Barking Detective 04 - The Chihuahua Always Sniffs Twice

by Waverly Curtis

  “Fighting with her stepmother?”

  “No, the other lavender farmers! They’re ruthless—each one trying to compete for the attention of the tourists. Poor Colleen! I don’t think she’s going to make it. She’s just not cut out for that kind of conflict.”

  Jimmy G wrote that down, too, though he didn’t see how it was relevant. He tried to think of something else to ask.

  “So who do you think killed Bickerstaff?”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say Boswell,” Kevin replied quickly. “They hated each other.”

  “But the police questioned Boswell and let him go.”

  Kevin raised his eyebrows. “You know how they do that. They can’t make an arrest until they get enough evidence. But I’ll bet they’re closing in on him even as we speak.”

  Jimmy G gulped, thinking of his late-night visit. Maybe he had been alone with a murderer. He was lucky to be alive.

  “Well, thanks for talking to Jimmy G,” he said, crumpling the napkin and putting it back into his pocket. Then he remembered the missing document, the one he had lifted from Boswell’s desk. “I left something in my room. I’ll just head up to collect it.”

  “The maid just finished cleaning your room,” Kevin said. “Let me ask her if she found anything. What was it?”

  “Some legal papers,” Jimmy G said quickly. “Relating to the case.”

  Out in the hall, Kevin approached a dark-haired young woman who was putting towels into a closet. “Helen, did you find any papers in the Lavender Room?”

  Helen shook her head.

  “Are you sure?’ Jimmy G asked.

  “Positive.”

  Jimmy G swallowed hard. The judge was not going to like this at all.

  Chapter 16

  As I opened the door to my car, Pepe turned his attention to the chain-link fence that ran along the driveway that led up to the Carpenter mansion.

  “Let’s go!” I said. I was eager to get back to Seattle.

  “I would, but I have something more important to do,” was his reply. He moved along the base of the fence, sniffing furiously.

  “Are you finding clues?” I asked, curious. I didn’t see how anyone could get over that fence to get into the yard. It ran down the whole length of the driveway out to the road, a good half mile.

  “No, I am investigating,” he said. “Something that no one else is doing.”

  “What do you expect me to do?” I asked.

  “We should question Colleen Carpenter,” he said. “After all, the intruder ran over here. Perhaps he lives on the property.”

  “Hmmm,” I said, “that’s an excellent idea. But what would I say? ‘Did you attack my dog last night?’”

  “I had something more clever in mind,” Pepe said in a mild tone that still managed to convey his superiority. “It is a ploy we have employed many times before.”

  “And that is?”

  “My dog got loose!” He squeaked a little, trying to imitate the hysterical tones of a female human.

  “Oh!” It’s true we had used this technique successfully to gain access to yards on previous cases. “But the fence!” I pointed out.

  “Sí,” said Pepe. “But the fence was designed to keep out cocker spaniels, not Chihuahuas. I can simply slip through it.”

  “But what about me? I can’t chase after you.”

  “Es verdad,” said Pepe, eyeing me up and down. I was afraid he was going to say something about the few pounds I had gained. Felix didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he was responsible for some of them as he almost always showed up at my house with a pint of chocolate-chip cookie-dough ice cream, my favorite.

  “You will have to go around,” Pepe said at last, gesturing down the road. “You can drive up the driveway on the other side.”

  “OK!” I wasn’t so sure this would work. “But, Pepe, I don’t think you can fit through there!”

  “Watch me, Geri!” he said. And he dove at the bottom of the fence, scraping away with his little paws, shoveling dirt as fast as a gopher. Pretty soon he had a nice trench dug out, and he scrunched down to get through it, pushing with his hind legs, scrabbling at the dirt with his front legs, his little white torso completely filling the gap.

  After a few minutes I said, “Pepe, you’re stuck!”

  “I am not!” he declared. He scrabbled some more with his front paws.

  “Decidedly not,” he said after a brief struggle, during which he used his hind legs to wriggle forward about half an inch.

  “Perhaps,” he admitted with a gasp.

  I studied him. “You remind me of Pooh Bear when he got stuck in Rabbit’s hole after eating all of Rabbit’s honey,” I said, studying his little white butt, “though you look more like Piglet.”

  “Did this bear manage to get unstuck?” Pepe asked.

  “Yes, he did,” I said.

  “Was it because his friends pushed or pulled him through?” he asked.

  “No, they tried that, but it didn’t work,” I said. “But just to be sure, let’s give it a try.” I tried pulling him by his hind legs, then tried pushing on his butt. Back and forth we went, with Pepe making the most heart-breaking little squeaks. Finally I gave up.

  “So how did this Pooh character get free?” Pepe asked.

  “I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

  “Just tell me, Geri. This is a most undignified position to be in.”

  “They left him there without food for several days, and he lost enough weight so he could slip through.”

  “Unacceptable!” said Pepe.

  “Here!” I said. “Maybe I can make the opening larger.” I grasped the wires of the fence with both hands and pulled up a little. With a gasp, Pepe wriggled free. He trotted out into the driveway and shook himself off.

  “I will reconnoiter,” he said, turning to face me. “You meet me!”

  “OK!” I climbed into my car and drove down the gravel drive. The turn was too tight at the bottom for me to make a U-turn. It was obvious the two driveways had been one long drive before they were divided by the fence. So I had to go down the road to the driveway of another farm, pull in, back up, and reapproach the entrance to the farm.

  This driveway was also paved with gravel. I could hear my tires crunching as I drove up toward the red barn. Off to my right, in the lavender fields, I could see hunched figures. Workers were out there with baskets, picking lavender.

  I was about twenty yards from the big red barn when suddenly I heard gunfire. Pow! Pow! Pow! The gravel rattled. And I saw a little white streak heading down the driveway. Pepe was heading straight for my car, running so fast he was almost a blur.

  I slammed on my brakes and jumped out of the car, leaving the driver’s-side door open so I could duck down behind it if necessary. Pow! Another shot rattled the fence at my side. Right behind Pepe, stepping out from behind the barn, was a woman, dressed in overalls. Her strawberry-blond hair was swept back by a blue bandanna. And she carried a rifle. She stopped to pull back the lever on the gun.

  “Hey!” I shouted and waved my hands in the air. “Don’t shoot! That’s my dog!”

  Meanwhile, Pepe darted into the car through the open driver’s-side door. I saw him heading for the tiny space under the passenger seat.

  “Well, keep him out of my yard!” she said, advancing on me, the gun at her side. A black-and-white spaniel-sized dog was at her side. “He was chasing my chickens. If I ever see him here again, I swear I’ll kill him. I have every right to do so.”

  “Look,” I said, slamming my door shut so Pepe would be safe. But, come to think of it, he might just put the car in gear and take off down the road. I wouldn’t put it past him. He had learned to operate a TV remote control, a telephone, and my laptop. I reached in through the open window and yanked the key out of the ignition. All I could see of Pepe was his little white tail sticking out from under the seat. “He got away from me and ran over here. I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm.”

  I walked up to h
er, keeping my eye on the rifle, and held out my hand. “I’m Geri Sullivan. You must be Colleen Carpenter?”

  She didn’t take my hand, just stared at me with icy-blue eyes. Her skin was weathered by the sun, so the contrast was striking. “I know who you are,” she said. “You’re a private detective out of Seattle.”

  “Who told you that?” I asked, thinking maybe Clara had conveyed the information across the property line. And how did she get to the farm? Was there a gate somewhere along that imposing fence? Or did she walk all the way around when she visited?

  “We’re protecting our interests,” Colleen said. “We have people working for us. We know all about what you’re up to.”

  ‘Can I talk to you about Mrs. Carpenter?” I asked.

  “No. Now get off my property.”

  “Are you aware that someone broke into Carpenter Manor last night and escaped by jumping the fence and running into your yard.”

  She seemed surprised by that, although she tried to hide it.

  “If you don’t leave,” she said, “I’ll call the police.”

  “Don’t bother,” I said. I got back in my car and began backing up the drive. Little clouds of dust spewed out from under my wheels, obscuring my view. I just hoped I didn’t run into the fence or the lavender field while Colleen stood there at the end of driveway, the rifle at her side, watching.

  Pepe crawled out from under the seat about ten minutes later.

  “Are you OK?” I asked, as he plunked himself down in the passenger seat.

  “Of course,” he said, casually, taking the time to nibble on his hind leg. “That was quite an adventure. I have not been shot at in a long time.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Sí.”

  “When was the last time?”

  “When I was hunting at the big rancho in Texas with the vice president of the United States.”

  “What?” I was incredulous. “No way!”

  “Sadly, it is true, Geri,” he said. “It was my job to retrieve the birds the vice president and his companions were hunting.”

  “That’s ridiculous! Chihuahuas aren’t bird dogs.”

  “Oh, I will agree that the various spaniel and retriever breeds have their merits, but these good old boys were hunting very small birds, and for that sort of job, a Chihuahua is supreme. That is why I was given the honor of being the numero uno retriever for the hunting party,” he told me.

  “Of course,” Pepe continued, “once trained to retrieve, it is hard to resist when one spots a bird. Thus when I saw the chickens, well, instinct just kicked in.”

  “What an excuse!” I said. “You can’t possibly expect me to believe you were there when Dick Cheney accidently shot his lawyer friend.”

  “Believe what you will,” said Pepe. “When his shotgun went off, some of the pellets missed me only by inches.” He shuddered and grew thoughtful. “Luckily that other fellow threw himself in front of me, thus taking the bullets meant for me into his own hide.”

  “Pepe, that’s the most outlandish tale you’ve ever told!” I started laughing. He looked insulted. “OK,” I said, “I’ll play along. So what did you do after that?”

  “I ran, of course,” he said, perking back up. “Self-preservation kicked in, and I ran and ran—and that is how I ended up in California.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I told him. “That business with the vice president happened years ago. You’re not old enough to have been there.”

  “I beg to differ,” he said. “I am a dog of my word. And anyway, just as you should not ask a senorita her true age, neither should you ask a Chihuahua his true age.”

  I couldn’t think of a response to that, so I changed the subject. “You told me you were going to investigate. Did you actually do that, or were you just chasing chickens?”

  “I only chased uno—well, maybe dos chickens,” said Pepe. “But that was just to impress the most beautiful bitch in the universe.”

  “What?” It took me a minute to realize what he meant. I always forget how dogs use that word. “I thought Siren Song was the most beautiful dog in the world.” Siren Song is a fluffy golden Pomeranian whom Pepe met in Seattle during our first case. “And what about Queen Mary?”

  “Merely moons revolving around a dazzling planet,” sighed Pepe. “A dazzling planet by the name of Phoebe.”

  “Describe this Phoebe,” I said.

  “Black-and-white, with beautiful, big, brown eyes,” said Pepe in a dreamy voice.

  Hmmm! I didn’t tell him that I had seen his new crush standing beside Colleen Carpenter, and I doubted she was impressed by his hasty retreat.

  Chapter 17

  “Are you sure this is the right address?” asked Pepe, as we pulled to a stop in front of an enormous, three-story Victorian. It was bigger than any of the Victorians around it and had an incredible view of Port Townsend’s harbor.

  The house was painted in a bright fuchsia tone, with teal-green trim. A rounded turret with tall narrow windows rose from ground level to just above the second floor. The steep roof was crowned with a widow’s walk, the railing painted apple green.

  I double-checked the message on my cell phone. “Yes, this is the address Boswell gave me.”

  We went up the front steps to the wide porch, which was full of rattan chairs with floral fabric seats. Pots of fuchsias hung from the rafters, creating a sense of an enclosed garden space. The door had a frosted glass window and an old-fashioned doorbell that you had to turn, like the key of a music box. It made a scratchy, tinkly sound.

  I could see vague shapes through the frosted glass, but I didn’t see any sign of movement.

  “I do not hear anyone inside,” said Pepe, sniffing around the edges of the door. “Perhaps Boswell has gone out.”

  “He told us to meet him here in the morning,” I said impatiently. I was eager to get home.

  “Wait, that is not true,” said Pepe. “Do you hear that?”

  I put my ear close to the door and heard what Pepe was hearing. It was a terrible sound, a cross between a mournful wail and a baby on a crying jag.

  “What is that?”

  “A gato,” my dog told me, his hackles rising.

  “A cat?”

  “Sí,” Pepe told me, cocking his head toward the door. “A gato in mucho distress.”

  “Really? Since when did you start speaking cat?”

  “Distress is a universal language,” said Pepe.

  He sniffed around the door while I rang the doorbell. The awful sound continued. If the cat was distressed, I was even more distressed. Surely if Boswell was home, he would hear the ruckus his cat was making and do something about it.

  “There is something most definitely wrong,” Pepe told me when we got no response. “We must get inside.”

  I rattled the doorknob, but it was locked.

  “This way,” said Pepe, racing down the porch stairs. I followed him as he circled around the side of the house. Lacy curtains shrouded the windows, so I couldn’t see inside. A flight of stairs led up to a redwood deck, which was crowded with garden furniture: wrought-iron chairs, glass tables with umbrellas, a fancy grill and tall palm trees in ceramic pots. Pepe was scratching at the screen that covered the back door.

  The terrible caterwauling was even louder, so I wasted no time pulling open the screen and trying the back door. It was locked.

  “Can you see anything?” Pepe asked me.

  I peered through the small window at the top of the door and said, “It looks like the kitchen. What should we do?”

  “Try a credit card,” Pepe told me. “This is an old door; it probably has one of those angled locks you can slip with a stiff credit card. I have seen this done many times on Paraíso Perdido.”

  Just because he saw it on his favorite telenovela didn’t mean it would work for us. But I tried it anyway. I put one of my cards between the wooden door and the doorjamb, found the lock’s position, and pushed the angled bolt back. To my surprise, it worked!r />
  As the door opened inward, Pepe said, “Told you so.”

  Just then we heard a very loud thud, immediately followed by a softer thunk. The caterwauling suddenly stopped.

  “This is not good,” said Pepe. “Proceed with caution, Geri.”

  He didn’t have to tell me twice. I was scared out of my wits. The crashing sound had come from my right. I pushed the door open slowly, glad that it was between me and whatever had made the sound.

  “I will protect you!” cried Pepe, rushing past me and around the door.

  “Pepe!” I started to push my way inside when my dog came running back and hid behind one of the ceramic pots.

  “What is it, Pepe?” I said.

  He was shaking, and his big brown eyes were bulging out. “The horror!” he said. “The horror!”

  I peered around the door carefully to see what I could see, still keeping the door between me and any danger. All I saw was a huge, fluffy, almost lilac-colored cat. He was at least three times bigger than Pepe, maybe four. And he was crouched next to a huge bag of dry cat food that had split open. The cat was chowing down on the crunchy nuggets that had spilled out and onto the floor. The cat looked up from its meal, fixing me with its golden eyes, then went back to his task.

  “Ha!” I said. “It’s just a cat!”

  “Just a cat!” said Pepe, from behind me. He had crept up close to my heels. “That is a brute! Monstruo!”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from the evil kitty.” I said it jokingly, but it was no joke to Pepe, who had been bested in his one confrontation with my cat Albert.

  I tiptoed into the kitchen. I couldn’t help noticing its design. It’s something that comes naturally when you have been trained in interior design. Boswell (or his decorator) was obviously going for a French country look, with a wood-block island, copper pans hanging above it, and cabinets painted a creamy white. A big bouquet of sunflowers sat on the island, next to a pitcher of lemonade. Pepe followed me, staying close.

  To the right was a pantry area, like a walk-in closet for food, with every surface full: tins of tea, cans of soup, cereal boxes, cracker boxes, cookies galore, and lots of chocolate. On the floor, I saw two china dishes set out for the cat. Both were empty.