Chihuahua Confidential

by Waverly Curtis

  “Since we have been working with our boss, Jimmy G,” he told me matter-of-factly. “Is the word not appropriate to the situation?”

  I couldn’t deny that the word fit, so I asked Jimmy G, “What are you going to do now?”

  “Going to find Jimmy G’s damn package,” he said. “That’s what!”

  “And that won’t be a problem?”

  “Not really. Jimmy G’s not working for a client. Just following up on a package sent to Jimmy G himself. The Jimmy G Detective Agency is not involved in anything else—officially, at least.”

  “The Jimmy G Detective Agency?” I asked. “I thought we were the Gerrard Detective Agency.”

  “Decided to change the name,” said my boss. “Put the main attraction front and center, which is me, Jimmy G.” He gave me a quizzical look. “Didn’t Jimmy G tell you?”

  “No, actually you didn’t.”

  “Well, consider yourself told. That reminds me.” He reached into his jacket’s inner pocket and pulled out a rubber-banded stack of business cards. “New business cards. Designed them myself.”

  I pulled one of the cards out and looked it over. It had THE JIMMY G DETECTIVE AGENCY across the top in bold, red letters. Then, in smaller letters, it read JIMMY GERRARD, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR.

  “Let me see,” Pepe told me. I pulled him up into my lap so he could look at the card. “Holy guacamole!” he said. “I like the smoking pistola on this new card.”

  A smoking pistol was indeed incorporated into the design. Printed beside it was what I took for our new motto: WE ALWAYS FIND THE SMOKING GUN!

  “Clever, huh?” said Jimmy G with an ear-to-ear grin. “Jimmy G wrote the slogan himself.”

  “Ask him, what if there is no gun used in a crime we are investigating?” said Pepe. “Would not this smoking gun logo then be inappropriate?”

  I relayed Pepe’s concern to my boss. He looked hurt.

  “Hey,” he said, “the smoking gun thing is just a metaphor. Or a simile. Hell, I can never tell those two apart. Anyhow, take a gander at the other names on the card.”

  I smiled when I saw my name: GERI SULLIVAN, ASSOCIATE. And right below that was PEPE SULLIVAN, ASSOCIATE.

  “You put Pepe’s name on the card?”

  “Do not complain, Geri,” Pepe told me. “I like it!”

  “Jimmy G put your dog’s name on it so it looks like we’ve got more troops in the field. The more the better when it comes to getting new clients.”

  “I see,” I told him. “So Pepe and I are associates ?”

  “Yeah. You like that word, associate? Pretty classy, huh?”

  I started to open my mouth to say that I’d rather have the term private investigator after my name, but Pepe stopped me short, saying, “Geri, do not complain. It is much better than Gal Friday, is it not?”

  I thought a moment, then said, “Yes,” which Jimmy G took for an answer to his own question.

  “Copacetic,” said my boss. “Now it’s time to get to work.” He got up from the table, straightened out his sport coat, and slapped his hands together. “Jimmy G is going on the hunt for that package! I need to know everything you know about the package.”

  I described it to him again. The shape, the duct tape, the weight, the way the address was written with a felt-tip pen on the brown wrapping paper.

  “And you didn’t see who delivered it?”

  I shook my head. “But you must have an idea or you wouldn’t have come down here,” I said.

  “It’s got to be Nacho,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Nacho?”

  “I told you, Geri,” said Pepe.

  “Guy Jimmy G knew in the first Gulf War. We called him Nacho because he was always eating Nacho Cheese Doritos.”

  “And you think he sent this package to you?” I asked. “What’s in it?”

  “Jimmy G cannot tell you that. Classified information.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Well, why don’t you just call this guy up and talk to him?”

  “Jimmy G cannot do that. Jimmy G and Nacho had a falling out a few years ago.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Again, Jimmy G cannot reveal that. Unsavory. Not a story for the ladies. But Jimmy G lost touch with Nacho as a result.”

  “Well, you are a PI, aren’t you?”

  Jimmy G nodded.

  “So find him!”

  Jimmy G laughed. One thing I could say about my boss, he was always good-tempered.

  “You’re right, doll! Jimmy G will go looking for Nacho! Most logical thing in the world. Don’t know why Jimmy G didn’t think of it.”

  Chapter 19

  Pepe and I took a taxi back to the hotel, while Jimmy G set off to find Nacho. As soon as we got out of the car, Pepe said, “I must talk to Siren Song. I am muy worried over the evil, dark foreboding sensed by the pet psychic.”

  “You were fine at dinner.”

  “Food is one thing—worry is another. It is best never to mix them,” he said. “I have finished eating, and I am now worried.”

  “Rebecca said Siren Song was fine.”

  “I must see her with my own eyes to be satisfied of that.”

  “But—”

  “Geri,” he interrupted. “If you love me, you will take me to her.”

  Of course we went to the cottage. Even before we got to the door, we could hear angry voices inside. One definitely belonged to Rebecca. No one responded to my knock. So I tried again. Still no response.

  “Allow me,” said Pepe, and he began scratching at the door and yipping and whining. To my surprise, this worked.

  Rebecca flung open the door. She clearly hadn’t expected to see me and Pepe. “What do you want?”

  “We wanted to check on Siren Song,” I said, although that sounded lame, even to me. Pepe went rushing past Rebecca and into the cottage. I could see Luis. He was sitting on the sofa in the living room. He looked dejected, whereas Rebecca just looked angry. Her face was flushed.

  “We’re not in the mood for visitors,” Rebecca said. “It’s been a very upsetting day. The management company is threatening to end the shoot. Just because there have been two murders on the set. How is that my fault?”

  “Yes, what could you do about that?” I agreed.

  “Something about insurance,” Rebecca went on. “And the police are no better. I told them that unless the set is released by one p.m. tomorrow, I’m going elsewhere. Not that there’s anyplace else we could go on such short notice.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll just get Pepe and we’ll leave.” I tried to edge around Rebecca, who was blocking the door. But just then, Pepe came running back.

  “The door to the bedroom is closed. But I cannot smell Siren Song,” he said. He was shaking as only an upset Chihuahua can shake.

  “Are you sure she’s OK?” I asked Rebecca.

  “She’s resting. She had a hard day. Your dog should not have outperformed her. It was demoralizing for her.”

  “I’ll talk to him about that,” I said. But I didn’t.

  When we got back to the room, Pepe was still worried about Siren Song, but he got distracted by one of his favorite telenovellas: Paraiso perdido . I turned on my laptop so I could check my e-mail. I didn’t really expect anything. My sister didn’t know I was out of town. She would have just lectured me, big sister style, if she found out I was flying to L.A. to appear in a reality TV show. My best friend, Brad, prefers to communicate via Facebook, so I logged into my Facebook account to check on him. To my surprise, a friend request popped up from Pepe Sullivan.

  “Pepe, have you been messing with my computer?”

  “Do you not want to be my friend?” he asked.

  “Pepe!” I didn’t know what to say. “How did you—”

  “You were asleep. I was bored.” He seemed quite happy with himself. “The keyboard is just the right size for my paws.” He held up one of his delicate little feet. “The mouse, however, was truculent.” He glared at it as if it really we
re a mouse. “I would like to snap its little spine in my sharp teeth.” He snapped his teeth and shook his head back and forth.

  “No! Do not do that!” I said, covering the black plastic mouse with my cupped hands. “You are not allowed to use my laptop, Pepe!”

  “Then how will I respond to my many friends?” he asked. I looked at his profile page. Employed by Sullivan and Sullivan Detective Agency. Attended Dog Obedience School (nine times). Lives in Seattle. And he had 191 friends. How is that possible? I have only 58 (mostly classmates from college and high school). I felt a pang of jealousy. Especially when I saw that he was friends with Caprice.

  “In addition, I can help you do research!” Pepe said. “I saw that you were looking at pictures of me and Caprice.”

  I felt a pang of guilt. Did he know how much he was worth to Caprice?

  “I am surprised you did not look for Nigel and his dog.”

  “I was just about to do that,” I said. Nothing worse than being scolded by your dog.

  “Let me know when you find something,” Pepe said, and turned back to the TV. The commercial was over and Corinna was back in the arms of the handsome UPS deliveryman. Little did she know that Hector was watching through the window.

  I typed in the words Nigel St. Nigel and dog and immediately got a million hits and fifty photos. Apparently Nigel’s dog was famous. She was a Chinese crested, one of those strange dogs that looks a bit like a shaved rat with a pompadour. In fact, she had won the title of the Ugliest Dog in the World a few years back.

  Pepe drew back with a start when I showed him the photo of the snaggletoothed beast with the crossed eyes and strange saggy gray skin.

  “¡Ay ay ay!!” he said. “What is that?”

  “A dog,” I replied. “The Ugliest Dog in the World, to be exact.”

  “If that is a dog, then it indeed deserves that title,” said Pepe.

  “And it’s Nigel St. Nigel’s dog.”

  “Really?” Pepe studied it intently. “I am surprised that such a creature smells just like a dog but a dog it must be.”

  “Poor thing!” I said, looking at its floppy pouf of hair that flapped over its crossed eyes. “I wonder what happened to it.”

  “Her,” said Pepe. “The dog I smelled was female.”

  “You are right!” I said, studying the caption. “Her name is Kooky. I wonder if she ran off after Nigel was killed?”

  “No, the scent was older than that,” said Pepe. “She had been gone for at least two days before Nigel was killed.”

  “Perhaps she was in the house,” I pointed out. “Or at the vet. Or in a kennel.”

  Pepe shook his head. “I think there is perhaps a connection between her disappearance and Nigel’s murder,” said Pepe.

  “You think that because you think dogs are so valuable,” I began, then stopped, remembering the price on Pepe’s head.

  “You must admit this dog is valuable,” said Pepe. “The Ugliest Dog in the World is not a title I would want, but it is a title, after all.”

  “You have to wonder why Nigel wanted her,” I said. I clicked on one of the news stories about the contest and read about how Nigel had offered the owner of the dog over six figures for Kooky. The speculation was that he took a wicked pleasure in flaunting his ugly dog in a Hollywood culture that valued beauty. He was photographed everywhere with her, letting her lick his ears, cuddling with her in a chair, carrying her tucked in his arm at premieres. Or maybe he had been just as crazy in love with her as I am with Pepe.

  Chapter 20

  The phone barely began to ring in the morning, when Pepe knocked the receiver to the floor. He hopped down from the bed and spoke into it. “¿Bueno? Sí, gracias, we are awake.” Then he hopped back up on the bed and began licking my face. “That was our wake-up call, Geri.”

  “Great,” I said, reaching down and fumbling for the receiver. That reminded me that my cell phone was still missing. I wondered where it was. And where was Rodney?

  “Rise and shine, partner!” Pepe exhorted me. “It is breakfast time! A big bowl of beef stew would hit the spot.”

  “Oh, God . . . ,” I muttered, putting the phone back together.

  “On second thought,” Pepe told me. “I would prefer crispy corned beef hash with eggs from room service. And a side of bacon—also crispy, not limp!”

  I dragged myself up to a sitting position and leaned against the headboard. “Slow down. I’m still half asleep.”

  “A good breakfast will cure all ills,” he told me. “¡Andale! Call room service.”

  I picked up the phone, saying, “Well, you don’t seem to be worried about a thing anymore, do you?”

  “What?” Pepe asked, scratching behind his ear with a hind leg. “You mean about Siren Song?”

  “Yes,” I said, trying to rub the sleep out of my eyes.

  “I could worry about her,” he told me, “but I am also hungry. Let me share with you a pearl of wisdom that I learned from a wise old dog high atop a mountain in the Sierra Madre: ‘Worry does not produce food. But eating can ease worry. Ergo: if in doubt, always eat.’ That is the perro’s mantra.”

  I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by telling him it sounded like a false syllogism. Instead, I just said, “Fine. I’ll call room service. It’s probably better to eat now than later. We wouldn’t want to be dancing on a full stomach.”

  “I beg to differ,” said Pepe.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It is always better to do anything on a full stomach.”

  I called room service, then dragged myself out of bed and headed for the shower. I hadn’t gone ten feet when Pepe rushed past me and started jumping up and down at the door to our room.

  “Take me outside, pronto!” he yelled. “I need to pee!” It was one of the hassles of having a dog. I pulled on a pair of sweats and sandals and tiptoed down the stairs with Pepe.

  Pepe took his time, watering various plants that lined the pool. Luckily no one was poolside at 7:30 in the morning. It was a lovely day. The sky was blue and cloudless. If only my own life were so trouble-free.

  Just as Pepe was finishing up, I saw Rebecca and Luis leaving the bungalow with a strange woman with a big bouffant hairdo. She was carrying a plastic dog kennel. I wondered who she was. Perhaps a new choreographer. Perhaps they had been rehearsing during the night, giving Siren Song an unfair advantage for tonight’s performance. I couldn’t really object. It was Rebecca’s show, and if she wanted her dog to win, well, her dog could win. It would upset Pepe, but since he loved Siren Song, he couldn’t be too upset.

  Despite his hearty breakfast, Pepe practically danced up the steps to the rehearsal studio. I noticed there were more cameramen and lighting techs around than usual. Rebecca must be up to something new.

  I followed behind more slowly. It turned out that Pepe had an ulterior motive. He went racing down the hallway and dashed into the open door of one of the rehearsal rooms. From within came the sound of snarling and yapping, and a second later, Pepe came running back out.

  “Something is wrong!” he said. “Siren Song does not smell right!” He was shaking.

  I looked into the room and saw Luis and Rebecca and the strange blond woman with the bouffant hair. Siren Song had run up to them, but when she saw Pepe in the doorway, she started back toward him, growling.

  “What did you do?” I asked, picking him up and checking him for injuries. He seemed fine.

  “Nada,” he said. “I just sniffed her butt and told her that she smelled funny and she attacked me!”

  “Yes, women don’t like that,” I said with a chuckle.

  “What’s wrong with your dog?” Rebecca asked.

  “He thinks there’s something wrong with your dog. She smells funny.” I could even smell it: a faint odor of ammonia and perfume.

  “She just had a beauty treatment, that’s all!” said Rebecca. “Your dog could probably use some extra grooming.”

  Pepe shook his head expressively and sneezed. I kn
ew Pepe did not like perfume. Perhaps he was reacting to whatever product they had used on Siren Song.

  “Is your dog getting sick?” Rebecca asked. “Get him away from here and make sure the vet checks him out today.” She shooed us out of the room.

  “I am not sick,” said Pepe. “Just sick of lies!” He said it with all the drama of any telenovella actor.

  “You better get moving. You’re definitely going to need all the time you can get.” Rebecca practically pushed us down the hall and into a room. To my surprise, Ted was in there, setting up the music. He wore tailored black pants and a simple white linen shirt, open at the neck. Usually he just wore sweats and a T-shirt.

  “You look good!” I said. “But aren’t you a little overdressed?”

  “Got to look good for the waltz,” he said.

  “Where’s the little dog with the tags to tell us what dance to do?” I asked, looking around.

  “Oh, they’ll film that bit later. We’ve got a lot to cover today. We should get started!”

  I thought I knew a little bit about the waltz, as I remembered watching my parents waltz around the living room. But it turned out to be more complicated than I thought.

  We practiced without music; we practiced with music. Since Pepe and I could not dance together because of our height differential, Ted had us practice separately. Pepe got the rhythm right away and could turn in perfect little circles in a big circle around the room.

  About halfway through, a cameraman and a gaffer entered the room. They always liked to film a bit of the rehearsal.

  “It’s going to be tricky to make this look like a waltz,” Ted said, “because waltzing is all about dancing together. But maybe”—he got a mischievous gleam in his eye—“we’ll make this a story about a young woman who dances around her living room alone, imagining her perfect partner, never noticing her small dog who is dancing in perfect unison with her until she recognizes her true love has been in front of her all along.”

  Pepe sighed. “So romántico! A story worthy of a telenovella.”

  “I suppose,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic, but I didn’t like the implication that I couldn’t find a man.