Claire Gulliver #02 - Washington Weirdos (17 page)

Then he looked gravely into MiMi’s eyes. “We need to know what made him so sick before we can administer an antidote. You need to know that without this information, we may not be able to save him.”

MiMi sat down in the waiting room, suddenly old looking. She couldn’t stop her tears. “Oh Claire, you must think I’m a dotty old fool. Getting this upset about a dog.”

Before Claire could answer, Amy went over and hugged her grandmother. “But Gramimi, Tuffy’s your baby, isn’t he?”

MiMi cried harder, nodding, hugging the child closer.

Claire turned to Charlie. “You have a cell phone, don’t you? I need to contact Jack. And I need his cell number.”

Charlie nodded and led the way outside. He punched in the number and handed the phone to Claire.

“Jack? This is Claire.” She ignored his surprised greeting. “Jack, we have a sad thing happening here at the Lickmans’. You know the dog, Tuffy? Well, he is very sick this morning. The doctor seems to think it is some kind of poison. He’s been questioning the spinach soufflé as Tuffy had eaten more than his share from the floor last night...and he vomited quite a bit of it, but...”

Jack’s response was a squawk and then he shouted, “The spinach? Wasn’t that what your guy was handing off before he hit the road?”

She nodded. Then realizing he couldn’t see, she answered, “Yes, that’s what’s so suspicious. We don’t know what he was doing in the Lickmans’ kitchen. But I for one assume he was up to no good.”

Jack was silent. Then he responded, “We need to get a sample and have some tests run. Do you have any there?”

“No, it went all over the floor and what Tuffy didn’t get went in the garbage. I understand the caterers took all the trash away with them when they cleaned up, so I don’t know where it would be.”

“Okay, I do. I’ll have somebody track it down. Hopefully, it didn’t get picked up yet. The guys hate to go through the dump.”

Claire shuddered with revulsion just thinking about that search.

“We do have a towel here that Mrs. Kramer used to clean him off last night, and it has some soufflé on it. Would that help?”

“Maybe. Where are you?”

Charlie gave her the address and she repeated it to Jack. “They’re going to pump Tuffy’s stomach, but that’s all they can do until they identify the cause. The doctor is sending the sample we have here to a laboratory for testing. But he thinks it could be toadstools or poisonous mushrooms that Tuffy got into in the woods. I’m more suspicious. I suspect foul play.”

“I’ll get someone out there to pick up a piece of that towel, and we’ll see how fast we can work. Where can I reach you?”

She gave him the hospital’s name and number as well as Charlie’s cell phone number before going back inside to sit with MiMi and Amy.

The doctor reported that Tuffy’s blood work showed no clues as to the source of his ailment, so their only course of action was to pump his stomach. They waited through that, and Tuffy still stubbornly held on.

Then the doctor sent them home as there was nothing more they could do. The towel had been split in two. One half he sent to the local lab for testing. The other half was waiting for the person Jack was sending to pick it up. And the doctor promised he would stay with the dog for the duration of the crisis. “I’ll call immediately with any change.” His eyes were sympathetic. “Good, or bad.”

The ride back was at a much more sedate pace and Claire watched amazed as MiMi pulled herself together, preparing to assume her duties as hostess even though Claire knew her heart was breaking.

“Jack, we got your guy.” Wiley’s voice boomed over Jack’s cell phone.

“Great! Where is he? I have lots of questions.”

“I don’t think you’ll get many answers, but I’m going there now. Wanna come?”

“Naturally, do you want me to meet you somewhere?”

Wiley gave him detailed directions to the boat launch parking lot and hung up with a telling comment, “No hurry now.”

Jack plugged his phone into his car lighter socket; he had already used it so much today the battery was getting low. He headed out of D.C. toward the Lickmans’. They had their sample of the spinach soufflé. It turned out that because one of the vans had been stolen, the caterers had to crowd all their workers, the leftover food and the dishes into the two remaining vans. Consequently, they had left the trash at the Lickmans’ and sent someone back early this morning to get it. In doing so, they had missed the scheduled trash pick-up at the caterer’s. That was a lucky break. But Jack still sent someone out to the veterinarian hospital for the towel as a back up.

Jack’s colleagues made arrangements through the FBI for a laboratory in Maryland to do an immediate analysis. He hoped to hear the results soon. The personnel files at the catering company contained bogus information on the man who fled the Lickmans’. But it turned out the cousin, who recommended him for the job, was a bonafide person. The cousin reluctantly identified the man they were seeking as Anthony Berberson. The police files provided further information on him. He was known as Tony the Pickman, a small-time hoodlum who did anything for hire.

The puzzle was coming together piece by piece. However, they still had no clue as to the purpose of these strange happenings. Tony the Pickman could be the key to this mystery.

Jack pulled off the road behind a pickup with a boat in tow and then waited while the driver maneuvered a u-turn to get back out to the road. A policeman was blocking the entrance to the lot, patiently turning away boaters planning to use this facility to launch their boats into the Chesapeake Bay.

Jack ignored the gesture to turn around, rolling his car forward so he could talk out of the window. “I’m Jack Rallins. I’m to meet Wiley Blackford from Vantage Airlines. Has he gotten here yet?”

The policeman nodded and gestured to the far end of the lot where a group of emergency vehicles, cars and people were clustered. Then he waved Jack into the lot before he stopped another boater who had pulled up close to Jack’s bumper. Jack angled his car across the large empty lot pulling up beside a car he thought might be Wiley’s.

When he stepped out of the car onto the steaming asphalt, Wiley separated himself from a group of men and motioned him over to the trees bordering the edge of the lot.

“Whew, let’s stand in the shade a bit. It’s gonna be a scorcher today.” The big man had on lightweight chinos and a golf shirt, but was still perspiring.

“Is it him?” Jack wasn’t a cop but had been in the business long enough to recognize a crime scene. He had surmised his man wouldn’t be alive after Wiley’s comments on the phone. The activity in the parking lot confirmed his hunch.

“They think so. You can’t identify him. His face is blown away, but his wallet contained identification of one of his known aliases, and they’re checking his fingerprints.”

“How far is this from the Lickmans’?”

“Not far. It’s maybe four miles from the turn off. But it’s the other way. You’d expect him to head over the bridges to D.C. or Baltimore. And that’s where they found the truck, run off the road about six miles away but on the other side of the Lickmans’. Maybe he had someone waiting.” He shrugged. “Who knows? But somehow, I think Tuffy dashing into the kitchen with everyone following was a total surprise. Why else would he have left so early that he had to steal one of the trucks to get away?

“Detective Maynard, over there, is in charge. As soon as he finishes what he’s doing I’ll introduce you. He’s getting some mug shots of this guy for you and Claire to look at.”

Jack looked around and saw the half dozen or so cars and boat trailers parked in the lot. “I thought they closed this launching ramp.”

Wiley followed his gaze. “Apparently these belong to people who were in the water and gone before the body was discovered. The guy who called it in is over there.”

Jack saw the new model SUV with a color-coordinated boat still sitting on the attached trailer. The owner paced around the car while a woman, probably his wife, sat inside the vehicle trying to entertain two young children, who were more interested in watching what the cops were doing.

“He’s not having such a good day today.”

“No, I guess not.”

Detective Maynard approached and offered his hand to Jack. “So, you think you know this guy?”

Jack shrugged. “I may have met him a couple of times, but I can’t say I know him.”

“Probably just as well. I wouldn’t consider him the kind of person who would be a fun friend.” He led the way back toward the body, which was now being zipped into a body bag in preparation for removal. “He was definitely killed right here. Three shots, one directly to the head, probably when he was already down. Someone wanted to make sure he was dead. No witnesses that we can find. No vehicles, no tire tracks. And that doesn’t get us any answers, does it?” He looked resigned. “Wiley filled me in on some of what has happened over the past few months. Anything you want to add?”

Jack shook his head. “Wiley told you about the arrangement we have working with the FBI? The guy you need to keep informed is Marcus Ng.” He slowly gave Marcus’ phone number while Detective Maynard scribbled in his pocket-sized notebook.

“When will you have the pictures for us to see?”

“The guy’s on his way. He should be here in a half hour.”

“Fine, we’ll wait. Thanks. Wiley will keep you informed if we come up with anything else. Or Marcus will. Hopefully, you’ll do the same.”

The weary detective nodded, he knew the drill, and then he turned back to the technicians who were clamoring for his attention.

Claire groaned as Great Auntie Maude’s ball smacked hers, knocking her out of range for the clear shot she thought she had at the next wicket. This was not the game she thought it was going to be when she agreed to play.

“Why don’t you join us for a nice game of croquet, dear?” Great Auntie Maude had asked. It sounded harmless enough even as she explained the house rules in effect. She remembered croquet as a pleasant diversion on a warm summer day. How was she to know they were all sharks just looking for fresh blood?

She looked at the other players. JoJo was playing along with several of the more elderly houseguests. They appeared harmless. She shook her head in disgust at her own ineptitude. She was beaten. She was just glad they hadn’t wagered money on the outcome. Then as she watched, Hal, who was related to someone but she wasn’t sure to who or how, skillfully sent his ball home.

Amidst the hoopla and hollering she surrendered her mallet and ball. After adding her congratulations to the winner, she headed for the pitcher of iced tea sitting invitingly on the drink trolley. Claire was amused at the sight of Great Auntie Maude, collapsed in a chair under one of the umbrellas, fanning herself as she sipped her tea. She didn’t look like she could do harm with a croquet mallet, but now Claire knew better. Hal was holding court, replaying each of his swings, and revealing a strategy worthy of winning a war.

“Well, Hal, you’re getting a big head. I think I have to challenge you to another game. Who’s up for another round?” Maude, eighty if she was a day, enthusiastically marshaled the players.

Claire had asked her earlier how she kept her energy so high.

Maude had winked and said, “Don’t you know that every day above ground is a good day? And at my age I can’t afford to waste any good days.”

Now remembering that comment she smiled. Maude was an interesting person and in many ways she reminded her of her assistant at the bookstore, Mrs. B. She was sure Mrs. B wasn’t as old as Maude but probably not far from her age. But both woman had sharp minds and displayed a curiosity about all aspects of life which seemed to keep them young. Many times Mrs. B’s unflagging energy shamed Claire into extending herself.

And, of course, Mrs. B had played a major role in convincing Claire she should sponsor Lucy’s tour of Britain last spring; say nothing of her encouraging her to take charge of the tour when Lucy’s accident prevented her from going. Yet Claire never blamed Mrs. B for getting her into that mess. The trip had been an enriching experience, which despite the problems and the danger, ultimately increased her confidence in her own abilities.

Now, as she watched Maude carefully select her mallet, Claire hoped that someday she would be another Maude or Mrs. B. Then remembering the events of the last few days she amended her thoughts to include the hope she lived long enough to be like them.

Amy was playing this round. She was too young, of course, but Hal said he’d help her and even JoJo didn’t object. Amy had been subdued today and, while most people didn’t know why, they all felt the need to cheer her up. JoJo shadowed her sister, solicitously offering advice. Hal encouraged her to knock her ball hard into any others in her reach and the whole group cheered when Maude’s ball was sent skidding sideways. Claire was happy to sit on the sidelines and kibitz. It gave her time to think.

Dr. Milhouser had sent them home in time for lunch. Cook had set out a lovely buffet of salads, sandwiches and fruit. Tables were set up in the solarium and on the terrace, which allowed people to sit where they wished. No one seemed to notice MiMi had been absent for the entire morning, so she was spared the subsequent questions and the concerns which would have been heaped on her if anyone had known about Tuffy. And after lunch MiMi excused herself to take a nap. She looked as if she needed one, even though she only said she had a terrible headache. But Great Auntie Maude was more than willing to take charge. Some guests returned to their rooms for a nap. Several headed for the pool preferring their nap on a lounge chair at poolside, and this courageous contingent let Maude talk them into playing lawn croquet.