The Silence of the Chihuahuas (9 page)

Our conversation was interrupted when the sushi arrived. Rebecca had ordered takeout from one of the fancier sushi restaurants in town, and the spread, set up on a mirrored sideboard, consisted of more than thirty different white boxes, each containing a pile of artfully created rolls. A stack of gold-rimmed plates materialized near the end of the sideboard along with a heap of gold-colored linen napkins, and the guests queued up to help themselves to the feast.

As the guests filled their plates, they wandered over and found seats on the settees. A happy buzz soon filled the room, the happy buzz of people talking and eating.

I was one of the last to get any food. I hung back still feeling irritated by my conversation with Caro and Felix. He should have defended me. Also, I was worried about Pepe, but I discovered I didn't have to worry about him when I finally made it to the buffet. He had positioned himself under the sideboard and was eagerly nibbling at any scraps that fell to the ground.

When I had filled my plate with some classic California rolls and a crispy salmon roll, there were few seats left in the room and I felt like that kid who is new at school, facing the daunting social jungle of the lunch room.

“Over here, Geri!” said a cheery voice, and I saw Caro in a group that included Felix, seated on a fancy sofa against the wall at the far end of the room. “We saved a place for you.”

Pepe followed me and I took that awkward middle seat on the sofa between Caro and Felix. I tried to balance my plate on my lap while Caro introduced me around. I didn't know the man sitting in the chair across from Felix—Caro said he was the director—but I did recognize the vividly dressed woman sitting across from me. Miranda Skarbos.

We met on the set of
Dancing with Dogs
. Miranda is a famous pet psychic and she enhances her image by dressing like a gypsy. Upon this occasion, she was wearing a full black skirt, embroidered with flowers in red, blue, and green, and a dusty pink top made all of ruffles that fluttered whenever she moved. Her dark black hair was pinned up into a messy bun high on her head.

After a few minutes of catching up, Miranda said, “Caro says that Pepe has a problem.”

Yes, he did have a problem. Besides not speaking, he had bad manners. He was tapping my leg with his paw while staring up at my plate. Begging. Of course, Fuzzy, who was at Felix's feet, was lying down with her head on her paws and her eyes closed, like a good dog.

I nodded. I couldn't speak since my mouth was burning. I had smeared a bit too much wasabi on my California roll.

“Well, all three of us pet experts are here.” Miranda declared, pointing her fork at Felix and Caro. “We can work on him for you. What's the problem?”

I tried again to explain that he had stopped talking, knowing how ridiculous that sounded and cringing at the amused expression on the face of the director.

“You know him best, Felix,” said Miranda. “What do you think is going on?”

Felix gulped. “It's a difficult situation,” he said. “Obviously Geri and her dog have been very close, so much so that she believes she can hear him speak.”

What? If my mouth hadn't been full, I would have protested. Instead I had the impulse to stab him with my fork. What a traitor!

“But something must have happened to disrupt that closeness.” He looked at me helplessly. “And now it's harder for her to read his signals.”

“But what do you suppose happened?” Caro asked.

I glared at Felix as he continued. “I know she's under a lot of stress right now. Her best friend has disappeared and her sister might or might not be in danger.”

“How can you say that?” I asked “Don't you believe that my sister called me?”

“Yes, I do,” said Felix, reaching out and patting my hand in a patronizing manner. “But we don't know if she's really in danger or if she's just imagining it. After all, she called from a psychiatric hospital.”

“So, let me get this straight,” said Caro. “You think Pepe might still be ‘talking' but Geri is too stressed out to hear him.”

“Something like that,” said Felix. “What's your explanation?”

I was so angry at Felix I didn't even hear the start of Caro's explanation.

“Well, I think Felix is on the right track,” she said. “With a problem like this I would want to know what changed in your life right before or at the same time that your dog stopped—” She hesitated. She couldn't quite bring herself to say that my dog was talking. “That you stopped being able to hear your dog.”

“Really,” I said. “There was nothing.” I glared at Felix. “All of those things Felix mentioned happened
after
he stopped talking.”

“So what happened before?” Caro asked in a gentle voice.

“Nothing,” I repeated. “We were just going along as normal. I mean, I had a fight with my boss. I couldn't trust him any more after our last case and I wasn't talking to him. And then my best friend, Brad, got mad at me and he stopped talking to me . . .” My voice trailed off.

“Oh, hon,” said Caro, “it sounds like you were experiencing a lack of communication in several important relationships.”

“Well, I suppose, but I don't see how . . . I mean why would Pepe make that worse by stopping talking?”

Pepe's big eyes looking up at me were so sad. Tears sprang into my own eyes.

“They are such sensitive creatures,” said Caro. “Often they mirror our feelings.”

“What am I supposed to do?” I asked.

Caro put her hand over mine. “I think if you work at connecting with some of these other people in your life, you might find that your dog is able to communicate with you again.”

“Let me speak for him!” declared Miranda Skarbos, in her deep and portentous voice.

“Yes, please do!” I said. It had to be better than what Felix and Caro were suggesting. That Pepe's stopping talking was all my fault.

Miranda set down her plate on the floor. Pepe rushed over to it and was disappointed to find it empty. He began licking it anyway. I just hoped there wasn't any wasabi on it. Although he likes spicy food, I wasn't sure he could handle that.

Miranda closed her eyes, and shook her head, like a dog shaking off water. Then she bowed her head and clasped her hands, almost as if she were praying.

“Ah!” she said, throwing back her head. “The dog, he is frightened. Some danger lurks near your home. In the bushes.”

I thought of the mysterious phone call and looked at Felix who looked at me with the same sort of surprise in his eyes that I felt.

“Another dog has claimed his territory.”

Oh, that was disappointing. No dog had claimed his territory. Unless she was referring to Fuzzy, but Pepe had never seemed fond of Felix. I didn't think he considered Felix his property, the way he considers me his property.

“Something evil has happened,” Miranda went on, quivering all over. “A horrid crime. The perpetrator acted viciously, fueled by greed and frustration. I believe it was a murder!” She opened her eyes with a start and looked directly at me.

“It's true,” I stammered. “Pepe and I found the body of an old lady who was killed in her kitchen.”

“You know who did this!” she said, pointing one long, bony finger at me. “And your dog knows as well. But he is keeping silent out of loyalty.”

“Why?” I asked. But I knew immediately. Pepe would be able to smell Brad's scent on the old lady. Had Brad really killed Mrs. Fairchild? I thought about what Rebecca had just shared with me. Could Brad have gone over there to collect the rest of the rent money he needed and gotten so angry when Mrs. Fairchild refused to pay him that he had hit her over the head?

“Bravo!” said Caro, clapping her hands.

The director nodded his head at Miranda. “Magnificent. That would certainly keep the viewers tuned in.”

I saw that Felix looked disappointed. His explanation was not dramatic enough to capture the ratings the show needed to succeed. I was secretly rather happy about that.

“So what do you recommend she do?” the director asked the assembled experts.

“She must solve the murder!” declared Miranda. “On her own! To prove that she deserves the loyalty of this magnificent creature!” She waved her hand at Pepe, who was staring up at her.

Caro repeated her suggestion that I mend the frayed relationships in my life.

“She needs to spend more time with her boyfriend, relaxing,” said Felix with a big smile. “Once she's happier and more relaxed, she'll be able to tune in to her best friend's messages.”

It seems unfair that after his advice Felix didn't come home with me. But he did have a good excuse. An early morning shoot, 7:00 a.m. to be exact. He walked me and Pepe to my car and told me that whenever we spend the night together, he never wants to leave, wants time to stand still so we can stay in bed forever, and that was why he couldn't spend the night with me. He was afraid 7:00 a.m. would come and go and he'd miss the shoot.

That was so romantic. And so was the kiss and the embrace that followed as we leaned up against my car. I think I almost persuaded him to change his mind. Until Pepe starting barking furiously from inside the car. I might point out that Fuzzy was standing quietly by Felix's side. Well, I did point that out when I got in the car with Pepe, but he didn't seem to care.

I don't know why he was so impatient to get home because all he did when we arrived was go straight into the living room and turn on the television. I have a couch potato for a dog.

The next morning, I was up early but not as early as Felix, and calling Mrs. Snelson to set up an appointment.

She picked up on the first ring. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Snelson,” I said. “This is Geri Sullivan, I—”

“I'm so glad you called,” she said rapid-fire, sounding tense. “It's getting worse—”

“What's getting worse?” I asked.

“The situation.” She was whispering into the phone.

“What situation?”

“I can't talk about it on the phone. I really need to talk to you in person.”

“I can come by this morning if it's urgent.” Jeff's wedding wasn't until 3 p.m., so I had plenty of time.

“It is! How soon can you get here?”

“Say about ten?”

“Yes. Ten is fine. And be sure to bring your dog.”

“My dog?” That was strange, I thought. Mrs. Snelson didn't like dogs.

“Yes. He was good luck last time. With any luck this time, he'll have somebody to bite.”

“Bite? Who?”

“I have no idea.” Her voice quavered. “That's why I need your help.”

“OK,” I told her. “I'll bring Pepe along.”

“Good. I'll see you soon.” And she hung up.

 

 

Mrs. Snelson lives at the Gladstone, a seven-story concrete building designed for housing seniors. She has one of the coveted ground floor apartments, coveted because those units have patios and a little bit of earth around the edges for planting. That had been the problem when we first met Mrs. Snelson: a roaming dog had been pooping in her flower beds. Pepe and I had been able to identify the culprit and get him locked up.

Parking is always difficult around the Gladstone because it's just a block away from Green Lake, one of Seattle's most beloved parks, especially for the mile of trail that circles the lake and is always thronged with walkers, dog-walkers, joggers, roller skaters, skate-boarders, and strollers. And even more crowded on a beautiful September Saturday. The air was cool but it wasn't raining. As sometimes happens at the end of September, summer seemed to have reappeared and everyone was out enjoying the sunshine.

I finally found parking several blocks away and Pepe and I strolled back toward the Gladstone, its imposing concrete silhouette hard to miss in this neighborhood of elegant single-family homes with their manicured lawns and carefully pruned shrubbery. All except one. As we came in sight of the Gladstone, we spotted the same scruffy rental house that we had noticed on our first visit: directly across the street from Mrs. Snelson's patio. And in the front yard was the dog we had sent away for his crimes: Bruiser.

He was an imposing beast, with a huge, thick head and a muscular frame. At first, I jumped at the sight of him, worried that he could snap up a tiny white Chihuahua in a single bite. But then I saw that he wore a heavy chain attached to his collar, the other end looped and padlocked around a tree in the front yard. His endless pacing had worn away the grass in a circle around the tree so he laid, with his head on his paws, at the edge of a circle of bare brown dirt. And as we went by, he merely lifted his massive head and sighed.

It was a heartbreaking sight.

Even Pepe, who likes to bark at bigger dogs to let them know he's
El Jefe
, did not utter a word. Of course, he hadn't been uttering a word for quite a while. And maybe he never had.

Mrs. Gladstone's apartment was easy to identify. The beds around her patio were full of dahlias and chrysanthemums in shades of red, yellow, and orange. And her vegetable patch held tall ears of corn and other vegetables, including what I took to be a monster Zucchini plant (the kind that took over our garden when I was a kid) that spread out in all directions like some green monster about to devour everything around it.

I figured since Mrs. Snelson was expecting us, I'd just knock at the sliding door on her patio. We couldn't see inside as the drapes were drawn, and when there was no response, I knocked again.

“Leave me alone!” It was Mrs. Snelson's voice, high and shrill on the other side of the drapes. “Go away!”

“Mrs. Snelson,” I said. “It's Geri Sullivan.”

Pepe barked.

“And Pepe Sullivan,” I added.

The drapes opened and there was Mrs. Snelson. She looked rather disheveled. She was still in her bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, her white hair sticking up all over her head.

“I'm so glad it's you,” she said, pulling the sliding glass door open. She had a butcher knife clutched in one hand. “He's been here again,” she whispered as we stepped into her apartment.

“Who?” I asked, thinking that this was so unlike her—she was a feisty old lady who had always been in command, not the nervous and scared type at all. Pepe took one look at the knife and darted past her into the dim interior.

“Some man, some damnable man!” said Mrs. Snelson. As soon as I stepped inside, she slammed the sliding door shut, then quickly pulled the drapes closed.

“Can you put the knife down?” I asked.

Mrs. Snelson looked embarrassed. “Oh, sure.” She went into the kitchen and laid it on the counter.

“What man?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”

“I'll show you,” she said. “It's in my bedroom.”

She turned and led the way into her bedroom. Pepe was there before us, his little front paws up on the side of the bed, his nose up in the air and quivering.

“There!” said Mrs. Snelson, pointing to her bed, which was made up perfectly: a green-and-pink-and-blue floral patterned comforter spread carefully across it, and the two perfectly fluffed pink pillows arranged just so at the head of the bed.

“What?” I asked, not seeing anything but the well-made bed.

“There!” She stalked up by the pillows and pointed at the nearest one. “There! Don't you see it?”

I did notice a small, dark shape laying on the pillow. Moving closer, I realized it was a foil-wrapped piece of chocolate, like you might find on your pillow after checking in to a fancy hotel.

“I do see it,” I told her. “How did that get there?”

“I left it so you could see,” she told me. Then she picked it up and threw it across the room, where it bounced off her dresser. “I was in the shower and I thought I heard something in the bedroom. When I came in to get my clothes, there it was! My bed already made up and that chocolate on my pillow! The same as yesterday.”

“That's so . . .” was all I could manage.

“And this time, there was a note, too,” she said.

“A note?”

“With the chocolate! Here, I'll show you.” She took a small piece of paper off of her nightstand and handed it to me. Written in a lovely, but slightly shaky longhand, it read:

“Goodness,” I said. “It seems you have a suitor.”

“I don't want a suitor! I gave up on men long ago. Men are pigs!”

“Why don't we go sit down somewhere? I need you to fill me in on everything that's been happening.”

“Yes,” she said, seeming a little calmer after venting. “Yes, let's do that.” I followed her into her dining area. “I'm sorry,” she said, “I'm usually not the type to fall apart like this. I haven't even put the coffee on yet, I was so upset. Sit down at the table, and I'll make us a pot.”

I took a seat at the Early American maple table. Pepe jumped up onto another chair and gave me a look. Not sure how to interpret it, I took my notebook out of my purse. As Mrs. Snelson finished with her coffeemaker and joined us at the table, I said, “Let's start from the beginning. How did all this begin?”

“With a garden gnome,” she replied, running her hands back through her hair.

“A garden gnome?”

“Yes. It appeared under my zucchini last week. Cute little thing, long red cap, white beard, blue coat—well, you know, a garden gnome.”

“I take it that it wasn't yours, right?”

“No. I thought one of my friends put it there, then didn't give it another thought until a female garden gnome appeared beside it the next morning.”

“I didn't know they made female garden gnomes.”

“Well, they do!” she snapped. “Anyway, I was sure my friends were playing tricks on me, but when I asked them, they said they didn't know anything about it.”

“I see.”

“The next day, there was a note attached to the male gnome. It was written, just like today's note, on a small note card.”

“What did it say?”

“It said: Roses are red, Violets are blue, I so love, sharing this garden with you.”

“Oh . . .”

“That's when I knew something was wrong. I don't know why some man would be after me. Considering they can have their pick of any of the women here. You know, there's ten women for every man here at the Gladstone.”

“I didn't know that,” I said.

“Men die younger than women,” she said matter-of-factly. She got up and went over to the coffeemaker which had clicked off. “And so most of the women here are widows. They're looking for another husband. They run after the men, fawn over them, flirt and . . .” Her voice trailed off. She took two mugs off a row of mugs hanging from hooks on the wall. “Well, the men get swelled heads about it, think they're hot stuff. “ She poured the coffee into the mugs. “Not me. I don't need a man any more. I'm better off without them. What is that saying about fish and bicycles?” she asked as she brought the full mugs over to the table.

“A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle,” I murmured.

“Exactly!” said Mrs. Snelson, setting the mugs down on the table. Mine was decorated with violets and said “Happy February Birthday.”

“Mrs. Snelson,” I asked, “why are we whispering?”

Mrs. Snelson leaned in. “For all I know, this stalker has planted a bug in my apartment and is listening to everything I do.” Her eyes gleamed.

Was she maybe just imagining things? Had she made her own bed and put the chocolate on her pillow and then forgotten it while in the shower? Mrs. Snelson seemed as sharp as a tack, but maybe she was in the early stages of dementia.

“Have you talked to the management? Have you called the police?”

“Well, no,” said Mrs. Snelson indignantly. “I'm not a helpless old lady. I intend to handle this myself.” She picked up the butcher knife from where it was lying on the counter and waved it in the air. “I just need your help identifying the perp.”

“What do you intend to do to the, um, perpetrator?” I asked.

“I intend to teach him a lesson!” she declared, a maniacal glint in her eyes. Maybe I really needed to help find this guy and warn him to stay away from Mrs. Snelson. I would be doing two people a favor.

“How do you think he's getting in?” I asked. Pepe jumped down from the chair and went over the front door. “Do you think he has a key?”

Pepe gave a sharp bark, evidently confirming my theory.

“I don't see how,” said Mrs. Snelson. “I had my lock changed after the first time it happened. I claimed that I dropped my key in the toilet and flushed it away!” She looked at me as if for approval.

I nodded. “Very clever!” I said.

“Of course, I had to pay the stupid fifty dollar fee for losing a key,” said Mrs. Snelson. “You would think they would figure that old people would lose their keys all the time but, no, they try to get money out of us any way they can.”

“Right,” I said, trying to steer the conversation back on track. “So, the, um, perpetrator could not have a key to your apartment . . .”