Barking Detective 04 - A Chihuahua in Every Stocking

  TAIL-WAGGING PRAISE FOR THE BARKING DETECTIVE MYSTERIES

  “This series is hilarious! The antics of Geri and her talking dog make the reader laugh out loud. An interesting cast of characters, an enjoyable read.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  CHIHUAHUA CONFIDENTIAL

  “Hollywood is the stage for this enjoyable caper starring amateur PI Geri Sullivan and her talking Chihuahua/partner, Pepe. The characters are comical, especially Pepe, who will have you laughing out loud. A great read.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Light as a feather and a whole lot of fun.”

  —Seattle Times

  “Hop on board the TV-studio tour bus for this light cozy.”

  —Library Journal

  “An adult mystery with young adult appeal . . . The second in Curtis’s fun new series featuring Geri and Pepe is tailor-made for anyone who can’t get enough dog mysteries and those readers who never miss an episode of Dancing with the Stars.”

  —VOYA (Voice of Youth Advocates)

  DIAL C FOR CHIHUAHUA

  “Three woofs and a big bow-wow for Dial C for Chihuahua. Pepe is one cool sleuth—just don’t call him a dog! I really loved the book.”

  —Leslie Meier, author of the Lucy Stone mysteries

  “Readers will sit up and beg for more.”

  —Sushi the Shih Tzu, canine star of the Trash ’n’ Treasures mysteries by Barbara Allan

  “Writing duo Curtis has created a humorous but deadly serious mystery. Pepe is a delight and more intelligent than most humans in the book. An ex-husband and current love interest keep Geri’s life hopping. Crafty plotting will keep you engrossed until the end and have you eagerly awaiting the next book.”

  —RT Book Reviews, 4 stars

  “Every dog has its day and there’ll be plenty of days for Geri Sullivan and Pepe in this fun twist on the typical PI partnership.”

  —Simon Wood, author of Did Not Finish

  “Waverly Curtis has created a delightful cast of human and canine characters in Dial C for Chihuahua. Pepe never loses his essential dogginess, even as he amazes gutsy Geri Sullivan, his partner in crime detection, with his past exploits and keen nose for detail. I look forward to Pepe’s next adventure!”

  —Bernadette Pajer, author of the Professor Bradshaw Mysteries

  “Move over, Scooby-Doo, there’s a new dog in town! Dial C for Chihuahua is a fun and breezy read, with polished writing and charming characters, both human and canine. If you like a little Chihuahua with your mystery, former purse-dog Pepe is a perfect fit!”

  —Jennie Bentley, author of the Do-It-Yourself Home Renovation mysteries

  Also by Waverly Curtis

  Dial C for Chihuahua

  Chihuahua Confidential

  The Big Chihuahua

  The Chihuahua Always Sniffs Twice

  A Chihuahua In Every Stocking

  Waverly Curtis

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  TAIL-WAGGING PRAISE FOR THE BARKING DETECTIVE MYSTERIES

  Also by

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Teaser chapter

  About the Authors

  Copyright Page

  For Team Pepe

  You know who you are!

  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 Chr
istmas 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.

  Chapter 2

  It was snowing as we drove into Leavenworth, a tourist destination high in the Cascade Range. It did look like a magical place. I could see why Sophie thought she might find Santa there. The main street was lined with picturesque Bavarian-style buildings: two and three stories tall, the eaves decorated with scalloped trim and crisscrosses of half-timber on the walls, and all of them outlined with hundreds of tiny white lights. A giant Christmas tree, dotted with red ornaments and looped with swags of red ribbons, towered over a gazebo.

  The Black Forest Inn stood just off the highway. It was one of those old-fashioned motels with all the doors facing onto outdoor walkways that ran the length of the building facing the parking lot. The doors were painted green, the eaves were embellished with scalloped gingerbread trim, and the wooden railings of the balconies were festooned with garlands. I parked my green Toyota and went into the lobby, carrying Pepe in with me. I wasn’t going to leave him in the car, certainly not in a town where there were dognappers.

  The middle-aged woman at the front desk directed me to #205, which was where Sophie and her dad were staying. Apparently people had been dropping by ever since the broadcast, bringing food and clothing and stuffed animals.

  We headed up the wooden stairs and down the balcony, Pepe running ahead of me. In his eagerness, he scratched on the door with his tiny paws. I don’t know how she heard the tiny sound, but the door flew open. I saw a little girl, wearing corduroy pants, a pink turtleneck, and pink snow boots. She fell upon Pepe, covering him with kisses.

  “Chiquita!” she cried.

  “Oh no!” said Pepe, looking at me with his big brown eyes.

  “You found Chiquita!” That was Tim Rohrbach, appearing behind his daughter. He
was still wearing the same sweatshirt.

  “Um, no,” I said. “This is my dog, Pepe.”

  Sophie had gathered Pepe up and was clutching him to her chest. Now she held him out in front of her face and examined him with her eyes narrowed. As she took in the facts—that he was a male dog and that he was missing the brown splotch, her face crumpled and she burst into noisy, snotty tears.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, reaching out to take Pepe away from her gently. “We didn’t mean to raise your hopes.” I introduced myself to Tim and Sophie. “We want to help you find Chiquita.”

  I explained that Pepe and I were private investigators. Sophie cheered up.

  I set Pepe down and he trotted around the hotel room, sniffing and snuffling.

  “Do you have anything that has Chiquita’s smell on it?” I asked.

  Sophie shook her head. Tim said helplessly, “We left everything in the car.”

  “Halto!” Pepe said excitedly. “I believe I have found the scent of Chiquita the Chihuahua!”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “The car?” Tim asked, thinking I’d directed my question to him. “Well, we left it in—”

  “I think my dog found something,” I said.

  “What? Where?” Tim asked.

  Pepe was standing up on his hind legs under the coats that were hanging from hooks by the door. He put his front paws on the wall for better balance, looked up at the coats, and sniffed with enthusiasm. “The scent is coming from the little girl’s coat up there. Take it down for me, por favor.”