Chapter 1
My counselor insisted I come in for an appointment before I left Seattle. She wanted to discuss my talking Chihuahua, Pepe.
I could totally understand her concerns. There were times when I questioned my own sanity.
Two hours after I adopted a cute white Chihuahua from a Seattle shelter, he started talking. And he hadn't stopped since. Even as we drove to the appointment, Pepe was chattering away about all the things that he wanted to show me when we got to L.A.
He claimed he had once lived there, as the pampered pet of Caprice Kennedy, the ditzy blond starlet famous for her love of small dogs.
I really didn't believe this story. He had dozens of stories, all preposterous. He claimed to have fought a bull in Mexico City, raced in the Iditarod in Alaska, and wrestled an alligator in an Alabama swamp. It pained him that I didn't believe his stories. And I could appreciate that, since no one believed me when I said my dog talked.
If anyone was going to believe me, I had high hopes for my counselor. Susanna is the sort of woman who sees auras and talks about chakras. Her waiting room is cluttered with crystals (to channel energy) and overflowing with plants (to detoxify the environment). She dyes her hair a shocking shade of red and wears chunky jewelry.
“So, Geri,” Susanna began, after waving me and Pepe to a seat on the dark gray velour sofa in her office, “is your dog still talking to you?”
“Of course, I am still talking to her,” said Pepe. “Who else would I talk to? She is only one who can hear me.”
“That's not true,” I pointed out to him. “Stewart could hear you, too.”
“It is of little merit,” Pepe said. “That
ladrón
is in jail.”
Susanna was quick to jump in. “So you believe he spoke to you just then?”
“Yes,” I said, “and he pointed out that there was one other person who could hear him talk.”
“Oh really?” Susanna asked. “Who is that?”
“Stewart Gerrard.”
“Your new boss?”
“No, Stewart is Jimmy G's brother.”
I had already told Susanna about getting a job working for an eccentric PI who likes to talk and dress like a detective from the forties. Pepe had insisted on going with me to my first appointment with a client, where we stumbled over the corpse of millionaire, David Tyler.
“It turns out Stewart was the one who killed David Tyler. And when he realized we knew that, he tried to kill me, but thenâ”
“I saved you,” said Pepe with great satisfaction. He was leaving out the part where I whacked Stewart in the stomach with a lamp but like most Chihuahuas, Pepe likes to pretend he is bigger than he is. So I let him take the credit.
Susanna looked disturbed. “That's quite a story, Geri.”
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“You say that as if I made it up.”
“Now you see what it is like when you scoff at my stories,” said Pepe, with some satisfaction.
“I heard the police made an arrest in the Tyler murder,” Susanna said, “but they didn't mention you.”
“What do you expect?” I asked. My counselor knows the story of my life. I've been going to her ever since she started seeing clients at the clinic associated with the college where she got her master's in counseling. The clinic offered a sliding scale, and I needed that after my divorce since I was only making enough money to make ends meet. So she knows that after I put my husband through business school, he left me for his secretary at his first job. And that just as my career as a stager was taking off, the real estate market crashed. I never get credit for my accomplishments.
“What does she mean, Geri?” Pepe asked. “Are we not heroes?”
My dog loves the limelight. Perhaps he once lived in Beverly Hills after all. It was theoretically possible, since he was one of a group of Chihuahuas who had been flown up to Seattle because the shelters in Los Angeles were overflowing with them.
“The Seattle police wanted to take credit for the arrest,” I said. Actually they had threatened to arrest me for practicing as a PI without a license.
“That is outrageous!” declared Pepe. “When it was I who brought the
bandido
down!”
“It's OK with me,” I said. I really don't like center stage. Which is why it was so annoying that my dog kept putting me right in the middle of the most ridiculous schemes. For instance, we were about to leave for L.A. to participate in the pilot episode of a reality TV show called
Dancing with Dogs
. Rebecca Tyler, David's widow, was producing it and said it was going to be a cross between
So You Think You Can Dance
and
Dancing with the Stars
. Pepe was thrilled, but I was terrified.
“By the way, I'm going to have to cancel my appointment for next week. Pepe and I are going to be in L.A. filming a TV show.”
Susanna shook her head. “You should be checking yourself into a hospital, not going on a trip.”
Pepe, who had been lying down, sat up abruptly.
“No way, Geri!” said Pepe. “I need my partner.” It was unclear whether he meant for dancing or for investigating. He has this delusion that we are partners in a detective agency called Sullivan and Sullivan.
“I can't abandon my dog,” I said.
Susanna's eyes grew dark with worry. “Geri, this is all so unlike you. Stories about catching a murderer. An invitation to perform in a reality TV show. A sudden trip to L.A. Do you realize what this sounds like?”
“No,” I said. “What does it sound like?”
“Mania,” said Susanna.
“Fun!” said Pepe.
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My dog, like most dogs, knows how to have fun. And there's something contagious about being around that kind of joy. Which may be why we adopt dogs in the first place.
And Pepe was definitely enjoying himself. He spent the two hours of the flight from SeaTac to LAX running around the private jet with Siren Song, the golden Pomeranian belonging to Rebecca Tyler who had chartered the plane. Pepe and I met Rebecca after her husband was killed, and we helped her locate the missing money she needed to fund
Dancing with Dogs
. This was her pet project: a reality TV show featuring dog owners dancing with their pets for cash prizes. Rebecca spent most of the flight on her phone, talking with her casting director and her agent. She was busy trying to line up sponsors and celebrity judges for the show.
In the Los Angeles airport, everyone stared at our entourage. Rebecca looked stunning as usual, striding through the terminal in a chic black dress and sparkly high heels, with Siren Song trotting at one side, her hunky gardener-turned-bodyguard, Luis Montoya, at her other side carrying her luggage.
I trailed behind with Pepe tucked in the crook of my elbow. I felt very self-conscious in an outfit that was perfect for Seattle's rainy climateâblack jeans, a violet-colored sweater, and a black velvet jacket. It was apparently all wrong for L.A. Most of the women in the airport were wearing low-cut, brightly colored tight tops and tiny skirts that showed off their long tan legs and strappy high heels. Their hair was sleek and styled and mostly blond (or highlighted if not blond), while mine was curly and messy and very dark. And their nails gleamed in various shades of red and pink and even orange. Mine were bitten down to the quick.
Still I held my head high as I passed through the gauntlet of their stares. I assume they thought I was Pepe's handler. He certainly acted like a star, gazing out over the crowds with a little smile on his lips and a proud tilt to his head.
“Ah, Los Angeles,” he said. “The City of Angels.”
A Hummer limo was waiting for us at the curb, and we settled in. Rebecca got back on the phone while Pepe positioned himself at the window, gazing out and keeping a running commentary on various landmarks we passed.
“There is Century City, Geri,” he said, pointing out a cluster of skyscrapers. “I attended a big premiere there with Caprice. Those were the days when she took me everywhere with her. She dyed my fur to match her gown.”
“Geri?” asked Rebecca. She and Siren Song and Luis were sitting in the back of the limousine, which was about half a mile from where we were sitting. “Is Pepe all right? He's making quite a racket.”
“He's fine,” I told her. I tend to forget that nobody can understand him but me. “He's just excited, Rebecca,” I added. “For that matter, so am I.”
“Well,” she said with a smile. “You'll be even more excited when you find out who just agreed to be our last celebrity judge.”
“Really?” I asked. “Who?”
“
SÃ,
who?” asked Pepe, his long ears pricked forward.
“Caprice Kennedy!” Rebecca said, and she practically squealed, which is unusual for her as she is one of the coolest characters you will ever see. She didn't even cry when she found out her husband was murdered. For a while, I thought she might have killed him. I still didn't totally trust her, though I had agreed to go to Los Angeles with her. But that was mainly because of Pepe. He really wanted to be a star. Also he didn't want to let Siren Song out of his sight.
“Yes,” Rebecca continued. “Isn't it wonderful? Having such a famous movie star and dog lover on our show is going to guarantee that the networks will pick it up!”
“Dog lover,” mumbled Pepe. “Or dog discarder.”
Poor Pepe. Caprice had ditched him for another dog. I'd been ditched myself a few times and could understand how he was feeling.
“And she'll be meeting us at the hotel for a photo shoot,” Rebecca went on.
“She will?”
“Yes. Isn't it exciting?”
“I wonder if she will remember me,” Pepe said softly.
“Of course she will,” I told him.
Rebecca leaned toward me. “It's great publicity for
Dancing with Dogs
. The best! And great publicity for Caprice, too. She needs it! After the troubles she's had. A few DUIs. That impulsive wedding in Las Vegas. Then dropping out of rehab. This will cast her in a much better light. That's part of the reason she agreed to be on the show. Her agent said as much when I talked to him.”
“Caprice is young,” said Pepe. “It is only natural for her to sow some wild oats.”
“Why, Pepe,” I said, “sounds to me like you still have a soft spot for her.”
“Everyone makes mistakes,” he told me.
“Wake up, Siren Song.” Rebecca gave her sleeping Pomeranian a shake. “We're almost there, my little darling. You've got to be at your best.”
The limousine rolled to a stop under a striped awning. Someone opened the door from the outside and before I could stop him, Pepe hopped out.
“Pepe!” I jumped out after him, afraid he would run into traffic. He was always doing this to me, getting me into all sorts of predicaments. If it hadn't been for him running into Rebecca Tyler's house, I wouldn't have gotten mixed up in her husband's murder. On the other hand, if Pepe hadn't antagonized a Great Dane in a parking lot, I wouldn't have met the handsome animal trainer Felix Navarro, who I reluctantly had to leave behind in Seattle.
I only had a few minutes to take in my surroundings: the blue sky full of puffy white clouds, the palm trees swaying above, the towering gray bulk of the old hotel, and on the steps of the hotel a phalanx of photographers all grouped around a pretty blond woman in a pink sundress.
It was Caprice Kennedy. Her hair was so blond and so teased it looked like cotton candy. Her nails and her lipstick matched the exact pink of her dress. She clutched a small white and brown Papillon with pink ribbons on its fluffy ears.
Pepe had gone charging into the midst of the photographers and now skidded to a halt right at Caprice's polished pink toenails.
“Caprice! Caprice!” He was squeaking. I had never heard him so excited.
She looked down at him and frowned. “Get that strange dog away from me!” she said, kicking at him with her sandaled foot.
Pepe's big brown eyes got even bigger.
“But Capriceâ” he said. “It is I, Pepe!”
“Shoo, dog!” said one of the photographers, flapping his hands at him.
“You're my little Princess,” Caprice cooed to her Papillon, holding it up to her lips and giving the dog a kiss, which incited a round of camera clicks. “Mommy won't let that ruffian get near you!”
Pepe came back to me, wobbling a little. His ears were down and his tail curled between his legs. He seemed to be in shock. I picked him up.
“Geri, she did not remember me!” he said. He sounded so pathetic I thought my heart would break.