Chapter 11
Mrs. Snelson lived in a seven-story building designed for housing seniors. It was made of concrete, bristling with balconies, and was right across the street from Green Lake.
Green Lake is Seattle's most picturesque lake, a small, round jewel set in the heart of north Seattle and circled by a three-mile concrete pathway, always thronged with joggers and moms with strollers and dog walkers. On a summer day, it's impossible to find parking anywhere near the lake. Luckily this was not a summer day. The sky was gray, the air was moist, but no rain was falling.
Still I couldn't find parking directly in front of the building, so I pulled around to the side street. When I opened my door to get out, Pepe bounded over me and landed on the grass of the parking strip.
“Pepe,” I said, “I can't take you into the building.”
“Oh, you want me to stay and guard your car?” he asked, hopefully. He looked up and down the street, then strolled over to the edge of the parking strip and lifted his leg. “I will warn the other dogs that I am on patrol.”
“No, I don't want you to guard my car,” I said. I couldn't afford another dog-baiting incident. “Why don't you get back in the purse?” I held out my bag. It was still empty. I had not retrieved my personal items, which were now scattered all over the car, along with the plastic wrappers from the beef jerky.
“Very well,” said Pepe. He seemed sulky but he stepped into it readily. I closed the flap and headed into the building.
I had to sign in at the reception desk and write down the name of the person I was visting and the reason for my visit. While I was doing this, Pepe stuck his head out of the top of my purse.
The woman behind the desk frowned. “Is that a real dog you have in there?”
Pepe looked quizzical. “What does she mean a real dog? Does she think I am a stuffed toy?” He wiggled his ears for emphasis.
“Oh, yes, he is,” I said, trying to stuff Pepe back down.
“Is he a therapy dog?”
“
SÃ,
I am a therapy dog,” said Pepe.
“Yes, he is,” I said.
“That's lovely. Our residents do so enjoy the companionship of animals. You know, studies show that contact with animals enhances emotional and psychological well-being.”
“Oh, really?” I said, then remembered I was supposed to know this. “You can't believe what an amazing impact he's had on my life. And I've only had him, I mean, I've only been working with him for a short time.”
The woman glanced at the name I had written on the visitor's log.
“I'll just ring up Mrs. Snelson and let her know you're here,” the woman said, setting Pepe down with a little pat on the head. “She's on the ground floor. Just go towards the elevators and turn right. You'll see her door at the end of the hall. Number 109.”
“You see, Geri,” Pepe said with some importance, as I stuffed him back into my bag. “All women find me irresistible.”
I ignored him. “Are you really a therapy dog?” I asked.
“Don't I make
you
feel better?' he asked.
I sighed. But it was true. He did make me feel better.
The interior hallways were dim and quiet. The doors were painted dark blue and each one had been decorated by the tenant. Apartment 109 had a cheerful wreath of white and yellow plastic daisies. I rang the doorbell and a few minutes later Mrs. Snelson opened it.
She was a small woman, with curly white hair and rosy cheeks. She would have been my perfect picture of a grandmother, except for her attireâshe wore pink overalls that were smeared with green and brown stains, and a pair of bright green rubber boots, decorated with frogs.
“My gardening attire,” she explained, holding out a hand with a green glove on it, but then pulling it back when she realized the glove was covered with dirt. “I was just out in the garden. Come in. I'll show you the source of the problem.”
It was clear she had an obsession and her obsession was plants. Her apartment was a jungle of potted plants, so dense I had to stoop to get past the fronds of the palms and push the tendrils of the vines out of my way to get to the sliding glass door and onto her patio. That, too, was crowded with plantsâpots stuffed with spiky grasses and hanging baskets spilling over with colorful purple petunias and red geraniums.
The patio looked out over the grassy hill on which the building was perched. Mrs. Snelson was slowly working her way outwards, creating curved beds, filled with green shrubs and a few early flowers, daffodils with their fluted cups and a flock of bright pink tulips. I imagined in a few years she would have taken over the whole hill.
“This is my little yard,” she said, picking up a trowel from where she had left it. “It's all I have left now. And this, this”âher voice quivered with rage and the trowel in her hand shookâ“is the problem!” She waved the tool at a fluffy mound of dirt underneath a spindly rose bush.
I bent down to look at where she pointed and saw a tower of calcified dog poop. By bending down, I threw Pepe out of balance, and he tumbled out of my bag. I grabbed for him but I was too late. He landed with a little woof, then picked himself up and shook himself off.
“Oh, you brought a dog with you!” Mrs. Snelson said. “I can't stand them. Filthy creatures!”
“Hey!” said Pepe.
She twisted her lips contemplating him. “Anyway, it's not the dog that's the problem. It's the owner. She's an irresponsible young woman. Lets the dog out to do his business. He seems to think my flower beds are the best place.”
“They are lovely flower beds,” said Pepe, approaching the offending item and giving it a good sniffing.
“Stop that!” I said to Pepe.
“I am investigating, Geri,” said Pepe.
“Well, don't,” I said. “It's disgusting.”
“It is disgusting,” said Mrs. Snelson. “I called the police, and I called Animal Control, but they told me they can't do anything unless they catch the animal in the act. But by the time I call them, the dog is gone. Back hiding in his miserable home.”
“Where does he live?” I asked.
Mrs. Snelson pointed to a little house just down the block. It was an anomaly among the pretty mansions that circle the lake. This one was obviously a duplex, with two doors side by side on the sagging front porch. It was a boxy wooden house in poor condition, the wood weathered, the paint faded to a mustard yellow. The yard was equally neglected; it was knee-high in weeds, mostly big dandelions.
“Renters!” said Mrs. Snelson with a huff.
“And what does the dog look like?” I asked.
“He's brown and gray with spots,” said Mrs. Snelson. “About knee-high. He has a big head and a mouth full of fangs. That's all I know. I don't care for dogs.”
“Does he always come over at a certain time of day?”
“No, not that I've noticed. His owner just opens the door and lets him out. And then when she wants him back, she calls his name.”
“What's his name?” I asked.
“Bruiser. Or Loser. Or something like that.”
Just then Pepe growled. It was a low but menacing sound. I looked up to see that the door of the mustard yellow house had opened and a brown and gray dog had rushed out. A young woman with purple hair, wearing only a large T-shirt and holding a coffee mug in her hand, stood in the doorway, watching as he headed down the steps. Then she shut her door.
We watched as the dog wandered around the yard, peeing on bushes. I took my phone out of my pocket and was ready, with my finger poised to take a picture, but Bruiser showed absolutely no interest in fouling Mrs. Snelson's flowers. I snapped a few photos of him just for practice while we waited.
“Oh, this is so frustrating,” said Mrs. Snelson. “It's as if he knows we are watching for him.” She stalked to the far edge of her property and glared at the dog.
“I think I can lure him here,” said Pepe, who had been sitting quietly watching the whole time.
“Really?” I said. “How will you do that?”
“Watch and see,” he said. He strolled out to the edge of the patio as Mrs. Snelson returned to my side.
Pepe began shouting at the dog. “Hey, Bruiser, you really are a loser! You do not dare to step outside your little yard.”
Bruiser looked up and seemed interested in what Pepe was saying but he did not show any inclination to head up the hill.
“I am free,” said Pepe. “I can do as I please. Go where I want.” He strolled over to the corner of Mrs. Snelson's flower bed and lifted his leg.
“Hey,” said Mrs. Snelson, “stop that, you filthy creature!”
Pepe looked offended. “I am just pretending,” he said to me.
“He's just pretending,” I told Mrs. Snelson.
She didn't seem to believe me. “I'm not sure this is a good idea, after all,” she said. “I didn't ask for a detective with a dog. I wanted someone with a camera.”
“I have a camera right here!” I said, holding up my little phone. “It takes pictures. We just have to wait until the dog gets a little closer.”
But Bruiser didn't move, despite Pepe's continuing taunts. We waited and waited. Bruiser lay down on the porch and rested his giant head on his front paws, his eyes trained on Pepe. My phone rang. It was my best friend, Brad. He wanted to know when he was going to meet my dog. I told him I was working and would come by later. Raindrops began to fall, light at first, then gaining momentum. Mrs. Snelson went into the apartment to get an umbrella.
“This is a very hard case,” said Pepe. “It calls for desperate measures.” He walked out to the edge of the garden and squatted down.
“See, you miserable Loser,” he called out. “I will cover over your scent with my own. These will be my flower beds from now on.”
Unfortunately, at that moment, Mrs. Snelson came running out of her apartment, moving quickly for a lady of her advanced age, and brought her umbrella down smack on the top of Pepe's head. He yelped and ran around in circles. I went to pick him up and dropped my phone, which rolled down the hill and into some bushes. While I was trying to find it, Bruiser left his porch and came creeping up the side of the hill. When I turned around, there was another steaming pile of dog poop in the flower bed, right next to Pepe's little offering.
Chapter 12
“How could you do that?” I asked Pepe as we drove away.
“I am sorry, Geri,” Pepe said. “It was just a natural impulse. Once I started, I could not stop. Has that never happened to you?”
“Not exactly like that,” I said.
“I will do better next time,” said Pepe.
“There isn't going to be a next time,” I said. Mrs. Snelson had made it clear that we were fired. Furthermore, she was going to call Jimmy G. and demand her deposit back. It looked like my career as a private investigator was already over.
“Surely you are not going to give up,” Pepe said. “What do you think would have happened if I had given up when they said a Chihuahua couldn't participate in the Iditarod?”
“You never did that, Pepe!” I said.
“Of course, I did. I have done many marvelous things. More than you can imagine. But I would never have done any of them if I had given up when things got rough.”
“I am happy for you,” I said. “But that's not my MO.” I'm the kind of person who
always
gives up when things get rough. I quit art school when my husband wanted to get an MBA. Then I had to drop out of interior design school when he wanted a divorce. I didn't even hire a lawyer, just accepted the settlement he proposed. And now I was about to give up on being a PI.
“That is why we are partners, Geri,” said Pepe. “I will stick by you. We are going to go back, and we are going to catch that dog in the act.”
“You might actually be a good influence on me,” I said. I was being sarcastic but Pepe didn't notice that. He didn't seem to recognize sarcasm. At least, not when it applied to him.
“We must do a stakeout next time,” Pepe said. “So Bruiser does not know we are watching.”
“OK,” I said. “A stakeout next time.” That would solve one problem, since we also didn't want Mrs. Snelson to know we had returned. “Are you OK, Pepe? Did that old lady hurt you?”
“I endured much worse,” said Pepe, “while performing in the Mexican circus. We will get that Loser. Do not worry, Geri!”
“I believe you,” I said. Though I wasn't sure I believed he had ever been in a circus. “Now settle down.”
“OK, OK,” he said. “I am sorry. It has been a trying day so far.” He lay down in his seat, saying, “Perhaps I need a short siesta.”
“Good idea,” I told him. “You rest while I drive.”
“
SÃ,
” he said, curling up in the seat.
He was soon quiet and appeared comfortably asleep, except for occasional low growls, rapid movements of his eyelids, and twitching in his feet. I guessed he was dreaming about besting one of his adversaries. But which one? Sarge? Bruiser? Or Albert? Maybe all three.
Pepe woke up just as I was crossing over Lake Washington on the Evergreen Point Floating Bridge, which connects Seattle and Bellevue. It was a direction I don't go much anymore, although I used to live on the East Side when I was married. There is a natural rivalry between Seattle, the older city, and Bellevue, its glitzier upstart. I have friends in Seattle who have never been to Bellevue.
Unfortunately, the opposite is not so true. Because there are more jobs in Seattle, the traffic across the bridge slows to a crawl during rush hours. I was hoping to slip across and get back home before it got too bad.
Pepe looked around. “Where are we going? We are not anywhere near Mrs. Tyler's house.”
“I owe my sister some money. I thought I'd drop it off before I spend it all buying you bacon.”
“You have a sister, Geri?”
“Yes, her name is Cheryl.”
“Do you think your sister will feed us dinner?” asked Pepe with a wistful note in his voice. “It is, after all, almost dinner time.”
“It's always dinner time in your world,” I pointed out.
“I am a dog,” he said. “We like to eat.”
“In answer to your question, no. My sister will probably not offer us dinner. And, even if she did, we wouldn't stay. She's probably fixing something disgusting like pot roast or steak.”
“Steak!” murmured Pepe with a dreamy tone in his voice. “It has been ages since I had a nice, juicy steak.” He glanced sideways at me. “I do not understand this human fascination for vegetables. You are omnivores, like dogs. You can eat everything. Why not eat everything?”
“I didn't really intend to become a vegetarian,” I explained. “But after I read a book called
Eating Animals,
I couldn't eat meat any more.” I looked over at him. “You know, the author mentions that in some cultures people eat dogs. And I read that some people believe Chihuahuas were originally raised to serve as food, just like guinea pigs.”
“Geri!” said Pepe. “That is not funny!”
“I didn't mean it to be funny. I just meant to point out that different people have different attitudes about what is appropriate to eat. I would never eat a dog.”
“That is good to know,” said Pepe. When I didn't respond, he continued, “Geri, that was sarcasm!”
“Oh!” I said and gave a little, forced laugh.
“If I had been so particular when I was making my way across the great Sonoran Desert, I would have starved,” Pepe said. “I subsisted on cactus and cockroaches.”
“Ugh,” I said. Then asked, “Why were you making your way across the great Sonoran Desert?”
“After my work exposing the head of a certain drug cartel, it became too dangerous for me to stay in Mexico. There was a bounty on my head. So I paid a coyote to smuggle me into this great country of the United States of America,” said Pepe.
Since it was Pepe telling the story, I really didn't know if he meant a real coyote or a person. I thought it best not to inquire.
“But you must promise me you will tell no one. I do not wish to be deported.”
“Don't worry, Pepe,” I said. “As far as I know, we don't deport dogs. Just humans.” That was meant to be sarcastic, but, as usual, sarcasm rolled right off him.
“
Bueno,
” he said.
Â
Â
“Wow!” said Pepe, as I pulled into the driveway of my sister's house.
My sister and her husband live in a new development in the Issaquah Highlands. The streets have names like Stonybrook and Fairmeadow, although there is not a meadow or a brook in sight. All of the houses are brand-new, multistoried with gables and porches, painted in discreet shades of brown and green, and stacked up next to each other like so much firewood.
“That is quite a house!” said Pepe.
“Really?” I was a bit miffed. I didn't think Pepe had very good taste if he was impressed by this monstrous McMansion. But then again I'd been in a million of these while working as a stager, and I knew how hard it was to give them any personality. I preferred the charm of my 1920s-era apartment.
“Wait in the car for me,” I said. “I'll just be a minute.”
“Oh, Geri,” Pepe said, “please just let me out. I have to pee.”
“OK, but not on my sister's lawn!” But it was too late. He jumped out the open door, ran across the tiny lawn, and lifted his leg on the rhododendron closest to the front door. At least they were acid-loving plants.
Naturally, at that moment, my sister opened the door to see who had driven into her driveway. She has one of those alarms that sounds a beep inside the house when anyone crosses her property line.
“Good afternoon, Geri's sister,” said Pepe, running up to her, his little tail wagging. “Are you going to feed us? Please say yes.”
“Shoo!” said my sister, flapping her hands at him. She had an apron tied around her waist. We had obviously interrupted her in the middle of preparing dinner. “Get out of here! Or I'll call Animal Control.”
“Wait a minute, Cheryl,” I said. “That's my dog!”
Cheryl frowned at me. “Since when do you have a dog?”
“I adopted him two days ago,” I said. It was hard to believe I had only known Pepe for two days.
“Well, he can't come in. It's unsanitary,” she said.
“Yum! I smell roast beef!” said Pepe, running into the house.
“Now where has he gone?” asked Cheryl, hurrying after him. “You know, we can't have a dog in the house.”
I hurried after her. She was peering around the living room, which was crammed with the most hideous modern furniture, things she bought at a store named Furniture for Less. It was dim because she always keeps the blinds drawn (“for privacy”). You need privacy when your neighbors' windows are only one foot from yours.
“Where did he go?” asked Cheryl.
“Probably the kitchen,” I said.
“Oh!” she said and hurried off in that direction. The kitchen was equally hideous (in my humble opinion). She had chosen a sunflower theme and everywhere you looked there were sunflowersâon the curtains, on the tiles, on the towels, even the plates. Pepe was standing in front of the oven, looking at it eagerly.
“Can I have some, please?” he asked.
I snatched him up. “I guess he's hungry,” I said.
“Leave it to you to get a new mouth to feed when you can't even feed yourself,” my sister said. “I suppose you're here to borrow more money.”
“Not at all,” I said. “I'm here to pay you back.” I tucked Pepe under my arm while I pulled some bills out my purse. I counted out three one-hundred-dollar bills. Cheryl's jaw dropped.
“Where did you get this?” she asked.
“I have a new job,” I said.
“What is it?”
“It's totally legitimate,” I said
“So why aren't you telling me what it is?”
“OK,” I said. “I'm working as a private investigator.”
“Oh, Geri!” said my sister. “When will you get a real job?”
This was my sister's constant complaint. I never did anything right as far as she was concerned.
“It is a real job,” I said. “I earned this money on my first day of work. And I just stopped by to give it to you. I should go now.”
“Fine,” said Cheryl, “but I hope you remember that I'm expecting you for dinner on Sunday.”
“What?”
“It's Easter. Have you forgotten that as well?” Her tone was sharp. Cheryl still went to Mass every Sunday. She knew I had stopped going years before.
“Oh, yes. It's on my calendar,” I said. It was. I just never checked my calendar any more since there was rarely any reason to do so.
“You could have brought the money then,” she said. “It would have been more efficient.”
“Yes, I should have,” I agreed. It was always easier to agree with Cheryl than to argue with her. “Where are the kids?” I asked.
My sister had studied to be a dental hygienist but ended up never working in the field because she married a dental student she met while doing her training at the University of Washington's dental clinic. She got pregnant almost immediately (or perhaps slightly before the engagementâthe timing was a little suspicious) and had been a stay-at-home mom ever since.
“Oh, the nanny took them to the park.” Cheryl always has a college girl as a nanny; she rotates through them at the rate of one every few months. I wasn't sure who was harder on the nannies: Cheryl, who used them to do laundry as well as cleaning, shopping, and child care, or the kids, who could be holy terrors.
“Well, I'll see you on Sunday,” I said, heading towards the door with Pepe in my arms. “Do you want me to bring anything?”
“Um, Geri, I have something I should tell you,” Cheryl said, as I opened the front door.
“What's that?” I asked.
“I invited Jeff as well.”
“You did what?” Jeff was my ex-husband. He was also Cheryl's husband's best friend. I had met him at their wedding. He was the best man and I was the maid of honor. It seemed like a match made in heaven.
“I invited Jeff,” she repeated. She had the grace to look embarrassed. “And Amber.” Amber was his fiancée.
“Great!” I said. “Just great.”
“I told him you were coming and asked him if he had a problem with that and he said no,” she said. “So I don't see why you should have a problem with it.”
“Because he dumped me!” I said. “For his secretary. After I put him through business school. By working as a secretary. At a waste disposal plant!”
“That was two years ago, Geri,” my sister said. “You've got to get over it. Move on. In fact, why don't you bring a date to the dinner?”