Barking Detective 04 - The Chihuahua Always Sniffs Twice (2 page)

As soon as Geri and her Chihuahua left the office, Jimmy G picked up the phone again.

“Bickerstaff here,” said the voice on the other end.

“Jimmy G reporting in,” Jimmy G said. “Just wanted to let you know that Jimmy G has assigned his operatives to the case. They’re on their way to meet with Boswell as we speak.”

“Excellent,” said Bickerstaff. “I want an update immediately as soon as you hear anything from them.”

“Will do,” said Jimmy G.

“No one would be stupid enough to leave a million dollars to a bunch of dogs,” said Bickerstaff. “There has to be something else going on.”

“Agreed,” said Jimmy G, pouring himself a few fingers of bourbon.

“Can’t win a war without intelligence,” said Bickerstaff.

“Agreed,” said Jimmy G, putting his feet up on his desk. This action tipped his desk chair perilously far back, and his fedora dropped to the floor. He swiveled around to pick it up.

“Have you considered a raid on Boswell’s office?” Jimmy G asked, clapping his hat back on top of his head.

There was a long silence on the other end. Jimmy G polished off the bourbon.

“I like the way you think,” said Bickerstaff. “Devious means are necessary when there is so much at stake.”

“Devious is Jimmy G’s middle name,” said Jimmy G. Actually, his middle name was Francis, but he never admitted that.

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Bickerstaff. “Meanwhile, I need you here. How long will it take you to get to Port Townsend?”

Jimmy G straightened up. “Jimmy G doesn’t usually handle cases personally.”

“I need feet on the ground,” said Bickerstaff.

Jimmy G was about to suggest that there must be private detectives in Port Townsend when Bickerstaff added. “I’ll double what I offered earlier.”

“Ah, now we’re talking,” said Jimmy G, thinking of the fat retainer he had already deposited in his bank account. He started calculating his course. A short hop on the ferry over to Bremerton, then a drive up the Kitsap Peninsula to Port Townsend. Maybe he’d stop and see an old buddy of his who lived in Bremerton. “Jimmy G can be there in three hours.”

“We can’t meet at my office,” said Bickerstaff. “It’s right across the hall from Boswell’s office, and your operatives might still be there.”

“Doubt it,” said Jimmy G.

“Still better to be safe than sorry,” said Bickerstaff. “There’s a bar on the main street called the Windjammer. Let’s meet there.”

“Jimmy G is on the way.”

To get to Port Townsend from Seattle, you have to cross the water—the deep waters of Puget Sound that cut a long channel separating Seattle from the Olympic Peninsula, home to one of the last old-growth forests in the Northwest.

You can get there several ways. We chose the scenic route, driving north from Seattle to the little seaside town of Mukilteo, taking the ferry across to Whidbey Island, driving up the highway through the still mostly rural island, and then crossing over to Port Townsend on another ferry.

Since dogs aren’t allowed on deck on the Washington State Ferries, we stayed in the car.

“It is nice that you chose to stay with me, Geri,” said Pepe.

“Well, I didn’t want to leave you all alone in the car.”

“That is
bueno. Muy bueno,
” he told me. “Perhaps I should entertain you with some sea chanteys.”

“Do you know any?” I asked, always amazed at my dog’s wide range of experience.

“No, I do not,” he said. “But it is the thought that counts, is it not?”

 

 

We got into Port Townsend around two. No matter how many times I take a ferry, I always have a moment of panic when I drive off the boat. Because our Washington ferries come into the dock nose first to load and unload, the only thing holding them against the dock is the power of the aft engines. I always have a nagging fear that the ferry will drift back as I drive off the metal gangplank to shore and dump me into the drink. (It actually happened to somebody once at Seattle’s downtown ferry dock.)

“You should not have told me about that,” said Pepe as our front wheels rolled onto the metal gangplank with a loud clunking sound.

“Sorry,” I said. I concentrated on making sure the tires didn’t swerve on the metal grate.

“How well do you swim?” he asked me.

“I’m an excellent swimmer,” I said. “You’re the one who’s afraid of water. But neither of us will do much swimming if we go down in the car.”

“Is that supposed to be reassuring?” Pepe asked, with some degree of tension in his voice. He stood stiff as a board in the passenger seat as we disembarked.

Well, I thought, if the only thing my fearless pooch feared was getting off a ferryboat, that was pretty good.

“I was
not
afraid,” Pepe told me as we drove up the dock toward the main street. “Quite the opposite. It is well known that
perros
and their humans pick up on each other’s emotions. I was merely reflecting your vibes—my own vibes were rock steady and
muy
calm.”

“Sure,” I said.

“Geri?” he asked me. “Just out of curiosity. Is there another way home besides the ferry?”

“Yes, but it would add about an hour to our trip.”

“But we are not in a hurry to get home,” Pepe pointed out.

“Perhaps you aren’t,” I said. I was thinking about my plans to have dinner with Felix Navarro. We had met when Pepe tried to attack his Great Dane. Pepe did not approve of the match. He thought Felix was too controlling. Frankly, the way I saw it, Pepe wanted to be the only person bossing me around.

 

 

A sandy bluff, about fifty feet tall, ran parallel to the only road into town from the ferry dock. It was topped with huge Victorian mansions. Most were wooden structures that were beautifully preserved; they still displayed the original fish-scale siding and gingerbread embellishments. They were painted in bright colors with complementary trim work: purple and orange, olive green and maroon. These, and many others, had been built by the town’s movers and shakers just before the turn of the century, when it was thought that Port Townsend, not Seattle, would become the main shipping terminal for northwest Washington.

“This city is
muy
old, is it not?” said Pepe as we drove into the downtown proper, only six blocks or so from the ferry dock. The ancient brick buildings were similar to those in Seattle’s Pioneer Square.

“Yes,” I said, thinking that it was like Pioneer Square in another respect—crawling with tourists on a sunny summer day. All the old buildings, most three or four stories tall, had restaurants and shops catering to the tourist trade on the ground floor. It was hard to believe that the majority of these old, red-brick buildings had originally been saloons and cathouses way back when.

“
Gato
houses!” said Pepe in horror. “Which ones? Stay away from them!”

“Not
that
kind of
gato,
” I told him, having forgotten about my fearless dog’s only other fear—that of cats. “Not real cats, Pepe,” I said. “Cathouse is just slang for a whorehouse.”

“Oh, that is not so scary,” said Pepe. “I spent many happy hours in a whorehouse in Tijuana. Those women have hearts of gold.”

“Really?” I said. Pepe is always full of colorful stories, most of which I don’t believe.

“Yes, when I worked for the DEA, the agents would leave me there between assignments, and the women would dress me up and feed me treats.”

 

 

About halfway into town, I spotted the address I’d been looking for. It was a narrow, two-story building on the water side of the street. We found parking half a block away and walked back, Pepe trotting by my side, and both of us enjoying the salty breeze that tempered the heat of the sun.

The double doors were open and led into a small foyer with a white tile floor, dark oak trim, a twelve-foot ceiling, and the same exposed, red-brick walls in the interior as on the building’s exterior. A big ceiling fan whirred overhead, providing a little ventilation. A brass plaque by the wide stairwell leading upstairs read,
BOSWELL & BICKERSTAFF, ATTORNEYS-AT-LAW—2ND FLOOR
.

“I think I will like this attorney,” said Pepe as we climbed the stairs.

“Why’s that?”

“Because he cares enough for
perros
to represent them.”

At the top of the stairs was an oak door with an old-fashioned, smoked-glass window in it. BOSWELL & BICKERSTAFF was stenciled in gold on the glass. I knocked on the door, but no one answered, so I turned the knob and walked in.

We were in a small waiting room, with two chairs and a table. A neat fan of magazines was splayed on the table:
Smithsonian
,
House and Garden,
and
Sunset
. There were two doors leading off the room. One bore the name
BARRETT BOSWELL,
the other
BERNARD BICKERSTAFF
.

Boswell’s door was slightly ajar.

“Hello,” I called, pushing it most of the way open and giving it another knock. Still no answer. I opened it all the way and took a step inside. It was a luxurious office, with a fine Persian carpet on the floor and a stunning view of the water. I could see the ferry, like a floating white wedding cake, heading back out across the dark blue waters of Puget Sound.

But there was no sign of Mr. Boswell.

“Geri!” said Pepe. He had trotted around the desk. “Geri! There is something you should know—”

“What?” I asked, coming around the desk. And then, “Oh my God!”

A man lay sprawled on the carpet between the desk and the back wall. He was wearing a gray suit. His face was bright red and all contorted like some medieval gargoyle. His eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling. And his hands were curled like claws.

“Not this again,” said Pepe. “Why do we keep meeting
muerte
people on our cases?”

“Good lord!” came a man’s voice from behind us.

I turned and saw a middle-aged man, slightly balding, clutching a briefcase in one hand. He was peering over the desk at the body on the floor.

Then he turned to me. “Who are you?”

“I’m Geri Sullivan,” I said. “I was supposed to meet Mr. Boswell, but found him dead.”

“I’m Boswell,” said the man. “That’s Bernie Bickerstaff.”

Boswell set down his briefcase and approached the body. An odd expression flickered over his face—perhaps disgust or revulsion. He knelt down and placed his fingers against Bickerstaff’s neck.

“Definitely dead,” he said. Having ascertained this to be true, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911.

“I want to report a death,” he said. “I came into my office—Two Water Street, Suite 201—and found my colleague dead.” There was a pause. Then he said, “Yes, we will be here.”

Then he clicked off the phone and looked at me.

“Who are you?” he asked again.

“Geri Sullivan,” I said, holding out my hand. “I had an appointment at three-thirty with Mr. Boswell—I mean you.” I waved my hand at Pepe. “And this is my dog.”

“And partner,” said Pepe.

“And my partner, Pepe,” I said.

“Ah, yes,” said Boswell studying him intently. “So this is the famous dog. Frankly, I expected him to be a bit bigger.”

Pepe was actually large for a Chihuahua at seven pounds. And all of that muscle, as Pepe would have said.

“But fully capable of solving any crime,” said Pepe, “including this one.”

“He’s been invaluable to me,” I said, and it was true. Together Pepe and I had solved multiple murders, starred on
Dancing with Dogs,
and broken up a dog-napping ring.

“Very well,” said Boswell. He did not seem very concerned about the death of his colleague. “Perhaps we can meet in Bernie’s office while we wait for the police.”

I followed Boswell back into the waiting room. The door that read
BERNARD BICKERSTAFF
was locked. Boswell rattled it impatiently. Then he pulled out a ring of keys, fitting each one into the lock and rejecting it when it failed to produce the desired results.

“Geri, he is possibly contaminating a crime scene,” Pepe pointed out.

“That’s right,” I said, grateful that no one else can hear my dog since it makes me look so much smarter. “It’s just as well,” I said to Boswell, “because the police will want to go over his office for clues.”

“Yes! And what was he doing in
my
office?” Boswell asked, marching back into it. He went over to the bank of file cabinets against the wall.

“Do you normally lock your office?” I asked, following him back in.

“Yes, but Bernie has a key. We both have keys to each other’s offices.” He was thumbing through the files, tsking as he went. “If he poked his nose into the Carpenter case, I will be most vexed.” He turned his attention to a folder that lay open on his desk.

“Is that the case you were having us investigate?” I asked.

“Yes, and Bernie had no business availing himself of this information,” said Boswell, snapping up the folder.

“Geri!” said Pepe.

“Yes, I know, it’s evidence,” I said.

“It is also my livelihood,” said Boswell. “Eighty percent of my current income comes from this trust. I’m not going to let the police interfere with that. At least I have the satisfaction of knowing that whatever Bernie may have learned did not leave this room.”

“I’m confused,” I said. “Weren’t you partners?” I was thinking of the signs downstairs.

“Oh, no,” said Boswell. “We simply share an office and an answering service. We are actually on opposite sides in this litigation.”

Pepe was sniffing the dead body.

“Do you smell anything, Pepe?” I asked.

Pepe didn’t answer, seemed oblivious to my question, and just continued to sniff the corpse from head to toe and side to side. I’d seen him this way before, totally engaged in an olfactory pursuit, as only a dog can be, and figured he was onto some kind of clue.

I stepped closer to the body and repeated my question, “Do you smell anything, Pepe?”

“
Sí,
I smell lemonade, and a faint floral odor. I know what it is. It is lavender.
Sí,
lavender.”

“Lavender?” I asked. “And lemonade?”

“Lavender lemonade,” said Boswell. “My favorite summer beverage.” He pointed to a large glass pitcher on a silver tray near the window and an empty glass on the edge of the desk.

Boswell reached for it, but I rushed over and stopped him before he could put his hands on it.

“There might be fingerprints on it,” I pointed out.

“Of course there are,” he said. “Bernie was sitting in my office, snooping around my case, and swiping my lemonade. His fingerprints will be all over it.”

“Yes, but it’s evidence.”

He looked at the corpse and frowned. Then he turned to me. “What do you mean evidence?”

“In the murder investigation,” I said.

“Murder?” Boswell looked positively frightened. “What makes you think Bernie was murdered?”

I was embarrassed to admit that I automatically assumed all deaths were homicides. Call it the fate of the hardened PI.

“What do
you
think happened to him?” I asked.

“Well, I assume he died of a heart attack or a stroke. He’s been taking medication for high blood pressure. Probably popped a blood vessel when he saw how much I’m getting paid by Lucille’s trust.”

There was a clatter of feet in the hall outside, and two uniformed policemen came into the room. They quickly called for backup and the E.M.T.s, then moved us into separate rooms. Luckily, the police never think to separate me and Pepe, so we did have a chance to get our story straight. And our story was that we had an appointment with Boswell at 3:30
PM
and had entered his office to find the body sprawled on the floor.

“What was your business with Mr. Boswell?” the lead detective asked me.

“We’re private eyes. Out of Seattle. We’re working a case.”

“We?” He looked around.

“Down here,
senor,
” said Pepe. “I may be small, but I am mighty.”

“My dog helps me,” I said. “Especially on this case. It involves dogs.”

“Oh, Mrs. Carpenter,” said the detective. “Very disturbing, that.”

“So you know about somebody trying to poison her dogs?”

“No.” He frowned. “I know about her leaving five million dollars to four cocker spaniels. Ridiculous. Dogs don’t live long enough to spend five million dollars.”

“I could easily spend that,” said Pepe. “Fresh, organic food, prepared by a private chef.” Pepe has discriminating tastes. After all, he was once the pampered pet of movie star Caprice Kennedy. “Trips around the world to visit sites of historic interest to dogs.”

“What sites?” I asked Pepe.

“Do you know, Geri,” said Pepe, “there is actually a statue of a dog in a Tokyo subway?”

“Yes. The dog named Hachiko,” I said. That was a tragic story: about how the Akita waited patiently for his master every night at the train station where he had last seen his master. “So sad.”

“It is sad,” said the policeman. “People around here are pretty riled up about it. They’ll be even more angry when they find out Bernie’s dead.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

“Because Bernie was hired by the kids to get back the money Mrs. Carpenter left to the dogs. Most people in town are on their side. Nice kids. Nice family. Been here for decades. Mrs. Carpenter was an outsider. She brought a bunch of money with her, it’s true. Helped Mr. Carpenter save his farm. But then she alienated everyone with her high-and-mighty ways and that pack of yapping dogs that went everywhere with her.”

I looked at Pepe, figuring he’d have something to say about that, but he just shrugged his shoulders. “It is true. Some dogs yap.”

Another policeman poked his head into the room.

“The ME’s here,” he said. “Got some bad news.”

“What’s that?”

“Looks like Bernie might have been poisoned.”