“He should be inside,” said Pepe. “And he needs more food. Crispy bacon would be good.”
“Sure next time I talk to him,” she said in a pinched voice. “But I don’t expect that will be any time soon. He dumped me to run off with some other chick a month ago and I haven’t heard from him since.”
“And he left his dog behind?” Pepe asked, shocked.
“Are you having trouble taking care of the dog?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I can’t do anything with him. He pulls too much for me to walk him. And if I let him loose, then those old biddies across the street complain and then the animal control comes and picks him up and puts him in the pound and I have to pay to get him out.” She paused. “But come to think of it, that might be a good idea. I can’t take care of him.”
“No, she cannot send him to perro prison!” said Pepe.
“Would you like someone to help you with the dog?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, my boyfriend is a dog trainer. He could teach you how to handle him so he doesn’t pull when you try to walk him. In fact, he’s working on a reality TV show. They’re looking for people who are having trouble with their dogs.”
“Really, you mean I could be on TV?” Her face brightened for the first time.
“It’s possible,” I said.
“I bet they pay really well.”
“Probably,” I agreed.
“Well, that would be awesome,” she said. For the first time, I could see how young she was. Maybe nineteen or twenty. “Give him my number,” she said. She started rattling off a string of numbers which reminded me I still didn’t have my cell phone back. I had to dig around in my purse to find a piece of paper and a pen. Turns out her name was Holly.
“They’re looking for someone to film right away,” I said.
“Hey, I’m not doing anything else,” she said, turning away. I got the impression she was going to run inside and start cleaning up.
“That was a brilliant idea, Geri!” said Pepe, as we were walking down the steps.
“Why, thank you!” I said, with surprise. My dog hardly ever praises me.
Bruiser whined softly as we went by.
“Do not fear,” Pepe said to him. “Your time in chains will soon be over.” As we headed across the street, he turned to me. “Bruiser says that Mrs Snelson has been feeding him crispy bacon. I hope she saves some for me.”
“I smell biscuits!” said Pepe, when Mrs. Snelson pulled open her sliding glass door to admit us. He followed his nose into her kitchen and up to the small, harvest-gold-colored oven.
Mrs. Snelson smiled. “He must smell the biscuits I’m baking,” she told me. She patted Pepe on the head. “Just be patient, pup.”
“Where fresh-baked biscuits are concerned,” Pepe said, “I am patience itself!”
She turned to me. “It’s almost like he answered me, isn’t it?”
“Sure is,” I said, thinking about how Mrs. Snelson hated Pepe when we met her on our first case, but now she thought the world of him. People could change.
She took a can of Pam out of the cupboard. “So, how do you like your eggs?” she asked, picking up a cast iron pan from the stove and spraying Pam into it.
“Don’t you want to show me the latest disturbance first?”
Still holding the heavy pan, Mrs. Snelson said, “I’d like to brain whoever did it with this!” She shook it in the air. “I was very upset when I first saw it, but now that you’re here, I feel much better.” She took a carton of eggs out of her small refrigerator. “You go in and take a look while I get breakfast ready. My father always said that once you’re properly fortified, no obstacle is too great. Remind me of how you like your eggs, dear?”
“Over easy,” I said. “But my dog likes his scrambled.”
“And I like my bacon extra crispy,” said Pepe.
“Pepe likes bacon too,” I said.
“Great,” she replied. “I make mine extra crispy.”
“That’s the way Pepe likes it,” I told her.
“Dog after my own heart,” she told me. “Crispy is the best.”
Pepe and I headed into the bedroom. The bed was indeed covered with rose petals. They were strewn across it, red and yellow and pink petals, hundreds of them. Must have taken several armfuls of roses. They actually looked very pretty against the green comforter on the bed.
I love roses. If I came home and Felix had done this for me, I think I would have quite liked it, especially if he was lying among them wearing only rose petals.
“And, look, Geri!” Pepe said. “Our trick with the flour worked. Do you see the footprints?”
Indeed, I did. They came into the room and danced all around the bed, overlapping each other so much it was hard to see a distinct print, especially since the carpet was beige and the flour was whole wheat.
We followed the trail back out to the front door. I opened it and looked out. The footsteps were much more distinct on the dark blue carpet in the hallway. They led away to the right.
“Breakfast’s ready!” Mrs. Snelson hollered.
Pepe didn’t have to be told twice. He raced toward the kitchen. I brought up the rear.
“Yum!” he said, looking at the small white china plate on the floor. Mrs. Snelson had centered the dish on a floral place mat and provided a matching china teacup full of water. Pepe’s plate held a crumbled biscuit, a pile of scrambled eggs, and four strips of crisp bacon cut into small pieces.
Mrs. Snelson was pouring a cup of coffee from her percolator into a mug with her name on it. That is, if her name was Gladys.
Pepe started crunching on the bacon and Mrs. Snelson waved me to a seat.
“I think we should follow the flour footprints first,” I said. “We should see where they lead before they disappear!”
“I suppose you’re right,” she said mournfully, looking at the food on her plate.
“It will only take a minute,” I said, hoping that was true.
“A real detective would eat first,” said Pepe. It came out a little mumbly because his mouth was full of biscuit.
“I don’t know if that’s true,” I said.
“It could indeed take a good deal longer,” said Mrs. Snelson, “but one must strike while the iron is hot. That’s what Gumshoe would say.”
“Gumshoe?”
“He’s the president of our mystery book group,” said Mrs. Snelson. “He fancies himself a bit of a detective.”
“Well, why didn’t you call him?” I asked, confused. “If you have a detective right here in the building.”
“He’s strictly an amateur,” said Mrs. Snelson. “Not like you two. Besides,” she blushed, “it would be embarrassing to admit the circumstances. And if he figured out who it was, well, he’d have a grudge against that person, and that wouldn’t do. We all have to live together. No, I want to take care of this on my own!” She set down her coffee mug and picked up a rolling pin instead.
“Then let’s go!” I said.
“Because we are the real detectives,” said Pepe, now happy to leave his food, although I noted he had polished off most of his bacon.
Pepe led the way to the front door. I opened it for him and we all tiptoed out into the hall.
“I wish we had some of those booties they wear in the crime shows,” said Mrs. Snelson with relish. “Then we could be sure not to contaminate the evidence.”
The shoe prints were actually pretty clear out in the hallway. One set, leading away to the right. A rather big shoe size, perhaps a ten or a twelve.
“Looks like a man’s ten,” said Mrs. Snelson, bending over and inspecting one of the prints.
Pepe sniffed the flour, then sneezed, and said, “It is all-purpose, whole wheat flour, General Mills to be specific.”
“How do you know that?” I asked him.
“I know my flour,” Pepe said.
“My husband wore a similar size,” Mrs. Snelson said.
“Really!” I said.
> “Yes, I worked for a baker in Guadalajara,” Pepe told me. “He made the best empanadas in town. He baked, and I was on rat patrol.”
“You’re kidding?” Here was yet another of his outrageous stories.
“I do not jest. It was serious business. I was so good at my job, they called me El Supremo!”
“Why would I joke about my husband’s shoe size?” Mrs. Snelson asked, confused.
“I guess you wouldn’t joke about that,” I said.
“Certainly not,” said Pepe. “The baker, Roberto, he was also a Nacho Libre wrestler. He was known as Doctor Muerte. While he wrestled by night, I wrestled the rats. I vanquished untold numbers in my bouts! We had the most rodent free bakery in Guadalajara.”
Pepe charged down the hall, keeping to the side of the footprints. Mrs. Snelson followed him, the rolling pin in her hand. I followed behind her. The footprints led to an elevator at the end of the hall.
“That’s the service elevator,” Mrs. Snelson told me. “Pretty sneaky,” she added. “The culprit evidently didn’t want to be seen taking the main elevators at the other end of the hall.”
We got in and pushed the button for the second floor. Pepe asked me to hold him. He’s not a big fan of elevators.
When the doors opened on the next floor, we were lucky—there were a few clear footprints in front of the elevator so we knew we were on the right floor— but the footprints became fainter and disappeared altogether about halfway down the hall.
“Do you know who lives in this hallway?” I asked Mrs. Snelson.
“Well, yes,” she said. “Louise is down at that end, and Edna has the door with the wreath of autumn leaves. She’s very crafty.” She turned a little pink. “But it’s unlikely to be either of them. Not that I have anything against that lifestyle. We all think that Alma and Grace on the third floor are a couple, if you know what I mean.”
“What about the men?” I asked, glad to know Mrs. Snelson was so open-minded but eager to get back to my cooling breakfast.
“Three,” said Mrs. Snelson with a frown. “Frank down there on the left, and Jim—he must be in 214, and then there’s Mort!” Her voice fell when she said his name.
“What’s wrong with Mort?” I asked.
“He’s a creep,” said Mrs. Snelson. “Always lurking around, eavesdropping, and making lascivious comments to all the women.”
“That sounds like the sort of person we’re looking for,” I said. I turned to Pepe, who was zig-zagging back and forth, his nose to the carpet. “Can you tell which apartment the feet entered?” I asked him.
“Si!” he said, with great delight. “This one!” And he stood and scratched on door 217.
“Well, we’ve found your secret admirer,” I said to Mrs. Snelson. I pounded on the apartment door. “We’ll just tell him to leave you alone.”
“Oh, no!” she said, covering her lips with her hand. “That can’t be right!”
“We take a stand against harassment of innocent old ladies who make excellent biscuits,” said Pepe, scratching at the door.
“No, please, it can’t be—” said Mrs. Snelson.
“I’m coming, I’m coming. Hold your damned horses,” said a voice from behind the door.
And then Door 217 swung open. Behind it was a man sitting in a wheelchair. An older man with a greasy comb-over of dark hair, dark bushy eyebrows, and saggy jowls. His skin was pasty and his lips a rubbery red.
“What’s this about?” he asked with a frown.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mort,” said Mrs. Snelson, hiding her rolling pin behind her back. “There’s been a terrible mistake.” She turned to me. “You can see that he couldn’t possibly have made the footprints!”
“But Geri, the bottoms of his shoes are covered with flour!” said Pepe. He was sniffing as well as he could at the soles of Mort’s feet, twisting around to get under the metal footrests of the wheelchair.
Mort kicked out at Pepe with one foot. “Get that dog away from me! Nasty little creatures. My ex-wife had one! Best day in my life when I got rid of both of them!”
“How did you get flour on the soles of your shoes?” I asked. I don’t like people who don’t like my dog.
“I don’t have to explain anything to you,” snapped Mort.
“We’re tracking down a fiendish criminal,” said Pepe.
“Those aren’t your shoes, are they?” I asked.
Mort flushed brick red.
“So what if they aren’t?”
“We’re tracking down someone who committed a crime in those shoes,” I said.
“Oh, really?” Mort licked his lips. “What kind of crime? Maybe a little public indecency?” He waggled his eyebrows. “I would like to get publicly indecent with you, Gladys!”
Mrs. Snelson moaned and turned away.
Doors opened down the hall. A woman with henna-dyed hair stuck her head out of one. A man out of another. “What’s going on?” the woman asked. “Do you need any help?” the man asked.
“Nothing to worry about, Louise,” said Mrs. Snelson. “Thanks for the offer, Frank, but my detectives have everything under control.”
“Detectives?” That was Mort. “They don’t look like detectives.”
“Where did you get those shoes?” I repeated.
Mort crossed his arms across his chest. “Not telling.”
“Fine, we’ll call the police,” I said, turning away.
“OK, OK, not so fast,” Mort said, wheeling out into the hall. “I found them in the hall this morning. Looked like my size so I picked ’em up. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“Of course not,” said Mrs. Snelson to Mort.
“Do you need help?” the man asked, coming out into the hall. “I do a little detecting myself.” He looked to be somewhere in his seventies. He had a full head of white hair, was trim for his age, and wore a brown Mr. Rogers-type cardigan sweater.
“It’s OK, Frank,” she said, turning away and heading down the hall. “Just a misunderstanding.”
“Geri,” said Pepe. “I smell roses.”
“Wait a minute,” I called out to her. “I think we need some help from this gentleman.”
He gave us a little bow. “Gumshoe Phillips, at your command,” he said.
Mrs. Snelson paused. “These are my detectives,” she said. “I hired them to find out who was bothering me.”
“Bothering you?” The man seemed shocked.
“Yes, someone has been leaving me gnomes, and chocolate, and roses.”
“Oh ho!” said Mort. “Someone has a secret admirer!”
“I wish you had come to me,” said Gumshoe. “I could have helped you figure it out.”
Pepe was sniffing around the bottoms of his pant legs. “¡Mire usted!” he said. “There is flour on the bottoms of his pant legs.”
“Are you the secret admirer?” I asked.
Gumshoe’s face turned as bright red as the red roses and without saying another word, he went scuttling back into his apartment.
“Gladys and Gumshoe sitting in a tree!” said Mort, chortling.
“Breathe a word of this to anyone,” said Mrs Snelson, turning on Mort, her face as pink as the pink roses, “and I’ll hit you over the head with this.” She took the rolling pin out from behind her back and waved it at him.
He back-pedaled into his apartment and slammed the door.
“Well, that was a nice surprise!” said Mrs. Snelson happily, practically singing as she poured some hot coffee from the percolator into my mug. She had polished off her eggs and biscuits quickly.
“You’re not upset?” I asked. “You were ready to brain the person with a frying pan!”
“That was before I realized it was Gumshoe,” she said cheerfully.
“Don’t you think it’s creepy that he sneaked into your apartment while you were sleeping?” I asked.
“It makes sense now that I know it’s Gumshoe,” she said. “He’s so shy. He can barely bring himself to talk to any of the ladies.
Not like those other lechers.”
“Like Mort.”
“Like Mort,” she said.
“The Secret of the Sneaky Stalker is solved,” said Pepe. “Now on to the Case of the Deadly Decorator.”
“Surely you’re not talking about Brad?” I asked him.
Mrs. Snelson just looked confused.
“I like the alliteration,” Pepe said.
“It sounds like a Nancy Drew novel,” I said.
“Those were a little after my time,” said Mrs. Snelson. “I liked the Blythe Girl series. They solved mysteries but not ones with dead bodies.”
“Well, unfortunately this one does have a dead body,” I said, drying my hands on the ruffled dish towel that hung from the sink.
“Well, I appreciate your taking the time for my little problem,” said Mrs. Snelson. “Tell your boss to send me an invoice.”
Most likely I would be sending the invoice, but I didn’t tell her that.
As we went out through the sliding glass door, I paused and looked across the street at the little run-down house and Bruiser who was still lying in the mud.
“I hear you’ve been feeding bacon to Bruiser,” I said.
Mrs. Snelson blushed. “I feel so sorry for him. It’s just not right, the way he’s neglected.”
“Ah, Bruiser has an amiga,” said Pepe.
“Have you thought of calling the animal control?” I asked.
“No!” said Pepe. “You cannot send him to perro prison!”
“It seems like a cruel thing to do,” said Mrs. Snelson. “A dog like him. Well, he probably won’t be adopted. There are so many of them in the shelters.” She was referring to the fact that Bruiser looked like a pit bull and people are reluctant to adopt them because of their reputation for violence.
“I wish I could do more for him,” she said, gazing across the street. I told her I had a plan and asked her if I could use her phone to call Felix. He answered right away and said he would pass the information along to Rebecca who was still searching for just the right dog.
Pepe’s Blog: The Linguistic Detective, C ’est Moi!
Obviously I did not like to leave without giving Bruiser some hope, so I promised him that we would be back and bring reinforcements. Geri chided me for barking at him. Despite the fact that I have learned to communicate in Spanish and English and French, she has only a few words of Canine.
The Silence of the Chihuahuas Page 16
