“OK, whatever, but please get over here as soon as you can. One of our crew fell overboard twice and I think he’s in a bad way. And Bob? Get the Wiener Dog people to send over some food and hot coffee when you come!”
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 a
bout 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.
Chapter 38
The brightly colored bookmobile was a quarter-mile behind the garish Wiener Wagen with its bulbous, red-flecked bratwurst riding high atop a golden bun.
All Darrow could do was hold his foot to the floor and hope the roaring diesel engine had guts. Slowly, he was gaining on them. Behind him, books flew to the floor each time the big bus tipped in the wind. Several times, river water flew up on the roadway and splashed across the bookmobile’s windshield as if tossed from a bucket, sending Darrow frantically searching for the wiper switch.
His mind was strangely detached as he willed the bookmobile forward. Looking out at the broad vista of gale-thrashed water and misty hills, he could make out the river bars called Desdemona Sands. A buddy who had taught Nate celestial navigation had run aground there when heading out to sea in his home-built sailboat. Adept at reading the stars but not so good at the world in front of his nose, he thought with a thin smile. He felt that way himself sometimes.
Forcing his mind back to the road, he saw the Wiener Wagen start uphill as the bridge gradually rose toward its high arch. Stuck momentarily behind a slow and laboring old Volkswagen microbus, the hot dog on wheels finally pulled out to pass. The pause was what Darrow needed to close the gap.
“I can ketchup, I know it!” he said aloud. It was hard to avoid hot-dog humor.
As the bookmobile rocked into the oncoming lane and barreled past the old VW, Darrow flashed the headlights and blew the air horn in hopes of getting Gerbils’ attention.
“Meep, meep,” answered the VW.
Finally the bookmobile pulled within feet of the wind-wagging wiener, which showed no signs of pulling over. The speedometer read 65. Darrow worried that the corkscrew turn at the end of the bridge might be too great a test for Gerbils’ driving skills.
B.B. Cantwell - Portland Bookmobile 02 - Corpse of Discovery Page 16