The Silence of the Chihuahuas (17 page)

“What about the men?” I asked, glad to know Mrs. Snelson was so open-minded but eager to get back to my cooling breakfast.

“Three,” said Mrs. Snelson with a frown. “Frank down there on the left, and Jim—he must be in 214, and then there's Mort!” Her voice fell when she said his name.

“What's wrong with Mort?” I asked.

“He's a creep,” said Mrs. Snelson. “Always lurking around, eavesdropping, and making lascivious comments to all the women.”

“That sounds like the sort of person we're looking for,” I said. I turned to Pepe, who was zig-zagging back and forth, his nose to the carpet. “Can you tell which apartment the feet entered?” I asked him.

“
Si
!” he said, with great delight. “This one!” And he stood and scratched on door 217.

“Well, we've found your secret admirer,” I said to Mrs. Snelson. I pounded on the apartment door. “We'll just tell him to leave you alone.”

“Oh, no!” she said, covering her lips with her hand. “That can't be right!”

“We take a stand against harassment of innocent old ladies who make excellent biscuits,” said Pepe, scratching at the door.

“No, please, it can't be—” said Mrs. Snelson.

“I'm coming, I'm coming. Hold your damned horses,” said a voice from behind the door.

And then Door 217 swung open. Behind it was a man sitting in a wheelchair. An older man with a greasy comb-over of dark hair, dark bushy eyebrows, and saggy jowls. His skin was pasty and his lips a rubbery red.

“What's this about?” he asked with a frown.

“Oh, I'm so sorry, Mort,” said Mrs. Snelson, hiding her rolling pin behind her back. “There's been a terrible mistake.” She turned to me. “You can see that he couldn't possibly have made the footprints!”

“But Geri, the bottoms of his shoes are covered with flour!” said Pepe. He was sniffing as well as he could at the soles of Mort's feet, twisting around to get under the metal footrests of the wheelchair.

Mort kicked out at Pepe with one foot. “Get that dog away from me! Nasty little creatures. My ex-wife had one! Best day in my life when I got rid of both of them!”

“How did you get flour on the soles of your shoes?” I asked. I don't like people who don't like my dog.

“I don't have to explain anything to you,” snapped Mort.

“We're tracking down a fiendish criminal,” said Pepe.

“Those aren't your shoes, are they?” I asked.

Mort flushed brick red.

“So what if they aren't?”

“We're tracking down someone who committed a crime in those shoes,” I said.

“Oh, really?” Mort licked his lips. “What kind of crime? Maybe a little public indecency?” He waggled his eyebrows. “I would like to get publicly indecent with you, Gladys!”

Mrs. Snelson moaned and turned away.

Doors opened down the hall. A woman with henna-dyed hair stuck her head out of one. A man out of another. “What's going on?” the woman asked. “Do you need any help?” the man asked.

“Nothing to worry about, Louise,” said Mrs. Snelson. “Thanks for the offer, Frank, but my detectives have everything under control.”

“Detectives?” That was Mort. “They don't look like detectives.”

“Where did you get those shoes?” I repeated.

Mort crossed his arms across his chest. “Not telling.”

“Fine, we'll call the police,” I said, turning away.

“OK, OK, not so fast,” Mort said, wheeling out into the hall. “I found them in the hall this morning. Looked like my size so I picked 'em up. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

“Of course not,” said Mrs. Snelson to Mort.

“Do you need help?” the man asked, coming out into the hall. “I do a little detecting myself.” He looked to be somewhere in his seventies. He had a full head of white hair, was trim for his age, and wore a brown Mr. Rogers-type cardigan sweater.

“It's OK, Frank,” she said, turning away and heading down the hall. “Just a misunderstanding.”

“Geri,” said Pepe. “I smell roses.”

“Wait a minute,” I called out to her. “I think we need some help from this gentleman.”

He gave us a little bow. “Gumshoe Phillips, at your command,” he said.

Mrs. Snelson paused. “These are my detectives,” she said. “I hired them to find out who was bothering me.”

“Bothering you?” The man seemed shocked.

“Yes, someone has been leaving me gnomes, and chocolate, and roses.”

“Oh ho!” said Mort. “Someone has a secret admirer!”

“I wish you had come to me,” said Gumshoe. “I could have helped you figure it out.”

Pepe was sniffing around the bottoms of his pant legs. “
¡Mire usted!
” he said. “There is flour on the bottoms of his pant legs.”

“Are you the secret admirer?” I asked.

Gumshoe's face turned as bright red as the red roses and without saying another word, he went scuttling back into his apartment.

“Gladys and Gumshoe sitting in a tree!” said Mort, chortling.

“Breathe a word of this to anyone,” said Mrs Snelson, turning on Mort, her face as pink as the pink roses, “and I'll hit you over the head with this.” She took the rolling pin out from behind her back and waved it at him.

He back-pedaled into his apartment and slammed the door.

 

 

“Well, that was a nice surprise!” said Mrs. Snelson happily, practically singing as she poured some hot coffee from the percolator into my mug. She had polished off her eggs and biscuits quickly.

“You're not upset?” I asked. “You were ready to brain the person with a frying pan!”

“That was before I realized it was Gumshoe,” she said cheerfully.

“Don't you think it's creepy that he sneaked into your apartment while you were sleeping?” I asked.

“It makes sense now that I know it's Gumshoe,” she said. “He's so shy. He can barely bring himself to talk to any of the ladies. Not like those other lechers.”

“Like Mort.”

“Like Mort,” she said.

“The Secret of the Sneaky Stalker is solved,” said Pepe. “Now on to the Case of the Deadly Decorator.”

“Surely you're not talking about Brad?” I asked him.

Mrs. Snelson just looked confused.

“I like the alliteration,” Pepe said.

“It sounds like a Nancy Drew novel,” I said.

“Those were a little after my time,” said Mrs. Snelson. “I liked the Blythe Girl series. They solved mysteries but not ones with dead bodies.”

“Well, unfortunately this one does have a dead body,” I said, drying my hands on the ruffled dish towel that hung from the sink.

“Well, I appreciate your taking the time for my little problem,” said Mrs. Snelson. “Tell your boss to send me an invoice.”

Most likely I would be sending the invoice, but I didn't tell her that.

As we went out through the sliding glass door, I paused and looked across the street at the little run-down house and Bruiser who was still lying in the mud.

“I hear you've been feeding bacon to Bruiser,” I said.

Mrs. Snelson blushed. “I feel so sorry for him. It's just not right, the way he's neglected.”

“Ah, Bruiser has an
amiga
,” said Pepe.

“Have you thought of calling the animal control?” I asked.

“No!” said Pepe. “You cannot send him to
perro
prison!”

“It seems like a cruel thing to do,” said Mrs. Snelson. “A dog like him. Well, he probably won't be adopted. There are so many of them in the shelters.” She was referring to the fact that Bruiser looked like a pit bull and people are reluctant to adopt them because of their reputation for violence.

“I wish I could do more for him,” she said, gazing across the street. I told her I had a plan and asked her if I could use her phone to call Felix. He answered right away and said he would pass the information along to Rebecca who was still searching for just the right dog.

Jay was a total mess when we arrived at his house on Queen Anne. I've never seen him so agitated. He didn't even invite us in, just stood there in the hallway, flapping his hands, looking like one of his birds with clipped wings.

“Oh, Geri!” he said, “I would offer you something to eat but I can't!” He looked down at the peacock blue vest he was wearing over a pale green shirt. “Do I look all right? I just don't know what's appropriate for a jail visit!” He shuddered.

“Brad's in jail?”

“Well, actually, I don't know where he is. The person I spoke to at Forest Glen told me to call the Bellevue police. And they won't release any information. My lawyer says this is a typical stalling tactic.”

“
Si
,” said Pepe. “It is a game the
policia
like to play. They isolate the prisoner to obtain a confession.”

“It's good you have a lawyer,” I said, wishing I had someone I could consult with about this case.

“Well, strictly speaking he's not my lawyer,” said Jay. “I called my lawyer and he referred me to his partner—.” He saw my look and clarified. “A partner in his firm who can take Brad's case. It wouldn't do for Graham to represent both of us.” He faltered to a stop. “Just in case.”

“Just in case Brad is guilty,” I said. “Surely you don't believe that.”

“I don't know what to believe,” said Jay, tears appearing in his eyes.

“We'll clear his name!” I said firmly, giving Jay an impulsive hug. He suffered my embrace stiffly, dabbing at his eyes with a silk handkerchief he pulled out of his vest pocket as soon as I let him go.

“I need more information about Mrs. Fairchild,” I said. “Did he ever talk to you about her?”

Jay shook his head impatiently as he grabbed his car keys off a silver tray in the hallway.

“The dragon lady?” I followed him out and watched as he locked the front door.

“Oh, the dragon lady! Yes he complained about her all the time. She had no taste. She was totally stubborn. She was always asking for a discount. I totally understood. I have catering clients like that too. I told him not to back down, to use his best judgment, and never offer her a discount.” Jay stopped. “I also told him that in some cases it's better to cut your losses than to keep on pursuing a client who's so difficult.” He moaned. “If only he had taken my advice.”

“Maybe he did,” I said, following him to the driveway. His car, a shiny black Lexus, beeped as we approached.

“It seems clear he went over there to ask her for money,” Jay said. “At least that's how the police made it sound.”

“It also sounded like he was standing in line with a lot of other contractors,” I said. “Do you know who else was working there?”

Jay shook his head. “Brad never mentioned any names.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “I do know he sometimes hired other people to help him with tasks he didn't enjoy.”

“Is there any paperwork here?” I asked.

“He kept everything at the shop.” Jay pulled open the driver's door.

“The shop!” That reminded me about the rent. “Have you heard from the landlord?”

Jay shook his head. “No. Do you think they've started eviction proceedings?”

“I don't know,” I said. “And anyway,” I shrugged, “I don't have enough money to catch up on the rent. The landlord told me Brad owes $12,000.”

Jay looked troubled. He wedged himself into the driver's seat and put the keys in the ignition, but he didn't turn the car on.

“What is it?”

“Brad asked me for the money,” he said in a low voice, “the day before he disappeared. I reminded him that I loaned him the money to set up his business but he was on his own to keep it going. That was our agreement.” He looked straight ahead as if the scene was playing out on the other side of the windshield. “We had a terrible fight. He stormed out of the house.” Jay gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles went white. “If only I had given it to him, none of this would have happened.”

“He is right,” said Pepe.

“You don't know that!” I said.

“Now I will most likely spend that much getting him out of this mess,” said Jay grimly, reaching for the key and turning on the car. “But it will be worth it to have my sweet Pooky Bear back home with me.”

“Pooky Bear!” said Pepe. “I have never understood pet names.”

Pepe and I watched the Lexus back out of the driveway and speed down the street after I made Jay promise to call me and leave a message on my home phone as soon as he knew anything.

“We've got to go to the shop,” I said.

“Or canvas the neighborhood,” Pepe suggested.

So we did both.

 

 

As soon as we entered, it was obvious someone had been in the shop. Nothing was in its right place. The owl was no longer on top of the grandfather clock but was sitting in an armchair near the door. Pepe startled when he saw it and went running under a sofa.

“Scared of a dead owl?” I teased him.

He came out shaking. “I am a victim of my instincts,” he said. “An owl like that could carry off a little dog like me in its cruel claws.”

“Like the hawk!” I said, pointing up at the bird that soared above us, suspended from the ceiling by white cord.

“Do not remind me,” he said. “I once was carried off in the claws of a Mama Hawk who intended to feed me to her babies, but when she sailed out over the ocean, angling toward her nest on a nearby cliff, I managed to escape from her grip. And dropped into the water and was able to swim to safety.”

“I don't believe that for a minute, Pepe,” I said. I know how much he hates water.

“It is true,” he said. “I was lucky enough to land in a school of dolphins and they shepherded me back to shore. Dolphins are very intelligent, you know. I learned a few words in their language. . . .”

“Right,” I said. “For instance?”

“‘Argerpolowarranfeel,'” said Pepe. It was sort of a watery grumble.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means ‘What a brave dog!' in Dolphin,” said Pepe with great satisfaction.

I set the owl back up on the grandfather clock, then looked around. The sofas and chairs had all been moved and were cluttering up what was usually a passageway to the front.

“Someone's been here!” I said.

“
Si
, it was
la policia
,” said Pepe, sniffing around. “I can smell that unpleasant man who likes to make jokes about me.”

“That means they must have gotten a search warrant,” I said. I pushed my way through the clutter of furniture towards the front room.

“Most likely,” agreed Pepe.

I pushed aside the heavy velvet drapes that shielded the mess in the back room from the front space that Brad uses to entertain clients. He keeps his papers in a file cabinet behind a tall, trifold, Japanese screen, its paper panels painted with graceful bamboo fronds.

The file cabinet itself was gun-metal gray. The four-drawer vertical cabinet had a couple dents in the metal and looked like it had come from the Boeing Surplus store. No wonder Brad hid it behind the screen.

It was clear that the police had also gone through the file cabinet. The drawers had been left open and most of them were empty except for a few fabric swatches and drapery catalogs.

I did find some envelopes on the floor that had been slipped through the mail slot. Each was addressed to Mrs Fairchild. She had written on them with a red pen “Return to Sender” and “No Longer at this Address.” A clever way to avoid payment but not too convincing because the address was the very address where Brad was working. I picked them up and put them on the desk, which had also been cleared of its usual jumble of papers.

I looked around for Pepe who had been unusually silent. I finally found him in the back of the shop, utterly still, his gaze fixed on a tall wooden armoire, his tail absolutely stiff and horizontal, one front paw tucked backwards, his whole body leaning forward. He looked exactly like a bird dog on point.

“What is it, Pepe?” I asked.

“Is it not obvious?” he asked. “I am pointing.”

“But you are not a bird dog!”

“I beg to differ. Have you forgotten that I was on that infamous bird hunt on that ranch in Texas with the Vice President of the United States? He may not have pointed his shotgun at the correct target, but I most certainly pointed out the right target to him!”

“Pepe, you know I don't believe that story. You are not old enough to have been alive when Dick Cheney shot his friend in the face.”

“Well, believe this!” he said. “There is a clue in that
armario
.”

I looked at it nervously. “Is there a dead body in there?”

“
Si
,
el cadáver
,” said Pepe.

I shuddered. “Whose dead body?” I asked.

“Why do you think I am pointing like a bird dog?”

“A dead bird?”

Pepe gave a stiff little nod, never breaking his stance for one minute.

I approached the cupboard cautiously and threw open one of the doors. Inside was a stuffed pheasant. He was sitting on a little piece of wood, with a stuffed mouse at his feet. His yellow eye was staring straight at me.

“How is this a clue, Pepe?” I asked.

He sighed and sat down. “This is the last thing Brad touched. He hid it in this
armario
before he went out the last day he was here.”

“Well, I don't see how this helps us,” I said.

“It is not accurate,” said Pepe, who had relaxed his posture and was studying the tableau critically. “Pheasants do not eat mice.”

“Really? I didn't know that.”

“
Si
. They are vegetarians, like you, Geri. Although they will eat insects. I have never seen you do that.”

I shuddered again. “No and you never will.”

“You might be surprised,” said Pepe. “Such a morsel would be most delicious to a hungry Chihuahua crossing the Sonoran desert.” He actually licked his lips.

“I guess we have struck out here!” I said. “The police got any evidence that could have helped us.”