Dial C for Chihuahua

by Waverly Curtis

“What is it, Pepe?”

  “There is another smell, not so pleasant. It is the smell of blood. It is coming from inside.”

  I took a few steps towards Jimmy G.

  “Are you all right?” I asked him.

  He glanced over his shoulder at me, shook his head no, and then turned back to the bush.

  Pepe darted inside the house. I followed him. Jimmy G. croaked out, “I wouldn’t go in there!” But it was too late. Standing in the rear entryway, I had a clear view into Stewart’s office, which looked much the same as yesterday, and into Mandy’s office, which was quite different.

  Mandy was sprawled across her desk. Face down in a pool of blood. Blood dripped off the edge of the desk. It fell into a puddle of blood on the floor. Mandy’s arms hung limp at her sides. A gun lay just beneath the fingers of her right hand. I now knew better than to touch it. It was a big gun, with a pearl handle. It looked familiar.

  I wanted to check for a pulse, but Pepe shook his head. “She is muerta,” he said. “I can smell the death. But it is recent.”

  “How recent?”

  “Very recent. Within the hour.”

  I thought of that muffled thump I had heard while waiting for Jimmy G.

  There was blood everywhere. Spattered on the telephone, the file cabinet, the wall, the ceiling, the window. I knew that soon the place would be swarming with cops, and they would analyze the spatter, read those intricate patterns, analyze trajectories and angles, and form a picture of what had occurred. But what had occurred seemed obvious, especially when I found the paper.

  It was lying on the floor, just a little beyond the gun. You couldn’t miss it when you walked in the door. It was a typed note. It said merely:

  I loved him.

  I couldn’t live with the guilt.

  I’m sorry.

  Please forgive me.

  It was signed Manuela.

  “Pepe, come here,” I said. “Smell this for me!”

  He sniffed around the edges of the paper, being careful not to step on it.

  “It has the stink of Caprice,” he said. “But there is a faint odor of another person.”

  Chapter 45

  “I should call 911!” I said. I fumbled in my purse for my cell phone. My fingers were stiff and didn’t seem to work right. It took me a while to figure out what numbers to push.

  “Nine one one. What’s your emergency?”

  “I just found a dead body.”

  “Can you give me your location?”

  “Yes, I’m—” I tried to remember the address.

  Pepe rattled it off for me. He had a gift for memorizing addresses.

  “What happened?” The operator asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I just got here and found a woman dead. And there’s a suicide note.”

  “Do you know the victim?”

  “Yes, her name is Mandy.” I realized I didn’t know Mandy’s last name. And that seemed unbearably sad.

  “Ma’am, stay on the line. We’ve got emergency vehicles on the way.”

  I went out into the back yard. Jimmy G. was sitting on one of the lounge chairs. He looked green around the edges.

  “I think I found your gun,” I said to Jimmy G.

  “What?”

  “Come and look!”

  “Jimmy G. doesn’t think he can handle the sight of all that blood.” The poor guy—he was really rattled.

  We heard sirens in the distance.

  “Come and look at this gun! See if it’s yours.”

  Jimmy G. followed me back into the house. He could hardly bring himself to look at the body but he sneaked a sideways look at the gun on the floor.

  “Oh my God! That is Jimmy G.’s gun,” he said. He reached out for it.

  “Don’t touch that!” I said. “It’s evidence. Don’t you know anything about crime scene investigation?”

  “Good one, Geri!” said Pepe. He had come back in from outside. He hesitated, swiveling his head from side to side, his ears pricked. “I think there is someone at the front door.”

  And then I heard it, too. A key turning in the lock. The sound of footsteps in the hall. A man whistling cheerfully.

  We all froze as if we had been caught doing something illegal.

  “Mandy! I’m back!” sang out a voice. I recognized it as Stewart’s. In a few minutes, he appeared in the hall. He looked like he had been out jogging. He wore a pair of dark blue sweatpants and a dark blue hooded sweatshirt.

  “Miss Sullivan!” he said, peering at me in the dim light of the hall. “James! What’s going on? Where’s Mandy?”

  I stepped forward. Jimmy G. was shaking too hard to talk. “I hate to tell you this, but Mandy’s dead.”

  “What? No! That’s impossible. She was fine when I left. She was talking on the phone. To her brother, I think. What happened?”

  He pushed me aside, but then hesitated on the threshold of the blood-spattered room.

  “Oh my God!” He staggered back a little. “Who could have done this to her?” He turned around to glare at his brother. “Was it you? You couldn’t stand it that she preferred me.”

  “Why would I kill her?”

  “Isn’t that your gun?” Stewart reached out for the revolver on the floor in the puddle of blood.

  “You can’t touch that!” I said. “It’s evidence.”

  “For all I know, you stole it when you and Mandy came over the other day!” Jimmy G. shouted.

  “Why would I steal your gun?”

  “The same reason you stole my gal Friday. You always have to be on top!” Jimmy G. launched himself at his brother, punching at him.

  “Hey!” said Stewart, shoving him back. “I didn’t steal her. She begged me to rescue her from you!”

  “Watch it, you guys,” I said, trying to squeeze in between them. They were going to contaminate the crime scene. “No one killed Mandy. She killed herself.”

  That stopped Stewart. “But why?” he wailed. “I know she was humiliated by being in jail, but I told her we would fight the charges. She had every reason to live. Oh, Mandy!” He fell to his knees and buried his face in his hands.

  Chapter 46

  It was almost 7 PM before the police released us. This time they caught Pepe up in their dragnet, and he was not too happy about that. Detective Sanders and Detective Larson were not too happy to see me either. They told me if they caught me practicing private investigation without a license again, they would throw me in jail. I told them I wasn’t really a private investigator, but Jimmy G’s girl Friday. I crept home, too depressed to make dinner.

  So it was great that Felix, who I had called from the police station, offered to bring me food. He gave me a choice of Thai or Mexican, and I picked Thai, against Pepe’s objections. He was very grumpy about being locked in an interrogation room for hours and told to stop investigating. It turns out he has a lot of his ego invested in being a PI. He plunked himself down in front of the TV and flipped through the channels.

  I took a shower and washed my hair, then changed into black yoga pants and a pink tank top. I was just sitting down at my makeup table to put on some lipstick when I heard footsteps behind me.

  Thinking Felix had let himself in, I said, “Wow, that was fast!”

  Then I caught a glimpse in my mirror of the man who had entered the room. It wasn’t Felix. It was Stewart Gerrard, in a dark suit with a red tie. My first thought was he must have gone home and changed after the police had questioned him. Then I noticed he was holding a gun in his hand.

  “Get up!” he said.

  I got up, slowly, keeping my eyes on him in the mirror.

  “We’re going for a ride!”

  “Can I at least put on my makeup?” I asked.

  Stewart kept his pistol trained on me. “Why would you want to do that?”

  “If you’re going to kill me,” I told him, “I don’t want to be found looking any worse than I have to.”

  Stewart laughed. “Just like a woman,” he said.
“Sure. Go ahead. But no tricks.”

  I laughed. “That sounds like a line from a million old detective novels.”

  “I suppose it does,” he said. “But this time there won’t be a happy ending.”

  My mind was in overdrive trying to figure out some way to stay alive. As long as I kept him talking, I’d be OK. Failing that, I’d fight. I wasn’t going to be one of those women who whimper and whine and fall apart when some bad guy was about to do them in. I’d go down swinging—or at least trying to kick him in the crotch.

  “Hurry up,” he said. “I’ve got a dinner date to keep.”

  “Who are you having dinner with?” I asked as I retook my seat at my makeup table.

  “What do you care?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” I picked up my mascara wand, while watching him in the mirror behind me, his pistol inches from the back of my head. “I’m just naturally curious when somebody’s going out on a date.”

  “Business,” he said. “Not a date.”

  “Another investor you’re going to rip off?”

  “Yes, actually. Coming up with that money for Rebecca wiped me out. Not to mention the bail for Mandy.”

  “So you’re looking for a new sucker who will give you money to invest.”

  “Yes, and I already found him. You’ll be happy to know who it is. Your brother-in-law, the dentist!”

  “What? Don? But he was going to call you and ask for his money back!”

  “Right! He did, and I talked him into investing more. How do you think I paid off Rebecca?”

  “That’s sick!” I said.

  “It’s their own greed that gets them,” said Stewart, a smug expression on his face. “A 30 percent return on their money? In this economy? Who are they kidding?”

  “It doesn’t bother you?”

  “What would bother me is not having new investors. But that won’t ever happen considering my reputation and people always wanting more. It’s a sweet deal.”

  “Unless somebody wants to cash out their whole investment and you don’t have it. Like David.”

  “Screw him!” he yelled, smacking the back of my chair with his free hand and startling the wits out of me. “He pulled a gun on me. Said he was going to force me to give him his money. I was just trying to take the gun away from him. It was self-defense.”

  “Self-defense,” I said, eyeing him in the mirror. His face had turned bright red like he was going to have a stroke. “That’s a laugh.”

  I suddenly realized what had bugged me about Mandy’s supposed suicide. It had been staged. Mandy would never have fallen forward on the desk if she had shot herself in the head. The blast would have pushed her to one side and the blood spatter indicated that as well. She had been shot and then arranged with her arms dangling and her face on the desk. Even Stewart couldn’t bear to look at what he had done.

  “You killed Mandy, too, didn’t you?” I asked.

  Stewart shrugged. “It was all her fault. She interfered. David’s death was an accident. But Mandy saw it happen. She was watching through the window. She convinced me we should try to cover it up. She was the one who washed the glasses and wiped my fingerprints off the gun. She decided we should frame Jimmy G. and called him, pretending to be Rebecca, and sent him to the house. Obviously, it was a stupid plan. I should have gone straight to the police, instead of taking her advice.”

  “So you weren’t trying to frame me. You were trying to frame Jimmy G.”

  “Yes, but you got in the way, so then we decided to make it look like you were involved. That’s why Mandy broke in and hid the card case in your freezer. But by the time the police followed up on her anonymous tip, you had gotten rid of it somehow.”

  “And then when the police arrested her, you realized she might tell them the truth. So you bailed her out. You took her home. You wrote the suicide note. You made her sign it. And then you killed her!”

  “Get up!” He grabbed me under the arm and jerked me to my feet.

  “But I haven’t finished my lipstick,” I said, feeling stupid for pushing him too far. I had thought if I could delay him long enough, Felix might show up at the front door with the Thai food. On the other hand, did I really want him walking into this scene?

  “You’re done.”

  “But—”

  Just then, Albert jumped up beside us on the makeup table.

  “That is one big cat,” said Stewart.

  “Watch out,” I said. “He’s an attack cat.”

  “Sure he is.” Stewart smiled. “It just so happens I like cats, and they like me.” He let go of me with his left hand, kept his gun trained on me with his right, and reached out to pet Albert, saying, “Hey, big guy—”

  Albert raked his hand from wrist to knuckle in a flash.

  “Ow! Shit!”

  Simultaneous to his cry of pain, Albert laid a second swipe across his hand, filleting it even more before Stewart could jerk it back, dripping with blood.

  “Sonofabitch!”

  I saw my opportunity and took it. While Stewart was preoccupied shaking his bloody hand, I stepped up and put my left knee straight into his balls.

  Well, maybe not so straight . . . and maybe not really into his balls . . . I must have missed them, because, contrary to what they say is supposed to happen, all Stewart did was let out one tiny, little, insignificant grunt, then smashed me against the makeup table.

  Stewart’s eyes narrowed and a terrible, malevolent look contorted his face as he raised his pistol, cocked it, and aimed at me.

  Chapter 47

  This was it. I was a dead woman for sure. At least my cat had tried to save me. My dog, Pepe the Macho, woman’s best friend, had remained remarkably out of sight. Probably hiding under the coffee table, out in the living room. He hadn’t even barked when Stewart had somehow broken into our home. It was just as well, I thought, as I closed my eyes and waited for the end—maybe Pepe would be able to stay hidden and safe until Stewart left.

  Loud voices came from the living room!

  “Drop the pistola, gringo!” somebody yelled in heavily accented English.

  “We’ve got you surrounded!” another man hollered.

  “What?” Stewart mumbled, sounding as confused as I was.

  “You can’t murder one of our women, you dirty cabrón!” screamed somebody else.

  “Somebody’s in the living room,” said Stewart, nervously pulling me a little closer to the bedroom door. “Who the hell’s out there?” he asked me.

  “Must be the police,” I said. “And they’ve got you surrounded.”

  “Impossible,” said Stewart, his tone worried.

  “If you know what is good for you, you will lay the pistola down and come out with your hands up, gringo!”

  We got right to the door. It was slightly ajar.

  “Give up!”

  Stewart threw the door wide open. “Never!” he screamed, pushing me ahead of him into the room, his left arm tight around my neck, holding me close. “I’ve got a hostage! Back off or I’ll kill her!”

  Of course, there was nobody in the living room to hear his threat. The room was empty except for Pepe, who sat on the floor next to the remote control. The TV was tuned in to the Spanish channel, its dialogue blasting at full volume.

  “What the hell?” Stewart stammered, as if he couldn’t believe what he saw. Then he let out a relieved laugh. “Ha! It’s just the TV, for crying out loud! There’s no one here!”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” I told him, noticing the look in Pepe’s eyes. They were smoldering, mean, scary—a look I’d never seen in them before.

  “What are you talking about?” Stewart asked.

  “Get away from Geri!” said Pepe, advancing on Stewart. “Drop your pistola and release her.”

  Stewart stiffened. “He talked,” he said to nobody in particular. His grip on me loosened a bit as he repeated himself. “The dog talked!”

  “Of course, I talk!” said Pepe, getting even closer.

/>   “No!” said Stewart, moving back a pace. “It can’t be! I don’t believe it!”

  “You better believe it,” said Pepe. “And you better believe that I will bite you, bite you, bite you!” He charged at Stewart, his teeth snapping.

  Stewart tried to aim his pistol at Pepe, but Pepe had already found his target and was latched onto Stewart’s right ankle.

  “Ow! Shit!” screeched Stewart, trying to shake Pepe off. He totally lost his grip on me.

  Big mistake. I wheeled about and clocked him right in the Adam’s apple. Fortuitous, as I was actually aiming for his nose, but this worked even better. He let out a choking, gurgling sound, and his gun went flying when he reflexively reached for his neck with both hands.

  Every ounce of my being told me to run, but then I thought of all those stupid women on TV shows who knock their assailants down and then run and the creep gets back up and catches them and kills them. And, anyway, I couldn’t leave without my dog, who was attached to Stewart’s ankle.

  “Get him from behind!” I yelled at Pepe. Pepe knew immediately what I meant. He let go, circled around Stewart, and lunged for the back of his heel.

  “Argh! ” shrieked Stewart, as Pepe sank his fangs into his Achilles tendon. At the same time, I picked up my favorite lamp, the bulbous glass collectible on the end table, and swung it at Stewart’s midsection. He went down in a flurry of flailing arms and shattered glass. Pepe sprang out of the way just in time. Stewart’s head hit the edge of the coffee table with a thunk. He lay there, dazed, staring up at the ceiling.

  I picked up his pistol and trained it on him. Pepe jumped onto Stewart’s chest and looked him straight in the eyes.

  “We captured you, you murdering puerco!” said Pepe.

  “What?” gasped Stewart. He tried to lift himself up, but gave a mighty sneeze and fell back down.

  “You heard me,” said Pepe.

  “He talked,” Stewart said. “The dog talked.”

  “You can hear him talk?” I was puzzled by that.

  Stewart was even more puzzled. “You mean, he really does talk?”

  “Sí, hombre,” said Pepe.

  “I don’t believe it,” said Stewart. A look of amazement crossed his bloody face. “A talking dog!” And then he fell back down. His eyes went all glassy, and he passed out.