Barking Detective 04 - The Chihuahua Always Sniffs Twice (18 page)

A knock on the door broke the trance.

“Geri, it’s Lionel!” said the voice on the other side. “I’ve got to get the cat up to Boswell’s house before we leave for the lavender festival.”

“Oh, don’t come in!” I shouted out quickly. “I’m just getting dressed.”

“Geri, we should offer to take the cat,” Pepe said. “We could examine the crime scene.”

“Great idea!” I told him. “Do you want us to take the cat for you?” I called out.

“Oh, that would be fabulous!” said Lionel. “We’re in a hurry to get to Lost Lakes. Kevin promised to help his sister in the gift shop, and I’ve got to deliver the lavender cheesecakes I made.”

“Just leave the keys on the front desk,” I said. “We’ll deliver the cat, and then return the keys to you. We’re going to Lost Lakes, too!”

 

 

And that’s how it turned out that less than half an hour later, we were tiptoeing up the steps of Boswell’s gorgeous Victorian mansion. Precious seemed to get more upset the closer we got. Albert doesn’t like car rides either, but Precious wailed constantly from the moment the car started—maybe it was because we took Felix’s old beater of a car, as it was set up for carrying animals, but surely smelled like a lot of dogs. I thought Precious would stop wailing when the car stopped, but he howled even louder, heart-breaking cries that reminded me of how he sounded on the morning we found Boswell dead. Felix carried the heavy cat crate up the front steps as I struggled to turn the key in the lock. Finally I applied the right pressure and the ponderous door swung open slowly.

The air in the house was warm and stale. We set the crate down in the hallway, with its welter of Victorian objects, and lifted the latch on the door. Precious sprang out and ran up and down the hall, galloping, like a wild thing, like a cat on a rampage.

“What’s that about?” I asked Pepe.

“I have never understood that behavior,” said Pepe. “In a dog, it would mean he was full of glee, but in a cat?” He shook his head.

“Probably he’s just releasing pent-up energy,” said Felix. “He has been cooped up in a crate.”

Then Precious stopped in midgallop and dashed into a door at the end of the hall.

“That’s the study,” I said to Felix, “that’s where Boswell died.” I was reluctant to reenter the crime scene, but Pepe was not.

“Let us investigate,” he said. “We will, no doubt, turn up something the police did not.” And he ran down the hall and disappeared into the room as well.

I tiptoed down the dim hall with Felix close on my heels.

“Why is there so much stuff in here?” Felix asked, as he sidled sideways past an unopened box and ducked under a carved wooden hanging lantern.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I think Boswell was a bit of a pack rat.” I almost knocked over a Japanese screen. “I heard a rumor that Boswell was skimming money from the trust. The judge was threatening to hire a forensic accountant.”

“The judge?”

“One of the heirs,” I said, as we reached the doorway.

The window blinds were rolled up, and the room was flooded with sunlight. I felt I could smell the death in the room. I knew that Pepe could.

Precious had jumped up on the desk and was looking around, puzzled. So was I. The top of the desk, a nice dark mahogany, was completely bare. The police must have taken away all the papers to sort through them for clues.

Precious jumped down from the desk with a thump and headed for the kitchen.

It looked quite different as well, with black fingerprint dust all over the granite counters and the back door. The pitcher of lemonade was gone, which made sense as that was probably the way the poison was administered.

With one mighty bound, the cat jumped up onto the granite counter, paced back and forth along its surface, then clawed at the closest cupboard.

Thinking that Precious was hungry and was asking for treats, I opened the cupboard to find Boswell’s liquor cabinet. It contained a few dusty bottles of useless liqueurs like crème de menthe and obscure syrups like grenadine, probably secured for some recipe once and never used again, and a big plastic gallon bottle of vodka in the front.

“Well, that’s weird,” I said. “Why would the cat want something from the liquor cabinet?” But before I could answer that question, Precious jumped down, ran over to his water bowl, lapped at the water, then fell over, writhing and hacking and coughing.

“Oh my God!” I said, “The cat is dying, too!”

But Pepe stopped me. “Bravo! Senor Precious,” he said. “Bravo! That was the sort of performance that could land you a starring role on
Paraíso Perdido!
”

Precious, as if understanding Pepe, got up, did a long feline stretch, and then began meowing plaintively. It was the cry of a hungry cat.

“He’s hungry!” said Pepe.

“Yes, I know,” I said, a little grumpy. “I can speak a little cat, too.”

I followed Precious into the pantry area and poured some kibble into his bowl. Of course, he refused to eat it in front of us—that is, Pepe, Fuzzy, Felix, and me.

“What am I missing?” I said. “Precious was acting out the murder scene. He was trying to tell us something.” I looked at the counter, where the lemonade pitcher had been. “But we knew all that before: the poison was in the lemonade. Boswell drank it when he sat down at his desk and died.”

“But how did it get in the lemonade?” asked Felix.

“Yes, that’s puzzling, because presumably Boswell came home and either bought the lemonade at the store or made it from frozen.” I opened up the refrigerator. More wails from Precious. I could see why: there was a can of wet cat food on the top shelf. I got it down, pried the lid off, and spooned it onto a plate, which I set on the floor in the pantry. Precious turned his fluffy butt to us and began chowing down. I returned to the refrigerator.

“There’s no lemonade in here,” I said, looking at the contents. Some pâté. Ajar of caviar. A deli container of mushrooms.

“Probably the police would have taken it to test,” Felix observed.

I opened up the side door of the freezer and noticed several cans of frozen lemonade. “Or he made a fresh batch from frozen when he got home from work.” I looked at the brand: one of the big manufacturers. “It doesn’t seem like Boswell. He seemed to have had gourmet tastes.”

“Probably doesn’t matter what kind of lemonade you drink, if what you’re really doing is trying to cover up the flavor of cheap vodka,” said Felix, wryly.

“Could it be that the vodka was poisoned?” I asked. “Rather than the lemonade?”

“That is what the cat was trying to tell us!” Pepe said.

“Good work, Geri!” said Felix, looking at me with admiration. “You should share that theory with the police.”

 

 

So I did. Neither of the homicide detectives was in, but I was able to leave a voice message. Then we were finally on our way to the lavender festival. Unfortunately, we weren’t moving very fast. Traffic was stop-and-go all along the main highway.

“What about Jimmy G?” Felix asked. He was driving because we decided his dog-mobile would be better for the dogs. They were both confined in crates in the back, because Felix is very strict about letting dogs ride loose in the car. Pepe, to his indignation, was in Albert’s cat carrier

“It stinks like a cat!” he declared.

“What about him?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to talk about my boss.

“Didn’t you mention his name as having something to do with all this?”

“If the man with the hat was Jimmy G, and the man with the hat stole papers from Boswell’s office, then Jimmy G stole papers from Boswell,” Pepe said. “That is logic!”

“Why would he steal papers from Boswell?” I asked.

“It seems like Jimmy G is capable of anything,” said Felix grimly. He did not have a great deal of respect for my boss. Neither did Pepe, actually.

“Do you recall that Lionel said the judge had hired a private detective who left behind the trust document you have in your purse?” Pepe asked.

“Yes, and he said the judge hired the private detective,” I pointed out. “But we were hired by Boswell.”

“This is a mystery,” said Pepe. “And one we can solve only by confronting Jimmy G.”

“Good idea!” I said, looking at the bumper of the car in front of us. “And I have plenty of time to talk to him.” I dug my cell phone out of my purse and dialed Jimmy G’s number. It rang a few times, and then Jimmy G picked up. His voice sounded shaky. I could hear the sound of slot machines in the background and some soft jazz.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“Casino,” he said. “What’s up, doll?”

“I’ve got a question to ask you, and it’s important!”

“Fire away!” he said. “Jimmy G’s had two cups of joe and is starting to get back in the swing of things.”

“Then good, you’ll be able to tell me what you were doing at Boswell’s house on the night he died!” I said.

There was a long silence. I heard chinging sounds and the canned music. “Are you there?” I asked.

“Sure! Jimmy G is just impressed by your detecting abilities.” He gave a little laugh. “How did you figure that out?”

“I’m good at what I do!” I said.

“And do not forget who really broke the case open!” insisted Pepe.

“Well, to tell you the truth, Jimmy G did call upon Boswell.” He paused. “Do the police know this?”

“Not yet,” I said. “I wanted to confirm it with you first.’

“Jimmy G can explain everything, doll,” he said quickly.

“Well, explain away. I’m listening.”

“Look, Jimmy G is about to wrap up this case. That’s why you got the weekend off. Jimmy G has everything under control.”

“I want to know what you were doing at Boswell’s house,” I repeated. “Otherwise, I am calling the police.”

“Jimmy G didn’t want to tell you this,” he said. “But Boswell called up Jimmy G. Was concerned about how the case was going. Thought he needed a more experienced operative. Wanted Jimmy G to take over. Jimmy G couldn’t say no. Important client and all that.”

“Boswell was unhappy working with me and Pepe?” I was indignant.

“Let’s just say he was not overly fond of dogs,” said Jimmy G.

“But he represented them . . .” I realized I was getting sidetracked. That happens all the time when talking with Jimmy G. “Never mind. So what were you doing there?”

“Boswell gave Jimmy G a copy of the trust document.”

“But you wanted me to find it.”

“Um, unfortunately, Jimmy G lost that copy.”

“At the Floral Fantasy B&B!” I said. “You were there! But Lionel said the private detective who stayed with them was hired by Julian, the judge.”

Another long pause. I thought I heard a gulp. “Now you see how Jimmy G works,” he said, finally. “All a ruse to get the situation squared away. Jimmy G plays one side against the other. The double double cross. A Jimmy G specialty.”

“I don’t know what side you’re on now,” I said, frustrated by his double talk.

“Jimmy G is always looking out for Jimmy G,” he said. “So if you stick with Jimmy G, you’ll be fine.”

And then he hung up.

I relayed the results of my unsatisfying conversation to Pepe and Felix. And I suppose Fuzzy was listening, too, although we had never had any indication that Fuzzy was capable of communicating the way Pepe could. She was extremely loyal, though. A trait I really admire. And a quality that seemed to be missing in Jimmy G.

The phone call from Geri sobered Jimmy G. His darn girl Friday was starting to show some aptitude for the private detecting business. Too much, as far as Jimmy G was concerned. He wanted someone to type, answer phones, look at him adoringly, and say things like “Wow, I could never do what you do! It’s so dangerous.” Not some dame who was going to call him up, all accusing, “What were you doing and with whom?” None of her business. She worked for him, not the other way around.

And really, when he thought about it, and he had a lot of time to think, as the traffic was terrible, he had managed to deliver what the judge wanted, so the job was done. No harm, no foul. Jimmy G just needed to collect some moola from the judge and let the police catch the killers and hook up again with Jillian.

By the time he arrived at Lost Lakes Lavender Farm and found a place to park, miles back along the edge of the road, behind some buses, the festival was in full swing. As he trudged down the highway, another bus passed him and disgorged a load of passengers. He followed them up the long driveway, past the lavender fields.

The place was swarming with people. In the barn, he saw a crowd gathered around the still. Colleen, in overalls and cowboy boots, was demonstrating how it was used. On the stage at one end of the yard, a guitarist and an accordionist were playing a polka. Some toddlers were turning in circles on the lawn in front of the musicians while their mothers applauded. Under a tent alongside the house, women in yellow aprons were serving cookies and slices of cheesecake and glasses of lavender lemonade. One of the young men who worked at the Floral Fantasy B&B came out the side door of the house, wearing a frilly purple apron and carrying a cake, decorated with purple frosting.

Jimmy G surveyed the booths that lined the lawn. Smoke rose from a grill in a booth on the end, which advertised Lavender Rubbed Ribs. The smell was tantalizing. Other booths offered jewelry, T-shirts, lavender wreaths, lavender jelly, and pastel art prints of lavender fields.

With a start, Jimmy G recognized Jillian talking with an older couple who were pawing through a box of the prints on the table at the front of her booth. She looked delectable in a cropped lilac halter top and a pair of tight pink shorts. She also looked tired. He wondered if she had spent the night worrying about where he was. A sudden feeling of guilt swept over him. This lovely broad was probably pining over him, and he had carelessly toyed with her affections.

He bounded up to her, suddenly eager to make amends, certain she would welcome him with open arms.

“That will be forty-four ninety-five,” she was saying to the old man, who handed over some crumpled bills. Jillian turned to a metal box on the table, rooted through it, and pulled out a few ones, which she pressed into his hand.

“Thank you so much, dear,” said the old woman, clutching a plastic-wrapped print to her bosom. “You are truly an artist.”

As the couple wandered off, Jillian turned her attention to Jimmy G. To his dismay, her eyes went cold.

“What are you doing here?” she said.

“You invited me,” he replied, suddenly unsure of his status. He pretended to look down at the prints on the table. Most were landscapes of lavender fields and farmhouses and old barns. In the back of the booth, he saw that she was at work on something new. An easel was set up, and a cloth was draped across the canvas.

“That was yesterday, Mr. Dangerous,” she said. Her voice was flat.

“Jimmy G got a little bent out of shape when he saw the photos you took,” he said, pulling the camera out of his pocket and holding it out to her.

“So that’s where my camera went,” said Jillian. “I had to paint your picture from memory. I did pretty well, too.”

She whisked the cover off the easel in the back, and Jimmy G was shocked to see a nude portrait of himself, sprawled on the bed at the motel. She had done a fairly good job of capturing the right proportions.

“Hey! Cover that up!” he said, glancing around. “Wouldn’t want to give any other dames the idea Jimmy G is available.”

Jillian complied with a pretty smile. “So where did you spend the night last night?” she asked.

Jimmy G had an idea. “Jimmy G got called away on a case,” he said.

“Really? Did you have to use your weapon?” Her eyes got bright.

“Natch,” he said. “Jimmy G! Big gun for hire. What is your desire?”

“Well, to be frank,” Jillian looked around, to one side and then the other, as if she were afraid someone was listening, “there is something you could do for me.”