Barking Detective 04 - The Chihuahua Always Sniffs Twice (17 page)

Pepe practically fell over when he heard that line.

“I had to come up with something plausible,” I told him after I hung up.

“That is hardly plausible,” said Pepe, shaking his head.

“What do we do now?” I asked.

“I think we need to question Lionel,” Pepe said. “Did you not say that his name was on the list for the cat?”

“Yes!” I said. “And I want to talk to Kevin, too.”

No one was at the front desk when we approached, but we could hear them in the back office, arguing.

“I can’t believe you never told me!” Kevin was saying.

“Believe me, I didn’t know either!” Lionel was saying. “He must have drawn it up while we were still together.”

“But you told me that was over years ago!”

“It was!”

“So why would he leave you everything?”

Lionel laughed, a bitter laugh. “I suppose he never changed his will. Pretty ironic! A probate lawyer who doesn’t update his will.”

“Then we don’t really need the money from the trust,” Kevin said. “I can tell that bully Julian what to do with this stupid document.” I could hear paper rustling.

“Geri, ring the bell!” said Pepe.

I slapped my hand down on the bell on the front desk. The next moment, Kevin poked his head out of the office. He did have a sheaf of papers in his hand.

“I heard you talking,” I said. “I’m looking for a copy of the trust document. Do you have one?”

Kevin looked back over his shoulder, and the next moment Lionel appeared beside him in the doorway.

“You heard everything we said?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Let’s talk,” said Lionel, waving me into the office. It was actually a charming space, the walls painted mauve and covered with gilt-framed oil paintings of seascapes. There was a delicate French provincial desk with curvy legs and a small Victorian sofa covered in olive-green velvet against the wall. Across from a coffee table covered with lifestyle magazines were two comfy armchairs, with a fringed floor lamp between them.

“Very nice!” I said, looking around.

“Thanks to Kevin,” said Lionel. “He has a great eye.”

“Thank God, you can cook!” said Kevin.

The two smiled at each other, in mutual admiration, a distinct change from the acrimonious conversation I had interrupted. Was it all an act?

“Do you have a copy of the trust document?” I asked Kevin. He was still holding a sheaf of papers. Kevin looked at Lionel. Lionel looked back. Then he nodded.

“Yeah, we found it in one of the rooms,” he said. “Julian, that’s—”

“I know who he is,” I said.

“He hired a private detective, and the guy left it behind.”

“Can I see it?” I asked.

Kevin handed it over, reluctantly. I flipped through the pages. It seemed to be the same as the document I had obtained from Yolanda, although I hadn’t studied every clause. I flipped to the back to see the names of the witnesses: Bernie Bickerstaff and Lionel Talent. The same names that had been on the other copy.

“I’m surprised Bickerstaff was a witness to the trust,” I said.

Lionel nodded. “You know, Barry grabbed whoever was nearby, and Bickerstaff was right across the hall from him.”

“But surely, given the subject matter . . .”

“Bickerstaff probably didn’t even glance at the document. He was just there to witness the signature of the old lady. Anyway, he wasn’t hired to represent the other side until much later.”

“So is it possible,” Pepe asked, “that Bickerstaff was killed because he was a witness?”

“Good question!” I said. “Is it possible Bickerstaff was killed because he was a witness?”

Lionel and Kevin looked at each other. “I don’t see how,” Lionel said.

“Well, he would have known something about Mrs. Carpenter’s state of mind.”

“If that’s true, then you’re in danger,” Kevin said to Lionel.

“Yes,” I said, “and how come you were a witness?”

Lionel blushed. “I was dating Barry at the time.”

“And how could he sign it,” Pepe asked, “if he had a stake in the outcome?”

“Well, he didn’t have a stake in the outcome until now,” I said.

“Yes, that’s true,” said Kevin, with a sigh, sliding one arm around Lionel’s waist. “No one would have known that you would benefit from Boswell’s estate.”

“Except Boswell,” Pepe pointed out.

“Except Boswell,” I said.

Lionel cringed, then got thoughtful. “Well, if that’s true, then that would make the trust invalid, wouldn’t it?”

My heart sank. We had just scored a point for the other side.

“Yes, but now we don’t need Lucille’s money,” Kevin pointed out. “You’ve got all the money from Boswell, plus his house.”

“And his cat,” I said.

“What?”

“Yes, his cat is at the pound with your name on his cage. They’re expecting you to come by and pick him up.”

Lionel groaned. “But Kevin’s allergic to cats.”

“Maybe you can take him back to Boswell’s house temporarily, until you figure out what to do with him,” I suggested. “Or, better yet, why don’t you put him in my room. I’m not allergic to cats. I have one at home.” Albert should be arriving, along with Felix, in a few hours.

“Good idea,” said Kevin.

“Your sister mentioned that she had a big fight with you,” I said to Kevin. “Can you tell me about that?”

He looked embarrassed. “It was no big deal. We just have different opinions about Lucille. She’s entitled to her opinion. I have mine. She didn’t want me helping Julian. And I thought that if I helped Julian overturn the trust, that would help her.” He looked at Lionel. “And us, of course.”

“So you were willing to say Lucille Carpenter was crazy?”

“Well, she was crazy,” said Kevin harshly. “She left all her money to her dogs!” He looked at Pepe. “No offense, little fellow. I like dogs!”

“No offense taken,” said Pepe, “as long as you never call me ‘little fellow’ again!”

“And you?” I asked Lionel. “Did you think she was crazy?”

“She was a bit eccentric,” he said. “She would come to visit Boswell and bring all of her dogs. Then she would spend all her time talking to the dogs instead of to Boswell. It was almost like she believed they were actually speaking to her.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“You know, stuff like,” he imitated the higher register of an old lady’s voice, “Henry says he wants another bite of that delicious pâté!”

“Did her dogs ever say anything more intelligent?” I asked.

“That’s pretty intelligent,” said Pepe.

“No,” said Lionel. “Just mostly requests for creature comforts. The sort of things people pretend their dogs are saying.”

“If only they could handle the reality of our opinions,” said Pepe.

Jimmy G woke up feeling like he could hardly move. His mouth was dry, the light was too bright, and something was making an irritating thumping sound. He tried to roll over and go back to sleep, but was met by some kind of wall that hemmed him in. Only then did he realize that he was in the backseat of his car. The “wall” was the white leather upholstery that was now smack in his face. And of course he felt cramped—his six-foot frame was wedged into a space less than five feet long.

He rolled back over and tried to stretch, but his feet just ran into the armrest of the rear passenger door. “What a bunch of BS,” he thought, grabbing the back of the front seat and pulling himself up to a sitting position. The blaze of light intensified as he got level with the car windows. Slowly, he recognized that his sensitivity to the light and his dry mouth and the thumping in his head were the signs of a hangover.

What the devil was Jimmy G doing last night, he asked himself as he dragged himself out of the car and took his bearings. He was standing in a huge parking lot, full of cars, the metal sparkling in the sun. Far off was a large building he recognized as the casino. That’s when it came back to him: he had spent the night drinking and gambling, stumbling out of the casino just as the sun was coming up, too wasted to get in his car and drive.

And drive where? He remembered now he had been staying with a good-looking hippie chick in a motel the night before. But she had betrayed him. Taking naked photos of other men.

 

 

He looked at his watch. It read 9:30. It was a beautiful sunny morning, but Jimmy G didn’t feel sunny at all. Wasn’t the first time he’d slept in his car. Neither was it the first hangover he’d had. Or the first dame who had betrayed him.

But maybe she hadn’t betrayed him, he thought. Maybe she just liked to take photos of naked men. After all, she was an artist. Artists did that kind of thing all the time.

Jimmy G climbed into the front seat and poked around in the ashtray until he found a stogie. He fired it up and puffed on it like mad. His next move would have to involve gallons of caffeine. And perhaps a little hair of the dog. He could find both at the casino.

But what was his next move with the dame? He figured he hadn’t really given her a chance. Maybe she could explain those photos to Jimmy G. He pulled the camera out of the glove compartment and manipulated the buttons to look at the photos.

He winced when he got to the photos of the other guy. Who was this naked, blond-haired, bronze-bodied, pearly-toothed Adonis, anyway? But this time, he kept on going back. And sure enough, the photos that preceded the male model, for that’s how Jimmy G now thought of him, were innocent enough: an old red barn in a field of lavender, a black-and-white dog sitting poised by a sign that read L
OST
L
AKES
L
AVENDER
F
ARM,
a plate of cookies beside a white picket fence. Nice angles, he thought. She clearly had the artistic eye. Which must be why she had fallen for Jimmy G.

And he had blown it. Made off with her camera. Stood her up. He needed to make it up to her. Give her a second chance. And he knew where to find her. He would head off to Lost Lakes Lavender Farm just as soon as he was presentable. He got out of the car, tucking the camera in his pocket, and ambled off toward the casino.

I woke up from a wonderful dream and realized that my dream had actually come true. I was gazing at the sleeping form of my handsome boyfriend. Felix lay sprawled on his back, one arm flung over my side. Pepe was curled up against my back, and I could hear Albert purring from above my head. The sun was shining, and the room smelled like roses.

Pepe can always tell when I wake up. I don’t know how he knows, but he does. I wanted to prolong the moment, but as soon as he sensed I was awake, he jumped down from the bed and ran to the door and started scratching on it. Next thing I knew, Felix’s dog, Fuzzy, had joined him, whining softly.

Felix opened his warm, dark eyes and asked, “Is this what it would be like to have kids?”

“Probably,” I told him.

“No!” blurted Pepe. “
Niño
s would have already peed their diapers when you awoke, unlike yours truly, who waits to pee outside like a civilized being.”

Felix sat up and rubbed at his eyes. “OK, you two, calm down, I’ll take you out.”

I smiled. Felix didn’t even ask me if I’d do it. My ex would’ve given me a shove out the door and
told
me to do it. (We never had a dog, or kids, but that’s beside the point.)

“Be quiet as you can,” I called after him. “We don’t want Kevin or Lionel to know about the extra animals.” We had smuggled in Felix’s dog, Fuzzy, and my cat, Albert, when Felix arrived the night before. He had to wake me up, as I had fallen asleep trying to read the legalese in the trust document.

Felix had thoughtfully brought a picnic: a French baguette, some grapes, a delicious cheese, and a bottle of white wine, which meant we could eat in the room with the animals. After the dinner, we took a stroll along the waterfront, with the two dogs, before returning to the room to try out the fabulously huge bathtub, which was a nice prelude to several hours of satisfying sex, with the animals locked in the bathroom so they wouldn’t disturb us.

“We didn’t get much sleep last night,” complained Pepe as they went out the door.

“Well, neither did we, but we aren’t complaining,” I said, smiling at Felix.

“What do you have planned for today?” Felix asked, when he came back into the room with the dogs. He hadn’t bothered to put on a shirt, just pulled on a pair of worn jeans. He was barefoot.

“What about coming back to bed?” I asked.

“As you wish,” Felix said, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me down onto the bed. I was still just wearing the flimsy nightie I had packed for my romantic weekend, a little black silk number that revealed more than it concealed.

“Hey, Geri,” said Pepe, “we have work to do!”

“Ha!” I said.

“You’re pleased to have me under your control?” asked Felix, who I had just pinned underneath me.

“Yes,” I said, determined to ignore Pepe and bending down to kiss Felix.

“And it is breakfast time!” said Pepe, hopping up onto the bed.

Pepe never misses a meal. And he was right. It was 9:30, and breakfast was served only until 10:00
AM
.

“Do you think you and Fuzzy could leave us alone for just a few minutes?” I asked.

“Only a few minutes?” Felix asked. “I think we can do better than that!” He pulled me down for another kiss.

“Geri, you forget our mission!” Pepe said. “Boswell’s cat is in the building.”

“The cat is in the building?” I sat up abruptly.

“Is that some kind of code?” Felix asked. “Are we playing spies?”

“Sort of,” I said. “We’ve been assigned to reconnoiter the dining room.” I climbed off Felix, shaking back my hair.

“OK, Agent Sullivan,” said Felix. It is one of the things that I love about him: he likes to play games. “Agent Navarro, at your service.”

I put on more suitable clothes—a pair of shorts and an embroidered cotton top—without much help from Felix, who kept trying to take them off again, and without much help from Pepe, who kept nagging me to hurry up. But finally Felix and I arrived at the dining room, leaving the dogs in the bedroom, just fifteen minutes before the end of breakfast.

Lionel poured us some coffee in painted china cups, then left to get the morning’s offerings: lavender-crusted roasted red potatoes and a scramble with fresh tomatoes and spinach and a dash of parmesan, the plate garnished with a sprig of lavender. Apparently all the other guests had already left, headed for the lavender festival.

“So what are we reconnoitering?” Felix asked, after Lionel left the room.

“Breakfast for now!” I said, filling my fork with the roasted potatoes.

We talked about what we wanted to do during our weekend while we polished off the breakfast and drained the pot of coffee. Felix was fascinated by the idea of walking out to the end of Dungeness Spit, a five-and-a-half-mile-long sand spit that projects out into the bay near Sequim, while I wanted to drop by Carpenter Manor and check on the cocker spaniels.

“I have a favor to ask,” Lionel said, as he cleared our plates.

“Yes?” I asked.

“We just picked up the cat from the pound and Kevin’s already wheezing. You said you could keep him in your room. Is that OK with you?”

I nodded.

“I’ll take him in there,” he offered.

“Oh, no, let me do it!” I said, knowing how Lionel would feel if he saw the menagerie in our room: not just Pepe, but Felix’s dog, Fuzzy, and my cat, Albert. I jumped up and followed Lionel into the cozy room behind the office. The cat was in a large crate in the center of the carpet.

I staggered under the weight of the huge cat and the heavy crate, but luckily Felix had come in behind me, and he got a firm grasp on the carrier and hauled the crate and the occupant out the door. I followed him.

 

 

Having four animals in a tiny bedroom is not ideal. Having four animals who don’t know or like each other in a tiny bedroom is a disaster. Fuzzy and Pepe have developed a cordial relationship—after all, they helped each other take down a gangster in a previous case. But my cat Albert doesn’t like Pepe, whom he considers a usurper, and Precious didn’t like any of them. Poor cat. He was probably still in mourning for his person.

Albert took one sniff at the crate of the big cat, eliciting a hiss and an outstretched claw from Precious, and then stalked off to one corner of the bedroom.

“Why did you ask me to bring the cat?” Felix asked.

“I’m trying an experiment,” I said.

“Really, what?”

“Interspecies communication.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You know how Pepe speaks to me.”

“And you speak to him!”

“Yes, and Pepe claims he can speak to Albert.”

I saw the worry in Felix’s brown eyes. “OK.”

“And if Albert can speak to the cat who was in the house when Boswell was killed, then we can find out who killed Boswell.”

Felix pondered this for a moment. “So you are working still,” he pointed out.

“It’s just a good opportunity to try this out,” I said. “Since the cat is in our possession.”

Felix crossed his arms and looked glum.

“It could be a huge step for mankind,” I said.

“Or catkind,” said Pepe. “They are not known for their services to humanity. Unlike dogs.”

“Even if you could get this cat to tell you what it saw . . .”

I knew it! Felix was coming around!

“How could you possibly use that evidence in a court of law?” Felix asked.

“We do not need a court of law,” said Pepe. “We are judge, jury, and fury.”

“Pepe and I will think of something,” I said. “We always do.”

“Well, it’s worth trying,” said Felix. “What do you want me to do?”

“Maybe you can take notes,” I said. There was a pad of pink paper on the desk, embossed with the Floral Fantasy emblem. I handed it to Felix, along with a pen bearing the same logo.

“Pepe!” I said. “Tell Albert what we need.”

Pepe approached Albert in the corner. Albert gave a few yowls. Pepe muttered. To my surprise, after a few minutes, Albert reluctantly sidled up to the crate containing the Maine coon. He sat and looked through the bars. The cat inside the crate hissed at him again.

“He is reassuring him that we mean him no harm,” said Pepe.

“It doesn’t sound that way,” I said.

“Am I supposed to write that down?” Felix asked.

“Not yet!”

There was more yowling and hissing at the cat cage. Then Pepe, who was seated to the side of Albert but out of view of the cat in the crate, turned to me. “Precious is willing to help us if it means we find the person who killed his servant.”

“Someone killed a servant?” I asked, confused.

“The person who fed him. I assume he means Boswell.”

“Oh, of course!”

“What’s going on?” asked Felix, his pen poised.

“The cat’s going to help us!” I said. “Tell Precious that is our goal.”

More muttering between Pepe and Albert, more yowling between Precious and Albert.

“What are they saying?” I asked Pepe.

Pepe shivered. “The cat is describing what he will do to the person when he is caught. It involves rending and tearing at the throat with sharp teeth. You do not want to hear it, Geri.”

“OK,” I said.

“What now?” asked Felix.

“Cat threats,” I said. “Tell Albert to ask for a description.”

Pepe muttered in Albert’s ear, and another round of yowling and hissing ensued.

“What are they saying?” I asked.

“I don’t understand cat,” said Pepe. “I just caught a few words. Stranger. Hat.” He conferred with Albert, then turned to me. “Apparently there was a stranger in the house that night. A man who treated the cat roughly. A man who stole some papers from Boswell’s desk.”

“Oh, that’s great!” I said.

I turned to Felix: “Stranger in the house on the night of the murder. Treated the cat badly. No skip that. We don’t need that. The man stole papers from Boswell’s desk.”

Felix looked confused. “Just write it down,” I said.

“It’s not going to stand up in a court of law,” Felix said. “You’re just pretending to talk to a dog, and then telling me to write it down.”

“I’m actually translating from cat to pidgin to English,” said Pepe. “And that is more than you can do!”

“It’s just for our use,” I said. “Go on!” I told my dog. “Ask him to describe the man.”

There was more hissing and muttering. Then Pepe said to me: “The cat describes a man who wore a funny hat on his head and had brown eyes that bulged like an English bulldog’s.”

“That sounds almost like our boss,” I said.

“That’s what I thought,” said Pepe. “I told you Jimmy G was there that night.”

“What would Jimmy G be doing in Port Townsend?” I asked. “And did he murder Boswell?”

“What?” That was Felix. “What does this have to do with Jimmy G?”

“Just thinking out loud,” I said.

Pepe turned back to Albert, who resumed his hissing and spitting dialogue. Pepe seemed to be able to get every other word. “Papers,” he muttered. “Rough man leaves. Boswell goes to kitchen. Returns. Sits at desk. Drinks yellow water. Falls over on floor. Hacking like he had a fur ball.”

I repeated those words to Felix, who wrote them down. “The stranger leaves. Boswell goes to the kitchen. Returns to his desk. Sits down, drinks his lemonade and then falls to the floor, hacking and coughing like he had a fur ball.”

“Poisoned!” said Pepe.

“Yes, we already knew that,” I said.

“You already knew how Boswell died?” Felix asked.

“Well, he looked just like Bickerstaff, and the one thing they have in common is they both drank lemonade before they died,” I said. “The question is, did the man in the hat put the poison in the lemonade?” I didn’t want to use Jimmy G’s name. I still didn’t really believe our boss would murder someone.

Pepe had another consultation with the cat. “The man never went into the kitchen,” he said. “In fact, the man was with Boswell the whole time he was in the house. The cat said he smelled like wet, rotting leaves.”

“A cigar!” I said. That’s exactly what Jimmy G’s nasty cigars smelled like.

“You want me to write down cigar?” Felix asked.

I nodded.

“The cat thinks the man put a spell on his servant that took effect after he left.” Pepe turned to me. “Apparently cats believe in witchcraft.”

“The cat thinks Boswell was killed by a witch,” I said to Felix.

“A witch who wears a hat and smokes cigars,” said Felix, looking at his notes.

He held my gaze for a long time. I could practically guess what was going on behind those big, soulful eyes. He was thinking, “My girlfriend is as crazy as a loon.”