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Authors: Waverly Curtis

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BOOK: Dial C for Chihuahua
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Chapter 23
I woke up on Easter morning feeling blue. Even though I had stopped going to church back when I was in college, I still missed the ritual of worship. It was especially true at Easter. I loved seeing all the women and girls in their brightly colored dresses, listening to the exuberant singing of the choir, hearing the message of hope and resurrection.
My morning was quite different. After a quick breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, I headed back to Mrs. Snelson's with Pepe. With any luck, Bruiser would transgress again. I would get my photo of him and be able to salvage my reputation as a detective.
At the Gladstone, I found a parking place with a good view of both Bruiser's home and Mrs. Snelson's flower beds. There was a bunch of little kids, all dressed up in fancy clothes and clutching baskets, on the lawn in front of the building. It looked like an Easter egg hunt.
I thought about the Easters of my childhood, how we used to hunt for Easter Eggs inside the living room. My mother never remembered how many eggs she had hidden and so, inevitably, one was missed and only found a month later, when it began to emit an awful stench.
The kids at the Gladstone were all lined up on the patio. Someone gave a signal and they ran down the hill, shrieking with delight and poking around in the bushes. One of the residents, or perhaps the management, must have hidden candy or eggs for the kids to find. Every once in a while, one of the kids would shout and hold up an object that glittered in the sun.
“This Easter business is always confusing to me,” said Pepe, watching this activity.
“How so?” I asked.
“Well,” he said, giving his ear a quick scratch with a hind paw. “It is the Easter Bunny. Even I know that rabbits do not lay eggs.”
I had to chuckle. “Pepe, the rabbit is a symbol of—”
“Let alone colored eggs,” he continued.
“Well, the eggs are also symbols—”
“And put them into decorative baskets,” he said. “Where would rabbits get baskets?”
“Pepe, the rabbits don't have anything to do with the baskets—”
“It would be most difficult for rabbits to fit into those baskets to hatch colored eggs, if, indeed, they did lay colored eggs, would it not?”
I gave up. I couldn't figure out how to explain the real meaning of Easter to him. Actually, I was marveling at even being in the position of trying to explain Easter to a dog.
“And the candy,” said Pepe. “What has candy got to do with it?”
That was a good question. I wasn't really sure I knew the answer to that.
“And chocolate bunnies,” he said, “they are the worst. I ate one once and was sick for days.”
“That's because dogs aren't supposed to eat chocolate, Pepe.”
“Those marshmallow things, though,” he said, his tone brightening. “The yellow ones like little birds. How are they called?”
“You mean Peeps?'
“
Sí
. Peeps. They are
muy divertida!
” His small body quivered with pleasure at what was obviously a good memory. “Caprice gave me some last Easter. She lined them up so I could pretend I was hunting. I would catch their scent, stalk them most silently, and then pounce! The flock would scatter but I always caught them all. I tell you, Geri, if we ever go hungry and there are any little yellow birds around, we will not be hungry for long.”
“I'll remember that,” I said.
“Speaking of that,” he said, “I am hungry now. Where are our supplies?”
“I'm sorry, Pepe,” I said, “but I don't think we have time to go to the store. Bruiser could show up at any moment, and I need to be ready to take his picture.”
“That is OK,” he said. “I always hide some food, just in case.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Turn your head, Geri,” he said. “I cannot reveal my hiding places.”
I pretended to turn my head, watching the kids on the hill, but I actually could see him, out of the corner of my eye, digging in the crack between the back and the seat on the passenger side. He worked away at the fabric with his little paws, and finally came up with a piece of beef jerky in his teeth. He hopped over onto my lap and dropped it.
“For you, Geri,” he said.
What could I do but say thanks? I thanked him and then offered it right back to him. He seemed so proud of himself. He quickly devoured it.
“Do you have more food hidden in my car?” I asked. I really didn't like the idea, especially since some of the food we had eaten the day before was perishable.
“
Sí,
” he said with great pride. “I have many other caches in the car. They will serve us in good stead on future expeditions.”
I turned and saw Bruiser crossing the street and heading up the hill. In a minute, he would be right in the middle of the Easter egg hunt.
“Oh, no!” I said. “Bruiser's on the move. And I don't trust him around those kids. We've got to get him out of there.”
I opened the car door and hopped out. Pepe was right behind me. I hurried up the hill, flapping my hands, and shouting Bruiser's name. He kept dodging away from me, almost knocking over a little girl in the process, then rooting around in the child's abandoned basket. The little girl tried to pull her basket away from him, and he snarled at her.
“Is this your dog?” demanded her mother, coming up and pulling her crying child away. “Why are you letting him run around loose?”
“No, that's not my dog!” I tried to explain. “My dog is the little white one.” I turned around to point at Pepe and saw that he was heading towards the terrace of the Gladstone, with a pack of little kids right behind him. He looked just like the Pied Piper of Hamlin, leading them away from the danger of Bruiser and towards the safety of the building.
Bruiser, having eaten his fill of the goodies he found in the basket, headed for Mrs. Snelson's flower beds and squatted to take a dump. I swore. I had left my phone in the car in my haste. I went sprinting down to the car to get it but by the time I returned, Bruiser was gone and all there was to show for his presence was a steaming pile of poop.
I figured I should at least get a picture of that and was poised phone in hand to take a photo, when Mrs. Snelson came out onto her patio.
“You!” she said. “What are you doing here?”
Then she spotted the pile of dog poop.
“Did you catch him in the act this time?” she asked.
“Well yes,” I said. That was technically true.
“Maybe you are good for something,” she said. “Send me a copy of the photo so I can send it to Animal Control, and I'll call your boss and tell him I'm willing to pay him after all.”
“OK,” I said.
She turned and went inside. I snapped a photo of the poop, then went looking for Pepe.
I found him in the foyer of the Gladstone. A little girl in a pink dress was cradling him close to her chest, while the other children surrounded her, each begging for a turn. Pepe was shaking.
“Geri, help!” he said.
His ears were down on top of his head and his tail was tucked between his legs.
“Sorry, it's time for him to go home,” I said, gently prying him out of her hands.
“We want to hold him!” one little boy yelled.
“Yeah, it's my turn next,” said another little girl.
“I'm sorry,” I said, “but I think he's had enough excitement for one day.” The kids set up an outcry. “He has to go home and take a nap,” I added, trying to explain it in terms they would understand.
“Your dog was very brave,” said one of the moms. “If he hadn't come along, the kids might have been hurt by that vicious dog. He deserves a medal.”
To my surprise, Pepe didn't gloat at these words of praise. “I do not want a medal!” he said. He was shivering. “Take me home, Geri!”
As I carried him back down to the car, I told him how proud I was of him. “You saved those kids by leading them away from Bruiser. That was such a clever idea, Pepe. How did you think of it?”
“Geri,” said Pepe, “I was not trying to lead them away. I was trying to run away, and they followed me.”
“Why were you running away, Pepe?” I asked. “Does Bruiser scare you that much?”
“It wasn't Bruiser,” he said, in a tiny voice, “it was those
niños
.”
“No!” I said. “You're kidding me. You've fought in the bull ring, you've wrestled alligators, you've raced in the Iditarod, but you're afraid of kids.”
“Geri,” said Pepe solemnly, “there is nothing more dangerous to a Chihuahua than a child.”
Chapter 24
Pepe napped on the way home and by the time we were back at the house, he seemed to have recovered. I gave him some more of the new dog food and went to check my phone for messages.
Sherman Foot had called again and left me another message. I called him back, and this time he answered the phone. I could hear voices in the background. It sounded like he was in a restaurant or a bar.
“I'm glad you called me, Miss Sullivan,” he said. “I must let you know that I have been engaged by Mrs. Tyler to represent her, and, insofar as her interests might conflict with your own, I am obligated to let you know that I can no longer represent you.”
“But what about Stewart?” I asked.
“I have already spoken to Mr. Gerrard and given him the names of several other attorneys I recommend. He indicated that was fine with him. Mrs. Tyler's interests must come first at this sad time.”
“I totally understand,” I said. Yes, I did. Money talks. I hung up the phone feeling even more blue. Despite the fact that Sherman Foot had never represented me in any proceeding, I felt abandoned.
Pepe appeared in the hallway, licking his lips. “Let us go for a walk, Geri!” he said. “I have not yet fully marked my territory in your neighborhood. It is a task that cannot wait any longer.”
“Very well,” I said, thinking it would be a good distraction, “but you must be on a leash. It's a law in Seattle.”
“Can we pretend I slipped out of it? Like we did at the Tyler residence?” Pepe asked.
I shook my head. “No!”
“But I am allergic to leashes,” Pepe said. “They make me itch.”
“Should I get you one lined with fur?” I asked. It was meant to be humorous but Pepe brightened.
“Yes. I had a mink collar when I lived with Caprice. It was very soft and comfortable.”
I sighed. “Pepe, I doubt you'll be wearing a mink collar anytime soon.”
I bent down to clip his red polyester collar around his neck.
Outside, Pepe bent his head to sniff the edge of the sidewalk. We proceeded down the street. Very slowly. Pepe had to stop every few inches to sniff the bushes and lift his leg. I could hear him muttering to himself.
The sky was covered with gray clouds but it was not raining. As we turned the corner, the view opened out over the gray waters of Lake Union. I love Lake Union. It's the most urban lake in Seattle, its banks lined with houseboats and marinas. Seaplanes launch from the southern end, heading towards Canada and the San Juan Islands, and splash down as they return from the north. Kayakers and scullers paddle along its edges. The lake reflects the sky, so it was gray. It usually is.
We headed down the hill towards the lake's edge. This section of the waterfront is lined with docks for houseboats. I've always had a fantasy about living on a houseboat. Jeff and I were going to buy one after he got his first job and we had the chance to save.
There's a little park where the lake meets the edge of the Montlake Cut, a man-made channel that leads to Lake Washington. I like to stand under the willow tree, whose branches dip into the water, and watch the boats passing by—barges, tugboats, sailboats.
“What is wrong?” Pepe asked, looking up from his inspection of the lower branches of a nearby bush.
“What do you mean?”
“You seem pensive,” he said.
“I'm just trying to figure out how to get myself out of a tight situation,” I said.
“The date with the dog trainer?” asked Pepe hopefully.
“No, that's a tight situation I would like to be in,” I said.
“Then what?”
“Well, while you were inside the Gladstone with the kids—”
Pepe shuddered. “Do not remind me.”
“—I sort of accidentally told Mrs. Snelson I got a picture of Bruiser in the act. But I didn't.” I explained what had happened.
“
No problema
,” he said.
“We have a photograph of that
perro
, right?”
“Well, yes, I took one of him in his yard. But not in her garden.”
“Ah, but that is half the battle won. You also have a photograph of a pile of poop that he left behind in the garden. No?”
“Yes.”
“Then all we need do is to put the two photos together.”
“How on earth would we do that?” I asked.
“Photoshop,” Pepe told me. “We combine the two photographs and give it to Mrs. Snelson. She is happy, the
perro
is disgraced, and Sullivan and Sullivan have solved another case!”
“It doesn't seem ethical,” I said.
“The
perro
did poop in her garden, did he not?”
“Yes, he did.”
“So we are just documenting it, but in a slightly different way than taking a photograph of him in the act.”
“I don't have Photoshop on my computer,” I said.
“They have the program on the computers at most large copy places—like Kim's Kopies,” he said. “It will be nice and bright in one of those places, and we can bill the client for the expense.”
He was right and there was a Kim's Kopies nearby in the University District.
“Well,” I said, thinking that his crazy idea could be the answer to my prayers. “That might just work. Let's go!”
 
 
Usually I have a hard time finding parking in the U District, especially on University Way, which is commonly known as “The Ave.” Just a few blocks west of the sprawling University of Washington campus, The Ave features the usual eclectic blend of small businesses that spring up near college campuses, including cheap ethnic restaurants, a sprinkling of coffee shops, a couple of new and used bookstores, a tiny crowded smoke shop, cheap clothing stores (the kind that feature clothes made in Third World countries or T-shirts with silk-screen slogans), a shoe store that sells Birkenstocks and Earth Shoes, and a bunch of inexpensive copy shops. Usually parking is a problem. But since it was Easter Sunday, The Ave was deserted.
Kim's Kopies appeared to be the only place open on the block.
 
I parked right in front and walked in with Pepe on his leash. The place had as much soul as your typical office building. Gray carpet. Blank beige display counters, loaded up with envelopes and reams of paper. Posters featuring smiling customers with slogans like
Y
OUR
OFFICE AWAY FROM HOME
!
The young guy at the counter had spiky red hair, a small silver ring in his left nostril, and a tribal tattoo on the back of his left hand. He also wore a tomato-red polyester shirt with his name, Sean, embroidered in cursive on the pocket.
“Ma'am,” he said. (I hate being called ma'am—I'm only thirty-two. But then again he was about eighteen, so maybe I seemed ancient to him.) “Dogs aren't allowed in here. You'll have to—”
“He's a therapy dog,” I told him.
“A therapy dog?”
“Yes.”
“I've never heard of a therapy dog.”
“He's covered under the Americans with Disabilities Act.”
“Oh,” he said again. “In that case, just don't let him run around in the store, OK? How can I help you?”
“I need to use Photoshop,” I said.
“We have that installed on most of our computers,” he said. “Just use any of the first three in the line.”
I headed over to the row of computers. No one was in the store. Who goes to a copy store on Easter?
It took me a while to remember how to use Photoshop. It was a new version and quite different from the one I used when I was in school. Pepe kept trying to tell me what to do, and that was really annoying. He was sitting beside me on one of the empty chairs.
“Hey,” said Pepe. “That will not do. You have put the poop on his nose.”
“Give me a second,” I said. “I'll move it.”
I tried again. But it still wasn't right.
“Now you have it right in front of him,” Pepe pointed out. “It should really be behind him.”
I tried to maneuver the poop to a different spot.
“Then again, we do tend to sniff our stuff after we are done . . . No, still it would be better behind.”
“I know what I'm doing,” I told him.
“Ma'am, do you need help?” It was Sean, at my shoulder. Probably he had heard me talking to myself and was getting worried.
“No, I'm fine,” I said, turning around to give him a bright smile. In doing so, I gave him a clear view of the screen, which was currently zoomed in on a massive pile of poop. He examined it with a critical eye.
“Art project?” he asked.
“Why, yes,” I said.
“I'm an artist, too,” he said. “Have you ever heard of the Web site called Scat Shots?”
I couldn't say that I had, so I just looked interested.
“That's mine,” Sean said with pride. “People send me photos of their poop and I post them. Turns out people get a lot of pleasure out of trying to read them, like semiotic texts, for meaning and significance. But what you're doing here is really unique. Dog turds, huh?”
“Yeah, that's my current project,” I said.
“The perspective is slightly off,” he said, looking at the screen. I could see what he meant. The light was hitting the pile of poop from a different angle than it was falling on the garden surrounding it.
“Here!” he grabbed an extra chair and pulled it up beside me. “You can manipulate the shadows with this tool!” In a few minutes, he had extended the shadows so you couldn't tell where the original photo began and ended. It would have taken me another hour to accomplish.
“Wow, thanks!” I said.
“Hey, we artists have to stick together,” he said. His smile was genuine. “Let's print it out!” He hit the print button, then went over the printer and pulled a copy off. He came back and held it up for us to see.
“It is a masterpiece!” exclaimed Pepe.
“It is, isn't it?” I agreed. No one would have known the photo was staged. And really, I assured myself, it was totally fair. The dog had pooped in Mrs. Snelson's garden. Just not while my camera was ready.
“How much do I owe you?” I asked Sean.
“No charge,” said Sean. “You made my day. But, if you don't mind, I'd love to have a copy for my Web site.”
“Sure!” I said, as he hit the print button again. “My pleasure.”
“Geri, we need some business cards,” Pepe said, as we headed out of the store and passed a sign advertising a sale on business cards: 500
FOR
$10.
“You're right,” I said.
“Pretty cool!” said Sean, when he saw my business name—
S
ULLIVAN AND
S
ULLIVAN
, P
RIVATE
I
NVESTIGATORS
. “
Another art project?”
“You could say so,” I said.
I consulted with Sean briefly and picked out a good font—something with a bit of weight—and an icon to represent my profession. Sean suggested a magnifying glass.
“It's an old-fashioned symbol,” he noted. “Yet it's still a signifier.”
I also had to decide whether or not to use my cell phone or landline, but I finally decided it was best to use both. I didn't like giving out my cell phone number, but presumably a client might need to reach me at all hours of the day or night.
After the decisions were made, it was only a matter of minutes before Sean was handing us a box of brand new cards. As soon as we were in the car, I took one out and laid it in front of Pepe.
“What do you think?” I asked.
The card read: S
ULLIVAN AND
S
ULLIVAN
, P
RIVATE
I
NVESTIGATORS
. There was a bright red magnifying glass in the upper right-hand corner.
“Very nice,” Pepe said, “but I think you should have put a dog on the card. That is what truly makes our business unique. And the magnifying glass should be hot pink.”
“We can redo them later. Maybe include a photo of the two of us together.”
“I would like that very much, Geri.”
I was feeling good about our partnership as I pulled out of my parking spot.
“Also you should have charged him for the photo,” said Pepe, as we headed home. “You cannot call yourself an artist and give away your work for free.”
BOOK: Dial C for Chihuahua
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