The Silence of the Chihuahuas (10 page)

“Unless,” said Mrs. Snelson, “he's in cahoots with the management.”

I nodded, secretly thinking she really was going batty. How to reassure her that no one could get into her apartment?

Pepe was still over by the door lifting his little paws high in an exaggerated movement. Then he sat down and licked the little pink pads of his feet.

“What's he doing?” Mrs. Snelson asked, watching this pantomime.

“Aha!” I said. “Thanks, Pepe!” I turned to Mrs. Snelson. “It's a trick we learned from watching old detective shows on TV.”

‘What is it?” she asked. I could see she was getting into the idea of catching the perpetrator in the act. She looked all around. “But keep your voice down!”

“We're going to lay a trap,” I said, whispering. “We just need some flour.”

“I have that!” she said, springing up from her seat and going over to the cupboard where she pointed at a full bag of all-purpose whole wheat flour on one of the shelves.

“Perfect!” I said, motioning her back over to the table. Pepe crept close to us. “Tonight, when you go to bed, sprinkle some in front of the door.” I looked at the garden. “You should also sprinkle it in front of the sliding window to the patio.”

Mrs. Snelson's eyes lit up.

“And in the morning, you'll be able to see if anyone has crossed the threshold.”

“We might even be able to get a shoe print!” whispered Mrs. Snelson fiercely. “Then all I have to do is compare it to the shoes of the men who live here!”

“Yes!” I said, giving her a high five. Only she didn't seem to realize what that was. She just frowned at the sight of my raised hand. So I dropped it in my lap.

“Excellent work!” Mrs. Snelson said. “I'm very happy with the way your dog thinks!” She patted Pepe on the head. He looked longingly at the cookie jar. “You and your cute companion. I think you both deserve a treat.”

She went over to the cookie jar and brought out two freshly baked enormous snickerdoodles. She put Pepe's on the linoleum floor and he gobbled it down in a minute. I dunked mine into my cup of coffee and finished it off almost as quickly.

We went back out the way we had come, exiting through the sliding door and admiring the two gnomes. Mrs. Snelson had separated them, putting the female gnome in the corner near the door, and the male gnome at the edge of the property peering in. We stood for a moment on the patio, looking out across the green lawn. Bruiser was still lying in the dirt, gazing up at us.

“I see Bruiser still lives across the street!” I said.

“Yes,” she said sharply. “The animal control officers gave the dog back to his owner. I can't imagine why. The poor thing is out there day and night, chained to that tree, even in the rain.”

“At least he isn't running loose in the neighborhood,” I said.

“Yes, but I almost wish he was,” said Mrs. Snelson. “That is no kind of life, even for a dog.”

It was still early when we left the Gladstone and I thought I should take advantage of my freedom to go check in with Jay. After all, at any moment, Forest Glen might call me—I was still hoping it would be
before
the wedding—and I'd have to dash over there and check myself in.

I got onto Highway 99 and headed south. Where the highway hit downtown, at the sign of the Pink Elephant car wash, I took a right, heading to Queen Anne. In a neighborhood full of fabulous houses, Jay and Brad's house was the most original: the outside painted purple with lime green trim. Topiary trees lined the walk and a fantastic juniper dragon sprawled across the front lawn.

I parked my little green Toyota on the street and hurried up the front walk. The doorbell chimed inside, a sonorous tone, like a gong.

A few minutes later, the heavy door swung open. Jay stood in the doorway, frowning at the sight of me and Pepe on his doorstep.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I wanted to find out if you had heard from Brad,” I said.

“No!” He almost snapped at me. “You're supposed to be finding him.” He lowered his voice to a whisper and looked over his shoulder. “Before the police do.”

“Have you reported him missing to the police?” I asked.

“Yes, he has,” said a familiar voice, and I saw Detective Sanders come into the hall from one of the interior rooms. “Look who's here!” he said, directing his voice toward the occupant of the room. And his partner, Larson, appeared in the doorway.

“Just who we wanted to see,” Larson said. He waved me and Pepe into the room. Pepe growled at him as he went by and I saw Detective Sanders flinch. They were meeting in the room that Jay and Brad called the bird salon. Brad had done it up with framed Audubon prints all over the blue-flowered walls, blue and white curtains imprinted with a pheasant motif and, with what I thought was a rather macabre sense of humor, an oil painting over the gilded fireplace which displayed a brace of dead pheasants. A huge gold cage in the corner of the room contained a bevy of little finches whose soft cheeping filled the room.

Pepe went over and studied them with the look of a scholar.

“If only those birds could speak,” I said to him. I know it seems absurd, but Pepe actually had a conversation with a cat once. So it seemed possible he could talk to finches.

“Sit down, Miss Sullivan,” said Detective Larson. He was all business.

“I'm on my way—”

“This will only take a few minutes. We want to know what you've found out about Brad's whereabouts.”

“Yes, I want to know too,” said Jay. He looked at the policemen nervously, “Since I'm paying you to find him.”

“I haven't found Brad, if that's what you want to know,” I said.

“But,” said Sanders, who had remained standing near the doorway with his arms crossed as if to prevent me from leaving, “you have learned something.”

“Well, of course I have,” I said, goaded into admitting something I shouldn't have by Jay's lack of confidence in me.

Pepe gave a sharp bark.

“Out with it!” said Larson.

“Yes, please tell me what you learned,” pleaded Jay.

Pepe gave another bark. I knew what he was trying to tell me. He had said it often before. “A good detective does not reveal information unless he receives information in return.”

“You already know this,” I said. “Mrs. Fairchild owed Brad a lot of money and he needed it to pay rent. He was falling behind.”

“Yes, we've talked to the landlord,” said Sanders.

“Then you know that Brad told him he was bringing over the full amount he owed,” I said.

The two detectives looked at each other.

“When was this?” Jay asked in anguish.

“I believe it was Tuesday,” I said.

“The day Mrs. Fairchild was killed,” intoned Larson.

“What? What are you talking about?” Jay looked alarmed.

I looked at the detectives and they looked at me.

Finally Sanders spoke up: “We're working a homicide case. Brad's name came up in connection with it since he was working for the woman, a Mrs. Fairchild.”

“So you're not following up on a missing persons case?” asked Jay.

“It seems likely there's a connection between the murder and your partner's disappearance,” said Sanders.

“What do you mean?” asked Jay.

“We just found his car. It was parked about five blocks away from the murder scene.”

“You did?” That was me.

“Yes, in a parking lot at Volunteer Park.” That used to be a cruising spot for gay men. It still was a place where someone might meet for a brief encounter. “Do you have any idea how it got there?”

I saw Jay's face cloud over. Again, he was considering the possibility that Brad was out screwing around.

“Maybe he wanted to visit the Conservatory. Or the Asian Art Museum—Brad is a big fan of Japanese art.”

“Yeah. We thought of that,” said Larson with a sarcastic tone in his voice. “But that doesn't explain the blood on the steering wheel. Or the bloody hammer on the floorboard.”

“Whose blood?” I asked.

“Good question,” said Sanders, giving me a sharp look. “It will be a few days before we get it tested.”

“It puts him in the vicinity at the time of the murder,” said Larson. “And in possession of the murder weapon. And now that we know he was trying to collect money for rent, it gives him a motive.”

“You think he killed her?” asked Jay in a voice full of anguish.

“Maybe he finally lost it. The old woman was a piece of work,” said Sanders. “We've talked to some of the contractors who were working on the kitchen. Apparently she never paid any of them. Several of them had to file suit to get anything out of her.”

“So Brad could have done that too,” I said.

“But he was desperate.” That was Larson. “He needed the money right then.”

“He already had most of the money he needed for the rent,” I said.

“And how do you know that?”

“I know another one of his clients. She had just paid him on that morning.”

Sanders flipped open his notebook. “We need to know the name of this client.”

“I'm not sure—” I started to say, but Jay interrupted.

“Geri, if you know something that will help them find Brad, you need to tell them.”

“But what if—”

“What if he actually killed Mrs. Fairchild?” Sanders was quick to jump on that.

“That's impossible!” said Jay. “You don't know my Bradley. He could never hurt a living thing. He carries spiders out of the house. And he hates conflict.”

“So you two never fight?” asked Sanders.

“When we do,” Jay said, “I'm the one who blows up. Brad is more likely to give me the silent treatment.”

I looked at Pepe. Maybe that's what was going on. He was punishing me for something.

Jay went on. “He learned it from his mother. She's really good at guilt.”

“So he has mother issues,” said Larson. “Maybe he took out his rage at his own mother on Mrs. Fairchild.”

Jay moaned. “I don't believe it.”

“Of course he didn't kill her,” I snapped at Sanders. “Don't listen to them!” I told Jay. “There's some logical explanation and I will find it. I promise you that.”

But meanwhile I did give Rebecca's name to the detectives, at the same time warning them that she was going to be extremely busy this weekend as she was filming a new reality TV show called
Pet Intervention
.

 

 

I headed home to change into my wedding attire although I wasn't really sure about what one should wear to the wedding of one's ex. Something sexy to make him regret tossing you aside, but nothing so sexy as to come across as desperate, especially given that I would be attending the wedding with Jimmy G.

I asked Pepe for help, laying out my choices on the couch. Pepe put his paw on a black-and-white print dress with a plunging neckline, a small waist and a full skirt. I liked the idea of black-and-white for a wedding. It would send a business-like message, as in, I'm here because I have to be, which is how I endured the weary years of working at the waste treatment center while married to Jeff.

I checked myself out in the mirror and liked what I saw. My dark hair was a cloud around my shoulders and the dress created the illusion of an hourglass figure.

“
¡Guapa chica!
” I thought I heard Pepe say. Was it possible he was speaking again?

“What did you say?” I asked him.

But he just stared at me, his brown eyes shining.

Before I left the house, I called Felix. I had been so wrapped up in my work that I forgot this was an important day for him. He didn't answer the phone, but I left a voice mail telling him that I hoped his day went well and just mentioning that I was on my way to my ex-husband's wedding in Bellevue. “I wish you could have gone with me,” I said. “But since you were busy, I asked Jimmy G to be my date.”

Pepe looked at me. I could practically hear him saying: “Not a good idea.”

“Probably not a good idea,” I added on my phone message.

 

 

The truth of that statement became absolutely clear when I arrived at the wedding venue, a country club at the edge of a golf course at the edge of Bellevue, and spied Jimmy G, leaning against the hood of his red Thunderbird in the parking lot, smoking a cigar. Normally Jimmy G likes to dress like a caricature of a Forties detective, with a fedora, suspenders, and houndstooth sports jackets. But he had really outdone himself for this occasion: he was wearing a red fedora with a foot-long pheasant feather stuck in the brim and a shiny grey, double-breasted, gabardine suit with wide shoulders and huge lapels that was a size too big for his lanky frame. The baggy pants were held up by his usual red suspenders.

“Hey, doll,” he said as I approached him with Pepe at my side. “You're pretty as a picture today.” He held out a red carnation that matched the one in his buttonhole. “Jimmy G got you a corsage.”

“For heaven's sake, boss!” I said. “This is a wedding. Not a prom!”

Jimmy G's expression fell. He's almost as easy to read as Pepe. His big brown eyes got sad and the edges of his moustache matched the downward curve of his mouth. “Sorry, doll,” he said, turning away. “Jimmy G's never been to a wedding.” He stuffed the red carnation into his pocket. “Or the prom,” he muttered.

“Hey! It's a thoughtful gesture,” I said, wanting to cheer him up. “I can find a place for it.”

His whole face brightened and he pulled the flower out. The spicy scent filled the air. “Here, let Jimmy G pin it on you!” He was aiming for the spot between my breasts, with a sharp pin raised in one hand and his eyes all bugging out.

“No way,” I said, grabbing the pin and the flower out of his hands. “I think I've got the perfect place for it.”

I bent down and tucked it into Pepe's harness. I didn't need to use the pin, just bent the flower's flexible stem through the loops at the top. The colors clashed, since the harness was turquoise. Maybe that's why Pepe didn't seem to like it, at all. He kept turning around to look at it. Or maybe he was trying to smell it.

“Tell me you don't like it, and I'll take it off,” I said, taunting him.

“Jimmy G doesn't like it,” said Jimmy G.

“Not you!” I said. “I'm trying to get Pepe to talk to me again.”

“The rat dog speaks?” asked Jimmy G as we headed toward the building. It was long and low, made of dark wood with lots of tinted glass windows. A flight of shallow steps led up to a bank of glass doors which were flanked by wicker baskets of white gladiolas and chrysanthemums.

Other people had been pouring into the building as we talked. Most of the women, both young and old, wore long elegant evening gowns that looked like they would be perfect for the red carpet at the Academy Awards, whereas the men were attired in tuxedos. Jimmy G and I would stand out like sore thumbs.

I almost turned around and ran. And probably that would have been the smart thing to do. But just as I contemplated it, my sister Cheryl came barreling out of the front door. She was wearing a hot pink strapless dress with a skirt that seemed to be made of torn toilet paper bits. The tight fit around the torso made her look flabby around the stomach and her breasts, squashed upward by the bodice, looked like they might spill over the top of the neckline. I suddenly felt OK about my outfit.

“Oh, thank God, you're here, Geri!” said Cheryl. Her breasts wobbled as she reached forward to embrace me. She hitched the dress up, tugging at the neckline with both hands, then glared at Jimmy G who was ogling her.

“Matron of honor dress,” she explained to me. “You should see the bridesmaids dresses! And who's this?” She gestured at Jimmy G.

“My boss, Jimmy G,” I said. “Jimmy G, this is my sister, Cheryl.”

“Honored, to be sure,” said Jimmy G with a stately bow. “Jimmy G wishes he had another favor to bestow, but as you see, G has already donated it to decorate the dog.”

Really, I could not believe Jimmy G's language. Where did he come off sounding all British and proper? And why did he point out Pepe to my sister who hates dogs?

“Geri, you can't bring your dog to a wedding,” Cheryl said.

“He could be the flower dog!” I said, pointing to his red carnation corsage.

“There's no such thing as a flower dog!” declared Cheryl.