Howls of Praise For Dial C for Chihuahua And Pepe the Barking Detective
“Move over, Scooby-Doo, there’s a new dog in town! Dial C for Chihuahua is a fun and breezy read, with polished writing and charming characters, both human and canine. If you like a little Chihuahua with your mystery, former purse-dog Pepe is a perfect fit!”
—Jennie Bentley, author of the bestselling Do-It-Yourself Home Renovation mysteries and (as Jenna Bennett) the Cutthroat Business mysteries
“Readers will sit up and beg for more.”
—Sushi the Shih Tzu, canine star of the Trash ‘n’ Treasures mysteries by Barbara Allan
“Every dog has its day and there’ll be plenty of days for Geri Sullivan and Pepe in this fun twist on the typical PI partnership.”
—Simon Wood, author of Did Not Finish
“Waverly Curtis has created a delightful cast of human and canine characters. Pepe never loses his essential dogginess, even as he amazes gutsy Geri Sullivan, his partner in crime detection, with his past exploits and keen nose for detail. I look forward to Pepe’s next adventure!”
—Bernadette Pajer, author of A Spark of Death and Fatal Induction, the first two Professor Bradshaw Mysteries
Dial C for Chihuahua
Waverly Curtis
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Howls of Praise For Dial C for Chihuahua And Pepe the Barking Detective
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Acknowledgments
Teaser chapter
Copyright Page
To Shaw Fitzgerald,
who made this book possible
Chapter 1
Apparently the fad was over. All those actresses and models who thought a miniature dog stuffed into a Versace shoulder bag was so cute were now abandoning their furry “accessories” in record numbers. The Los Angeles shelters were so full of Chihuahuas they had to fly them to other parts of the country. My new pet was one of forty Chihuahuas who had been shipped to Seattle.
At the Humane Society, the Chihuahuas were all in one cage. Most were milling around or throwing themselves at the bars, barking. One dog sat by himself, away from the others. A ray of sunlight fell through the opening high in the cinder block wall and illuminated his white fur.
I knew as soon as I looked into his big, dark eyes that he was mine. He held his head high but he looked forlorn. It was a feeling I could totally understand.
My divorce had just become final. My ex had already bought a new three-bedroom house with his fiancée, while I was scraping by in a one-bedroom condo with his cat. To make things worse, the real estate market was crashing, and my career as a stager was in jeopardy. After suffering through a series of disastrous dates, I decided to adopt a dog. I was in need of some unconditional love.
My new pet was quiet during the drive home but he turned into a little white tornado when I set him down on the carpet inside my front door. He raced around the living room, sniffing around the edges of the furniture. Luckily I had locked Albert, the cat, into my bedroom before I went to pick up my new companion.
While he was exploring, I went into the kitchen to set up a water bowl and food dish for him. I opened a small can of Alpo Gourmet, hoping he’d like beef and vegetables with gravy. At the snick of the can opener, he scampered around the corner, his nails clicking across the tile floor, before I could even spoon the food into his dish.
Poor little guy, I thought, he must be terribly hungry. But instead of wolfing down the Alpo, he paused in front of his dish and just stared at it.
Maybe he didn’t like beef and gravy. Maybe he didn’t like vegetables. But I’d been in a hurry to get to the Humane Society before they closed and had just picked up the first can of dog food I saw at Pete’s Market. Maybe I should have bought an assortment of flavors.
I was about to tell my new companion that I’d get him a flavor he liked, when he looked up at me and said, “Muchas gracias.”
“De nada,” I replied as he began gobbling up the food like he hadn’t eaten for a week.
Wait a minute . . . he couldn’t have spoken to me. And in Spanish, no less. I’d been alone too long. That was it. I was under a lot of stress. I was late with my homeowner’s dues and late with my mortgage payments. I had started looking for work on Craigslist, but so far I wasn’t making much progress. Thirty resumes out, but only one interview. That interview was with the owner of a private detective agency. Jimmy Gerrard had a sleazy appearance, a shabby office, and a weird way of talking about himself in the third person. Still, I was desperate and had tried to convince him I would make a good investigator. I have an eye for detail, I’m a good judge of character, and I speak a little Spanish.
The dog had emptied his food bowl and was licking his lips with his long pink tongue. He looked out toward the living room. “Tu casa es hermosa, muy hermosa.”
“What?” I agreed that my home was pretty, but I didn’t expect to hear it from him.
“Tu casa es mi casa,” he said approvingly. He got it backwards, but I got the point: he felt at home.
He trotted into the living room and started looking around, more slowly this time. I poured myself a glass of Chardonnay and followed him. He seemed to like what he saw, his head bobbing up and down as he poked his nose into the corners. I sank down on my chocolate brown sofa and set my wineglass on the end table. Before I knew it, I had a Chihuahua in my lap. He proceeded to give my crotch a series of vigorous sniffs.
“Stop that,” I scolded.
“I am a dog,” he said. “What can I do?”
I was about to shoo him away, when he lay down in my lap and curled up, snug as a kitten. He was so soft and cuddly, his short fur like warm velvet. His long ears were shell pink where the light shone through them.
I mused aloud, “What shall we call you?”
“My name is Pepe,” he answered in Spanish.
“Pepe?”
“Sí.” He got off my lap and stood on the couch beside me, his huge brown eyes looking directly into mine. “And your name, senorita?” he continued, still speaking Spanish. “How are you called?”
“I’m Geri Sullivan,” I told him.
“Bueno,” he said, with a wagging tail. “I am now, with great pride, Pepe Sullivan.”
I took another sip of my wine. This was too much.
Pepe looked m
e up and down. “You are muy bonita, Geri!”
I blinked. “Really?” It had been a long time since anyone had complimented me on my appearance.
“Sí! Your dark, curly hair gleams like the wing of a raven. Your lashes are as long and thick as a camel’s. And your curves are as sultry as the Yucatan.”
“Pepe,” I said, “you are quite the flatterer.” Although I was still pondering the comparison to a camel. Was that a compliment?
“I do not flatter,” he said. “I speak only the truth. I can recognize a hot mama when I see one.”
“Well, thank you.” I said. They say dogs are man’s best friend, but this one was definitely woman’s best friend. He made me feel way better than any of the losers I had dated since the divorce.
“Geri,” Pepe asked, “have you any other dogs?”
“No, I don’t.” I said. For some reason, I was reluctant to tell him about Albert. Just as I was reluctant to let Albert know about the dog.
“Buenísimo!” He nodded approvingly. “That makes me el jefe.”
I didn’t think Albert would agree with that and was about to tell him so, when my cell phone rang. I got up and fished it out of my brown leather purse.
I expected it to be my best friend and business partner, Brad. I had promised to stop by his shop to show him my new pet. So I was shocked when the caller introduced himself as Jimmy Gerrard, the owner of the Gerrard Agency.
“Jimmy G. has good news!” he said. “You’re hired.”
It had been three weeks since the interview. I had long since given up hope that he would hire me. So it took me a moment to recover. “Great! When do I start?”
“Right now!”
“What do you mean right now?”
“Jimmy G. means what he says. Right now. We’ve got a case!”
“OK,” I said. I really wanted to spend my time getting the dog settled but I couldn’t afford to pass up this opportunity. “Do you want me to meet you at the office?”
“You’re on your own for this one,” he said. “Jimmy G. is in Portland. On another case. Tailing a suspect. But we got a call from a woman who lives on Capitol Hill. Her husband is missing, and Jimmy G. needs someone to get over there to interview her. She’s expecting you. Told her you could be there by 4 PM.”
I looked at the clock. It was 3:30. “But I’ve never done this before,” I said. “I have no idea what to do—”
He cut me off. “You’ll be fine. Find out what she wants. Take some shorthand.” I wanted to tell him shorthand went out in the fifties, but he kept on going. “We can go over your notes when Jimmy G. returns.”
Pepe was still standing on the sofa, listening to me as I spoke on the phone. After I hung up, I turned to him and said, “That was good news, Pepe. I’ve got a job. I’m a private investigator, and I’m going out to interview a client.” It seemed OK to brag a little, especially to a dog.
“I will go with you,” he said.
“No, you have to stay here,” I said as I slid my cell phone back into my purse.
“Por favor?”
I shook my head. “I’m not going to blow this chance just because I’m hallucinating a talking dog. You are a figment of my imagination.”
“I am no figment,” Pepe told me. “I am flesh and fur and blood. Am I not standing here before you?”
“Yes, but—”
“Oh, so you bring me home only to deny me.” He turned away and walked to the other end of the couch, where he stopped, his head hanging low. “I am offended.”
Poor guy. I went over and stroked his smooth back. “Pepe,” I said, “I’m sorry. But it could be dangerous.” I didn’t really think so, but it made my life seem more glamorous. Although I wasn’t sure why I was trying to impress my dog. But don’t we all want to impress our dogs?
Pepe perked right up. “Dangerous, eh? I could be of help.”
“You’re just a little Chihuahua.”
“I am full of machismo.”
I smiled. “That’s all well and good, but—”
“Trouble is my middle name,” he told me. “Do you know that I have faced the bulls in Mexico City?”
“No.”
“Sí.” He paused. “Well, truth be told, I only by accident fell into the bull ring—but I dodged el toro better than the matador. The entire crowd cheered for me.”
“Really?”
“Sí. Now can I go with you?”
“No, Pepe. You have to stay here.” I headed for the door. But I hadn’t gone more than a few steps, when Pepe scampered after me.
“I have also worked as a search and rescue dog in Mexico City.”
“You?”
“It takes a small dog to search small spaces after an earthquake. Tight places, dark places, dangerous spaces. But I am very brave.”
“That’s fine, but—”
“So now can I go?”
“I’m sorry,” I told him. “I’ll be right back. I’ll only be gone about an hour.”
He planted himself in front of the door.
“Additionally,” he said, “I have worked with the federal authorities in the battle against the Mexican drug lords.”
“Cut it out, Pepe. How could you have done all that? How old are you anyway?”
“Old enough to have done these things, and many more,” he said.
I shook my head.
“You doubt me? I will show you. I have a good nose.”
He headed for the living room and went straight to the black lacquered Chinese cabinet underneath my TV. I followed him.
“Here,” he said, standing on his hind legs and scratching at the dangling gold tassel on the cabinet doors with his tiny pink paws. “Drugs.”
I was stunned. “There aren’t any drugs in there.”
“No?” He sniffed at the drawer, his nose quivering. “I beg to differ. Sí. It is marijuana for certain.”
“Oh, all right. But it isn’t mine.”
“Whatever.”
“Really. Jeff must have been left it behind—”
“So,” Pepe interrupted, “I have proven myself. Now you must take me along.”
“Fine, fine,” I said. “I give up. I’ll go get the leash.”
“No leash.”
“There’s a leash law, Pepe, we—”
“How can I protect you if I am all tied up?” he asked. “Do not worry. I promise to walk only at your side. To heel, as it is called.”
“OK, OK,” I said. “But we have to go right now or we’ll be late.”
“Sí. Vámonos,” he said, leading the way to the door. “But I have to do one thing before we get into the car.”
“What’s that?” I said, as we went outside.
“I need to mark my territory.”
Chapter 2
A cold, wet breeze was blowing from the south as we approached my green Toyota sedan, which was parked on the street. The day, like most April days in Seattle, had been fickle: rain showers alternating with sun breaks. But now a huge, black cloud hovered over the gray waters of nearby Lake Union, promising to fulfill the weatherman’s prediction of a cold and stormy night.
“Are you sure we are in Seattle?” Pepe asked, as he sniffed at a dozen different spots on the grass of the parking strip. “It feels more like Nome, Alaska,” he added with an extended shiver.
“I suppose I should get you a rain coat,” I told him, fishing my car keys out of my purse. It was one of the things I was anticipating with pleasure. Chihuahuas look so cute when they are dressed up.
“No.” His tone was authoritative.
“Why not?”
“Real dogs do not wear coats.” With that, still shivering, he went to my car’s rear, curbside tire, lifted his hind leg and peed all over the hubcap.
“Pepe! Stop that!”
“I had to mark my territory,” he said, walking up to me.
“Fine,” I said. “But you didn’t have to do it on my tire.”
“It is the very best place, Geri.”
“Why is that?”
“It is a little trick I picked up from my cousin, Chico,” he explained. “If you park your car near our hacienda, all the senoritas in the neighborhood will soon know that I live here. But your car, it also gets around—this means that senoritas all over town will know of Pepe el Macho. It is simple.”
I couldn’t argue with his logic, but I told him, “Don’t do it again.”
“If it makes you unhappy, I will not do it anymore. I solemnly promise.” He said this with an overblown sincerity that made me nervous. “Now can we get in the car already?” he asked, shivering mightily. “I am freezing my tail off.”
I opened the rear passenger door for him, but he didn’t budge.
“I ride only in the front,” he said.
I didn’t have time to argue with him.
I closed the rear door and opened the front one. “OK, you win. Just get in,” I told him, then remembered how short he was. “Here,” I added, bending down, “I’ll help you.”
“I can do it myself.” With a mighty leap he launched himself from the pavement to the floorboard of the car, and from there another jump took him to the passenger seat.
I got in and started the engine. As I put on my seatbelt, I looked over at my canine passenger and had to say that he looked quite handsome. He sat up straight, his head lifted, though I doubted he could see over the dashboard.
“Well,” I asked him. “Ready to go?”
“Sí,” he answered. “But there is just one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Crack open my window a bit, por favor,” he said. “I get carsick.”
The woman I was supposed to interview, Rebecca Tyler, lived on Fourteenth Avenue East, a street also known as Millionaire’s Row, because it’s lined with huge, turn-of-the-century mansions built by Seattle’s early merchants and timber barons. It was a wide, stately street, lined with tall elms and horse chestnut trees. The houses were set back behind manicured lawns and wrought-iron fences, all well preserved in styles of the past: Southern colonial, Tudor revival, neoclassical. The people who built them had big money back then; the people living in them now had big money today.
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