Barking Detective 04 - The Chihuahua Always Sniffs Twice (8 page)

“Are you sure this is the right address?” asked Pepe, as we pulled to a stop in front of an enormous, three-story Victorian. It was bigger than any of the Victorians around it and had an incredible view of Port Townsend’s harbor.

The house was painted in a bright fuchsia tone, with teal-green trim. A rounded turret with tall narrow windows rose from ground level to just above the second floor. The steep roof was crowned with a widow’s walk, the railing painted apple green.

I double-checked the message on my cell phone. “Yes, this is the address Boswell gave me.”

We went up the front steps to the wide porch, which was full of rattan chairs with floral fabric seats. Pots of fuchsias hung from the rafters, creating a sense of an enclosed garden space. The door had a frosted glass window and an old-fashioned doorbell that you had to turn, like the key of a music box. It made a scratchy, tinkly sound.

I could see vague shapes through the frosted glass, but I didn’t see any sign of movement.

“I do not hear anyone inside,” said Pepe, sniffing around the edges of the door. “Perhaps Boswell has gone out.”

“He told us to meet him here in the morning,” I said impatiently. I was eager to get home.

“Wait, that is not true,” said Pepe. “Do you hear that?”

I put my ear close to the door and heard what Pepe was hearing. It was a terrible sound, a cross between a mournful wail and a baby on a crying jag.

“What is that?”

“A
gato,
” my dog told me, his hackles rising.

“A cat?”

“
Sí,
” Pepe told me, cocking his head toward the door. “A
gato
in
mucho
distress.”

“Really? Since when did you start speaking cat?”

“Distress is a universal language,” said Pepe.

He sniffed around the door while I rang the doorbell. The awful sound continued. If the cat was distressed, I was even more distressed. Surely if Boswell was home, he would hear the ruckus his cat was making and do something about it.

“There is something most definitely wrong,” Pepe told me when we got no response. “We must get inside.”

I rattled the doorknob, but it was locked.

“This way,” said Pepe, racing down the porch stairs. I followed him as he circled around the side of the house. Lacy curtains shrouded the windows, so I couldn’t see inside. A flight of stairs led up to a redwood deck, which was crowded with garden furniture: wrought-iron chairs, glass tables with umbrellas, a fancy grill and tall palm trees in ceramic pots. Pepe was scratching at the screen that covered the back door.

The terrible caterwauling was even louder, so I wasted no time pulling open the screen and trying the back door. It was locked.

“Can you see anything?” Pepe asked me.

I peered through the small window at the top of the door and said, “It looks like the kitchen. What should we do?”

“Try a credit card,” Pepe told me. “This is an old door; it probably has one of those angled locks you can slip with a stiff credit card. I have seen this done many times on
Paraíso Perdido
.”

Just because he saw it on his favorite telenovela didn’t mean it would work for us. But I tried it anyway. I put one of my cards between the wooden door and the doorjamb, found the lock’s position, and pushed the angled bolt back. To my surprise, it worked!

As the door opened inward, Pepe said, “Told you so.”

Just then we heard a very loud thud, immediately followed by a softer thunk. The caterwauling suddenly stopped.

“This is not good,” said Pepe. “Proceed with caution, Geri.”

He didn’t have to tell me twice. I was scared out of my wits. The crashing sound had come from my right. I pushed the door open slowly, glad that it was between me and whatever had made the sound.

“I will protect you!” cried Pepe, rushing past me and around the door.

“Pepe!” I started to push my way inside when my dog came running back and hid behind one of the ceramic pots.

“What is it, Pepe?” I said.

He was shaking, and his big brown eyes were bulging out. “The horror!” he said. “The horror!”

I peered around the door carefully to see what I could see, still keeping the door between me and any danger. All I saw was a huge, fluffy, almost lilac-colored cat. He was at least three times bigger than Pepe, maybe four. And he was crouched next to a huge bag of dry cat food that had split open. The cat was chowing down on the crunchy nuggets that had spilled out and onto the floor. The cat looked up from its meal, fixing me with its golden eyes, then went back to his task.

“Ha!” I said. “It’s just a cat!”

“Just a cat!” said Pepe, from behind me. He had crept up close to my heels. “That is a brute!
Monstruo!
”

“Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from the evil kitty.” I said it jokingly, but it was no joke to Pepe, who had been bested in his one confrontation with my cat Albert.

I tiptoed into the kitchen. I couldn’t help noticing its design. It’s something that comes naturally when you have been trained in interior design. Boswell (or his decorator) was obviously going for a French country look, with a wood-block island, copper pans hanging above it, and cabinets painted a creamy white. A big bouquet of sunflowers sat on the island, next to a pitcher of lemonade. Pepe followed me, staying close.

To the right was a pantry area, like a walk-in closet for food, with every surface full: tins of tea, cans of soup, cereal boxes, cracker boxes, cookies galore, and lots of chocolate. On the floor, I saw two china dishes set out for the cat. Both were empty.

“Aha!” said Pepe. “The
gato
must have been crying to be fed, and when nobody came to feed him, he pushed over his bag of food. That is what we heard.”

“I’m glad,” I said. “Let’s get out of here before someone calls the cops and charges us with breaking and entering.”

“I am with you,” Pepe told me. “This beast will doubtless turn on us when he is through concentrating on his feast.”

“I do wonder why Boswell did not feed his cat,” I said, as I turned to go.

Pepe had tiptoed past the cat and was looking down the dim corridor. He was sniffing away, his head lifted.

“I think I know why,” he said, moving a few feet into the hall, still sniffing. “I smell
muerte!
”

“What?”

“
Sí,
” he said. “The scent of death. It is strong.”

“Oh, no.” I passed the cat and peered down the hall and saw nothing except for a lot of furniture and boxes lining the walls, leaving only a narrow path. “Are you sure?”

“My nose does not lie,” said Pepe. He wagged his head toward an open door on the right. “The scent comes from this room.”

He disappeared through the door, so I had to follow. It was obviously Boswell’s home office. Multiple bookcases lined the walls; the hardwood floor was covered with a Persian rug; and a couple of leather wing-back chairs faced a vintage oak desk at the far end the room.

Pepe had disappeared behind the desk, and that’s where we found Boswell. He was sprawled on the floor, his face a bright red, and his features contorted like a gargoyle’s.

“Oh my God!” I said. “He looks just like Bickerstaff.” He was still wearing the dark blue suit we had last seen him in. Apparently he had died sometime after he left the Carpenter mansion.

Pepe was at work, sniffing the papers surrounding the body, apparently searching for clues. I choked back my immediate desire to flee and forced myself to examine the scene carefully: the jumble of papers on Boswell’s desk, the empty glass on the carpet, and the two large file cabinets behind the desk, all their drawers open, half their files pulled out and scattered about all willy-nilly.

“It looks as though somebody was searching for something,” I said.

“
Sí,
it does,” Pepe responded. I examined the papers on the desk, trying to read them without touching anything. They looked like documents that had been filed in various court cases.

“What did you find?”

“It is very odd,” said Pepe, “but the papers smell like Jimmy G.”

“Our boss?”

“Yes. They smell like cigar smoke and bourbon. But there is one small detail that troubles me. The cigar is a Cohiba.”

“Jimmy G smokes cigars.”

“Yes, but he smokes White Owls. The Cohiba comes from Cuba. It is illegal in the United States.”

I stared at my dog. He always amazed me. “You mean to tell me you can distinguish one cigar from another?”

“Certainly, my dear Sullivan,” said Pepe. “Like my role model, Sherlock Holmes, I have made an extensive study of the variety of tobacco products.”

“Give me a break,” I said, dismissing his ridiculous story as I dialed Jimmy G. It would be good to get his opinion on what to do next. Besides, if he did have anything to do with Boswell’s death, I wanted to warn him before I called the police.

“Hey, doll,” he said. “What’s shakin’?”

“Boswell’s dead.”

“What?”

“Yes. We found him dead in his home office. I think he was poisoned just like Bickerstaff.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

“When did this happen?” he asked.

“How should I know?” I asked. “The last time we saw him was yesterday late afternoon at the Carpenter mansion. He told us to drop by his house in the morning to pick up a copy of the trust document. But when we got here, we found him dead. And it looks like someone was going through his papers.”

“Can you tell if anything is missing?” Jimmy G asked.

“How would I know that?” I asked.

There was another long silence.

“Yeah, how would you know that!” he said, with a harsh laugh.

“Is something wrong, boss?” He was acting really strange.

“Yeah, just having a few problems with the reception. Jimmy G does not like this cell phone. So did you call the police?”

“I’m just about to, but, boss, there’s one more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Pepe says the papers smell like you.”

“Yeah, right! The dog is talking. You must be hallucinating, doll!”

I figured I might as well be direct. “Were you here?”

“Ha! Jimmy G in Port Townsend. That’s a laugh.”

“Well, where are you?”

“Where hasn’t Jimmy G been? Last night he was in Tacoma. Right now he’s at Emerald Downs.”

“Emerald Downs?”

“Got a lotta money riding on a long shot,” he said.

“OK,” I said. “I guess Pepe made a mistake. He wasn’t sure it was you because he said the cigar was a Cohiba, whatever that is.”

Jimmy G gave a weak laugh. “Crazy dog you got there,” he said. “Those are imported cigars. From Cuba. Black-market stuff. Jimmy G could never afford one.”

Jimmy G was sweating by the time he arrived at the farm. It wasn’t just the temperature—which was hovering around ninety at noon—but the call from Geri telling him they had found Boswell dead in his office. An office that appeared to have been rifled. Geri even claimed her rat-dog could put Jimmy G on the scene.

Of course, he quickly convinced her that was ridiculous. Where would Jimmy G get a Cohiba? And how would the rat-dog know about that?

As soon as he stepped out of the car, a dog came running up and circled around Jimmy G in a menacing manner, barking and wagging its big, fluffy tail. Then a woman appeared, dressed in mud-spattered overalls and cowboy boots. She clomped down the road toward the car, calling to the dog, whose name was apparently Phoebe.

“Hello, Jimmy G is looking for the owner of this farm,” he said.

“That’s me,” she said, peeling a heavy leather glove off her hand and shaking his. She had a hearty grip. “Colleen Carpenter. What can I do for you?”

“Jimmy G needs to ask you a couple of questions, ma’am,” Jimmy G said.

“Well, where is this Jimmy G?” she asked, looking at the car to see if someone else was inside.

“Uh, Jimmy G stands here before you,” Jimmy G said, pointing at his tie.

“OK, Jimmy G,” said Colleen. “And what’s this about?”

“The judge hired Jimmy G to ask pertinent questions about the Carpenter trust.”

“Well, you can ask me questions, but I need to watch the still.”

“Still?” That got Jimmy G’s interest.

“Come on, I’ll show you!” she said, turning on her heel and striding off toward the barn. Jimmy G followed her, thinking he was in luck. Been a long time since he had any moonshine.

The still was located in an opening in the barn. It was made of brass and shaped like a giant onion turned on its head. A series of pipes and valves led away from the central chamber to a plastic bucket on the floor. And into the bucket was running a pale brown liquid. Jimmy G stuck his finger into the liquid, put it in his mouth, and started to swish it around. Gah! It was awful. He spit it out onto the straw-covered dirt floor.

Colleen frowned at him. “That’s lavender essential oil. You’re not supposed to drink it!”

Jimmy G nodded. “Absolutely.” He winked. “Do you ever use this apparatus to make something more potable?”

Colleen frowned at him. “We’re a lavender farm,” she said. Aha! Jimmy G noted that she had avoided his question.

“So what do you want to know? Make it snappy. I’ve already had one interruption today. A private detective from Seattle and her little dog.”

“Jimmy G knows those two,” said Jimmy G “A nice-looking gal, with dark curly hair, and a white rat-dog.”

“Yes,” Colleen gave him a sharp look. “That’s right.” She seemed impressed. “She sent her dog to snoop around, but Phoebe ran them off. Right, Phoebe?” Phoebe, who had followed them into the barn, whined softly.

“Did she get any information?”

“Are you kidding? I have nothing to say to anyone on that side.”

“Did you know that Bickerstaff is dead?” Jimmy G asked, watching her face carefully for any sign of surprise.

She wasn’t surprised. “Yeah, I just heard about it. I guess Julian will have to hire a new lawyer to prove that Mrs. C was crazy.”

That was news to Jimmy G, but he decided to go with it. “Was she?”

Colleen laughed, a short, sharp bark of a laugh. “Certainly was!”

“Aha!” Now Jimmy G was getting somewhere.

“Crazy like a fox,” Colleen went on. “She knew exactly what she was doing, from day one. She wanted a piece of land with a nice view. She found a lonely man who was heading for bankruptcy. She swooped in and rescued him with an infusion of cash.”

“What did she get out of it?” Jimmy G wanted to know.

“She liked to be seen as Lady Bountiful, I guess. Made her feel important.”

Jimmy G was confused.

“That was her MO,” Colleen said. “She was always trying to buy love.”

Jimmy G was confused. “Then why leave money to a bunch of dogs?”

Colleen smiled, a rueful smile. “In the end, those dogs were the only ones who loved her.” She thought for a moment. “Except for those parasites who hung around her for the money: her housekeeper and that lawyer of hers.”

Jimmy G flinched, remembering his late-night trip to Boswell’s house. “So you think Boswell took advantage of her?” he asked.

“Totally,” she said. “Julian says it was unprofessional for him to serve as trustee. And I have it on good authority from my brother that he is skimming off the top.”

“
Was
skimming off the top,” Jimmy G said.

“What do you mean ‘was’?”

“Apparently he’s dead.”

“Oh my God!” That did surprise her. All the color drained from her face. “What has he done now?”