The Silence of the Chihuahuas (28 page)

“Are you sure you don't want to wear your sweater?” I asked Pepe as we headed back into the little town. The trail had gone cold, literally and figuratively. Pepe was shivering. He shook his head impatiently. His long ears actually flapped a bit at the ends.

He put his nose to the ground and led me back to Ye Olde Gift Shoppe. It was still closed. In one window, a toy train chugged through a lighted village of porcelain English cottages. The other window was filled with a white Christmas tree covered with silver glitter-crusted globes and candy canes.

I studied the photo of Santa in the window, this time looking at the two elves in the background. One was a young woman with long dark hair and a pointed chin. The other was a young man with a long, pale face.

“Look, Pepe!” I said, scooping him up so he was on the same level as the photo. “Trevor was one of the elves!”

“Good work, Geri!” said Pepe. “We must find the other elf. And Santa. They may know the connection between Trevor and Chiquita.”

He headed down the sidewalk and stopped at the door to the neighboring restaurant, which bore the name The Bratwurst Factory. Looking through the leaded windows, I could see that most of the tables were full. A red-faced man in lederhosen was wandering along the aisles, playing the accordion.

“We are in need of refreshments,” Pepe said firmly. “Let us go in.”

“They won't let you in,” I told him.

“Barbarians!” said Pepe. “In France—”

“Yes, I know.” We had been through this before. According to Pepe, in France dogs were allowed in all the best restaurants. “I'll put you in my purse.” He hated this, but it had served as a good way to hide his presence in the past, so I always carried a big leather purse, about as tall as Pepe. I plunked him in, then gripped the handles firmly. I could hear him muttering inside, but the noise was covered up by the sound of the accordion playing “I'll Be Home for Christmas.”

The hostess seated us at a tiny table for two in the dim recesses of the restaurant, right by the kitchen door. I peered at the huge menu, which was full of food I considered barbaric: sausages and goulash, schnitzel and sauerbraten. There was only one vegetarian option for me: egg noodles tossed with cheese and peas. But Pepe was excited as I read him the options. “This is truly a feast for a beast,” he said proudly.

I pulled out my cell phone and called Felix. He said he had just finished up with his last client and would see me in an hour.

“I wish that was true,” I said with a sigh. “But I'm not home.”

“Where are you?” he asked. “I hear accordions.”

I quickly filled him in about my impulsive trip to Leavenworth with Pepe and how we had just stumbled upon a body in the snow. He was a little bit shocked, I could tell, by the fact that we had gone directly from finding a dead elf to eating in a German restaurant. I blamed it all on Pepe.

But the truth was, I was hungry, too. I hadn't eaten anything since my breakfast oatmeal and coffee. I was just promising Felix that I would be home soon when the waitress showed up at our table.

She wore a short dirndl skirt, an embroidered vest that cinched in her waist, and a frilly white blouse that showed off her cleavage. She had a pale face and a pointed chin. She looked familiar.

“You're one of the elves!” I said suddenly.

She seemed startled.

“You work next door at the Gift Shoppe,” I said. “With Trevor.” I hesitated.

“Yeah, in the mornings,” she said. “Then I come over here and work the lunch and dinner shifts.”

“What's your name?” I asked.

“Sarah,” she said. She pointed to her name tag. “Can I take your order?”

“Why is the store closed?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Who knows?” She pulled a notebook out of her apron. “So what can I get you?”

“Really, I want to buy one of those cute little lighted houses for my niece,” I said. “Do you know when Ye Olde Gift Shoppe will reopen?”

“You can get those little houses anywhere in town,” she said in a bored voice. “They have them for a dollar cheaper over at the Quainte Parlor at the other end of town.” She tapped her pen on her little notebook.

“You should ask her when she last saw Trevor the elf,” Pepe said.

“Speaking of Trevor,” I asked Sarah, “when did you see him last?”

She looked startled but recovered quickly. “Santa sent him off on an errand. I haven't seen him since.”

She looked around the crowded restaurant. The accordion player had moved on to “Silent Night.” “If you're not ready to order, I'll come back.”

“Order the food, Geri,” said Pepe. “She is obviously too busy to talk right now. We should question her when she is more at ease.”

“You're right,” I told my dog.

“I am?” asked Sarah, thinking I was talking to her. “So does that mean you want me to come back?”

“No,” I said. “I'm ready to order.”

She put her pen to the order pad, asking, “What would you like?”

I ordered the egg noodles and a side of bratwurst for Pepe.

When Sarah left, Pepe said, “I suspect she knows more than she is telling us about Trevor the elf.”

“We'll have to find out,” I said.

“
Sí,
” he said, then sniffed at the air, happily enjoying the aromas that filled the restaurant. “But on full stomachs.”

 

 

The place was still packed when we finished our meal. Another waitress brought us our check. I didn't see Sarah. Perhaps she was on a break. Perhaps she had taken off.

By the time we left the restaurant, it was getting dark outside. Night comes early in the Pacific Northwest in winter, especially in the mountains. Carolers dressed in costumes—forest-green coats and shiny black boots for the men, long green dresses and mantles for the women—sang in the gazebo.

We needed to report back to Tim and his daughter and return Sophie's coat. And I wanted to see if any rooms were available for the night at the Black Forest Inn. It didn't seem likely we would find Chiquita tonight. The good news was that she was probably inside, rather than lost in the snow.

On our way back to the motel, with Pepe snuggled inside my coat, we passed Ye Olde Gift Shoppe again. I stopped to study the photo of Santa and the elves.

“Geri,” said Pepe. “There is a light on by the cash register.”

He was right! One rather dim recessed lamp over the main counter illuminated that area. The sign on the door still read C
LOSED
.

“And the door is ajar,” Pepe told me. “Is that not strange?”

It
was
ajar—open about three or four inches.

“I smell danger,” said Pepe. “Look! There is a red pant leg and black boot on the floor. See it? It is sticking out just past the counter.”

My heart sank as I saw what my dog saw.

“Santa!” yelled Pepe, squirming out of my grasp and falling into a snowbank outside the front door. He scrambled to his feet, dashed through the door, and disappeared into the shop. “We must help Santa!”

“Pepe!”

I hurried into the store and found him standing over a very dead Santa Claus.

“
Mein Gott!
” said Pepe, adding German to his retinue of foreign languages. “Santa
ist tot.
”

He sure was. If
tot
meant “dead.” Someone had draped his Santa hat over his face, but there was no mistaking the pool of blood in which he lay. His white beard was splattered with red. His round-as-a-bowl-of-jelly stomach pointed up at the sky, as did the toes of his coal-black boots.

Pepe shook his head. “Think of all the little children who will not get—”

“This isn't the real Santa,” I interrupted. “Children will—”

“—who will not get to sit in his lap here in the store, I was going to say,” Pepe finished. “Hey! What is that?” He ran over to the man's left boot.

“What is what?” I asked.

“This!” he told me, nudging something narrow and shiny black that was sticking up a few inches out of the boot.

I pulled it out and looked at it. It was a switchblade knife about six inches long.

“What is Santa doing with a switchblade in his boot?” asked Pepe.

“I don't know.” I looked at it more closely. There appeared to be dried blood on the tip.

“Geri,” said Pepe, taking a step back. “This is one bad Santa.”

Of course, I called 911 again. I looked around the shop while we waited. I could see why Sarah referred me to the store down the street. Many of the shelves were half empty. The items that were in stock were made of cheap materials. In one corner, behind the artificial white Christmas tree, a white-painted wooden armchair, presumably Santa's throne, sat on top of a white drop cloth sprinkled with gold glitter.

Pepe was busy sniffing the floor around the body. “I smell the same woman here that I smelled around the dead elf.”

“So a woman murdered both Trevor and Santa?” I asked.

“It is possible,” said Pepe. “But you are jumping to conclusions, my good Sullivan. All we know is that the same woman was in both places.”

“Did she have Chiquita with her?” I asked.

Pepe shook his head. “Chiquita's trail is cold.”

It was only minutes before the whole crew arrived: Drew Baker, the EMTs , the deputies, the coroner, and two new additions—two homicide detectives. They asked me and Pepe to come down to the sheriff's station for questioning.

We agreed to meet them there, which gave me enough time to reserve a room at the Black Forest Inn and call Felix again to tell him the bad news: I wasn't going to be home for Christmas Eve.

We also paid a visit to Tim and Sophie to return the coat. They were happy to hear that Pepe had been able to follow Chiquita's trail but not so happy to hear we hadn't found her.

“What if she is lost in the snow?” Sophie asked her father, burying her head in his shoulder.

“It seems likely someone picked her up,” I said. “We just have to find that person.” I didn't mention that the person might be a murderer. Surely even a murderer of elves and Santas would not harm an innocent Chihuahua.

Then we got in the car and drove to Wenatchee where the sheriff's station was located. Wenatchee is on the eastern side of the Cascades, a small town on the Columbia River that is the center of the apple industry in Washington State.

The sheriff's office was small. There was only one interview room and we had to wait as it was already in use. As we sat in the lobby, a door slammed. I looked up and saw Drew escorting Sarah down the hall toward us. She was still wearing her dirndl skirt and white blouse with a puffy orange down jacket draped around her shoulders. Her eyes were red and puffy; she had obviously been crying.

“You!” she said, stopping to look at me. “What are you doing here?”

“What are
you
doing here?” I asked.

“And the dog?” she said, looking at Pepe. “You found my dog!”

“What do you mean your dog?” I clutched Pepe closer to me.

“Trevor was going to give her to me for Christmas,” she said, reaching out for Pepe.

“You're talking about Chiquita?” I asked, swiveling away from her so she couldn't grab Pepe.

Sarah stiffened. “No, I'm not!” She turned to Drew, who still held her by the elbow. “Can I go now?”

He nodded and she whirled out the door.

“So you know she knows Trevor?” I asked him as he ushered me and Pepe into the interview room. A box of Kleenex sat in the middle of the table.

“Of course she does. They dated all through high school,” Drew said. “But how do you know that?”

“We met her at the Bratwurst Factory,” I said. “I recognized her from the photo in the window of Ye Olde Gift Shoppe.”

“I thought I told you to stop investigating,” he said.

“We didn't do it on purpose,” I said.

“Why do you keep saying
we
?” he asked.

“My dog is my partner,” I said.

His eyebrows shot up.

“Have you figured out who killed Santa?” I asked.

Drew shook his head. “His name is Jack Stringer. He and his wife, Barbara, own Ye Old Gift Shoppe. He's a total misanthrope. Hates people. Pretty ironic that he was playing Santa. But I guess that's when they make most of their income for the year. According to Barbara, the store wasn't doing too well.”

“Then why was the store closed on the busiest day of the year?”

“What do you mean?”

“When we went by around three-thirty, there was sign up saying ‘Back in fifteen minutes.' But when we went back there after eating, the store was still closed. Except the door was ajar.” I explained again what we had seen.

Drew frowned. “It must have happened when Jack was closing up,” he said. “Barbara was at home preparing Christmas Eve dinner. They were expecting their kids and grandkids. Someone must have tried to rob him.”

“And the switchblade, with the blood on it?” I asked.

“I guess Jack tried to defend himself. We could be looking for a perpetrator with a knife wound.”

“How did Trevor die?” I asked.

“We're still waiting for the autopsy results. No one's available because of the holiday. But it does appear to be a knife wound.”

“So maybe Trevor tried to rob Santa, but Santa stabbed him during the struggle and Trevor wandered off, mortally wounded, only to die in the snow,” I proposed.

“Nice theory, Sullivan,” said Pepe, “but the facts do not support that.”

But Drew looked impressed. “We'll have to investigate that angle,” he said, standing up. Evidently we were dismissed.

 

 

To my surprise, Sarah was waiting for us in the parking lot. She was shivering, hunched over in her bright orange down jacket.

“Give me my dog!” she said, making a grab for Pepe, who I was holding in my arms.

“This is my dog!” I said, tightening my grip on him.

Sarah shook her head. “Trevor promised her to me.”

“I can prove this is not the same dog,” I said. “For one thing, this is a male dog. His name is Pepe.” I flipped Pepe upside down to display the proof.

“Geri!” squeaked Pepe, struggling to right himself. “Though I am proud of my manliness, this posture is
más indigno
.” I turned him back over.

Sarah's face fell. “Now I have nothing left to remember Trevor by.” Tears started to trickle from her eyes. I felt sorry for her.

“Come on,” I said, “let's get something warm to drink.” All of the restaurants and coffee shops were closed, but we finally found a bar that was open and ordered two coffees to go. The coffee was strong and bitter. It suited my mood. Sarah needed a ride back to Leavenworth, so I offered to take her.

“So when did Trevor promise to give you the dog?” I asked as I pointed the car back up the hill. It was still snowing. Sarah wept quietly in the passenger seat. It was so dark I couldn't see her, so I could only tell she was crying because she kept swiping at her eyes and sniffling.

“When the dog showed up at the shop,” she said.

“Were you working then?”

“Well, yeah. Jack had just taken a smoke break and he came back with this little girl, who he jumped to the head of the line in front of all the waiting kids, which didn't make the moms happy. So we were trying to calm them down. He said something about the little girl's mom being dead so she needed special treatment.”

Obviously Sarah had not been watching the news, but it was odd that she hadn't seen any of the posters that Tim and Sophie had posted all around town.

“Then he saw maybe one or two more kids. And then the little white dog came in. Headed right for Jack. Barking furiously. It spooked him. He told Trevor to get rid of it.”

“I find it puzzling that Santa would not use the gendered pronoun,” said Pepe.

“People who don't appreciate dogs treat them like objects,” I said.

“Right,” said Sarah. “And Santa hated animals.”

“How well did you know him?” I asked.

Sarah shrugged. “Everyone in town knows him. But we all think he's a jerk. So is Barbara. They were made for each other. I just took the job because I wanted to make some extra money for Christmas while I was home on break.”

“On break?”

“Yeah, I'm in my second year at Western Washington,” she said, naming the state university in Bellingham.

There were no other cars on the road. Everyone was home with their families, probably enjoying a big dinner, maybe opening presents and singing carols and decorating trees. I thought about all the wonderful plans I'd made for this holiday and felt sorry for myself.

“So tell me about your relationship with Trevor,” I said.

It took her a moment to respond. “He was my first boyfriend. We dated through most of high school. But we broke up when I left for college.” She paused. “Still, every time I came back to town, we ended up hanging out together. It's just so comfortable being with him.”

“You knew he was doing drugs?” I asked cautiously.

Sarah shrugged. “There's nothing else to do in Leavenworth, except wait on the tourists. I told him he needed to get out and make something out of himself. But he felt like he couldn't leave his mom, she really needed him, yadda, yadda, blah, blah, blah.”

“What's the story with his mom?”

“She's sort of eccentric. Some people call her crazy. She lives in a cabin out in the woods and has about a dozen little dogs.”

“A miniature collie? A poodle? A corgi?” Pepe asked.

“A miniature collie? A poodle? A corgi?” I asked.

Sarah swiveled around to face me. “How do you know that?”

“I'm a private detective!” I said. It seemed OK to brag a little. After all, it was Christmas Eve and I was working.

“Wow!” she said. “That's so cool!”

“So Trevor's mom has several dogs?” I asked.

“Yeah, so Trevor asked her to hide the Chihuahua so Santa would think he had disposed of it. But he promised I could take her when I left to go back to school.”

“Santa wanted Trevor to kill the dog?” That was Pepe.

I was equally shocked. “Santa wanted Trevor to kill the dog?”

“I told you, he's a jerk!” said Sarah.

“Geri, we now know where Chiquita is!” said Pepe.

“Oh, that's true!” I said. Wow! We were going to be able to do what we had promised: give Sophie back her dog. And just in time for Christmas.

“Can you tell me where Trevor's mom lives?” I asked Sarah. We had reached the outskirts of Leavenworth. All the parking lots were empty. The white lights sparkled on empty streets. Everyone had gone home.

“Sure. She lives at the end of Snowflake Lane,” said Sarah. “Just take a right here.” She pointed at a dark road that veered off just in front of the Black Forest Inn.

I thought about Tim and Sophie sitting in their motel room. I imagined their happiness when we showed up with their precious dog.