Dial C for Chihuahua (5 page)

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Authors: Waverly Curtis

BOOK: Dial C for Chihuahua
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Chapter 8
We found parking on Stewart Street near the old Camlin Hotel. It was an older area, about five blocks east of downtown proper, which had been undergoing a lot of renovation before the Great Recession hit. Now it was a wasteland of stalled construction projects and empty lots. The Hidalgo Building, which housed the Gerrard Agency, was the only building still occupied. Brick, with soot-stained terra-cotta trim, it looked like it had been due for a facelift for decades.
“That is a sad-looking building,” said Pepe, standing up at the passenger window, his forelegs on the armrest. “Are you sure this is the right place?”
“This is where I came for my interview,” I told him.
“It is kind of a dump. It makes me wonder how successful is this private investigating business.”
“Lighten up” I said, trying to stay positive. “You better hope it's successful enough to keep you in dog food.”
“Oh,” said Pepe. “That is a point well taken.”
The long halls inside the building were covered in carpet with a dizzying geometric pattern of gray and blue, which showed the faint impressions of old water stains. Pepe trotted by my side, sniffing along the edges of the walls and under the doors.
The building seemed to be empty, although there were signs on the frosted glass of the doors advertising the offices of a tax preparer, an importing firm, and something called Center Star Productions. But I heard no voices, saw no lights. The office of the Gerrard Agency was on the third floor at the end of the hall.
Jimmy Gerrard was on the phone when I burst into his office.
“Do you realize the trouble I'm in because of you?” I asked.
He put the receiver down quickly. He had been leaning back in his chair, his feet up on the desk, but now he sat up straight and put his feet on the floor.
“Hey, doll! Don't get all hot and bothered,” he said. “Jimmy G. hates to see a pretty dame all upset.”
He dressed like a private eye from the forties. He wore a brown herringbone sport coat with wide lapels over a blue-and-white-striped shirt and a fat tie adorned with a pinup girl, her legs in the air. There was a yellow stain, which I hoped was mustard, on the arm of his coat. The open sport coat also revealed a tan leather shoulder holster, worn on his left side, with the grip of a huge pistol sticking out of it. A tan trench coat hung on the back of the door.
Somewhere in his forties, he had a dark, pencil-thin mustache and black hair, greased up and combed straight back under a brown felt fedora that was tilted back on his head. He wasn't handsome, wasn't ugly, was just rough-looking—the kind of rough-looking that might be attractive if you were in the right mood. Maybe after spending all afternoon drinking in a dive bar.
His big brown eyes bulged a little, making him look a bit like a toad. Or maybe a Chihuahua? I looked back and forth between him and Pepe. Pepe was definitely cuter.
“What the hell is that?” he said, squinting at Pepe who stood beside me.
“That's my dog, Pepe,” I said. “Pepe, Jimmy Gerrard, my supposed boss.”
“Now wait a minute, kiddo,” said Jimmy. “Jimmy G. is not your boss.”
“How can you say that?” I asked. “You sent me out on an assignment because you were in Portland. On a case.”
“Oh, yeah, Portland,” he said. He searched around on his desk for a pen. The surface was covered with papers, newspapers, paper bags, paper cups, and an ashtray containing the end of a big, fat cigar. “Let Jimmy G. make a note of that before he forgets.” He pawed through the papers but couldn't seem to find what he was looking for.
Pepe clawed at my leg. “Stop it, Pepe!” I said.
“Looks like a rat,” said Jimmy, getting up and peering over the edge of his desk. “What kind of dog is that anyway?”
“He's a Chihuahua,” I said.
“Ha, that explains it,” he said. “Jimmy G. heard Chihuahuas were the result of crossbreeding between a rat and a dog. Kind of hard to imagine, a dog wanting to hump a rat, but Jimmy G. supposes that might happen in Mexico.”
Pepe began growling. I'd never heard him growl before. It was a menacing sound, though small.
“Be quiet,” I said, though secretly I approved of his disapproval. I was getting a different picture of Jimmy G. with Pepe at my side. I picked Pepe up, hoping that would stop his growling. It helped a little—his growling was more subdued—but he kept his eyes trained on Jimmy G.
It was obvious that Jimmy G.'s gray metal desk was purchased from Boeing Surplus and the credenza against the wall (also heaped with papers) was one of those cheap knockoffs one could buy at any furniture warehouse. The blinds on the window behind the desk were caked with dirt. There was an aquarium in whose cloudy water I could see a few rather large goldfish. The air stank of stale cigar smoke.
“What you really need,” I said, looking around, “is one of those desk lamps with a green shade.”
“Hey, thanks!” Jimmy G. said. “You've got good taste, doll!”
“What can I say?” I responded. “I'm a stager.” Jimmy G. looked puzzled.
I was just about to explain my job, how I prep homes for sale to make them more attractive to prospective customers, when Pepe whispered in my ear, “Ask him why he sent you to the Tyler house!”
“Oh, yes,” I said. The purpose for my visit. “Why did you send me to the Tyler house?”
“Because Rebecca Tyler called Jimmy G. and asked Jimmy G. to find her missing husband.”
Pepe whispered in my ear again. “Then why did she say she didn't know you?”
I repeated his question to Jimmy. “Then why did she say she had never heard of me?”
Jimmy's big brown eyes got bigger, and his face turned red. “Why do women act the way they do? It's a mystery to Jimmy G.”
Pepe prompted me again. “Ask him how she knew her husband was missing if she was out of town.”
“How did Rebecca know her husband was missing if she was out of town?”
Jimmy held out his hands, as if appealing to me to be reasonable. “How would Jimmy G. know?” he asked. I saw a stray thought cross his face. One thing I will say about Jimmy was that you could read emotions in his face more clearly than you could see fish in his aquarium. He would be a lousy poker player. “Ah, the mystery is solved!” he declared. “Jimmy G. wraps up another case.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don't you see? Rebecca went out of town after she called Jimmy G., thus when Jimmy G. called her back to set up the appointment, and left a message on her phone informing her that a certain Miss, uh, Miss . . .”
“Sullivan,” I said in as icy a voice as possible.
“Miss Sullivan would be coming to interview her, she didn't get the message, thus she denied having an appointment with said Miss Sullivan.” His face brightened.
“But why go out of town if her husband was missing?” I asked.
“Good one, Geri,” said Pepe in my ear.
Jimmy's face fell again, then brightened. “Maybe she was already out of town but couldn't contact him. Thus she contacted Jimmy G. to track him down.”
Unfortunately that did make sense.
“What's all this about you not actually hiring me?”
Jimmy's face fell. He looked like a school boy who was about to be scolded. “That's what Stewart wants me to say,” he said.
“Why can Stewart tell you what to do?”
“He's my older brother,” Jimmy's voice lost volume and confidence as he spoke. “He's the one who actually owns the agency.”
“And?”
“Well, he claims I didn't have the authority to hire you. He has to be involved in any personnel decisions.”
“Well, let's go see him,” I said. “I want to get this cleared up right away, before the police call me in for questioning again. Do you realize they consider me a murder suspect?”
“But if you didn't do it . . .” Jimmy squinted. “You didn't do it, did you?”
“Don't be ridiculous,” I almost shouted. “Why do all of you assume I would murder a complete stranger?”
“Tell him the man was killed long before you came on the scene,” Pepe whispered in my ear.
“Besides the man was murdered long before I arrived on the scene.”
“How do you know that?” Jimmy asked, He looked startled and upset. Maybe he was beginning to realize I was a good detective.
“How do I know that?” I asked Pepe.
“Are you talking to your dog?” Jimmy asked.
I gave him a bright smile. “It helps me problem solve,” I said. “You know, talking out loud.”
Pepe whispered in my ear. “Because of the rigor mortis, the dried blood, the smell!” he shuddered. “
Muy muerto!
”
“Let's put it this way, he was
muy muerto!
” I said to Jimmy.
Jimmy looked thoughtful. “Perhaps you set this up so you would have an alibi,” he suggested.
“Perhaps you are trying to frame me,” I replied.
“Why would I do that?” Jimmy G. scratched the back of his head.
“Never mind,” I said. It was hard to believe this man had the brains to come up with such a scheme. Which made me wonder why I worked for him. But then again, apparently I didn't. “Let's go talk to Stewart and get this straightened out,” I said.
Jimmy G. grinned sheepishly. “Stewart definitely wants to see you. Came by this morning to tell me so. But you'll have to go alone.”
“Why is that?”
“Stewart asked to see you, not Jimmy G. Fine with Jimmy G.”
“Why is that?”
“Stewart's rude. Bossy. Thinks he knows best. Everything Jimmy G. does is wrong. Jimmy G. can't do anything right. Just because he's my older brother . . .” He realized he was babbling and stopped. “Didn't you say you had an older sister?” It was one of the many odd questions he had asked at my interview.
“Yes, I do,” I said. I didn't want to think about Cheryl right now. She certainly wouldn't approve of my new job. Or my current predicament. In fact, she never approved of anything I did.
“So you probably understand,” Jimmy G. said.
I nodded. An older sibling never loses the desire to boss a younger sibling around. “By the way, there's a pen under that pile of papers.” I pointed to a stack that was about to slide off the corner of the desk.
“Oh, thanks!” Jimmy looked pleased as he located the pen, then puzzled as he stared at it. “Now why did I want that?”
“To make a note.”
He frowned. “About what?”
“Portland.”
“What about Portland?”
“That's where you were when Rebecca Tyler contacted you.”
“Oh, yeah!” He grabbed the pen and scribbled a few words on a scrap of paper he tore from a paper bag. “Hey, you're good. Good observation. Good memory. Good attention to details.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his fingers over his stomach. “Jimmy G. needs a girl Friday.” His voice fell. “My brother stole my last one.” His voice rose again. “She was a real pistol. Took dictation. Rubbed my shoulders. Brought me drinks. Bourbon, straight up, no ice! How about it?”
“No way,” I said. I had promised myself I would never work as a secretary again after putting my ex-husband through business school. “Anyway, the correct term nowadays is administrative assistant.”
“So would you be my administrative assistant?” Jimmy G. asked. Was that sarcasm I heard?
“No,” I said sharply. “I applied for a job as an investigator.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “And speaking of that, I've got something that will be just up your alley. Got a call just this morning from a prospective client. Want to go out on another assignment for Jimmy G.?”

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