The Silence of the Chihuahuas

by Waverly Curtis

  “You did?” That was me.

  “Yes, in a parking lot at Volunteer Park.” That used to be a cruising spot for gay men. It still was a place where someone might meet for a brief encounter. “Do you have any idea how it got there?”

  I saw Jay’s face cloud over. Again, he was considering the possibility that Brad was out screwing around.

  “Maybe he wanted to visit the Conservatory. Or the Asian Art Museum—Brad is a big fan of Japanese art.”

  “Yeah. We thought of that,” said Larson with a sarcastic tone in his voice. “But that doesn’t explain the blood on the steering wheel. Or the bloody hammer on the floorboard.”

  “Whose blood?” I asked.

  “Good question,” said Sanders, giving me a sharp look. “It will be a few days before we get it tested.”

  “It puts him in the vicinity at the time of the murder,” said Larson. “And in possession of the murder weapon. And now that we know he was trying to collect money for rent, it gives him a motive.”

  “You think he killed her?” asked Jay in a voice full of anguish.

  “Maybe he finally lost it. The old woman was a piece of work,” said Sanders. “We’ve talked to some of the contractors who were working on the kitchen. Apparently she never paid any of them. Several of them had to file suit to get anything out of her.”

  “So Brad could have done that too,” I said.

  “But he was desperate.” That was Larson. “He needed the money right then.”

  “He already had most of the money he needed for the rent,” I said.

  “And how do you know that?”

  “I know another one of his clients. She had just paid him on that morning.”

  Sanders flipped open his notebook. “We need to know the name of this client.”

  “I’m not sure—” I started to say, but Jay interrupted.

  “Geri, if you know something that will help them find Brad, you need to tell them.”

  “But what if—”

  “What if he actually killed Mrs. Fairchild?” Sanders was quick to jump on that.

  “That’s impossible!” said Jay. “You don’t know my Bradley. He could never hurt a living thing. He carries spiders out of the house. And he hates conflict.”

  “So you two never fight?” asked Sanders.

  “When we do,” Jay said, “I’m the one who blows up. Brad is more likely to give me the silent treatment.”

  I looked at Pepe. Maybe that’s what was going on. He was punishing me for something.

  Jay went on. “He learned it from his mother. She’s really good at guilt.”

  “So he has mother issues,” said Larson. “Maybe he took out his rage at his own mother on Mrs. Fairchild.”

  Jay moaned. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Of course he didn’t kill her,” I snapped at Sanders. “Don’t listen to them!” I told Jay. “There’s some logical explanation and I will find it. I promise you that.”

  But meanwhile I did give Rebecca’s name to the detectives, at the same time warning them that she was going to be extremely busy this weekend as she was filming a new reality TV show called Pet Intervention.

  I headed home to change into my wedding attire although I wasn’t really sure about what one should wear to the wedding of one’s ex. Something sexy to make him regret tossing you aside, but nothing so sexy as to come across as desperate, especially given that I would be attending the wedding with Jimmy G.

  I asked Pepe for help, laying out my choices on the couch. Pepe put his paw on a black-and-white print dress with a plunging neckline, a small waist and a full skirt. I liked the idea of black-and-white for a wedding. It would send a business-like message, as in, I’m here because I have to be, which is how I endured the weary years of working at the waste treatment center while married to Jeff.

  I checked myself out in the mirror and liked what I saw. My dark hair was a cloud around my shoulders and the dress created the illusion of an hourglass figure.

  “¡Guapa chica!” I thought I heard Pepe say. Was it possible he was speaking again?

  “What did you say?” I asked him.

  But he just stared at me, his brown eyes shining.

  Before I left the house, I called Felix. I had been so wrapped up in my work that I forgot this was an important day for him. He didn’t answer the phone, but I left a voice mail telling him that I hoped his day went well and just mentioning that I was on my way to my ex-husband’s wedding in Bellevue. “I wish you could have gone with me,” I said. “But since you were busy, I asked Jimmy G to be my date.”

  Pepe looked at me. I could practically hear him saying: “Not a good idea.”

  “Probably not a good idea,” I added on my phone message.

  The truth of that statement became absolutely clear when I arrived at the wedding venue, a country club at the edge of a golf course at the edge of Bellevue, and spied Jimmy G, leaning against the hood of his red Thunderbird in the parking lot, smoking a cigar. Normally Jimmy G likes to dress like a caricature of a Forties detective, with a fedora, suspenders, and houndstooth sports jackets. But he had really outdone himself for this occasion: he was wearing a red fedora with a foot-long pheasant feather stuck in the brim and a shiny grey, double-breasted, gabardine suit with wide shoulders and huge lapels that was a size too big for his lanky frame. The baggy pants were held up by his usual red suspenders.

  “Hey, doll,” he said as I approached him with Pepe at my side. “You’re pretty as a picture today.” He held out a red carnation that matched the one in his buttonhole. “Jimmy G got you a corsage.”

  “For heaven’s sake, boss!” I said. “This is a wedding. Not a prom!”

  Jimmy G’s expression fell. He’s almost as easy to read as Pepe. His big brown eyes got sad and the edges of his moustache matched the downward curve of his mouth. “Sorry, doll,” he said, turning away. “Jimmy G’s never been to a wedding.” He stuffed the red carnation into his pocket. “Or the prom,” he muttered.

  “Hey! It’s a thoughtful gesture,” I said, wanting to cheer him up. “I can find a place for it.”

  His whole face brightened and he pulled the flower out. The spicy scent filled the air. “Here, let Jimmy G pin it on you!” He was aiming for the spot between my breasts, with a sharp pin raised in one hand and his eyes all bugging out.

  “No way,” I said, grabbing the pin and the flower out of his hands. “I think I’ve got the perfect place for it.”

  I bent down and tucked it into Pepe’s harness. I didn’t need to use the pin, just bent the flower’s flexible stem through the loops at the top. The colors clashed, since the harness was turquoise. Maybe that’s why Pepe didn’t seem to like it, at all. He kept turning around to look at it. Or maybe he was trying to smell it.

  “Tell me you don’t like it, and I’ll take it off,” I said, taunting him.

  “Jimmy G doesn’t like it,” said Jimmy G.

  “Not you!” I said. “I’m trying to get Pepe to talk to me again.”

  “The rat dog speaks?” asked Jimmy G as we headed toward the building. It was long and low, made of dark wood with lots of tinted glass windows. A flight of shallow steps led up to a bank of glass doors which were flanked by wicker baskets of white gladiolas and chrysanthemums.

  Other people had been pouring into the building as we talked. Most of the women, both young and old, wore long elegant evening gowns that looked like they would be perfect for the red carpet at the Academy Awards, whereas the men were attired in tuxedos. Jimmy G and I would stand out like sore thumbs.

  I almost turned around and ran. And probably that would have been the smart thing to do. But just as I contemplated it, my sister Cheryl came barreling out of the front door. She was wearing a hot pink strapless dress with a skirt that seemed to be made of torn toilet paper bits. The tight fit around the torso made her look flabby around the stomach and her breasts, squashed upward by the bodice, looked like they might spill over the top of the neckline. I suddenly fe
lt OK about my outfit.

  “Oh, thank God, you’re here, Geri!” said Cheryl. Her breasts wobbled as she reached forward to embrace me. She hitched the dress up, tugging at the neckline with both hands, then glared at Jimmy G who was ogling her.

  “Matron of honor dress,” she explained to me. “You should see the bridesmaids dresses! And who’s this?” She gestured at Jimmy G.

  “My boss, Jimmy G,” I said. “Jimmy G, this is my sister, Cheryl.”

  “Honored, to be sure,” said Jimmy G with a stately bow. “Jimmy G wishes he had another favor to bestow, but as you see, G has already donated it to decorate the dog.”

  Really, I could not believe Jimmy G’s language. Where did he come off sounding all British and proper? And why did he point out Pepe to my sister who hates dogs?

  “Geri, you can’t bring your dog to a wedding,” Cheryl said.

  “He could be the flower dog!” I said, pointing to his red carnation corsage.

  “There’s no such thing as a flower dog!” declared Cheryl.

  I tried to get her back on track. “You said you needed my help!”

  “I do!” she wailed. “It’s Amber. She’s having a meltdown. Crying hysterically. Says she can’t go through with it. I remembered that you had a meltdown, too, on your wedding day. Maybe you can talk some sense into her. Convince her that marrying Jeff is the best thing she could do.”

  I didn’t point out to her that marrying Jeff was the biggest mistake of my life.

  Pepe’s Blog: Checking out the Crowd

  For a detective, there is nothing more advantageous than a large gathering of humans. For instance, a wedding or a funeral. Even a dinner party will do. One can find out much by watching their interactions. They slap each other on the back and clasp paws (a mere parlor trick for dogs) and sometimes even embrace. But they never sniff butts, a quick way to determine age and readiness to either mate or fight, nor do they sniff skin, which can reveal a great deal including where they have recently been, what they have eaten, and what sort of mood they are in. Mostly they jabber in that quaint but complicated language of theirs. Fortunately, as a student of languages, I have learned to translate from English to Canine.

  Geri’s sister seemed to be asking her for help calming down a distraught bride. But actually she was plotting to get rid of Geri. If I had to guess, it was because she did not want anyone to know they were related. Perhaps because of Geri’s companion. She trotted Jimmy G off to count chairs in the reception space.

  But I was on to her schemes and I also could smell the reception dinner as it was being warmed up in the adjoining dining room: roast beef, one of my favorites. No way I was going to let Cheryl get between me and roast beef.

  Another thing I learned quickly, from scent, not words, is that the bride was furious. Very furious. And it had something to do with another female. Could it be that she was going to attack Geri? I must be on my guard.

  Chapter 14

  Cheryl pointed Jimmy G in the direction of the reception hall and grabbed me by the arm, dragging me over to a little room off the lobby. A gaggle of young women wearing sparkly tiaras and short hot-pink dresses even more hideous than Cheryl’s were gathered outside the door. Some were crying. One of them was bent over, hyperventilating. The others were encouraging her to take deep breaths.

  “It’s OK, Tiffany. Just keep breathing!” they said.

  “What’s going on?” asked Cheryl.

  “She threw us out of the room!” one of them said.

  Cheryl beat on the door with her fist.

  “Leave me alone!” shrieked a voice from inside the room. I shuddered when I heard it. It didn’t even sound human.

  “Geri is here to talk to you!” Cheryl said firmly.

  “I don’t want to talk to anyone!” shrieked the voice.

  Pepe barked once, twice.

  “What about a flower dog?” I said, bending over to pick him up.

  The door opened an inch. I held up Pepe wearing his red carnation. He stuck out his long pink tongue and licked the nose which was just visible in the narrow crack. There was a weird giggle from inside the room, then the door opened just wide enough to admit me and Pepe, then slammed shut behind us.

  Amber was not just having a meltdown. She was having a nervous breakdown. She was still wearing her wedding dress—a frothy concoction with a skirt composed of ruffles and pick-ups and pleats, and a bodice embellished with beads and sequins and crystals. But she had torn her wedding veil into little tiny pieces and now the bits of lace and netting were scattered all over the room. A champagne bottle sat in a silver cooler on the table.

  “Want some champagne?” she asked me. I could tell by her voice that she had been drinking more than her share.

  “Sure!”

  “Drink up!” she said, hoisting the bottle to her lips and taking a hefty swig, before handing it to me. “Sorry no glasses!” She giggled and pointed to the wall. “I smashed them all!”

  I was glad I was still holding Pepe. I did not want him to get any glass in his tender little paws. I set him down carefully on one of the chairs before taking the bottle away from her. It appeared to be empty.

  “What’s going on, Amber?” I asked.

  “Want more bubbles!” she said, grabbing the bottle out of my hands. She frowned when she realized that it was empty.

  “I think you’ve had enough,” I said primly, then realized I sounded just like my sister, Cheryl. I never wanted to sound like my sister, Cheryl. “Oh, hell,” I said. “Let’s get some more!”

  I stuck my head out the door. “We need another bottle of champagne in here,” I said.

  “Pronto!” added Pepe.

  “Pronto!” I repeated.

  “He’s got the right idea,” said Amber.

  “What? You can hear him?”

  “Of course! He said ‘pronto!’ So cute the way he speaks in Spanish.” She kissed him on the top of his head.

  Someone from outside handed in a bottle. “Can we come in now?” asked a girlish voice.

  “No!” I said and slammed the door.

  Amber wrestled the bottle away from me and had the cork out in a minute, aiming it at the door. “Take that, Jeff!” she said. “And just be glad this is a champagne bottle and not a pistol!”

  She took another swig out of the bottle and the champagne poured down her chin and dribbled onto her dress.

  “You’re going to ruin your dress,” I said, trying to take the bottle away from her, but she wouldn’t let go.

  “Don’t care!” she said. “Not getting married anyway.”

  “You have to get married . . .” I started to say, thinking of the guests, the invitation, the money spent on caterers and florists and bakers and wedding dresses.

  But then Pepe interrupted. “You don’t have to get married,” he said.

  Amber chuckled. “It’s so cute, the way you pretend to be speaking for your dog,” she said. “Are you a ventriloquist?” Because she was drunk, it sounded more like ven-trill-o-quish.

  “No, my dog really talks,” I said calmly. “Although I don’t know why he’s talking now. He hasn’t been talking to me for weeks.”

  “When the occasion arises, I rise to the occasion,” said Pepe.

  “Ha, ha! That’s what I like about you, Geri,” Amber said. Let it be known that Amber has never liked me. And she’s made that clear on the few times we actually had to be in the same room together. “What I don’t understand is why you ever married Jeff?” She said his name as if it was a dog turd.

  “Yes, I wonder about that too,” said Pepe.

  “I know,” said Amber, now forlorn. “He’s such a jerk.”

  “Absolutely.” I was happy to pile on. “He’s a chauvinist. He thinks women should be seen but not heard.”

  “He’s a control freak. Everything has to be the way he wants it,” said Amber.

  “He buys cheap shoes and passes them off as Italian imports.” That was Pepe who had actually peed on those shoes so
he should know what he was talking about.

  She picked up Pepe and put him on her lap, her tears falling on his head. As Pepe does in moments of great emotion, he licked her face. That made her cry even harder. Pepe is such a comfort to a crying woman. Unlike Jeff.

  “So why are you marrying him?” I asked.

  “I don’t know!” she wailed. She looked up at me. “Do you think I should?”

  I felt helpless. Cheryl had given me an assignment. I was supposed to coax Amber out of the room and down the aisle. But I felt sorry for her.

  “If he treats you the way he treated me,” I said, “you’ll be miserable. He’ll cheat on you with the first—” I stopped, aware that Jeff had cheated on me with Amber.

  “He already is cheating on me, she said. “With one of my bridesmaids. I caught him with Tiffany in the back of the limo, just a little while ago. He tried to tell me it was his last fling before he got tied down! He actually called me his ball and chain!” She picked up her bouquet, a tasteful arrangement of pink Stargazer lilies and white chrysanthemums, and threw it at the wall.

  “That’s despicable,” said Pepe. “What a cabron!”

  “Why are you talking now?” I turned on him.

  “You’re right. I’ve known all along he was no good for me. I just let myself be carried away because everyone said he was such a great catch.” Amber was actually starting to make sense.

  “A woman needs a man about as much as a fish needs a bicycle,” I said.

  “Quick!” she said to me. “I’ve got get out of here. Trade dresses!”

  “What?”

  “Yes, give me your dress. I can’t leave here in a wedding dress.” She picked up her cell phone. “Yes, I need a cab. At the Bellevue Country Club. I’ll be wearing a black and white dress. Thanks!”

  “Amber—”

  “Come on!” she said, reaching around to pull down the zipper on her wedding dress. In a minute she was down to her lacy bra and panties. She tore off the pale blue satin garter that held up her white stockings and tossed it into the melting ice in the champagne bucket. “This feels so good!” she said, prancing around the room in her underwear.