He was an imposing beast, with a huge, thick head and a muscular frame. At first, I jumped at the sight of him, worried that he could snap up a tiny white Chihuahua in a single bite. But then I saw that he wore a heavy chain attached to his collar, the other end looped and padlocked around a tree in the front yard. His endless pacing had worn away the grass in a circle around the tree so he laid, with his head on his paws, at the edge of a circle of bare brown dirt. And as we went by, he merely lifted his massive head and sighed.
It was a heartbreaking sight.
Even Pepe, who likes to bark at bigger dogs to let them know he’s El Jefe, did not utter a word. Of course, he hadn’t been uttering a word for quite a while. And maybe he never had.
Mrs. Gladstone’s apartment was easy to identify. The beds around her patio were full of dahlias and chrysanthemums in shades of red, yellow, and orange. And her vegetable patch held tall ears of corn and other vegetables, including what I took to be a monster Zucchini plant (the kind that took over our garden when I was a kid) that spread out in all directions like some green monster about to devour everything around it.
I figured since Mrs. Snelson was expecting us, I’d just knock at the sliding door on her patio. We couldn’t see inside as the drapes were drawn, and when there was no response, I knocked again.
“Leave me alone!” It was Mrs. Snelson’s voice, high and shrill on the other side of the drapes. “Go away!”
“Mrs. Snelson,” I said. “It’s Geri Sullivan.”
Pepe barked.
“And Pepe Sullivan,” I added.
The drapes opened and there was Mrs. Snelson. She looked rather disheveled. She was still in her bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, her white hair sticking up all over her head.
“I’m so glad it’s you,” she said, pulling the sliding glass door open. She had a butcher knife clutched in one hand. “He’s been here again,” she whispered as we stepped into her apartment.
“Who?” I asked, thinking that this was so unlike her—she was a feisty old lady who had always been in command, not the nervous and scared type at all. Pepe took one look at the knife and darted past her into the dim interior.
“Some man, some damnable man!” said Mrs. Snelson. As soon as I stepped inside, she slammed the sliding door shut, then quickly pulled the drapes closed.
“Can you put the knife down?” I asked.
Mrs. Snelson looked embarrassed. “Oh, sure.” She went into the kitchen and laid it on the counter.
“What man?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”
“I’ll show you,” she said. “It’s in my bedroom.”
She turned and led the way into her bedroom. Pepe was there before us, his little front paws up on the side of the bed, his nose up in the air and quivering.
“There!” said Mrs. Snelson, pointing to her bed, which was made up perfectly: a green-and-pink-and-blue floral patterned comforter spread carefully across it, and the two perfectly fluffed pink pillows arranged just so at the head of the bed.
“What?” I asked, not seeing anything but the well-made bed.
“There!” She stalked up by the pillows and pointed at the nearest one. “There! Don’t you see it?”
I did notice a small, dark shape laying on the pillow. Moving closer, I realized it was a foil-wrapped piece of chocolate, like you might find on your pillow after checking in to a fancy hotel.
“I do see it,” I told her. “How did that get there?”
“I left it so you could see,” she told me. Then she picked it up and threw it across the room, where it bounced off her dresser. “I was in the shower and I thought I heard something in the bedroom. When I came in to get my clothes, there it was! My bed already made up and that chocolate on my pillow! The same as yesterday.”
“That’s so . . .” was all I could manage.
“And this time, there was a note, too,” she said.
“A note?”
“With the chocolate! Here, I’ll show you.” She took a small piece of paper off of her nightstand and handed it to me. Written in a lovely, but slightly shaky longhand, it read:
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I’m totally head,
Over heels over you.
“Goodness,” I said. “It seems you have a suitor.”
“I don’t want a suitor! I gave up on men long ago. Men are pigs!”
“Why don’t we go sit down somewhere? I need you to fill me in on everything that’s been happening.”
“Yes,” she said, seeming a little calmer after venting. “Yes, let’s do that.” I followed her into her dining area. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m usually not the type to fall apart like this. I haven’t even put the coffee on yet, I was so upset. Sit down at the table, and I’ll make us a pot.”
I took a seat at the Early American maple table. Pepe jumped up onto another chair and gave me a look. Not sure how to interpret it, I took my notebook out of my purse. As Mrs. Snelson finished with her coffeemaker and joined us at the table, I said, “Let’s start from the beginning. How did all this begin?”
“With a garden gnome,” she replied, running her hands back through her hair.
“A garden gnome?”
“Yes. It appeared under my zucchini last week. Cute little thing, long red cap, white beard, blue coat—well, you know, a garden gnome.”
“I take it that it wasn’t yours, right?”
“No. I thought one of my friends put it there, then didn’t give it another thought until a female garden gnome appeared beside it the next morning.”
“I didn’t know they made female garden gnomes.”
“Well, they do!” she snapped. “Anyway, I was sure my friends were playing tricks on me, but when I asked them, they said they didn’t know anything about it.”
“I see.”
“The next day, there was a note attached to the male gnome. It was written, just like today’s note, on a small note card.”
“What did it say?”
“It said: Roses are red, Violets are blue, I so love, sharing this garden with you.”
“Oh . . .”
“That’s when I knew something was wrong. I don’t know why some man would be after me. Considering they can have their pick of any of the women here. You know, there’s ten women for every man here at the Gladstone.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said.
“Men die younger than women,” she said matter-of-factly. She got up and went over to the coffeemaker which had clicked off. “And so most of the women here are widows. They’re looking for another husband. They run after the men, fawn over them, flirt and . . .” Her voice trailed off. She took two mugs off a row of mugs hanging from hooks on the wall. “Well, the men get swelled heads about it, think they’re hot stuff. “ She poured the coffee into the mugs. “Not me. I don’t need a man any more. I’m better off without them. What is that saying about fish and bicycles?” she asked as she brought the full mugs over to the table.
“A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle,” I murmured.
“Exactly!” said Mrs. Snelson, setting the mugs down on the table. Mine was decorated with violets and said “Happy February Birthday.”
“Mrs. Snelson,” I asked, “why are we whispering?”
Mrs. Snelson leaned in. “For all I know, this stalker has planted a bug in my apartment and is listening to everything I do.” Her eyes gleamed.
Was she maybe just imagining things? Had she made her own bed and put the chocolate on her pillow and then forgotten it while in the shower? Mrs. Snelson seemed as sharp as a tack, but maybe she was in the early stages of dementia.
“Have you talked to the management? Have you called the police?”
“Well, no,” said Mrs. Snelson indignantly. “I’m not a helpless old lady. I intend to handle this myself.” She picked up the butcher knife from where it was lying on the counter and waved it in the air. “I just need your help identifying the perp.”
>
“What do you intend to do to the, um, perpetrator?” I asked.
“I intend to teach him a lesson!” she declared, a maniacal glint in her eyes. Maybe I really needed to help find this guy and warn him to stay away from Mrs. Snelson. I would be doing two people a favor.
“How do you think he’s getting in?” I asked. Pepe jumped down from the chair and went over the front door. “Do you think he has a key?”
Pepe gave a sharp bark, evidently confirming my theory.
“I don’t see how,” said Mrs. Snelson. “I had my lock changed after the first time it happened. I claimed that I dropped my key in the toilet and flushed it away!” She looked at me as if for approval.
I nodded. “Very clever!” I said.
“Of course, I had to pay the stupid fifty dollar fee for losing a key,” said Mrs. Snelson. “You would think they would figure that old people would lose their keys all the time but, no, they try to get money out of us any way they can.”
“Right,” I said, trying to steer the conversation back on track. “So, the, um, perpetrator could not have a key to your apartment . . .”
“Unless,” said Mrs. Snelson, “he’s in cahoots with the management.”
I nodded, secretly thinking she really was going batty. How to reassure her that no one could get into her apartment?
Pepe was still over by the door lifting his little paws high in an exaggerated movement. Then he sat down and licked the little pink pads of his feet.
“What’s he doing?” Mrs. Snelson asked, watching this pantomime.
“Aha!” I said. “Thanks, Pepe!” I turned to Mrs. Snelson. “It’s a trick we learned from watching old detective shows on TV.”
‘What is it?” she asked. I could see she was getting into the idea of catching the perpetrator in the act. She looked all around. “But keep your voice down!”
“We’re going to lay a trap,” I said, whispering. “We just need some flour.”
“I have that!” she said, springing up from her seat and going over to the cupboard where she pointed at a full bag of all-purpose whole wheat flour on one of the shelves.
“Perfect!” I said, motioning her back over to the table. Pepe crept close to us. “Tonight, when you go to bed, sprinkle some in front of the door.” I looked at the garden. “You should also sprinkle it in front of the sliding window to the patio.”
Mrs. Snelson’s eyes lit up.
“And in the morning, you’ll be able to see if anyone has crossed the threshold.”
“We might even be able to get a shoe print!” whispered Mrs. Snelson fiercely. “Then all I have to do is compare it to the shoes of the men who live here!”
“Yes!” I said, giving her a high five. Only she didn’t seem to realize what that was. She just frowned at the sight of my raised hand. So I dropped it in my lap.
“Excellent work!” Mrs. Snelson said. “I’m very happy with the way your dog thinks!” She patted Pepe on the head. He looked longingly at the cookie jar. “You and your cute companion. I think you both deserve a treat.”
She went over to the cookie jar and brought out two freshly baked enormous snickerdoodles. She put Pepe’s on the linoleum floor and he gobbled it down in a minute. I dunked mine into my cup of coffee and finished it off almost as quickly.
We went back out the way we had come, exiting through the sliding door and admiring the two gnomes. Mrs. Snelson had separated them, putting the female gnome in the corner near the door, and the male gnome at the edge of the property peering in. We stood for a moment on the patio, looking out across the green lawn. Bruiser was still lying in the dirt, gazing up at us.
“I see Bruiser still lives across the street!” I said.
“Yes,” she said sharply. “The animal control officers gave the dog back to his owner. I can’t imagine why. The poor thing is out there day and night, chained to that tree, even in the rain.”
“At least he isn’t running loose in the neighborhood,” I said.
“Yes, but I almost wish he was,” said Mrs. Snelson. “That is no kind of life, even for a dog.”
Pepe’s Blog: Shoes or Underwear? A Dog’s Dilemma
Sometimes a detective does his job and the results are not satisfactory. Long ago, Geri and I helped solve a dastardly crime involving a villain by the name of Bruiser who terrorized an old lady and chased innocent children. The perpetrator went to jail and all was right in the world.
Except that Bruiser is now out of jail and suffering an even worse fate, if that is possible. The sight of that beast shackled to a tree, well, it makes my blood run cold. A dog must run and a dog must chase and a dog must poop. Those are things a dog must be free to do. I will make it my mission; I shall not rest until Bruiser is free.
Meanwhile, in the case of the garden gnomes, I know Geri thinks Mrs. Snelson is becoming senile. Anyone who can make snickerdoodles as good as hers is definitely not senile.
The truth is that a man has been in Mrs. Snelson’s apartment and in her garden. I could identify the man immediately if we could arrange for a lineup as they do in the police shows. Perhaps the trick with the flour will work. If Mrs. Snelson obtains a shoe from each of the men in the building, we will have a shoe line-up. If we cannot tell from the flour on the shoes—and if I were the perpetrator, I would be sure to provide a different pair of shoes—I will be able to tell by smell. Shoes are the most deliciously smelly item worn by a person, although I am also fond of underwear.
Chapter 13
It was still early when we left the Gladstone and I thought I should take advantage of my freedom to go check in with Jay. After all, at any moment, Forest Glen might call me—I was still hoping it would be before the wedding—and I’d have to dash over there and check myself in.
I got onto Highway 99 and headed south. Where the highway hit downtown, at the sign of the Pink Elephant car wash, I took a right, heading to Queen Anne. In a neighborhood full of fabulous houses, Jay and Brad’s house was the most original: the outside painted purple with lime green trim. Topiary trees lined the walk and a fantastic juniper dragon sprawled across the front lawn.
I parked my little green Toyota on the street and hurried up the front walk. The doorbell chimed inside, a sonorous tone, like a gong.
A few minutes later, the heavy door swung open. Jay stood in the doorway, frowning at the sight of me and Pepe on his doorstep.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I wanted to find out if you had heard from Brad,” I said.
“No!” He almost snapped at me. “You’re supposed to be finding him.” He lowered his voice to a whisper and looked over his shoulder. “Before the police do.”
“Have you reported him missing to the police?” I asked.
“Yes, he has,” said a familiar voice, and I saw Detective Sanders come into the hall from one of the interior rooms. “Look who’s here!” he said, directing his voice toward the occupant of the room. And his partner, Larson, appeared in the doorway.
“Just who we wanted to see,” Larson said. He waved me and Pepe into the room. Pepe growled at him as he went by and I saw Detective Sanders flinch. They were meeting in the room that Jay and Brad called the bird salon. Brad had done it up with framed Audubon prints all over the blue-flowered walls, blue and white curtains imprinted with a pheasant motif and, with what I thought was a rather macabre sense of humor, an oil painting over the gilded fireplace which displayed a brace of dead pheasants. A huge gold cage in the corner of the room contained a bevy of little finches whose soft cheeping filled the room.
Pepe went over and studied them with the look of a scholar.
“If only those birds could speak,” I said to him. I know it seems absurd, but Pepe actually had a conversation with a cat once. So it seemed possible he could talk to finches.
“Sit down, Miss Sullivan,” said Detective Larson. He was all business.
“I’m on my way—”
“This will only take a few minutes. We want to know wha
t you’ve found out about Brad’s whereabouts.”
“Yes, I want to know too,” said Jay. He looked at the policemen nervously, “Since I’m paying you to find him.”
“I haven’t found Brad, if that’s what you want to know,” I said.
“But,” said Sanders, who had remained standing near the doorway with his arms crossed as if to prevent me from leaving, “you have learned something.”
“Well, of course I have,” I said, goaded into admitting something I shouldn’t have by Jay’s lack of confidence in me.
Pepe gave a sharp bark.
“Out with it!” said Larson.
“Yes, please tell me what you learned,” pleaded Jay.
Pepe gave another bark. I knew what he was trying to tell me. He had said it often before. “A good detective does not reveal information unless he receives information in return.”
“You already know this,” I said. “Mrs. Fairchild owed Brad a lot of money and he needed it to pay rent. He was falling behind.”
“Yes, we’ve talked to the landlord,” said Sanders.
“Then you know that Brad told him he was bringing over the full amount he owed,” I said.
The two detectives looked at each other.
“When was this?” Jay asked in anguish.
“I believe it was Tuesday,” I said.
“The day Mrs. Fairchild was killed,” intoned Larson.
“What? What are you talking about?” Jay looked alarmed.
I looked at the detectives and they looked at me.
Finally Sanders spoke up: “We’re working a homicide case. Brad’s name came up in connection with it since he was working for the woman, a Mrs. Fairchild.”
“So you’re not following up on a missing persons case?” asked Jay.
“It seems likely there’s a connection between the murder and your partner’s disappearance,” said Sanders.
“What do you mean?” asked Jay.
“We just found his car. It was parked about five blocks away from the murder scene.”
The Silence of the Chihuahuas Page 9