Dial C for Chihuahua by Waverly Curtis Page B

street.
    â€œDo you see any policía at the Tyler casa ?” Pepe asked, as I parallel parked.
    â€œHow do you know where we are?” I asked. He was curled up in the passenger seat and had barely lifted his head. “You can’t possibly see out the window.”
    â€œWe dogs have the uncanny ability to know where we are at all times,” he told me. “It is a vestige of our survival skills from ancient times.”
    â€œOh, come on,” I said.
    â€œIf that’s true, tell me exactly where we are right now.”
    â€œWe are at 648 Fourteenth Avenue East.”
    â€œHa! Gotcha!” I wagged a finger at him. “That’s not the Tyler address.”
    â€œI did not say it was. You asked me to tell you exactly where we are, and I have done so. Specifically, we are four houses north of the Tyler casa, thus the address of the house we are parked in front of is 648 Fourteenth Avenue East.”
    I looked out Pepe’s passenger side window. He was right. The number set in tile on the stone pillar of the large Tudor mansion read 648.
    â€œHow did you know that?” I asked.
    He stood up and took a stretch. He put his little paws down and stretched his butt and tail up so that he looked like a comma. “Geri, what if I were to tell you that, even lying down, I could see the address in big bold letters on the front gate of the house on your side of the car—”
    I swiveled around in my seat. It was true: the house on the other side of the street was elevated from the sidewalk, and the address was plainly visible.
    Pepe continued, “And that I knew that the casa on my side of the car would be the even number, 648, which I remember is four houses north of the Tyler residence. Would that not have spoiled your sense of wonder and amazement at my uncanny abilities?”
    â€œOh, good grief.”
    â€œJust as I thought,” he said, looking smug. “Now, I ask you again—do you see any signs of policía at the Tyler residence?”
    â€œNo, no, there aren’t any cops around.”
    â€œAh, muy bien .”
    Regaining my composure, I said, “I don’t see any cars in the driveway either, so let’s hope Rebecca Tyler’s not home.” I reached over, rolled his window up and grabbed my purse.
    â€œLet’s go and see if we can find any clues, Pepe.”
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    I managed to get a leash on Pepe by persuading him that we had to pose as a dog owner and pet out for a walk. The Tylers lived just a few blocks from Volunteer Park, the oldest Seattle park, a spacious green landscape of sweeping lawns and tall trees designed by the famous Olmstead brothers. There were plenty of other dogs and their owners heading towards the park or coming home. Pepe growled at every one he saw, and I had to scoop him up and tuck him under my arm to keep him from lunging at the other pets. The other dog owners gave me sour looks. Apparently they didn’t find Pepe as amusing as I did.
    â€œNow here’s our plan,” I said to him, as we got close to the driveway of the Tyler residence. “I’m going to set you down on the ground. I have surreptitiously unhooked your leash. You’re going to pretend to run away from me and dash into the Tyler yard. I’ll chase after you and that way we’ll be able to look for clues.”
    Pepe regarded me with amazement in his dark eyes. “Geri, that is a very good plan,” he said. “You are turning out to be more devious than I thought.”
    â€œThank you,” I said, though I wasn’t sure that was a compliment.
    â€œIt is a very good trait for a private detective,” he said, as I plunked him down on the ground. “Luckily, I have a talent for it myself.” He shook himself, then took off running up the Tyler driveway.
    I wasn’t sure whether to call his name or not, to establish our pretext, but decided against it and followed him, trying to look