Chihuahua Confidential (19 page)

Authors: Waverly Curtis

BOOK: Chihuahua Confidential

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Acknowledgments

We have so many people to thank for inspiration and support.

In the inspiration column, up at the top, is the charming Chihuahua known as Pepe Fitzgerald, and Shaw Fitzgerald, who adopted him, thus bringing much joy and amusement into our lives.

In terms of influence, we must acknowledge Judy Schachner, whose writing about Skippyjon Jones, the frisky kitten who thinks he's a Chihuahua, influenced our Pepe's vocabulary; Judi McCoy, author of the charming Dog Walker Mystery series, for showing us the comedic possibilities in dog-human communication; and the creators and cast of
Psych!
, the TV show that gave us a character name we couldn't resist in Nigel St. Nigel (plus hours of amusement).

In the area of support, we are grateful for Team Pepe: Michaela Hamilton, our editor at Kensington, and Stephany Evans, our agent at FinePrint Literary Management, and all of the folks at Kensington and FinePrint who helped make this book a reality. We appreciate the members of our writing groupâLinda Anderson, Rachel Bukey, and Janis Wildyâfor thoughtful feedback and Elliott Bay CafÃ© for providing us with a congenial place to meet. The regulars at the Shipping GroupâCynthia Hartwig, Janette Turner, Jenny Hayes, Theresa McCormick, Mary Oak, Carol Pierson Holding, Adrienne Ross Scanlan, and Judith Gilleâoffered accountability and enthusiasm. Judith also helped out with the Spanish (any mistakes that remain are ours because we didn't take all of her good advice). For years, Faizel Khan has welcomed us every Tuesday afternoon to CafÃ© Argento and been not just a fan but an advocate for our work. Most of all, we wish to thank our family members, Shaw and Stephanie, for listening to our problems, suggesting solutions, and making it so much easier for us to immerse ourselves in the world of Pepe.

The fun continues
in the next Barking Detective Mystery . . .

THE BIG CHIHUAHUA

Coming soon from Kensington

Turn the page to read a sneak preview . . .

Chapter 1

“Do you think our boss will like it?” I asked my dog as I reached into the backseat to grab the framed newspaper clipping.

“It does not matter what I think,” said Pepe with a bitter tone in his voice. My small white Chihuahua was sitting in the passenger seat. “I am just a dog.”

“Yes, but a dog that talks,” I said.

“But,
que lastima,
you are the only one who can hear me,” Pepe said. “If only I could have spoken to the reporter, I would have set him straight.”

He was referring to the story that had been published in the
Los Angeles Times
under the headline S
EATTLE
P
I
B
USTS
D
OGNAPPING
R
ING
. I had cut it out and framed it for our boss, Jimmy G, the PI in question. The article, which I'd read more than once, went on to describe the dognappings and murders that occurred when we were in L.A. a few months back filming the pilot for
Dancing with Dogs
. It paid particular attention to the famous actress, Caprice Kennedy, whose pet Papillon, Princess, was the most prominent of the dogs taken and held for ransom. Jimmy G was featured in the article, while Pepe and I were mentioned mostly in conjunction with winning the
Dancing with Dogs
competition. I didn't much care, but it galled Pepe that he didn't get any credit for bringing down the bad guys.

“Maybe we'll have better luck with this new case,” I said. “Jimmy G said it's perfect for us.”

We had parked right in front of the run-down brick building where Jimmy G has his office. It's on the edge of downtown Seattle in a somewhat seedy neighborhood, which suits Jimmy G fine, as he likes to think of himself as a hard-boiled detective of the same ilk as Philip Marlowe.

The building always seems to be empty. I've never run into anyone in the lobby or while walking down the hall, although there are signs on the frosted glass doors advertising the offices of a tax preparer, an importing firm, and something called Secret Star Productions. The office of the Gerrard Detective Agency is on the third floor at the end of the hall. There was a new sign, obscuring the familiar gold letters spelling out G
ERRARD
D
ETECTIVE
A
GENCY
. It was a paper sign with bold red type at the top. As I got closer, I saw it was an eviction notice.

“What is that, Geri?” asked Pepe.

“It says that Jimmy G has three days to pay his rent or else he will be kicked out,” I said, pulling the note off the door. I set the framed article down and tried the doorknob, but it was locked. Jimmy G had never given me a key, despite the fact that he insists on calling me his Gal Friday. I rattled the doorknob and knocked on the glass pane. To help me, Pepe uttered a few of his tiny barks.

“Hey, don't blow a gasket,” came a muffled voice from inside. I heard some banging sounds, some shuffling sounds, and then the door turned, revealing a rumpled Jimmy G.

I had always suspected that Jimmy G slept in his office, and his appearance seemed to bear that out. He eyes were bleary and red, and his white shirt was wrinkled. He was still buckling the belt on his tan slacks, and his shoulder holster and gun were hanging on the coat rack by the door, along with his fedora and tan trench coat. He smelled like cheap bourbon and cigar smoke.

He had big brown eyes that were almost as soulful as Pepe's, which may be why I am so tolerant of his bad behavior. He looked like he needed someone to take care of him, which is my weakness. I had adopted Pepe from a local animal shelter when I read about all the Chihuahuas who were being flown up to Seattle from Los Angeles, where they were being abandoned in record numbers.

“Look at this!” I said, slapping down the eviction notice on his desk, which was piled high with papers.

“Read it to Jimmy G, doll,” he said as he reached into his desk drawer to pull out a bottle of Jim Beamâmostly empty, I noticed. He took a slug, threw back his head, and gargled, swallowed, then shook his head like a dog that's wet and said, “Ah, that's better!”

“Well, this is not!” I said. I had totally forgotten about the framed article, which I had left outside the door. “It's an eviction notice.”

“Oh, Jimmy G thought he heard someone at the door early this morning,” he said. Jimmy G always talks about himself in the third person.

“Well, you have plenty of time to get caught up,” I said. “This three-day notice is usually just a warning. As long as you catch up on your rent within three days, they won't proceed with the eviction.” I knew something about the real estate business because I had worked as a stager before the housing market crashed. That's when I applied for and got the job working for Jimmy G. I took it on a lark, thinking it would do until I found something else, but six weeks later, I was hooked. Not the least because my dog loved being a PI.

“No can do, doll,” Jimmy G said. “Jimmy G is a little low on the moola.”

“What happened to all the money you got from Caprice?” The Beverly Hills starlet had given both me and Jimmy G a reward for rescuing her previous Papillon from the dognappers.

“All gone,” he said. “Jimmy G owed some money to the wrong kind of guys. If Jimmy G hadn't paid up, he would have been sleeping with the fishes.”

“I told you, Geri,” said Pepe. “We should start our own agency.”

“Hush,” I told him. “I need to get trained by a licensed PI.”

“Speaking of that,” said Jimmy G, “I just got a notice about renewing the agency license, too.” He began tossing the papers on his desk around. “It's around here somewhere.”

“Well, you need to take care of these bills,” I said.

“That's why I have a Gal Friday,” he said.

“How many times do I have to tell you? I am not a Girl Friday.”

“Administrative assistant?” said Jimmy G with pathos in his voice.

I have to admit the politically correct term sounded ridiculous when he said it.

“Neither. I am a private investigator in training,” I said. “And we have to clear up these bills so we can keep the agency going.” Which reminded me about the framed clipping I had left out in the hall. I went to get it and propped it up on one of the little wooden chairs across from Jimmy G's desk that were there for prospective clients. “Especially since the agency is in the news.”

“Speaking of which, that's how Jimmy G got his new case,” said Jimmy G.

“The one for me and Geri?” Pepe asked.

“The one for me and Pepe?” I asked.

“Yes, that one. The client heard about the dognapping case and called up Jimmy G.”

“So who's the client?”

“A man named Mark Darling. His wife has joined a cult, and she won't respond to his phone calls or messages. He wants us to get her out.”

“So why us?” I asked.

“Because it has to do with a dog,” said Jimmy G, beaming.

“Really?” Pepe's ears pricked up at that.

It's true we had solved our first and only case, which had to do with a dog, but again, it wasn't really on purpose. It was more like we created enough havoc so that we got the results we wanted by accident.

“I hope it involves a bitch,” said Pepe.

I was about to chide him when I realized he meant a female dog.

“With a strong aroma and luscious fur,” said Pepe.

“I thought Siren Song was the one for you,” I told him. Siren Song was an attractive golden Pomeranian. Unfortunately, she was down in Hollywood with her owner, and Pepe's heart was hurting.

“
SÃ,
Siren Song has my heart,” said Pepe. “But a dog can have many loves.”

“Siren Song?” Jimmy G asked. “No, the dog's name is Dogawanda. Have you heard of him?”

“Sure,” I said.

“I have not,” said Pepe.

“He's an ancient warrior dog who speaks through a channeler, a woman by the name of Sherry Star. He has quite a following,” I told Pepe.

“Crazy folks!” said Jimmy G, shaking his head.

“Not so crazy,” said Pepe. “I think all humans could learn much by listening to dogs. I would like to have a following myself.”

“So what do you want me to do?” I asked Jimmy G.

“First you have to meet with this Mark Darling. But the idea is for you to go undercover in the group. Try to make contact with the woman. Deliver her husband's message. Should be simple.” Jimmy G rolled his eyes. “Unless you fall for their line of BS.”

“Don't worry, Jimmy G,” I said. “I'm too smart to fall under the spell of a dog.”

“Ha!” said Pepe. “That is sarcasm!”

Chapter 2

Mark and Tammy Darling lived in a perfect little Craftsman bungalow in the Ravenna neighborhood of Seattle, a charming older neighborhood full of small homes set back on leafy streets. It was the sort of home I dreamed of owning, and maybe I could afford to move up, now that I had the reward money from Caprice and the prize money from
Dancing with Dogs
. The house had a roomy front porch with fat pillars and wide stone steps. A little gabled window peeked out from the steep pitched roof.

The front yard looked like an English garden, with its profusion of old-fashioned flowers: hollyhocks and ruffled irises, speckled foxgloves, and the bright blue of delphiniums. Mirrored ornaments set here and there sparkled in the sun, and a glass globe drifted in the waters of the birdbath, an iridescent bubble. Along the fence on the property line, fruit trees had been espaliered. The finishing touch: a cute little red Smart car in the driveway.

A winding brick path led us through the flowers to the front door. The porch was furnished with a swing and draped with a colorful serape. A wind chime hanging from the porch roof tinkled faintly. Pressing the doorbell triggered a sonorous chime and the appearance of a rumpled man.

“Come in! Come in!” he said. “Oh, I'm so glad you agreed to help me.”

Mark Darling had worried brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses and brown hair that stuck up in odd tufts all over his head. I couldn't quite tell if this was due to his running his hands through his hair or if it was an artful effect achieved with a hair product. It gave him a youthful appearance, though I judged him to be in his early forties, about a decade older than I am.

A little dirty-white terrier-poodle mix came bustling up as soon as we crossed the threshold. She had a big patch of fur missing on one flank.

“That's Fuzzy,” said Mark, ushering us inside. “She's been so distraught since Tammy left, she's chewing her own fur off.”

Fuzzy and Pepe began sniffing butts and doing that weird jumpy dance dogs do when they're uncomfortable with each other.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” Mark asked, hurrying us through the hallway, past a spacious living room, and into the kitchen, obviously recently redone. The kitchen counters were poured concrete colored to a golden hue, and the backsplash was made of translucent leaf-green tiles. Open shelves displayed a collection of orange, yellow, and green Fiestaware plates and bowls that made me envious. “Coffee? Tea? Lemonade? Water?”

“
Gracias,
” said Pepe, trotting over to Fuzzy's bowl and slurping down the water. He finished up with a mighty sneeze. For some reason, Pepe always inhales some water when he's drinking. Fuzzy sat nearby looking forlorn as Pepe turned his attention to Fuzzy's stainless-steel food bowl.

“Ugh!” said Pepe, turning away after a few mouthfuls. “Bargain brand.” He shuddered and shook himself off as he does when something upsets him.

I asked for tea and Mark turned on a stainless steel kettle that was sitting on one of the burners. The kitchen was immaculate, I noticed. There were no dirty dishes in the sink. No stains on the stove. It didn't look anything like my house.

“Do you have a cleaning service?” I asked.

Mark looked startled. “Oh, you mean because the house is so clean?” He shrugged and looked a bit embarrassed. “I guess I got a little carried away. Cleaning is what I do when I'm feeling anxious.”

When the water was hot, he poured it into a clear glass carafe and invited me to join him at the breakfast nook on one end of the kitchen. The windows looked out on a backyard that was even more precious than the front yard. Raised beds full of luxuriant vegetables. A huge state-of-the-art stainless-steel grill on a cobbled patio. Even a bread oven set among herbs. Stairs led up along the side of the garage. A fuchsia in a pot dangled from the eaves. It looked like there was a separate living space up there with overhanging eaves and big windows.

Mark saw where I was looking and said, “My photography studio.” Then he sighed and settled back in his chair. “I haven't been up there since Tammy left.”

The sky had been getting increasingly darker and as we watched, the rain began to fall, dripping from the edge of the eaves, spattering against the windows. Pepe jumped up on the bench beside me while Fuzzy lay down on the floor at Mark's feet, putting her head on her paws with a deep sigh.

“Poor Fuzzy,” said Mark, taking a sip of his tea. “She's just been moping. I can't believe that Tammy would abandon her.”

I found it odd that he wasn't thinking of himself, but maybe he was the kind of guy who always thought of other people first.

“Is Fuzzy particularly attached to Tammy?”

“Yes, I'm more of a cat person. But Tammy had always wanted a dog. As soon as we signed the papers, she went right out to the shelter and came home with that mutt.” He took a sip of his lemonade. “I can't believe she could just walk away from her. And all this.” He waved his hand at the yard. It certainly looked like a little bit of paradise.

“So how long have you lived here?”

“Five years.”

I mentally computed that. They bought just as prices for houses were still going up, so they were probably watching in dismay as prices fell.

“And how long have you been married?”

“Our anniversary is June twenty-fifth. Next week. Seven years of married bliss.” He took a sip of his tea and looked out the rain-smeared window at the garden.

“Do not speak, Geri,” said Pepe. “That is good interviewing technique.”

Actually, I wasn't going to speak anyway since I had just helped myself to one of the giant sugar cookies Mark had placed on the table and my mouth was full. The cookies looked and tasted like they were homemade. Was Mark baking as well as cleaning to compensate for his loss?

“I know what you're thinking. That's what the police said. The seven-year itch. She got tired of being married and ran off. But, believe me, there was nothing wrong with our marriage. I mean, we had our share of problems, but we were working on those.”

“Ask about the problems,” Pepe suggested.

“If you don't mind my asking, what were the problems?”

“Well, of course, that's why you're here,” he said. He leaned forward and looked at me with those worried brown eyes. “We wanted children, but we couldn't get pregnant. No matter what we tried, and, believe me, we tried everything. Then, finally, just when we gave up, Tammy got pregnant. She was so excited.”

He paused, rubbed at his eyes. “She had a miscarriage in the fifth month. It was terrible. She couldn't get over it. That's when those people got a hold of her.”

“The Dogawandans?” I asked.

“Yes, she attended a seminar, and they filled her head with nonsense. Said it was all meant to be. The baby was not gone but living in a different dimension. And she could be there, too, if she divested herself of all attachments. She was even talking about getting rid of Fuzzy. She went away for a weeklong retreat at their lodge, which is in the mountains somewhere near Cle Elum, and she never came back.”

“How long ago was that?” I asked.

Mark sighed. “Almost a month ago.”

“And the police aren't concerned?” I found that hard to believe.

“No. Not after I showed them the note.”

“What note?”

He set down his cup, reached into the back pocket of his jeans, and pulled out a worn wallet. He opened it and pried out a piece of much-folded paper. He handed it to me without comment and watched as I unfolded it, carefully, because it had been folded and unfolded so many times it was about to fall apart. The message was written on pale green, lined paper, the kind you find in steno notebooks, like the one I carry for my case notes.

“Read it out loud, Geri!” ordered Pepe.

So I did. It read:

I'm not coming home.

Don't try to make me.

This is the last time you will hear from me.

I am dead to you from this point forward.