Chihuahua Confidential

by Waverly Curtis

  “Delivery for you!” Rodney said.

  “For me?”

  “Actually it’s for a Jimmy Gerrard,” Rodney said, holding it out so I could read the address. It read JIMMY GERRARD AGENCY, CARE OF GERI SULLIVAN.

  That was weird. “That’s the agency I work for in Seattle,” I said.

  “Why would Jimmy G be getting a package here?” Pepe asked.

  “I don’t know,” I told him.

  “You two need to be onstage in ten minutes,” said Rodney. “The German shepherd is almost done with his routine. Are you ready?”

  “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” I said.

  Pepe was more enthusiastic with his “¡Claro que sí!” Too bad no one could hear him but me.

  I took the package from Rodney. I expected it to be heavy, but it was surprisingly light. I shook it and something rattled inside. Whatever it was, I hoped it hadn’t been broken. I took it with me, not knowing what else to do with it for the moment.

  Chapter 7

  Rodney parked us in the greenroom, which was near the stage. They called it the greenroom, but it was really a space that had been soundproofed, and the walls were a pale blue-green. Apparently this allowed them to project any background they wanted behind us. It was set up with lights, a mike, and a stationary camera so they could do interviews of us talking about the show.

  “I wonder what it is?” I said, setting down the package.

  “I will let you know,” said Pepe, “as soon as I get a good sniff.”

  “Do you really think you can tell just from smelling it?”

  “You doubt my keen olfactory abilities?” He looked up at me, wrinkling his nose, for emphasis I guess, as he continued. “A dog’s nose is a hundred thousand times more sensitive than a human’s.” There it is again. That sense of canine superiority. Do all dogs have it, or only Chihuahuas?

  “Go for it!” I said.

  Pepe sniffed high. He sniffed low, snorting a bit as he went. Finally, his little brown nose stopped quivering, and he stepped back from the package. “I cannot yet tell you what is inside, but I can tell you one thing with absolute certainty.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Whoever handled this last was eating Nacho Cheese Doritos.”

  “What? Are you sure?”

  “Sí. It is not Cool Ranch or Salsa Verde or any of the rest, but most definitely Nacho Cheese. I would bet my last can of dog food on it.”

  “OK, I guess I’ll take your word for it,” I said, forever surprised by my tiny pooch’s talents. “Maybe the guy who delivered it was eating Doritos.”

  “No,” Pepe said emphatically. “The nacho cheese smell emanates from beneath the plastic wrap and duct tape—therefore it is the object inside the package that carries the telltale odor. The outside smells only of Natural American Spirit tobacco, meaning the deliveryman was a smoker.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Oh?” he said sarcastically. “That is all you have to say, Geri? This is our first clue. It may be muy importante!”

  “A clue to what?” I asked. “The snack habits of whoever sent this?”

  “Well!” he huffed. “It is better than nothing, is it not?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Mark my words,” he told me. “Whoever sent this had orange stains on their fingers.”

  “Fine. Fine. Whatever you say.” I was nervous about the performance. I hate waiting. “I guess I’ll call Jimmy G and let him know about it.” I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Jimmy G’s number. To my surprise, he answered.

  “What’s up, doll?” he asked.

  I told him about the mysterious package.

  “Nothing to identify who sent it?”

  “Just that whoever it was likes Nacho Cheese Doritos,” I said, thinking it was funny.

  But it wasn’t funny to Jimmy G. “You said Nacho Cheese? Not Cool Ranch? Or Salsa Verde?”

  “No, definitely Nacho Cheese.”

  “That’s a cause for concern. Don’t let that package out of your sight! Jimmy G has to get down to L.A. immediately!” And he hung up.

  “That was weird,” I told Pepe.

  Just then Rodney came bustling in with a clipboard. “You’re up next. Get out there!”

  “Can you find a safe place for this package while we’re dancing?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he said. “Just leave it here. I’ll take care of it. Now get going!” He pointed us toward a gap in the black curtains that shielded the stage. I could see a blazing light through them. Beyond that . . . the audience, the judges, the dance floor. My stomach lurched.

  “¡Vámanos!” said Pepe, trotting toward the light. A wave of applause began, swelled, and crashed. We stood at the edge of the set, at the top of the stairs.

  “And our next contestants, Geri Sullivan and her Chihuahua, Pepe!”

  A slow spatter of applause followed. I froze.

  “Geri!” Pepe circled around me. He looked so silly with his tail waving. “Geri! Just follow my lead!” And he dashed down the steps and onto the stage. A murmur of laughter from the audience. The music curled around me, the low, sexy voice of Sam the Sham coaxing Little Red Riding Hood into the woods. I tiptoed down the stairs, clutching my basket.

  Blinded by the lights, I could not see the audience but imagined them as a huge beast waiting to devour me. Pepe was slinking around the edges of the stage, his eyes focused on me. The audience was laughing softly, as he was clearly scheming on how to seduce me. It helped that my role required me to act slightly confused and naïve, so I was totally in character.

  We made it through the number, thanks to Pepe’s cues. He had memorized the entire routine and kept feeding me the next move. “A pirouette! Now sliding steps back. Slow, slow, quick, quick. Turn! And act surprised when you see me behind you!”

  At last it was over, and I lay sprawled on the stage in front of the judge’s box, with Pepe on top of me, his little white fangs at my arched, bare throat. The house lights came on and the applause began. It was huge, like thunder. Pepe hopped off of me and began strolling around, bowing to the audience. They roared.

  I got up slowly—my legs trembling—and took a few bows myself. It felt good. Pepe and I took bow after bow. Finally the applause died away. I heard Rebecca’s voice calling me over to stand beside her on the little dais in front of the judges. Besides producing the show, Rebecca was also the MC. She wore a short red dress with a feathery skirt and super-high heels.

  I picked Pepe up and clasped him in my arms. “You were magnifico, Geri!” he whispered in my ear.

  “Gracias, amigo!” I whispered back.

  Of the judges, the only one I recognized was Caprice. She was wearing a loosely crocheted white dress woven through with tinsel, so the lights glinted off it. Her Papillon, wearing a diamond collar, sat on her lap.

  “What did you think, Caprice?” Rebecca asked.

  Caprice narrowed her kohl-rimmed eyes. “The idea was cute. The dancing left a little to be desired. This dog—what’s his name?”

  “Pepe!” squeaked Pepe, his ears perking up.

  “Pepe,” I said. My voice wobbled a little.

  “Pepe?” Caprice’s voice was thoughtful. “I used to have a little Chihuahua named Pepe.”

  The Papillon in her lap started growling. She clearly remembered her previous encounter with Pepe.

  “You, Princess, are nothing but a usurper,” Pepe told her.

  “Pepe, shush!” I said, forgetting that no one else could hear him.

  Caprice tapped the Papillon on the nose. “Don’t be jealous, Princess! Mommy loves you best.”

  “She says that to all the perros,” Pepe told Princess.

  “The Chihuahua has star quality, that’s for sure,” said Caprice. “I give them a seven.”

  “That is all?” Pepe was indignant.

  “Thanks, Caprice! Let’s move along. What about you, Beverly?” Rebecca turned to the next judge, a middle-aged woman wearing a brown tweedy jacket, buttoned
tight across her capacious bosom. Beverly had a sagging face, with jowls and a double chin. She looked like a bulldog.

  “I have to say the dog was focused on the owner, which is what we want to see.” This must be the English animal trainer, judging by her accent. “And the signals were so subtle. Couldn’t even spot them. Entertaining routine and excellent execution. I’d have to give this duo an eight,” Beverly said.

  A wild burst of applause.

  Finally Rebecca turned to the third judge: a red-haired woman with a thin face, two high spots of color on her cheekbones, and a beaky nose. She favored a kind of gypsy look with long, dangling earrings, bangles up and down her skinny arms, and a purple chiffon top that exposed her prominent collarbone. This must be Miranda Skarbos, the pet psychic.

  “This was extraordinary,” she said, leaning forward in her eagerness. “It’s almost as if the two of you were communicating telepathically. You work as one. I have to give you a ten.”

  An even larger burst of applause.

  A huge scoreboard, like the ones found in football stadiums, lit up, just to the left of the stairway, and our names began flashing at the top of the list of contestants.

  “That gives Geri and Pepe a total score of twenty-five and moves them into the lead for this round,” said Rebecca. There was a sharp edge in her voice. I noticed that we had displaced Siren Song, who had previously been in first place.

  Rebecca motioned for us to exit to the left of the stage, and we stumbled out. I felt light-headed. Pepe was dancing around me in circles.

  “We did it, Geri! We are numero uno!” he said.

  “I believe there’s still one more team performing tonight,” I said.

  “Ah, they will be nada compared to us,” said Pepe.

  “Over here!” It was Shelley, with her clipboard. She waved us back into the greenroom, where we sat on a sofa.

  All the contestants and their dogs were there. When Pepe got close to Siren Song, Max, the poodle, snapped at him. Pepe snapped back, saying, “Snap all you want, you prissy puffball poodle perro! Jealousy will get you nowhere.”

  I’d been a little worried when Rebecca said that Max was our biggest competition. But Pepe seemed to put him in his place. I did, however, think it odd that she didn’t mention her own dog, Siren Song.

  Then I remembered Jimmy G’s package and looked around for it. But I couldn’t find it anywhere in the greenroom. I’d have to ask Rodney where he put it.

  “I do not know about you,” Pepe said to me when they finally called us back to the stage for the final results. “But I, for one, am muy contento that Miranda Skarbos is one of the judges.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “Of course,” he said with a big, doggy smile. “As a psychic, she will already know that we will win.”

  “What if she doesn’t?”

  “Then she is no kind of psychic!”

  Chapter 8

  In the end, our score of twenty-five still held the top spot. The Yorkie was the one eliminated in this round.

  “Yorkie-dorky!” said Pepe. “Uno down, quatro to go!”

  “Pepe!” I said. “That’s not acting like a gracious winner.”

  “Better than acting like a gracious loser,” he told me.

  I was looking forward to going back to my room, putting up my aching feet, and drinking a glass of wine. But Pepe insisted we rent a car and set off to investigate.

  “Investigate what?” I asked.

  “We must find the murderer, as we did in our first case,” Pepe said.

  “We didn’t really find the murderer,” I pointed out. “The murderer found us!”

  Pepe ignored me. “What does it say in your book about private investigating?”

  “It says that private investigators should leave investigations of homicide to the police!”

  Pepe ignored me. “Motive, means, and opportunity. That is the key to solving a murder. We know the means: the gun. We know there was an opportunity because Senor Rodney left Senor St. Nigel alone when he went out for coffee. But we do not know the motive.”

  “Yes, what motive could anyone have for killing the meanest man in the world?”

  As usual, Pepe did not recognize my sarcasm. It is one of his few failings.

  “Sí, that is what we must investigate,” he said. “That is why we are heading to Nigel St. Nigel’s hacienda.”

  The concierge at the hotel had arranged the car rental, and Pepe insisted on a low-slung red BMW convertible, which he declared was just the right size for him. Since Rebecca was footing the bill, I went along with Pepe’s request.

  I did feel I belonged in California as we drove down Sunset Boulevard. The wind blew through my curls and ruffled the tips of Pepe’s long ears. The sky was an unnaturally cheerful shade of blue; the street was framed by palm trees. It wound and curved past palatial estates and manicured lawns and low hedges. Every few blocks, a distinctive brown triangular sign reminded us that we were in Beverly Hills.

  “How are we going to find Nigel’s hacienda?” I asked Pepe. “Are you going to sniff it out?”

  “You would be surprised,” Pepe said, “but, no, my dear Sullivan, I have another plan. All we need is a map to the homes of the stars. And we should see a vendor any moment!”

  “What?”

  “Right there!” He was standing on his hind legs, with his front legs pressed against the door so he could see over the edge.

  Sure enough, at the side of the road was a guy wearing a funny rainbow umbrella on his head, with a big homemade sign that read STAR MAPS $10. He came running up as soon as I pulled over, and within a few minutes, I was inspecting a color photocopy of a map with stars marking various addresses on the curving streets of Beverly Hills. I finally found a star marking the location of Nigel’s house, which was apparently just outside of Beverly Hills on a residential street a few blocks off Benedict Canyon.

  The property, which covered about the equivalent of a Seattle city block, was completely surrounded by an eight-foot-tall box hedge, perfectly trimmed in a rectangular shape. The only entry was via a concrete paved driveway, blocked by a black metal gate. Behind the gate, the driveway curved away and disappeared behind a bank of hedges and shapely shrubs, so we couldn’t see the house, just the steep slate roofs and towers that loomed above the hedge. It looked a bit like a French château.

  “What now?” I asked Pepe, pulling over and parking on the quiet side street. There were no sidewalks. No wonder no one ever walks in L.A.

  “We must find a way to make an entry,” said Pepe. “Let us go check it out!”

  He hopped up onto the back of the car and then down onto the narrow strip of grass between the street and the hedge.

  “Pepe, I don’t think this is a good idea,” I said, getting out of the car and looking around. The other houses were also hidden behind hedges and fences and trees. There was no one around. Just the shush of traffic down on Sunset Boulevard.

  Pepe was sniffing along the hedge. “¡Muy interesante! ” he said. And then a few minutes later, “This might be important.”

  “What is it?” I asked, trailing along behind him. “Have you found a clue?”

  “Just a minute, Geri, there is something I must smell right here,” said Pepe, pushing his little body into the hedge until all I could see was the tip of his tail. “If only I could get closer . . .” His voice was muffled by the leaves. Then he disappeared entirely.

  And then I heard a splash.

  “Pepe?”

  There was no answer.

  “Pepe?”

  Silence.

  Then I heard some spluttering and a tiny voice calling out in a watery way: “Help!”

  “Pepe!” I tried to push the branches of the hedge aside but with little success.

  Once again I heard the tiny voice: “Geri! Help!” and some faint splashing.

  I redoubled my efforts. My hands and arms were being scratched, but I finally managed to push aside enough of the branches to see through. The
hedge had grown up on either side of a metal fence, and directly on the other side was a huge swimming pool and scrabbling around in the middle of the pool was a small white dog. He didn’t seem to be making much progress. In fact, he was so frantic he was making his situation worse. I had to get in there, and I had to get in there fast.

  The fence had narrow slats. Pepe had been small enough to squeeze through, but I never could. The only solution was to go up, so I did. I used the stout branches of the hedge for footholds and handholds and scrambled to the top of the fence. From there it was a straight shot down. Into the pool!

  With a big splash, I landed beside Pepe.

  I scooped him up and did a side stroke with my free arm to the shallow end of the pool. I waded out and set Pepe on the concrete coping. He was spluttering and shivering but otherwise seemed fine.

  I, on the other hand, was a mess. My shoes squished with every step I took. My blouse was plastered to my body. My hair was dripping. And worse yet, I knew there was no way out. Looking at the fence from this side, I could see that I could not possibly scale it without the helpful support of the hedge.

  And at that moment, I heard a voice: “Hey, what are you doing here?”

  I whirled around, flinging water about like a wet dog, and saw Rodney Klamp.

  He had just emerged from the back door of the large gray mansion, with a frosted glass in one hand and a purple towel in another. He was wearing a pair of baggy khaki shorts and a purple and green Hawaiian shirt. His sunglasses covered half of his face, but his porcupine hairstyle was distinctive.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I live here,” he said, and plunked his glass down on one of the small tables that punctuated the long line of lounge chairs beside the pool. He repeated his question: “What are you doing here?”

  “We came by to look at the house and pay our respects to Nigel.” I thought that was a nice touch. In fact, I had noticed with surprise that there were no gawkers or floral tributes outside the gates as would be usual when a celebrity dies. Perhaps they had been left at the gates to the studio. “And then my dog fell into the pool by accident.”

  “Not by accident,” said Pepe with a mighty sneeze. “It was a clever diversion to get into the grounds. Ask him for a towel!”