Dial C for Chihuahua

by Waverly Curtis

  Rosa came back in, silent in her pink sneakers, and bent down to scoop up the broken glass with a whisk broom and a dust pan.

  “David had the money I needed. He just didn’t want to give it to me!”

  “Why not?”

  “David told Stewart he thought the idea for the Dancing with Dogs show was stupid. And childish! And immature! But he was afraid to tell me.”

  “So he never intended to send you the money?”

  “No. There I was in L.A., telling everyone the money was about to arrive, and he was just putting me off. There was plenty of money in our account. He just didn’t want to give it to me.”

  Rosa finished scraping up the glass and left the room as silently as she came in.

  “So this is good news,” I said. “There is enough money for Dancing with Dogs.” I didn’t point out that if David had been planning to leave her, the timing of his death was awfully convenient. She would inherit everything. If he had divorced her, well, not so much.

  “Yes, but David had Stewart transfer our money into a secret offshore account. You see? He was trying to hide it from me. It’s obvious. It was because he was going to run off with his mistress!”

  She got up and paced around the room.

  “Did Stewart tell you anything about her?”

  “No, apparently David didn’t confide in him. Stewart just guessed that’s what was going on because David asked for his help hiding our assets.”

  “So how will Stewart find the money you need?”

  “I don’t know, but the man is a financial wizard. If anyone can come up with something, he can.”

  “Geri, ask her about the gold case!” Pepe said.

  “I have something that I think belongs to you,” I said. I set Pepe down and pulled the gold card case out of my pocket.

  Rebecca looked shocked. She almost dropped it. It was hard to tell if she was just surprised to see it or if she was angry. She flicked the clasp and sorted through the cards. (I had removed mine.) I could see she was puzzled by what she saw. (Perhaps David had kept them in a certain order.) She snapped it shut, then raised it to her nostrils and sniffed.

  “It smells awful,” she said. “Like it’s been in a cat box. Where did you find it?”

  “She has a good nose!” said Pepe with admiration.

  “Someone left it at my house. I think they were trying to frame me.”

  “Or perhaps you picked it up on the day you were here.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “It’s extremely valuable. It’s part of a set I gave David for our anniversary. A solid gold pen and the card case, both engraved with his initials. David always carried them with him.”

  “Was anything else missing?” I asked, ignoring her insult.

  “David’s BlackBerry. The police thought the murderer must have taken that because it contained David’s calendar and thus some clues as to his whereabouts. And the gold pen is still missing.”

  “But robbery doesn’t seem to be the motive?”

  “No, I mean, it could have been a botched robbery,” Rebecca said. “What other explanation could there be?”

  I could think of plenty. Maybe Rebecca had hired a hit man to kill her husband once she learned he was leaving her. Or perhaps she had come home early, found her husband with another woman, and killed him in a fit of rage. But then, who was the other woman?

  “Did you ask her about pitching our show?” Pepe asked.

  “No, it really doesn’t seem like the moment,” I murmured.

  “What’s that?” Rebecca’s voice was sharp.

  “It doesn’t seem like a good time for a dancing lesson,” I said, relieved at the turn of events.

  “Yes, I couldn’t concentrate today,” Rebecca said. “Come back tomorrow. Although, if Stewart doesn’t come up with the money, there won’t be any point.”

  Chapter 34

  With Pepe riding shotgun beside me, I headed downtown, hoping to get paid by Jimmy G. for the successful resolution of the Snelson case. Pepe was upset about leaving behind his lady love and the cruel fate that prevented him from rescuing her.

  “We’ll get another chance, Pepe,” I said.

  “But meanwhile Siren Song languishes in a prison,” Pepe said.

  “A crate, Pepe,” I said sternly. “Most dogs love them. I should probably get one for you.”

  “Monstrous!” said Pepe. “It is the equivalent of solitary confinement. Cruel and unusual punishment.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I have done time,” he said proudly. “In a Mexican jail. The very worst kind.”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” I said, with a hint of sarcasm.

  “Of course, I was innocent of all charges,” said Pepe.

  “Of course,” I said.

  I was distracted by the downtown traffic. I hate driving downtown in Seattle. One-way streets. Do Not Turn signs. Pedestrians who ignore the walk signals. Plus I can never find a parking place. I finally found a spot near the Greyhound bus terminal. I tucked Pepe into my purse to make it easier to carry him. The sidewalks were crowded, and I didn’t want anyone stepping on him.

  As we passed Nordstrom department store, Pepe stuck his head out of my purse.

  “Wait, Geri!” he said.

  “What?”

  He lifted his little pink nose and sniffed the air. “Geri, I smell the smell,” he said.

  “What smell?”

  “The stink I smelled in the bushes outside the Tyler residence. And on the gold card case. The smell of the murderer!”

  I looked around. People were rushing past us, hurrying to get on buses, swinging shopping bags, carrying briefcases. It could have been anyone.

  “How will I figure out who it’s coming from?” I asked.

  “It is coming from inside the store,” he said.

  “Oh!” I turned and went through the double doors, Pepe leading the way with his nose twitching. This entrance opened into the perfume section of the store, a sea of dazzling glass cases and islands full of shining bottles and metallic boxes.

  “Someone nearby?” I asked.

  “No, something nearby,” he said. “It is one of these scents!”

  “You can smell one scent out of hundreds outside the door and know it was the same scent you smelled at the crime scene?”

  “Sí,” said Pepe, wrinkling up his nose. “Dogs have 220 million scent receptors in their noses while humans have only 5 million.”

  “So how will you find it?’

  “We must ask a salesperson to help us,” Pepe said.

  “That shouldn’t be too hard,” I said, for as soon as they saw his white velvet head sticking out of my purse, the salespeople came swarming like bees towards flowers. Soon they were all around, petting his head and cooing over him. Pepe lapped it all up like a cat laps up cream. But after a five-minute lovefest, the crowd thinned, going back to their stations. Apparently, in some unspoken and invisible battle for customers, a young woman with blond hair pulled back in a French twist had won the competition for our business.

  Her name tag said she was Eve. A perfect name for such a temptress. She wore a little black dress, which showed off her flawless milky skin and slender body, and a pair of strappy, stiletto heels. The dress and the shoes probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.

  “How can I help you?” she asked.

  “I’m trying to find a particular perfume,” I told her.

  “What’s it called?” she asked with a warm smile.

  “Well, that’s just the problem,” I said. “I don’t know what it’s called. It’s a scent I smelled just once in . . . uh . . . at a party. I never got a chance to find out who was wearing it and ask them.”

  “Don’t worry. We have many samples. We’ll find it for you, I’m sure.”

  She led me over to her station, behind a glass counter, stocked with multicolored bottles of fantastic shapes and designs. “Perhaps we could narrow the selection down a bit for you. How would
you describe the scent you’re looking for?”

  “Ugly,” said Pepe.

  “Ugly is not a fragrance,” I told him.

  “It smelled ugly?” Eve asked.

  “It was ugly to me,” Pepe insisted.

  “No,” I said to Eve. “I’m trying to think of the right words.”

  “Fine, then,” Pepe said. “How about this? It smelled like an old gordo Rottweiler, heavy and musky.”

  “It was very heavy and musky,” I told Eve.

  “Ah, that helps,” she said. “And how long ago were you at the party you mentioned? Where you smelled the perfume, I mean.”

  “Just a few days ago.”

  “Had you ever smelled it before?”

  “No.”

  “OK,” she said. “Why don’t we begin with some of our newer fragrances? It’s possible it may be one of our new lines—there are a quite few we’ve added recently.”

  She sprayed perfume from a gold bottle onto a thin strip of paper, flapped it up and down and handed it to me.

  “This is called Tonal Tuberose,” said Eve. “It’s a typical white flower scent but this one has a peppery top note, a green mango heart, and a creamy, yet transparent, floral drydown.” I sniffed at it tentatively—I didn’t smell any of the things that Eve had described. The word I would use to describe it was shrill. Then I waved it in front of Pepe’s nose.

  “Your little dog likes perfume?” she asked.

  “He is a connoisseur of scents,” I replied.

  As if to illustrate my words, he sneezed. “Not this one!” he said.

  “Perhaps it’s too strong for him!” she suggested.

  “Tell her I was a search and rescue dog!” Pepe said.

  “Oh, that’s OK,” I said. “He was a search and rescue dog. He’s used to this sort of work.”

  Eve looked a little worried at that. “He doesn’t look like a search and rescue dog,” she said.

  “You really can’t judge a dog by his cover,” I said. Unfortunately, no one laughed at my joke.

  Eve merely raised her perfectly penciled eyebrows over her stunning blue eyes. Then she offered me another splash of perfume on another test strip. “This is more in the citrus range,” she said. “It reminds me of lemon cookies, with a touch of the fuzzy skin of apricots, and a light musk hovering in the background like the mist of a waterfall.”

  “She should write copy for these perfumes,” Pepe said, his brown eyes wide with admiration.

  I took a cautious sniff. All I got was the scent of pink lemonade. Hoping Pepe would smell something more, I set the strip back on the little ceramic plate on the counter but waved it under Pepe’s nose as I did so.

  He sneezed again. “Not it,” said Pepe. “Reminds me of dishwashing detergent.”

  “Let’s try another,” I said to Eve.

  And so it went until the little ceramic dish that held the used test strips was stacked high.

  “How about this one?” Eve asked, offering yet another bottle. “It’s very popular with our younger customers.” Her perky smile had sagged a little as she had now spent over an hour with us while the other perfume salespeople had been steadily ringing up customers.

  “This is our newest addition,” she said. “It’s called Caprice.”

  “Caprice!” Pepe exclaimed.

  “After the actress?” I asked Eve.

  “Indeed,” she said. “We just got the entire Caprice line—perfume, cologne, and eau de toilette.”

  “Yes, I’d like to try it,” I said, holding out my hand. I thought it might remind Pepe of his previous life.

  The bottle was slim, and topped with a crystal swirl. The liquid inside was a violent pink. Eve sprayed it on the back of my right hand. The aroma was overpowering, something like cotton candy and cherry cola on a hot day at the state fair. I reeled back.

  Pepe’s reaction was even stronger. “That is ugly!” he gasped, and coughed.

  “Does that mean it’s the one?” I asked him.

  “Is it?” Eve asked.

  Pepe nodded, continuing to sneeze and wheeze. He ducked down inside my purse, apparently to get as far away from my hand as he could.

  “I think this is it,” I told Eve.

  “You think?” Pepe said, poking his head back up. “It is definitely the scent. But how could one as guapa as Caprice make a scent that is so repugnante?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But we’ve found it, anyway.”

  “I’m so glad,” said Eve.

  “Take it away,” said Pepe.

  “Would you like the one ounce or two ounce bottle?” Eve asked.

  “How much is it?’

  “$125 for 50 milliliters.”

  “No, Geri, I would have to leave if you smelled like that all the time.”

  “Well,” I said. “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “Oh . . .” said Eve, disappointment crossing her pretty face. I saw her glance across the room at another salesclerk who shrugged. But being a professional, she quickly recovered. Her fetching smile back in place, she said, “Well, I’m very happy we found what you were looking for.” She paused, then took a small color brochure from the counter and handed it to me. “Take this,” she said. “It lists the complete line of Caprice products.”

  “Thanks.” I took the brochure, which featured a photo of the actress in a bright pink bikini, her tan skin dripping with water as she lay back, half immersed, in the turquoise waters of a classic California swimming pool.

  “Ah! I remember that pool,” Pepe said, looking at the photo. “At the Chateau Marmont. One of her friends tossed me in and I almost drowned.”

  “So you can’t swim?” I asked. “I’m kind of surprised. You can do everything else.”

  “I dog-paddled to the side, but then I could not get out,” said Pepe. “Caprice had to fish me out with a net. It was most undignified. Even worse, they made a video and posted it to YouTube.” He gave a mighty sneeze. “But I do need to preserve my nose! It is essential to my livelihood. So get me out of here, partner!”

  Chapter 35

  “I’m curious,” I said, as we left Nordstrom and headed towards Jimmy G.’s office. “Why do you react so badly to the scent of Caprice? Is it because it reminds you of your former owner?”

  “We dogs do not use the word owner,” Pepe said with disdain.

  “What word do you use?” I asked curious.

  “It depends on the dog,” he said. “Some say human. I think that is too cold. Some say provider. That has merit. I prefer companion.”

  “OK, I can see that.” I nodded my head. “My question remains . . .”

  “It is not that it reminds me of Caprice,” he said. “We perros do not like perfume.”

  “Really?” I thought of all the times I had carefully spritzed on my favorite scent while getting dressed.

  “You did not know that?”

  “I do now.”

  “Bueno,” he told me. “If, however, they make a bacon perfume, I might change my mind.”

  “Hey, doll!” said Jimmy G. when we walked into his office. He had his feet up on his desk, as usual. He was wearing two-toned brown-and-white oxfords with green-and-blue argyle socks. His sports coat was the colors of a Creamsicle, orange and white, and his shirt was brown with a white collar.

  He took his feet off the desk as we came in, creating an avalanche. Empty bags, betting forms, newspapers, and unopened envelopes slid over the edge in a waterfall of paper. Some landed in a brown puddle on the floor. An empty Styrofoam cup lay beside it, the obvious source of the spill. One of his goldfish was floating sideways at the top of the murky tank.

  “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing at the chair against the wall, which had a few stains of dubious provenance on the fabric. “Jimmy G. was just having a bite to eat.” He held up a clear, triangular plastic container filled with some kind of sandwich. “It says it’s tuna, but it looks more like deviled ham.”

  A piece of wilted lettuce fell out and onto h
is desk as he offered the sandwich to me. He left it where it lay.

  “I do not eat vending machine sandwiches,” said Pepe. “I learned a bitter lesson at a bus station in Tijuana.”

  “No thanks,” I said.

  “Suit yourself.” He took a large bite out of it. “It is tuna,” he said, chewing thoughtfully. “So what brings you to visit Jimmy G.?”

  “Money,” I said.

  “Just what I like. A pretty dame who wants to drop some Ben Franklins on me.”

  “No, I need some,” I said. “I wrapped up the Snelson case, and you said you’d pay me. Two hundred in cash. The day the case was solved.”

  Jimmy G. took another bite of his sandwich.

  “Yeah, that old broad called,” he mumbled. “Was mighty pleased. Crazy old bat.”

  “So did she pay you?”

  “No, I told her you’d send her an invoice,” Jimmy G pushed around the papers on his desk.

  “Why me?”

  “You’re my gal Friday, aren’t you?”

  “I am not your gal Friday!” I snapped. “And even if I was, how would I create an invoice anyway?” I might have to do it myself if I wanted to get paid. “I don’t see a computer.”

  Jimmy G. laughed, a short bark of a laugh. “Jimmy G. doesn’t need a computer! Got a typewriter right over there!” He pointed to the corner where I saw an old Royal on a rolling metal table.

  “This is ridiculous,” I said. “You can’t run a business this way. Don’t you take credit card payments? Where do you keep your receipts? How do you keep track of your accounts receivable?”

  “Whoa!” Jimmy G. appeared to stagger back. “You’re getting much too technical. Jimmy G. doesn’t do mathematics.”

  “Evidently not arithmetic, either,” said Pepe.

  “Stewart is the numbers man. The only numbers Jimmy G. knows are the odds on the ponies at Emerald Downs.”

  “So Stewart takes care of your finances?”

  Jimmy G. nodded. “Stewart pays the rent. Stewart pays the utilities. Stewart comes by and drops off some cash every now and then for operating expenses. At the moment”—Jimmy G’s brown eyes got sad—“Jimmy G. is frankly low on funds.”

  “But I need the money now!” I insisted.