrow chided himself, with a frightening flashback to how his parents died – when their car flew off this same Highway 101 into Washington’s Hood Canal some 18 years earlier.

  “Just give him room,” Darrow whispered, lifting his foot from the accelerator.

  Darrow watched the bookmobile’s speedometer sink to 40 as the Wiener Wagen disappeared into the now-driving rain.

  * * *

  As he rounded the first curve of the corkscrew ramp, Gerhard Gerbils gripped the wheel like Captain Ahab battling the white whale.

  The Wiener Wagen lifted its wheels on one side but stayed upright. Behind the cockpit, condiments flew across the galley Gerbils had added to the exotic vehicle.

  Far below, in the distance, a flotilla of speeding cars with flashing blue lights was splitting traffic through downtown Astoria. They were coming his way.

  Hester and Pim, helpless to hold on, slid back and forth across the bench seat. Gerbils fought to push them away as he struggled for control.

  * * *

  As the Wiener Wagen rounded the final downward curve to intersect with the highway through town, Hester watched with alarm as the traffic signal turned to red in front of them.

  Gerbils wasn’t stopping.

  Like a bobsled out of control at the bottom of its course, the giant hot dog shot into the intersection. From the corner of her eye Hester saw a speeding log truck. She yelled through the folds of moist towel. An air horn blasted without end.

  Then everything was spinning.

  Chapter 39

  Where they lay a foot from each other on the wet asphalt, under the glare of headlights from cars stopped at every which angle in the roadway, Pim and Hester opened their eyes almost simultaneously. As they’d tumbled like wet laundry in the crash, the tape had slipped off their wrists.

  They each reached slowly up and pulled the kitchen rags from their mouths.

  The first sense Hester perceived was a terrible headache. Dizziness. Then, surprisingly, a sweet, spicy smell.

  She watched as Pim’s eyes came slowly into focus. Then shock and alarm played across her old friend’s face.

  “My God, Hester, you’re hurt! Your chin!” came Pim’s raspy words as she struggled to sit up, wincing with the effort.

  Hester put her hand to her jaw and with a sense of unreality felt a sticky wetness. Seeing a red smear on her fingers, her heart pounded with the realization that she was injured and bleeding.

  But wait. She touched her fingers to her tongue.

  “Ketchup!” she cried.

  A stocky policeman was suddenly hovering over her, telling her not to move. Another cop, skinny and with a crew cut, was tending to Pim.

  Looking at her bruised colleague, who would clearly have two black eyes, Hester strained to understand what she was seeing. What terrible internal injury caused yellow oozing? The Aloha shirt Pim had changed back into at Dismal Nitch was now covered in –

  “Mustard!” Hester realized with a relieved sigh.

  * * *

  Two hours later, an Oregon State Police cruiser dropped Nate Darrow off at the park next to the maritime museum, where a luscious, meaty aroma carried on the smoky breeze.

  The afternoon sky was now a mix of puffy white cumulus and occasional patches of blue, what Darrow’s mother used to call “Dutchman’s pants.” Summer weather seemed to be on the way back.

  As Nate strode toward the dining tent where a few straggling library staff still visited at picnic tables littered with crumpled napkins and soiled paper plates, he saw Harry Harrington wearing a white apron and the chef’s toque earlier sported by Tony Pucci. Harry was poised with a large meat fork over a smoking campfire.

  Pucci sat at a picnic table nearby, handcuffed to the table frame.

  “Hey, Nate, you’re just in time for the last serving of Toussaint Charbonneau’s boudin blanc!” Harrington called out to him. “But I’m afraid the wapato was toast an hour ago. Those Dutch ovens get hot sitting right in the embers.”

  Darrow mutely held out a plate while Harrington speared two large sausage links from a huge cast-iron skillet.

  “How are they?” Harrington asked.

  Darrow, ravenous after the long day, swallowed a bite before speaking. He knew Harry wasn’t asking about the sausage.

  “Pim broke her collar bone – a hairline thing – and Hester has a severe concussion, and they both have lots of nasty scrapes. But they were all pretty lucky, considering. Gerbils broke a leg. They’re all staying the night at Columbia Memorial.”

  “How about the truck driver?”

  “A bump on the head. Even his Kenworth came through with only a few scrapes. But the Wiener Wagen will roll no more. It was a clean slice. One end of the dog was on the south side of the road, the other on the north. The vehicle frame was intact, but the fiberglass body just broke into pieces. And there were condiments everywhere!”

  As if in proof, Darrow pulled a slightly squashed squirt-bottle of mustard from his coat pocket. He untwisted the pointy cap and drew two precise lines of yellow down the length of his sausage and then took another bite.

  While chewing, he tilted his head toward Pucci with a questioning look at Harry.

  “Oh, our friend there?” Harrington responded. “Well, we started chatting over the campfire after you left and it wasn’t long until I asked him about how the sausage grease got on the Rose Medallion, at which time he decided to audition for the 100-yard dash. Luckily I’m no slouch with a Frisbee, or in this case a Dutch oven lid. Caught him right in the back of the knee and it was quite the merry mix-up of limbs as he went down. You can see how he got an unfortunate grass stain on this nice white apron – ”

  Harry held out a corner of the apron he wore.

  “But I figured it was less messy than shooting him, and saved me a whole lot of lousy paperwork. Kinda burned my fingers, though,” he said, shaking his hand in the air.

  Darrow listened with bemusement. Once again, he saw new depths in Harry Harrington.

  Peering at Harry’s fingers, Nate instructed, “Here, hold your hand out. This is a Darrow family secret cure. Where does it hurt?”

  Harry held out three fingers and Nate squirted yellow mustard on the burned fingertips.

  “REALLY? Nate, don’t mess around.”

  “I’m not kidding. Just leave it there for five minutes and then tell me if it still hurts.”

  “This sounds like some kind of New England witchcraft thing with your family.”

  “Hey, Mom came from old Salem. We never used the ‘W’ word in our home. She was an herbalist, that’s all.”

  “Well, my family came from Salem, Oregon, where chamomile is a weed and wheat grass is stuff you feed pigs.” Harry kept a skeptical cast to his eye. Darrow chewed.

  “Well, we got the new tire on the car,” Harry finally added. “Again, we can drive w
ith dignity.”

  Darrow nodded and gave a small grin as he finished the last bite of his second sausage, then gazed for a moment at Tony Pucci, who sat just out of earshot with his head cradled on one elbow, looking miserable.

  “So did the Galloping Gourmet over there give any hints about who did what and why?”

  Harrington reached over and used a long stick to poke at the remains of one of the bonfires until he brought a log back aflame, then raised a foot on the picnic bench next to Darrow and shook his head.

  “After I Mirandized him, he clammed up at first. I think he was hoping his future father-in-law would come back and give him some legal advice. But he heard about the accident at the same time the Astoria cop came by to tell me, and he got a little chatty after that. Insisted he knew nothing about van Dyke’s murder, but that Gerbils had been searching for the medallion all week and found it ‘under a bush in the park,’ so he said. But, the cook says, Gerbils realized that whoever turned in the medallion would become a murder suspect. So he came up with the idea of smearing it with sausage grease and having the dog find it, with a little help from the cook. And the cook’s reward for keeping quiet and handing over the $50,000 reward would be a partnership in the restaurant, along with marrying into the family.”

  Darrow rolled his eyes. Then, spotting an insulated picnic jug at the end of the table, he grabbed a paper cup from a stack and worked the jug’s tap to get some lemonade, which he drank in one gulp.

  “Well, part of that sounds plausible, but it doesn’t explain why Gerhard Gerbils kidnapped two library workers and drove his Wiener Wagen into a load of old-growth Doug fir.”

  He threw the paper cup on to the fire and watched it flame.

  “In any case, we have Mr. Pucci on obstruction of justice, unlawful flight and possibly animal cruelty.”

  At Harrington’s look of confusion, Nate elaborated.

  “Feeding a dachshund a steady diet of sausage grease can’t be good for it.”

  As Harry untied the apron and pulled off the chef’s hat, Darrow asked, “How are the fingers?”

  Harry held up his hand, fingers splayed wide, and stared. Most of the yellow mustard had soaked into his skin.

  “You know, I’d forgotten all about the burns,” he said in wonder. “I guess – I guess your mother mustard known something about first aid!”

  Darrow winced.

  Harrington looked thoughtful for a moment, then added, “Come on, let’s hit the road. I don’t relish being late for dinner.”

  “OK, OK, I realize this case is going to be haunted by hot dog jokes, so just get them out of your system now!” Darrow protested.

  Harrington gave an innocent look.

  “Frankly, Nate, I don’t usually indulge in that kind of low humor. But if you really want a joke contest, I say let the wiener take all.”

  Darrow, walking away toward the Caprice, waggled his fingers back at Harry in a ‘bring it on’ gesture.

  “I have to say I never sausage a miracle cure for burns!” Harrington hollered after him, pausing just a moment before adding, “My fingers don’t hurt a teeny wienie bit!”

  Nate Darrow opened the passenger door of the car and climbed in with his index fingers plugging both ears.

  Chapter 40

  Friday, June 28

  Portland

  Twelve days later

  Nate, Hester and Pim gave a welcoming smile as their waitress deposited two galvanized buckets of steaming butter clams and a pitcher of Henry Weinhard’s on their table at Pal’s Shanty, a Sandy Boulevard institution famed for its hot bivalves and cold beer.

  “Do you need any help getting the clams out of the shells?” Hester asked Pim, who still had some bandages under her Aloha shirt to immobilize her healing clavicle. Today’s shirt was fuchsia with images of the Pan Am Clipper flying over Mauna Loa.

  “No, I think I can just about manage this, but this achy old shoulder is probably going to help me forecast the weather any time it gets damp,” she grumbled. “Maybe it will give me an excuse to move back home to a warmer climate – someplace with law and order, where library folks aren’t getting themselves killed all the time, and the wrong people don’t keep getting arrested for it!”

  Darrow’s eyes met her glare for a moment. He let her approbation wash away with a long swallow of cold beer.

  “And how’s your head, Hester?” Darrow inquired as he used a fork to pluck a clam out of its shell and dunk it in a bowl of drawn butter that the server had set down next to a jar of Dijon mustard, Darrow’s other favorite clam dip.

  “Well, Dr. Patel in Astoria told me in no uncertain terms that I should never play football again,” she replied with a note of irony, popping a clam in her mouth and chewing for a moment. “He informed me, in the most precise medical terms, that I had ‘rung my gong good.’ But the headaches have eased and I’m sleeping better, thanks.”

  Pim drained her glass and held it out to Darrow for a refill. “And how’s Mr. Gerbils? Have they moved him from the hospital to the jail yet?”

  Darrow refilled glasses all around as he answered. “He’s going to be under guard in a rehab unit at Providence for a while yet. He broke his left tibia in two places, but he’s on the mend.”

  Hester scooped a portion of Caesar salad onto a plate and popped a deliciously soggy crouton into her mouth before squaring eyes with Nate in a no-nonsense look.

  “So, how much can you tell us? What was this all about? Once again, I think we’ve earned an explanation.”

  Darrow, remembering Hester’s brave leap from the careening bookmobile and Pim’s mistaken incarceration during his last investigation of a library murder, gave a small nod and an ironic grin. “Yeah, you two need to pursue quieter lives. This bookmobile business is dangerous.”

  Pim flattened her mouth and peered over the top of her cateyes at him. Darrow shifted his eyes between the two determined women and waved a hand in surrender.

  “OK, I’ll tell you on a confidential basis, but this is under a total Cone of Silence.”

  “You can always trust Agent 99,” Hester replied, raising her right hand with her fingers splayed apart in a Vulcan “Live Long and Prosper” salute. Hester, who spent much more time as a child reading books than watching what her father called “the boob tube,” tended to mix up pop-culture TV references.

  “OK, Inspector,” Pim reluctantly responded, crossing herself as if about to say confession.

  As a delaying tactic, Darrow quickly speared clams from three shells, collecting them on his fork like a shish kebab, swabbed them in Dijon and hungrily wolfed them down. He took another swallow of the beer and then sat back and crossed his arms and legs.

  “Mr. Gerbils is working a deal with the prosecutor, so he’s told all. He admits he shot Pieter van Dyke but he claims it was an accident.”

  “Oh, my!” Hester exclaimed, letting her fork drop on the table. Pim took off her glasses and stared open-mouthed.

  Darrow nodded.

  “His story is that he was legitimately searching for the Rose Medallion. His restaurant is in financial trouble and the prize money was enough to cover a loan that was due. Without help, he stood to lose his business.”

  “And he loves that restaurant, it’s his family heritage, it would be like – like the Partridge Family losing their bus!” Pim contributed. At this, Hester looked mildly confused.

  Darrow slurped some beer and forged on.

  “He had overextended himself with debt. He had sunk more than $100,000 into the Wiener Wagen alone. Anyway, he says he had made a special arrangement with a former client, a guy who drives an Oregonian delivery truck, to read him the medallion clue around 4 o’clock every morning, at the start of his run. Well, that morning, only a few dozen papers had come off the press before it broke down, but Gerbils’ guy still came through, so Gerbils was definitely the only person in Portland with the clue before 10 o’clock. So he was the first person in the park and found van Dyke staked out in the horseshoe pit t
he way Charbonneau said he left him – cold and shivering but alive.”

  Pim gave a self-righteous snort. “I told you Pomp wasn’t a killer!”

  Darrow poured her some more beer.

  “So there was van Dyke, in just his underpants, with his hands and legs duct-taped to horseshoe stakes and his mouth duct-taped, with the Rose Medallion on a ribbon around his neck and the old French pistol sitting on his belly where Charbonneau had left it.”

  Darrow took a sip of beer to moisten his tongue. Hester took a nibble of salad, scooping up Parmesan on top of a romaine leaf.

  “But when Gerbils pulled the tape off van Dyke’s mouth, apparently van Dyke assumed Gerbils was in on the whole thing and began shouting all sorts of nasty things about Gerbils’ heritage, calling him a Nazi torturer and that sort of thing.”

  Pim looked affronted. “But the Gerbils family fled Germany to get away from the goose-stepping morons!”

  “And few things more infuriate a righteous man than being called a traitor to his cause – a mutineer!” Hester interjected. “It’s – it’s like ‘Billy Budd.’ Melville!”

  Pim and Darrow exchanged shrugs, and then nodded as if they knew what she meant. It was their best defense when Hester got literary.

  Darrow, flinging empty shells into a discard bowl in search of more clams, continued.

  “So Gerbils says he reacted badly and without realizing he’d picked up the pistol he was waving it at van Dyke and telling him to shut up, that his father resisted Hitler’s goons and was a hero in his day. And he says the pistol went off by accident.”

  Hester and Pim, until then sitting on the edges of their chairs with palms covering their mouths, simultaneously drained their glasses. Darrow waved to the passing waitress and pointed to the empty pitcher with a beguiling smile. She scooped it up to get a refill.

  “And could we get a basket of that Parmesan garlic cheese bread?” he added.

  Hester squinted her eyes in thought.

  “OK, the obvious question: Why didn’t Gerbils just call for help? Maybe some paramedics could have saved Pieter! And Gerbils is a lawyer, he should have known that turning himself in would be for the best if it really was an accident.”