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Authors: Waverly Curtis

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BOOK: The Silence of the Chihuahuas
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Pepe's Blog: Naming Your Cases
I only have a short time to post an update because we are off on another important case, the Case of the Senior Stalker, as I think I shall name it. We have not yet brought to a satisfactory conclusion our other two cases: The Case of the Missing Sister and The Case of the Deadly Decorator. I know Geri does not believe that her friend Brad is involved in the death of his client, but I am not convinced. Besides the alliteration in the title is quite nice.
Geri seems to have forgotten all about Amber and Party Girl, or rather she believes the U.S. Marshalls and the FBI and the Bellevue police can do a better job than Sullivan and Sullivan. I beg to differ, but when I brought this up in the car on the way home, she told me that since she no longer has her cell phone, the kidnappers will no longer contact her and there's nothing we can do about it. I objected to this as well, and pointed out that we had assigned Jimmy G to do some surveillance. She muttered something about a pork pie hat, which I don't understand because why would anyone put a nice pork pie into a hat.
I was researching this question when Geri told me that Mrs. Snelson needed us. And she was prepared to make us breakfast. I suppose it does make sense to get fortified before tackling anything too demanding. And some nice crispy bacon would do the trick.
Chapter 22
I called Jay right before we left for Mrs. Snelson's. He was pretty upset when I described my encounter with Brad at Forest Glen. I promised to drive over and give him a more complete update after we were done with Mrs. Snelson. And breakfast. I didn't think it would take longer than an hour.
It had rained during the night and the streets were still wet. But the sun was just poking through the clouds when we arrived at the Gladstone. I parked in almost the same spot I had parked in when we first visited Mrs. Snelson. Bruiser was still chained to the tree in the front yard. He lay in the mud, his massive chin resting on his two front paws, staring rather listlessly at Pepe.
“Don't even think about it,” I said to Pepe as we walked by. Pepe has a tendency to bark and growl at bigger dogs. I wasn't sure how Bruiser would react.
“You tell me not to think about the canine prisoner? A poor beast who is confined simply because of his exuberant nature? You ask me not to care about a fellow creature who is—” Pepe was about to launch into a much longer speech when I cut him off
“I thought you didn't like Bruiser,” I said.
The big dog lifted his head hopefully at the sound of his name. I could see the bones under the hide of brown and grey. He was definitely a lot skinnier than the last time we had seen him.
“My heart aches for any animal in captivity,” Pepe replied. “Have I ever told you about the time that I freed all the animals in the traveling Mexican circus owned by the Amigo Brothers?”
“No, you have not,” I said sharply. “And I don't believe for a moment that you did that.”
“
Si
,” said Pepe. “A mangy lion, two elephants, and a bear who knew how to juggle. I wonder where they are now. The last time I saw them they were heading for the Pacific coast.” His voice sounded melancholic. “I wonder if they made it.”
“I am sure you were their hero,” I said, thinking it never hurts to appreciate good deeds.
“Yes, as I will be for this poor beast,” said Pepe. He turned and trotted up the path towards the front door of the run-down house. I shuddered as he passed right under the nose of the big dog, but Bruiser was so dispirited he didn't even snarl or snap. In fact, he staggered to his feet and looked at Pepe with something like admiration as Pepe mounted the sagging front steps of the old wooden house.
“Come back here!” I commanded. Of course, Pepe did not obey me. Instead he scratched on the screen door.
“OK, I'm coming after you,” I said, dashing up the front walk and hoping to snatch up my dog before he could cause any more trouble.
But I was too late. Just as I got to the top step, the wooden front door swung open. The smell of marijuana came wafting out. Through the rusted scrim of the screen, I could see a young woman with long dark hair streaked with purple. It was parted in the middle and hanging down, almost obscuring her pale face. She had a nose ring in her nose and her eyes were pink around the rims, as if she had been crying, but perhaps it was just from what she was smoking. She wore a long black dress with a corset bodice that she probably bought at Hot Topic and she had tattoos of snakes and roses coiling up both arms.
“What do you want?” she said, licking her lips, which were cracked.
“Hi, I'm Geri Sullivan,” I said. “I was just visiting someone across the street and noticed your dog.”
“He's not my dog,” she said. She didn't bother to give me her name.
“Whose dog is he?”
“My boyfriend Casey. It's his dog.”
“OK,” I said, snatching up Pepe, “but will you tell your boyfriend that he shouldn't keep his dog chained up like that?”
“He should be inside,” said Pepe. “And he needs more food. Crispy bacon would be good.”
“Sure next time I talk to him,” she said in a pinched voice. “But I don't expect that will be any time soon. He dumped me to run off with some other chick a month ago and I haven't heard from him since.”
“And he left his dog behind?” Pepe asked, shocked.
“Are you having trouble taking care of the dog?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I can't do anything with him. He pulls too much for me to walk him. And if I let him loose, then those old biddies across the street complain and then the animal control comes and picks him up and puts him in the pound and I have to pay to get him out.” She paused. “But come to think of it, that might be a good idea. I can't take care of him.”
“No, she cannot send him to
perro
prison!” said Pepe.
“Would you like someone to help you with the dog?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, my boyfriend is a dog trainer. He could teach you how to handle him so he doesn't pull when you try to walk him. In fact, he's working on a reality TV show. They're looking for people who are having trouble with their dogs.”
“Really, you mean I could be on TV?” Her face brightened for the first time.
“It's possible,” I said.
“I bet they pay really well.”
“Probably,” I agreed.
“Well, that would be awesome,” she said. For the first time, I could see how young she was. Maybe nineteen or twenty. “Give him my number,” she said. She started rattling off a string of numbers which reminded me I still didn't have my cell phone back. I had to dig around in my purse to find a piece of paper and a pen. Turns out her name was Holly.
“They're looking for someone to film right away,” I said.
“Hey, I'm not doing anything else,” she said, turning away. I got the impression she was going to run inside and start cleaning up.
“That was a brilliant idea, Geri!” said Pepe, as we were walking down the steps.
“Why, thank you!” I said, with surprise. My dog hardly ever praises me.
Bruiser whined softly as we went by.
“Do not fear,” Pepe said to him. “Your time in chains will soon be over.” As we headed across the street, he turned to me. “Bruiser says that Mrs Snelson has been feeding him crispy bacon. I hope she saves some for me.”
“I smell biscuits!” said Pepe, when Mrs. Snelson pulled open her sliding glass door to admit us. He followed his nose into her kitchen and up to the small, harvest-gold-colored oven.
Mrs. Snelson smiled. “He must smell the biscuits I'm baking,” she told me. She patted Pepe on the head. “Just be patient, pup.”
“Where fresh-baked biscuits are concerned,” Pepe said, “I am patience itself!”
She turned to me. “It's almost like he answered me, isn't it?”
“Sure is,” I said, thinking about how Mrs. Snelson hated Pepe when we met her on our first case, but now she thought the world of him. People could change.
She took a can of Pam out of the cupboard. “So, how do you like your eggs?” she asked, picking up a cast iron pan from the stove and spraying Pam into it.
“Don't you want to show me the latest disturbance first?”
Still holding the heavy pan, Mrs. Snelson said, “I'd like to brain whoever did it with this!” She shook it in the air. “I was very upset when I first saw it, but now that you're here, I feel much better.” She took a carton of eggs out of her small refrigerator. “You go in and take a look while I get breakfast ready. My father always said that once you're properly fortified, no obstacle is too great. Remind me of how you like your eggs, dear?”
“Over easy,” I said. “But my dog likes his scrambled.”
“And I like my bacon extra crispy,” said Pepe.
“Pepe likes bacon too,” I said.
“Great,” she replied. “I make mine extra crispy.”
“That's the way Pepe likes it,” I told her.
“Dog after my own heart,” she told me. “Crispy is the best.”
 
 
Pepe and I headed into the bedroom. The bed was indeed covered with rose petals. They were strewn across it, red and yellow and pink petals, hundreds of them. Must have taken several armfuls of roses. They actually looked very pretty against the green comforter on the bed.
I love roses. If I came home and Felix had done this for me, I think I would have quite liked it, especially if he was lying among them wearing only rose petals.
“And, look, Geri!” Pepe said. “Our trick with the flour worked. Do you see the footprints?”
Indeed, I did. They came into the room and danced all around the bed, overlapping each other so much it was hard to see a distinct print, especially since the carpet was beige and the flour was whole wheat.
We followed the trail back out to the front door. I opened it and looked out. The footsteps were much more distinct on the dark blue carpet in the hallway. They led away to the right.
“Breakfast's ready!” Mrs. Snelson hollered.
Pepe didn't have to be told twice. He raced toward the kitchen. I brought up the rear.
“Yum!” he said, looking at the small white china plate on the floor. Mrs. Snelson had centered the dish on a floral place mat and provided a matching china teacup full of water. Pepe's plate held a crumbled biscuit, a pile of scrambled eggs, and four strips of crisp bacon cut into small pieces.
Mrs. Snelson was pouring a cup of coffee from her percolator into a mug with her name on it. That is, if her name was Gladys.
Pepe started crunching on the bacon and Mrs. Snelson waved me to a seat.
“I think we should follow the flour footprints first,” I said. “We should see where they lead before they disappear!”
“I suppose you're right,” she said mournfully, looking at the food on her plate.
“It will only take a minute,” I said, hoping that was true.
“A real detective would eat first,” said Pepe. It came out a little mumbly because his mouth was full of biscuit.
“I don't know if that's true,” I said.
“It could indeed take a good deal longer,” said Mrs. Snelson, “but one must strike while the iron is hot. That's what Gumshoe would say.”
“Gumshoe?”
“He's the president of our mystery book group,” said Mrs. Snelson. “He fancies himself a bit of a detective.”
“Well, why didn't you call him?” I asked, confused. “If you have a detective right here in the building.”
“He's strictly an amateur,” said Mrs. Snelson. “Not like you two. Besides,” she blushed, “it would be embarrassing to admit the circumstances. And if he figured out who it was, well, he'd have a grudge against that person, and that wouldn't do. We all have to live together. No, I want to take care of this on my own!” She set down her coffee mug and picked up a rolling pin instead.
“Then let's go!” I said.
“Because we are the real detectives,” said Pepe, now happy to leave his food, although I noted he had polished off most of his bacon.
Pepe led the way to the front door. I opened it for him and we all tiptoed out into the hall.
“I wish we had some of those booties they wear in the crime shows,” said Mrs. Snelson with relish. “Then we could be sure not to contaminate the evidence.”
The shoe prints were actually pretty clear out in the hallway. One set, leading away to the right. A rather big shoe size, perhaps a ten or a twelve.
“Looks like a man's ten,” said Mrs. Snelson, bending over and inspecting one of the prints.
Pepe sniffed the flour, then sneezed, and said, “It is all-purpose, whole wheat flour, General Mills to be specific.”
“How do you know that?” I asked him.
“I know my flour,” Pepe said.
“My husband wore a similar size,” Mrs. Snelson said.
“Really!” I said.
“Yes, I worked for a baker in Guadalajara,” Pepe told me. “He made the best
empanadas
in town. He baked, and I was on rat patrol.”
“You're kidding?” Here was yet another of his outrageous stories.
“I do not jest. It was serious business. I was so good at my job, they called me
El Supremo
!”
“Why would I joke about my husband's shoe size?” Mrs. Snelson asked, confused.
“I guess you wouldn't joke about that,” I said.
“Certainly not,” said Pepe. “The baker, Roberto, he was also a Nacho Libre wrestler. He was known as Doctor
Muerte
. While he wrestled by night, I wrestled the rats. I vanquished untold numbers in my bouts! We had the most rodent free bakery in Guadalajara.”
Pepe charged down the hall, keeping to the side of the footprints. Mrs. Snelson followed him, the rolling pin in her hand. I followed behind her. The footprints led to an elevator at the end of the hall.
“That's the service elevator,” Mrs. Snelson told me. “Pretty sneaky,” she added. “The culprit evidently didn't want to be seen taking the main elevators at the other end of the hall.”
We got in and pushed the button for the second floor. Pepe asked me to hold him. He's not a big fan of elevators.
When the doors opened on the next floor, we were lucky—there were a few clear footprints in front of the elevator so we knew we were on the right floor— but the footprints became fainter and disappeared altogether about halfway down the hall.
“Do you know who lives in this hallway?” I asked Mrs. Snelson.
“Well, yes,” she said. “Louise is down at that end, and Edna has the door with the wreath of autumn leaves. She's very crafty.” She turned a little pink. “But it's unlikely to be either of them. Not that I have anything against that lifestyle. We all think that Alma and Grace on the third floor are a couple, if you know what I mean.”
BOOK: The Silence of the Chihuahuas
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