“That’s right. I forgot,” I said. “I suppose I should just head over to the police station and turn you in.”
“What?” he yelled.
“Calm down,” I told him. “That was a joke. I would never hand you over to the police.”
“Bad joke,” he said, with a shake of his head. “Not funny.”
“Sorry, I couldn’t resist.”
“Absolutely, definitely, decidedly not funny,” he muttered, lying down on the front seat. He was shivering slightly. Poor guy. I had no idea he’d take my idea of a joke so seriously.
I pulled off the freeway at the Green Lake exit. The road swerved under the freeway and then along a curved street with a broad, grassy median. Pepe sat up and looked around.
“Are we there yet?” he asked.
“Almost,” I said. “We’re a few blocks away.”
“What is your plan, Geri?”
“My plan?”
“Sí, we must plan our operation. Are we going to question the suspect? Are we going to ambush this bad dog?”
“I think I need to get a little more information before I can decide on a plan,” I said. “Though thanks for the suggestions.” I was being sarcastic but he didn’t seem to notice.
“We need to stop and get some supplies,” Pepe said.
“Supplies?”
“Sí. It is muy importante to have food and drink in your car when on a stakeout.”
“Why is that?”
“Geri, I am surprised at you. It is because stakeouts can be long—very long, sometimes. One must eat after all.”
“You’re right,” I said. I pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store.
“You’ve got to stay in the car,” I told Pepe. “Dogs aren’t allowed in grocery stores.”
“An unenlightened society,” mumbled Pepe. “In France, dogs can go everywhere. The bistro. The patisserie. The butcher shop.” His dark little eyes seemed to glaze over with pleasure.
“How would you know that?” I asked. “TV again?”
“No, I have been to France,” said Pepe. “I even parler le Français. Et tu?”
“Huh?” I could tell he was speaking French but had no idea what he said.
“Quel dommage,” he said. “We should go some day. I will show you all the best places.”
“Sure, Pepe.” I rolled down the window a little so he could get some air.
“Now stay low. I don’t want someone stealing you.”
“Get doughnuts,” said Pepe. “The cops are always eating doughnuts. Also I would like some beef jerky. I love beef jerky. And some water. Not carbonated. I do not like fizzy water.”
“Anything else?”
“That will do.”
It took a little while before I gathered all the supplies Pepe had requested. I was standing in line to pay when I heard a commotion in the parking lot. Shouts. A spate of fierce, baritone barking. The screech of metal. And underneath that hubbub, some high-pitched frantic yapping.
“What’s going on?” the checker asked a customer who was walking in, shaking his head.
“Dog fight in the parking lot,” he said.
I threw my money at the cashier, grabbed my plastic bag, and flew out the door. A crowd was gathered around my car. When it parted I saw a young man in jeans and a black leather jacket holding the collar of a huge, gray Great Dane, who was lunging and jumping, trying to get at my car, where Pepe was pressed against the window barking like a maniac.
“Hey, what’s going on?” I asked, shouldering my way through the crowd. “That’s my dog.”
“Oh, gee, I’m sorry,” the guy said. He twisted around, trying to control his frenzied beast. “Sarge doesn’t usually behave like this. I don’t know what got into him.”
I knew. I could hear Pepe shouting insults at the big dog. “Cabrón! You miserable excuse for a dog! Hiding behind your human! Come and get me! I can take you on!”
“Shut up!” I said to him. He continued his taunts. I was afraid to open the door, worried he’d jump out and tackle the monstrous beast.
“I’m sorry,” the young man said. “We were just walking by and your dog started barking. Sarge went crazy. I’ve never seen him act like this.”
“He wouldn’t be doing that if you weren’t acting like an idiot!” I said to Pepe.
The guy must have thought I was talking to him.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” he said. “I just wasn’t prepared for him to go off on me. He’s actually a very shy dog. Let me give you my contact information. I think you’re going to need some work on your car.”
I could see the scratch marks where the Great Dane’s claws had scraped off some of the paint. But they were nothing compared to the dings and rust spots on the body of my green Toyota. My car even had moss growing on the rubber around the windows.
“Really, it’s not a big deal,” I said. I stood with my back to the window so Pepe couldn’t see the big dog. This seemed to calm them both down somewhat. Sarge stopped lunging and went and stood meekly behind his master.
“I’m Felix,” he said, holding out a hand. His grasp was firm but warm. He had the same lean and muscled physique as his dog. And he looked a bit like the romantic hero on Paraiso perdido, with his high cheekbones, caramel-colored skin, and dark, wavy hair.
He pulled a card out of his pocket. “Here’s my number.” It read FELIX NAVARRO, DOG TRAINER AND ANIMAL COMMUNICATION SPECIALIST.
“You speak to dogs?” I asked. Had I found someone else who could hear what Pepe was saying? I could fall for him as hard as Conchita fell when the stray bullet struck her down. “Can you tell me what my dog is saying right now?”
Felix smiled. He had a great smile that lit up his whole face, which had been somber until that moment. “He’s telling Sarge to stay away from his car.”
Fair enough. He left out the swear words, but I think he got the message.
I dug around in my purse and pulled out one of my cards. It read GERI SULLIVAN, INTERIOR DESIGN AND HOME STAGING. Which reminded me I needed to get some new cards. Maybe, just to flatter Pepe, I would get a few that read SULLIVAN AND SULLIVAN, PRIVATE DETECTIVES.
“Here, you can call me,” I said. “But I’m not worried about the damage. Really. It was all my dog’s fault.”
“He’s a cute little fellow,” said Felix. “I like Chihuahuas. They’ve got personality.”
“Yes, he does have personality,” I said, opening the door a crack. I threw in the plastic bag. Pepe flew to it and sniffed everything. That allowed me to squeeze myself in, as gracefully as I could with Felix watching me.
“I’ll call you,” he said.
“Good! I’ll look forward to hearing from you.” I gave him what I hoped was a bright smile and turned the car on. Pepe was tearing into the beef jerky and paid no attention to me whatsoever. It wasn’t until we were parked outside the retirement home that I got his attention again.
“Why did you do that?” I asked.
“What?” he said. “I am only fortifying myself for the job ahead.”
“No, not that. Yell at that big dog. He was twenty times your size.”
“Geri,” Pepe said solemnly, “it is my duty to protect you, and that means I must protect your property as well. That dog walked too close to your car. I had to warn him of the consequences. I simply did my duty.”
“Pepe, it’s not your job to protect me. I can take care of myself.”
“So you say,” he said. He went back to the beef jerky.
Chapter 11
Mrs. Snelson lived in a seven-story building designed for housing seniors. It was made of concrete, bristling with balconies, and was right across the street from Green Lake.
Green Lake is Seattle’s most picturesque lake, a small, round jewel set in the heart of north Seattle and circled by a three-mile concrete pathway, always thronged with joggers and moms with strollers and dog walkers. On a summer day, it’s impossible to find parking anywhere near the lake. Luckily this was not a summer day. T
he sky was gray, the air was moist, but no rain was falling.
Still I couldn’t find parking directly in front of the building, so I pulled around to the side street. When I opened my door to get out, Pepe bounded over me and landed on the grass of the parking strip.
“Pepe,” I said, “I can’t take you into the building.”
“Oh, you want me to stay and guard your car?” he asked, hopefully. He looked up and down the street, then strolled over to the edge of the parking strip and lifted his leg. “I will warn the other dogs that I am on patrol.”
“No, I don’t want you to guard my car,” I said. I couldn’t afford another dog-baiting incident. “Why don’t you get back in the purse?” I held out my bag. It was still empty. I had not retrieved my personal items, which were now scattered all over the car, along with the plastic wrappers from the beef jerky.
“Very well,” said Pepe. He seemed sulky but he stepped into it readily. I closed the flap and headed into the building.
I had to sign in at the reception desk and write down the name of the person I was visting and the reason for my visit. While I was doing this, Pepe stuck his head out of the top of my purse.
The woman behind the desk frowned. “Is that a real dog you have in there?”
Pepe looked quizzical. “What does she mean a real dog? Does she think I am a stuffed toy?” He wiggled his ears for emphasis.
“Oh, yes, he is,” I said, trying to stuff Pepe back down.
“Is he a therapy dog?”
“Sí, I am a therapy dog,” said Pepe.
“Yes, he is,” I said.
“That’s lovely. Our residents do so enjoy the companionship of animals. You know, studies show that contact with animals enhances emotional and psychological well-being.”
“Oh, really?” I said, then remembered I was supposed to know this. “You can’t believe what an amazing impact he’s had on my life. And I’ve only had him, I mean, I’ve only been working with him for a short time.”
The woman glanced at the name I had written on the visitor’s log.
“I’ll just ring up Mrs. Snelson and let her know you’re here,” the woman said, setting Pepe down with a little pat on the head. “She’s on the ground floor. Just go towards the elevators and turn right. You’ll see her door at the end of the hall. Number 109.”
“You see, Geri,” Pepe said with some importance, as I stuffed him back into my bag. “All women find me irresistible.”
I ignored him. “Are you really a therapy dog?” I asked.
“Don’t I make you feel better?’ he asked.
I sighed. But it was true. He did make me feel better.
The interior hallways were dim and quiet. The doors were painted dark blue and each one had been decorated by the tenant. Apartment 109 had a cheerful wreath of white and yellow plastic daisies. I rang the doorbell and a few minutes later Mrs. Snelson opened it.
She was a small woman, with curly white hair and rosy cheeks. She would have been my perfect picture of a grandmother, except for her attire—she wore pink overalls that were smeared with green and brown stains, and a pair of bright green rubber boots, decorated with frogs.
“My gardening attire,” she explained, holding out a hand with a green glove on it, but then pulling it back when she realized the glove was covered with dirt. “I was just out in the garden. Come in. I’ll show you the source of the problem.”
It was clear she had an obsession and her obsession was plants. Her apartment was a jungle of potted plants, so dense I had to stoop to get past the fronds of the palms and push the tendrils of the vines out of my way to get to the sliding glass door and onto her patio. That, too, was crowded with plants—pots stuffed with spiky grasses and hanging baskets spilling over with colorful purple petunias and red geraniums.
The patio looked out over the grassy hill on which the building was perched. Mrs. Snelson was slowly working her way outwards, creating curved beds, filled with green shrubs and a few early flowers, daffodils with their fluted cups and a flock of bright pink tulips. I imagined in a few years she would have taken over the whole hill.
“This is my little yard,” she said, picking up a trowel from where she had left it. “It’s all I have left now. And this, this”—her voice quivered with rage and the trowel in her hand shook—“is the problem!” She waved the tool at a fluffy mound of dirt underneath a spindly rose bush.
I bent down to look at where she pointed and saw a tower of calcified dog poop. By bending down, I threw Pepe out of balance, and he tumbled out of my bag. I grabbed for him but I was too late. He landed with a little woof, then picked himself up and shook himself off.
“Oh, you brought a dog with you!” Mrs. Snelson said. “I can’t stand them. Filthy creatures!”
“Hey!” said Pepe.
She twisted her lips contemplating him. “Anyway, it’s not the dog that’s the problem. It’s the owner. She’s an irresponsible young woman. Lets the dog out to do his business. He seems to think my flower beds are the best place.”
“They are lovely flower beds,” said Pepe, approaching the offending item and giving it a good sniffing.
“Stop that!” I said to Pepe.
“I am investigating, Geri,” said Pepe.
“Well, don’t,” I said. “It’s disgusting.”
“It is disgusting,” said Mrs. Snelson. “I called the police, and I called Animal Control, but they told me they can’t do anything unless they catch the animal in the act. But by the time I call them, the dog is gone. Back hiding in his miserable home.”
“Where does he live?” I asked.
Mrs. Snelson pointed to a little house just down the block. It was an anomaly among the pretty mansions that circle the lake. This one was obviously a duplex, with two doors side by side on the sagging front porch. It was a boxy wooden house in poor condition, the wood weathered, the paint faded to a mustard yellow. The yard was equally neglected; it was knee-high in weeds, mostly big dandelions.
“Renters!” said Mrs. Snelson with a huff.
“And what does the dog look like?” I asked.
“He’s brown and gray with spots,” said Mrs. Snelson. “About knee-high. He has a big head and a mouth full of fangs. That’s all I know. I don’t care for dogs.”
“Does he always come over at a certain time of day?”
“No, not that I’ve noticed. His owner just opens the door and lets him out. And then when she wants him back, she calls his name.”
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“Bruiser. Or Loser. Or something like that.”
Just then Pepe growled. It was a low but menacing sound. I looked up to see that the door of the mustard yellow house had opened and a brown and gray dog had rushed out. A young woman with purple hair, wearing only a large T-shirt and holding a coffee mug in her hand, stood in the doorway, watching as he headed down the steps. Then she shut her door.
We watched as the dog wandered around the yard, peeing on bushes. I took my phone out of my pocket and was ready, with my finger poised to take a picture, but Bruiser showed absolutely no interest in fouling Mrs. Snelson’s flowers. I snapped a few photos of him just for practice while we waited.
“Oh, this is so frustrating,” said Mrs. Snelson. “It’s as if he knows we are watching for him.” She stalked to the far edge of her property and glared at the dog.
“I think I can lure him here,” said Pepe, who had been sitting quietly watching the whole time.
“Really?” I said. “How will you do that?”
“Watch and see,” he said. He strolled out to the edge of the patio as Mrs. Snelson returned to my side.
Pepe began shouting at the dog. “Hey, Bruiser, you really are a loser! You do not dare to step outside your little yard.”
Bruiser looked up and seemed interested in what Pepe was saying but he did not show any inclination to head up the hill.
“I am free,” said Pepe. “I can do as I please. Go where I want.” He strolled over to
the corner of Mrs. Snelson’s flower bed and lifted his leg.
“Hey,” said Mrs. Snelson, “stop that, you filthy creature!”
Pepe looked offended. “I am just pretending,” he said to me.
“He’s just pretending,” I told Mrs. Snelson.
She didn’t seem to believe me. “I’m not sure this is a good idea, after all,” she said. “I didn’t ask for a detective with a dog. I wanted someone with a camera.”
“I have a camera right here!” I said, holding up my little phone. “It takes pictures. We just have to wait until the dog gets a little closer.”
But Bruiser didn’t move, despite Pepe’s continuing taunts. We waited and waited. Bruiser lay down on the porch and rested his giant head on his front paws, his eyes trained on Pepe. My phone rang. It was my best friend, Brad. He wanted to know when he was going to meet my dog. I told him I was working and would come by later. Raindrops began to fall, light at first, then gaining momentum. Mrs. Snelson went into the apartment to get an umbrella.
“This is a very hard case,” said Pepe. “It calls for desperate measures.” He walked out to the edge of the garden and squatted down.
“See, you miserable Loser,” he called out. “I will cover over your scent with my own. These will be my flower beds from now on.”
Unfortunately, at that moment, Mrs. Snelson came running out of her apartment, moving quickly for a lady of her advanced age, and brought her umbrella down smack on the top of Pepe’s head. He yelped and ran around in circles. I went to pick him up and dropped my phone, which rolled down the hill and into some bushes. While I was trying to find it, Bruiser left his porch and came creeping up the side of the hill. When I turned around, there was another steaming pile of dog poop in the flower bed, right next to Pepe’s little offering.
Chapter 12
“How could you do that?” I asked Pepe as we drove away.
“I am sorry, Geri,” Pepe said. “It was just a natural impulse. Once I started, I could not stop. Has that never happened to you?”
“Not exactly like that,” I said.
“I will do better next time,” said Pepe.
“There isn’t going to be a next time,” I said. Mrs. Snelson had made it clear that we were fired. Furthermore, she was going to call Jimmy G. and demand her deposit back. It looked like my career as a private investigator was already over.
Dial C for Chihuahua Page 6