B.B. Cantwell - Portland Bookmobile 02 - Corpse of Discovery (12 page)

Chapter 22

Harry Harrington
and his wife had just left the old stone St. James Lutheran Church on the leafy
downtown park blocks when the pocket of Harry’s green herringbone suit started burbling.

“Hang on a
second, Harriet, it’s that doggone new gizmo,” Harry said to his spouse, a sallow-faced,
54-year-old, 100-pound CPA whose wheat-colored hair hid in a pillbox hat above
her pumpkin-colored linen blazer and skirt. The pair had met at a Willamette
University sorority party 30 years earlier and thought the combination of their
names was so funny they had no choice but to wed.

Harrington
finally wrestled the phone from his pocket and hit the button to answer.

Harry wasn’t
adept with the new phone. Besides the IBM Selectric typewriter he still used to
write reports, his closest brush with anything “high-tech” was during his days
of using a walkie-talkie in the Navy. So whenever he spoke into the new phone
he held it out in front of him and spoke loudly, with careful enunciation.

“YES, NATE, WHAT
IS IT?”

“Listen, Harry,
sorry to bug you on Sunday, I know you’re probably only just getting out of
church, but there’s a loose end we need to follow on van Dyke.”

“WELL, NATE,
LIKE MY MOTHER ALWAYS USED TO SAY, ‘SORRY DOESN’T BUTTER THE PARSNIPS!’ BUT WHAT
DO YOU NEED, BUDDY?”

“I’m heading out
to Hillsboro to interview that Charbonneau clown again, but I wonder if you
could check if there might be anybody who van Dyke or his family made an enemy
of, in their legal profession, who got sent to prison and maybe just got
released.”

Harrington,
having listened with the phone pressed to his ear, again held it out in front
of him.

“OH, I GET IT,
NATE, YOU’RE THINKING SOME EX-CON MIGHT HAVE HAD A MOTIVE TO OFF VAN DYKE?”

“Well, you never
know. Maybe a check of prison release records…”

“I DON’T HAVE TO
CHECK PRISON RECORDS, I CAN TELL YOU OFF THE TOP OF MY HEAD. YOU GOTTA
REMEMBER, YOU’RE WORKING WITH A GUY WHO’S BEEN AROUND THIS TOWN A WHILE. AND IT
HAPPENS I READ IN THE PAPER THAT ONE OF THE HEAD RAJNEESHEES INVOLVED IN THAT
SALAD BAR POISONING, MA ANAND CARLA, GOT OUT TWO WEEKS AGO.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m
sure that got our chief all hot and bothered, but what does that have to do
with van Dyke?” 

“WELL YOU MIGHT
ASK, WHAT DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH VAN DYKE?” Harrington smirked. He loved to
show off his near-encyclopedic knowledge of the Oregon legal system, which Nate
was quickly learning to value.

 “Yes, Harry.”
Darrow put on his patient voice. “I did ask.”

“WELL, NATE, IT
SO HAPPENS HER APPEAL WAS ONE OF THE LAST CASES THAT WENT BEFORE OLD JUDGE VAN
DYKE, PIETER’S GRANDFATHER, BEFORE HE RETIRED FROM THE SUPREME COURT IN SALEM.
HE SPOKE OUT STRONGLY FOR CONVICTION AND WAS PRETTY MUCH CREDITED FOR SEEING
SHE GOT LOCKED UP FOR 10 YEARS. HER 10 YEARS WERE UP LAST WEEK.”

The phone line
was silent as Darrow took this in.

“OK, well that’s
a connection, I’d say. But how likely is it that she’d hold that big a grudge
against the judge’s grandson?”

“WELL, MAYBE YOU
DIDN’T FOLLOW THE RAJNEESHEE STORY AS CLOSELY AS I DID, BUT YOU NEED TO KNOW
THAT MA ANAND CARLA WAS MORE LOOP-DE-LOO THAN ANY OF THEM, AND BOY DID SHE HAVE
A MOUTH ON HER. WHEN THE OLD MAN READ HIS JUDGMENT SHE GOT UP IN COURT AND SAID
– AND I QUOTE – ‘I WILL COME BACK AND FUDGE UP YOUR LIFE, MISTER, AND I WILL
FUDGE UP YOUR CHILDREN’S LIVES, AND YOUR CHILDREN’S CHILDREN!’ ONLY THING IS,
NATE? SHE DIDN’T SAY ‘FUDGE.’ ”

Again, Darrow
brooded silently for a moment.

“Rajneeshees
again. I just don’t believe this,” he said, adding a word that also wasn’t
fudge. “How did we miss this connection earlier? The chief will skin us if this
has anything to do with van Dyke’s murder.”

By now, Harriet
Harrington was plucking at Harry’s sleeve and pointing to her watch to remind
him they had a date for mimosas with the pastor and his wife. Harry was glad he
had an excuse to beg off. The pastor’s wife always used the cheapest frozen
orange juice in her mimosas. Harry claimed it was made using nothing but pits
and peels.

“YEAH, NATE, I
THINK THE CHIEF WILL BE HOT ON THIS RAJNEESHEE CONNECTION AGAIN. LET ME SEE IF
I CAN TRACK HER DOWN.”

“OK, Harry, why
don’t you make a few phone calls to old friends and neighbors, but keep it on
the sly. If that doesn’t lead anywhere we’ll take a run out to Sauvie Island
first thing tomorrow, just to be sure she hasn’t shown up there. Right now I’m
psyched up and loaded for bear to go to work on Charbonneau. With his link to
the pistol I still see him as our best suspect.”

“OK, LOADED FOR
BEAR, I HEAR YOU. SAUVIE ISLAND FIRST THING TOMORROW. ROGER THAT, NATE.”

As Harrington
punched the disconnect button and dropped the phone into his pocket, another
member of the St. James congregation, standing behind an oak tree a few feet
away, pulled her phone out of her purse and punched a quick-dial button.

“Yeah, Sid?
Listen, it’s Misty. I need a satellite van first thing tomorrow for Sauvie
Island. And book me with a live feed for the morning news. I’ve got a break on
the van Dyke case.”

Chapter 23

As he drove
toward the Washington County Jail in Hillsboro, Darrow remembered another phone
call he needed to make. He was in a sour mood, driving a boxy old brown Volvo
station wagon on loan from Orvald, his cranky Swedish auto repairman. He’d had
to leave Sven at the garage again – something about tie rods that sounded
expensive.

Steering with
his knees and holding the cellphone even with the dashboard so he could more or
less watch the road, he managed to punch the number for the Police Bureau’s
lab.

The phone buzzed
six times before being answered by a youthful voice that Nate recognized as
James Chin, a twenty-something whiz kid who ran the lab on Sundays. 

“Hey, Jimmy, it’s
Nate Darrow, calling to see if you have anything yet on the Rose Medallion.”

An ear-rattling
slurping sound indicated that the bristle-haired science geek was in his usual
pose, with his red Converse All Stars up on a desk while sucking Mountain Dew through
a straw from a Big Gulp cup.

“Oh, sure, they
filed the report late last night, I was going to give you a buzz. Hang on.”

Nate heard the
phone drop, followed by a solid minute of shuffling noises and the sound of a
tinny radio being tuned to a rap station before Chin picked up again.

“Yeah, here it
is. The only fingerprints were from the medallion’s finder, Anthony Pucci, 28,
of Gresham. There was some dog hair – no surprise there, I understand. Traces
of what we think is squirrel dung. We didn’t have a confirmed sample to
authenticate by, but if you want me to run over to the Park Blocks I could
probably remedy that. Oh, and get this: sausage grease. Quite a bit of it in
the fine grooves of the medallion’s detailing.”

Darrow’s knee
jerked and he dropped the phone as he grabbed for the steering wheel to keep
the wagon from veering into an 18-wheeler next to him on the Sunset Highway.

After ducking to
the floor to retrieve the phone and getting an airhorn blast from the truck in
the next lane, he responded to Chin.

“Tell me more
about that last thing. Did you say sausage grease?”

More pages
flipping, another slurp and the sound of chopsticks scraping a takeout carton
as Chin finished last night’s leftover chicken chow yuk from Hung Far Low, one
of Portland’s oldest Chinese restaurants.

“Umm, yeah,
there was pork and beef fat mingled with spices typical of, like, German
sausage or bratwurst, says here.”

“Do me a favor
and check the chain of evidence. Wasn’t that medallion turned in to officers on
the scene at Forest Park? The finder didn’t take it anywhere else, right?”

“Uh, let’s see.
Nope, nowhere else. Officers took custody of the medallion at the park and gave
the finder a receipt on-site.” 

Darrow’s eyes
bounced from his rearview mirror to his speedometer and back to the road as his
mind worked.

“And you say the
grease was worked into the crevices on the medallion? Not something that would
have just happened from being casually handled by someone who worked in a
kitchen?”

“Well, you might
need to check that with Don Finkle, who wrote the report, but his notes here
indicate the amount of grease in the grooves of the medallion’s design – like
the lines that make up the rose image – was consistent with the whole medal
being rubbed with, or even dipped in, grease.”

Darrow didn’t
hesitate to respond this time.

“Jimmy, if I
brought you a sausage from the right restaurant, could that grease be matched
to its source?”

“Ummm, yeah, I
think it probably could be. We could even do DNA analysis on the pork and beef
that could be a real lock if you needed.”

Darrow thanked
him and punched the disconnect button just as he took the exit at Hillsboro,
then pulled the wagon to the shoulder and hit quick-dial for another number.

“Hey, Harry, it’s
me again.”

“NATE, LONG TIME
NO HEAR!”

“Look, Harry, I
know this is messing up your plans for the day, but I wonder if you and Harriet
like German food, ’cause I gotta ask another favor. When you’re done checking
out the rabid Rajneeshee lady, could you maybe take your wife to lunch at the Wiener
Dog, out at Jantzen Beach? Enjoy your meal, but also say you’re having a party
later and want an order of every sausage they make, packed to go. And take it
straight to Jimmy Chin in the lab. He’ll be expecting you.”

“HOT DOGS FOR
SUNDAY BRUNCH? I DON’T KNOW HOW WELL THAT WILL PLAY WITH HARRIET!”

“Talk up
sauerbraten and spätzle, but be sure and get takeout of every sausage and
bratwurst on the menu. I have a hunch I can tell you about later, but if you do
this and it pays off I’ll buy beer on Fridays for a month.”

“OK, NATE, I
LIKE THOSE ODDS.”

“And Harry? Don’t
let on you’re a cop, just act hungry.”

Chapter 24

Hester had spent
the afternoon doing some laundry and packing for the next day’s trip on the
Columbia River.

 She was finally
sipping a glass of good Dundee pinot gris in her cozy little yellow kitchen as
she stirred a bubbling pot of golden curry sauce and watched the baby carrots
swim among islands of Yukon Gold potato. Cooking good food – especially comfort
food her mother taught her to make – always made her hum happily.

Every time she
opened the fridge she stole another peek at dessert: a tray of cream puffs
she’d concocted in between washing loads. She’d carefully drizzled the crusty tops
with the just-right thin icing made from bittersweet baker’s chocolate, as
prescribed in the recipe from her grandmother’s homemade cookbook. This was the
family dessert she’d grown up adoring.

“I remember the
first time I got them just right,” she told Bingle T. as he sat on her kitchen
windowsill watching for hummingbirds at a new feeder hanging outside. “When I
took a bite and they tasted just like Nana’s, I got tears in my eyes.”

Lost in thought,
she took a sip of wine, then finished the memory.  

“Of course I
didn’t get the proportions right, and each cream puff was the size of a human
head, but they tasted great!” she said with a chuckle.   

When the door
buzzer sounded at 6:25 Hester quickly flipped on the rice cooker, stepped to
the hallway mirror to push a steam-limped red curl back behind her ear and
swung open the door to welcome Nate Darrow.

The evening was
still warm, but on his return from Hillsboro Darrow had stopped back in his
apartment for a cool shower and now presented himself in baggy, caramel-colored
cotton slacks, Teva sport sandals and a burgundy polo shirt. He carried a small
bouquet of purple irises and a bottle of wine.

Hester had
changed into a blue batik butterfly top, somewhat resembling an old tablecloth
with a hole for her head, over a pair of white culottes. Her bare feet showed
off freshly polished crimson-red toenails.

Nate looked her
up and down. “My, that’s a more bohemian look than usual for the lady of this
house.” He paused. “It suits you, Hester.”

 She batted her
eyelashes exaggeratedly, smiled and led him to her cheerful kitchen and a
wicker chair at a round, two-seater pedestal table next to a pair of open
windows. The table held two place settings on mats of red linen.

“We’re dining at
the Round Table tonight, Sir Nathaniel of Everett Street, because this lovely
southeasterly breeze kicked in a half-hour ago and it’s rather heavenly with
the windows thrown wide,” she said. “I’ve got fans running in the rest of the
apartment but they’re just moving the hot air around.”

“Ah, this is
nice,” Darrow said, laughing as a little freshet coming up from the river wrapped
a gauzy curtain around his head.

“Oh, put this
cookbook on the sill to hold those down. Bingle was perched there until he
heard the buzzer. He usually goes into hiding until he’s decided it’s someone
he likes.”

The furry,
gray-striped cat took that moment to stalk into the kitchen with his tail up
like an exclamation point, leap onto Darrow’s lap and then back to the
windowsill, where he promptly settled into meatloaf position to look outside.

Surprise flashed
across Hester’s face. “Well! I guess you’ve passed muster, good knight. Cold
beer or a drop of this nice wine?”

“I’ll have what
you’re having, please.”

As she pulled
down another crystal goblet, one of two she’d brought home from a trip to Venice,
Hester took the opportunity to ask Nate about his day – and how the case was
going.

“Oh, God, I
spent a hot afternoon in an airless little interrogation room with Gomer, I
mean Pomp, Charbonneau.”

He squeezed his
palms against both temples and made a sound like a deflating tire.

“Anyway – our
survivalist Gaul refused to lawyer up, protesting his innocence, but when it
became apparent that we really did think he might have killed van Dyke, he spilled
like milk. He now admits that he made van Dyke strip and staked him out in the
horseshoe pit but insists he only did it to humiliate him because van Dyke had
made a chump of him – Charbonneau – by cutting him out of the big payoff from
the Japanese collector.”

He took the wine
glass from Hester and gave it a swirl and an appreciative sniff before
continuing.

“Actually, it’s
hard to blame old Pomp for being a little ticked, since van Dyke seemed
perfectly happy to let him take the blame for counterfeiting the Flying Canoe cover
when all the time Charbonneau thought he was just making a collector’s copy.”

Darrow brooded
for a moment, then decided to share more details with his neighbor, who’d
proven she could be a discreet – and helpful – sounding board.   

“Charbonneau
says he called van Dyke and arranged a midnight meeting in the park, demanding
that van Dyke share some of his newfound wealth. He wouldn’t exactly own up to it
but I gather old Pomp was dabbling in the ancient art of blackmail, something
along the line of ‘bring me 20,000 bucks or I’ll tell my friends at the
newspaper about your sleight of hand with library property.’ He claims van Dyke
showed up with the old pistol and no cash, hoping to scare Charbonneau off. But
van Dyke stunk of gin, and it wasn’t hard to take the gun away, Charbonneau
says.”

Hester sat down
opposite Nate and set out a plate of butterfly crackers with runny brie topped
by jalapeño jelly. She sipped at her wine and put her head back to compute what
he was telling her.

“So maybe the
pistol
had
been returned to the library from Fort Vancouver, and Pieter
van Dyke borrowed it because it was an easy way to get a gun?” Hester posed.

Darrow tasted
his wine for the first time as he thought back over the story and nodded.

“Out of
curiosity, I made a quick call and van Dyke’s wife claimed he never owned a
gun. Hated them, and wouldn’t know how to shoot one.”

Hester took this
in.

 “So Charbonneau
admits he was the shooter?”

“No. But of
course he wouldn’t, would he? He swears on the good name of Sacajawea – who I
guess really is his great-great-grandmother or something – that van Dyke was alive
when he left the park that night, and swearing a blue streak at him until his
mouth was taped.”

“What about the
library pistol?” Hester asked, hopping up to stir the bubbling curry and then
returning to the little table.

Darrow paused
while he munched down a cracker, giving an appreciative “Mmmm, mmm” as he chewed.

“He says once
van Dyke was trussed up, he left the old library pistol sitting on van Dyke’s
fat belly, unfired. He figured being caught with the purloined pistol would
cook van Dyke’s goose even if he didn’t squeal on him.”

Hester spread
brie on a cracker and chewed it in thought. “But wait – what about the whole
Rose Medallion connection? How did that play into it?”

Nate shook his
head in mild wonder.

“Well, that’s
where I have to start wondering if Charbonneau might just be innocent – of
murder, anyway. He says he wanted van Dyke to be humiliated and uncomfortable
for a few hours but he
didn’t
want the guy to be out there so long that
he’d die of exposure. So, see, he works at
The Oregonian
and helps put
together the page that gives the Rose Medallion clue every day. He knows that
as the search goes on, the daily clues get more and more obvious about where
the medallion is hidden, and this search was already only three days away from what
they call ‘the giveaway clue.’ So he manages to switch clues for that next day,
inserting the giveaway clue – something the contest coordinator at the
newspaper confirmed for me, and is royally peeved about, by the way. Considering
the fanatical legions that hunt for this thing, compounded by the big cash
prize this time, Charbonneau says his clue switch virtually guaranteed that not
only would someone find van Dyke within a half-hour of the first paper hitting
the streets that next morning, but it ensured maximum exposure, if you’ll
pardon the term, of van Dyke’s humiliation – which apparently Charbonneau
planned to carry through with whether old Pieter brought the payoff or not.”

“But hold on, what
about the press breakdown?” Hester responded. “We were the first people to find
van Dyke, and it was long after the normal time for the newspaper to come out.
None of the medallion hunters got the clue in time.”

“Right. Charboneau
admits things didn’t go as planned. But he says he had no way of knowing about
the press breakdown when he left van Dyke; that’s a part of the printing process
that happens after he goes home. He claims it gave
someone
extra time to
come across van Dyke and kill him. Charbonneau insists he left van Dyke by
quarter to 1, and the medical examiner places the time of death at between 3
and 5 a.m. ”

Thinking skeptically,
Hester made a face as if she’d gotten a piece of bad cheese.

“But if the Rose
Medallion was worth $50,000, why wouldn’t Charbonneau have just taken it with
him? Then he wouldn’t have cared about any payoff from Pieter van Dyke!”

“Well, as an
Oregonian
employee, neither Charbonneau nor any of his relatives was eligible to claim the
prize. He says he pulled the medallion off the park sign and left it on a
ribbon around van Dyke’s neck, just to make the humiliation complete.”

“Wow,” Hester
sighed. “The whole thing sounds diabolical. And if it’s true it certainly
steers suspicion away from Charbonneau as the killer, unless he’s one of those
people who really wants to be caught. Maybe he
is
that weird?”

 Darrow absently
fingered the leaves of the irises Hester had put in a vase on the table, then
spread brie on two crackers and munched them quickly down, his eyes momentarily
popping wide when he got to the hot jelly. He sipped some cool wine, then spoke
again.

“The thing is – he
has an oddball sense of humor, but I have to say this guy doesn’t feel like a
liar to me, Hester. And I’ve listened to a few good liars in my day.”

She put down her
wineglass and hopped up to check on the steaming rice before responding.

“So if not
Charbonneau,
who?
”

Darrow shrugged.

“I’m still
noodling that. Got a few irons in the fire. In the meantime, Charbonneau’s
confession lets us hold him on obstruction, at least, and assault, maybe with
intent. And we’re moving him to our jail.”