mind. I don’t think that will be any problem.” He picked up his teacup and took a sip.
“I know what they will say,” said Clara, pausing in her task. “That anyone who would leave five million dollars to dogs has to be crazy.” Her voice was belligerent. It sounded like she agreed with this.
“That is absurd,” said Pepe. “Anyone who said such a thing would themselves have to be loco.”
“How do you prove that someone is sane?” I asked.
“A good question,” said Boswell, setting down his teacup. He turned to me. “We should expand the scope of your work. Besides investigating the attempt on the dogs, I need you to collect statements from people who can testify as to Lucille’s state of mind.”
“Anyone who ever met her will say she was crazy,” said Clara. She loaded the used saucers on the tea tray, making a lot of noise as she did. Yolanda frowned at her. “It’s true,” she said defiantly, “she acted like her dogs talked to her.”
“Did she really?” I asked. I turned to Pepe. “Do the cockers talk?”
“Of course they don’t talk!” said Clara, who left the room, carrying the tray of saucers.
“Not all dogs talk,” said Pepe, looking at the sleeping dogs.
Boswell ignored our conversation. “Of course, you could testify, Yolanda, but we really need testimony from people who did not personally benefit from Lucille’s trust. And I can’t think of any, can you?”
“No,” Yolanda said with a shrug of her shoulders. “Everyone who got left out of her trust is angry at her and would be happy to testify for Mr. Bickerstaff.”
“About that,” said Boswell, “there is something I need to tell you.”
“What is it?” Yolanda poured herself another cup of tea from the teapot.
“Bernie’s dead.”
“What? How?” Yolanda looked rattled. “But the letter . . .”
“He must have sent it yesterday. He died sometime today. The police think he was poisoned.”
“Oh no!” Yolanda shrieked. “No, no, no, no, no!”
Her niece came running back in. “What did you do now?” she asked Barrett, as she cradled her aunt’s head in her arms. Yolanda rocked back and forth, sobbing. She seemed to have completely fallen apart.
“I just told her that Bickerstaff was dead,” Boswell said. He had gotten up and was hovering around Yolanda, as if he wanted to comfort her but was afraid to touch her. “Murdered, actually.”
“Who killed him?” asked Clara.
“We don’t know,” Boswell said. “The police think I might have been the target.”
“Who’s next?” Yolanda asked. “First, the dogs. Then you, Barrett. What if they come after us?” She was shaking. “I don’t feel safe.”
“That’s why I hired these two,” said Boswell, waving his hand at me and Pepe.
“Them?” That was Clara. Her tone was scornful or amazed. Maybe both.
“Yes, they’re private investigators,” said Boswell.
“Really?” Clara perked up. “Like on TV?”
“Yes, we are as good as Shawn Spencer and Burton Guster,” said Pepe, who was a big fan of the TV show Psych.
“I’m not sure that’s a good comparison,” I said. “And besides, which one are you?”
“Let me put it this way,” said Pepe. “I am not the sidekick.”
“What do you mean?” asked Clara, clearly confused.
“Yes, they need to interview you,” Boswell said to Yolanda, shaking his head. “I will leave you in their capable hands. I must return to Port Townsend. I’ve already talked to the police once, but they want me to provide them with some papers I was not able to find. Do you mind if I take this with me?”
“Please, take it away! I don’t want to see it!” said Yolanda. When Boswell got up to leave, she got up, too.
“Do not worry, Yolanda,” he said. “I will clear this up.” He took her hand and gave the back of it a kiss.
“Please check in with me in the morning,” he said, turning to me and Pepe. “I can give you a copy of the trust document and a list of people to