The Silence of the Chihuahuas (26 page)

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Authors: Waverly Curtis

BOOK: The Silence of the Chihuahuas
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“Not a word,” said Felix, looking over at his dog, who was chasing Party Girl around the tables that were being set up in the ceremony space. “I have to admit I'm relieved.”
 
 
After the toasts and the first dance, after the cake cutting and the hysterical bouquet tossing (Big Bird caught the bouquet), after the fabulous meal served by Jay's employees—who outdid themselves putting together a buffet so their boss could enjoy his wedding day—and after Brad presented Jay with the magnificent stuffed pheasant he had prepared for him as a wedding present, Felix and I slipped out onto the observation deck. The rain had stopped and we stood there looking out over the lights of the city. The red and white lights of tiny cars moved along the shining streets below us. Inside, all of our friends were celebrating and feasting and dancing and drinking.
Except for Jimmy G and Amber. They were a little farther down on the deck. Jimmy G was smoking one of his stinky cigars and Amber was smoking a cigarette in her long black holder.
“Geri, I have something important to ask you,” said Felix, taking my hand in his.
Oh, no! I could feel myself start to shiver. I wasn't ready for this. Whatever it was. Or maybe I was. Wasn't he the best thing that ever happened to me?
“Except me, of course,” said Pepe, who was suddenly at my feet.
“Can you read my thoughts now?” I asked.
“I don't know,” said Felix. “Are you thinking that you should move to L.A. with me?” he asked. “Because that's what I was thinking. I love you, Geri.”
“I love you too,” I said to Felix. It was the first time we had exchanged those momentous words. “But—”
“Aha! Cupid strikes again,” said Pepe. “All over the place, people are coupling up and it is all because of my magic arrows of love!”
I looked through the window into the Chinese Room. It was true. The Klingon was dancing with a woman in a Star Trek uniform. Big Bird was swaying back and forth in the arms of a man dressed in a pink tutu and tights. Even Teri was caught up in a conversation with Fred, the minister. Her eyes sparkled as he made the sign of the cross over her head.
“Oh, I forgot to show Pepe the photo!” I said. “Can you excuse me for a moment, Felix?”
He looked sad but followed me back inside. As we went through the door, Jimmy G called out. “Don't forget to come by the office tomorrow to sign the partnership agreement.”
Felix looked puzzled.
“Jimmy G has promised to make me a partner in the Gerrard Agency,” I said.
“The Gerrard and Sullivan and Sullivan Agency,” said Pepe.
Teri looked up as we came in.
“Father Fred is blessing my new endeavor,” she said. “Oh, speaking of fathers, did you want me to show Pepe the photo?”
I nodded. Meanwhile Fred addressed Felix. “I do blessings of the animals too,” he said, “if you want your lions blessed.”
“It might be a good idea,” said Felix. “They are misbehaving.”
“Only the big one,” said Fuzzy who had appeared at his feet.
I looked down at her. Did I just hear her speak?
Felix looked horrified. He saw me looking at his dog. “Did you hear that?” he asked me.
Meanwhile Teri had knelt down and showed Pepe the photo of Pepita. Pepe studied it, his mouth hanging open.
“Geri, it is a miracle!” he said. “We cannot move to L.A. I have parental duties now, and we must get Sullivan and Sullivan off the ground!”
“Yes, and I don't want to leave Party Girl,” said Fuzzy.
“What if we move in together but stay in Seattle?” I asked Felix.
“We might have to,” he said. “I think I might need to check myself into Forest Glen.”
Acknowledgments
What a pleasure it is to be able to thank all the people who made this book come alive.
First of all, of course,
muchas gracias
to Pepe Fitzgerald, the Chihuahua who inspired the series, for allowing us to flaunt him at readings and conferences, and
muchos
smoochos to Shaw Fitzgerald, who found him and thus brought him to our attention. Curt's wife, Stephanie, aka the Saint, has put up with Curt's mumbled excuses about how he is too busy writing to do X, Y, and Z, even though it looks like he is only watching TV or smoking cigarettes out on the back porch. And our writing group has listened faithfully and suggested revisions to whatever small snippets of the story they heard as we went flying through this particular book.
Faizel Khan (whose wonderful coffee shop, Cafe Argento, we finally worked into our story) has provided a supportive place for us to meet and argue about who to kill next. Another special thanks to Sparkle Abbey. We first met Marylee and Anita (another writing team) on our first panel at Bouchercon, and we have been mutual fans for each other's work ever since—they even let us steal one of their characters for this book. Our friends, the Sisters in Crime of Seattle, have contributed wisdom and enthusiasm, attending our book launches and partnering with us at bookish events. Writers cannot thrive without the support of other writers and Waverly is happy to be part of two amazing groups: the Seattle 7 Writers and the Shipping Group. And writers cannot survive without readers—we have been humbled and touched by the notes and fan letters, comments, and reviews we receive from our fans.
Finally, we are indebted to Team Pepe for making these books a reality. Michaela Hamilton, our editor at Kensington Books, and her staff are geniuses at making our books look and sound appealing and getting them into the hands of our readers. And our agent, Stephany Evans, was our first fan and tireless supporter in our quest to make Pepe Sullivan as famous as Lassie.
Bonus content!
Keep reading to enjoy
a special holiday treat . . .
 
A Chihuahua in Every Stocking
 
A delightful Barking Detective story,
previously available only as an e-book.
First time in print!
Chapter 1
For the first time since my divorce, I was looking forward to Christmas. Instead of being a fifth wheel at my sister's house, watching her kids open their presents and enduring an awkward holiday dinner during which my sister and her husband would grill me about my lack of employment, I was going to celebrate Christmas at my house and toast to all the good things that had happened during the past year. My new job, working at a private detective agency. My new boyfriend, Felix Navarro. And my new pet, my Chihuahua, Pepe. I was determined to create the total Christmas experience: a wreath on the door, bayberry-scented candles, cookies baking in the oven, eggnog in a crystal punch bowl, and a pile of presents under a fat Christmas tree glittering with ornaments and sparkling with lights.
Unfortunately, I had waited until the last minute to get the tree. Felix kept promising he would go with me, but he was too busy working as a dog trainer. Apparently pets frequently misbehave around the holidays, just like people. So by the time I arrived at the Christmas tree lot on December 24, the trees had been thoroughly picked over. Most of those left were either too big or too expensive or both. My Chihuahua, Pepe, tried to help.
“This one! This one, Geri!” he said, rushing back and forth between me and a Noble fir leaning against the chain-link fence that defined the tree lot. But as soon as I pulled the tree out and twirled it around to see if it was the right one, he dashed off down the next aisle to the Grand firs.
I put the Noble fir back and followed him. He was standing in front of a huge tree with bushy branches that towered over my head.
“That's too big, Pepe!” I said. “Where would we put that?”
The woman next to me looked puzzled. I saw her glance around, but there was no one in the aisle but me and my little white Chihuahua.
“I'm talking to my dog,” I said.
She smiled weakly and went scuttling away.
I was a bit disappointed. It isn't that unusual. Most people talk to their dogs. It's just that very few dogs talk back. Mine does. He's been talking since I adopted him from the Humane Society. He was a rescue, one of a group of Chihuahuas, flown up from Los Angeles where they were being abandoned in record numbers.
“Over here, Geri!” I heard him say. He had vanished, crawling through the fragrant branches of the evergreens and into the next aisle. I went around the corner and found him sniffing around the trunk of a Douglas fir. It was a beautiful tree, about six feet tall, with thick branches, stiff green needles, and plenty of room for ornaments.
“Good work, Pepe,” I said as he danced around the trunk with glee. “This tree is perfect!” He scurried ahead of me toward the cashier at the front of the lot, while I followed a bit more slowly, dragging the tree along the path.
As we approached the counter—a piece of plywood on top of two sawhorses—I almost stumbled over Pepe. He had stopped in front of a spindly little tree that was propped up against a trash can. Maybe someone had planned to buy it and changed their mind or maybe the owner of the lot had decided it would never sell and was going to toss it out.
“What is it, Pepe?” I asked.
“This tree,” he said. “It is so sad.”
“Yes, it is sad,” I said, thinking he was referring to the spindly branches, the big gap on one side, the long bare stem on the top.
“It reminds me of me when I was in dog prison,” Pepe said.
I was surprised. “You mean because it looks abandoned?”
“
Sí
. It is hopeless, in despair, afraid no one will take it home as I felt before you came to my rescue.”
“Oh, Pepe, that is so touching,” I said. I wanted to scoop him up and kiss his little white furry head, but I couldn't let go of the big Douglas fir. It would have squished him.
“Can we take it home, Geri?” he asked.
“What? You mean instead of this tree?” I asked, shaking the one he had picked out. A few needles drifted down. Perhaps it was too old. Perhaps it was too big. I didn't have any ornaments yet. My sister had inherited the Christmas decorations from our childhood. I was planning to ask her to share them with me, but maybe I should start my own tradition, beginning with this scrawny tree.
“
Por favor
, Geri,” Pepe said.
“Sure, Pepe,” I said. “If you really want that tree, we'll get it.”
“
Muy bien
,” said Pepe. “We will call the tree Arturo.”
“Arturo?” I asked as I set the big tree aside and picked up the tiny tree. It was about three feet tall and weighed about the same as Pepe, probably about seven pounds. “You name trees?'
“
Sí
,” said Pepe. “Do you think animals are the only beings with souls?”
 
 
Back at home, Pepe seemed content to let me set up Arturo in the tree stand I had purchased along with a single strand of small white lights. I put the tree on my dining room table. The top just barely cleared the dangling crystals of my chandelier. I heard Pepe go into the living room and turn on the TV. Yes, he does know how to turn on the TV. He can work the remote control with his tiny paws.
“Geri, come quick!” he said. He sounded upset.
I tightened the screws that would hold Arturo upright—I was already feeling nervous about putting the screws on a tree with a name—and hurried into the living room. Pepe was watching the news, which was odd, as he usually prefers the telenovellas on the Spanish language station.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Look!” said Pepe. On the screen was a photo of a white Chihuahua wearing a pink collar. She looked a lot like Pepe, except she had a brown splotch on her chest.
Her name was Chiquita. According to the announcer, she belonged to a little girl named Sophie. Sophie also wore pink: a pink puffy jacket and pink snow boots decorated with white snowflakes. The camera zoomed in on her face. She had big, dark brown eyes that were filled with tears.
“Please help me find my dog,” said Sophie. “She is my best friend in the whole world.”
The camera panned up to show a distraught middle-aged man behind her, his hand on her shoulder. He was wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a gray sweatshirt with a college emblem on it. I couldn't read the name of the school. “We don't have a lot, but we are willing to offer a reward to anyone with any information.” His voice vibrated with emotion; his face was gaunt.
The camera cut to a young female reporter who was bundled up in a heavy blue parka, wearing brightly patterned knit gloves on her hands. She stood on a snow-covered street, with various Bavarian-styled buildings trimmed with hundreds of twinkling white lights in the background.
“This is Sharon Jacobson, reporting from Leavenworth, Washington,” the woman said. “This is where Tim Rohrbach and his five-year-old daughter Sophie stopped this morning during their trip from Colorado Springs to Seattle. Sophie wanted to talk to Santa, and her father was inclined to indulge her. Sophie's mother died just two months ago from breast cancer. Tim and Sophie are moving to Seattle so they can be closer to Sophie's grandparents. They left their car briefly, but when they returned, the car was missing, along with the trailer containing all of their household possessions. Even worse for Sophie, her dog, Chiquita, is also missing. The Chihuahua was napping in the backseat when the car was stolen and hasn't been seen since.
“A few hours later,” the reporter continued, “the trailer was found abandoned eighty miles west of Leavenworth, outside of Monroe. However, it was completely stripped. And the car is still missing. Even worse, so is Chiquita the Chihuahua.
“Hey,” said the reporter, holding up one gloved hand for emphasis, “it's Christmas, folks. This sort of thing shouldn't happen. Please keep your eyes out for a blue Volvo station wagon with this license plate WTW712. If you have any information, please contact the authorities. Tim and his daughter are still in Leavenworth. The owners of the Black Forest Inn have generously put them up, as Sophie refuses to leave without her Chihuahua. We're hoping to get her reunited with her dog so she can have a happy Christmas.”
“That poor little girl,” I said.
“Geri, we can help her!” said Pepe.
“How?”
“We will go there and track down her Chihuahua. Are we not private detectives?”
Well, yes, my dog thinks we are private detectives. He even insisted I make cards reading
Sullivan and Sullivan Detective Agency
. They are decorated with clip art images of a red magnifying glass and a paw print. I actually work for an eccentric PI named Jimmy G, who owns the Gerrard Detective Agency, and I'm only a trainee. But Jimmy G was spending the holidays gambling in Reno, and the office was officially closed until the new year.
Pepe clicked off the TV. “How far away is this Leavenworth?”
“About a two-hour drive over Stevens Pass,” I said.
“
Vamanos
!” he said, jumping off the sofa.
“But what about the snow?” I asked.
“No
problemo
,” said Pepe. “I can track through the snow. Did I not find the famous Olympic skier Hans Duckworth when he was buried by an avalanche in the Alps?”
“Don't be ridiculous,” I said. “I don't believe that at all.” Pepe was always telling me these preposterous stories. According to him, he had fought bulls in Mexico City, wrestled an alligator in an Alabama swamp, and raced in the Iditarod.
“It is true, Geri!” He seemed hurt. “I burrowed into the snow and brought him a hot toddy, which kept him warm until the search-and-rescue team was able to dig him out. If you Google his name, you will find the story. Of course, they left out the role I played, but people often overlook us little dogs. That is why we must go find Chiquita.”
“But Felix is coming over . . .” I said. I was already anticipating the delicious dinner I would cook, the eggnog we would drink, and the sweet lovemaking that would follow—
Pepe interrupted my thoughts. “We will restore the Chihuahua to the little girl and be home before dinner,” he said. “But we must make haste.
Andale
!” he added, running to the door.
There was nothing to do but follow in his tiny footsteps. If your dog is loyal to you, you have to be loyal to him. I grabbed my warmest clothes—my winter parka and mittens and my snow boots—and a sweater for Pepe (he steadfastly refuses to wear clothes, but I had a feeling he might change his mind once we got to Leavenworth) and off we went.

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