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Authors: Waverly Curtis

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BOOK: Dial C for Chihuahua
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Chapter 15
It was shortly after noon when we got to the Tyler residence. I drove by it slowly, scanning to see if there was any police activity around it. Seeing none, I found a parking spot up the street.
“Do you see any
policía
at the Tyler
casa
?” Pepe asked, as I parallel parked.
“How do you know where we are?” I asked. He was curled up in the passenger seat and had barely lifted his head. “You can't possibly see out the window.”
“We dogs have the uncanny ability to know where we are at all times,” he told me. “It is a vestige of our survival skills from ancient times.”
“Oh, come on,” I said.
“If that's true, tell me
exactly
where we are right now.”
“We are at 648 Fourteenth Avenue East.”
“Ha! Gotcha!” I wagged a finger at him. “That's not the Tyler address.”
“I did not say it was. You asked me to tell you
exactly
where we are, and I have done so. Specifically, we are four houses north of the Tyler casa, thus the address of the house we are parked in front of is 648 Fourteenth Avenue East.”
I looked out Pepe's passenger side window. He was right. The number set in tile on the stone pillar of the large Tudor mansion read
648.
“How did you know that?” I asked.
He stood up and took a stretch. He put his little paws down and stretched his butt and tail up so that he looked like a comma. “Geri, what if I were to tell you that, even lying down, I could see the address in big bold letters on the front gate of the house on
your
side of the car—”
I swiveled around in my seat. It was true: the house on the other side of the street was elevated from the sidewalk, and the address was plainly visible.
Pepe continued, “And that I knew that the casa on
my
side of the car would be the even number, 648, which I remember is four houses north of the Tyler residence. Would that not have spoiled your sense of wonder and amazement at my uncanny abilities?”
“Oh, good grief.”
“Just as I thought,” he said, looking smug. “Now, I ask you again—do you see any signs of
policía
at the Tyler residence?”
“No, no, there aren't any cops around.”
“Ah,
muy bien
.”
Regaining my composure, I said, “I don't see any cars in the driveway either, so let's hope Rebecca Tyler's not home.” I reached over, rolled his window up and grabbed my purse.
“Let's go and see if we can find any clues, Pepe.”
 
 
I managed to get a leash on Pepe by persuading him that we had to pose as a dog owner and pet out for a walk. The Tylers lived just a few blocks from Volunteer Park, the oldest Seattle park, a spacious green landscape of sweeping lawns and tall trees designed by the famous Olmstead brothers. There were plenty of other dogs and their owners heading towards the park or coming home. Pepe growled at every one he saw, and I had to scoop him up and tuck him under my arm to keep him from lunging at the other pets. The other dog owners gave me sour looks. Apparently they didn't find Pepe as amusing as I did.
“Now here's our plan,” I said to him, as we got close to the driveway of the Tyler residence. “I'm going to set you down on the ground. I have surreptitiously unhooked your leash. You're going to pretend to run away from me and dash into the Tyler yard. I'll chase after you and that way we'll be able to look for clues.”
Pepe regarded me with amazement in his dark eyes. “Geri, that is a very good plan,” he said. “You are turning out to be more devious than I thought.”
“Thank you,” I said, though I wasn't sure that was a compliment.
“It is a very good trait for a private detective,” he said, as I plunked him down on the ground. “Luckily, I have a talent for it myself.” He shook himself, then took off running up the Tyler driveway.
I wasn't sure whether to call his name or not, to establish our pretext, but decided against it and followed him, trying to look harried and worried. That was easy.
The house seemed to be closed up. Blinds were drawn in the windows facing the front.
Pepe dashed across the lawn, rounded a big rhododendron at the corner of the house and headed towards the back yard. I followed reluctantly. A yew hedge shielded us from view on one side but I crept along cautiously, afraid someone inside the house would notice me passing by.
Pepe headed straight for an azalea bush, bright with red blooms, and dug into the earth. But he ran back quickly, squeaking, “Ow! Ow! Ow!” He was jumping up and down and circling around, trying to rub his nose against the ground.
“What is it, Pepe?” I whispered.
“Someone has done a very bad thing!” he said. “Ow! My nose! Ow!”
“Hold still, Pepe,” I said, kneeling down to see what was wrong. He squirmed under my hand but eventually I saw tiny splinters of redwood bark in his nose. I set him on my lap and took out my tweezers from my purse and extracted them one by one. He made a lot of noise during this process, but luckily no one seemed to hear him.
When I was done, I patted his nose with a Kleenex. There were tiny spots of red on the Kleenex as I folded it back up.
“Blood!” he said and seemed to sway on his feet.
“It's OK, Pepe, you're fine,” I said. “But don't go back under there.”
“It's
muy malo
,” said Pepe. “Someone has put this nasty stuff everywhere under the bushes to prevent us from looking for clues.” I saw that fresh redwood mulch had been heaped at the bases of all the trees in the back yard, and all the rhododendrons and azaleas which edged the house. The smell was overpowering, even for my human nose.
“It looks like it was done recently,” I said.
“Today,” he insisted. “It was not there two days ago. This is where I smelled the bad smell, but it is buried under this stuff. Luckily I can track it away from here.”
He put his nose to the ground and sniffed the grass.
“Do you not see?” he said. “Right here—the faint outline and depression made by a pair of shoes.”
I squatted down and gave the area a close inspection. “Well, maybe I can see what you're talking about. Are you sure?”
“Of course I am sure. I can smell the leather. Italian, I believe.”
“Can you tell the shoe size?”
“I am not a shoe salesman.” He put his nose to the grass and headed towards the back of the house. “Come along, Geri,” he said.
I followed reluctantly.
“Over here,” called Pepe, his voice growing faint. He was digging again, this time in the back yard under the base of an ornamental cherry tree with long weeping branches, laden with fat, pink petals. As I reached his side, I heard voices coming from the back of the house.
“All right, go on,” said a male voice. “You wanted out, so go out already.”
“Luis,” said a woman, “Mrs. Tyler doesn't like it when—”
“I don't care. It's a dog, not a piece of Waterford crystal. Besides, she drives me crazy when she wants out.”
“But—”
“She always comes back. Don't worry. There you go, girl, have some fun.”
I scooped Pepe up and ducked behind a topiary boxwood, shaped like a giant urn. “
Shhhh!
” I told him.
A reddish-gold Pomeranian came prancing out into the yard. She was an exquisite little creature, a puffball of long, fluffy fur.
Pepe craned forward in my arms.
“Oh,” he sighed. “It is the bitch. She is so lovely. I am smitten!”
“Hold still,” I said while he was squirming in my arms.
The Pomeranian sniffed the air. I was afraid she would catch our scent and begin barking. But instead, she headed straight over to the base of the tree where Pepe had been digging and began digging herself.
“She is going to steal our clue!” said Pepe, wriggling out of my arms, and dashing towards her.
I took off after him. Sure enough, by the time I arrived, the Pomeranian had unearthed something. It was a soggy piece of plastic, covered with dirt. It took a minute for me to realize it was a latex glove. Possibly worn by the murderer! And buried here after the deed! The police hadn't found it. I needed to get that clue before the dogs destroyed it.
The little Pom had her teeth on one end of it and Pepe had his teeth on the other end. They were both growling and pulling it back and forth.
“Give it to me,” said Pepe. “It is mine. I found it first.”
The Pomeranian growled.
“Stop it, both of you!” I said, perhaps a bit too loud. For the next moment, I heard a man's voice behind me.
“What's going on here?”
Chapter 16
I turned and saw a young man in khaki pants and a white T-shirt coming toward me. He had the browned skin of someone who works in the sun and the broad shoulders and strong biceps of someone who works with his hands. Behind him was an older woman with dark hair pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck. She wore magenta polyester pants and a matching tunic top. Both had a look of concern, especially the woman.
I was concerned myself. The glove was a clue I couldn't afford to lose. I knelt down and grabbed at it. We had a three-way tug-of-war until I pulled up on the glove, almost lifting both dogs off the ground. They finally released their hold. I shoved the glove into my coat pocket. Then I stood and turned to face the man and woman.
“Oh, hello,” I said. “I'm sorry for coming onto your property. I was just passing by, and my dog saw your dog and got off his leash. It is your dog, isn't it? This cute little Pomeranian?”
“She isn't ours,” said the man, approaching me. The Pomeranian was dancing around me with her dark eyes focused on my pocket. Pepe was following close behind her. “She belongs to Mrs. Tyler. We work for her.”
“Luis,
que pasa?
” the woman asked, giving him a light poke in the arm. “Who is this lady?” she continued in Spanish. “What's she doing here?”
“No problem,” Luis told her in Spanish. “Her dog just got off the leash.”
“I'm Geri Sullivan,” I said, introducing myself.
“Luis Vasquez,” he told me. “And this is my mother, Rosa. I'm sorry, she doesn't speak any English.”
Just then, the Pomeranian jumped up, her eyes still focused on my coat pocket. She repeated the move as effortlessly as an acrobat—
boing-boing-boing
—like a furry bouncing ball.
“Siren Song,
down
,” commanded Luis. “What's gotten into you?”
“It's OK,” I said. “She probably smells the beef jerky in my pocket.” I pulled the half full packet out.
“Hey,” Pepe complained, putting his nose right up to the plastic pack, as did the other dog. “You said we were out of beef jerky,” he accused. “You held out on me.”
“You were eating it all,” I told him.
“What did you say?” asked Luis.
“Nothing,” I told him. “Your dog was working so hard for this beef jerky, I thought she should have some of it. Do you mind?”
Luis looked at Rosa. She shook her head, but he shrugged. “She can have a treat.”
I gave a few pieces to the Pomeranian, who wolfed it down.
“No more for her,” Rosa told Luis. “Siren Song will get fat.”
“She's got too much energy to get fat,” said Luis. “She can have some more.”
I broke off a small bit for Pepe and gave the rest to Siren Song. She gobbled it right up, but Pepe took his piece gently in his mouth, then carried it over to Siren Song and laid it down on the grass in front of her. She gave him what I can only describe as a surprised look, then scooped it up, swallowed it, and licked her lips.
“Hey baby,
que pasa
?” Pepe said to her.
“Hey baby,
que pasa
?” I repeated.
Luis must have thought I was speaking to him. He rattled off a string of rapid Spanish. About all I could figure was that he thought I was fluent in Spanish, too.
“
No hablo Español
,” I said in my high school Spanish. “I was talking to my dog.”
“Your dog speaks Spanish?” Luis asked.
“Well, actually, I think it's more like Spanglish.” Thinking it best to change the subject, I asked Luis, “I saw the police were here yesterday. What happened?”
“Mr. Tyler was found dead,” he said. “The police think he was murdered.”
“That's terrible. I take it you and your mother weren't here when it happened?”
“No. We had the week off. Mrs. Tyler was in L.A., and Mr. Tyler was at their cabin in Aspen.”
“Luis!” his mother yelled. She pointed toward the dogs. “Do you see what that Chihuahua is doing?”
“But she is spayed,” Luis told her. “They cannot do anything. They are just smelling each other.”
And so they were. They had been circling round each other the way dogs do but eventually they had stopped, side by side, head to tail, and were sniffing each other's butts. Pepe looked at me, his dark eyes dreamy, and said, “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”
“Shakespeare again,” I mused, thinking how odd it was to hear my dog quoting from
Romeo and Juliet
. Then I remembered what I was supposed to be doing.
“So what happened?” I asked, deciding to play the role of a concerned neighbor. “Was it a burglary?”
Luis shrugged. “We don't know. Mrs. Tyler called us last night and asked us to come over. The police wanted to question us. To see if we had noticed anything out of place.”
“And had you?”
“I didn't work that week since there was no need to water. Because of the rain. And my mother was supposed to come that day to open up the house for Mrs. Tyler, but then Mrs. Tyler called her and told her not to come.”
“Why?”
Luis looked at his mother, but she wasn't paying attention. All of her attention was focused on Siren Song. The Pomeranian was standing up on her back legs, with her paws held in front of her, and turning in circles. She could have been a ballerina doing pirouettes. She was that graceful.
“Wow!” I said. Pepe seemed equally impressed. He tried to get up on his hind legs and imitate her actions, but he could only stay upright for a moment.
“The dog dances,” said Luis.
“Yes, it certainly looks like she's dancing,” I said.
“No, really,” he said. “Mrs. Tyler has trained her to dance. That is her hobby. She takes her dog to shows where dogs dance.”
Siren Song backed up, still standing on her hind legs. Then she moved forward again.
“It looks like she's doing a cha-cha,” I said.
“Probably she is,” Luis said. “She's a very talented dog. She has won many prizes.”
Rosa walked towards the dogs, clapping her hands. At first, I thought she was applauding Siren Song's performance, but then I realized she was trying to shoo Pepe away.
“So your mother was lucky,” I said.
“What?”
“If she had come that morning, she would have found the body,” I said. I didn't mention that I had been the one to find it instead.
“Yes, we were just talking about that,” said Luis. “It would have been a terrible shock. My mother has worked for the Tylers for twenty years. I've been coming along with her since I was eight. In fact, Mr. Tyler was my
patrón
.”
Rosa picked up Siren Song, tucked her under her arm and headed back to the house. Pepe followed at her heels, his nose practically touching her ankles.
“
Patrón
?” I asked.
“It means godfather,” Pepe said, as he trotted by me. I picked him up as well. He struggled to get down but I told him, “Hush, I need you to translate.”
Just then, Rosa rattled off a string of Spanish at Luis. I caught a word here and there but the gist of it was that she wanted him to get back to work and stop talking to snoopy strangers.
“She wants him to go back to work and stop talking to snoopy strangers,” Pepe said. “Now will you put me down?”
“No,” I said. “That dog is way out of your league. No way are you getting anywhere with her.”
“I am insulted,” Pepe said, and he hung his little head over my arm in the most dejected position possible.
“He definitely seems to understand English,” Luis said. His mother was already back in the house with Siren Song. Pepe let out a pathetic whimper.
“My mother wants me to get back to work,” Luis said. He very kindly left off the phrase about talking to snoopy strangers.
I cast about for some further topic of conversation, and my eye fell on the wheelbarrow full of mulch on the driveway behind him.
“Oh, I see you're mulching all of your plants,” I said. “Is this the time of the year to do that?”
Luis shrugged. “You can do it any time of year but since it's spring, the weeds grow rapidly. I try to keep up with them but it offends Mrs. Tyler if she sees just one. So she told me to apply the mulch.” He turned away.
“But why today?” I asked. “What if it covered evidence needed to solve the crime?”
“Oh, the police told us they were done. And Mrs. Tyler insisted we stay on schedule. She has her calendar laid out with things to do each day.”
I heard the sound of car tires coming up the driveway. A dark black Town Car pulled into view—just the nose of it since the wheelbarrow blocked the drive.
“Well, it was lovely talking to you,” I said. “Thanks for letting my dog play with yours.”
I spun around, planning to make a quick escape along the side of the house. But I was too slow.
“Hey!” Rebecca Tyler jumped out of the car. She was dressed in black today—a long black wool coat over black leggings and black high heels.
“What's going on here?” That was addressed to Luis. I put Pepe down, thinking we could make our getaway faster.
“You! Stop!” she said. Her voice was so commanding I did as she said. So did Pepe.
“I was just talking to this lady,” Luis said, holding out his hands in supplication. “She's a neighbor whose dog got loose and came into our yard.”
“That's no neighbor!” said Rebecca. “She's the one who murdered my husband!”
BOOK: Dial C for Chihuahua
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