B.B. Cantwell - Portland Bookmobile 02 - Corpse of Discovery (6 page)

Chapter 10

The Wiener Dog Restaurant
was something of an institution along Interstate 5 at Jantzen Beach, the first
bit of land after southbound motorists crossed the Columbia River bridge from
Washington to Oregon. The restaurant’s giant freeway-side sign with a smiling neon
dachshund was a delightful bit of 1960s kitsch, Hester thought. She considered
it a good omen whenever the sign was switched on so that the tail wagged madly as
she drove past.

It was the
perfect place for a birthday lunch for Pim, whose mustard-spotted collection of
Aloha shirts offered mute testimony of her appreciation for anything
hot-dog-like.

“This place
grinds their own meats
and
bakes the poppy-seed kaiser rolls fresh every
morning, and that seedy German mustard in the crockery pot on every table is
flown in straight from the old country,” Pim told Hester and Nate as they were
seated in a red vinyl corner banquette by a bustling little man in brown
jodhpurs, an immaculate white shirt and skinny black tie.

 “Thank you,
Herr Commandant,” Darrow muttered under his breath, feeling for a moment that
the man looked familiar but dismissing it with the thought that he’d watched
too much “Hogan’s Heroes” as a kid.

“So, Pim how did
your practice go?” Hester asked after the host had poured a round of Pim’s
favorite German wine, Blue Nun, and they had toasted her birthday.

 Turning to
Darrow, Hester interjected, “Pim is going to lead one of the fort’s Fourth of
July re-enactments. It’s the first time they’re staging something that gives
recognition to the large workforce of Hawaiians who did much of the farming and
hard labor that kept this frontier outpost running back when the only Portland
anybody around here had heard of was in Maine. The old square-rigger supply
ships coming around the Horn tended to swing out as far as Hawaii before catching
a favorable wind to the Pacific Northwest.”

Darrow listened
attentively. He sometimes teased Hester when she got “all school marm-ish,” but
he also found it charming.

In answer to
Hester’s query, Pim puffed out her coffee-colored cheeks like a squirrel with a
mouthful of walnuts.

“Well, we might
just have to can the whole pandanus weaving demo – I
told
Nancy Mitchell
rhododendron leaves would be a crappy substitute!” the little woman groaned. “But
the dancing is coming along,” she said, turning to Darrow. “We got the pep
squad gals from Hudson’s Bay High across the river there to come up with sort
of an Indian hula, combining Hawaiian dance with some of the native dances from
the local Chinook tribes, who provided most of the wives for the men at the
fort – even the ones who had other wives back East somewhere.” She chortled and
gave the detective a bawdy wink.

Hester chimed in
with a prim smile. “It’s true, I was reading about it in one of the McLoughlin
Collection histories. The soldiers called them their ‘country wives.’ ”

Darrow took a
sip of the wine and winced. “Oh, that’s good and sweet. I’ve got this molar
that’s reacting badly to sugary things.”

After a moment
with his face screwed up, Darrow blinked his eyes three times fast, then
straightened out and directed a question to Pim.

“So – Ranger
McPhee said there was a musket demonstration as part of your gig this morning?”

Pim’s brown eyes
lit up.

“Yeah, I think
that will be one of the more popular things, they’re doing a target practice
with papayas on top of fence posts. Some of the Kanaka folk – that’s what they
called them – actually had brought along seeds and tried to grow them, though
I don’t know how much success they had,” Pim enthused, casually pushing her empty
wineglass toward Darrow. He obliged by refilling it from a carafe. After
hoisting the glass and slurping another mouthful, she continued.

“And what is
really cool is that the guy who’s leading the shooting demonstration is my
friend Pomp Charbonneau. He says he’s something like the great, great, great,
great grandson of one of the guides on the Lewis and Clark expedition! The one
who was married to Sacajawea!”

She sat back
with a triumphant grin. Hester smiled in appreciation, and privately
appreciated watching Darrow arch his luxuriant eyebrows. Pim was obviously
enjoying her day in the spotlight. The bookmobile driver didn’t pause long.

“Pomp is such a
practical joker. You know what he did today? Hester, you remember that awful
raccoon hat he wore in the parade?”

Hester shuddered
and nodded.

“Well he shows
up today for our practice and we all see that he’s wearing that awful hat
again. So we just try to ignore it, until halfway into the shooting practice,
see, he suddenly reaches into the pocket of his buckskin coat, pulls out a tin
of sardines, cracks it open and starts feeding them to his hat!”

Quizzical looks
from Hester and Nate brought a huge laugh from Pim, who eagerly continued.

“It turns out
that not only does he have that awful hat, he also has a real, live pet raccoon
that he’s trained to sit on his head! He calls it Meriwether, just as a poke in
the eye to old Lewis, who apparently never liked the original Charbonneau!”

Satisfied that
her anecdote had properly mystified them, she returned to the subject of the
shooting demonstration.

“Oh, and what
visitors are really going to love – it’s not just with muskets. Pomp has this
classic French flintlock pistol that actually was used by his
great-great-granddaddy-whatever when he was with the Corps of Discovery,” Pim
added, mispronouncing “Corps” like “corpse,” as if talking about a dead body.

Darrow, whose earlier
eyebrow arching was mostly polite pretense, had been absently eyeing the
jodhpur-clad maitre d’, whose lack of customers had led him to fuss over table
settings. The fussing had now evolved into maniacal glass polishing two tables
away from them, his back turned.

But at Pim’s
latest statement Darrow sat up straight and tuned into what she’d said.

“What? You say
he has an old flintlock pistol? That shoots lead balls?”

Pim reveled in
the interest, taking a long sip of the tooth-curlingly sweet riesling before
responding.

“Sure, it’s
pretty much the same kind of ammo they use in the muskets. Why are you so
interested, Inspector?”

Darrow hesitated
just a moment before his intuition told him this was a time to share a
confidence.

“It turns out
that some kind of musket-ball gun might have been involved in Pieter van Dyke’s
murder,” he said, “and it would make sense that it was a pistol, in the
circumstances.”

 As a look of
consternation crossed Pim’s face, Darrow quickly continued. 

“Don’t get me
wrong, I’m not suggesting your friend had anything to do with it, but if he knows
a lot about guns like that I’m thinking he might help me learn more about what
we’re looking for. Does he live nearby?”

Pim squinted at
him, then seemed satisfied with his response.

“Well, actually
he lives out in the wine country, out toward McMinnville. Being a Frenchie, he’s
started making wine in his barn, and it’s almost as good as this!” she said,
holding aloft her glass of Blue Nun.

Before Darrow could
ask more, the maitre d’ was suddenly clearing his throat behind him, making
Nate jump.

“So, what can I
bring you folks for lunch?” he asked.

After they all
agreed on the daily special of bratwurst on kaiser rolls with sides of German
potato salad and house-made sauerkraut, their host retreated to the kitchen.

“Goodness, the
poor man has to do everything here, I guess,” Hester observed sympathetically, trying
to steer the birthday conversation away from murder. “This place used to be so
popular. I wonder if they’re doing OK?”

 “You know, it’s
just not fair how the health crazies have given hot dogs and sausages a bad rap
lately,” Pim responded, speaking with the irresistible charm of a fanatic. “There
used to be five Wiener Dogs around Portland, all with happy wagging signs, and
since everybody started eating sushi, one by one the Wieners have shut down so
now there’s just this original one. And look, we’re the only people here at
lunchtime. Can you believe that?”

“It’s a…a crying
shame when favorite old places fall on hard times,” Hester commiserated.

“It’s been so hard
on Mr. Gerbils, I tell you,” Pim said in a whisper, nodding toward their host,
who was returning from the kitchen.

Darrow stopped wadding
up paper balls from a drinking-straw wrapper and looked up.

“Did you say ‘Gerbils’?”
He turned and cast a sharp look at the restaurateur, now furiously dusting a
wall of framed black-and-white photos showing what appeared to be smiling
celebrities posing as they took bites from Wiener Dog hot dogs. (Was that
really John Wayne?) Recognition dawned in Darrow’s eyes.

“I thought he
was a lawyer!” Darrow hissed, turning back to his dining companions.

“Oh, he is!” Pim
beamed, happy for possessing a bit of knowledge that put the detective at a
disadvantage. She paused to sip some wine.

“And – ? Why’s
he here shoveling bratwurst?” Darrow whispered with impatience.

“Well,
Inspector, this was the Gerbils family’s first endeavor when they came to
America – it started with a mule-drawn lunch wagon that served hot dogs to the
shipyard workers who built all them WWII Liberty ships on the banks of the
Columbia,” Pim explained smugly. “The family got out of Krautland just ahead of
Hitler’s goosesteppers.”

“Pim!” Hester
shushed her, turning pink at her co-worker’s plain language.

 “And the son
who has the business now did become a lawyer, in the same firm as Pieter van Dyke,
as you probably know,” Pim forged on. “But he only ever did that to pay the
bills. His first love is The Wiener Dog. I seen him here every time I’ve come.”

Darrow’s mind
reeled as they ate their lunch. Had Gerbils overheard his less-than-discreet
comments about van Dyke’s murder? He didn’t want to seem insensitive. Nor, when
it came to it, did he need his captain hearing about this from an indignant
colleague of the victim.

His musings were
interrupted only by “yums” and “mmms” as his companions chomped their hot dogs,
punctuated by Pim’s happy squeal as she took a big bite and her bratwurst
sprayed grease across her Aloha shirt, this one decorated with ukulele-playing
surfers riding waves at Waikiki.

“You know they’re
good when that happens,” she crowed.

Darrow insisted
on paying, and when the restaurateur returned his credit card with the slip to
sign, he again stopped and cleared his throat. Darrow looked up.

“Excuse me for
interrupting, but – it is Detective Darrow, isn’t it? I thought I might have
recognized you from the news reports.”

“Oh, yes, Mr.
Gerbils, hello. I didn’t recognize you at first…”

“Of course. It
is a very different context from my law office, but the restaurant is my first
love.” Gerbils’ eyes, seemingly too small for his head, darted nervously as he
gave a soapy grin. “I hope your lunch pleased you?”

Darrow smiled
and nodded. The rotund man hesitated, then continued in a serious vein.

“If you’ll
forgive me, I just want to say that I hope the police remember that Pieter van Dyke
had a long and varied law career, as did his father and grandfather, and many
men went to prison or paid other prices when they were on the losing side
against the van Dykes. People make enemies in our profession.”

He stood
silently, clicking his ballpoint pen, then concluded.

“If you’re
thinking of ruling out the Rajneeshees, Mr. Darrow, I hope you’ll look at
anybody who has gotten out of prison recently – anybody who might have been
there because of Pieter van Dyke or his family!”

Chapter 11

As they stopped
to drop Pim at the bookmobile barn in Northeast Portland, Darrow groaned as he
unfolded his 6-foot-2 frame from the back seat of Hester’s well-traveled
two-door Civic. He had insisted that the “birthday girl” take the roomier front
seat, regretting it the moment Pim hopped in and slid the seat all the way
back, putting Darrow’s knees under his chin.

“Do you know you
have eight rolls of wide, clear tape rolling around the floor of the car back
there?” he asked Hester as he settled into the front seat.

“Oh. That’s
where it keeps disappearing to,” she said with a thoughtful look. “You’re in a
librarian’s car, sir, and that is the librarian’s friend – book tape. It’s used
for mending paperback covers and that sort of thing. Sort of our version of
duct tape. That stuff would mend the Eiffel Tower if it ever broke. I’m rarely
without it.”

His feet still
tingled with the feeling returning to them as Hester guided the car toward the
police headquarters.

They rode silently
for several blocks, but as Hester began to turn toward the Burnside Bridge,
beneath the giant White Stag Sportswear sign with its iconic leaping deer
outlined in white neon, they both started to speak at the same moment.

 “Say, Nate – ”

“Hester – ”

Both grinned
with a little embarrassment. “You first,” Darrow interjected.

Hester smiled
and nodded thanks.

“I didn’t know
if I should say anything in front of Pim, but that Charbonneau friend of hers –
His ancestor’s pistol she was talking about…” Hester hesitated.

“Yes?” Darrow
goaded her, fidgeting with some book tape that had rolled forward from beneath
his seat.

“The pistol
missing from the McLoughlin Collection was a copy of that pistol,” Hester
blurted.

Darrow’s
response was cut off by a shrill beeping from his sport coat. “Oh, that damn
thing again,” Nate cursed as he slapped at various pockets to find the cellphone.
Finally he fished it from an inside breast pocket.

 “Yeah, Harry, I’m
almost back to the office, what’s up?” Darrow responded after the initial
greeting.

Hester heard a
muted squawking from the earpiece and watched Darrow’s brow knit. “No shit,
Sherlock?” he asked his colleague after a few moments. “Harry, hang in there, I’ll
be there in five.”

Pocketing the
phone, Darrow took a deep breath and clicked his teeth together a few times
before explaining to Hester.

“Well, a
fisherman on the creek at the edge of Forest Park spotted something that had
caught in the old grating where the stream disappears under the Thurman
overpass – it must have washed up after our little thunderstorm last night,” he
said. “And it appears we not only may have found the gun that killed van Dyke,
but from the French manufacturer’s name on it and the little ‘Portland City
Library’ metal sticker on the bottom of the grip, I’m betting it’s your missing
pistol.”

Hester’s mouth
hung open. “Oh, my lord.”

A thought dawned
on Darrow and he pulled out his cellphone again.

 “Maybe I can make
good use of this gadget for once,” he announced, peering at a list of phone
numbers that had been preprogrammed into the phone when he got it. Finally
finding what he sought, he hesitantly punched three buttons in succession, and
when an answer came, he spoke briskly.

“Yeah, Konnie,
it’s Nate Darrow. I wonder if you could get me everything you can find on a guy
named Charbonneau. First name of Pomp – P-O-M-P, as far as I know, probably a
nickname but that’s all I have. And I’m definitely looking for an address and
phone if you can find it.”

As he pocketed
the phone again, Hester’s probing look loosened his tongue.

“Look, I’m still
not saying we have anything on Pim’s friend, but there are a few too many
coincidences here and his name keeps popping up,” Darrow explained.

“Goodness, I don’t
think you’re ever going to be Pim’s favorite,” Hester said ruefully.

Darrow gave an
audible sigh. “Thanks for the ride, I’ll tell him she says hi,” he finished, as
he jumped out of the car in front of the Portland Police Bureau.