The Case of the Invisible Dog (12 page)

“Then what are they?” he asked.

“Beats me,” Angie said with a shrug. “Every time they show up the tall one gives me money, so I don't ask a lot of questions.”

“Money for what?” he asked, looking back and forth between Shirley and Angie.

“Like tonight, Shirley here said she'd pay me twenty bucks to let you park in the Pittfords' driveway. What's it going to hurt? They'll never know. And the other night she—”

“None of this is your concern,” Shirley said, pointing her cane toward the taxi driver. “Now, what do we owe you?”

“So,” the driver said slowly, “if you're not cops, but you're here about a murder, then you must be some kind of, like, private detectives. Am I right or am I right?”

“Private detectives,” Angie said. “Cool.”

“Yes,” Shirley said. “We are
like
private detectives.”

“Wow,” the driver said, nodding his head up and down slowly. “Private detectives, huh? So what are you looking for? Did the murderer try to make it look like a suicide? And the cops fell for it? And the family hired you because they know that—”

“Enough!” Shirley hissed. “There is entirely too much noise going on out here.”

“Sorry,” the taxi driver said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. Then he leaned toward Shirley. “Would it be okay for me to hang around awhile and watch you do your thing?”

“Out of the question,” Shirley snapped. “You have already caused enough of a disturbance as it is.”

“I didn't mean to. I didn't know what you were doing. If I'd known…I have a lot of respect for law enforcement. Matter of fact, this whole taxi thing is temporary. I'm really just doing it as a favor for my cousin. You know what I think? Meeting you like this? I think it's one of those serenity things. Like when you meet the perfect person at the perfect time?”

“I believe the term you are searching for is serendipity. And I fail to see—”

“Right. That's what I meant. Anyway, the reason I say that is 'cause I've had this idea lately that maybe I could try becoming a cop.”

“I hate cops,” Angie informed us. “They're always trying to get you on something. No offense.”

“That's okay,” the driver said with a weary sigh. “No one becomes a cop to win a popularity contest. But I'll tell you what. The same people who ‘hate cops' sure change their tune pretty quick when they're the victim of a crime. Take my cousin Lenny. He was just like you. Then one day…” the man's voice trailed off as he became aware of Shirley glaring at him impatiently. “Oh. Sorry. You said to stop talking, didn't you? I won't say another word if you let me stay and watch. I promise.”

“What is your name?” Shirley asked as the taxi driver awaited her verdict, gazing up at her expectantly, like a puppy waiting for a treat.

“Me? My name is Lawrence Dunbar. Nice to meet you,” he said, extending his hand formally while straightening to his full and unimpressive height. The top of his head barely reached the tips of Shirley's plaid-jacketed shoulders. His attempts to suck in his gut met with only limited success.

“Well, Mr. Dunbar,” Shirley told him after a brief and reluctant handshake, “you are obviously eager and willing to learn. Quite admirable. Unfortunately, the task before me this evening will require great concentration, and I have neither the time nor the energy to explain what I am doing as I go along. Furthermore, my methods are unique to me and are not the typical and pedestrian procedures utilized by the police. Therefore, your participation would be needlessly disruptive for me, and of no real value to yourself,” Shirley concluded, pulling a small wallet out of her coat pocket. “What do I owe you?”

“It was up to sixty-three dollars when I got out. But—”

“This should be more than enough to cover your time and provide a generous tip,” Shirley said, handing him four twenty-dollar bills. “But now that we have concluded our business, it will be necessary for you to get back into your taxi and make your speedy departure as quietly as possible.”

“Ah, come on,” Lawrence whined, reverting to his former slouch. “Can't I please stay? I'll be quiet. I promise. And I'll stop the meter. You don't even need to tip me.”

“I'm sorry, but I'm afraid that won't be possible,” Shirley said, towering over him with an implacable expression. “Tammy, please back your car out of the driveway so that Mr. Dunbar may take his leave.”

“Ah, man,” Lawrence said, shaking his head dejectedly.

“I don't see what the big deal is,” Angie said. “What's it gonna hurt to let him stay? He said he'd be quiet.”

“And I would. I totally would!”

“And yet you keep talking.”

“Yeah, but that's just because I'm trying to explain—”

“Mr. Dunbar, for the last time—”

“—that if you'd just let me—”

“You need to leave.”

“All I wanna do—”

“Good evening!” a cheerful male voice called out from behind us, shocking everyone into an immediate silence before we all slowly turned around.

A well-dressed couple stood at the end of the driveway, smiling at our eclectic group. They were both healthy and attractive, and so well groomed and maintained that it was hard to figure out their age. They could have been anywhere from their early thirties to middle forties. She was of medium height and slender, with long, silky hair that was streaked with five different shades of brown, a few strands so light that they were almost blond. The color managed to look both natural and yet better than any color nature ever created. She had the bland good looks of a sitcom mom, pretty yet completely forgettable. He was tall and in shape, with light brown hair, blue eyes, teeth so white that they seemed to glow in the dark, and the kind of boyish face that would still look boyish in his sixties.

There was something familiar about him…

“We're the Browns,” the man continued. “From across the street. I'm Chuck and this is Nancy.”

Of course. Matt's next-door neighbors. He was the man who had peered out the window from the house next door when Shirley shattered Matt's door—the man who had called the police. I took a better look as he stood there smiling at us. I couldn't tell if he recognized me. It had only been a quick glance and I looked different with my heavy jacket on and my hair tucked up in my cap. I figured that he must not have recognized me since he wasn't grabbing his wife and running back across the street to call the police.

But then again…Matt Peterman had said that the barking hadn't started until shortly after the Browns moved in. So maybe he didn't want the police coming back. But we had found no sign of a dog, and what would their reason be? Why would the Browns want to drive their neighbor nuts, a neighbor that they had never met before? That's what kept me so intrigued by the whole thing—it didn't seem to make any sense.

“Is everything okay with the Pittfords?” Chuck asked, sounding concerned.

“Just fine,” Angie said. “Why do you ask?”

“We heard voices shouting.”

“Oh, that,” Angie said. “I ran out of cigarettes. And I can't leave. I have to be here at all times except for my one lousy day off. So I called for a cab and paid the short guy there to get me a carton. Then these two showed up. I guess they got lost because they were trying to turn around in the driveway. Then this guy comes back with my cigarettes and tries to rip me off on the fare I owe him—he wants to charge me this ridiculous rate. And these two heard us arguing and kind of got in the middle of it. But we have it all settled—right, guys?”

“Hey,” Lawrence said. “Wait a minute. I never—”

“Yeah, you did,” Angie said, giving Lawrence a look.

“Yes, that's right,” I said, stunned. Who knew Angie would be so quick on her feet? “We've got it all settled now.”

“Good to hear it,” Chuck said, giving me another friendly smile before glancing down at Shirley's cane. “Wow, that's a beauty,” he said admiringly. “Antique?”

“Why, yes,” Shirley said, extremely pleased.

“Thought so,” Chuck said with a half nod of his head as he put one hand on his hip and stared at Shirley's cane. “You can tell by the workmanship.”

“Oh, it is lovely,” Nancy agreed, hooking her arm through Chuck's. All of us followed suit for some reason, and for a few seconds everyone stood there staring at Shirley's cane while she basked in the admiration of the Browns and took no notice of the puzzled expressions on the faces of Lawrence and Angie.

“Dear?” Nancy asked, turning her attention back toward Chuck. “Shouldn't we be getting home? Freddie will get lonesome if we're gone too long.”

“You have a kid?” Angie asked, surprised.

“No,” Chuck said with a grin as Nancy giggled. “It's our new puppy. We just got him today.”

“I finally talked him into it,” Nancy said, as she rested her head on his shoulder.

“That's not the whole story,” Chuck said, grinning. “Our neighbor actually talked us into it in a roundabout way. He kept complaining about hearing a dog bark. No matter how many times we told him that we didn't have a dog, he just wouldn't believe us. He bugged us so much about it that I actually started to
want
a dog. Isn't that the craziest thing you've ever heard? But I guess I shouldn't joke. The police came by earlier this evening to question us. It seems that very same neighbor, poor Matt Peterman, was
murdered
this morning. I thought living in a small town like this would be safe, but I guess you just never know.” Chuck glanced furtively from side to side, as if the murderer might still be lurking in the bushes. “Not that we knew anything about it, of course. But we were able to describe his personality and his rather sad lifestyle. By which I mean he had no real life at all.”

“Such a shame,” Nancy said with a doleful shake of her head. “Once we realized how alone he was, we tried to invite him over for dinner, but he always made excuses. I know a perfectly nice woman at work, she runs the staff cafeteria, who I think he might have hit it off with. But now, well, it's all too late for that, isn't it?”

“And what did I say at the time, Nancy?” Chuck asked with an indulgent smile.

“Oh, I know. I can't save everyone. I guess the poor man was so used to being alone that he'd lost the ability to hope for anything better. But now that he's dead—oh, it's just so sad. We really should find out when the funeral is so we can go. I shudder to think how few people might be there.” Nancy's voice choked up a little as she finished her sentence.

“Yes,” Chuck said, giving her shoulder a pat. “We'll do that.”

“If only he had liked dogs,” Nancy said wistfully. “I think a pet would have brought him some comfort and joy in that big old house, all by himself.”

“I bet Matt would have liked Freddie,” Chuck said sadly. “Freddie is a good little dog.”

“Yes, he is,” Nancy agreed with a smile. “And he hardly ever barks.”

Chuck and Nancy stood there snuggling with each other for a few seconds, and then Nancy patted Chuck's cashmere-clad arm.

“Well,” she said, beaming at us. “It was nice to meet you. But we'd better get back to little Freddie.”

“And it was wonderful meeting you,” Shirley said
enthusiastically.
They both gave identical little waves, Shirley tipped her cane in farewell, and then Chuck and Nancy Brown turned around and walked arm in arm across the street. None of us moved or said a word until the two of them had walked inside their house and shut the door.

“What a delightful couple!” Shirley said, gazing wistfully at their house as they went inside.

“Ugh,” Angie said. “Those two have always creeped me out. When they smile it makes me want to puke.”

“Really?” Shirley asked, startled. “I admit that for reasons pertaining to our case, which I cannot divulge at this time, I was prepared to be suspicious of them, but I found them quite charming. Tammy, your thoughts regarding the Browns?”

“I'm not sure,” I admitted. “I didn't especially like them. They're too smooth for my taste. But I'm not sure I'm being objective. And I can't see what would be in it for them if they were involved in what happened to Matt.”

“Yes,” Shirley said. “That is what perplexes me, also. As I told Matt on the day of his visit to the office, the timing of this could all be designed specifically to direct suspicion on the Browns. But Angie's visceral reaction should not be discounted, either, I suppose. Still, one hates to believe that a couple with such discerning taste are in reality nothing more than ruthless villains. I take it that your intense dislike for the happy couple is the motivation behind that surprisingly clever story?” Shirley asked Angie.

“Hell, yeah.
Is everything okay with the Pittfords?”
Angie said, imitating Chuck Brown's voice. “Like he cares. What a creepzilla. Plus, I figured that you didn't want the two of them knowing you were, like, private detectives, right?”

“Right,” Shirley said with a smile. “We didn't want them to know we are
like
private detectives.”

“Damn,” Lawrence said. “I should have thought of that.”

“I think we should probably get out of the Pittfords' driveway before anyone else shows up,” I said, looking anxiously across the street to see if the Browns were peering out their window. Whether or not they had anything to do with our case, they could still decide to call the police if they saw us hanging around for no good reason. Especially if Chuck at some point put two and two together and realized that he had seen me standing in a pile of broken glass on Matt's patio the night before.

“Yes, Tammy,” Shirley agreed. “Your voice of simple common sense has shined a light once again. Mr. Dunbar, we really must ask you to leave us to our business. And Angie, your story was an impressive display of quick thinking and ingenuity. Keep your ears and eyes open. You have my card. If you see anything out of the ordinary, please keep me informed. As you know, I am always generous to those who assist me in my
investigations.”

“Will do,” Angie said, stubbing out her cigarette before turning around and walking over to the side door of the Pittfords' house and letting herself in without so much as a backward glance.

“Mr. Dunbar?” Shirley asked. “You're still standing here. Why are you still standing here?”

“All right, all right. I'm going. But if you ever need a cab—”

“You shall be the first one we call.”

Lawrence started to walk away, and then stopped and turned around. “Hey,” he said. “You guys doing any hiring?”

“No,” I said after a moment, surprised that Shirley hadn't immediately given him the same answer.

“Well, if you ever are,” he said, reaching into his jeans, “here's
my
card.” He ran over to Shirley and handed it to her. “It's actually the card for my cousin's cab company, but you can reach me there. I have a little room that my cousin lets me sleep in on top of the place. And if I'm not there, or in my cab, my cousin always knows how to get a hold of me. Don't forget, okay? I would be willing to work night and day to become a private detective. It's like the next best thing to being a cop, right? Maybe even better. Like being your own boss. If you just give me a chance, I swear I'd be the hardest worker you ever saw. Thank you for your
consideration,”
he added formally, bowing slightly over Shirley's still-outstretched hand and finally releasing his grip on the rather rumpled business card.

As Lawrence finished talking to Shirley I got inside my car and backed out of the driveway and onto the street, stopping next to the curb in front of the Pittfords' yard. Lawrence finally managed to get into his taxi and leave, giving Shirley a hopeful wave as he went past her. I waited until he was halfway down the street before I drove back onto the Pittfords' driveway.

Shirley stood on the lawn, and I stopped my car and rolled down the window. She waved for me to pull forward to where Lawrence had been parked, but I shook my head and gestured for her to come over to the car.

“What is it now?” she asked impatiently, glancing inside at the spot on the dash where my DVD player had been serenading me with Pink's beautifully bitter lyrics. “We are losing valuable time.”

“What is your plan?” I asked, turning off the DVD player. “I mean, what are we doing here?”

“We are going to examine the outside of Matt Peterman's house from top to bottom. I have missed something, Tammy. I don't know how, but I have, and that is the place we must start.”

“I think we need to rethink that plan,” I told her.

Shirley stepped back from the window a couple of paces. She peered at me for a moment and then tapped her cane on the driveway three times before stepping back to the window of my car.

“Tammy, as you know, my great-great-grandfather did not keep Watson around simply because he enjoyed his company. Watson was a great help in his own commonplace way. But Watson did not interfere. He would occasionally
suggest,
or
ask a question.
But never once, not in their entire history together, did he ever tell my great-great-grandfather that they needed to ‘rethink that plan.' ”

“Okay,” I said after taking a deep breath. “Maybe I worded that wrong. What I meant was—”

“On second thought,” Shirley said unexpectedly, “perhaps we should discuss the new details of our case over a cup of tea and some nourishing food before proceeding further. Wandering around without a clear purpose will get us nowhere useful and may merely serve to give the illusion of progress.”

She walked around behind my car, got inside, and patted my knee while she gave me a smile. It was very strange and out of character, but then she crossed her arms and closed her eyes as if it had never happened. “I know that it is rather late, and we are not in London. But try to find someplace civilized if at all possible.”

As I pulled onto the street and got ready to drive away, I glanced out of the corner of my eye at the Browns' house. I wasn't completely sure, but I thought I saw the curtains on the front window move just a little. I didn't want to make myself obvious, so I drove down the street at a normal speed without looking back to make sure.

Shirley set down her orange and gold laminated menu and took in the scene around her—the garish fluorescent lights overhead, the crowd of noisy customers wolfing down syrup-laden waffles, the scuffed linoleum floor, the tattered ceiling tiles, the gold and orange booths, tables, chairs, and wallpaper—with obvious and undisguised distaste while we waited for our server to arrive.

“I was so utterly overwhelmed by the sounds and smells as we walked inside, the name of this establishment has completely slipped my mind. Can you refresh my memory?” Shirley asked as she wrinkled her nose.

“Waffle Barn. Sorry. It's the only place open around here this time of night. It was either this or McDonald's, or drive thirty miles down the road to Denny's.”

“I am sure you made the best choice possible given the limitations of the available options.”

“Unless you want to go to the Highlight Bar?” I asked hopefully.

“No. It has been my experience that most people need no help whatsoever in order to be able to behave stupidly. Why they drink a liquid substance designed to increase that ability baffles me. The Waffle Barn will have to do.”

“Evening, you all.” A short, heavyset woman with leathery skin and gray hair wrapped around her head in a long braid stood next to our orange-and-gold striped booth. “My name is Cora,” she said in the raspy voice of a lifelong smoker. “Can I start you off with some coffee?” she asked, holding out a full pot.

“Yes, please,” I said, giving her a sincere mile. It hadn't been all that long since I had been in her shoes.

Cora turned over the orange mug next to my water-spotted silverware and poured. “You too, hon?” she asked Shirley.

“No. I will have tea. Hot tea. I suppose Earl Grey would be out of the question?”

“We have Lipton or herbal.”

“Lipton will have to do,” Shirley said with a sigh.

“And to eat?”

“Just coffee for me,” I said.

“You should eat,” Shirley said.

“I'm not hungry.”

“Did you have dinner?”

“No. I'm just not hungry.”

“Very well,” Shirley said. “I will have two eggs, over easy, a side of bacon, a side of sausage, four slices of toast with butter, and a double serving of hash browns. Oh, and one of these Barn Buster waffles—extra butter and syrup on the side—which your menu describes as ‘lighter than air.' That is understood as a physical impossibility, of course. Otherwise one should expect to see waffles floating overhead, which would defeat the waffle's purpose and, no doubt, frustrate your customers. Nevertheless, I shall remain optimistic that the artistic license is justified.”

“Coming right up,” Cora said after peering at Shirley for a moment with an extremely baffled expression.

“So, my dear,” Shirley said once Cora left. “Before we discuss the case, I would like to bring something up. There were times when my great-great-grandfather bruised Watson's feelings. It was entirely unintentional. He would be so consumed with whatever case they were working on that he would forget the human element. I will never be a social butterfly or a group hugger. But I would like to improve upon that family flaw if I can. So. Would you care to discuss whatever is troubling you?”

“What? No. I mean nothing is troubling me.”

“As you wish.”

“Why would you ask that?” I had no idea where this was coming from.

“Subtle clues. Now, for instance, there is the residue of sleep still lingering in the inner corners of each eye, which leads me to believe that you were asleep when I called this evening at eight-thirty. That is an extremely early time for retiring in a young, healthy woman, even if there was nothing on television to garner your interest. I, myself, have extremely irregular sleep patterns. It is nothing unusual to find me poring over my studies when the sun comes up. When engaged in a case I may go days without sleep, and then spend twenty-four solid hours abed. But you, my dear, are hardly to be found immersed in scholarly pursuits until the break of dawn. I think, perhaps, your early bedtime is more logically a result of your desire to temporarily escape your troubles, whatever they may be.”

“No,” I said, wiping the sleep out of my eyes and heartily wishing she would change the subject. “I was just tired. We were out pretty late last night, if you'll recall. And then there was all the confusion about thinking that Matt was dead, and then he wasn't dead, and then he
was
dead. I don't think it's all that strange that I found the whole thing a little bit exhausting,” I concluded, thinking that would settle the matter.

“And the music,” Shirley continued as if I hadn't spoken. “The first time that you gave me a ride, your choice in music was unfortunate. I do not fault you. You are a product of your time. And as a ‘regular Joe' or ‘regular Josephine,' if you will, it would be unrealistic for you to revel in the grandeur that is Beethoven. Or to find solace with a lovely sonata by Mozart.

“But on the first occasion your unfortunate music was playing at a reasonable volume before you so courteously turned it off. This evening, however, when you drove onto Matt Peterman's cul-de-sac, you had your music turned to an extremely loud volume. This suggests to me that you were trying to drown out your thoughts, or your feelings, or perhaps both. You turned it down as you approached, but I had heard it quite clearly, and making unnecessary noise on a noticeably quiet street where we would obviously not want our presence advertised was careless of you, and you are not a careless person. Otherwise, I would not have hired you. So I repeat, is something troubling you? And if so, would you care to share it with me?”

“It's nothing,” I said before taking a long sip of coffee.

“Nothing?” Shirley asked with a look that made me feel as if she saw right through me, which, based on her detection skills so far, just didn't seem possible.

“Oh, just…life. Regular life stuff.”

“Yes,” Shirley said thoughtfully after a brief lift of her eyebrows. “Life can be a difficult and troubling affair.”

Before I could say anything else, Cora arrived and set down a gold saucer carrying an orange ceramic mug with a tea bag nestled beside it before moving on to her next table. Shirley dipped her finger into the water inside the mug and frowned.

“Watson's marriage was a happy one,” Shirley said, opening her tea bag with a sigh. “And I believe that my great-great-grandfather would have been happy with Irene Adler if he hadn't been killed before they could be reunited. As for me, I have not met my male version of Irene Adler, and I doubt I ever will. I believe I function better as a solitary, and hence do not feel the void. But is that perhaps what is troubling you? That you have not yet found a suitable mate?”