B.B. Cantwell - Portland Bookmobile 02 - Corpse of Discovery (17 page)

Chapter 35

By the time the
lead canoes arrived at Astoria, Gerhard Gerbils and Tony Pucci had erected a
red-and-white striped dining tent over a row of picnic tables in a waterfront park
next to the maritime museum.

In a tarped
shelter, Pucci had two cooking fires going with black iron tripods for hanging
pots. Part of what won the Wiener Dog the catering contract for the outing was
the promise of this effort at historical authenticity.

 The windblown
alder smoke mixed with the smell of beach kelp from the brackish waters of the
river estuary to give the whole park a sort of wilderness perfume that riffed
off the character of Astoria’s old gray fishing piers and cheap motels.

 When Bob Newall
sounded the alarm about the crew stranded at Dismal Nitch, Gerbils volunteered
to make the 15-minute drive across the bridge in the Wiener Wagen.

“That’s the
easiest way to get some food and hot drinks over to them, and Tony can’t leave
the wapato now that he’s got it in the Dutch ovens,” Gerbils explained.

Besides which,
he told Newall, he’d taken some first-responder medical training in his younger
days when he’d climbed Mount Hood, and that might come in handy.

Newall waved
Gerbils on his way across the river, along with Ralph O’Sullivan, one of the
library drivers, at the wheel of the second van.

The
Astoria-Megler Bridge, carrying two lanes of U.S. 101 across four miles of
water between Washington and Oregon, is one of the man-made wonders of the
Lower Columbia. With a cantilever-truss design in a 200-foot high section allowing
oceangoing freighters to pass beneath it near the Astoria shore, it appears to
soar right out of a hillside of Victorian homes in the town that was founded just
a few years after Lewis and Clark paddled these shores. The roadway actually
reaches the high arch via a corkscrewing ramp branching off the town’s main
drag.

The Wiener Wagen
could be seen winding its way up the approach ramp as Nate Darrow and Harry
Harrington pulled to a stop in the park next to the bookmobile. Their Caprice
was tilting like a drunken sailor, riding on what Harry scornfully called a
“pony tire,” the undersized spare with which most modern automobiles now come
equipped.

Running over a
four-inch nail on Highway 30 near the river town of St. Helens had necessitated
a tire change, slowing their arrival and putting Harry in a grumpy mood.

  “Why anybody
thought this kind of piss-ant equipment was an acceptable idea for a law-enforcement
vehicle is beyond me, and besides it’s just plain embarrassing,” he was
grumbling to Darrow in a broken-record rant that had given Nate a headache for
the last 30 miles. “I’m just glad the local tire shop said they could fix us up
with a replacement while we’re here. I mean, what if we had to do a high-speed
pursuit after some hopped up Mustang on the way back to Portland? It says right
on the side of that little pony tire, ‘Do not exceed 45 miles per hour’!” 

 Darrow nodded
for the umpteenth time, but his attention had shifted to Bob Newall, who
perched atop the magenta bookmobile. On its side, the airbrushed face of the
old librarian seemed to smile with an unnerving smarminess. Darrow noticed that
her eyes seemed to follow him as he got out of the Caprice and approached the
big bus.

Newall was
working with some ropes to lash one of the dugout canoes to a rack atop the
bookmobile. Darrow called a greeting and flashed his badge, and Newall
scampered down a stepladder.

“What can I do for
you, officers?” said Newall, wiping his wind-burned hands on the tails of his
plaid flannel shirt and introducing himself with a friendly handshake.

“We’re
detectives, actually, down from Portland.” Darrow craned his neck and caught
sight of the chef working over the fires by the wind-ruffled dining tent. “We’re
making some inquiries and need to talk to some people who came along on your
trip today. I just saw the Wiener Wagen heading across the bridge, but I see
the cook is still here. What’s going on?”

Newall explained
the emergency on the other side of the river.

“And I need to
head over there in a minute, too, with old Bessie here, to retrieve their canoe,
though how I’m going to hoist it up on the roof I’m not sure. I got that one up
there with the help of some big burly pages who are used to ferrying boxes full
of books, but those guys took off on a toot to Seaside, and the folks stuck at
Dismal Nitch are mostly the delicately nurtured sex – not that I’m one of them
anti-feminine pig types, but you get my drift.”

Darrow listened
to this monologue in silence. After looking around quickly to get a look at the
few remaining library staff who sat at the picnic tables under the tent, he
asked, “What about Hester McGarrigle and Ethel Pimala? Have you seen them?”

“Oh, they’re
part of the Dismal Nitch crew! But I don’t think either of them really has the
muscle to hoist one of these dugouts. Pim is quite the little fireplug, I grant
you, but the woman isn’t any taller than a Smurf! And Ms. McGarrigle has the
height, but with due respect I think there’s more brains than brawn there!”

Darrow shot
Newall a sideways look, then chewed his thumbnail for a moment as he looked out
at the stormy river and made a snap decision. He stepped aside for a moment for
a word in his partner’s ear.

“Harry, I’m
going with Bob here. Maybe I can help with the canoe, and perhaps get a word
with Mr. Gerbils and see what he knows. I know you want to stick around for the
guy from the garage to come with that new tire, so why don’t you keep our
friend, the cook, company.”

At this, Harry
brightened.

“Nate, you know
I’m the barbecue king! I bet they’re doing salmon!”

Chapter 36

Hester never
thought she’d be so glad to see a motorized vehicle shaped like a 27-foot
bratwurst.

 But as she
munched a footlong hot dog with sauerkraut and sipped a scalding coffee under
the eaves of the Dismal Nitch Rest Area restroom, she felt her energy seeping
back.

Meanwhile,
Gerhard Gerbils was in the library van taking Sage’s pulse, while Ralph O’Sullivan
wrapped the wet paddler in an old blanket found under a seat in the back of the
van.

“You say he fell
in
twice
?” Gerbils asked Candy Carmichael.

“Yes, he seemed
to have a special talent for it,” the H.R. director said drily. “He was
shivering earlier, but that stopped so we thought he was OK.”

“I recall them
saying shivering sometimes stops as hypothermia progresses. His pulse seems
weak and I don’t like how blue his lips look. Sage, do you recall what date
this is?”

The young man slowly
opened his eyes and thought for a moment. Looking across the parking lot, he
saw a small Ford stop in front of the restroom building. Two old-fashioned
Dominican nuns, in full black and white habits, got out and headed inside.

“Is it, like,
Halloween?” he asked groggily.

  Gerbils
exchanged an alarmed glance with Carmichael. “You need to get this young man to
the Emergency Room in Astoria.”

Candy Carmichael,
for all her failings in preparedness, snapped into action now.

“OK, everybody
into the van!” she hollered, adding a shrill tweet on the emergency whistle
attached to her life vest.

Hester, dreading
the thought of spending time in close quarters with the bearer of that whistle,
stepped up. “Candy – Pim and I are OK, why don’t we wait for the bookmobile and
we’ll be sure the canoe is secure?”

“OK, good idea,
Hester! Ralph has a cellphone, so we’ll call Bob and tell him you’re waiting,”
Carmichael called back, shepherding the Three Oracles and Linda Dimple into
seats and pulling the door closed behind her just as the van took off with a
spray of gravel. Knowing Ralph O’Sullivan, who occasionally subbed for Pim as
the bookmobile driver, Hester sensed that his only disappointment with the
situation was that the van had no siren.

When the van
disappeared down the road, Hester turned back to see the two nuns quizzing
Gerbils about the Wiener Wagen, then posing for photos in front of it. She and
Pim took the opportunity to step into the restroom to change into some dry clothes
Hester had stashed in her dry bag.

In the echoing
tile restroom, as the two colleagues wriggled out of wet socks, Pim confided
with Hester about their week.

 “I gotta say,
this is turning into the crappiest June we’ve had in years. First the
bookmobile overheats in the parade, then we run over the president of the
library board, and now your Inspector Clousseau has his suspects all wrong. Hester,
I
know
Pomp didn’t do it. He had no reason to kill Pieter van Dyke.
Maybe he has a quirky sense of humor but this isn’t him. I’ve been watching Perry
Mason reruns for 30 years and I know, when there’s a murder, you follow the
money. And nine times out of 10 it leads you to a spouse or partner! That’s
where I’ll tell your Inspector to look – the spouse or partner!”

Hester mulled
this over.

“Well, Pim, I
can’t get past the idea that something about the Rose Medallion might still give
some useful clue. I’m going to urge Nate Darrow to look more closely at the
medallion,” she said as they exited the restroom and almost ran into Gerhard
Gerbils, drinking from a water fountain just outside the door.

“Oh, excuse me,
Mr. Gerbils! I didn’t see you there!” Hester exclaimed.

She caught an
odd look in his eye as Gerbils stepped quickly out of the way, then stood
staring at them, as if about to speak, but unable to find words. 

“Gosh, I never
thought I’d be rescued by the Wiener Wagen!” Pim finally said to break the awkward
silence. “I just love it! Oh, Mr. Gerbils, would you take a picture of me and
Hester in front of it?” She pulled an old Instamatic camera from a pocket.

Gerbils smiled
and came out of his trance as he took the camera from her.

“OK, say ‘bratwurst,’
” Gerbils clowned as he snapped their photo.

 “Well, there’s
no reason we have to stand outside in the cold,” he said as he handed the
camera back to Pim. “Would you like to see the inside?”

Pim’s beaming smile
served as her answer.

Gerbils used his
keys to open the cockpit door and held it open, waving an arm for Hester and
Pim to climb aboard.

*    
*     *

As Bob Newall
steered the lumbering bookmobile into the truck parking for the Dismal Nitch
Rest Area, Nate Darrow was curious to see the Wiener Wagen careen out of the
parking lot and on to the highway, passing them in the direction of Astoria.
The ungainly vehicle swerved so violently to avoid the bookmobile that the
giant fiberglass wiener was wagging a bit.

“Jeez, what’s
his hurry?” Darrow wondered aloud.

It took only a
few moments of looking around the restrooms and a glance down at the lone canoe
on the beach to realize that Hester and Pim were gone.

Newall looked
confused.

“I don’t
understand – That call from Ms. Carmichael said they’d wait here. And I can’t
believe they left that canoe unattended. It’s a valuable artifact!”

Just then a
crackling of static and a series of beeps came from Newall’s shirt pocket. He
reached down and pulled out a twin of the walkie-talkie Candy Carmichael had
carried. As he turned up the volume now, a voice issued loudly from the
speaker.

“Help, we’re
hostages in the Wiener – ”

 Then the radio
went silent. Newall’s jaw dropped as his eyes met Darrow’s.

“That was Ethel!
That was Ethel Pimala, I’d know her voice anywhere!” Newall croaked.

“Let’s go!”
Darrow cried, turning back toward the bookmobile. But Newall froze.

“I can’t leave
that canoe there, the waves will carry it off! It’s a museum piece – ”

Darrow didn’t
hesitate. He stepped back and grabbed the walkie-talkie and Newall’s keys from
his hand.

“OK, you stay
with the canoe. If I can drive Orvald’s old Volvos, I can drive anything!”

Bob Newall stood
and stared as rain started to pelt harder and the Miss Sara Duffy Memorial
Bookmobile lurched out of the parking lot, stalled once, then careened toward
the Astoria bridge.

The late librarian’s
eyes seemed to look back accusingly as the big bus disappeared in a cloud of purple
exhaust.

Chapter 37

Gerhard Gerbils
wasn’t going to chance another stunt from the bookmobile ladies after the
short, husky one had tried calling for help. So he finished taping their wrists
behind their backs using a roll of book tape he had spied in one of their purses.

“I’ll never
again call that ‘the librarian’s friend,’ ” he heard the tall librarian whisper
bitterly to the other.

What to do next?

Gerbils had
never been a star at strategy. It was why he’d never shined as a courtroom
lawyer. Behind-the-scenes procedures and strongly worded letters were more his
forté.

He trusted
nobody had heard the few words broadcast before he’d snatched the radio away. When
the tall, younger woman wouldn’t stop protesting, he’d stuffed kitchen rags in
each of their mouths. Unfortunately he couldn’t find clean ones so both of the
women were gagging slightly from the sauerkraut juice the rags had mopped up after
an earlier spill.

Nothing for it,
Gerbils thought as he climbed back in the driver’s seat. If they’d just behaved
and kept quiet, they wouldn’t have a problem.

He’d stopped the
Wiener Wagen on the narrow shoulder of the bridge about a mile from the
Washington shore. This section of the bridge roadway was low, only 6 feet above
the water. The bridge wasn’t much wider than the two lanes of traffic it
carried, one in each direction, so cars zooming past had to veer out into the
oncoming lane. But one advantage to driving the Wiener Wagen: It caught the
attention of other drivers. There was no need to put out flares. Most passing
motorists honked and waved at what Gerbils had once seen ignominiously referred
to – in its previous corporate life as a symbol of one of America’s biggest hot
dog makers – as “a rolling tribute to pig lips and chicken necks.”

As he put the
ungainly vehicle back into gear and got it moving again, he pocketed the
vintage Luger he always kept in the glove box as a deterrent to what he
mirthfully called “wienerjacking.”

“In all
seriousness, this is a valuable classic vehicle, you never know what crazy
carjackers might try,” he’d told Tony Pucci only that morning.

In any case, the
old German pistol that once belonged to his grandfather had helped him keep the
librarians from escaping.

Now, the same
can’t-miss-it factor that made the Wiener Wagen such a public-relations wonder was
perhaps his biggest problem. What kind of getaway car was this? Not only was it
less anonymous than driving a nuclear missile-launcher through town, it was
built on an old motorhome frame, so it wallowed around corners.

Again with the
not thinking ahead, he grumbled, mentally kicking himself.

And what was he
going to do with the librarians? He had no idea.

But after
overhearing their conversation at the restroom he couldn’t let them go their
merry way. How could he make anybody understand what had happened between him
and his law partner that night in the park?   

If he could just
get back to town before the alert went out, maybe he could ditch the Wiener
Wagen, rent a car – steal a car? – and head for Mexico. Or at least some little
rental cottage on the coast where nobody would find him until he worked out a
better plan. Until he figured out how to prove his innocence?

“What am I
doing? What am I doing? Ach du lieber, what am I doing?” Gerbils moaned aloud. On
the wide bench seat next to him the two women’s eyes showed as white as shucked
oyster shells.

 Just then the
walkie-talkie Gerbils had stuffed in a cup holder crackled to life.

“Pim! Hester! It’s
Nate Darrow. I’m right behind you! Mr. Gerbils, please pull over and I’m sure
we can talk this out! The state police are on their way. There’s no place to
go!”

Panic flashed
across Gerbils’ face. He grabbed the Luger from his pocket and punched the
accelerator to the floor, sending the Wiener Wagen rocking wildly in the wind.