Barking Detective 04 - The Chihuahua Always Sniffs Twice (14 page)

“You should have left me at the farm,” said Pepe, “if all you were going to do was run off on a date.”

“It’s not a date,” I said for the third time, while checking in the mirror to see if my efforts at brushing had tamed my curls, which had gone wild after the dunking. “I’m going to question Hugh about the trust.”

I had been looking over the document once I got back to the room. It seemed pretty clear. The use of the property and a generous allowance were set aside for whoever lived in the house and cared for the dogs. Yolanda and Clara were both named as the recipients of this benefit. Hugh also received an allowance for being on call to provide medical services for the dogs, plus he was to be reimbursed for the cost of any medical procedures or services he performed. There were two witnesses to the trust: one was Bernie Bickerstaff, and the other was Lionel Talent. That seemed odd to me. Why would Bickerstaff witness a document that opposed his clients? And how did Boswell know Lionel Talent?

I had tried to call Jimmy G to tell him I had a copy of the trust, but he wasn’t answering his phone.

“I could have protected the dogs and had a little chat with Phoebe,” said Pepe, who was curled up on top of the pillows on the bed in the Rose Room.

“She didn’t seem interested in talking to you,” I pointed out.

“Playing hard to get,” he said. “It is part of the dance of seduction. You might do well to remember it on your date tonight.”

“It’s not a date,” I repeated, checking my watch. It was five minutes to ten, and I was supposed to meet Hugh at ten. I hoped the restaurant was nearby. “Now be good!”

“I will be investigating,” said Pepe in a frosty tone, turning to his iPad, which was lying on the bed.

Kevin was in the lobby. I told him I was meeting someone at Chez Pierre, and he told me it was just two blocks down the hill and two blocks toward the water.

Chez Pierre occupied an old house on the waterfront in which several rooms had been redone to serve as dining areas. When I entered, a few diners lingered over coffee and dessert. They watched with curiosity as the maître d’ whisked me into a secluded alcove, near the kitchen, just big enough for a small table for two in front of a window that looked out over the water. A candle flickered on the table. Out on the water, lights danced on choppy waves as they rocked boats at anchor.

Hugh was already seated at the table, looking over a menu. He was no longer in his pale-blue clinical coat but in a slate-blue silk shirt that brought out the blue in his eyes. He certainly knew how to complement his fair coloring and his piercing eyes.

He stood up and held out my chair for me, his eyes telling me how much he liked what I was wearing, as did the hand that he trailed down my bare arm. I had changed into one of my favorite dresses: a black-and-white printed cotton with a V-neck, which gave me the chance to show a little bit of cleavage, and a full skirt, which made my waist look slim.

“You dress up very nicely,” he said.

I nodded my appreciation, suddenly shy.

“We’ll take whatever is the chef’s pleasure,” said Hugh, handing the menu back to the waiter, who showed up promptly to ask us if we wanted a drink. “And let’s start with some oyster shooters.”

Ever since I was a kid and read the poem about the Walrus and the Carpenter in
Through the Looking-Glass
I had been squeamish about eating oysters. The waiter showed up with two shot glasses, each containing, according to Hugh, a shot of vodka, a splash of Tabasco sauce, and an oyster.

“Now tip your head back and toss it down!” Hugh coached me.

I tried, I really did, but the vodka burned, and the oyster seemed to get stuck in my throat. I swallowed hard, fighting the urge to bring it back up. I finally got it down, but I swear I could feel the oyster trying to swim in my stomach.

Hugh insisted that I try another one and coached me by demonstrating his oyster-swallowing prowess. Luckily, he was so absorbed in savoring the flavor that I was able to spit the oyster out of my mouth and into my napkin. Maybe I could smuggle it home to Pepe, who would no doubt appreciate it more than I did.

“Better?” Hugh asked, smiling at me with his twinkling blue eyes.

I nodded. “Much better,” I agreed, although the two shots of vodka were making my head swim.

“So how was your day today?” I asked Hugh.

“Uneventful until now,” he said, leaning close to me.

Oh, dear! I would really have to get him to back off.

“Mine was anything but,” I said, launching into a description, starting with my unexpected plunge into the ocean (I didn’t mention that I had been breaking and entering at the time) and ending with the shooting of the dogs. It seemed he already knew about that.

“Yes, Yolanda called me and wanted me to come out and inspect the dogs,” he said, ordering two more oyster shooters.

“Did you go check out the dogs?” I asked.

“Yes, she insisted. It’s one of the terms of the trust. I need to be available twenty-four seven for their medical needs, so I had no choice about it.” He didn’t sound happy. “Yolanda can be overly anxious.”

“So were the dogs all right?”

“Yes, not a scratch on them.” The oyster shooters arrived, and Hugh tossed back another one. “Yolanda told me you took her copy of the trust document,” he said.

I nodded. “I’m going to make a copy of it and then return it to her,” I said. “It looks pretty straightforward. Do you really feel the heirs have any chance of overturning it?”

“They’ll try to say Lucille was crazy,” Hugh said bitterly. “They will try to smear my name in the process.”

“How would they do that?” I asked.

“They’ll say I seduced her,” he said. He looked at me, his eyes earnest. “Everyone thought we were having an affair. No one could imagine that a man and woman could spend time together without it being sexual.” His voice lingered on that word.

“I know,” I said. “How silly! Even my dog thought this was a date.”

“Well, isn’t it?” he asked.

“I hope not,” I said. “I have a boyfriend in Seattle—”

He cut me off. “A boyfriend in Seattle doesn’t count,” he said. “He’s not here, is he? And he doesn’t need to know what you do. As far as he’s concerned, you’re just working a case.”

“I am just working a case,” I said. “Now that I’ve got a copy of the trust document, I need to find people who think Mrs. Carpenter was in her right mind when she left all her money to her dogs.”

“Good luck,” said Hugh. “I benefited from the trust, but I still thought she was crazy.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, she claimed her animals spoke to her,” he said. “Are you sure you don’t want this?” He pointed at the oyster shooter.

I shook my head. “Lots of people think their animals speak to them,” I said cautiously.

“I mean she really believed they were speaking to her,” Hugh said, raising his eyebrows. “Like she could understand what they were saying.”

“Well, dogs are very expressive,” I started to say. “You must see that in your line of work.”

“Why are we talking about dogs?” he asked. “We should be talking about what we are going to be doing after dessert. All of those oysters remind me of something else wet and briny that I would love to explore.”

He lifted up my hand, turned it over and began licking my palm, working his tongue in between my fingers. I was so shocked, I couldn’t move for a minute. And then a chill wind blew into the room. I looked up to see Felix in the doorway. He was dressed in his usual working clothes: just black jeans and a soft T-shirt, but he looked magnificent as usual, with his dark hair, just a little too long, framing his pale face, and his dark eyes glittering.

“Felix!” I said getting up. But I didn’t get a chance to say more than that because he turned on his heel and stalked out of the restaurant.

A loudly buzzing alarm went off. It was jarring and roused Jimmy G from a great dream he was having about being in bed with a knockout dame who thought he was the best thing since sliced bread. He’d had this type of dream more than once and always hated to wake up from it.

Still half asleep, Jimmy G reached over to turn off the alarm and was surprised when it shut off by itself. He was even more surprised when he fully opened his eyes and saw Jillian standing beside the bed. She wasn’t wearing a stitch and, in the early morning light, was even more sexy and fetching than the dames in his dreams ever were.

Brother, he thought, it wasn’t a dream, it was real! And she sure wasn’t like those broads in the movies who sat up in bed after having sex, but for some ridiculous reason kept their chests covered demurely with a sheet while they talked to their lovers. Nope—Jillian just stood there before him naked as a jaybird, every mouthwatering curve exposed and a nice smile on her full lips.

He matched her smile as he thought, boy, did Jimmy G get lucky last night!

“Morning, Mr. Dangerous,” Jillian told him. “I’m leaving.”

With that, she whirled away from him, went into the bathroom, and shut the door.

Jimmy G was shocked and just lay there. He was being loved and left. It had happened before. Wasn’t anything to do about it. He sure wasn’t going to protest, let alone beg—it had never worked before anyway. He’d just have to take it like a man. Besides, it was better to be loved and left than never loved at all.

With that thought on his mind, he must have dozed off again, because the next thing he knew, Jillian was standing over him once more, this time fully dressed. She was wearing a short skirt and a halter top that really showed off her breasts.

“Hey, you,” she told him. “I’ll be working my booth at Lost Lakes Lavender Farm. Come and find me if you want to get together later.”

Lucky, lucky, lucky, after all! Jimmy G had been loved but
wasn’t
being left!

He propped himself up on an elbow and was about to reply when Jillian suddenly ripped the covers off of him, exposing his complete nakedness.

“That’s better,” she said with greedy eyes. “I want to see all of you.”

She turned around and grabbed a little camera out of her open suitcase, which sat on the nearby stand. She stood over him, clicking pictures. Startled, Jimmy G quickly pulled the covers back up over his chest.

“Ah, Mr. Dangerous is bashful, too,” said Jillian, tossing the camera back into the suitcase. She headed for the door, turned, blew him a kiss, said, “I like that in a tough guy,” then went out the door with a wicked giggle.

Jimmy G wasn’t bashful or shy or self-conscious about his body, he had just been . . . well . . . surprised. Guys were supposed to ogle naked dames, not the other way around. In any event, it seemed certain he and Jillian would be having a repeat love-session. He’d rise to the occasion, and she could ogle to her heart’s content.

The alarm clock read 6:00
AM
, but he was too excited to sleep with the day holding such promise. A smoke and some coffee would put him right, so he dragged himself out of the sack, found the little motel-sized coffee maker, and put two of the understrength java pouches in it so it would have some kick. Then he took a leak, looked at himself in the mirror (he thought his physique was pretty buff for a guy in his early forties; no wonder she liked it), and poured a cup of the half-brewed java, which was extra strong, just like the java-juice he got in Iraq (so heavy-duty that he and the other troops called it knife-and-fork coffee).

As he was unwrapping a stogie, Jimmy G remembered that smoking wasn’t allowed in the room, so he put on his pants and sport coat, no shirt, and stepped outside. It was going to be another hot day, he thought, lighting his cigar—nice and warm already, even at this time of the morning. Gonna be a busy one, too. The motel parking lot was full. The traffic was constant: cars on the road, pedestrians on the sidewalk. A couple of buses rumbled by, bearing signs that read
TOUR #1—FARMS A TO C
and
TOUR #3—FARMS G TO J
.

When he went back into the room, he noticed that Jillian had left her large suitcase open on the little folding stand by the TV set. Always one who’d stoop to snoop, Jimmy G flipped on the nearby floor lamp and had a look-see. On the right side of her suitcase were a few pairs of the same style of satin-smooth, bikini panties he’d come to appreciate last night, ditto for some silky bras, and a couple of short shorts he’d like to see her in.

In one side pocket, he found the camera and a pair of binoculars. The other side pocket was full of envelopes. All of them were past-due notices for bills: electric bill, cell phone bill, two credit card bills that showed maxed-out balances, and a notice from her mortgage company threatening foreclosure if she missed another payment. She had written across that one:

That’s nice, thought Jimmy G. He understood financial troubles better than most since he’d had plenty of his own over the years. He poured himself more coffee, sat down in the small chair by the front window, and smiled as he thought about his new paramour. He was glad everything was going so well for her, because it sure was for him.

Just then the motel phone rang. At first, Jimmy G wasn’t going to answer it. Then he thought maybe it was the management giving him a wake-up call, not that he had scheduled it, but maybe Jillian had. And then his heart lifted a little as he thought maybe Jillian was calling him. Maybe she missed him so much already, she just had to talk to him. After all, she was the only one who knew he would be there.

He picked up the phone. “Loverman, at your service.”

“I don’t like it that you’re messing with my sister,” said a voice. With a sinking feeling, Jimmy G recognized the voice of Judge Julian Valentine. “And I don’t like it,” the judge went on, “that you promised to deliver the trust document to me and you haven’t done it yet.”

“Jimmy G got distracted,” Jimmy G said.

“Don’t you ever refer to my sister as a distraction,” said the judge.

“Jimmy G meant she’s mighty fetching,” Jimmy G tried to explain.

“She’s a wacko, is what she is,” the judge said. “You have no idea who you’re messing with.”

Jimmy G wasn’t sure if that referred to the judge or Jillian.

“I’m in Sequim, only about five blocks from the motel at the headquarters for the lavender festival. I’ll be here for two hours. If the trust document is not delivered to me within that time, you will be very sorry.”

Before Jimmy G could reply, the judge hung up.

Now what to do? Jimmy G couldn’t afford to alienate his client. Especially since his client had such an attractive sister. He paced around and smoked another cigar and drank another cup of coffee, and then he had an idea. Maybe Geri had found the trust document. The last time he had talked to her, she was on her way to the vet’s office to see if he had a copy of it.

He picked up his cell phone and dialed her number. It only rang once before she picked up.

“Felix!” she practically squealed. “I’m so glad you called. I’m so sorry about what happened.”

“No need to be sorry, kiddo,” said Jimmy G. “Since this is Jimmy G, not your boy toy.”

“Jimmy G.” Her voice went flat. There was a shuffling sound. Perhaps she had dropped the phone. Then she said, in a sharper tone: “Do you realize what time it is?” Then she told him what time it was: “It’s seven o’clock in the morning.” Jimmy G heard the rat-dog make some noise in the distance—sounded like he was protesting, too.

“Jimmy G is looking for the trust document, doll,” he said. “Tell me you found it.”

More rustling. “Well, to tell you the truth, I do have it,” she said. She sounded kind of proud of herself. Well, she should be.

“Nice work!” he said. “Jimmy G needs you to deliver it. Judge Valentine is at the headquarters for the lavender festival in Sequim.” He read off the address. “He needs it delivered to him by nine this morning. Can you do that for Jimmy G?”

“I guess,” she said. He could tell she was starting to wake up. He heard the rat-dog barking in the background. “Why would we deliver it to the—”

Jimmy G cut her off before she could ask any more questions. “Jimmy G out!” he said, and hung up. The day was starting very well. With Geri taking care of his obligation to the judge, he could find some breakfast, then head over to the Lost Lakes Lavender Farm to check out Jillian.

As he was heading out the door, he thought about the camera. It really wasn’t fair that she had naked photos of him. He’d have to even up the score. He picked it up and put it into the pocket of his sport coat.