Chihuahua Confidential

by Waverly Curtis

  “If you don’t mind me asking, Miss Kennedy, where have you been during the last hour or so?”

  “Me?” she said. “I went to the commissary and had a chocolate mocha and a biscotti.”

  “At the commissary,” said Scott. He pointed at Rodney, asking, “Did you notice that man there?”

  “No,” she said, giving Rodney a brief glance. “Can’t say I did. Who is he?”

  “I’m Rodney Klamp,” he said. “And I can’t say I saw you there, either.”

  “I’m hard to miss,” said Caprice.

  “No,” Pepe mumbled, then said something that sounded like, “She is easy to miss.”

  “What?” I asked him.

  All of a sudden, Pepe’s ears perked up and he turned his head sharply toward the backstage area. “I hear something!” he exclaimed.

  “I don’t hear anything,” I said.

  I half expected him to give me his old “I am a dog” line, but instead he said, “I will investigate!” and tore off backstage.

  “Pepe!” I shouted.

  “What’s with that dog? Where’s he going?” asked Scott.

  “I think he hears something,” I said, starting to go after him.

  “I don’t hear anything,” said Scott.

  “You’re not a dog,” I called back to him.

  “Hold up!” yelled Scott. “You can’t take off like this! I’m going with you.”

  We dashed up the stairs at the back of the dance floor and found ourselves in a large room with benches around the walls. A camera was positioned in one corner. There was an open door on the other end that led out into a long room lined with makeup tables. Pepe was already at the end of the line and had turned the corner. I followed him into a welter of equipment: ladders, open and closed; coils of cable on the floor; racks full of costumes. It was dark and hard to see. I picked my way through the thicket of equipment. I could hear Scott behind me. Ahead of me, just a flicker of white in the gloom, was Pepe, scratching at a door. There was a crack of light running along the edge of it. As I got closer, I could see it was a heavy door, made of metal, and it opened inward. Pepe couldn’t budge it, though he was trying with all his might.

  “What is it, Pepe?” I asked.

  “Through here!” he said, panting a little from the effort he was making. “The murderer left through this door!”

  “Hey! Come back here!” That was Scott behind me. “Stop! I order you to stop!”

  I found the handle of the door and tugged on it. Pepe darted through the opening as soon as it was wide enough for him, but it took all of my strength to get it open far enough for me to get through. The light outside was blinding after the darkness of the soundstage, and it took me a few seconds to realize what I was seeing. Pepe was standing in front of a tall young man with wild eyes and shaggy hair who was holding a gun in his hand.

  Chapter 4

  “Drop the gun!” Detective Scott was right behind me. He had his pistol out and trained on the assailant within a second. “I said drop the gun!”

  The guy seemed confused by this simple command. He looked down at the gun in his hand, looked up at Scott, and then extended the gun.

  I shuddered and turned, sure that Scott would simply blow him away.

  Instead he shouted, “This is your last chance! Drop it!”

  The guy froze. He glanced from side to side. Then he opened his fingers and the gun clattered to the ground.

  Scott was on him in a flash and pinned him up against the side of the building. With one hand, he pulled a cell phone out of his jacket pocket and yelled into it. “Officer needs assistance! Got a suspect in back of the soundstage!”

  “Hey!” The guy struggled. I wondered if I should help Scott. “You’re hurting me!”

  “He is not the perpetrator,” said Pepe.

  “What?”

  “He is not the perpetrator,” Pepe repeated.

  “How do you know?”

  “It is the smell,” Pepe said. “He does not have the scent of violence.”

  The suspect was still struggling. “Hey, man, what are you doing?” He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with a logo on it.

  “Put your hands behind your back!” Scott slammed him against the wall for emphasis.

  “Hey, man, I didn’t do anything!” the guy protested. He looked at me, his eyes pleading. “You’re witnessing this, right? Police brutality!”

  “You threatened him with a gun!” I said.

  “I found it on the ground!” the guy said.

  “Right!” That was Scott, in a grim voice, as he fitted the handcuffs around the guy’s wrists, first one and then the other. Click. Click.

  “He did find it on the ground,” Pepe said, going over and sniffing at the gun.

  “Get your dog away from there!” Scott ordered. “That’s evidence!”

  “He thinks I do not know what is evidence?” Pepe was offended. “The gun smells of the murderer and the asphalt. This man had just picked it up.”

  “Backup! I need backup!” That was Scott on the phone again.

  “What if what he says is true?” I asked. “What if the real murderer dropped it and this guy just picked it up?”

  “What if every kid from the Midwest who moved to L.A. became a star?” asked Scott with a snarl in his voice.

  “I’m serious,” I said.

  “So am I,” said Scott.

  “If he killed Nigel St. Nigel, he will have gunpowder residue and possibly some blowback from the shot at close range,” said Pepe, who watched a lot of CSI shows on TV.

  “That’s right,” I said. “If he killed Nigel St. Nigel, you’ll find gunpowder residue and some blowback.”

  “I don’t need your help to do my job,” Scott said. He was grunting with the effort of holding the man, who was still protesting, against the wall.

  Pepe was sniffing the ground in widening circles. Suddenly he darted around the corner.

  “Pepe! Come back!” I started to go after him.

  “Hey!” Scott’s attention was diverted by my attempted departure. His prisoner took advantage of that to move away from the wall. Scott grabbed him by the elbow and slammed him back against the wall.

  “Ow!”

  I saw blood running out of the man’s mouth. At that moment, two other police officers in blue uniforms pushed their way through the door. In a second, they were all on top of the suspect, pounding on his head.

  “Hey! He didn’t do anything!” I said.

  “Stop resisting arrest!” shouted one of the officers.

  “He’s not resisting arrest!”

  Suddenly they turned their attention to me. “Put your hands behind your back!”

  “What? I didn’t do anything!”

  “Turn around and put your hands behind your back!”

  In a matter of minutes, they had me in handcuffs and began patting me down. Pepe came running back and tried to rescue me by biting at their ankles, but I told him to stop and he did.

  “We can’t both go to jail!” I told him.

  “So true, Geri,” he said. “One of us must be on the outside to investigate.”

  Luckily, Rebecca showed up on the scene, and within a few minutes, she got it all sorted out. The police released me, and we all managed to get back to the hotel in time to watch the news.

  Dancing with Dogs was all over it. First the news about Nigel’s murder, which ended with the announcement that a suspect was in custody: Ted Messenger, the head of a group of animal activists. That was followed by coverage of the protests outside the gate to the studio lot, with the camera lingering on the shapely young women dressed as dogs. Caprice came in a poor third, with the shots of her and Princess outside the hotel.

  Rebecca was elated and ordered a magnum of champagne to be delivered to her bungalow. But I didn’t want to celebrate. The events of the day had worn me out, and I just wanted to have a glass of Chardonnay before going to bed. I headed for the hotel bar with Pepe. Apparently it is fine to bring your dog
to the bar at the Chateau Marmont. Stranger things were seen there, like the woman wearing a shimmery short dress made of beer can tabs and a guy with long gray hair in a ponytail, wearing a tartan kilt. Pepe ran up and down the bar, deftly dodging through glasses and plates.

  “Nice to see a Chihuahua in here,” the bartender said. “We used to get a lot of them, but now the designer dogs are all the rage.”

  “Yeah!” said the guy in the kilt who was sitting next to me. “Labradoodles. And Golden Doodles. Chorkies. And Pomerhuahuas.”

  “I wouldn’t mind making some Pomerhuahuas,” said Pepe, who was obviously thinking of his Pomeranian sweetheart.

  Pepe was a big hit at the bar. The patrons plied him with nibbles of their happy hour hors d’oeuvres (which he enjoyed) and their cocktails and draft beers (which he spurned).

  I, on the other hand, was enjoying my glass of Chardonnay when I felt a hand on my back. I turned around and there was the guy I had last seen in handcuffs. He looked much the worse for wear. One eye was puffed up and almost closed. His lip was also puffed up. His T-shirt, which read PETA, was splattered with dried blood from the cops’ beating on him. Despite that, I thought he was somewhat attractive.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I need to talk to you,” he said, sitting down on the stool next to me. He held out his hand. “I’m Ted Messenger.”

  “Oh!” I said. “I thought you were in jail.”

  “Posted bond. We’ve got a great lawyer on retainer.”

  “Why do you want to talk to me?”

  “You’re the only person who believed me when I said I had just found the gun.”

  “It wasn’t me,” I said. “My dog told me that.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “You talk to your dog?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he talks back?”

  “Yes.”

  “OK.”

  “What do you mean OK? No one believes me when I say my dog talks.”

  “I do!”

  “Really?” I took another look at him. He seemed to be sincere. His big brown eyes were almost as ernest as Pepe’s.

  “Of course. Dogs are sentient beings. We know that. So it makes sense they would be able to communicate with us. It’s just that most people don’t have the ability to listen to them.”

  “That is so true, amigo,” said Pepe, who had noticed my new companion and come sauntering down the bar.

  “Can you hear him?” I asked Ted, hopeful.

  “What?”

  “He just spoke. Did you hear that?”

  Ted shook his head. “I don’t have your abilities,” he said with a shrug. He must have noticed my disappointment. “Have you always been able to communicate with animals?”

  “Oh no,” I said. “Just this dog. He’s special.” I patted Pepe on the top of his velvety little head. “We’ve been working together ever since I got him,” I said. I dug around in my pocket and pulled out one of the cards I had made for me and Pepe. It read SULLIVAN AND SULLIVAN, INVESTIGATORS. “Here’s one of our cards.”

  Ted examined it. “You’re a private investigator?”

  “Sort of,” I said. “I’m a PI in training.”

  “Good enough,” he said. “I’ll pass this along to my lawyer. He’s probably going to want to talk to you to establish my alibi.”

  “What were you doing there anyway?” I asked.

  “Well, I was trying to figure out how to sneak onto the lot. And I got my chance when the police arrived. We were told to leave, but no one was watching the gate. So I slipped in and was looking for a back door to Soundstage Thirteen. I needed to figure out how to get access during the show.”

  “What were you going to do if you got on the soundstage?” I asked.

  “We go undercover and film,” he said. “We’re trying to document cases of animal abuse.”

  “What makes you think the producers would harm dogs?” I asked.

  “People will do a lot of crazy things for entertainment. Have you ever watched those shows where people have to face their fears, like stand in a room full of tarantulas, or those shows where the contestants get knocked into the water or mud while competing for prizes?”

  “No, I don’t watch those,” I said. “I don’t enjoy watching people get hurt.”

  “You should, Geri,” said Pepe. “It is muy chistoso to see the stupid tricks that people will do for money.”

  “Well, since reality TV shows often pander to the lowest common denominator,” said Ted, “we figured they might exploit the dogs. You know, make them do dangerous stunts, just to get laughs. We want to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  “Well, that sounds like a noble purpose,” I said. “If I can help, just let me know.”

  “That may happen sooner than you think,” Ted said with a wink.

  Chapter 5

  Bright and early the next morning, Pepe and I headed out for our first rehearsal with mixed feelings. The mix was divided like this: Pepe was supremely confident, and I was supremely anxious.

  A town car picked us up at the hotel and dropped us off in front of an old two-story building. The sign above the door read ACME BUILDING. Glass doors opened into a lobby. A colored piece of paper on the wall marked with an arrow indicated we should go upstairs for the Dancing with Dogs rehearsal.

  A flight of linoleum-covered stairs led up to the second floor. Pepe amazed me by taking the stairs with seemingly no effort. Each of the stairs was almost as tall as he was—they’d be about six feet tall if they were increased proportionately to my own height. How he did it, especially this early in the morning, was beyond me.

  “There you are!” It was Rebecca, dressed in a pair of black yoga pants and a black tank top, standing in a doorway just down the hall to our left. “You’re the last to arrive.” She consulted her clipboard. “I’ve assigned you to room two-oh-nine.” She pointed at the last door on the left side of the hall.

  It was an old building with creaky wooden floors. The doors had glass windows. As we went down the hall, I could look through them and see all the rooms were occupied. I caught glimpses of some of the other contestants on the show: a svelte young man with a silky Yorkie; a gray-haired woman with a border collie; a punky-looking young woman with a black standard poodle, perfectly groomed, complete with the pom-poms around his paws. We passed through successive waves of music: a rap song, something with a Latin beat, and a waltz. Pepe was busy sniffing along the bottom of every door.

  “You will be sorry!” he said to each unseen opponent. “You can never prepare sufficiently to defeat Pepe el Macho.” Halfway down the hall, his demeanor changed. “Ah, Siren Song! ¡Mi amor! You smell as sweet as roast beef.”

  “What?” It was hard to imagine roast beef as a seductive scent. Perhaps to a dog.

  I peered in the window and saw Rebecca’s little Pomeranian, Siren Song, dancing with a good-looking Hispanic man. It was Luis Montoya, formerly Rebecca’s gardener and currently her bodyguard. Or perhaps personal assistant. I wasn’t sure which.

  “Why is Luis dancing with Siren Song?” I asked Rebecca.

  “Well, I can’t dance with her!” Rebecca said. “Why do you think I brought him along?”

  Actually, I could think of many reasons to bring Luis along, but I didn’t want to admit them.

  “You are blushing, Geri,” Pepe pointed out.

  “Shut up!” I said.

  Rebecca looked miffed.

  “Not you!” I said. “I was talking to Pepe.”

  “He is making a lot of noise!” Rebecca said.

  Actually he was warbling a serenade to Siren Song. It was in Spanish, but I recognized a few words: mi amor and corazon. It seemed to be having an effect on Siren Song. She had been prancing around on her back feet, turning in circles, but as Pepe caroled his words of love, she began faltering and looking toward the door.

  “Come away, Pepe,” I said. “We have to dance!”

&nbs
p; “We’ll only be here for a few hours. We start filming at the soundstage right after lunch. Everybody needs to be up to speed.” Rebecca paused and glanced at her wristwatch.

  “So the police are finished with the crime scene?”

  “They promised me they’d be done by one p.m.”

  “And you got another judge?”

  “Oh yes, didn’t I tell you? Beverly Holywell.”

  “The English dog whisperer?” She was a legend in the field of animal training. Even before I adopted Pepe, I had watched some of her videos. It was miraculous, the way she soothed vicious animals and calmed neurotic ones with just a soft tone of voice and a sensible attitude.

  “What about Miranda Skarbos?” I asked. “Did you ever find her?”

  Rebecca frowned. “She claimed that her dog warned her not to go to the set. Said something bad was going to happen.”

  “Sound like she really is psychic,” I said.

  “It sounds like her dog is the one that is psychic,” said Pepe.

  Rebecca made a tsking sound. “I can’t believe you’d fall for that sort of nonsense, Geri. It’s all made up! They always have someone on the inside feeding them information.”

  “Well, if her inside source knew Nigel was going to be murdered, then that’s someone the police should interview,” I said.

  We had reached the last door. “Here you go! One of our choreographers couldn’t make it, but this guy showed up at the hotel this morning, and he seems to be qualified. I let him pick out the music. And by the way”—she checked her clipboard again—“your dance is the fox-trot.”

  Rebecca pulled open the door and practically pushed me and Pepe inside, then abruptly closed the door and left. A soft swing song was playing on an iPod set in a dock on the broad windowsill. Gray light filtered into the room through cloudy windows and lit up the scuffed wood floor and rippled off the bank of mirrors that lined one wall.

  A tall man stood in front of the mirrors, pacing back and forth in smooth, gliding steps. He had slicked-back dark hair and a muscled body that was well displayed in his tight bright orange polyester T-shirt and sprayed-on black jeans. It took me a minute to realize it was the PETA guy, Ted, whom I’d talked to at the hotel bar last night.