Barking Detective 04 - The Chihuahua Always Sniffs Twice (4 page)

“So, how do you explain that?” the detective asked Jimmy G. She leaned down, her face only inches from Jimmy G’s nose.

He took his time, looked around the small room. Some sort of weird foam padding on the walls. A big mirror he knew was a one-way window. Jimmy G was no stranger to police stations. He knew how to handle an interrogation.

“Can’t explain it,” he said. No way he was going to give her what she wanted. Detectives and police—they were natural enemies, like cats and dogs.

“According to the preliminary tests, he died less than ten minutes after he called you and about three hours before you left a message on his phone,” the detective said.

Jimmy G lifted his eyebrows. He felt like he was winning this round. She was giving away more information than she was getting.

“So I’m going to ask you again,” she said. “What was the subject of your conversation?”

“Confidential,” said Jimmy G.

“You realize this is a murder investigation?”

“I thought you had a suspect in custody,” he replied.

She frowned, then shook her head. “Boswell? No, he was the intended victim.” She must have realized she had made a mistake. She squinted her eyes. “How do you know about that?”

“Small town,” Jimmy G said. He held out his hands in an attempt to look hapless, which was easy, as Jimmy G usually was hapless. “Heard about it at the bar.”

She shook that off by dismissing it with her hand. She tried a new tack. “If you were working for Mr. Bickerstaff, you are no longer obligated by client privilege. Just think about that.”

Jimmy G did think about it. How would the police react if they knew Jimmy G was working both sides? Maybe they knew already.

The door opened, and an older man entered the room. He was stocky and square, with graying hair. He introduced himself as a homicide detective by the name of Rick Moore. The female detective stood back against the closed door with her arms crossed.

Moore threw a piece of paper on the table in front of Jimmy G. It made his head spin. It was covered with numbers. He couldn’t made heads or tails out of it.

“We know that a call was placed to your office by Barrett Boswell earlier in the day,” Moore said. He leaned over the table.

“So?” said Jimmy G. “Lots of people call Jimmy G.”

“Why was Boswell calling you?”

Jimmy G shrugged his shoulders again. “Don’t know. Didn’t talk to him.” A glimmer of an idea appeared in his brain. “Probably he talked to my girl Friday. Her name is Geri Sullivan. I can give you her number, if you want it.”

He could see that was effective. The two detectives looked at each other. Jimmy G pulled out his brand-new cell phone and started poking buttons. He found the call log, then realized that it recorded his calls to and from Bickerstaff, then realized they already knew about that. He was getting confused.

“I think I need a lawyer,” he said. He shoved the cell phone back into his pocket.

“We’ve already made contact with Miss Sullivan,” said Moore.

That surprised Jimmy G, but he tried not to show it.

“Am I under arrest?” he asked.

“No, you’re free to go,” said Moore, stepping aside. “We’ll be in touch if we have more questions.”

Jimmy G got up, nodding to both detectives. He ambled out of the room, found his way through the warren of little hallways, and emerged in the lobby. Outside, the sun was just setting.

As he went through the lobby, a tall, fair-haired man in a tight gray T-shirt got up from one of the benches where he had been studying a newspaper.

“Ah, Mr. Gerrard,” he said, stepping in front of Jimmy G. He opened the front door with a flourish and waved Jimmy G through. There was a long black limousine idling outside.

“My boss wants to speak to you,” the man said.

The light was beginning to fade out of the sky as we drove off with the snoozing Henry in the backseat. I followed the directions Hugh had given me, heading west, then pulling off the highway about ten miles down the road and following a two-lane road that angled off toward the foothills on the outskirts of Sequim. We passed farmhouses, surrounded by rows of cottonwoods, and manufactured homes that overlooked gardens studded with gnomes.

Then we went over a rise and entered a valley full of lavender, long rows of rounded purple bushes, slanting across the countryside in the golden light of the sunset. The sweet scent permeated the car.

A sign on the left read
CARPENTER MANOR.
I turned and proceeded up a long driveway. At the top was a sprawling Tudor-style mansion. The walls were made of white plaster and crisscrossed with dark beams. The windows were mullioned, and the roof was covered in gray slate.

The house was perfectly positioned at the top of a low rise. As we rolled to a stop, next to a silver Mercedes, we got a magnificent view of the lavender fields. The sweet scent became even stronger, almost cloying, as it drifted in through the open car window and surrounded us.

And so did the dogs. Two cocker spaniels, one chocolate colored and one black, came tearing out of the open front door and surrounded the car, yapping and turning in circles.

“
Hola,
fellow
perros!
” said Pepe, greeting the dogs through the window. “I am called Pepe. Perhaps you have heard of my exploits.”

Hearing the familiar sounds of his pack, Henry, with some effort, got to his feet and also looked out the car window. “Woof !” he said with a small wag of his tail. “Woof ! Woof!”

It wasn’t a very big bark, but it seemed to be a happy one. Both dogs turned and looked at me as if waiting for me to open the door and let them out. Henry, at least, was polite about it. Pepe, on the other hand, was Pepe.

“
Vamonos,
Geri!” he commanded, hopping up and down.

“OK, OK,” I told him, taking off my seat belt. “When I let you out, you’re not going to cause trouble with these other dogs, are you?”

“Far be it from me,” he said. “I wish only to investigate, identify, and apprehend the evil miscreant who so vilely attempted their demise.”

It was clear that my dog watched
too
many telenovelas. It was affecting his vocabulary. Pepe jumped down, but Henry waited for me to lift him out of the car.

My pooch’s idea of investigation turned out to be some butt sniffing and cavorting with the friendly cockers as they barked greetings to their returning pal, Henry, whom I was still carrying.

A winding stone path led from the driveway to the house through an English cottage garden overflowing with peonies and snapdragons, hollyhocks and foxgloves, and edged with neatly trimmed box hedges.

As we got closer to the door, we saw a golden cocker spaniel sitting on the stoop. She was different than the others. For one thing, she had a certain regal presence. For another, she was calm. I don’t know how I knew it, but I was sure this beautiful animal was female.

Pepe realized the same thing. He swaggered up to her, stopped just a few feet away from her, and said, “Ah, nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered.”

I’d forgotten that my dog knew some Shakespeare. He’d quoted something from the bard when he first met his Pomeranian love, Siren Song. And it had gone pretty well for him with her after that.

But there the similarity ended. After uttering his come-on line to the cocker spaniel, he sauntered up to give her a friendly butt sniff and got a growling snap at his shoulder for his efforts.

He jumped away from her faster than I’d ever seen him move.

“Pepe!” I called.

“Do not worry, Geri,” he said, returning to my side. “She is just playing hard to get, that is all.” He said this nonchalantly, as if it was no big deal, but I did notice that his tail was between his legs.

A woman in her fifties stepped out onto the stoop. She had dark hair, pulled back from her face, with just a few hints of silver around the edges. Her neck was long and swan-like, her eyes dark. She wore a dark, rather understated dress that set off the caramel color of her skin.

“I see that someone has just met the Queen,” she said, looking at Pepe, then at the cocker spaniel who was still sitting at the bottom of the steps. She had a faint accent, but I couldn’t quite place it.

“The Queen?” I said.

“Yes,” said Boswell. He stepped out onto the porch beside the woman. “Her name is Mary,” he continued, giving a nod toward the golden cocker. “We call her Queen Mary.”

“Because she doesn’t stand for any monkey business,” said the woman on the stoop. “Like what your dog just tried, for example.”

“I am no monkey,” Pepe told me, sounding offended.

“How did you get here?” I asked Boswell, puzzled.

Boswell put a protective arm around the woman’s shoulder. “I wanted to apprise Yolanda of recent developments in person, rather than over the phone.”

“What is she talking about, Barry?” Yolanda turned to him.

“Let’s go inside,” he said.

We followed Yolanda through a dark-paneled vestibule and into a large room with a low-beamed ceiling. There was a massive stone fireplace with a beam for a mantel and a fire lit within it, despite the heat of the day. All the windows were open, admitting the scent of hot dust and lavender. The floor was dark, polished oak. The dogs’ nails made little clicking sounds as they raced around in circles.

All except Queen Mary, who padded over to a wicker basket near the hearth and settled down in it, her golden head lifted, surveying the scene. Eventually the two other dogs settled down as well: one jumped up on a sofa, while the other curled up in a basket placed along the wall.

I set Henry down, and he wobbled over to another basket, circled around, and lay down, as if he had just been on a long, weary journey. I noticed that each of the baskets bore a silver nameplate above it; there was one for each dog: Mary, Henry, Victoria and James.

“Lucille always named her dogs after English royalty,” Boswell explained.

The sofas and armchairs in the room were covered in purple and pink floral chintz. We all found our places, just like the dogs, and then Yolanda sent her niece, Clara, to fetch tea.

“Hugh says that he wants to see Henry again on Tuesday for some oral surgery,” I said.

Boswell frowned. “I think he’s taking advantage of the trust,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, under the terms of the trust, he gets paid every time he provides any veterinary services for the dogs,” Boswell said, “but I’m beginning to think he’s scheduling unnecessary procedures just to make a little extra money.”

“How would we know, Barry?” Yolanda asked. “We’re not veterinarians. We have to trust his judgment.”

“There is another vet in town,” Boswell pointed out. “Maybe we need to get a second opinion.”

Just then the tea arrived on a fancy silver tray, complete with delicate bone china cups, painted with floral designs and rimmed with gold. We each had our own cup and saucer, plus Yolanda poured a little bit of tea out into saucers for each of the dogs. There were also tiny bits of toast for the dogs, cut into diamonds and smeared with some kind of liver pâté.

Boswell noticed my raised eyebrows.

“It’s one of the terms of the trust,” he said. “The caretaker of the dogs is to provide them with high tea every day.”

“Do they like it?” I asked. I didn’t think tea would be good for dogs.

But Pepe seemed to be enjoying it. He was polishing off his toast when the doorbell rang. The melody was familiar. I think it was “God Save the Queen.”

Clara came into the room and had a whispered conversation in Spanish with Yolanda. Yolanda looked frightened and hurried out into the hall.

“What’s going on, Pepe?” I asked. But before he could answer, Yolanda returned, clutching a fat envelope.

“It’s an envelope from Bernard Bickerstaff,” she said. “It came certified. I had to sign for it.” She handed the envelope to Boswell. “Will you tell me what it says? You know I’m not comfortable with legal documents.”

“Hmmm,” said Boswell, setting down his teacup. He examined the postmark. “It appears he mailed this yesterday. How unfortunate!” He pried open the flap and pulled out a sheaf of papers, stapled at one corner. As he read them, his brow furrowed, and the color drained from his face.

“What is it?” Yolanda asked.

“Calm down, my dear,” Boswell told her. “This has infinitely more to do with me than with you.”

“Just tell her what it is, will you?” said Clara, crossing to Yolanda and putting a hand on her shoulder. “You know how my aunt worries.”

Boswell cleared his throat, then spoke in a somber tone. “You know Lucille’s children hired Bickerstaff to represent them?”

She nodded.

“Well, this is notification that they have filed a lawsuit against the trust. And me, personally, I might add.”

“Oh, no,” said Yolanda. “How can they do that? And why would they send this to me?”

“Because, according to the terms of the trust, you are the legal caretaker of the dogs. As such, you are naturally included,” he told her. “There might be a letter waiting for me back at my office.” He looked thoughtful. “I wonder if that was what Bernie was looking for.”

“What’s the basis of the lawsuit?” I asked.

“They are claiming that Lucille was not of sound mind when she established the trust.” He sighed. “And that those who profited from it”—he glanced up at Yolanda—“somehow coerced her into setting it up for our own monetary gain.”

Jimmy G stared at the limousine. Nothing was visible behind the smoked glass. He looked at the man at his side, noting the width of his shoulders and the size of his biceps. He knew better than to get into a limousine with a stranger. He had seen too many films in which people got taken for one-way rides.

Stalling for time, he pulled a cigar out of his pocket. Smoking a cigar always helped him think. He unwrapped the stogie and fired it up with his Zippo.

“You don’t want to keep my boss waiting,” said the man, pointing at the idling limo. “Get in.”

“Don’t think so. Why would Jimmy G do that?”

The rear window of the limo rolled down a bit, and a hand came out, waving what looked like a bunch of hundred-dollar bills.

“Does that work for you?” the man asked Jimmy G.

Sure did. Jimmy G approached the car, and the man at his side opened the door. In a minute, Jimmy G was sliding into the dark leather seat facing the limo’s sole occupant. He was no kind of dope, though. He kept one hand near the .45 in his shoulder holster as he studied the occupant of the car.

The guy was midforties, had dark brown hair, wore a well-tailored, summer-weight tan suit. His lips were large and fleshy. There were dark circles under his eyes.

“If you must smoke,” the stranger said, “at least smoke something good.”

“White Owl,” said Jimmy G, holding up his cigar. “It is good.”

“This is better.” The man reached into his coat pocket, withdrew a leather cigar case, took out a large, Churchill-style cigar, and handed it to Jimmy G.

One look at it told Jimmy G it was a Cohiba. Cuban. Illegal in the US.

“Little expensive for Jimmy G’s blood,” he told him.

“We can pay you enough so you can afford these from now on.”

Jimmy G tossed his White Owl out the window and fired up the Cuban. It was so rich and smooth, it was almost intoxicating.

“Who are you?” he asked the man.

“I’m a Superior Court judge,” he said, carefully lighting a cigar of his own. “My name is Julian Valentine. Let’s just say I have an interest in the disposition of the late Lucille Carpenter’s fortune.”

“A judge, huh?”

“Clallam County Superior Court.”

“What do you want?”

“We want you to finish the job you started for Bernie Bickerstaff.”

“You know about that?”

“Yes, and we know how much he paid you and how little you delivered.”

“Hey, the guy was dead!” Jimmy G was quick to point out.

“Exactly,” said Valentine, sucking at his cigar. He paused for a moment, then released a curl of smoke from his pursed-up mouth. “So now you work for us.”

“Who’s us?” Jimmy G asked cautiously.

“Those who have an interest in seeing that the Carpenter fortune goes to the rightful heirs.”

“And what do you expect Jimmy G to do?” Jimmy G asked.

“We need a copy of the trust document. You should be able to get one from Boswell. Here’s his address.” He handed him a sheet of paper.

“What if he doesn’t want to share it with Jimmy G?”

“Use whatever means you consider necessary,” said the judge. “We can’t proceed until we see that document.”

Jimmy G folded the piece of paper and stuffed it into his pocket.

“In addition,” said the judge, “we need statements from witnesses who can prove that my mother was crazy when she signed that trust document. Here’s a list of people who should be helpful.” And he passed Jimmy G another sheet of paper.

Jimmy G was confused. “Your mother? I thought we were talking about some rich old lady name of Carpenter.”

“Hey!” said the judge. “Show some respect. That’s my mother you’re talking about. She was a Valentine before she was a Carpenter.”

“Oh,” said Jimmy G, thinking he understood. “How will Jimmy G get in contact with you?” he asked.

Valentine frowned, pulled his cigar out of his mouth, and squashed it in the large crystal ashtray to his right. “You’ll be staying here.” He handed Jimmy G a card that advertised
FLORAL FANTASY B&B
, with an address in Port Townsend. “That way we’ll know how to find you. You don’t contact us. We contact you.”