I knew the persistent knocking on my door at 3am could have only come from one hand. The gentle rat-ta-ta-tat that looped over and over was always somehow perfectly pitched to wake me up but leave my roommate oblivious in her slumber.
I slung my robe on, not to cover modesty but to avoid another day of Panama’s genuine inquiry as to why a grown woman would own a pair of Fraggle Rock pajamas. I edged the door open and sure enough there was that face that always looked fresh even though it never slept, that blue linen suit that looked like it had succeeded once again in avoiding the iron, and that tatty fedora that was always impeccably jaunty.
“Otterly,” he began urgently, with almost childlike excitement, “get out of whatever television themed nightwear you’ve got hidden under that robe and into some real clothes, quick.” Without pause I ran back into my room and threw on my department issue tracksuit. Within two minutes we were whirring down the street toward the beach on Panama’s turquoise scooter.
I never had a job description when I worked with Panama. It was the 1980’s. I was a female cop with high test scores and an exemplary service record. So, naturally, rather than being able to sit the detectives exam I was instead assigned to work with the least popular detective in the history of the Redwood Bay Police Department—the hope being that I might quit, go insane, or preferably both. However, even given my lack of job description I was pretty sure that clinging on for dear life to the back of a scooter as it slalomed its way down the promenade at 3am was not quite within anyone’s remit.
Panama’s job description on the other hand was simple. It was five years since he’d put half the Redwood Bay Police Department behind bars for corruption. The only cases that ever came to him were the unsolvable, the PR nightmares, the career suicide cases. The higher ups sat and waited for Panama to fail so they could push him off the force. The problem was that failure was one thing Panama was simply not very good at.
The scooter zigged and zagged. There was a bite to the night breeze that slung crisp, clean air around us. I looked out and saw the night sky enveloping the sea as it stretched out further and further into the horizon. The contours of the shoreline jutted out in the distance. It was almost the perfect vista.
Almost, that was, except for the huge, floating, flashing sign for Beachcombers Casino that bobbed up and down on the gentle waves two hundred feet out into the water. The gaudy sign had lights all around it, flashing greens and pinks, so that no tourist would be unaware of the loosest slots on the coast and the largest seafood buffet this side of the Mississippi.
Panama swung the scooter fast, low, and without warning around a broken photo booth and came to an abrupt halt under a flickering street light. He leapt from the scooter and sprinted to the railings on the edge of the beach. I dashed after him. The urgency of his movement made the adrenaline coursing through my body spike and sing. I threw myself at the railings, clung onto them, and leant over to see what horrors waited on the sand below.
“Look,” Panama exclaimed with raw enthusiasm, “there’s a penguin on the beach!”
***
At 10am I drove myself and Panama to answer Inspector Carter’s call for our assistance. “Okay, Otterly,” Panama began cautiously, “I realize now that our levels of interest in the penguin last night differed greatly, and that I should think very carefully about how vital it is that I wake you up before I wake you up, and that when a passenger is on the back of a scooter said scooter driver should not, how did you put it last night? Yes, that was it, drive like a raving maniac.”
I kept my eyes on the road as we drove passed the security hut and through the gates into the exclusive Maple Hill development. Panama asked with a slightly cheeky edge to his hopeful tone, “so, now that is all fully understood, can you perhaps start talking to me again?”
I parked outside the last magnificent house in a row of magnificent houses, turned the engine off, and sighed as I let my displeasure at being woken up in the middle of the night subside, “okay, but in future I don’t care if you see an Elephant on a bus or a Seal up a tree, if it’s 3am I’m not interested.”
Panama was pleased yet silent as we walked up the stone-slab pathway through the perfectly manicured front lawn. Dotted around the garden were small sculptures, sundials, and an array of different sized ornamental pots lounging at strange angles, posing for passersby. Just as we reached the stoop the front door swung open and Inspector Carter came storming out. Unable to help himself Panama leant in and whispered quickly into my ear, “a penguin in north America is actually incredibly interesting,” before slapping on a fake smile and addressing the Inspector, “ah, Inspector, what impossible labor do you have for the two headed Hercules that is Officer Otterly and I today, eh? Perhaps Aliens have abducted the Mayor’s dog, or maybe Elvis really has died now and you’d like us to find out who did it?”
Red in the face from being talked to like a naughty child by a very rich Lady with very important friends the Inspector was in no mood to take any nonsense, “you’re both damned lucky you’re allowed near any crime scene at all, let alone the mess in there.”
“Yes,” Panama replied little more seriously, “this is the Tallington house, isn’t it? So it must follow that the queen of the Redwood Bay Country Club set has a problem you can’t solve.” The Inspector grumbled under his flourishing moustache as he huffed passed us, “she’s got a lot of problems that need solving that one has.”
There was a slight look of reverence on Panama’s face as we walked into the huge sunroom that ran all the way down one side of the impressive house. “You expect rich people to have expensive tastes,” he said quietly as his eyes began to dance around the walls, “but rarely good taste.” Panama flitted around the room, almost on tiptoe, like a humming bird pausing for a moment at each painting or statue and flapping his wings faster in approval at every stop. “I mean, the carvings alone…” was followed by, “and the Jade, it’s simply……” and accompanied by, “Otterly, you have to see the intricacy in the stitching, it’s quite….”
Before I could catch up to Panama a grating, honking voice cut through the tranquil air, “no! You silly little creature! Walk……around……the…….rug! Is that too hard for you to understand? That rug was hand woven in Nepal, and it doesn’t want your grubby boots on it. Now get out.”
If it wasn’t for the fact that the voice was aimed at Billington, I would have been slightly scared to move for fear of incurring the wrath myself. But the crestfallen look on Billington’s weasel-like face was too joyous a sight to be ruined by any amount of potential haranguing.
Billington stomped passed us in his freshly pressed uniform with its ridiculously shinny buttons. “She’s all yours,” he said menacingly in my ear, “hopefully this will be the one that gets your rat bastard of a boss fired, and then we can get rid of you with him.”
Just as I was about to clout Billington around the back of his head with a small but sturdy Balinese totem that lay on the plinth next to me, I felt Panama’s hand rest on my shoulder. “Take pity on poor Billington,” Panama said, flitting now fully over, “as the certainly rude, possibly crazy, definitely angry woman quite correctly said, he is but a silly little creature.”
“Ah,” the grating honk piped up again, “you down there, yes, you must be the detectives.”
We had both faced our fair share of criminals. Yet, there was something about the rich and angry of Redwood Bay that made Panama and I walk a little gingerly toward Mrs. Tallington.
She had made herself almost impossible to age. A mixture of fad diets, a dab of plastic surgery, and the insane workout schedule that only the wealthy and status conscious could ever maintain all made her look every age between thirty and sixty at the same time. Her white summer dress was cut tight in the top and billowed luxuriously at the bottom. Her astonishingly red hair glowed against her amazingly pale complexion. And her voice became no less grating even when it subdued itself to a normal level of conversation. “You must excuse me,” she said in the way that wealthy people politely demand to be excused, “it has been quite the morning. Just look for yourselves”
In front of us was a seating area with a fireplace and a low, antique coffee table. On the table sparkled three, beautiful, gem stone speckled, identical necklaces.
“Well,” Panama began, “I’m guessing the problem isn’t that you have too many necklaces.” Ignoring Panama’s attempt at humor, Mrs. Tallington threw herself onto the pale yellow Chaise Lounge as if the whole ordeal had made her feel faint, “all forgeries. My most prized possession gone and the thief had the temerity to leave three fake versions behind just to torment me.”
Panama leant in to take a closer look at the necklaces and signaled for me to start asking questions. “Mrs. Tallington,” I ventured as I sat on the floral patterned accent chair, “when did you last see the real necklace?”
My question was met with the condescending nature of a woman who had clearly expected to be dealing with a chief inspector at the very least, “poor girl, you must understand that I am the first female president of the Redwood Bay Country Club. This town relies on me to see that its premier institution is both a bedrock and a leading light. I do not have time nor wont to recollect every time I have seen something.”
Panama stifled a giggle and studied a strange looking flute that rested on the mantelpiece. He pulled the flute up to his face for closer examination, and I took a deep breath and continued in my best professional tone, “I fully understand. Perhaps you could tell us when you first discovered these seven forgeries?”
“If you simply must know then it would have been around 5am. I rarely sleep well so I often take walks or jog along the seafront in the early hours, quite invigorating. I got home around 4.30 this morning, and those monstrosities were here waiting.”
Panama had his face halfway into an umbrella stand as Sandra Tallington struggled to find a comfortable spot on her Chez Lounge from which to appear the most like a victim of a major crime. I tried to phrase my next question to flatter her ego, “you’re very successful, Mrs. Tallington. There can be a lot of jealousy around that. Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to steal the necklace?” Mrs. Tallington spoke up to the grand chandelier dangling above us, “this is who they send? A girl detective who wants me to tell her who did it and when, and a scruffy, wait a minute…..”
Sandra Tallington’s eyes tightened a little, her mouth curled as if it had seen Panama before and was trying to place him. She turned an inquisitive glance toward my partner in solving crime. “You’re John Panama,” she uttered, her mind still trying to search for an event to go with the name, “my good friend the Chief of Police hasn’t got a good word to say about you.”
Ignoring the summoning of his infamy Panama pipped up, “why is this necklace so important? You have a huge house full of the most beautiful objects. Why not just let this one go?”
“Because,” she answered in an impatient, forceful whisper, “my grandfather had that necklace made in this very town the week they moved here. It is a family heirloom, Mr. Panama, and to some of us family still matters.”
“Quite,” replied Panama tactfully, “then I suppose the excellent Otterly here and I had better go and find it.”
We left Sandra Tallington sprawled in search of sympathy on her Chaise and headed for the car. It had only taken a few minutes with her to convince me of our best course of action, “she’s a nasty piece of work, let’s just leave it to the insurance to sort out and find a case to solve for someone worth solving it for.” I was unsure if Panama had heard me as we wondered back down the garden pathway. He was muttering to himself, “three, three, stooges? No. Three, three, three’s company? No.”
As he stepped absentmindedly into the street he nearly knocked over a polished looking gentleman in resplendent tennis whites. “Ah,” Panama said, half of his glance captured by the gleaming gold watch on the man’s wrist, “terribly sorry. Off for a quick set or two?” The man gave Panama a rather odd look, the kind one might give to a stray cat who’d just asked for a gin and tonic. The taller of the man’s two female companions was a little more forthcoming, even if it was excitement at the potential for gossip, “poor Sandra. You’re the detectives, right? Who was it? Some ex-con desperate for cash? Poor Sandra, really, poor Sandra. An inside job, perhaps?”
Panama smiled the official I’m-being-polite-but-we-both-know-you-are-a-terrible-snoop-so-I’m-leaving-now smile that we all get taught in the academy, “our enquiries are ongoing. Have a great day.” Panama took half a step and then stopped, “oh, and be sure to take that pendant off before playing, it would be a shame to damage it.” The woman twirled the jade elephant pendant through her fingers, “this? This is my good luck charm. I simply have to wear it. It’s one of a kind.”
We sat back in the car and Panama wasted no time in placing the ball in my court, as he loved to do, “so then, Otterly, where to now?” I paused for a moment, and then the faint stain on Panama’s shirt gave me the answer, “well, if you want the best burrito you go to Carlito’s Burritos.” “Quite right,” a buoyant Panama interjected, “nowhere better.” “And if you want the best Jewelry,” I proposed, “then you go to Colletti and Colletti.”
***
Colletti and Colletti sat between a luxury spa and a bistro so fashionably expensive that it didn’t seem to have a name. Ladies-who-lunch sauntered in and out with either seaweed wraps on their face or in their troublingly toned tummies. Every business on Shorefront Road existed to cater to Redwood Bay’s Country Club set. So quite why the closed sign hung on the Jeweler’s door when we arrived at just gone 1pm was a mystery in itself.
Panama pawed curiously at the creaky sign above the door that read Since 1947, and I set about knocking on windows and peeking through cracks in the drawn blinds. The hot sun, the thick, wet sea air, and the smile on Panama’s face as he batted the sign back and forth made me somewhat irritable. “Well,” I huffed, “are you thinking on helping at some point?” Panama looked at me is if I had just asked for the answer to life, the universe, and everything, “help, yes, of course. Help with what, exactly?”
Whilst Panama was a calm and oblivious as ever, I was still a little worked up, “we’re outside the jewelry store, trying to talk to someone about a missing piece of jewelry, so I thought it might be a good idea to look for the jeweler.” The penny dropped, “oh, you want me to help look for Colletti?”
“Yes!” I said, exasperated.
“Okay,” Panama replied sincerely, without even glancing over his shoulder, “he’s on the other side of the street trying to eat a sandwich, carry five bags of grocery shopping, not spill his coffee, and make it back across to his store without getting run over. Does that help?”
Colletti’s suit was smart, but looked as if it used to fit a man a size or two bigger. He fumbled the door open and then flung the blinds up. He placed his shopping bags behind the cashier counter, wiped the sweat from his brow, tried to rub some of the tiredness from his eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief, and spun to face us with a salesmen’s grin plastered wide on his face, “come in friends. Please come right on in.”
Panama strolled in casually and began perusing the wares as he opened with some small talk, “thank you. Which Colletti are you then? The first or the second?”
“Oh,” replied Colletti, “it’s just me now I’m afraid. My father and grandfather were the Colletti and Colletti. Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”
Panama ran his finger through the dust on the top of a display case as he peered with interest and a set of three quite magnificent broches. “Mr. Colletti,” Panama began in admiration, “the craft and the skill that went into to making these are truly remarkable.” Colletti moved effortlessly across the maroon carpet toward Panama. Whilst he had been playing the role of fast talking salesman there was now a fond nostalgia and sad hesitancy in his voice, “you’re too kind. One was made by my father, the other my grandfather, and the third by myself.”
By the time he had reached Panama, Colletti’s eyes were fixed firmly on the broches. He spoke with a gentle passion to both of us and neither of us at the same time, “three generations of jewelers, all here, our work sitting side by side.”
“Ah, so not for sale then,” Panama replied matter-of-factly, “a pity, because I know a man who might be interested for the right price.” Colletti fidgeted with the wedding ring on his finger. He took a small yellow cloth from his pocket and wiped a tiny smudge from the display case. As he placed the cloth back in his pocket he turned his head and spoke low and quickly, as if he didn’t want the broches to hear him, “perhaps, you can tell this friend to come by the store,” before spinning to head in my direction.
“And is the lady looking for something?”
Even though I was only an Officer I always wore plain clothes when working with Panama. I pulled my badge from my pocket and explained exactly who Panama and I were.
“Oh,” he started with a hint of dejection, “well, if you ever need jewelry then please think of us first.” Panama had finished his inspection of a broken standing fan and was peering into a half-empty case of bracelets, “rest assured, you’ll be the first man we call. Which is also what Inspector Carter does when he needs an expert, isn’t it, he calls you.”
“Of course,” Colletti replied through a sigh, “you’re here about the theft at Mrs. Tallington’s.” He leant back against the cash register desk, “I can only tell you what I told the Inspector. Those necklaces were excellent forgeries. Beyond that, I don’t think I can really help.”
“Well, that’s that then,” Panama announced happily as he spun his on heels and headed for the door, “thank you for your time, Mr. Colletti.”
I smiled nicely enough, strolled over to Panama, grabbed him by the shoulder and whispered with intent, “that’s that then? That’s really all you’re going to ask him!”
Panama whispered back with genuine thanks, “quite right, Otterly, good thinking.”
“Mr. Colletti,” he said excitedly, “did you see that penguin on the beach last night? Wonderful, wasn’t it!”
***
We stepped back out into the street. My displeased expression spoke volumes too loud for Panama to miss, “okay, Otterly, I know you would have liked to ask some questions in there, I’m sorry I rushed us.” My expression softened somewhat, but was still jagged enough to inspire Panama to keep apologizing, “I really am sorry, I know I get carried away and you are just as important as I am in our little partnership.” My warming expression waited expectantly for one more concession, “alright,” said Panama in good humor, “let’s hear those questions that you wanted to ask our friend Mr. Colletti.”
I gave a nod of approval as my enthusiasm for our work raced through me again, “well, what about who could fence a necklace like that? What other jewelers might tread on the wrong sides of the tracks sometimes? Where was he when the break-in happened? And why was his store closed?”
I took a breath and Panama replied with warm approval, “you are already a fine detective, Otterly, don’t let any creep at that precinct tell you any different.” Whilst I felt a sense of pride, my curiosity as usual took center stage, “wait, what did I say that……..”
Before I could finish my thought a large hand slapped Panama of the back. The hand was attached to a friendly looking oaf, with all the markings and trimmings of a deep sea fisherman. A gruff voice boomed from his mouth, “Mr. Panama, the boat is ready and the crew are both fully briefed and more importantly fully sober. Just a matter of the bill to take care of and we’ll have the job done by sundown.”
Reeling a little from the man’s voice, which had clearly not adjusted to land after shouting over waves and storms out at sea, Panama nonetheless seemed delighted to have bumped into his acquaintance, “excellent news, Mr. Peppers. You are a first rate captain and a first rate gentlemen, I can tell that already.” Panama switched from his loud, approving voice to a low, knowledgeable whisper, like a sea lion turning into a fox, “and gentlemen know two things very well, don’t we. One is that our word is our solemn bond, and two is that we never carry money like that around with us, do we now.”
Peppers instinctively agreed with a gentle nod, and appeared rather pleased to find himself referred to as a gentlemen, “well, as you say, Mr. Panama, we are men of our words. Perhaps, we can have the payment this evening.”
“Certainly,” Panama exclaimed as he straightened up and invited me to begin walking back down the street with an outstretched arm, “men of our word, good day Mr. Peppers.”
I had learned quickly that if one was to question every oddity in a day with John Panama then that day became very long and moved very slowly. Yet, as we strolled down Shorefront Road the hiring of a boat for no obvious reason intrigued me. As I opened my mouth to ask why, Panama jumped in with a question that took me even more by surprise, “how much money do you have in that billfold of yours?”
“Erm, maybe twenty dollars,” I replied unsurely, “why?” Panama tapped the roof of my car excitedly and opened the passenger door, “because we’re headed to the casino. Mr. Peppers is going to need his money.” He slipped into his seat and flicked at the air vent in the dashboard as if somehow the gambling trip was my idea and he was just happily waiting to accompany me.
***
There was something a little unnerving about walking through Beachcombers Casino. There were surfboards on the wall, sand around the bar, and all the servers wandered around in Hawaiian shirts with trays full of drinks with ludicrously large umbrellas sticking out of them. There were no windows and the lighting was kept just dull enough to give the impression of everlasting dusk. There was barely a free seat at a table or a slot machine, and the recycled air was troublingly refreshing. The party was already in full swing. The patrons were blissfully unaware that it was only 2pm and disturbingly unaware that there was a real beach just a short walk away.
I had been working with Panama long enough by then to know that when he had that glint in his eye, that slight bouncing swagger to his step, it usually meant he was about to say or do something quite remarkable. As we strode passed the slot machines, and then the craps tables, and then poker, Panama scanned the landscape and a look of relaxed confidence lit up his face. I stopped worrying about where my twenty dollars might end up, and started matching Panama stride for stride and glance for glance. “Is this what you usually do?” I asked, keeping my voice low as if we were co-conspirators, “when you need money, just hit the casino for a few hours?”
Panama stopped and flashed me a grin, “I try not to come here too often, in the interests of giving them a chance you understand.”
We bobbed and weaved through a hen party, a group of estate agents taking a long, liquid lunch, and some rather nervous looking college kids clutching some very nervously made fake IDs. As we marched passed the bar a voice leapt out at us from underneath a pristine trilby, “John,” was all it said coolly before turning back to the bar. “Benny,” Panama replied casually over his shoulder, not breaking his stride.
I almost had a heart attack then and there. I had never heard anyone call him John before—Panama, yes, Detective Panama, yes, but John? Never.
Before I could ask who on earth Benny was, Panama caught sight of a roulette table, “there it is! Time to make some money!”
The air of confidence that surrounded Panama was infectious. I was even starting to feel a little giddy with excitement myself. The sea of gamblers parted as he walked up to roulette table. I could have sworn a hush descended as Panama reached over the table to place his bet, “all on lucky number 3.”
The little ball spun, but instead of following the clinking and trying to will the ball into the right place Panama was instead staring at a blackjack table across the room. I, on the other hand, couldn’t drag my eyes from the wheel as it slowed, and the clinks became clanks, and the little ball began to settle and all the while I was thinking—how does he know it’s going to land on three? I’m going to make him tell me.
The ball came to a rest and the croupier announced the result, “red 20.”
I must have appeared startled, because when Panama looked at me he said, “try not to worry too much, Otterly. I never win at roulette anyway.”
Having ridden the high of anticipation I then crashed low back into realization, “so now you don’t have any money for this silly boating escapade of yours and you also lost my twenty bucks.”
The roulette wheel was spinning again, and from somewhere Panama had acquired what looked like an appletini. He sucked on the little red straw in his glass and used his eyes to gesture that I should stop talking and start looking behind me. A large, gruff gentlemen stomped over to us and spoke in a voice so deep it was almost unintelligible, “Mr. Panama, if you’ll come with me, sir.”
“Certainly,” Panama replied jollily, “and I’ll be bringing Otterly here with me too.”
The waft of cigar smoke and a burly security guard met us at the door to the manager’s office. Panama seemed unperturbed as he strode in. I chose instead to edge my way passed the six-foot-and-then-some guard who wore a permanent look of displeasure on his face.
A happy, rapid voice greeted us, “Mr. Panama, it is great to see you as always, please, sit down, and your friend, yes, you, please take a seat too. Any friend of Mr. Panama’s is a friend of mine.” The voice and welcoming gesticulations belonged to Mr. Abley, the casino’s longtime owner.
If my fear that we were about to be roughed up by gangland casino bullies straight out of the movies hadn’t already been assuaged, the arrival of two cups of chamomile tea that were placed under our noses helped me to relax in more ways than one. Having ushered us into our seats Abley sat back down casually behind his desk. His Hawaiian shirt was just as loud as any that his longsuffering staff were forced to wear. He licked his lips, pulled a brown envelope out from a desk drawer, and looked at Panama with bated breath, managing to stumble out a few eager words, “so, what do have for us this time?”
Panama sipped his tea, sprung up from his chair and began striding about the office.
He spoke as he inspected the art strewed around the room, “the blue dress is pretending to count cards on table seventeen to disguise the fact that the green dress and the god awful cowboy hat are actually counting cards on table twenty.”
I had expected the office to be covered with signed headshots from minor celebrities and the framed mobster movie posters.
Panama stopped by a glorious bronze statuette of a wading bird and ran his finger across its beak, “the rather sweaty looking gentlemen in the maroon turtleneck is using magnets on the dollar slots.” He stooped over the statue as if to breathe the beauty in, gave a nod of approval, and moved on.
His eyes dragged him next to a picture frame sat adjacent to an ivory carving. The picture showed a yacht in the bay, the garish casino advertisement bobbing in the background, and a small collection of Redwood Bay’s who’s-who’s raising champagne glasses, “a very nice older couple are running a very nice card swap enterprise on thirteen, very skilled, not the dealers fault he’s not seeing it, nearly missed it myself.”
Although the large mahogany desk dominated the floor space, the real champion of the room was a large Japanese wall hanging. Panama stopped and stared up at the blossoming tree in the foreground set against a wide mountain range. He paused as if the stunning beauty had forced him to search his soul. The whole room fell quiet. All of our eyes and ears fixed on Panama and what he might say next. Even the hulking bodyguard by the door leant forward slightly in anticipation.
Suddenly Panama spun around and picked up the envelope full of cash from the table. “And,” he said as he wandered towards the door, “most of the servers are finding a few free chips for a friend here and there, but that’s normal, so best to let it go would be my advice.”
The bodyguard looked over us at Mr. Abley, and on receiving the nod he was looking for opened the door. Abley laughed, “it’s a good job you’re not a gambling man anymore, Mr. Panama, I’d be broke!” Panama replied over his shoulder, “it’s a good job you’ll treat those people we have talked about with fairness, decency, and respect, because if I did rediscover my love for poker you’d be bankrupt in a week.”
***
As dusk fell and the lights from the vendors grew brighter, Panama and I sat with our feet dangling over the edge of the pier. Tourists and locals bustled about us in search of dinner or trinkets or misplaced children. Panama gazed silently at the sun lolling on the horizon. I couldn’t help but feel that he was struggling with the case.
“So,” I began a little hesitantly, worried that I might either induce worry in my friend or encourage him to change the subject to penguins again, “what’s our next move?” Panama offered me no more than a distracted, “huh?” and turned his attention to rocking both his legs back and forth at the same time.
I became a little more forceful in the hope of eliciting a slightly better answer, “do you think it’s already long gone? Should we be looking to see if it happened anywhere else as well?”
“Is what already long gone?” Panama replied, keeping half a glance down at the sea and half an ear to the lively argument about New Coke behind us.
I kept my answer short, “the necklace!”
Panama appeared surprised, relaxed but surprised, and answered as if I had simply asked for directions to the nearest bathroom, “the necklace is fine, Otterly. I’ll have the inspector go and pick it up tomorrow.”
I tried to react, but Panama was curious and in full flow, “Peppers pulled up three gold watches, a four-foot wooden fertility statue, and a set of ivory carvings of the seven lucky gods, all lodged down on the floor of the bay. What’s that lot got to do with the Penguin he was supposed to be looking for?”
Resisting the urge to push Panama into the water and shout—where is the damn necklace—I decided instead to attempt being witty, “maybe you should ask your friends at the casino, all that loot sounds like the inside of their office.”
Panama leapt to his feet, “you’re a genius!” He almost bent down to kiss my cheek in celebration, but stopped halfway and settled for an awkward congratulatory ruffle of my hair.
Whilst I was pleased to get some recognition I stood up quickly, hoping to get an answer as to why I was now a genius and to pre-emptively avoid another ruffling, “genius?”
“An undoubted and vital one, Otterly,” Panama replied with a spring in his step and in his voice, “now, I must pay the venerable Mr. Peppers a visit. Could you please call the Inspector and tell him to meet us at the crime scene. I would say about 3am should be right.”
My shriek garnered a few glances from passing strangers, “3am!”
Panama whispered gently, “yes, I know the inspector won’t be pleased at first, but he’ll be happy he missed a little sleep, I promise.”
I was unconvinced by Panama’s offhand promises, as they often arrived when the road ahead looked a little bumpy, “but what about Mrs. Tallington? Does she know we’re going to descend on her house in the middle of the night?”
“Mrs. Tallington’s house?” Panama said quizzically, “no, I mean the actual crime scene, Otterly.” I paused for a moment, and then the thought leapt into my mind, “wait, don’t tell me.”
“That’s right.” Panama smiled that warm, mischievous smile of his that was impossible to be angry at.
“The beachfront by the broken photo both and the flashing street light?”
“Exactly!”
Panama began to walk away, but after just two steps he turned to make one last remark, “I’ll pick you up at 2.45, shall I?”
The thought of clinging to the back of Panama’s scooter flashed loud and bright in my mind, “no, that’s okay. I think I’ll take my car this time.”
***
An irate, chilly Inspector pulled his long coat tight around himself, hiding from the stiff breeze in his flipped up collar. Billington was with him, as usual, excited by the possibility of watching Panama and I fall on our faces. I joined them in leaning on the promenade railings and waited for Panama to arrive. I was shocked when the Inspector spoke almost collegiately, “I’m sorry you got caught up with Panama, Officer Otterly. I’m sure you’re a fine cop.” For a moment I was lulled in by the Inspector’s softer, more caring side. That moment didn’t last long, “but, if Panama doesn’t turn up with a necklace and a criminal you’ll both be off the force by breakfast.”
The whirring of Panama’s scooter drowned out Billington’s sniggering. Within seconds he had swerved around the broken photo booth and screeched to a halt under the flashing street light. He propped up his scooter, slung a gym bag over his shoulder, and walked over casually, “good of you to come, Inspector. And, I suppose, you also Billington.”
“Look, Panama,” the Inspector growled, “I’m cold, it’s 3am, and Mrs. Carter is already not very pleased, so let’s not make this last any longer than it needs to, where is the necklace?”
Panama looked disappointed, like a chef who had just served his world famous soufflé only to be told that the gentlemen had actually ordered the MoonPie, “if you insist, Inspector, I suppose we can start with the necklace.”
“Go on then, where is it?”
Panama studied the horizon for a moment and replied, “you have it, Inspector, in the evidence room at the station, along with two excellent forgeries.”
“Impossible,” Billington chirped, “I watched Mr. Colletti evaluate each necklace.”
Panama bent down and started rummaging through his gym bag, “yes, you did. So come on now, Billington, what does that tell you?”
Billington stayed silent as his mind chugged slowly through the gears. I was a little annoyed that the truth hadn’t occurred to me earlier, “Colletti made two forgeries, broke in, and hid the real necklace amongst the fake ones.”
“Excellent, Otterly,” Panama snapped enthusiastically.
The Inspector was a little less enthusiastic and a lot more dubious, “that doesn’t make any sense. How on earth does he now expect to steal the necklace if it’s locked away in the evidence room?”
Panama rolled his eyes, kept laying out the strange objects on the floor, and looked at me to provide the Inspector with an answer. “Mmmmm,” I began unconvincingly, “maybe, if Colletti made the necklace almost impossible to steal then the crime isn’t about money.” An approving grin emerged on Panama’s face as he stood up and nodded at me to finish my thought. “And, if it’s not about money,” I reasoned, “then that just leaves revenge.”
Billington shook his weaseley little head and tutted, “Colletti and Tallington don’t even know each other, why would he want to pull of some elaborate non-theft just to get at her.”
Panama wasted no time, “well, as for reasons let’s start with these.” He dragged everyone’s attention to the watches, statue, and carvings that he had talked about Peppers finding earlier. “Oh,” Panama continued, “and if you would be so kind as to look out at that ridiculous, floating, casino billboard you’ll see a little boat moored up to it.”
Sure enough as we squinted and strained our eyes we could make out the shape of the boat against the flashing green and pink lights from the billboard.
“Alright, Panama,” the Inspector said reluctantly, “let’s just say you’re right about the necklace, then what on earth has that sign got to do with it?” Panama had the look not only of the cat that got the cream, but the cat that had figured out where to buy cream and had managed to get a part time job to pay for his cream habit, “you should ask Mrs. Tallington. She should be at the dock over there in ten minutes or so, once she’s come back to shore in her little boat there.”
The Inspector tensed up, put on his official face, and tried not to acknowledge that his heart was beating fast, “if we’re going to arrest the chairwoman of the country club there had better be a good reason and I had better know it.” Panama was as relaxed as ever, “smuggling, my dear Inspector, is not just for pirates anymore. When you search the boat you’ll find some treasure, mostly on the banned import list, mostly stolen, mostly ridiculously expensive. You’re going to want to send a team out to that floating casino advertisement before too long as well.”
The waves lapped gently on the shore. The clouds in the night sky moved slowly over head. And three of us stood silently trying to piece the puzzle together. Panama waited patiently, eager to lean over the railings and look out across the beach in case another penguin was waddling around.
I broke the silence, “but why would Sandra Tallington be smuggling high priced artifacts and jewelry into the bay?”
“You have a knack for asking great questions, Otterly,” Panama opined, “rich people can buy status, until they are in a room with other rich people, and then it is the secret societies and handshakes that grow influence. And here, in our glorious little corner of northern California, being chair of the country club is big status indeed. You can’t buy votes with money in Maple Hills, but you can buy favor with one of a kind jade elephant pendants and unique, gold watches.”
The whole picture started to present itself to me, “of course, her house, the garden, all the art from around the world. Someone with a collection like that is either a world traveler or a smuggler, and world travelers don’t win country club elections.”
Eager to still get his pound of flesh Billington jumped in, “But what has the casino sign got to do with any of this?”
Panama spoke slowly and kindly, “Otterly here said it herself, that collection of contraband on the floor there is just like the décor in the casino manager’s office.”
Billington continued his whinny contrariness, “that doesn’t prove anything.”
“Very perceptive, Billington, but who in their right mind, amongst the rare and beautiful art in that office, would have a photograph of putting that monstrous billboard on the water. It must have been a significant day worth framing.” Panama kept edging up and down the railings, trying to get clear views of the beach in every direction, “oh, and there was the smell, the sea water scent that stayed with the flute in Mrs. Tallington’s house and the statue in the casino office.”
The knowledge of what Panama was about to say next hit me, stunned me for a moment, and left the kind of I-can’t-believe-that’s-how-you-solved-this tingle in my spine that became such a familiar feeling, “no, it can’t be.”
“I’m afraid so, Otterly,” a grinning Panama replied, “would you like to say it or shall I?”
I answered self-consciously, “that penguin.”
“Oh, yes,” a rapidly more excited Panama began, “that penguin alright. There’s only one place that little guy could have come from. He had to have been nestled in that sign waiting for Sandra Tallington to come and swoop him up and drop him off at whatever mad rich person’s castle was going to be his new home.”
Billington’s face was growing purple, but the Inspector had been digesting every word, “if, and that is a big if, the necklace is in the evidence lockup and Sandra Tallington is in that boat, I still don’t understand how the head of the country club and the head of the casino get into cahoots.”
Panama answered with refined zest, “I was afraid she might have recognized me when we first went to her house. You see, I reported her to the casino management for cheating at poker about five or six years ago. Funny thing was that she didn’t do it to win money, she had plenty of that, it was all just for the excitement. And, when I saw her in that photo in the manager’s office drinking champagne at the billboard unveiling it was pretty clear that a bargain had been struck – keep the queen on the throne and gain access to selling wares in the kingdom. She gets to keep her reputation and become Maple Hills most exclusive merchant, and the casino takes its cut. I’m sure they had the supply line all ready to go, never a shortage of ne’er-do-wells in that casino.”
Panama’s face suddenly lit up at the thought of wonderful symmetry, “if I hadn’t caught Tallington cheating then all off this might have been avoided. Perhaps, this whole escapade is my fault in the first place. What a glorious thought.”
“And Colletti, he was on the wrong end of it all,” I added, “the import scheme was putting him out of business. The country club set weren’t going to buy his goods anymore when they could get sparkling jewels at smuggled prices. What better way to strike back than with unmistakable, remarkable craftsmanship handed down through generations. His grandfather had fashioned that necklace for her grandfather, and now he was going to take it from her with those very same skills. He knew you, Inspector, would call him to authenticate and never question what he said because all three necklaces look exactly the same. And it was Billington over there that carried the genuine one out of the house. Quite clever really.”
Panama exclaimed with a hint of pride in his voice, “Outstanding, Otterly. Three necklaces—one for the grandfather, one for the father, and one for the son—that would get at least some revenge for the death of the family business.”
Despite seemingly now having all the answers, the Inspector was even more livid than before, “we’ll lock him up!”
“Now, think this one through Inspector,” Panama spoke softly as he lay a calming hand on the Inspectors shoulder, “what are you actually going to charge Colletti with? Breaking, entering, and then leaving more jewelry there than before? I think you’ll find he’ll simply claim that he really did think all necklaces were all fake, and that we can’t prove he was in that house, and that it might make a very highly thought of Inspector look a little bit silly if it got out into the press that the necklace was in police custody the whole time. No, perhaps best to fill the front pages with clever Inspector foils smuggling ring, don’t you think?”
***
As the police unloaded boxes from the small boat and Billington led a desperate looking Sandra Tallington away in cuffs, Panama and I walked back through the cool early hours toward my car. “I think a breakfast burrito is in order, care to accompany?” Panama asked. “Sure, why not,” I replied, “I don’t want to wake my roommate up going home now anyway.”
We strolled passed my car toward Carlito’s, and one thought simply refused to leave me alone. I was left with no choice but to ask, “who was that man in the casino?” Panama was a touch confused, “we just solved a robbery that wasn’t a robbery, uncovered a high-end smuggling operation, and probably put the chair of the country club in a cell with the owner of Northern California’s tackiest casino, and you want to know who some random man was?”
“No,” I said gently, “not a random man, the man who called you John. We’ve been working together for a while now and that’s the first time I’ve ever heard someone call you John. You called him Benny.”
“Oh,” Panama replied as if he had finally been let in on a joke, “Benny is my brother.”
I hope that my wide eyed expression fully conveyed my complete sense of shock, “your what!”
BIO
Pete was born in London, England and now lives in Iowa City, Iowa. He loves classic mysteries, and anything with a patchwork of clues to find and follow. Most of all he is a stay-at-home dad who feels incredibly lucky he gets to play with his daughters all day.
