The Silence of the Chihuahuas (18 page)

We headed back to Mrs. Fairchild's house to see if the neighbors had any ideas about who would want to kill Mrs. Fairchild. Unfortunately, it seemed every one did.

Several of the neighbors had witnessed fights between Mrs. Fairchild and her various contractors. A few had noted the names on the trucks: a plumbing company (Toilet Wizards) and a roofing company (Shelter from the Storm). According to one neighbor, a man who was clipping the box hedge along his driveway, he had witnessed a shouting match between Mrs. Fairchild and a guy he described as a “chunky Mexican dude” just days before her death.

“None of us were surprised around here,” he said. “It was just a matter of when someone was going to kill her. In fact, we're talking about starting a defense fund for the guy who did it.”

“So she was not popular in the neighborhood?” I asked.

He shook his head. “She had fights with the Delcantos about the property line. She actually tore down their fence, claiming it was on her property. And she hired some tree cutters to top off the big evergreen that belonged to the people who live behind her house—don't know their names, but I know there was a lawsuit involved in that.”

I wanted to talk to the Delcantos but no one answered the door. I left my card in their mailbox with a note on it. I used one of the Sullivan and Sullivan Agency cards that Pepe had insisted I make back when we worked our first case. No one could tell by looking at it that my partner was a dog.

As we headed back around the block, Pepe stopped to sniff some cypress bushes planted like guardians at the end of a straight sidewalk that led up to a smaller house, unusual for the neighborhood. The mustard yellow paint was fading, and the roof was covered with shaggy moss.

“Hurry up, Pepe,” I said.

“I am investigating,” he said, just as the front door opened and a skinny old lady came hobbling out, waving her arms and yelling: “Get that dog away from my bushes!”

I scooped up my dog and held him in my arms as she approached. She was wearing a shabby brown cardigan and it looked like her grey, curly hair was uncombed.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “He was probably just smelling another dog.”

“He was going to pee on my bushes,” she declared, “just like all the other idiot dogs in the neighborhood.” She pointed to the base of the bushes where the leaves had turned yellow, her hand trembling.

“You have a very nice yard,” I said, even though it looked rather boring to me with its straight path lined with shiny white rocks and carefully trimmed box hedges, which enclosed rose bushes—only rose bushes—some still bearing a few limp blossoms.

“Tell her we are investigators,” said Pepe. “She is the sort of person who watches everything.”

“My dog is actually a working dog,” I told her. “We are investigating a crime that happened in your neighborhood.”

“Oh, Mrs. Fairchild,” she said. “Yes, the police were here asking about her too.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I told them about the cars I saw in her driveway that day,” she said. “A white van and a red and white MINI Cooper.”

Oh dear, Brad drives a red and white MINI Cooper. The very car the police found a day later at Volunteer Park.

“Ask what order they were parked in!” said Pepe.

“What do you mean order?” I asked.

“I didn't say anything about order,” she said.

“Which car was in front and which car was in back,” said Pepe.

“Which car was in front?” I asked.

“Definitely the van,” she said.

This was good. “Great question!” I told Pepe. That meant someone else had been in the house on the day of the murder.

“I didn't ask a question,” the woman said.

“Oh, but I have one for you,” I said. “Do you know who the cars belonged to?”

“Now how would I know that?”

“Well, maybe there was a sign painted on one of the cars. Or you recognized one of the drivers.”

The old woman shook her head. “I never saw the same people there twice. Except for her decorator. The guy with the little red-and-white car.”

“Oh, you know Brad?”

“Was that his name?” Her mouth curved down. “He was in a hurry that day. Stormed up the front steps. Heard yelling as soon as he got inside. If he had any sense, which I don't think he did, he was probably telling her to shove it.”

“You know that she was murdered?”

“Couldn't have happened to a better person,” she said with a satisfied smack of her gums. “If the decorator did it, then more power to him!”

“Did you hear anything? After the yelling?”

“No, I went back inside. It was time for
Judge Judy
.”

“And did you notice the cars later? After your show?”

“They were both gone the next time I looked.”

 

 

So we adjourned to my house so I could use my computer to do some research. Pepe claimed he was going to help and headed for his iPad on the coffee table, but when I went into the living room to ask him a question, he was gazing dreamily at the photo of a good-looking Australian shepherd.

“A new crush?” I asked. “Don't you have enough girlfriends?'

“Her name is Kiwi,” said Pepe, gazing at her image fondly. “She wrote to me because of my blog. She wishes to be a private detective as well. Perhaps she will apply for a position as my assistant.”

“What blog?”

“Oh, so you never found it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it is Number 2 in overall usefulness for blogs about private detectives who are dogs. Apparently some dog named Chet has beat me out and there's a bedbug-finding dog named Doodle, who's a close third. Got to keep my eye on him.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I have been writing down my thoughts about our cases, hoping you would find them since I could not talk to you.”

“Well, it would have helped if you had let me know about it.”

Pepe just gave me a look. If he had had eyebrows to raise, he would have raised them. Instead this chiding look was communicated with narrowed eyes and a slightly lowered muzzle.

“I'll try to catch up,” I said.

“
Bueno
,” said Pepe. “Now tell me, Geri, what have you learned?”

“I have the contact information for five different contractors who worked for Mrs. Fairchild and for the three neighbors who filed lawsuits against her. Oh, and two of the five contractors have lawsuits pending in civil court against her. Two others, a handyman named Toby White and a painter named Eric French, won judgments against her last year and the year before. The old lady has left a trail of enemies behind her.

“So now what, Sherlock?” I asked. “We can't just call these folks and ask them if they murdered Mrs. Fairchild.”

“And the weapon is not unique enough to narrow the field,” said Pepe. “Almost anyone could have a hammer in their tool box.”

“Can we just eliminate the people who won their cases against her?”

“Perhaps the contractors,” said Pepe, “because they were probably not foolish enough to work for her again, but the neighbors, no! Who knows what new assaults upon their property she has perpetrated since?”

I plopped down on the sofa beside him.

“And if it was a neighbor, it was most likely to be that old woman who yelled at me!'” said Pepe. “Anyone who dislikes dogs is a person with a black heart.”

“I've got the neighbors' names,” I said, flipping through my notes.

“On the other hand,” said Pepe, “if it was a neighbor, I would have most likely recognized the scent.”

“What do you mean? What scent?”

“Oh, I keep forgetting you have not been reading my blog,” said Pepe. “Besides Brad's scent on the body—”

“Brad's scent was on the body?”

“Oh, most definitely. How do you think he got all that blood all over him?” Pepe asked.

“I thought maybe he fell into some blackberry bushes while sunbathing at the nude beach.”

Pepe frowned at me. “Oh, I see you are making a joke. This is not the appropriate occasion for joking, Geri.”

“Sorry!” I said. I sometimes do that when I'm really upset as I was at the thought of Brad being present at the murder scene. “So Brad was in Mrs. Fairchild's house at the time of the murder. Can you tell if it was before or after she was killed?”

“No, but I can tell you that someone else was present. Someone who smelled like Budweiser and Camel cigarettes.”

“Oh, well that should make it easy to find them!” I said.

As usual, Pepe did not respond to my sarcasm. “Let us consider the circumstances,” he said.

“It happened in the kitchen,” I said. “Do you suppose that's significant?”

“
Si
, a kitchen with no aromas of food.”

“She was renovating the kitchen,” I said. “So it could have been someone she called in to hang cabinets or install the flooring or hook up one of the appliances.”

“It smelled like fresh paint,” Pepe pointed out.

“Yes, so perhaps a painter.” I looked down at the list, discouraged. We still had a huge list of suspects.

“Someone who knew that Brad would be arriving at the house shortly after it happened,” said Pepe.

“Yes, but who would know that?”

“A neighbor might see him come in.”

“What if Brad hired someone to help him?” I asked. “Like how I work for him!” I frequently reupholstered furniture under Brad's direction. Less recently since I had been so wrapped up in the private eye business.

“I can imagine how it went down,” said Pepe. “Mrs. Fairchild on the telephone with Brad, complaining about the shoddy work done by the man he hired. The man standing there, shuddering under the assault of her cruel words.”

Pepe does have a tendency to purple prose. I blame it on all the
telenovelas
he watches.

“Brad rushes to meet with her and calm her down. He wants to inspect the work, which she disparages, to see for himself it is the travesty she claims. But as he is racing to the scene, the man pulls out a hammer and bashes her in the head. Brad arrives too late. She dies in his arms.”

‘That would explain the blood all over him when he was found later that day,” I said. “But then, what happened to the murderer?”

“Two possibilities, my dear Sullivan,” said Pepe. “Either the fellow had run off before Brad arrived. Or Brad took the weapon out of his shaking hand and sent him off to clean up.”

“In either version,” I said thoughtfully, “Brad knows who the killer is.”

“
Bien hecho
!” said Pepe.

“Why wouldn't he say something?” I asked.

“Because he is not speaking,” said Pepe.

“Perhaps he feels guilty,” I speculated.

“Perhaps he is afraid others will think he is crazy,” said Pepe.

“But they already do,” I said. “Oh! You're being ironic.”

“
Si
,” said Pepe.

“So the next step is to talk to Brad,” I said.

“If he is talking,” muttered Pepe.

“We'll just have to convince him it's in his best interest to talk.”

“Maybe it is not,” said Pepe.

Just then the phone rang.

“Oh my God! I forgot to call Felix!” I said, rushing to pick it up. I had promised to call him as soon as I got home.

“You've got to give them what they want! Otherwise, they're going to kill me!” It was a woman's voice. She spoke in a breathy whisper.